Raney & Levine

by J. A. Schneider

  His hand swept over faces crying, pleading. “That makes you all sinners. Doomed to die in eternal hellfire! Get on your knees.”

  Most were already on knees that had buckled. Burrell’s head swiveled to uniforms, and he raised his phone higher. “You too, cops. On your knees!”

  They knelt, quieted their dogs. Make the psycho feel important: training had taught them that. Hunched, it also allowed hands to ready weapons.

  David had moved in a crouch to the front. A cop behind him slid a gun to him. They all knew he could shoot.

  He shouted, “Why did you kill Dara Walsh?”

  The hand holding the cell phone stilled, came down a bit, its owner confronted with his own mortal sin.

  “Had to, both of them,” Burrell whined. “They might have…told! I would have been lost, and I’m the chosen one!”

  Burrell’s mouth twitched. He liked bragging to the Devil’s Workshop doc in his white jacket. “It was all so perfect until” – his glare went to Jill – “that one wrecked my plan to make Nash look like the killer! Oh look, a sniper!”

  He’d spotted a SWAT-garbed officer, crouched low, his finger squeezing his trigger – and the cell phone flew up again. “THAT’S IT! PREPARE TO-”

  David raised his gun and fired once.

  Shot the phone out of Burrell’s hand, sent it clattering to the floor. Screams and wails, people fell on each other. Burrell was screaming too, hugging his hand spurting blood. A near cop grabbed his phone and quick-turned it off. Other cops rushed Burrell – too late. He’d grabbed a young woman with his other arm holding a glass shard to her throat.

  David’s bullet had gone high through the nursery window, shattering it. Burrell had grabbed a hanging splinter and was already cutting the woman. Cutting his second hand too. He seemed unaware.

  “Get away!” he shrieked, dragging her.

  The police drew back, their faces stricken. The woman was whimpering in terror, half-strangled under Burrell’s arm. Blood from where he’d cut her neck was trickling onto her white sweater. More blood pooled where he’d been. In it lay his shot-off, bloody thumb.

  He pulled her down the hall, yelling, “Stay away or I cut her throat!”

  The cops followed, trying to get a bead on him as he wove and ducked behind his hostage.

  Jill wept, remembering Nash dragging her. The hostage had to move her feet or die.

  With her heart rocketing, Jill threaded through people sprawled, clinging to each other and crying, into the nursery. Got to Jesse. Grabbed him and another squalling infant and got both babies out the exit. Almost ran into Gary and Tricia, coming back. Tricia cried out at seeing her; quick-hugged her around both infants.

  “No more bomb,” Jill gasped to them.

  They heard the soft, controlled announcement over the PA. “Bomb alert is over. Repeat, bomb alert is over.”

  But the nursery was a mess. Shattered glass near the front. Wires pulled, monitors stilled, babies screaming. Gary and Tricia went in.

  Praying desperately for the woman Burrell held, Jill hurried in a semi-lurch down the stairwell with Jesse and the other infant in her arms.

  Ran into Sam and Ramu, just coming up.

  “We’re getting the rest out,” MacIntyre said, his breath heaving. “Woody’s helping the evacuation downstairs. Other hospitals are sending ambulances.”

  40

  Burrell had gotten the bathroom door open and yanked her in. Bullets had missed his head by inches; he’d held his hostage too close.

  The bathroom?

  “What’s in there?” a cop asked David, running to it.

  “Nothing.” David caught up to the first cops pushing at the door. They were having trouble getting it open.

  And then they did, pushing at something heavy. David’s heart sank. He guessed what…

  Her white sweater was drenched red. She lay in a pool of blood…but she was still breathing.

  “Bastard’s berserk, missed her carotid,” David said, kneeling to her, flinging off his white jacket to staunch the flow. The gun he’d put in its pocket skidded away. Two cops took his place with the woman as another called for help.

  And another cop saw the ceiling vent out of place above one of the toilets. It was a wheelchair-sized toilet, with blood smeared on the wall, the toilet, and the vent.

  “He’s up there!” The cop who’d found the vent slid it away and tried to heft himself up. He couldn’t. He was too heavy.

  “I’ll go.” David climbed onto the toilet and hauled himself up through the opening. A thinner man in uniform followed him, and then another.

  The three looked around.

  It was the generator floor.

  The smell of diesel exhaust hit them along with roaring, other-worldly shapes of electrical engines, noise mufflers, dial monitors, and fuel lines.

  The first cop to follow David turned and craned. “Where-?”

  A crack sounded as an iron rod came down on his head. He fell. The other two spun, ducking, as the maniac swung his rod wildly at them, just missing wires, pumps, machinery.

  David crouched, missed a swing, then rose and smashed Burrell hard in the face.

  He fell backward, howling, dripping blood from his nose and his missing thumb. David grabbed for his foot but he rolled and spun away, screaming, “Burn in Hell! Burn in Hell!” as he ran and hid behind one generator, then ducked to another generator further away. The floor was crowded with roaring machines.

  More cops had climbed up. Some lowered their injured brother down as others, hunched, followed the blood trail.

  But they couldn’t shoot.

  Those elephantine machines and their wires, dials and pumps supplied the hospital’s power: surgery in progress, patients on ventilators, dialysis machines.

  Burrell knew it. David knew that he knew it. Now he was holding the whole hospital hostage.

  They couldn’t see him, but the blood trail led from one noisy machine to another.

  David followed carefully with the others, and then suddenly stopped. The red splotches were further apart now, and led around to the back of a tall, wide machine set between a web of crisscrossing wires and fuel pipes.

  “Wait,” he said softly.

  He stepped away from the others and approached the huge machine; walked around it.

  Locked eyes with Burrell’s crazed, defiant glare. He was in a hunched position, hanging onto the edge of a dial. Somewhere he had dropped his iron rod. His eyes darted insanely around for something else to use.

  “Give it up,” David told him. “You’re done.”

  “No, you’re done! And this whole hospital, burn in Hell!” he shrieked again. He found an unused fuel pipe on the floor and hurled it at David, who ducked it.

  Howling, he started pulling maniacally on another, smaller fuel pipe. An attached fuel pipe.

  “Don’t!” David yelled in a panic. “That’s…you’ll get…”

  Burrell exerted his whole body weight, twisted and yanked the pipe free…

  …and was blasted by spewing diesel fuel. The force of the gush threw him backward, his falling body tearing through electrical wires which snapped and sparked and whipped around...

  …and found the dynamite on his shirt.

  Burrell’s chest burst into flame. He shrieked in pain and horror as the spewing diesel blasted his face and body, formed a pool beneath him which erupted into flame.

  “The generators! Get him away from the generators!” David cried, pulling at Burrell’s feet, the only part of him not on fire.

  Another cop helped. They dragged Burrell, still shrieking hideously, away from the danger of exploding the whole place. Others had their jackets off and were beating the flames out.

  A sudden roar sounded as backup generators turned on. Every cop cheered. The backup system was okay.

  The shrieking had stopped. The huge room now smelled of burnt flesh. Someone called for repairs fast to cap the gusher.

  They all viewed the charred mess that had bee
n a killer.

  “You burn in Hell,” one of the cops said.

  In the hall outside the cleared nursery, Tricia and MacIntyre were filling in Pappas when David appeared, behind cops just exiting the bathroom.

  Quick words were exchanged. Hugs of relief from Sam and Tricia, both gibbering at once that Jill and the others were downstairs, getting evacuated.

  “She’s probably waiting for you,” Sam said. “Being stubborn, holding Jesse and refusing to get into an ambulance.”

  David ran. Passed Keri, Alex, and trauma counselors comforting and moving away traumatized parents. Alex called after him, holding up his phone. “Hey, nice going! I heard about upstairs!”

  A wave without turning, a plunge down five flights of stairs, and in the controlled chaos of a cleared area in the ER, he found Jill.

  Sam was right. She was sitting on the floor shivering, hugging blanketed Jesse to her and comforting him. The sliding ER doors were open, and cold, darkening rain blew in on her. Someone had pulled a blanket over her, but she still shivered. Was watching the lights-flashing ambulances just outside, and the last of the babies getting lovingly placed into waiting isolettes.

  “Jill.”

  She looked up to him and burst into tears.

  He knelt to her and held her, held both of them. Jesse actually looked up at him, a bit cross-eyed.

  “David, you’re safe…safe,” Jill cried between gulps, her face pressed to his. “My phone…they said…fire.”

  “I’m okay.”

  She gulped air again. “Burrell?”

  “In Hell.”

  He held them. Long moments of comfort, of giving thanks passed between them.

  Then he pulled Jill up, still cradling Jesse. She was in her thin scrubs, and her blanket was a bit wet. David asked for a new one, and wrapped her and the baby snugly inside it.

  Then looked at them, and kissed her again. “Mama saves her baby,” he said in the softest voice imaginable.

  Jill smiled weakly, and leaned into him.

  There was room in the last ambulance. No isolettes left, but no problem.

  They rode with Jesse to Mount Sinai Hospital, taking turns holding him.

  EPILOGUE/ JULY 1

  The blueberries were perfect. And the strawberries - joyously red and plump. Those two, that’s all Jill said they needed for their dessert with chocolate sauce over vanilla ice cream, but David poked happily among the bright mangos, grapes, papayas and cantaloupes, watching the setting sun glow on the whole sidewalk stand, and on his wedding ring.

  It actually warmed his finger, and he stopped to twirl it a little, enjoying the feeling. Then he went back to picking the blueberries and strawberries, and a baguette and roses too. A beautiful bouquet of red ones, Jill’s favorite. Paying, he grinned back at the grocer, grinned too at others who recognized him, then hurried home.

  She was in the kitchen and looked up smiling – then delighted - when he came in.

  “Oh beautiful!” She took the roses and hugged him hard with her free arm, kissing him lovingly.

  As she poured water for the roses into a pitcher he said, “Congratulations, first year resident.”

  She laughed happily, then let out a subdued cowboy hoot. “Yeeehaaw!” Not loud enough to wake Jesse, but she couldn’t resist; had heard it from some of David’s relatives, his hearty father mostly, summoned for their quickie marriage ceremony at NYC’s City Hall. It took all of twenty minutes. His parents had gifted her with loving hugs and cookware and a cowgirl hat. They owned a sporting goods store in Denver.

  She felt high with happiness. Last night, June 30 at the stroke of midnight, Jill’s year of internship had ended and she’d become a first year resident. So had all of them – Tricia, Ramu, Charlie and Gary. No chance to celebrate though, work continued, so they’d gathered and hugged and toasted with Sprite for a whole five minutes before they had to run off again…or collapse in bed to start all over at 6 a.m.

  No time off, no summer vacations, no joke. July first was also the day the new bunch of interns arrived, and you didn’t want them wandering around in a daze with their limited clinical experience.

  “Remember last year, when you were one of ‘em?” David smirked, leaving the water running to start rinsing the strawberries.

  “Oh…” She jabbed him in the ribs, not wanting to remember her first dreadful week.

  They fell silent for a moment, remembering the darkness of the July before, and last October again…

  Then the moment passed. The darkness was behind them, they’d gotten through it, and tonight they had – off! Jill had made a beautiful salad nicoise, and David, slicing the baguette, commented about bed early and a decent night’s sleep.

  She looked at him, arching a brow, and he re-thought the sleep part. Peered out the long, thin kitchen to the living area beyond. It was still as quiet out there as it was when he went for the fruit.

  “Jesse still asleep?” he asked.

  “You know it.”

  True. No baby clamor yet. Jesse was nine months now. The adoption had proceeded with the speed of government, but he’d been theirs, really theirs, for over four months. The tiny bundle they’d once held was now a seventeen-pound happy babbler, expert crawler, and enterprising explorer. He was on track as just a normal kid, as they told the rare reporter who called of late, or the cameramen who’d caught them in their heavy jackets last winter walking to and from the hospital.

  The paparazzi had pretty much disappeared after December. Other media excitement had replaced the Jesse furor. The whole winter, spring, and now July had been so quiet. No threats, no bogeymen. The three of them had stopped being danger magnets! So the awfulness was over, right? People had gotten used to the idea of Jesse. The only news stories appearing concerned women clamoring to have their babies the same way – not a lot, but they were vocal, increasing in numbers, demanding and insisting that doctors find out faster how it was done or “admit their indifference to the hardships of women, especially working women.”

  The beautiful, oh-give-thanks thing was that the world was leaving Jill and David alone to be just normal, overtired, overworked residents whose joy was having Jesse, watching him grow.

  David went to him. Jill dried her hands and followed, carrying the salad, a bottle of Chardonnay, and the roses on a tray. Their table, already set, was just feet from the crib. Jill put her tray down and joined David, gazing at their sleeping child.

  Who squirmed, and squirmed some more…and opened his eyes.

  “Da…” he said, seeing David first. His right hand reached sleepily for his favorite toy, a soft bunny, and he handed it up to David. The bunny was a gift from Gregory Pappas. The whole living area, the floor and every shelf, was crammed with toys from friends. Alex Brand and Keri Blasco with her boyfriend had been over. Alex had brought a soft plastic fire truck; Keri had brought a little red horse.

  The police were grateful that Jill and David had continued to help with their cases. Three rapes and a case of statutory rape and child molestation. The child had been a pregnant thirteen-year-old. Keri and Jill had become close friends.

  Leaning over the crib, Jill said, “Hi cutie. Wanna come out and play?”

  “Paaay,” Jesse said sleepily, his light brown hair a little sweaty on his brow.

  They changed him, and took turns eating a bit awkwardly, one-handed with him traveling from one lap to the other. He held his own bottle. Once he dropped it, then, chortling, swept some of David’s rice to the floor and thought that was hugely funny.

  “Meth! Meth!” he chirped happily. He was proud of himself. He’d made a mess and had learned another word.

  David reached for the baby development book.

  “He’s ahead in language development,” he said, reading thoughtfully. Then he smirked and looked down at the carpet. “We’ll need a drop cloth here.”

  “Almost every day a new word,” Jill said, restraining Jesse’s little hand from swiping more rice. “Maybe because we talk to hi
m a lot. Ditto the hospital day care bunch.”

  Every hospital staff member had access to daycare for their little ones. Jesse also spent two afternoons a week in the hospital’s more-famous-than-ever Infant School, but he didn’t seem to like it. He often did just the opposite of what the teachers tried to teach him, and preferred the free-crawling, rolling, head-butting scene of the regular daycare.

  “So he’s going to be an independent thinker,” David said later, sprawled with Jill on the carpet, watching Jesse crawl around. He was babbling and pushing Alex’s soft plastic fire truck, another favorite toy, holding it with one hand while using his other hand and two knees to propel himself.

  Outside the wide darkening window, the hospital lights glowed, and an ambulance sounded. Then another, and another, all wailing together into the nearby ambulance bay.

  A big accident someplace. Collision at an intersection? A house fire? Building crane collapse?

  Jill sighed. Home helped her forget the suffering and trauma of the outside world. It never ended, did it? Hearing the sirens always brought the realization back. Amid all this homey coziness, she felt a sadness take hold, wondering who was in pain, bleeding, maybe dying.

  She sighed again, audibly this time. David, leaning against her, understood and patted her hand.

  Are nine-month-olds able to read body language? Jill didn’t know, but doubted it.

  Until the following happened.

  Jesse seemed to have seen her sad expression. He stopped crawling for a second, then scrambled to her looking worried, and held his fire truck up to her. Don’t be sad, Mommy.

  She took it, and smiled for him. “Thank you, sweetheart. Mommy’s happy again.”

  David watched, amazed. Jesse beamed, his round little face showing his first front teeth coming in.

  Then he pulled himself up on Jill’s knee.

  And then he let go, and took his first step. And then another. And almost a third before he fell into David’s arms, squealing with delight and looking back at Jill. Mommy proud? Mommy proud?

  No words to describe the exclamations and stunned thrill of that moment. David took Jesse’s little hand and kissed it, and then kissed Jill, who was nearly in tears with excitement. She had felt comfort before from holding Jesse as a baby, but this…took her breath away.