“I was wrong—” Sharon climbed from the back of the truck and glared at her partner. “You’re gonna get us both killed. Now can we please get out of here?”
Sharon walked to the passenger side. Jim walked to the driver’s side and climbed into the cab. Sharon slammed her door and propped her head against the window. Jim bit his lip.
“You’re upset.”
“How’d you guess?”
Sharon grumbled and pulled her field coat tightly around her neck. A soft rumble soon resonated from her throat. Jim watched with amazement. He couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d always believed she looked rather like a gnome, short and plump, with stumpy fingers and a full double chin that shook when she laughed, but with her mouth wide open and her body curled up in the shape of a fat little ball, she was truly a comical sight.
“How can you sleep right now?”
Sharon continued to snore.
“Sharon,” Jim said giving her a gentle shove. “Wake up.”
Sharon opened her eyes, grumbled something unintelligible, and then sat up and adjusted her seat to the full upright position. “You are such a jerk.”
“You love me.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Five-thirty? No wonder I’m so hungry. Let’s go eat.”
“Not yet, we’re about to get a call.”
“Jim, will you please forget about the call that doesn’t even exist. My sugar’s getting low. I need food.”
“In a minute.”
“Now!”
Jim took his foot off the brake and allowed the ambulance to idle slowly toward the end of the block. He stopped in the shadow of a large pine tree at the corner. The apartment complex just across the street reminded him of a miniature ghetto, thirteen run-down brick buildings clearly marked with colorful gang graffiti and enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence. The Garden Terrace. Hardly the Garden of Eden. He gazed through the windshield, searching for movement. He felt hungry too—hungry for action.
“Call’s coming, Sharon. Drug dealer just got shot. Betcha anything.”
“You scare me. One day it’s gonna be you that gets shot, and I’ll have to be the one to explain to your girlfriend what happened.”
“Oh!” Jim smiled and reached into his pocket. “That reminds me. Check this out.” He pulled a small black box from his pants pocket and handed it to Sharon. Sharon opened the hinged lid and gasped. Jim grinned. “What do you think?”
“Oh, my!”
“Like it?”
“What girl wouldn’t? For me?”
Another chuckle.
“Oh, Jim, it’s gorgeous.” Sharon tried, but she couldn’t fit the little diamond ring over any of her fingers. “You’ll have to return it, it doesn’t fit.”
Jim stifled a quiet chuckle. Sharon smirked and placed the ring back in the box.
“When are you giving it to her?”
“Tomorrow. We’re sailing to Lookout for the day. She’s never seen the lighthouse up close.”
“It’s not too cold?”
“For sailing?”
Sharon shrugged.
“You’d like her, Sharon. She likes to pester me about my drinking too.”
“Well,” Sharon said raising an invisible glass, “here’s to the both of you. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Jim took the ring, shoved it back in his pocket, and turned his attention back to the Garden Terrace. He couldn’t get past the strange feeling that all life on earth had suddenly ceased to exist and they’d been left behind. He rolled down his window expecting to hear some kind of noise, some proof that he was wrong, but except for the gunfire he had heard a few moments earlier the night was quiet.
“This is weird. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like we just entered the Twilight Zone or something. Where is everybody?”
“Who cares? Let’s get out of here.”
“In a minute.”
Sharon gave an exasperated moan, settled back down in her seat and propped her knees on the dash. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Of all the paramedics in East Beach I have to be stuck with you.”
Jim chuckled.
“By the way,” Sharon said, “where is the preacher anyway? You two are usually, like, inseparable.”
“Sid? He took the night off. Probably out street preaching somewhere.”
“Not that silly revival.”
“I dunno, maybe.”
“I don’t buy all that Christianity smoke. Getting saved and going to church. I mean, like, gross!”
“Jeez, why so bitter?”
“Well, you must not either. I’ve never seen you toting a Bible.”
Jim snorted. “And you never will.”
“You don’t look like one either,” Sharon continued. “All the Christian guys I ever knew looked like wimps—banker’s haircuts, collared short-sleeved shirts, starched khakis. Take Sid, for example. He’s your basic Christian wimp.”
“He also happens to be my best friend.”
“But you—” Sharon reached over and touched the crescent-shaped scar under Jim’s right eye. “You’re a fighter.” She grabbed his right hand. “Like leather. And look at those knuckles, all scarred, it’s like you spent your childhood beating up oak trees in your mother’s back yard.”
“All right!” Jim pulled away. “So I’m no Christian. I never claimed to be. But neither are you.”
“You got that right.” Sharon dropped her face into her hands. “Ugh,” she groaned. “I feel like mud.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her glucometer. She wiped her fingertip with alcohol, pricked it with a small lancet, and then squeezed a drop of blood onto the test strip protruding from the end of the glucometer. Jim heard the unit beep. He glanced back up and scanned the neighborhood. The Terrace looked deserted. It was too quiet. It seemed as if something sinister had just happened and everyone had run away. There should be people…where are the people? He heard a beep. Sharon groaned.
“What is it?” he said glancing at the glucometer.
“Fifty-one.”
“Fifty-one? Sharon, you need food.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Can we go now, please?”
“Absolutely.” Jim understood diabetes. He treated people for it all the time, and he’d seen enough people crash from low blood sugar to realize that Sharon wasn’t kidding. She needed to eat pretty soon or he’d be treating her. He reached behind the seat into his gear bag. “Here,” he said, tossing her a Snickers bar he’d been saving for later in the shift. “Eat this.” Sharon ripped into the wrapper and started chewing. Jim shifted the truck into drive. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize your diabetes was so—”
“Uh, Jim—” A look of total fear swept across Sharon’s face. She jabbed her finger toward the windshield pointing at something outside the truck. “I think we better go, like, now!”
Jim glanced to his left and instantly saw the source of his partner’s fear. Five teenagers were running toward the ambulance. All three wore a bright red article of clothing, and one carried what looked like an automatic weapon.
“Now,” Sharon shouted. “Hurry, Jim! Go!”
Jim threw the truck into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. “Hang on!” Tires squealed. The truck shot backwards. Jim dodged a parked car and slammed on the brakes behind a small clump of trees fifty yards down the street. The truck came to a hard stop and threw him backward into his seat. He leaned forward, hunkered behind the wheel and peered through the windshield. The teenagers sprinted past The Terrace and disappeared behind the abandoned houses on the other side of the street. Jim suddenly realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and glanced at his partner. “That was close.”
“Jim, let’s get out of here!”
Jim could feel his heart pounding. The familiar rush of adrenalin and cortisol and alcohol made his head swim with excitement. His palms felt sweaty. He coul
d taste the booze on his breath. He shook his head and glanced about quickly for other signs of danger. “Local gang,” he said taking a deep breath to slow down his heart. “Core Street Crew maybe, Northside Nights. Both those gangs wear red.”
“Who cares?” Sharon said, her voice cracking. “I thought they were gonna shoot us, for sure!”
“Did you see the gun that one guy had? It looked like a MAC-10.”
“Enough,” Sharon shouted. “You’ve had your kicks! Get me out of here right now.”
Jim hesitated.
“Go!”
“All right.” Jim threw the truck into a three-point turn. “Jeez, what a crotchety old lady.”
Sharon uttered something obscene, balled herself into the fetal position and leaned against the window. “Wake me up when we get there.”
Jim chuckled. “Come to think of it, a slice of Luigi’s would be good about now.” Sharon grunted. Jim felt his mouth begin to water. Luigi’s made his favorite pizza, and his imagined need for food suddenly outweighed his desire for a good call. He sped up and all but raced back down the boulevard in the direction of the Village. Sharon’s snoring had resumed, and he found himself thinking of the teenaged gangsters. It made him angry. He felt a sudden need for vengeance, for cleaning up the streets and making things safe, but that wasn’t his job, was it? He shook his head and cursed. “Punks.”
The shrill warble of a distant siren grabbed his attention. Flashing red and blue strobe lights appeared, and within seconds a black and white police cruiser roared past them moving in the direction of the Terrace. A moment later a second. Then a third.
Sharon sat up in her seat. “What’s going on?”
The radio crackled. A cool monotone voice began to talk.
“Medic-seven…got one shot in the alley at the end of Core. PD on scene requesting code-three response. Switch to OPS channel three. OPS-three.”
“Queen Street Alley?” Jim made a U-turn and stomped on the gas. “I told you they shot a drug dealer.”
“Do you always have to be right?”
Jim grinned and keyed the radio mike. “Seven en route from Club. Tell PD we’re about a minute out.”
Jim could feel his stomach begin to stir. That old familiar rush. Sharon flipped one of the toggle switches on the dash and an alternating pattern of red and white strobe lights began to flash. She rotated a knob and the siren began its mournful wail. Jim could feel his heart pounding. His fingers began to sweat. He was in his element, and he was ready. He made a sharp turn onto Maple Street and blasted the air horn to get a stubborn driver out of the way.
“Whose call is this anyway?”
“Don’t even try it,” Sharon said. “I rode with the last two.”
“Just kidding.”
Jim turned the ambulance onto Core Street, crested the hill and hit the brake. Six squad cars were assembled at the other end of the street in front of the entrance to the Queen Street Alley, two with their headlights burning to light the dark interior of the stone lined railroad trestle.
“Nice place for a murder.” Jim clicked the radio mike. “Medic-seven.”
“Go ahead, seven.”
“Ten twenty-three with PD. Medic-seven to PD,” Jim continued without pausing. “Where do you want us?”
“We’re in the alley…” a male voice responded. “You won’t need any equipment for this one.”
Jim replaced the mike. “DOA.”
“Good,” Sharon said, opening her door. “That’s, like, ten times less paperwork.”
Jim chuckled, grabbed his stethoscope, and started to climb down from the rig. The radio chirped again before his feet could hit the ground.
“Two twenty-two to medic-seven.”
“Hey, that’s Rico.” Jim keyed his mike. “Seven to Two twenty-two…go ahead, Rico.”
“Uh, stand by there, bud, I’ll be right there.”
“Ten-four.”
Jim walked to the front of the ambulance and leaned against the fender. Sharon walked around the truck and joined him.
“What’s up?”
“Beats me.” Jim shrugged and motioned toward the alley. “Rico wants us to wait here.”
Jim watched with passive interest as two uniformed police officers walked out of the alley and got into their cars. A few seconds later another cop emerged from the shadows, a short, stocky, bull of a man wearing faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt obscured by a black Kevlar vest. A gold shield dangled about his stumpy neck, a holstered pistol clung tightly to his right hip. Jim held up his hand. Rico Rivetti nodded, seemed to hesitate, and then started walking his way. Jim noticed a strange tilt to his head, an uncertainty to his step.
“What’d you do?” Jim joked as he approached. “Shoot a suspect?”
A sharp crease formed between Rico’s eyes. He stopped and gazed at Jim for a few seconds and then turned to Sharon and whispered something into her ear. Her jaw dropped. Her hand shot up and covered her mouth. She turned to Jim, disbelief in her eyes, then spun around and hurried into the alley.
“Rico?” Jim said. “What’s going on?”
Rico’s hand closed around Jim’s arm. His joyful brown eyes appeared heavy and tight.
“Come on, bud. We need to talk.”
“Talk?”
“Just—” Rico gave Jim a forceful tug. “Come on.”
“Hold it.” Jim jerked his arm free. “What happened?”
“Jim…I’m sorry, bud, but…”
“But what?”
“Something terrible’s happened.”
“What?”
“I…I don’t know how…oh, Mama Mia.” Rico’s eyes revealed the bewilderment of a man totally lost for words. “Jim, I’m…I’m…”
Jim felt an icy finger touch his mind. He felt his eyes widen. His pulse begin to race. He suddenly understood. He pushed past Rico and darted into the alley.
“Jim,” Rico shouted. “Don’t!”
Sharon stood up and tried to hold him back. “Don’t, Jim. He’s gone.”
“Move!”
Jim shoved Sharon aside and gazed at the bullet-riddled body lying on the alley floor.
“Oh, no, no, no, Sid! Oh, no!” Sid Drake’s pale lifeless face stared back at him, eyes glassy and fixed, jaw locked open in shocked horror. His hand had been stabbed. Streaks of partially congealed blood trickled from his palm. Jim felt his chest heave. His head began to spin. “Please no! Please no!”
“Jim…”
“Sharon!” He grabbed his partner’s sleeve. “Go get the boxes, quick!”
“Jim, it’s no use, he’s—”
“Sharon, what’s wrong with you? Go!” Jim dropped to the ground and tilted Sid’s head back. “Just go!”
“Jim,” Sharon said. “Don’t, it’s too late.”
Jim drew a panicked breath. He placed his mouth over Sid’s and blew forcefully. A sickening sound bubbled from the bloody chest wounds. Jim felt his own chest begin to spasm. He found it hard to breathe. He struggled to catch another breath. Inhaled. Blew again.
“Sharon! Somebody,” he shouted, gasping for air. “Do compressions!”
Sharon didn’t move. No one did.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Jim ripped open the front of Sid’s shirt and placed the heel of his hand on his chest.
“Help me!”
He began to count, pushing hard against Sid’s sternum.
“One, two, three. Sharon! What’s wrong with everybody? Move!”
No one moved.
Jim stood and ran toward the truck…airway box…defibrillator…meds…but then, as if reality had suddenly slapped him across the face, he stopped and gazed at the scene around him. The police officers stood in a semicircle around Sid’s body, their faces stunned, their eyes marked with disbelief. Sharon had her hands to her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Jim glanced at Rico and saw him shake his head. He looked back down at Sid and suddenly realized the truth—his best was friend was dead. The weight of a thousan
d hands began to push down on his soul. He dropped to his knees and burst into tears.
“Nooo!”
His chest tightened. His lungs became heavy. His breath came in short, labored pants. He stood up and threw himself against the alley wall. “No,” he shouted, banging his fists against the bricks. “No, no, no! Not Sid!”
“Jim,” Rico shouted. “Stop it!”
Jim continued to beat the wall. Blood began to seep from his split and battered knuckles. “No,” he cried. “No!” He felt his legs go weak. His head began to pound.
“Jim!”
A powerful hand clamped around his bicep and spun him around.
“Stop it,” Rico repeated. “Calm down!”
“Let me go, Rico!”
“No.”
“Someone’s going to pay!”
“Someone will, but not this way.”
“I’ll kill ‘em!” Jim struggled to break free, but he was no match for Rico’s powerful grip. “I swear, I’ll—”
“Jim! This is the last thing Sid would have wanted. The last thing!”
Jim stared into Rico’s eyes. He felt as if he had been slugged in the stomach. He glanced back down at Sid and saw the lifeless eyes staring up at him. “Cover him up,” he shouted. “Cover his face!”
Jim hung his head. He felt ashamed. Confused. Consumed with vengeance. He felt his fists tighten, involuntarily flexing as if preparing themselves for a fight. “Sharon,” he heard Rico say. “Get him back to EMS. Keep him there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Jim felt a soft hand take his arm. “Come on, hon,” Sharon said, giving him a firm tug. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Jim surrendered. He turned and started walking back toward the truck, and then jerked his arm free and ran back to the scene. “Get out of my way,” he shouted, pushing through the police officers. “Move!” Two of the cops grabbed him. “No,” Jim yelled. “Let go!”
“It’s all right,” Rico said. “Let him be.”
Jim pulled free and dropped to his knees beside his best friend’s body. He stared dumbfounded into Sid’s lifeless eyes. He couldn’t believe what was happening. “Oh, Sid, why? Why’d you do this?” His tears began to flow, his heart to break. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Oh, Sid, please forgive me for what I’m about to do.”
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