Author's note: This for all of us who thought Stephen
J. Cannell's chilling episode “Killing Ground” ended WAY too soon!
That was the worst thing about Adam-12 only being 30 minutes long...all the
“good” stuff had to get left out in order to tell the story.
Well, as Paul Harvey says, here's (maybe) “the rest of the story.”
9:47 p.m., Sergeant William MacDonald's Office
The intercom buzzed on Sergeant William “Mac” MacDonald's desk.
The Commander of the PM watch had to push a mountain of paperwork out of
his way in order to find the button to push to take the page. One thing about
working in the Los Angeles Police Department was a given -- there was always
more paperwork to handle than three Watch Commanders could handle in a typical
day, let alone one.
The Scotsman extended a crooked index finger and stabbed at the blinking
square, then grabbed up the receiver of the telephone. “Yeah?”
he barked, irritated at the interruption.
“Sergeant, this is Williams, dispatch. We've lost contact with Adam-12.”
Mac frowned and his irritation turned to concern in a heartbeat. Adam-12.
Malloy and Reed. Two of my best. “Radio problem?” He asked,
hopefully.
“We don't know. Last contact was a 8:59 p.m. when they cleared from
a domestic dispute. We attempted to assign another call to that unit at
9:27 p.m., but they didn't respond. We've been airing the Code 1 for ten
minutes now with no response.”
Mac's frown deepened. “And there was no contact at all between 8:59
and 9:27? No Code 6 called in?”
“None.”
A sinking feeling grabbed Mac in the gut. Pete Malloy was a nine year
veteran of the LAPD and was as sharp an officer as there was. Reed, his
younger partner, had only been on the force a little over two years, but
the young man had excellent instincts and was turning into one of the finer
officers in the division. Both were meticulous about following procedure
and they were both serious, competent professionals. Mac knew with certainty
if they were able to respond, they would respond. The optimistic
thought that they might have radio problems was dampened by the fact that
in nearly an hours' time they would have discovered the problem and either
called in on the landline or shown up at the station for repairs. Since
they had done neither, Mac was left with a frightening possibility.
“What was their last known location?”
“They cleared from the domestic dispute located at 2315 East Dover
at 8:59 p.m.”
Mac suppressed a nervous sigh. “Have Adam-46, 52, and 15 meet me
on TAC-2. I'll get a search started. Meanwhile continue broadcasting the
Code 1. If they respond, let me know.”
“Roger, Sarge.”
***
10:23 p.m., search route of 1-Adam-52
“There they are!” Officer Bob Brinkman pointed to a Los Angeles
Police cruiser sitting on the side of a dark road in the park, its reds flashing.
“You mean there's their car.” Jerry Woods, Brinkman's
partner, corrected, his voice subdued and his weathered face grim. “I
don't see them sitting in it.”
“God, I hope we don't find them inside, slumped over....”
“Shut up, Brinkman!” Woods snapped before the younger man could
finish the morbid thought. Malloy was a good friend, and he had a particular
soft spot for the young Reed. Woods had been working hard to push away such
horrible thoughts since he'd first learned his colleagues were missing.
“Sorry,” Brinkman apologized with a shaky voice. “But
I have to tell ya, I'm a little worried. I mean, Pete and Jim...”
Woods pulled the unit up behind the apparently abandoned Adam-12. “I
know,” he said quietly. “Call Mac.”
Brinkman picked up and then keyed the mic. “1-Adam-52 to 1-L-90.”
“1-L-90, go.”
“We found the unit, Mac. It's sitting with its reds flashing in
the middle of West Park Drive. We're investigating now.”
“Roger, 52. I'm on my way. If you find anything, report immediately.”
“Roger, Mac.”
“Let's get this over with.” Woods sighed.
The two officers didn't bother to don their caps as they left their own
unit to check out Adam-12. They pulled out their flashlights and lit them,
simultaneously anxious and reluctant to see what was inside. The powerful
beams illuminated the interior.
Empty.
Brinkman let out a sigh. “Part of me is very relieved,”
he remarked, glancing over at Woods.
Woods didn't share his partner's relief. “What about the other part?”
he asked pointedly.
***
12:46 a.m., 1-L-90 en route to Jim Reed's home
MacDonald steered his unit off the main thoroughfare onto the quiet street
where Jim Reed lived with his wife, Jean, and his almost-two-year-old son,
Jimmy. There had been few cars on the main road, and none on this street
in a middle-class residential section of Los Angeles. Mac dreaded this next
task with all of his heart. When things went sour, it was hard on everybody,
but hardest on the wives. Mac did not want to have to look into Jean
Reed's eyes and tell her that he didn't know where her husband was.
For well over two hours now almost every officer in the division had been
searching for Malloy and Reed. Word had spread fast about their mysterious
disappearance, and every cop on duty had called in and begged for the chance
to join the search. Mac had accommodated all that he could, while others
searched in between handling radio calls.
There had been no helpful clues at the scene where the abandoned police
vehicle had been found. Nothing found there gave anyone a clue as to where
the two men might have disappeared. Only two items of interest had been found
at all; one, a spent shell casing that was definitely either from Malloy or
Reed's .38 caliber service revolver, and, two, a small puddle of blood with
subsequent splotches that traveled about 15 feet, then disappeared. The
blood was being analyzed, but even that wouldn't conclusively tell them if
it belonged to Reed or Malloy. They both had fairly common blood types, and
even if the blood type matched, there had to be thousands of people in the
LA area who had the same blood type. It didn't mean anything. Besides, with
the .38 shell casing found at the scene, Mac was hoping the blood came from
a perp and not from either Pete or Jim.
Mac had delayed telling Jean that her husband was missing as long as he
could, hoping something more concrete would be discovered. Pete was single
and not even dating seriously at the time, and his surviving family lived
away from LA. There was no one to tell about his disappearance. Under normal
circumstances, Jean would have expected Jim home from work at least 45 minutes
ago, and she must already be worried. Now Mac had to bring her world crashing
down around her by telling her this unsettling news. No news and no clues.
Quite possibly a waiting wife's worst nightmare. Mac hated this part of
his job. It just never got any easier.
***
12:46 a.m., The Reeds' bedroom
Jean Reed looked up from the book she pretended to be reading and glanced
at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed she and Jim shared for
the 3rd time in as many minutes.
12:46. Where is he? Why hasn't he called to tell me he'd be late?
He knows how I worry.
Jean sighed and shifted in the bed, her hand automatically moving to the
side of the bed where Jim should be right now. He should be there, holding
her, loving her, right now. Jean knew that sometimes her husband got caught
up near end-of-watch in complex calls, causing him to run late, or even sometimes
got tagged for a double tour, but he always made time to call her as soon
as he could. He always called. Always. The fact that Jim
hadn't called frightened her.
Headlight beams peeked in through the bedroom curtains and her spirits
lifted, a smile lighting her face. “Finally!” she harumphed
aloud. She fluffed her reddish-blonde hair and tried to work up enough anger
to be able to fuss at Jim when he came in, instead of throwing herself into
his arms as she really felt like doing. Her smile faded when she realized
that the lights hadn't turned into the driveway, but were still on the street.
Frowning now, she made her way to the window and peeked out. What she saw
there caused her heart to skip a beat and her knees to go weak.
That's Mac! Jim's late and Mac is here! Oh, God, please don't let him
be dead! Please don't let him be dead!
Panic nearly suffocated her. She clutched her robe tighter around her
and watched Mac trudge up the sidewalk, his face grim and his hat in both
hands. Jean tried to make herself move to the living room, but she was frozen
in place. After a moment, she heard the quiet knock at the door. She took
a breath and steadied herself for the bad news. She adjusted her robe for
modesty's sake and made the trek to the front door. It seemed like five miles.
Jean opened the door slowly and spoke before Mac could open his mouth.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, hoping Mac could hear her. All
she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears.
Mac looked at her with undisguised sympathy “I don't know,”
he responded honestly.
Jean blinked. She hadn't been expecting that response.
“May I come in?” Mac asked. His voice was calm and quiet.
How can he be so calm! It's maddening! “Of course.”
Jean opened the door wider and Mac entered.
“Let's sit down,” Mac suggested.
“Mac, just tell me!” Jean demanded, grabbing his arm. “Has
he been shot? Stabbed? Beaten?” Her voice rose.
Mac cut off her near-hysterical questioning by putting both hands on her
shoulders and looking her square in the eyes. “Jean, Jim and Pete are
missing.”
That gave Jean pause. “Missing? I don't understand.”
Mac took her hand and led her to the couch where he guided her to sit down.
After he was seated, he took both her hands in his and explained the situation
to her as he knew it.
To her credit, Jean listened calmly. When Mac had finished, she asked,
“So, you think they've been....abducted?”
Mac shrugged. “We don't know for sure, but it looks that way.”
“If they have been...abducted...what are the chances you'll find
them alive?”
“Pretty good, I think. Most people who kidnap police officers do
it in the heat of the moment. They get scared later and wind up abandoning
them somewhere and taking off. Plus, police officers can talk a pretty good
game. Often they can convince their captors its in their own best interest
to let them go.”
“But it doesn't always end that way,” Jean stated quietly.
She was thinking of the highly publicized case of only a few years earlier
where two LAPD officers had been abducted, taken to a deserted onion field,
and one had wound up brutally executed. The other had been terrorized and
had spent long, horrifying minutes running for his life.
“No,” Mac admitted. “Not always.” Jean had no
response for that, and after a brief silence, Mac spoke again. “Jean,
who can you call to come sit with you while we search? A neighbor? Family?”
“I'll call my parents,” Jean said. She got up to head to the
phone. Her legs felt like lead weights, but her head felt disconnected from
her body and she moved as if in a dream.
“You want me to call for you?”
Jean shook her head. “No, I'll do it. I want you to go and find
my Jim. And Pete.”
“I'll stay until you're sure they can come.”
Jean picked up the receiver and dialed her parent's number. When her father
answered sleepily, she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
“Daddy? It's Jean. Listen, I need you and mom to come over right
away. Jim is...is...missing.”
*** 1:59 a. m. Search patrol of LAPD unit X-Ray 25
“It's just like those two to do this to me,” Officer Ed Wells
moaned to his partner. The seven-year veteran slowly eased their unit down
a lonely, wooded street near the park where the abandoned unit had been found.
His slightly younger partner, “Richie” Richardson shone the
powerful spotlight on the darkened trees, looking for any sign of their missing
colleagues.
“Damned inconsiderate! Both of 'em! I should have been home hours
ago. I'm missing my beauty sleep.” Wells continued his rant.
Richardson's eyes never left the woods he was scanning. “Why'd you
volunteer for search duty, then?” he asked. Sometimes Wells was just
too irritating.
“Oh, I gotta find'em,” Wells replied. “I have two very
important reasons for wanting to find 'em.”
“And those reasons are?” Richardson prompted. “They
owe you money or something?”
Wells shot Richardson an exasperated look, but it was wasted, since Richardson
was still looking out the window. “Funny, Richie, funny. No, but it's
to my advantage to find those two jokers. Malloy -- I really need something
on him, you know? That eleven months seniority he has over me really goes
to his head sometimes! If I can pull him out of this black hole he and his
irritating young partner have fallen into, maybe he'll ease up on me a little.”
“Uh, huh,” Richardson grunted, still looking. “What
about Reed?”
“Well, who else am I gonna scrap with like I scrap with Reed?”
Wells asked. “He's the perfect patsy, all wide-eyed and innocent and
idealistic. He falls into every trap I set for him. Where can I ever find
another perfect victim like that?”
Richardson grunted again. He was thinking of Reed, and how, last summer
when he'd broken his ankle in a foot pursuit, Jim had come to his house once
a week for eight weeks and cut his grass and taken care of his yardwork.
Richie would never, ever forget that kindness. “Glad you're so concerned
about their welfare,” he mumbled irritably.
“Their welfare? Those two?” Wells snorted. “If somebody
snatched those two, I feel sorry for the perps! Give Reed half a chance
and he'll bore them to death with that mouth of his. He can go on and on
forever and never say anything. And Malloy -- well - after Reed wears 'em
down jawin' at 'em, that old fox will have 'em so confused they'll be wondering
why they bothered snatchin' 'em.”
Richardson didn't respond and there was silence in the car for a few minutes.
Finally, Ed spoke again.
“Besides, they're tough. Both of 'em. Pete's tougher than an old
pine knot. He's pretty ferocious behind that baby face. And Reed? Well,
you know Reed -- runs faster, jumps higher, all that superman stuff. Physically,
he's a match for anybody one-on-one.”
“But not for a bullet,” Richardson reminded Wells, his voice
bitter. “There was the blood by the unit.”
“I choose not to think about that. It could be the perp's blood.”
“You hope.”
“Yeah, I hope.”
During the ensuing silence, Ed's thoughts wandered back to two years earlier,
when Pete and Jim had risked everything to save his life. Ed would never
forget Pete's ingenious method of getting him out of harm's way, and he would
never forget Reed's words of encouragement and his concern. Come on, Malloy,
Reed . . . hang in there. Show 'em how tough you really are. Don't make
a liar out of me!
***** 2:37 a.m., somewhere in the desert, northeast LA County
“Sit down, Jim,” Pete Malloy ordered his younger partner.
“I've got this one.” Malloy had a firm grip on the skinny arm
of the maniacal Steve, who by now was babbling incoherently in between bouts
of hysterical laughter. He reached out and took Norman's arm, removing
him from Reed's grasp.
“I'm okay, Pete,” Jim assured him, but his voice was tired
and weak, and Pete could easily see the tremors in his partner's limbs. Jim
offered no resistance to Norman's removal.
“I know. Sit down anyway,” Pete shot back, roughly pushing
their two captors now turned prisoner to the back of the bus, away from Jim.
Pete shoved Norman into a seat, not bothering to be gentle. “You
sit there and you don't move a muscle,” he growled. He noted that Norm
looked more resigned than anything and figured he wouldn't be a problem.
It was the other one -- Steve -- who was the problem. He couldn't wait to
get Steve's handcuffs around something solidly steel. Steve was a true headcase
and couldn't be trusted for a second.
Even now, as Pete muscled him into a seat away from Norman, Steve was babbling.
“Little tests for little people! Little tests! Civil servants! Stupid
pigs!”
“Shut up, Steve!” Pete barked. After the events of the past
several hours, he was at the end of his emotional rope and he was tired of
dealing with the whiny little man. In fact, Pete wasn't even sure if Steve
was connecting with the real world right now. He took his handcuff key and
removed one side of Steve's cuffs. He threaded the free side through a metal
joist and then quickly snapped the cuff back on. Now Steve could babble all
he wanted; he sure wasn't going anywhere.
Once Steve was secured, Pete turned back to Norman, but not without sparing
a glance at his partner. Jim was finally seated, his injured left leg stretched
out into the aisle. The amount of blood soaking the makeshift bandage had
increased to a point that alarmed Pete. Jim needed a doctor and he needed
one now. Pete hurried his pace.
Pete handcuffed Norm to the seat. Unlike Steve, Norm was silent, choosing
to glare at Pete silently during the procedure. He matched the glare second
for second, then deliberately turned and walked away without a word. He'd
had to suck up to Norm for far too long this night, and he wasn't going to
humor the man for one second more. In fact, it took a superhuman effort on
Pete's part not to put his fist right through Norm's face.
Getting both the prisoners secured took a load off Malloy's shoulders.
He now had a moment to check Jim's condition. Pete had worried about his
partner ever since their whole ordeal had begun more than five hours earlier.
Even with a bullet in his thigh, Jim had put up his usual brave and stoic
front. The young man had endured the pain and kept a clear head, not giving
in to fear or panic. Even with the continuing blood loss, somehow Jim had
continued functioning, pushing his pain away, fighting the ensuing weakness,
even managing to fight and run near the end. Jim had readily stepped into
the role of “bad cop” that Pete had been forced to script for
him. It had been the only way to convince their captors they were at odds
with one another. Jim had not only stepped into the role, but played it beautifully
-- at times too beautifully. All the while Pete had worried about his injured
partner taking all the risks. It amazed him that Jim could even hold his
head up now that the ordeal was over.
I gotta get him some help. I'm never gonna forgive myself if he doesn't
make it through. I don't know how I'm gonna face Jean and explain to her
how I let this happen. Damn my impatience!
“How you doin' partner?” Pete dragged himself away from his
thoughts and dropped a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder.
“I'm okay,” Jim repeated his earlier assurance with a tired
voice.
“Sure you are,” Pete humored him, squeezing his shoulder gently.
He studied Jim's face carefully. The lighting in the bus was dim and Pete
couldn't see Jim's face as well as he wanted, but even in the dimness Jim
couldn't hide the fatigue and pain showing in his eyes. “Why don't
you lay back?” Pete kept looking at the blood soaked bandage on Jim's
leg. Now that he was close, he could see that Jim's pants leg was also soaked,
and blood was pooling on the seat and dripping onto the floor. Pete's level
of alarm went up a notch. Jim hadn't been bleeding that heavily just a few
minutes ago. Must have been the running. The bullet must still be in
there, moving around.
Jim shook his head slowly. “If I lay down, I won't be able to get
up.”
“Don't worry about it. There's nothing else you need to do now but
rest. I'm gonna get you some help.”
“You gonna drive this beast?” Jim asked, a ghost of a smile
tugging at his mouth.
“Who else?” Pete shrugged, grinning at Reed.
“Anybody else,” Jim cracked, though the voice was weak.
“Jim, your lack of trust in me wounds me deeply.” Pete patted
him on the shoulder once more, but didn't want to waste any more time talking.
He had to get Jim out of here, now. “Sit back and relax.” Pete
stepped over Jim's leg and slid into the driver's seat.
Pete was grateful that their captors had been in such a hurry to recapture
them they'd left the bus running. He wasn't sure he could hot-wire an ancient
bus. Pete muscled the bus into gear and, with a small lurch, got it moving
again.
“All right,” Jim offered.
“Wise guy,” Pete called over his shoulder. He gripped the
wheel tightly, mainly to keep his hands from shaking. With the five-hour
adrenaline rush over, withdrawal symptoms of exhaustion and trembling limbs
were setting in.
Unfortunately, the ride through the fields and back to the farmhouse was
a rough one. Every time the bus bounced through a hole, Pete heard Jim groan
in pain. Mercifully, though, it took only a couple of minutes to reach the
dirt road leading to the deserted farmhouse. Pete had no intention of driving
any further. He planned on getting into that house and calling for help.
He hadn't stopped to think about the fact that there might not be a phone.
Just as he was getting ready to tell Jim the plan, he saw red lights and
heard the siren of an approaching emergency vehicle. It'd be too much
of a miracle for it to be an ambulance . . . no.
Pete looked over his shoulder to find Jim sitting up straight, leaning
forward in an effort to see.
“The cavalry comes over the hill,” Pete sighed.
“Who is it? I don't even know where we are.”
“Looks like an LA County Sheriff's unit,” Pete told him. He
hit the brakes and killed the engine. “We'll have an ambulance here
for you in just a few minutes.”
“Good,” Jim sighed.
The uncharacteristic response caused Pete to turn and look at his partner.
Jim was still sitting up, but was leaning heavily on the seat in front of
him. His face was covered with a film of perspiration.
“All of a sudden, I'm not feeling so hot.”
“Jim, sit back.” Pete got up from the driver's seat, took his
partner by the shoulders and tried to settle him back against the seat. “You
look like you're about to keel over.”
Jim's breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and his face was ashen.
“I...think . . . you're right. It finally . . . caught up . . . with
me.”
Before Pete could make a reassuring reply, the bus was illuminated by
a bright light and the unmistakable squawk of megaphone feedback sounded.
“YOU IN THE BUS! THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS
UP!”
“What the . . .?” Pete turned and squinted against the spotlight.
He'd momentarily forgotten the sheriff's car in his concern over Jim.
“I REPEAT . . . THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS
UP!”
“Great, just great!” Pete moaned.
“Whassa matter, Malloy? Don't like bein' on the other end, do ya?”
Steve called from the back.
So he IS clued in . . . “They're just being cautious,”
he said, more to Jim than to Steve.
“Careful, Pete . . . careful,” Jim urged breathlessly.
“Just hang on a minute; I'll get this straightened out.” Pete
gave Jim's shoulder yet another pat, then took a step toward the bus' door.
“WEAPONS FIRST!”
Irritated beyond words, Pete raised his hands up for the deputy to see.
He slowly reached for the door release and opened them. Then he took a deep
breath and responded to the deputy. “I'm Pete Malloy, LAPD! I have
a wounded partner and two suspects in custody! I'm coming out, slowly!”
“THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS!” the faceless voice insisted.
“For cryin' out loud!” Pete hissed. He took his gun out of
the snapcase and tossed it out the door into the dirt.
“NOW THE REST!”
“Pete . . . just do it . . . after all . . . that's happened . .
. don't get yourself blown up . . . by the good guys.” Jim handed him
his gun with a shaking hand.
Pete took the gun and tossed it out of the door. Then he reached in his
waistband and gave Jim the gun he'd confiscated from Steve. “Keep this.
I'm not about to leave you in here alone with these idiots, unarmed.”
“Thanks,” Jim took the gun and checked it.
“COME OUT SLOWLY, WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”
Pete gritted his teeth and raised his hands. “When this is over,”
he said to Jim as he walked down the steps, “I'm gonna get somebody's
badge.”
“Careful,” Jim warned again.
Pete stepped off the bus and turned to face the bright spot that was now
trained on him.
“ALL RIGHT, NOW THE OTHERS ON THE BUS! COME OUT!”
“Nobody else can come out,” Pete called, squinting into the
glare. “My partner is badly wounded and needs help, now! I need you
to call an ambulance! The two suspects are handcuffed to the seats and they
aren't going anywhere! Now, can I put my hands down and let's get some help
out here?”
The deputy sheriff that was doing the talking lowered his megaphone. “Diaz,
check out the bus,” he ordered over his shoulder.
“Right,” a second voice sounded from behind the deputy and
Pete saw a form walking toward him, gun extended.
“Hurry it up, will ya?” Pete growled. “My partner's
bleedin' pretty badly.”
“Don't tell us how to do our jobs, man,” the deputy said angrily
as he walked by.
Pete seethed but held his tongue. He thought about Jim still having a
gun and hoped the deputy didn't startle easily.
The first deputy walked closer to Pete. His gun was out, too. He came
to within ten feet of Pete and stopped, but kept the irritating spotlight
trained so that Pete couldn't tell anything about what he looked like. “Well,
you're wearing the uniform, all right,” the deputy drawled. “But
dispatch said the phone call they got was real suspect. I'm gonna need to
see some ID.”
“ID?!” Pete spluttered. “ID? Look, I told you, I'm
Pete Malloy, LAPD, badge number 744. My partner and I were taken from LA
earlier in the evening and held hostage by two robbery suspects. My partner
is shot and bleeding . . . has been bleeding now for over five hours . .
.”
“I know about that,” the deputy interrupted. “And I
figure anybody that can abduct two armed LAPD officers is pretty slick.
You could be them . . . you could've switched clothes with the cops. I drop
my guard and I'm a hostage, too, or worse. Now let's see that ID.”
Pete had to swallow his anger. The longer he argued the longer it would
take them to get help for Jim. But when this is over their butts are mine.
“It's in my front right pants pocket. You want to come get it
or you want me to take it out?”
“You take it out, buddy. One hand. Two fingers. Slowly.”
Pete lowered his right hand slowly and used his thumb and index finger
to get a grip on the thin wallet that held his drivers' license and other
identification. He pulled it out and held it up. “Now what?”
he asked through clenched teeth.
“Throw it at my feet.”
Pete tossed the wallet at the deputy's feet, seething at the delay.
“You just be real still, now,” the deputy warned. He crouched
down and retrieved the wallet, never taking his eyes off Pete. “Hey,
Diaz . . . what's on the bus?”
Diaz appeared in the door of the bus as the lead man thumbed Pete's wallet
open.
“Guy in a uniform, says his name's Reed, got a bullet in his leg,
and he's bleedin' pretty bad. Took this off him,” Diaz held up the
gun.
The lead deputy snorted and turned to Pete. “You don't follow directions
well, do ya? You're lucky Diaz didn't shoot him. He's itchy like that.”
I'm liable to shoot the both of you if you don't get on with it!
“Look, I wasn't about to leave my partner in there with two robbery
suspects, unarmed. Now look at the damned ID so we can stop playing these
little games!”
“Two guys are cuffed to the seats in the back. They're in civvies.
One of 'em has a hurt shoulder.” Diaz continued his report.
“Keep an eye on 'em.” the deputy finally shined the light on
Pete's wallet, then back to him. He did this a couple of times, then thumbed
through the rest of the wallet. “Well,” he sighed, finally, “looks
like you're who you say you are, Malloy.”
“Can I drop my hands now?”
“Sure.” the deputy lowered the spotlight as Pete lowered his
arms. He blinked to try and recover the night vision that the bright light
had taken away.
Once he could see, Pete walked straight up to the deputy and put a finger
in his chest. “Now that we have my identity established, I want you
to do your job. Get my partner an ambulance and get it now!”
Pete barked.
“Diaz,” the deputy called, “Get an ambulance out here.”
“Right.” Diaz loped off the bus and walked toward the sheriff's
car.
“Dammit, move!” Pete insisted loudly. “Don't
you people understand, my partner's been bleeding for five hours!”
“I understand you've been through quite an ordeal,” the first
deputy soothed, “but . . .”
“You don't know shit!” Pete exclaimed, his patience completely
gone. Unable to control his frustration and anger any longer, he stabbed
his finger into the deputy's chest. “You don't have any clue of what
my partner and I have been through in the past five hours! But you listen
to me, Barney Fife, and you listen good. If you don't get an ambulance here,
now, I'm not only gonna have your badge and your partner's badge, I'm
liable to put my fist right through your face! Am I getting through to you,
or are you as stupid as I think you are?”
“Now, listen here!”
“No. You listen, 'cause I'm not through. I'm gettin' back
on this bus to take care of my partner. While I do that, you have your dispatch
contact my watch commander and let him know we've been found. Sergeant William
MacDonald. The division number is 555-2222, but just have whoever answers
the phone contact MacDonald, 'cause I'm sure he's out at a command post lookin'
for us. Tell him where we are and what our conditions are. My partner has
a wife who's probably worried sick.” Pete leaned over and retrieved
both his gun and Jim's gun. When he straightened the deputy was still standing
there staring at him. “Are you still standing here? What's your problem?”
“Just because you're an LA cop doesn't mean you can talk to me like
that!”
“I'm not talking to you like that because I'm an LA cop. I'm talking
to you like that because my partner might be dying in there. I don't have
time to play games or be nice. So just do what I asked and we'll all apologize
later! Now, move!” Pete paused, took a deep breath and lowered
his voice. “Please.”
The deputy nodded toward the bus. “Go see about your partner. I'll
take care of contacting Sergeant MacDonald.”
“Thank you,” Pete offered sincerely. He turned and hurried
back into the bus, moving to Reed's side. “Jim?”
Jim was in a semi-seated position, with his head down on the back of the
seat. His eyes were closed, but he roused and opened them when Pete spoke.
“You okay?” Jim asked.
“Everything's fine. Ambulance is on the way. They're contacting
Mac to let him know where we are.”
“Took . . . the gun . . .”
“I know. It's okay. Those deputies were a little jumpy.”
Jim nodded. His eyes closed briefly, then opened. “What timezit?”
His words were slurred.
“Almost 3 a.m.”
“Jean . . . Jean'll be . . .”
“I'm sure Mac's taking good care of Jean,” Pete assured. “Stop
wasting your energy talking. Lay back and rest.” Pete gently pressed
Jim back into the seat. He felt Jim shiver.
“I'm cold . . . Pete . . .”
“Take it easy,” Pete soothed. “Let me zip up your jacket.
No, don't move, I can reach it.” Pete wrestled with the zipper until
he got it closed. He then took off his own jacket and wrapped it around Jim's
shoulders. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Jim's voice was barely audible. His head nodded and
his eyes closed.
“Jim?” Pete gently shook his partner. Pete knew that Jim was
exhausted and in pain, but he didn't want to let him lose consciousness.
“Jim, stay with me, buddy.”
Jim jerked awake with a moan. “I'm . . . I'm with you,” he
managed.
“He's gonna bleed to death while you watch, pig,” Steve snickered
from the back of the bus. “He's gonna die.”
“Shut up!” Pete snapped. He didn't even spare the man a look.
“Just relax, Jim. Everything's all right.” Pete felt helpless.
He nervously readjusted his own jacket around his partner's shoulders.
“Pete?”
“Yeah, Jim?”
Jim closed his eyes again. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, then
he coughed and winced at the resulting pain. “My fault.”
“No, uh uh, no way, Jim.” Pete contradicted.
“Didn't wait . . . broadcast . . .”
Pete sighed. It was just like Jim to blame himself. Yes, Jim had been
the one to say “we'll get it later,” when they stopped to check
out the camper, but as the senior officer, Pete knew, ultimately it should
have been his call to go by the book.
“I'm the senior officer,” he said quietly, speaking near Jim's
ear. This was a conversation those two in the back had no business being
a part of. “All I had to say was 'wait.' And I didn't. If you're
going to lay blame, put it at my feet. I should apologize to you.”
“Pete . . . no . . .”
“Jim, this isn't the time.” Pete gripped his partner's shoulder
firmly. “Don't worry . . . Mac'll find plenty of blame to go around.”
“Yeah.” Jim coughed again, winced, and took a couple of quick
breaths.
What's taking that damned ambulance so long? We must be out in the middle
of nowhere.
“Malloy?” The lead deputy was suddenly in the door of the bus.
Pete hadn't even heard him approach.
“Yeah?”
“Got in touch with your sarge. He was real happy, to say the least.
He wants to talk to you. We gave him the number in the farmhouse -- he's
calling in now.”
Pete was reluctant to leave Jim, but he realized Mac needed more information.
He leaned over and spoke to him. “Jim, did you hear that?”
“Yeah. Go.”
“I'll be right back.”
“Pete . . .” Jim reached up and grabbed Pete's arm.
“What?” Pete gently disengaged Jim's grip and put his arm back
underneath the extra field jacket.
“Tell Mac . . . to tell Jean . . . not worry . . . and I love . .
.” Jim had to stop and take a breath, which led to a brief bout of coughing.
“I know, I know. Easy, now. I'll tell him.”
“I'll stay with him,” the deputy offered, moving up the steps.
When Pete looked hesitant, he continued, “My name's Crawford. I'm sorry
about that misunderstanding earlier. Go talk to your sergeant. I'll look
out for him.”
“Thanks. I won't be long.”
“Leave your handcuff key, Malloy,” Crawford said. “We've
got back up on the way. We'll take these jokers off the bus, process 'em
and hold 'em for pickup.”
Pete fished the key out of his pocket. That key had literally saved his
life. He looked at it for a second, then handed it to Crawford. “What's
keeping that ambulance?” he asked quietly, with an anxious glance at
Jim, who was still fighting to stay conscious.
Crawford shrugged apologetically. “Location,” he said, just
as quietly. “We're as far out in the middle of nowhere as you can be
and still be in LA County. But I'll have Diaz check on the ETA. It should
be any minute now.”
“Thanks,” Pete said again. He hurried down the steps of the
bus and jogged toward the farmhouse. Diaz was standing on the porch, holding
Susan, who was also handcuffed
“Your sergeant's holding for you,” the deputy reported. “Phone's
on the table right inside that door.”
“Thanks.”
“Malloy, how's Reed?” Susan asked.
“Bleeding,” Pete replied. He knew Susan had helped them both
in the end, and had been the one to call for help, but he still wasn't ready
to forgive her for her role in all of this yet. He felt a slight pang of
guilt, and he felt sure Jim would chastise him for not thanking her, but he
had other concerns right now. Malloy walked on past her without elaborating.
The phone receiver was off the hook and lying on the table. Pete took
a deep breath to steady himself, then picked it up. In the most normal voice
he could muster, he spoke into the phone. “Malloy.”
“Pete!” Mac's voice sounded loud and exuberant through the
handset. “Pete! My, God! It's good to hear your voice!”
“Same here, Mac,” Pete said quietly. He was surprised at the
intensity of the emotion that washed through him when he heard his old friend's
voice. He had to swallow hard and work at calming himself.
“Are you all right? How's Jim? The deputy said he was shot? How
bad?”
“I'm okay, just a little shaky. Jim took a bullet in the left thigh.
He was doin' okay until just a few minutes ago when he started crashing.
The blood loss is catching up with him.” Pete couldn't keep his voice
steady.
“When did he get hit?”
“Right when it first went down, about 9:20.”
“He's been bleeding that long?” Mac's sharp intake of breath
betrayed his concern. “You got help coming?”
“Yeah, but, Mac, we're out in the middle of nowhere and it's taking
a while. Did the deputy say exactly where we are?”
“Yeah, in the northeast part of the county, about 5 miles from San
Bernadino County line.”
Pete whistled. “That far out? I knew we'd gone a long way . . .”
“Pete, what happened?” Mac asked.
Pete sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was still damp from his
exertions. “Mac, it's a long story and better told face to face. Besides,
I need to get back to Jim.”
“All right, all right, just take it easy.”
Pete remembered his promise to Jim. “How's Jean holding up?”
“Pretty good, considering. She's really scared. Her parents came
over to stay with her. Soon as I hang up with you, I'm on my way to pick
her up. We'll meet you . . . uh, you don't know what hospital yet, huh?”
“Mac, we're over an hour from County General or Rampart. I'm worried
that he might not make it that far. I don't know where we'll wind up.”
“He's that bad?” the worry crept back into Mac's voice.
“I don't know, Mac, I just don't know. Look, I'll have the ambulance
dispatcher contact you through the division when they decide where they're
takin' Jim.”
“All right.”
“Meanwhile, Jim wanted you to tell Jean that he loves her and . .
.” Pete's throat constricted and he had to stop. “. . . and
not to worry,” he finished.
“I'll tell her. I'm sure it'll help. And I think you need to take
that advice yourself.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Pete took a ragged breath, and something of
the policeman in him surfaced through the worry. “One more thing,
Mac. The guys that grabbed us . . . they're the 211s that shot the night
watchman at the savings and loan tonight. Uh, last night.”
Mac sucked in another breath. “No kidding. Boy, this is gonna be
some story, isn't it, Pete?”
“You're not kidding,” Pete agreed.
“Malloy!” Deputy Crawford appeared in the door then, looking
concerned.
“I gotta go, Mac. See you soon.” Pete put the receiver down
before he heard Mac's good-bye. “What is it?”
“Your partner . . . the backup unit arrived and we were taking the
suspects out. The little one went crazy and started ranting at your partner,
threatening to kill him. He's a real nut, that one. Anyway, when the deputy
took him out, the guy managed to twist around and took a couple of cheap shots
at your partner . . . caught him one on the leg . . . he's in a bad way.”
Pete was halfway out the door before Crawford finished the story. If he'd
been inclined to apologize to the deputy for calling him Barney Fife, he'd
changed his mind. He rushed across the yard, only peripherally aware of two
more sheriff's cars on the grounds with the requisite deputies prowling around.
Pete took the steps into the bus in one leap.
Deputy Diaz was standing over Jim, talking to him. Jim was curled up on
the seat, writhing in pain, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His
hands were clutched at his wounded leg.
“Jim!” Pete muscled Diaz unceremoniously out of the way and
knelt beside his partner's side. Pete took him by the shoulders and tried
to calm him. “Take it easy, Jim, settle down. Relax.”
“Pete . . . Pete . . .” Jim's hand flailed out and Pete grasped
it.
“I'm here, Jim. I'm here. Settle down.” Pete looked over
his shoulder at Diaz. “Where the hell is that ambulance?”
he growled, his voice tight with anger.
Diaz shrugged. “I was just telling your partner that I called in
for a paramedic unit. They do good work, and I think your partner's gonna
need that help. We're way out here, you know. It just takes a while.”
“I know that! But see if you can find out the status, make
sure they didn't get lost. He needs help!”
“I'll see what I can do.” Diaz hurried down the steps.
“Pete,” Jim moaned, his voice barely audible. “Pete,
the pain . . .”
“I know, I know. Try to relax. I . . . I talked to Mac,”
Pete forced a light tone into his voice, hoping to distract Jim. “He
says Jean's holding up real well. Don't worry, you'll see her real soon.
Concentrate on that.”
Jim gripped Pete's hand as though it were a lifeline. He coughed several
times in between gasping breaths. He opened his mouth to say something, but
didn't seem to have the strength to do it.
Pete was stunned at the speed with which Jim's condition had deteriorated.
A little over a half-hour ago, his partner had been on his feet, moving and
alert. Now it was a battle for him to stay conscious. It tore at Pete's
heart to see Jim suffer like this. Jim was so young, healthy, and full of
energy. Except for a bad bout with the flu a couple of months earlier, Pete
had never seen Jim out of it like he was now. He prayed those paramedics
would get here soon.
Jim's eyes closed, opened, then closed again as a new fit of coughing overtook
him. “Can't breathe,” he complained.
“Try to relax,” Pete repeated.
“Feel . . . strange . . .” Jim gasped.
“You're supposed to feel strange. You've been shot.” Pete
joked lightly. “You're gonna be fine.”
“Heart's beatin' . . . outta my chest.”
“You've lost a lot of blood.” Pete thought back to the time
he'd taken a bullet in the shoulder, not long after Jim had been assigned
as his partner. He remembered the pain, the fatigue, the shortness of breath,
the fear that help wouldn't get there in time. Jim had an extra dimension
of worry . . . a family he might leave behind. Pete figured that was part
of Jim's problem now . . . worrying about his wife and child.
The grip Jim had on Pete's hand suddenly slackened and Pete reached out
to gently shake him. “Jim. Jim, stay awake, buddy.”
Jim's eyes fluttered and he continued to gasp for breath. He moaned quietly
and managed to keep his eyes open. His grip strengthened again and he turned
a pain-filled gaze on Pete.
“Pete . . .”
“Don't try to talk, Jim. Save your energy.”
“Have to . . .” Jim shook his head. “If I don't . .
. don't . . . make it . . .”
“Don't talk nonsense!” Pete chided. “You're gonna be
fine.”
“No, listen . . .” Jim insisted breathlessly. “you hafta
promise . . . to help Jean . . .”
“This is ridiculous, partner. You don't die from a bullet in the
leg! Just calm down. Help's on the way. It's gonna be fine. If Wells heard
you talkin' like this he'd never let you live it down.”
“Promise me,” Jim insisted, ending the request with a cough.
“I'll always be there for you and your family,” Pete reassured
him.
“Somebody's gotta. . . . teach my boy . . . to play ball . . .”
“His dad's gonna teach him to play ball,” Pete said firmly.
“You're gonna be there for hat first little league game and you're
gonna be there when he pitches the opening game of the World Series for the
Dodgers in 1990. And I'm gonna dance at your 50th wedding anniversary party.”
Malloy squeezed his hand in reassurance.
“Tell them . . . both . . . I thought about them . . . all the time
. . . tonight.” Jim took a deep, shuddering breath. “And I love
them.”
Pete felt tears sting his eyes but he refused to let them fall. He swallowed
hard. “You tell them yourself,” he countered quietly. In the
distance, he heard a siren approach, its tenor subtly different from the sheriff's
cars. Thank God, thank God.
“Pete. Thanks . . . for everything . . . big brother . . . I never
had.” Jim actually quirked a corner of his mouth up in a smile. It
faded quickly, however, as his grip relaxed and his eyes closed. This time,
Jim didn't open them again.
“Jim. Jim?” Pete fought down panic when Jim didn't rouse this
time. Oh, God, please don't let him die! “Jim, you'd better
not give up on me! Jean and Jimmy love you and need you! Don't you even
think about giving up!” Just a little longer, God, please. It's
just a leg wound . . . it can't be his time!
“Paramedics are here!” Diaz's voice sounded from the door.
“Tell them to hurry!” Pete urged.
Within seconds, two blue-clad men wearing helmets with a '43' emblazoned
on the front clamored onto the bus, equipment in both hands.
“Paramedics Walker and Brighton,” the Walker, lead man, announced.
“LA County Station 43. Sorry it took so long, but you're stuck out
in the middle of nowhere.”
Pete reluctantly relinquished his hold on Jim and carefully stepped over
the puddle of blood that had pooled by the seat, giving way to the paramedics.
“How long's he been out?” Walker asked. He was setting up
equipment as his partner slapped a blood pressure cuff around Jim's arm.
“Just now. Can you do something?”
“We'll do everything we can,” Walker assured him. “Tell
me what happened.”
“He was shot with a .38 caliber handgun about 9:20 last night.”
Both paramedics' heads cranked around at that announcement. “Last
night!” Walker exclaimed. “Why the delay in treatment?”
“We were hostages,” Pete explained. “We just escaped
a little over a half-hour ago.”
“Oh,” Walker gave him a sympathetic look.
“BP 70 over 40, pulse 130 and thready,” Brighton reported.
“Respirations 26 and labored.”
“Is he injured anywhere else?” Walker asked. The paramedic
had cracked open a bright orange box and was setting up an antenna on it.
“No. Oh, wait, maybe.” Pete remembered the harrowing moments
when Steve had gone temporarily berserk and attacked Jim. Susan and Norm
had been in his line of sight, but he knew that Steve had pistol whipped Jim
somewhere. “One of the perps pistol whipped him. I couldn't
see very well, but I could hear it. It was a short attack, though.”
“We'll check him over.”
“Pupils are equal and reactive, but they seem kinda sluggish.”
“Check his head for trauma,” Walker instructed. “I'm
raising St. Francis.”
Brighton turned to his task as Walker manipulated dials on the orange box.
The paramedic picked up a handset and spoke into it. “St. Francis,
this is Rescue 43. St. Francis this is Rescue 43.” Walker paused,
then frowned. He waited a few seconds, then repeated his call. “St.
Francis, this is Rescue 43. How do you read?”
Brighton looked up from his examination when his partner didn't continue
to talk. “Problem?” he asked.
“I'm not getting through.” Walker looked concerned and turned
a dial. “I'm going to try Rampart.”
“I found a small lump and abrasion on the left side of his head right
above the ear,” Brighton reported. “Nothing else.”
Walker nodded. “Rampart, this is Rescue 43. Rampart, this is Rescue
43. How do you read?” There was another lengthy pause. Walker shook
his head in frustration. “We must be too far out.”
“Maybe this bus is interfering,” Pete suggested. He was starting
to feel uneasy.
“Could be. I'll move outside. Take a new set of vitals, Jeff.”
“Right.”
Pete watched for a minute as the paramedic repeated his check of Jim's
vital signs. He listened as Walker set up the radio outside and again attempted
to hail St. Francis. “Is he gonna be okay?” Pete finally dared
ask.
Brighton looked up from reading blood pressure. “Too early to tell,”
he responded sympathetically. “But we'll do everything we can.”
“I still can't raise either place!” Walker exclaimed. “I'm
gonna pull the squad up and have dispatch relay.”
“Okay, Mike!” Brighton looked up at Pete again as he reached
to Jim's neck to check for a pulse. “We've never been on a run quite
this far out. Our biophone's apparently having problems with that.”
“I'm just glad you're here,” Pete said gratefully. He crossed
his arms firmly in front of him to still their trembling. It was a chilly
night, and he was getting cold. “We need a program like this in the
city.”
“It won't be long, I'm sure,” Brighton remarked. He pulled
out a penlight and flicked it in Jim's eyes. “They're working on it.
It'll save a lot of people's lives. You cops should fight for it tooth
and nail, at the rate you guys get hurt.”
Pete nodded. “Makes sense.” He wanted Jim to wake up. With
all the poking and prodding, he expected his partner to sit up and complain
vociferously. Jim hated being fussed over.
Gravel crunched and a compact red truck rolled up next to the bus door.
“I got St. Francis on a relay!” Walker called, as brakes squealed.
“Gimme the new vitals!”
“BP is 60 over 35, pulse 130 and thready, respirations 26 and labored.
Pupils equal but sluggish. Extensive blood loss.” Brighton rattled
off the information, then looked at Pete. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.” When you say it out loud, it sounds so young.
Too young to die! Please, God, not yet.
Lost in his thoughts, Pete was startled when Walker burst back onto the
bus. “Start an IV with Ringer's, wide open. St. Francis wants a new
set of vitals every five minutes. I'm gonna check the wound.” Walker
grabbed a pair of strangely shaped scizzors from a pouch on the side of his
hip and started cutting through the makeshift bandage and Jim's pants to get
to the wound. Brighton made a grab for a plastic bag from a black box and
started setting it up.
Poor kid's gonna have to buy another set of pants. I've lost count of
how many he's ripped in the past two and a half years.
The paramedic finished cutting the fabric and pulled it away carefully
from the wound. Pete bit his lip when the skin was exposed. The entry wound
itself wasn't so spectacular. It was just a small hole in the middle of Jim's
left thigh. But the leg was swollen and an angry red around the wound.
Blood oozed slowly . . . more slowly than Pete expected, given the volume
of blood in the makeshift bandage and on the bus floor.
Walker looked at his partner, who was working on Jim's arm, then up at
Pete. “Help me turn him. I want to check for an exit wound. You
support the leg.”
“Okay.” Pete moved to assist the paramedic, grateful to have
something to do besides worry. He watched as Walker swiftly and professionally
checked the leg over from several angles. “Can't find one,” he
announced with a shake of his head. “Okay, you can let go now.”
“IV's in.” Brighton announced.
Glad Jim slept through that. He hates needles so bad. He woulda freaked
out.
Thinking of Jim's needle phobia made him smile slightly, because it brought
back a memory from out of the blue. He remembered when Jim volunteered to
take Jimmy for his six month checkup because Jean had a cold. Jean hadn't
warned him that the little boy would have to have shots. Neither had the
doctor. When the nurse came in at the end of the visit to administer the
vaccine, naturally Jimmy had screamed and wailed at the pain. But it had
been Jim who had hit the floor in a dead faint, traumatized and distressed
by having to witness the event. The doctors and nurses had gotten a big laugh
out of it, after they picked Jim up and made sure he was all right. As parting
gifts they'd given him two suckers, a balloon and a Mickey Mouse band-aid
for the small cut on his head from the fall. They also offered him many
thanks for a great story to tell every parent who came in for a month. Jim,
of course, had been mortified, and Pete had actually heard the story from
Jean, who recounted the tale with great delight.
“Put a pressure bandage on that wound,” Walker instructed.
“Then get a new bp. I'm going back to the radio.” The paramedic
literally bounded down the steps and into his squad.
That made Pete's slight smile fade. He realized that it was going to take
a heck of a lot more than a Mickey Mouse band-aid to help his partner this
time.
Brighton set to work on his task and Walker spoke into his squad's radio.
Pete strained to hear what Walker was saying. He thought he caught the
words “too far” and “chopper,” but he couldn't be
sure.
“Malloy?” Deputy Crawford was in the doorway again.
“Yeah?” Pete stepped over Brighton to get closer to the deputy.
“We're taking the suspects in to our station. Your sergeant is dispatching
a couple of units to take them back to the city for booking.” He paused,
taking in the paramedic working on Jim's unconscious form. “He gonna
be okay?”
“They say it's too early to tell.”
“Well, hang in there. These guys are good. They'll do everything
they can. You need me to do anything else for you?”
Pete shook his head.
“They're also sending detectives out here to check out the bus and
the farmhouse. I'm leaving a unit to guard the scene.”
“I figured.” Pete shrugged. Right now, he could care less,
and a part of him was shocked at his attitude. It was hard to think of procedure
when Jim was practically bleeding to death right in front of his eyes.
“Where're they taking him?” Crawford asked, nodding at Jim.
“I think that's what they're trying to decide.”
“Well, good luck, Malloy.” Crawford stuck out his hand and
Pete shook it. “I really mean it.”
“Thanks.” Pete still couldn't bring himself to apologize to
this guy for the Barney Fife crack. Maybe later . . . or maybe I'll still
get his badge.
Crawford and Walker almost ran into each other as the deputy left and the
paramedic bounced back onto the bus. “I canceled the ambulance and
got them to send the chopper. Its ETA is six minutes.”
“Where will you take him?” Pete asked. He felt like a giant
weight had been taken off his shoulders. A chopper could have Jim anywhere
in the county inside of twenty minutes, instead of the hour it would have
taken in an ambulance. “I need to notify his wife and our sergeant.”
“We work out of St. Francis'. They've got a great trauma team there.
He'll be in good hands. Once we get him loaded up, we'll be there in about
ten minutes. You got new vitals, Jeff?”
“Yeah, just a sec on the bp.” Brighton started blowing up the
cuff.
“He's married, huh?” Walker asked. “Kids?”
“One, almost two. A boy.” A boy who needs his dad.
“Bp steady at 60 over 35. No change in respiration or pulse.”
“I'll tell St. Francis.”
“Walker?” Pete held out a hand to stop the retreating paramedic.
“What?”
“Can you have your dispatcher contact my sergeant if I give you a
phone number? Let him know where you're taking him?”
“Come out with me and you can talk with him yourself. He'll be okay,
Brighton's here.” Walker added this last when Pete cast a worried look
at Jim.
“I will be able to ride in with him?” Pete asked, as they descended
the steps.
“We'll squeeze you in. Promise.” Walker gave him a pat on
the back and a smile. “Relax. We're getting him to a doctor as fast
as we can.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” At least these guys know what they're
doing. Hang in there, Jim! Hang in there!
****
3:17 a.m., the Reed's living room
Jean thought she heard Jimmy stir restlessly in his crib, so she tiptoed
into the nursery to check on the toddler. She'd been pacing the floor between
the living room and the hallway, unable to relax long enough to sit down,
when she thought she heard the boy stirring. Sure enough, he'd kicked out
from under the covers as he usually did.
Jean unwrapped her arms from around her stomach, where she'd had them folded
for the past two hours, and re-covered her child. She let her hand trail
to his blond hair, and she brushed a tendril away from the angelic face.
Jim's right, his hair is too long. I just can't bear to cut off those
beautiful curls. He'll never have them again once we cut them off. Jim's
right about the crib, too. He's way too big for it. I just want him to stay
a baby forever. I want to keep him in here, safe and sheltered.
Tears stung her eyes and fear for her husband's safety threatened to shatter
her. She fought against the tears and balled her hands into fists to steady
herself. Stay calm, Jean. Jim would want you to stay calm. They're going
to find Jim. They ARE. Please, God, my baby needs his daddy. I
need him, too, God. Please, please help him, wherever he is!
“Jean.”
Jean turned. Her father was standing in the door of the nursery. He looked
scared. She hurried over to him so that Jimmy wouldn't be disturbed.
Mr. Smithson put his hands on his daughter's shoulders. “ Sergeant
MacDonald's car just pulled up outside,” he said quietly.
The tears threatened again. “Oh, no,” she whispered, feeling
the suffocating fear overtake her. “He came in person . . .”
she started to shake. That could only mean bad news. She thought
her legs were going to buckle.
Sensing her fear, her father pulled her to him and walked her to the living
room to await the knock at the door. Her mother was looking out the window.
“Jean, honey,” she said, “He's running. He's running!
”
“Mac's running?” Jean lifted her head from her father's shoulder.
“He wouldn't run to give me bad news!” She pulled away from her
father as the knock sounded at the door. For the first time in three hours,
she felt hope.
This time, she flung the door open. “Mac?”
“We found them. They're alive.” Mac was smiling, but his tone
was still guarded.
“Oh, thank God!” Jean cried. Relief made her weak, and she
held the door for support. “Thank God, thank God.”
Mac reached out and took her arm. “Now the bad news. Jim's been
shot.”
“Shot?” Jean's relief quickly turned back to terror. “Shot?
Where? How bad?”
“I don't know all the details. Pete said Jim was shot in the leg.
I just got word they're taking him by helicopter to St. Francis'.”
“Helicopter!” Mr. Smithson exclaimed. “Where on earth
were they?”
“Northeastern part of the county . . . about six miles from the San
Bernadino County line out in the desert. I don't know any more and I don't
have an accurate assessment of Jim's condition, except that we need to meet
them at St. Francis' right away. Get your purse and a sweater. I'll drive
you. We need to hurry,” he urged, when Jean didn't move right away.
“Okay, okay,” Jean pulled herself together and scurried to
the closet for a sweater. She grabbed her purse off the coffee table. “I'll
call you as soon as I know anything!” She said to her mother, who helped
her shrug into the sweater. “Just take care of Jimmy!”
“Don't worry, honey, we'll take care of him,” Mrs. Smithson
hugged her daughter. “When you see Jim, give him our love. We'll be
praying.”
“Thanks, Mom, Daddy. Let's go, Mac. Let's go.” Thank
you God, for letting them find Jim! Now please keep him alive, please.
I'm not ready to let him go!
3:22 a.m., Northeast part of LA County
The helicopter arrived in less than the predicted six minutes, for which
Pete was grateful, since getting Jim out of the bus and into the helicopter
had turned into quite a production. The paramedics had a metal basket they
called a “stokes,” which was too long and inflexibile to bring
in through the front door. Undaunted, the paramedics stood the basket on
its end, twisted it and brought it into the bus. That maneuver would be
impossible once Jim was strapped into it.
Pete was wondering how the hell they were going to get Jim off the bus
as he watched Walker and Brighton strap Jim into the stokes. The paramedic
from the chopper climbed over the seats, walked down the aisle and shouldered
the rear door open. Walker and Brighton lifted the stokes above the seats
and carried it down the aisle. Pete followed them, concerned that Walker
and Brighton's running dialog over him would wake the unconscious young man.
The helicopter landed in the open field through which Jim and Pete had
made their dash to freedom earlier in the evening. Pete found his heart
in his throat as he watched the paramedics secure the stokes inside the helicopter
for the journey to St. Francis. He willed Jim to move, to blink, to moan,
to do anything to indicate he hadn't slipped into an irreversible state.
He wondered if Jim was in a coma and the thought scared him.
“Sit here, Malloy!” Walker yelled over the din of the prop
blades as the pilot revved up for takeoff. The older paramedic pointed to
a seat behind where they'd strapped the stokes in. “Buckle up!”
Pete nodded and secured himself to the seat. Walker watched to make sure
he was ready, then slipped into the seat directly behind the pilot and donned
a headset. Brighton strapped in where he could monitor Jim. After brief
delay, the bird lifted off the ground and made for the sky.
Once they were at altitude and leveled, Brighton unbuckled and knelt beside
Jim, monitoring his vitals again. Pete watched the procedure helplessly,
wishing he could do something besides watch and worry. The paramedic scribbled
the vitals on a pad, then passed it to his partner, who relayed the message
to St. Francis via radio and returned the pad.
Pete leaned forward and got Brighton's attention. “Any change?”
he yelled.
Brighton shook his head tightly.
“ETA?” Pete yelled again.
Brighton shrugged, but wrote the letters “ETA” on his pad and
passed it to Walker. The lead paramedic spoke into the radio, then nodded,
scribbled something on the pad and gave it back to Brighton. He held it up
for Pete to see.
Sixteen minutes. Hold on, partner. Just sixteen minutes.
Pete bit his lip and resisted the temptation to sink into the seat and
close his scratchy eyes. Exhaustion tugged at him relentlessly as the events
of the night began to truly take their toll. He pushed it aside, refusing
to succumb to either sleep or collapse before Jim was taken care of properly.
His hands were still trembling and he felt weak.
Pete's mind, though filled with concern for Jim on one level, was filled
with fragmented and tortured thoughts on a still deeper level. The entire
ordeal kept playing over and over like a bad movie. He could still see the
bloom of the shot that took Jim down; he could hear the sickening sound as
his partner fell to the pavement without even a grunt, his flashlight crashing
beside him; he could still see Steve pistol whipping Jim in the bus; he could
see that same gun leveled at his face and hear Steve's words. “I'm
gonna spill your nice guts all over the ground.”
Pete shivered and pushed the thought away. His own voice accused him of
causing the whole affair with his impatience.
How am I gonna explain that to Mac? How can I explain it to Jean?
Thoughts of Jean were what really kept Pete going. This was by far the
worst injury Jim had ever incurred on the job. Jim had his share of bumps,
bruises, sore muscles and sprains, and he'd even been winged by a bullet during
an undercover operation, but he hadn't been hospitalized for any of those
minor injuries. Now Jim was fighting for his life, and Jean was going to
have to deal with that.
Pete knew Jean had already been trying to deal with the possibility that
her husband might be dead, but now that possibility loomed even more threatening
He knew Jean was going to need his strength and reassurance. He hoped she
could forgive him for failing Jim as miserably as he had tonight, because
he wasn't sure he could forgive himself.
One thing was sure. It was going to be a very long morning. God give
me strength. Give us all strength.
The paramedics kept a close watch over Jim during the remainder of the
flight. Brighton assured Pete every few minutes that Jim was stable and
hanging in there. Pete would have felt better if Jim showed any signs of
rousing, but he remained unconscious.
Brighton suddenly tapped Pete on the leg and brought his attention back
to the present. “We're landing in one minute!” he yelled.
Thank God. “Great!” Malloy responded. He glanced at his
watch. 3:49 He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was
to come.
The helicopter hovered briefly, then descended slowly to the helopad.
Pete looked out the window and saw two white-coated men waiting beside the
helopad with a gurney. The chopper set down with hardly a bump, and the
paramedics burst into action. Walker shed his headset and Brighton unbuckled
Jim's restraints. They both took a firm grip on the stokes. Pete unbuckled
his own belt, took the end of the stokes and helped maneuver it out the side
doors. Once clear, they lifted the stokes onto the gurney. They didn't take
the time to strap the litter down, but merely held it securely in place as
they pushed the gurney toward the emergency department at a trot.
They burst through the doors leading to the emergency treatment area where
a nurse was waiting. “Treatment 1!” she directed.
“Jim!”
The cry came from Jean, who stood just outside Pete's line of vision.
When he heard her cry out, he released his hold on the gurney and moved to
intercept her.
“Jim! Honey, it's me!” A breathless, obviously terrified Jean
clutched at her husband's arm as she ran to keep up with the gurney. “Jim?”
“Ma'am, there's no time to waste, step aside and let us get him some
help!” Walker didn't quite snap at her, but his voice was terse and
he put a hand out to push her back.
“Jean, Jean, it's all right,” Pete reached Jean's side and
somehow gently disentangled her from Jim's arm. The gurney sped on and disappeared
behind the Treatment Room door as Pete wrapped his arms around her shaking
body.
“Pete! Oh, Pete, he looks so awful!” Jean wasn't quite crying,
but she was obviously in great distress. “What happened, Pete, what
happened?” She clutched at Pete's arms and looked up at him with glistening
eyes.
Pete couldn't bring himself to answer her. What could he tell her? Where
could he start? Instead, he just pulled her close and hugged her. Pete wasn't
sure at this point who needed the hug more -- Jean, or himself. The only
words he could manage were “He's gonna be okay, Jean. He's gonna be
okay.”
Suddenly Mac was there, concern in his blue eyes. He put a meaty hand
on each of their shoulders. “Good to see you, Pete,” he said
in his typically gruff voice. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Mac, I'm all right.” Pete nodded and hoped he
sounded convincing.
“Let's all sit down,” Mac suggested. He took Pete by the arm
and pulled him gently toward the seating area.
“I want to see Jim,” Jean said in a trembling voice, still
holding back her tears.
“Someone will be out to talk with you soon, I'm sure,” Mac
assured her. “Try to relax.”
Jean bristled and resisted his attempt to guide her into the chair. “Mac!
My husband was just brought in here looking more dead than alive, after having
been God-knows-where going through God-knows what for over five hours! Don't
tell me to relax!”
“Jean, the paramedics said he was stable and holding his own on the
way in,” Pete told her.
“I want to know what happened,” Jean insisted.
Pete hesitated. Jim was always particular about the details of his job
he shared with Jean. Pete knew he'd have to give Mac an official report
about the incident, but he didn't want to do that in front of Jean. On the
other hand, he understood Jean's need to know.
“Please, Pete,” Jean gripped his hands tightly and looked at
him with her tear-filled eyes.
Pete shot his sergeant a look. Mac lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug.
“Sit down, Jean,” Pete sat down himself and hoped that Jean
would follow his lead. She did. “I'll tell you how it all started.”
*** 3:54 a.m., Emergency Treatment Room of St. Francis Hospital
Voices. Muffled, strange voices filtered through what seemed like layers
and layers of deep fog that wrapped around his brain. He struggled to understand
the voices, to break through the deadening fog, but the effort drained him.
Somehow he thought it was important to know who was talking over his head.
He had an impression that he was in danger, that he had to do something,
but every time he tried to put it together, coherent thought skittered out
of his reach.
The voices were still there, still talking over his head. The voices were
clipped, talking fast, in terse not-quite-shouts. He could hear male and
female voices. He wasn't sure, but he thought they were talking about him.
Is that Pete? Where are we? Still in the bus?
He tried again to claw his way through the fog. He felt like he was floating,
except for the leaden feeling in his chest that made it hard to breathe.
And he was cold. He was so cold.
“Pete,” he called, “Pete.” Answer me, partner.
The voices talking over his head didn't react to his call. He thought
he heard the words “shot” and “bleeding” and “lucky.”
Where am I? Pete! Answer me.
He tried again to get his partner's attention. “Pete. Malloy.”
He thought he was shouting loud enough for half the city to hear him. Why
wouldn't Pete answer him? Maybe he couldn't answer him. Jim tried
to remember -- was Pete all right? Somebody had tried to kill his partner.
That much he remembered. Somebody had tried to kill them both. Two men.
A woman. A crazy laugh. A headcase. Answer me, Pete.
Jim flinched when someone touched his leg and a red-hot tendril of agony
moved both up and down the leg, then spread through the rest of his body.
He gasped in response and moaned, trying to move away from the hands that
were kneading the leg and making the pain worse.
More hands touched him then, trying to hold him still. The voices came
closer. Jim heard a soft female voice talking to him. Her words were slurred,
but he thought she was being nice. Jean? Honey?Jean, make the
pain stop. Make it stop. But it couldn't be Jean. She was home, with
Jimmy, not out here in the cold desert.. Who was touching him? Who
was it and why were they hurting him? He moaned again and called for Pete.
But again, his partner didn't answer. All he heard was the female voice
again, talking in her soothing tones, her words unintelligible. Don't
be dead, Pete. Where are you?
***
“Dr. Peterson, I think he might be coming around.” The nurse,
Susan, spoke to the ER attending physician through the quiet chaos in the
treatment room. She was one of six medical personnel scurrying around the
fallen officer. Some were cutting off what remained of his uniform. Others
were drawing blood, monitoring vitals, or cleaning him up. They talked with
each other, giving and confirming orders and making sure Reed stayed with
them.
“Try and keep him still. I'm about to examine the wound.”
the doctor didn't look up from his work on Reed's leg. “Give me a
new set of vitals, Jenni. Do we have an operating room ready? And did someone
get ahold of Dr. Cheng?”
“Yes to both your other questions. Dr. Cheng's scrubbing up. OR
2 is available.”
“BP is 80 over 50. Pulse 130 and thready. Respirations 24.”
Jenni spoke to the top of Dr. Peterson's head.
Dr. Peterson turned to the paramedics who'd brought Reed in. They were
standing in the back of the treatment room in case they were needed. “He
was shot when? How long did you say he'd been bleeding?”
“About five and a half hours when we got to him,” Walker responded.
Dr. Peterson shook his head as he cut away the paramedics' pressure bandage.
“Get that blood out of my way,” he ordered. One of the nurses
came in with a suction tube and cleared the rapidly oozing blood. “Damned
lucky. He's damned lucky he's still here.” The doctor palpated the leg
and studied the wound while the nurse stood by ready to clear the wound if
needed.
“Whoa, that got a response,” Susan put a hand out to steady
Reed as the pain spurred him to move.
“At least he's responsive,” Dr. Peterson muttered. “Tell
the lab to move it on that type and cross-match. We've got to get him upstairs.
From the looks of this, he has a leg full of blood. I'm betting the femoral
artery's involved somehow.”
“He's trying to talk,” Susan reported. She leaned closer,
and lay a gentle hand on his forehead with one hand. “I think he's
saying 'Pete.'”
“That'd be his partner,” Brighton supplied.
“He all right?” the nurse asked.
“Yeah.”
Susan turned back to Reed and patted his head. “Take it easy, officer.
Don't worry about your partner. Everything's okay.”
“You said the partner said he was doing okay until just before you
got there, then he started crashing?” Dr. Peterson turned the leg again.
“That's right,” Walker answered.
“No exit wound. The bullet probably started moving around and nicked
something. Good thing it waited so long.” Dr. Peterson finally straightened.
“Let's get him covered up and moved upstairs, people,” he ordered.
“Don't waste any time. Did somebody call the lab?”
“Yes, doctor. They're working on it.”
“He married?”
“Yeah.” Walker sighed.
“His wife here?”
“In the lobby. Just look for the cops. She'll be with 'em.”
Walker said. “Doc, he gonna make it?”
“Keep your rosary out,” Peterson replied, beating the paramedics
out the door.
*** 3:59 a.m., Emergency Department Waiting Area
Pete chose his words carefully as he related a cleaned-up version of the
ordeal to Jean and Mac. Of course, Mac would realize that he wasn't telling
the whole story, but Pete told enough to satisfy Jean's curiosity about what
had gone wrong. Pete had been around a lot of wounded cops' wives in his
eight years on the force. “What happened?” was always the second
question asked after “Will he be okay?”
Pete was surprised that he could talk about the evening's events without
becoming emotional. He supposed that his attempt to keep Jean calm made him
push his own frayed nerves to the background. Or maybe it was Mac's steady
presence next to him that settled him down. Regardless of who or what was
keeping him calm, Pete knew he'd be okay, at least for a little while.
Jean held both his hands tightly during the story, biting her lip to keep
from reacting to the horror of it all. Still, her tears didn't fall. She
was hanging tough, just like her husband.
Pete did stumble when he reached the part where Steve took him out to execute
him. He had to stop and take a breath and think about exactly what he wanted
to say, unofficially. Mac's hand found its way to his shoulder again and
squeezed in encouragement.
“He saved my life, Jean,” was what Pete finally decided to
say. “Jim's got more guts than anybody I've ever met. You'd have
been so proud of him. He never gave up. He never panicked. And even though
he was hurting like everything, he fought to stay alive. He fought for me.
I wouldn't be sitting here right now if Jim hadn't fought for me. I had
a gun in my face with a headcase about two seconds from pulling the trigger.
And somehow Jim found the strength to jump the guy and take him out before
he could do it. He saved my life.” Pete's voice was quiet.
Jean's tears fell then, silently, tracking down her cheeks in uneven lines.
“I'm sorry, Pete,” she sniffed. She reached a tiny hand up and
placed it on Pete's cheek. “You've been through so much tonight.
I know that you had a big part in getting Jim here alive. You don't have to
say anything else right now. It was wrong of me to ask you to talk about
it.”
Jean's gesture and understanding words moved Pete and brought some of those
buried emotions back to the surface. He swallowed the lump that formed in
his throat and took her hand away from his face. He kissed the back of it
-- under the circumstances, he knew Jim wouldn't mind -- then smiled at her
weakly and sandwiched the small hand in between his own. “It's okay.
It's over now. We're gonna concentrate on getting Jim well and back on his
feet. Don't cry. It's gonna be okay.”
“Mrs. Reed?”
Jean pulled her hands away from Pete's and turned to see Dr. Peterson standing
behind her. She quickly wiped tears from her face and stood. “Yes?”
“I'm Dr. Peterson. I examined your husband.”
“How is he? Is he going to be okay?” Jean's voice was anxious,
but she was managing to stay under control.
“I'm guardedly optimistic. I'll be honest with you, he's lost an
enormous amount of blood. His vital signs aren't the best but they are stablizing.
He's going to need immediate surgery because the bullet's still in and we
have to stop the bleeding. We've called in the best surgeon we've got. His
name's Cheng.”
“May I please see him?” Jean asked, her eyes pleading.
Dr. Peterson reached out a hand and patted her arm. “I'm sorry,
but he's already on his way up to surgery. Time's our biggest enemy right
now. There's simply none to waste. He's not coherent, anyway.”
“How long will the surgery take?” Jean asked.
“Hard to say at this point. Two or three hours, most likely. It
depends on what we find when we get in there. The surgical area is on the
5th floor. There's a waiting area there where you can sit. I'll try to send
a nurse out to give you an update during the surgery. Do you have any other
questions?”
“What are his chances?” Jean looked the ER doctor straight
in the eyes. Pete was surprised at how even her voice was.
Dr. Peterson almost sighed. “Mrs. Reed, I really don't like to quote
odds. I think they're deceiving and they don't take into consideration the
element of chance on the bad side or the will to live on the good side. As
I said, I'm guardedly optimistic. His vitals are stable, he's young and apparently
in good shape. Say your prayers and think good thoughts.” He smiled
and gave Jean's arm a final pat. “A nurse will be by soon with the
release papers. If you'll stay in this area until they're signed, that would
be helpful. She'll tell you how to get to the waiting area on 5.”
“Thank you, Dr. Peterson.”
“Try not to worry. We'll do everything we can,” Dr. Peterson
assured them all before he turned and made his way to the elevators.
Jean turned back around to face Pete and Mac. “I . . . I guess I
should go call my parents and tell them what I know.”
“You want me to do it?” Pete asked her.
“No. I'm okay, Pete. There's a bank of phones right over there.
You just sit back down.” She squeezed Pete's hand again, then dropped
it and headed for the phones.
Pete and Mac watched her leave. Pete admired her ability to hold herself
together. Jim always worried about Jean and how she'd take it if he were
seriously injured. Pete knew now he could help Jim put those worries to rest.
When Jean was out of earshot, Mac spoke, startling Pete. “Malloy,
I know you're not telling the full story here, and that's okay. I'll get
your official statement as soon as we know Jim's out of danger. But I've
just got one question for you right now, and it's official. Why the hell
didn't we know where you were and what you were doing?” The voice
was no longer gentle.
Pete almost laughed, but he didn't have the energy. He'd been expecting
that question.
“Because I screwed up,” Pete answered. He sank back into his
seat, his weariness and fatigue catching back up to him after the long hours
under stress.
“Why didn't you call in the Code 6?” Mac demanded.
“Because the frequency was tied up with the 211 broadcast and we
didn't wait for it to clear.”
“Malloy, there's this little thing called 'proper procedure' and
it's written to protect policemen from things like what happened to you and
Jim tonight!”
“I know that, Mac!” Pete snapped. He didn't need Mac to remind
him of what he knew so well. “I know it was wrong, I said I screwed
up. I take full responsibility. That'll be in my official statement.”
Pete leaned over and dropped his head into his hands.
“It took us almost an hour just to locate your unit,” Mac continued.
Apparently Pete's admission of guilt wasn't going to back Mac off until he'd
had his say. “If we'd had that hour, maybe you wouldn't have
wound up halfway to Victorville.”
“Nothin' you can say can make me feel worse than I already do,”
Pete admitted, his voice muffled by his hands. “My impatience almost
got us both killed.” He paused. “It still might cost Jim his
life.”
Pete heard Mac sigh and felt the man's large hand land on his back yet
again. “Don't think like that, Pete,” he admonished, the kindness
back in his tone. “You heard what the doctor said. Think good thoughts.”
“And pray,” Pete finished. Please God . . . keep him with
us.
***** 5:04 a.m., St. Francis Surgical Waiting Room
Pete awoke with a jerk, his breathing rapid and shallow. In his dream,
he'd been back in the bus with Susie, Norm and the headcase. Something in
his subconscious made him wake up when the dream turned to the ugly scene
when Steve attacked Jim. Pete blinked at the light and struggled to wake
up.
“Sorry, I fell asleep,” Pete murmured, embarrassed.
“Pete, it's okay,” Jean said. Apparently, she'd been holding
his hand, because she squeezed it now. “Go back to sleep. There's
no news.”
“No, I'm sorry,” Pete glanced at his watch, then stood and
stretched. He felt guilty, dozing off while Jean and Mac were still awake.
“You've had a hard night. You probably should be at home, sleeping.”
Jean watched her husband's partner pace around the waiting area, flexing
stiff arms.
“No, thanks.”
“I'll go get us some coffee,” Mac offered, “If anyone's
interested.”
“None for me, thanks,” Jean shook her head and clasped her
hands in her lap. It was obvious that she was nervous.
Before Pete could respond, the elevator bell pinged and the doors opened,
revealing Jerry Woods and Ed Wells. Woods had clothes that Pete recognized
as the ones he'd worn in to work yesterday in one hand and a bag in the other.
Wells had a carry carton with several styrofoam cups in it. The shorter
officer was talking -- as he usually was -- to Woods.
“Get out, Woods, before the door closes on me and makes me spill
coffee everywhere.”
“I'm goin' Ed, I'm goin',” Woods said in his usual quiet way.
The two officers managed to make it out before the doors slid shut.
Despite his fatigue and worry, Pete couldn't keep a corner of his mouth
from quirking in a crooked grin. No matter what happened, some things or
some people never changed. Ed Wells was one of those people.
“Hello, Pete, great to see you in one piece,” Jerry covered
the short distance to his colleague and shook his hand vigorously after draping
the clothing over an empty chair. “You okay?” He dropped Pete's
hand and pounded him on the back.
“I'm fine, Jerry, thanks.”
“Yeah, Pete,” Wells echoed. He had a two-handed grip on the
coffee and didn't offer his hand. “Glad you showed up when you did.
I was about to go blind looking for you in the dark.” He peered at
Pete in an exaggerated fashion. “But I've seen you look better.”
“You're all heart, Ed,” Pete drawled.
“We brought food and coffee,” Wells continued, never missing
a beat. Insults and sarcasm always flew right over the man's head. “We
figured none of you'd had anything.”
“How's Jim?” Jerry asked. He set the bag down, then, and turned
to Jean. He crossed over to her and gave her a quick hug. “How you
doin', Jean?”
“I'm all right,” Jean assured him. “Jim's in surgery.”
“How much longer?” Wells asked. He set the coffee down on
a table and followed Woods' lead in giving Jean a hug.
“Who knows?” Mac answered for her. “Maybe a couple of
hours.” The big Scotsman got up and plucked a cup out of the holder
and held it out to Pete. “Drink this, Malloy. It'll do you good.”
Pete wasn't sure his stomach was up to it, but he took the steaming cup
anyway.
“How serious is it? What are his chances?” Wells asked, never
one to dance around a subject.
“Good,” Pete said forcefully, hoping to cut Ed off before he
got up too big a head of steam.
“He lost a lot of blood,” Jean said, her voice tired and sad.
“The doctors are 'guardedly optimistic.'”
“Don't you worry, Jeannie, Jim's too tough to go that easily. He'll
be fine. Why don't you have a cup of coffee?”
Jean shook her head. “No, thank you, Ed.” She sat back down
and clasped her hands in her lap again.
“I brought your clothes, Pete,” Jerry nodded toward the chair.
“We'd have been here sooner, but just as we were leaving they brought
in the three suspects who grabbed you, so we stuck around to see what was
happening.”
Pete looked up over the cup. He saw that Jean looked interested, too.
“Yeah, they booked 'em and then they took the girl over to Sybil
Brand. They put the two guys in the holding cell to wait on the detectives,”
Ed took one of the coffee cups and opened a couple of packets of sugar into
it. “Which one of the bastards put the bullet in Jim?”
“Ed!” Pete and Mac objected almost in concert. “Wells,
do you mind?” Mac continued. Pete walked back over to Jean and sat
down next to her.
“Oh, sorry, Jean,” Ed apologized, but he forged ahead with
his question. “Was it the nutcase or the quiet one?”
“The nutcase,” Pete growled. He covered Jean's clasped hands
with one of his own.
“Figures,” Ed took a gulp of his coffee. “He was ranting
and raving the whole time they were booking him. He didn't have very nice
things to say about you and your partner. In fact he . . .”
“Wells, can it,” Mac interrupted, cutting his eyes toward Jean.
Pete didn't say anything but shot Wells a look over his coffee cup that
would have melted solid steel.
“Another thing,” Woods spoke up, in a hurry to change the subject,
“reporters were swarming all over the station.”
“Reporters. I hate 'em,” Mac grumbled. “Print or TV
or both?”
“Both. Apparently they had their scanners on. Desk sergeant said
a few had been hanging around during the search, but once they found out you'd
been found they really pounced. The Lieutenant was handling 'em, but they
were really putting the pressure on him.” Woods opened the bag he'd
brought in and offered everyone a danish. Only Mac and Ed accepted.
“Yeah. It's only a matter of time before they find out where Jim
is and descend on the hospital,” Ed pointed out.
“That's one reason I brought you a change of clothes,” Jerry
said. “You might want to get changed before they go combing the floors
for you, Pete.”
“Not a bad idea,” Pete agreed.
“Do you know if the Lieutenant has spoken to the hospital administrators
about releasing information?” Mac asked.
“Sorry, I don't.” Jerry shook his head.
“Me, either. All I know is that they were asking lots of questions
and shooting lots of film.” Ed mumbled through a bite of danish.
Jean suddenly sat up straighter, looking concerned. “Have they released
Jim's name yet?” She asked, her voice alarmed.
Both Jerry and Ed shook their heads. “I don't know, Jean,”
Woods admitted.
“Why? What's wrong?” Pete asked.
“Jim's sister! No one's called her. I sure don't want her to hear
it on television! What time is it?”
“Just about 5:15.” Ed supplied.
“I'd better go and call her,” Jean fretted. She fumbled for
her purse to retrieve a dime, but Woods scooped one out of his pocket and
handed it to her.
“Here, Jean, I've got a pocket full of change,” he said.
“Thanks, Jerry.” Jean stood. “Jim worries about her
so, with her diabetes and all. He'd never forgive me if I let her hear it
on television.”
Pete stood, too. “I'll walk with you and go change my clothes.
The restrooms are down by the phones, just around the corner.”
“When you get back, I'll call the Lieutenant and see what the status
of everything is. I'll wait here in case the nurse comes by.” Mac said.
Pete retrieved his clothes and escorted Jean down the hall to the phone.
*****
MacDonald watched the pair until they disappeared around the corner. When
he was sure they were gone, he turned a scalding look on Wells.
“Ed, I'm gonna rip your tongue out if you don't watch what you say
around Jean,” he warned, leveling a finger at his officer. “She's
relatively calm, given the circumstances. I'd like to keep her that way.”
“Sorry, Mac, but that little guy was really climbing the walls back
at the station. I thought Pete might want to know.”
“I'm not so sure about that right now,” Mac sighed. “Pete's
pretty shook up, too.”
“What happened, Mac?” Jerry asked. “Everybody wants
to know how those guys got the jump on an experienced guy like Pete.”
Mac's face clouded over. “I don't know the whole story. Apparently
they pretended their camper was broken down. When Malloy and Reed went to
help, the crazy one was hiding in the back. When they opened it up under
the pretense of getting a gas can, he shot Reed, who was in the line of fire.
Pete returned fire and nicked the guy in the shoulder.”
“That was one of the things he was ranting about . . . needing a
doctor,” Ed snorted. “Didn't look like much more than a scratch
to me.”
“After that, Pete says the other one cold-cocked him while he was
busy trying to make sure he'd hit the crazy one. After that, it was all downhill.
And because of Jean, I still don't know the entire story.” Mac softened
his look. “What was it you were going to say about the headcase before
I cut you off?”
“He was talking out of his head, saying how he was gonna kill both
Pete and Jim if he ever had half a chance, then he'd go off on some weird
tangent. Then he'd mumble about how he shoulda offed Malloy when he had the
chance, and then went into detail about how he'd kill Reed.”
Mac rolled his eyes. “Great. Just great.”
“The guy didn't have all his marbles,” Woods seconded. “He
kept saying something about 'little tests for little people' and a bunch'a
other wacked out stuff.”
“Were they gonna take him to County?” Mac asked.
“I think so, Mac. He needed a padded cell, that's for sure.”
“I'll check when I call in.”
“Hey, Mac?”
“Yeah, Jerry?”
“The other thing everybody wants to know is, why didn't they call
in the Code 6?”
Mac's face darkened again and he shook his head. “That's not my
favorite topic right now,” he growled. “Let's just say that
we're gonna have a lot to talk about in Roll Call tonight.”
*****
The next couple of hours were a blur for Pete. He was so exhausted all
he wanted to do stretch out somewhere and close his eyes. His concern for
both his partner and Jean kept him awake. That and the multitude of concerned
people who joined their vigil in the waiting area.
More officers from the division filtered in to express their relief that
Pete was all right and check on Jim. Some came and left, but others stayed
for moral support. Some of the wives came, too, bringing coffee and food.
As the night turned to early morning, Jim's sister Jane, her husband Phil
arrived, as did Jean's father and her sister Annie.
Pete was relieved that family was filtering in, because no matter how close
the officers of the division were and how supportive they were, there was
no substitute for love of a family at a time like this. Jean need that more
than anything else at that moment.
Unfortunately, the one person Jean most wanted to see -- the doctor --
was absent. After more than three hours, there had been no word from the
operating room. Jean was doing her best to stay calm and optimistic, but
Pete knew her well enough to see just how frightened and nervous she really
was. Pete thought that she looked about ready to keel over herself; by now
she would have been up for over twenty-four hours. The dark circles under
her eyes were a testimony to that.
Wells and the other officers passed the time by telling old war stories
that somehow managed to involve Pete and Jim, usually on the wrong end of
the tale. They kept it lighthearted, and Pete even found himself smiling
at the remembrance of a few of those now greatly exaggerated yarns. Jean
listened politely, but she sat quietly, her hands clasped in her lap, her
eyes frequently straying to the corridor, vainly searching for a doctor or
nurse to bringing news about her husband.
“Mrs. Reed?” When the call finally came, it startled them
all.
“Yes?” Jean practically jumped from the chair and turned to
the nurse, who had approached them unnoticed. The waiting area grew quiet.
“The surgery is over and Dr. Cheng wants to talk with you. If you'll
come with me, there's a small room where he'll meet with you.”
Jean didn't move. “Is he all right?” She asked, her voice
quavering. Jane stood and slipped an arm around her waist.
“I'm just the messenger, Mrs. Reed. I don't know. Dr. Cheng will
fill you in.” The nurse beckoned for her to follow.
“Jane, you come with me,” Jean whispered. She held a hand
out to Pete. “You, too, Pete.”
**** 8:17 a.m., St. Francis Hospital Doctor's Conference Room
“What's taking him so long?” Jean almost wailed. She was pacing
the tiny little room where she, Jane and Pete were waiting for the surgeon
to come and tell them about Jim's condition. She had her arms wrapped around
her midsection as if she were literally holding herself together.
As Pete watched her pace, he thought that wasn't too far from the truth.
Jean had held together remarkably well during the four-hour-plus wait, but
he didn't think she was going to be able to keep it up for too much longer.
“I'm sure he's cleaning up first,” Pete said quietly. He was
leaning up against one of the walls of the room. Jane sat on a small couch
that lined the opposite wall, staring at her feet.
“I can't take much more of this waiting,” Jean's voice was
barely audible. “It's all I've been doing since midnight. Waiting
and worrying.”
Pete was saved from saying something comforting when the door opened and
a doctor entered. About time!
“Mrs. Reed?”
“Yes?” Jean turned in mid-pace and walked over to the white-coated
doctor.
“I'm Dr. Cheng. I operated on your husband.” He offered her
his hand, and Jean clasped it.
“How is he? Is he going to be all right? When can I see him?”
Jean's questions poured out.
“He made it through the surgery just fine, Mrs. Reed. He's in recovery
now.”
“Oh, thank God.” Jean's knees almost gave out.
Dr. Cheng put out a hand to steady her, and Pete moved from his spot on
the wall to help her to sit on the couch next to Jane. He sat next to her
and put an arm around her shoulders.
“When can I see him?” Jean repeated.
“When he leaves recovery he'll be placed in ICU. You'll be allowed
to see him at the top of each hour for about ten minutes. He'll be in recovery
for about an hour or an hour and a half.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so, Mrs. Reed. I'll be honest with you, he's still in critical
condition. But he's stable. He lost a lot of blood. In fact, we're still
transfusing him. His vital signs -- blood pressure, respirations, heart rate,
are still well out of the normal range. But they are stabilizing and
beginning to inch toward where we'd like them to be. The actual damage to
his leg was minimal. I've repaired all of the tissue damage and it should
heal nicely. He does have one complication that will extend his recovery
period somewhat.” Dr. Cheng reached into his pocket and pulled out a
sealed, clear plastic vial. He held it up for them to see. Inside it was
a small, cream-colored, thin, sharp object.
“What is that?” Jean asked.
“I think the cause of your husband's trouble.” Dr. Cheng looked
over at Pete. “You wouldn't happen to be the policeman who was with
him when he was shot?”
“Yes, sir. Pete Malloy, Jim's partner.” Pete extended his
hand for the surgeon to shake. “This is his sister, Jane Barstow.”
“Officer Malloy, Mrs. Barstow.” Dr. Cheng shook Pete's hand
and nodded to Jane. “What this is is a piece of Mr. Reed's femur .
. . the thigh bone.” He patted his own thigh for emphasis. “I
was told by Dr. Peterson that he was shot about 9:30 last night?”
“That's right.” Pete nodded.
“And that he seemed okay for several hours, but then suddenly he
started to crash, after some activity?”
“Yes,” Pete nodded again. “He was alert and coherent
for several hours. He was in pain, and kinda weak, but okay, considering.
It just seemed so sudden when he started to go downhill . . . and he went
fast.”
Dr. Cheng nodded. “It fits with my theory. Best I can figure, when
he was shot, the bullet lodged on the side of femur. That explains why there
was no exit wound. The bullet dislodged a portion of the bone. Not a big
portion, as you can see. But enough. The bone fragment probably stayed fairly
stationary for a while, but then you had a lot of activity?”
“Yeah. Fighting and running . . . lots of movement.”
“I suspect that the bone fragment migrated from its resting place
and nicked the femoral artery after all that activity. The femoral artery's
the major blood supply to the leg. As you might know, once you involve an
artery, blood loss is rapid and massive. It probably only took five or ten
minutes for him to react to it - especially in light of the fact he'd already
been bleeding for several hours. I don't mean to frighten you, but if the
femoral artery had been involved from the beginning, without treatment it
would have only been a matter of minutes for him to bleed out and die.”
The surgeon paused as the three of them reacted to that dire statement. “Do
you have any other questions?” Dr. Cheng asked.
Jane spoke up for the first time as Jean dealt with digesting the information.
“You said that there was a complication?”
“I meant the bone involvement. He lost this fragment you see and
the bullet caused a hairline fracture of the femur. It's not serious, but
he'll have to stay off the leg longer than if we were just talking about the
tissue damage. We don't want to risk a full-blown break. Personally, I
don't see how he was able to run on that leg. He must be one tough guy.”
“That he is,” Pete assured him.
“What can I expect over the next few days?” Jean shook her
hair back from her face and blinked back her tears. “I mean, will
he be awake? In pain?”
“The next twelve hours will be critical,” Dr. Cheng began.
“He'll be in ICU, under close observation, where any deterioration
in his condition will be caught immediately. I suspect that he'll be in and
out of consciousness for the next 12-18 hours. After that, it'll depend on
his strength and any unforeseen complications. We'll manage his pain for
him as needed. As soon as he's ready, we'll transfer him to a private room
for the remainder of his stay. If everything goes well, and there are no
complications, he might get to go home in seven days. It'll be longer if
there are problems. But we'll cross those bridges when we get to them.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Jean shook the surgeon's hand again.
“Thank you for saving him.”
Dr. Cheng shook his head. “Don't give me all the credit. Your husband
has a strong will to live, apparently. And the paramedics who treated him
on the scene bought him an extra hour or so. They're to be commended.”
“They were great,” Pete agreed.
“I'll be checking in on your husband frequently over the next few
hours. He's in excellent hands. I suggest you try to get some rest while
he's out of it. The ICU waiting room is on the other wing of this floor.
There're quite a few nice couches there. Why don't you stretch out on one
of them and catch a nap until we tell you he's all set up for you to see him?”
“I'll try,” Jean whispered. She was still struggling to keep
her tears in check.
“Good. I'll be in touch.” Dr. Cheng turned and left.
“He's going to be okay, honey,” Jane reached out and took Jean's
hand. “He's going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” Pete seconded. “You heard the surgeon. Jim's
strong, and has a strong will to live. He's got a lot to live for.”
“I love him so much,” Jean leaned into Pete's shoulder. “Jimmy
and I need him. I'm not ready to let him go.”
“You're not gonna have to,” Pete said firmly. “I'll
tell you like I told Jim -- I plan on dancing at your 50th wedding anniversary
party.”
Jean smiled at that and managed a small chuckle. “Well, I'm sure
that motivated Jim to stick around,” she managed. “It's quite
an image.”
“What are partners for?” Pete asked. “I'm gonna go
tell the guys about Jim. Why don't you just sit here and relax for a few
minutes?”
“Thanks, Pete. I think I'll do just that.”
****
Pete rounded the corner that brought him into sight of the surgical waiting
area to find all eyes staring at him. They apparently were as anxious as
he had been to get news. When they caught sight of Pete, they all stood.
“So? What's happening?” Mr. Smithson was the first to speak.
“Jim's out of surgery and doing okay,” Pete announced. “He's
still critical, but stable,” he continued over the audible sigh of relief
that filled the area. “He's in recovery now for the next hour or so,
then they're going to move him to ICU. The doctor was optimistic. He said
Jim would probably be in and out of consciousness for the next 12-18 hours.”
“What about damage to the leg?” Mac asked.
“Minimal, actually. It was the blood loss that was so serious.
The doctor explained that a bone fragment nicked the big artery in the leg
and that's why he lost so much.”
“Where'd you leave Jean?” Mr. Smithson asked.
“In the conference room. She's just taking a little break. Jane's
with her.”
“I'm gonna go sit with her a minute, Pete.”
“That's a good idea, Mr. Smithson. I think she could use your shoulder
about now.”
“I'm gonna run to the station and check on things,” Mac announced.
“Why don't you let me take you home, Pete?”
Pete shook his head. “I'm not ready to go yet, Mac, but thanks.”
“Pete, you've been up all night and gone through . . .”
Pete held up a hand to forestall any further argument from Mac. “Not
until I see him, Mac. Besides, I promised Jim last night that I'd make sure
Jean was taken care of. I'll be all right for a little while longer.”
“I won't argue with you, Pete. You have to do what's best for you.
But the rest of you clowns,” Mac caught the eyes of each officer present,
“you have to be at work in about six hours. And most of you were up
all night, too. Go home and get some rest. If there's any significant change
in Jim's condition, I'm sure we'll be notified.”
“They won't let you in ICU to see him anyway,” Annie pointed
out. “We'll tell Jim you were all here, all standing guard and waiting.
He'll be grateful. But he'd be the first to tell you all to get some rest
before you have to work a long shift.”
“Just be sure to call us if you need anything,” Woods spoke
up. “Jim's been there for all of us at one time or another. We want
to return the favor.”
Mary MacDonald touched Annie on the shoulder. “And tell Jean and
your mother not to worry about cooking. I'm about to get the wives organized.
By five o'clock there'll be enough food at the Reeds' house to last a week.”
“And if you need any help with Jimmy, any of us will be glad to keep
him so you all can be here, or sleep, or whatever it is you need to do,”
Pam Wells added.
“You're all so kind,” Annie said, her eyes misting over. “It
means so much to Jean, I know. I'll be sure she gets the message.”
“Hey. He's part of our family,” Wells stated in his characteristic
blunt way. “Family looks out for each other.”
“And on that note,” Mac said, motioning, “we're gone.”
He turned and clapped Pete on the shoulder. “Get some rest. Call
me if something happens I need to know about.”
“I will.” Pete assured him.
The other officers shook his hand and voiced similiar sentiments. Mary
and Pam gave him a hug, and in less than a minute, they were all gone, leaving
Pete standing there with Annie and Phil.
“You guys certainly do stick together,” Phil observed.
Pete shrugged. “Wells said it all.” As he usually does.
“I guess if you guys didn't look after each other, nobody else would,&rdquo
