Officer Pete Malloy pounded a fist into the side of the black and white,
then flinched as a fusillade of bullets bit deep into the opposite side of
their car. He heard the windows shatter, then the night got a little bit
darker when more rounds destroyed the lights on the car's roof. He had immediately
put in a call for back up, but so far no one had shown up.
Pete knew exactly to the minute when the call had gone horribly wrong.
They'd responded to a 207, possible kidnapping at the abandoned stockyards
down by the tracks. They found the suspect, a forty-year-old male high on
who knows what, holding a thirteen-year-old boy by the neck Malloy had sent
Reed to circle around behind while he tried to talk to the man, keep him
calm until back up could arrive. But the man apparently heard Jim's stealthy
approach through the waist-high weeds. Without any warning, the suspect
had yanked out a gun, snapped off a shot at Reed, then put the gun against
the kid's head and pulled the trigger.
And now his partner was out there in the weeds, maybe hurt, maybe as dead
as that poor kid. “Reed!” Malloy shouted. No answer.
He pulled the radio mic back out. “1-Adam-12, we've got shots fired,
a civilian down and a possible officer down. Where's my back up?” he
barked. He knew help was coming as soon as it could, but tell that to his
thudding heart . . . .
First to respond was Wells. “1-Adam-43 responding . . . ETA four
minutes . . .”
And then Mac's reassuring voice. “1-L-20, responding, ETA
two minutes. Ambulance has been requested.”
Another hail of bullets clanged against the car. Malloy cowered down,
then as soon as the deadly rain stopped, he stood up and emptied his gun
at the shack the suspect had holed up in. Even as he fired, he knew he didn't
have a snowball's chance of actually hitting the suspect. But it felt better
than sitting like a lame duck. He hurriedly reloaded.
A sudden noise behind him made him whirl around.
“Easy! It's just me!” Jim Reed yelped, eyes huge as he stared
down the barrel of Pete's gun.
“Reed, next time say something!” Malloy snapped, then he noticed
how Jim was pressing a hand to his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
“He winged me, but I'll live.” He squatted beside Malloy and
peeked over the trunk of the car.
They both flinched as a single shot rang out with an almost chilling finality.
“You think he just shot himself?” Jim whispered.
“Not sure. Hate to stand up and catch lead poisoning if he hasn't.”
Reed rested his forehead momentarily against the cool metal of the car.
“You call for backup?”
“Yeah. You sure you're all right?”
“I blew it out there, Pete. That kid shouldn't be dead . . .”
He winced and nearly fell over.
“Here, sit down.” Pete guided Jim until he was sitting with
his back against the rear door. He pulled Jim's hand away and flicked on
his flashlight. The bullet had plowed a nasty path across the skin and muscle
on top of Jim's left shoulder. There was a lot of blood soaking Jim's uniform,
but it could be so much worse. Pete pulled out his handkerchief and balled
it up against the deep crease. “Well, it doesn't look too bad, but
you're bleeding like a stuck pig.” Jim didn't react to Malloy's hideous
pun, which gave Pete insight into his partner's true condition. “Take
it easy, partner. Help's coming.”
Jim just nodded.
Sergeant MacDonald's black and white station wagon roared up behind them.
Reed shut his eyes against the glare of the headlights. Malloy hurried over
to Mac's car. “Reed's been shot, but not too bad. The 207 just turned
into a 187.”
“He shot the kid?”
“Yeah. And he may have just shot himself.”
Mac pulled out his gun. “Reed, you stay put. Pete, c'mon.”
The two of them moved into the night, Malloy taking the left and Mac the
right. They reached the opposite sides of the shack's door unmolested. Pete
waited for Mac's nod, then pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!”
No response.
Malloy backed away and kicked the door latch, hard. The flimsy door splintered
under the impact. Mac ducked in to the right. “Pete, put your gun
away. He shot himself.”
Malloy peered over his supervisor's shoulder and winced at the sight of
the suspect. “I better go check on Reed.” He jogged back to
the black and white and found his partner sprawled on the gravel, nearly unconscious.
He'd drawn his gun to try to cover them. Pete gently pulled Jim's gun out
of his hand. “Jim?”
Jim moaned and lifted his head. “Pete . . . sorry, musta passed
out.”
“Don't worry about it, Jim. The ambulance is here.”
Jim's eyes drifted shut. The ambulance and Adam-43 pulled up together.
Pete moved back and let the medics do their job.
Wells walked over and bent over Jim. “Take it easy, buddy,”
he said.
Malloy raised his eyebrow. It wasn't like Wells to spare any milk of human
kindness for Jim Reed. Reed must have been just as surprised, because he
came around long enough to give Wells a tired but surprised thanks.
Wells caught Pete looking at him. “What, I can't tell the kid to
hang in there? I'm not a total nimrod, Malloy.”
“I never said you were.”
“Yeah, well, just see that your partner gets good care,” Wells
huffed, then got back in his squad car and left.
“I will, Ed, I will,” Malloy said softly as he watched the
ambulance drive away.
August 26, 1972 01:14 a.m.
“The doc says I just lost a little too much blood. Wants me
to stay overnight.” Jim's voice was tired.
“You really okay, partner?”
Jim's blue eyes darkened. “Just wish that kid had made it.”
“Yeah. But there wasn't much either of us could do. I didn't have
a clear shot at the guy, and neither did you. Sometimes we just can't save
everybody.”
“Guess not. I just wish . . .”
“'If wishes were horses', my friend. Let it go, Jim.”
“Yeah, sure. I will.”
Reed's reply was less than convincing, but Pete decided to let it slide.
“I'll come pick you up tomorrow morning, soon as they release you.”
Pete waited for Jim's nod, then turned and walked to the door, pausing to
glance back at his partner. Jim stared sightlessly out the window. After
working with him for almost four years, Pete was used to the way Jim's blue
eyes mirrored his moods as surely as the ocean changed with the seasons.
But he felt a shiver run up his spine as he saw bleak midwinter gathering
in his partner's gaze.
February 12, 1973 02:37 a.m.
Fog billowed in relentless clouds around him as he struggled to run through
the waist-high weeds in the vacant lot. The suspect was just ahead of him.
He could hear the man's harsh breathing even above his own, but Jim couldn't
seem to get his feet untangled from the clutching undergrowth.
The fog cleared. Jim's heart caught in his throat. The suspect had turned,
was lifting his gun to shoot. Jim raised his own gun and fired, but the hammer
fell with a soft thud instead of an explosive crack. Reed watched helplessly
as the bullet rolled slowly from the end of his revolver, landing ineffectually
less than a yard away from his own feet.
The suspect's gun bloomed orange . . . .
“NO!” Jim yelled, thrashing around and waking up hot and sweaty
in a tangle of bedsheets. He stared wildly around the room, momentarily
unable to believe that it had only been a dream. He absently rubbed the scar
on his left shoulder. Jean stirred beside him as he tried to catch his breath.
“Jim?” she mumbled sleepily.
“Go to sleep. I'm fine.” The cool night air from the open
window chilled his sweaty skin. He shivered.
“Did you have that dream again?”
He took a deep breath, let it out, then pulled the blanket closer and curled
up around his wife's warmth. “Yeah.” He pulled her tight against
him and tried to go back to sleep.
February 12, 1973 7:02 a.m.
Inspection over, Pete Malloy followed his partner to their black and white.
Jim had skidded into the squad room just as the briefing had started, looking
unusually tired, his normal All-American quarterback good looks marred by
dark circles under his eyes. Pete hadn't had a chance to speak with him until
now. “Kid keep you up late last night, partner?”
Pete raised an eyebrow. Jim wasn't always the most cheerful person in
the morning, but his curt tone was something new. “What's up?”
“Nothing.” Reed stored his briefcase in the back seat and
waited as Malloy unlocked the trunk.
“Nothing,” Malloy repeated, cocking an unbelieving eye at his
junior partner as they stashed their helmet bags in the trunk. “Look,
if you don't wanna talk about it, just say so. But don't lie to me.”
Jim dropped his eyes and blushed. “Sorry. Don't want to talk about
it.”
Malloy just nodded. Reed would open up before the day was up, he was sure.
Pete slammed the trunk lid down and climbed behind the wheel.
“1-Adam-12, Daywatch clear,” Jim mumbled into the mic.
February 12, 1973 10:15 a.m.
“1-Adam-12, respond to reported 311, Wilshire Blvd north of Market.
Male suspect last seen running north, no clothing. Respond Code-2.”
“1-Adam-12, roger.”
Pete shook his head. “Another streaker.”
Jim smiled for the first time all morning. “I just can't believe
anybody'd have the nerve to do something like that. I sure wouldn't.”
“You don't know how relieved that makes me.”
Jim shot him a look, then shook his head and started watching for a naked
man. They cruised slowly north on Wilshire, but the man had either donned
some clothes or ducked into one of the many apartment complexes lining the
road. Jim yawned, his jaw cracking.
“I'm sorry my conversation is so boring.”
“Not you. I just didn't get much sleep last night.” He rubbed
his shoulder.
“You gonna tell me what happened or do I have to wait for tomorrow's
paper?”
“Nah. I just had a bad dream, that's all. Couldn't get back to
sleep.”
“A bad dream,” Malloy mused. “Wanna tell me about it?”
Jim wasn't so sure he wanted to tell Pete. They'd partnered for over four
years, now, but sometimes Jim still felt very much the rookie officer in the
face of Malloy's unflappable confidence. He sighed. “You'll think
I'm crazy.”
“And that would be a new revelation?”
“Pete, c'mon. Gimme a break.”
Pete smiled. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry.”
“I just have this recurring dream . . . more like a nightmare . .
. where my gun won't fire right. I wake up just as the suspect's about to
shoot me.”
“Lemme guess, the bullet rolls out of your gun and falls at your
feet.”
Jim's eyes widened. “How'd you know?”
“Every cop has a dream like that. My personal favorite is my gun
getting hung up in the holster, then the barrel falls off when I lift it to
fire.”
Jim felt like an elephant had lumbered off his shoulders. “So I'm
not going crazy?”
“If you are, so's everybody else on the force.”
“I've had that dream off and on since the academy. But the last
month or two seems like I have it almost every night.”
“Wow. Now that's getting a little excessive.”
Jim's mood plunged again. “See, that's what I'm afraid of. I'm
afraid I'm going off my rocker.”
“Well, you could always talk to the department shrink.”
“Maybe I just need some time off.”
“Maybe.”
February 12, 1973 12:30 p.m.
“1-Adam-12 requesting Code 7 at (address for Eddie's).” Jim
crossed his fingers.
“1-Adam-12, stand by. . . . 1-Adam-12, okay 7.”
Jim sighed in relief. “I hate it when she does that.”
“Maybe that's why you're having those dreams,” Malloy said
as he steered the patrol car up to the curb in front of Eddie's. “Too
much tension waiting for dispatch to okay dinner.”
“I'm definitely going to put in for some vacation,” Jim decided
as he walked into Eddie's.
Eddie looked up from behind the counter. “You're going on vacation?
Take me with you!”
“No way, Eddie. It'll just be me, Jean and little Jimmy.”
He and Malloy slid into a booth by the window.
“Nuts,” Eddie groused. “Whadya wanna eat, then?”
“Gimme a BLT and fries, and a chocolate malt,” Jim said without
bothering to look at the menu.
“I'll take a chef's salad,” Malloy added glumly.
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “A chef's salad? Dieting again?”
“Just never mind and bring us our food,” Malloy snapped.
Jim raised the red-checked gingham curtain and looked up and down the street.
“Wonder if we'll catch that streaker.”
“He better not run by while I'm eating.”
“Yeah, wouldn't that take the edge off your appetite.” Jim
let the curtain drop, then fiddled with the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper
shakers, lining them up precisely against the wall. He straightened the curtain.
He rubbed a smudge off the shiny aluminum napkin holder. He brushed some
crumbs off the table. Then he rubbed his left shoulder.
Pete silently watched all this activity until he couldn't stand it anymore.
“Would you relax already?”
“Sorry.” He pulled his hands to his lap, then sat on them.
His left knee started jiggling, vibrating the whole booth.
“Reed, what's the matter with you?” Malloy's blue eyes watched
him with exasperation and concern.
Jim stopped bouncing his leg, but he kneaded his shoulder. “Nothing.
I'm just antsy, I guess.”
“Your shoulder bothering you?”
“No, why?”
“Well, you're rubbing it like you're hoping a genie will pop out
of it.”
Jim dropped his hand back to his lap. He looked distinctly relieved when
Eddie finally brought his malt over.
Reed sucked on the straw like it was his last meal. Something was seriously
eating at his partner, but Malloy kept quiet. Patience, Pete, patience
. He sighed.
“What's wrong?” Jim asked.
“I'm just thinking how good that chocolate malt looks.”
Jim grinned. “If you hit the gym more often you could have one now
and then.”
“Oh, no. I could exercise myself to a heart attack and I still couldn't
eat all the junk you do. You have a mustache, by the way.”
Reed scrubbed at his upper lip with the napkin, then pushed the malt back.
He started rubbing his shoulder again.
“Are you sure your shoulder's not bothering you?”
“I'm fine. Would you lay off already?”
Uh oh, whatever Jim's got bottled up is about to explode. Malloy
raised both hands placatingly. “I won't say another word.”
“Good,” Jim snapped. He sucked violently on the straw and
succeeded in making the loudest slurping noise Malloy had ever heard. Jim
blushed furiously and shoved the empty glass away.
“Reed . . . ”
“I said I'm fine!”
“All I was gonna say,” Malloy interrupted mildly, “is
that you might wanna wipe that ice cream off your tie.”
Jim looked down. “Aw, nuts.” He grabbed a napkin and dabbed
at the offending goo. “Teach me to get a malt on duty.”
Malloy didn't say anything, but he couldn't help notice that Jim's hands
were trembling. “I think there's another tie in the glove box.”
“Why would there be a tie in the glove box?”
“I put it there for just such an occasion. Why don't you go get
it?”
“Good idea.” He slid out of the booth.
Eddie came over, hands full of food. He sat the salad in front of Malloy
and the BLT in Jim's vacated spot. “Where'd Reed run off to?”
“Spilled ice cream on his tie.”
“Is he okay? I been watching you two from over there and he sure
seems jumpy today.”
“Yeah, something's eating him, but he won't say what. That's my
partner for you. Bottles everything up and tries to act like nothing's wrong.
He fools a lot of people with that act, but not me.”
“You're gonna have a long shift.”
“Tell me about it,” Pete said glumly, then stuffed a forkful
of flavorless lettuce in his mouth. He shoved his salad away. “You
know, I didn't fight my way to the top of the food chain just to start eating
leaves.”
Eddie frowned. “You casting aspersions on my salad?”
“I'm casting aspersions on anything green. Man does not live by
chlorophyll alone. Forget these twigs and leaves, bring me a hambur–”
Jim crashed back through the door. “Pete, Adam-11's in pursuit of
a GTA. They're heading this way.”
Pete gladly abandoned his salad. “Sorry, Eddie, I'll pay you later!”
He shrugged as Eddie waved the bill at him, then ran out the door.
###
“1-Adam-12, 1-Adam-11 requests you meet them on Tac-2. All units,
be advised GTA suspects northbound on Franklin near Cherry, dark blue Oldsmobile
88, Ida-Nora-Ocean 3-5-7.”
Jim picked up the mic. “1-Adam-12, roger,” he mumbled,
then turned the frequency to Tac-2. “1-Adam-12 to 1-Adam-11, go.”
“Jim, we lost the GTA off Franklin Street. He was heading toward
Cherry. We can't continue pursuit, got a flat tire.”
Pete cocked an eyebrow. “Rotten luck.”
“Roger. We'll keep our eyes out,” Jim replied, then flipped
the radio back to Tac-1.
“And there he is. Let's see if we can't slow him down a little.”
Pete dropped the patrol car in gear and as the stolen Olds roared past them,
he hit the lights and pulled into the street.
Jim braced his hand against the dash, then keyed the mic. “1-Adam-12
in pursuit of GTA suspect. Westbound on Cherry from Franklin.”
“All units in the vicinity of 1-Adam-12, be advised 1-Adam-12
is in pursuit.”
The Olds wove in and out of traffic ahead of them, narrowly missing collisions
all along the way. His left signal came on, then the Olds cut off three cars
as he cut across the intersection. Jim braced himself again as Pete wheeled
their unit around the corner almost on two wheels. He let go with one hand
long enough to grab the mic. “1-Adam-12 in pursuit of GTA now southbound
on Roosevelt.” Can't believe how often criminals will signal when
they're being chased.
“1-Adam-34 Code 100 at Roosevelt and Oakmont.”
Jim brought his mind back to the chase. “Roger, 1-Adam-34.
He should be there any minute.”
“1-Adam-34, roger.”
The radio fell briefly silent. Jim glanced at the speedometer. Pete had
it pegged at nearly 75 mph on the narrow residential street, and the Olds
was still pulling away. “He's gonna kill himself,” Jim muttered.
“Let's just hope he doesn't take anybody with him.”
“There's Sanchez and Watson . . . Pete, watch it!” Jim yelled.
As the GTA hit the curve at the intersection at Oakmont, the blue Olds started
to fishtail wildly. The entire scene seemed to slow into stop-motion. As
the Olds jumped the curb, Sanchez gunned his unit backward, but not fast enough.
The stolen car slammed into the left front fender of the patrol car, knocking
it and slewing it sideways. The Olds' front bumper caught the patrol car's
bumper. 1-Adam-34 flipped on its side, and the Eighty-eight went airborne,
flying completely over the patrol car and landing upside down in a neighboring
yard.
Pete slammed on his brakes, narrowly missing a collision with 1-Adam-34.
Jim managed to hang onto the mic as Pete swerved around the tangled wreckage.
“1-Adam-12, we have a TA involving 1-Adam-34 and the GTA at Oakmont
and Roosevelt. Request an ambulance and the fire department at our location.”
Jim threw the mic down, then grabbed for the door handle. He missed it,
then cursed and yanked it up. “Pete, you check Sanchez! I got the
GTA.”
As Jim ran toward the Olds, he noticed flames licking at the dry grass.
Sparks from scraping metal or maybe the heat from the exhaust had started
a small fire near the back end. “Pete! There's fire over here!”
he yelled, then hurriedly dropped to his knees and peered in at the unconscious
driver. He stretched his arm in, trying to see if the guy had a pulse, but
he couldn't reach him. Casting another glance at the growing flames, he edged
his body through the crushed passenger window, then felt for the man's carotid.
It was weak, but steady.
Jim edged around until he could unhook the man's seatbelt, then he tugged
the man's body toward him. He could feel the heat from the flames against
his dark uniform pants. “Buddy, if my uniform burns up, you're payin'
me for a new one,” he muttered. He tugged and yanked and finally managed
to get the man out. He grabbed him under both arms and dragged him across
the lawn and behind a truck parked along the curb. He took the time to snap
cuffs on the man, then raced back to see if Pete needed help.
Sanchez had already crawled out under his own power. He leaned against
1-Adam-12 in a daze. “Watson . . . get Watson . . .”
“Pete's getting him, Juan,” Jim said. “Here, sit down.”
Jim opened his door and guided Sanchez onto the seat. “That's a pretty
nasty cut on your head.”
“What?” Sanchez blinked at him.
“Never mind. Just take it easy.” Jim dug out his keys, unlocked
the trunk and pulled out the fire extinguisher. He jogged back to the spreading
flames and started hosing down the area with CO2. “Pete! How's it
coming?”
Pete's head popped up out of the driver window. “Watson's okay, but
he's pinned. Can't get him free.”
Jim sprayed C02 wildly across the fire, but he could tell he was losing
the battle against the flames. “Pete, we gotta get him out. This gas
tank's gonna go.”
Pete disappeared again, and seconds later, the patrol car's windshield
flew out. “Reed! Gimme a hand!”
Jim abandoned the fire extinguisher and ran to the patrol car. Bert Watson
gave him a wry grin. “Hey, Reed. What's happening?”
“You okay, Bert?”
“Yeah. Gettin' a little warm right next to this frontyard barbeque.”
Pete gave his arm a squeeze. “Well, how about if we get you out,
then. Reed, I think if you can pull Bert's shoulders, I can lean down and
ease his legs out.”
Jim nodded, then leaned forward and grabbed Bert under the arms. He was
at an awkward angle for trying to lift anything as heavy as Bert's two hundred-plus
pounds but now wasn't the time to be worrying about the department's recent
memo on proper lifting techniques. He gritted his teeth and pulled. Something
started to knot up in his left shoulder, but he kept at it until finally Bert
shot from the patrol car like a calf from its mother. Reed sprawled backward
and gasped as Bert landed on top of him, driving out every last breath in
his lungs.
“Jim, you okay?” Bert asked in alarm as he scrambled off.
“Yeah,” Jim squeaked. He tried to sit up but grimaced and
fell back.
Pete's face swam into view. “You okay, Reed?”
“I think he got the wind knocked out of him,” Bert said.
Jim finally managed to sit up, then started to crawl quickly away from
the fire, which Pete and Bert seemed to have forgotten all about. He waved
them both away from the wreckage, then finally staggered to his feet. A
trickle of air came back into his lungs, but his shoulder felt like someone
was grinding his boot heel on it. He braced it with his hand and hurried
away from the wreckage.
“Reed, you hurt your shoulder?” Pete asked.
“Nah, I think I just strained it a little. Look, you better move
the car back.”
“Uh, partner, where's the suspect?”
“Oh, shoot!” Jim spun on his heel and hurried back to where
he'd left him lying on the ground. Fortunately, he was still there, and fortunately,
still breathing. But he was too close to the spreading fire. Once more,
Jim leaned down and tugged the man's arms. He managed to drag him another
thirty feet back when the Oldsmobile's gas tank exploded in a huge fireball.
Jim was thrown to the ground on top of the suspect. Two more exploding
concussions rocked the area, then flaming pieces of debris starting raining
down. Jim flinched as something hot landed on his left hand, then he rolled
off the suspect, staggered to his feet and tried to drag him a little further
away, but it was no go. He grimaced as the pain in his shoulder sharpened
its teeth, then dropped back down to his knees and checked the man's pulse.
It was strong enough to make Jim worry the man might come around and try
to fight, and not having the energy left for a protracted battle of brawn,
he pulled his gun out and kept it handy. He checked the burn on his hand.
Nothing serious, but it hurt like the dickens. He blew on it, but that
just made it worse.
Both cars were ablaze. Jim struggled to his feet and tried to see around
the wreckage, but the smoke was too thick. “Malloy!” he shouted.
A cloud of smoke drifted his way and made him cough. “Malloy! Watson!!”
No answer. He heard a distant siren and prayed it was the fire department
and those new paramedic guys he'd heard they had now.
###
Sergeant MacDonald took charge of Jim's prisoner and ordered him to sit
down on the curb until a paramedic could check him out.
“But Pete . . .”
“Pete's fine. The explosion knocked the unit on its side, but he's
fine. So're Watson and Sanchez. Now you just sit here and wait for the paramedic
to check you out.”
Mac dragged the now-conscious and apparently otherwise unhurt suspect to
his wagon. Jim pulled up his knees and rested his forehead on his arms.
“Sir, are you all right?”
Jim lifted his head from his arms and looked at the paramedic, who looked
to be all of twelve. “Yeah, I'm fine.”
“Well, you look a little singed around the edges.”
Jim frowned. The paramedic uniform didn't look right. “Hey, you're
a county guy. What're you doing in the city?”
“Big brushfire up in the canyons. They told us to stay behind and
cover the rest of the city.”
“Oh. Lucky you.” Jim flinched as the man daubed at a cut
on his forehead.
The man's mouth lifted in a quirky grin. “Yeah, lucky us. We've
been on twelve runs and it's not even noon. I just love mutual aid. Hey,
do you know Vince Howard? He's with the sheriff's department out our way.”
“No, don't think so.”
The dark-haired man finished taping up the dressing. “Doesn't matter.
How's your head? Any dizziness or nausea? Did you lose consciousness at
all?”
“No. I didn't hit my head. Just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“Why don't you let me check anyway. Look up at my helmet numbers,”
he said, pointing to the white 51 on the front of his black helmet. He pulled
out a penlight and checked Jim's eyes, then held up his finger again. “Follow
my finger–no, just with your eyes. Okay, great. You hurt anywhere
else?”
“Kinda burned my hand.”
The man, whose name tag read “J. Gage,” gently took Jim's hand
and looked it over. “I think that's just a first-degree burn. Bet
it stings like the devil, though.” He reached into a fishing tackle
box full of drugs and pulled out a tube of some kind of ointment. He squirted
a small amount out. “Aloe vera gel. If nothing else is wrong, then
I don't think you need to go to the hospital. But if your head starts hurting,
or you see double or have any dizziness, get yourself checked out by a doctor,
all right? Oh, and here, keep the aloe vera.”
Jim nodded and took the tube. “Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem. Consider it a gift from LA County. You sure nothing
else is hurt?”
“Well, my shoulder and my back're kinda sore.”
Immediately, the paramedic's gaze sharpened. “You say your back's
sore? Where?”
“Right here,” Reed rubbed his old scar. “I got shot
there about four months ago but that's not where it hurts. I think I pulled
a muscle or something getting Watson out of that car. It's really sore.”
J. Gage ran his hand up and down Reed's spine. “What about your
back? Did you fall?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I mean, when the gas tanks blew, I kinda got knocked over . . .”
“Does your back hurt at all?”
“Yeah, a little,” Jim finally admitted.
“Okay, look–let's lay you down flat here,” Gage eased
him onto his back. “I'm gonna go get my partner and a backboard. We'll
probably need to take you to the hospital and have them check you out.”
“But–”
“No buts!” Gage pointed a cautioning finger in the air. “Stay
right here.” He jumped up and ran over to a slightly older, sandy-haired
man who was taping the cut on Sanchez' forehead. The man nodded, then looked
over Gage's shoulder toward Jim. He grabbed an orange box and jogged over.
“Hi, there. My partner says you hurt your back.” He set down
the orange box, which Jim finally realized was a radio of some kind.
“It's nothing, just a pulled muscle.”
“Yeah, well, my partner's done that a time or two and I always make
him go to the hospital, so you're gonna have to go, too. I don't play favorites.”
Jim smiled. “You sound like my partner. Always pulling rank.”
“Rank has it's privileges, no doubt about it.” The man, nameplate
“DeSoto,” turned away from Reed and started mumbling a bunch of
medical mumbo-jumbo into the handset of the orange box. Jim shut his eyes.
Another trip to Central Receiving.
Jean was gonna kill him.
February 16, 1973 7:01 a.m.
Miraculously, none of them were seriously injured. Reed had a strained
deltoid (and wasn't killed by his wife once Jean found out he was going to
be all right), Malloy had a broken tooth, Sanchez had a mild concussion, and
Watson walked away without a scratch. Four days of recuperation and Jim's
shoulder felt good as new, but he wasn't any too happy about having to pull
an L-car for the shift. Pete was going to be tied up all day with a court
appearance in the morning and a trip to the dentist in the afternoon. Jim
didn't envy Pete either chore.
He unclipped the mic. “1-L-17, Daywatch clear.” He backed
the unit out of the space, waved at Sanchez, who along with Watson were heading
for their new patrol unit. Unlike their old patrol car, it was good to know
that neither of the two officers suffered any permanent damage.
Jim sighed. No permanent damage. At least not this time. What about
next time? What if the next 487 ends in a fiery crash that kills one of
them? What if a 459 goes down the wrong way and Pete buys it? Pete lost
his partner before he got Reed. It could just as easily happen to Jim.
And then Jim would be on permanent L-car duty, or he'd have to start over
with a new partner.
What if . . . what if . . . what if . . .
“What if the what if's start piling up so fast I just can't handle
it anymore?” Jim whispered.
