The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4)

by Phyllis Entis

  Colin came over and touched my shoulder. “I found the keys to the stairwell. They must have fallen out of his pocket when you tackled him. Police and ambulance are on the way.” He crouched down next to me. “Will she be okay?”

  “I don’t know. She’s losing a lot of blood. I’ve been trying to stanch the flow, but it just keeps coming. I’m going to rig a tourniquet. Hold the jacket against her arm for a minute.” I stripped off my shirt, oblivious to the cold breeze blowing over the exposed roof. Twisting the shirt into a semblance of a rope, I tightened it around Millie’s arm, a couple of inches below her shoulder.

  “I think it’s working,” Colin said. “The bleeding seems to be slowing down.”

  I kept a close watch on the rise and fall of Millie’s chest, noting with alarm that her pulse and breathing were getting weaker. Periodically, I loosened the tourniquet for a couple of seconds to allow some blood to flow. It must have been no more than a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity before the emergency medical team reached us. The white-clad responders pushed Colin and me out of the way and began to work on her with practiced urgency. One of the medics took me aside and asked about Millie’s medical history, and whether I knew her blood type.

  “I believe she’s AB-negative,” I replied.

  The medic used his walkie-talkie to relay the information to the hospital’s trauma center. His face was grim as he told me they were low on compatible blood. “I’m AB-negative,” Colin said. “Can you use my blood?”

  “If the cross-match checks out.”

  The medics lifted Millie onto a gurney, strapped her in and started wheeling her across the graveled roof to the stairs. One of them held an IV bag aloft, another took charge of my makeshift tourniquet. Colin and I followed them down the stairs to the 22nd floor, where a pair of elevators had been held for us. The medics loaded Millie’s gurney into the first elevator car, and Colin and I rode down in the second one. We reached the main floor in time to see the medics wheel the gurney out the door to a waiting ambulance.

  “Come on,” I called over my shoulder to Colin as I broke into a trot. “I want to ride with her.” I could hear the slap of his leather soles against the marble-tiled floor as he strove to catch up.

  My intentions were thwarted by a uniformed police sergeant, who told me the EMTs needed room in the ambulance to work on Millie during transport. He offered to give Colin and me a ride to the hospital. “Where are they taking her?” I asked, as though I knew one Las Vegas hospital from another. The adrenaline surge was wearing off. Suddenly, I felt wobbly and began to shiver.

  The sergeant noticed my discomfort, and handed me a blanket from the trunk of the patrol car. “Wrap this around yourself and get inside the car,” he said. “You’ll feel better once you’re out of the wind. The ambulance is taking your wife to Sunrise. It’s the closest hospital, and happens to be our best trauma center. The Sunrise ER teams are used to dealing with gunshot wounds.” He held open the rear door of his patrol car, waiting. I looked at Colin. He knew what I was asking, and nodded his assent. We climbed into the rear seat, and the car pulled away from the curb, lights flashing and siren screaming.

  A safety grille separated the front seat from the rear. I leaned forward as far as I could and spoke through it to the sergeant. “Can you have Lt. Davila meet us at the hospital?” I could see his puzzled look in the rear-view mirror as he shrugged, picked up his radio microphone, and passed along my request. I heard a laconic ‘ten-four’ acknowledgment from the dispatcher, and sat back in my seat as the patrol car threaded its way through the afternoon traffic.

  “You can still run, you know,” I told Colin in a low voice that I hoped wouldn’t carry to the front seat.

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve stopped running. I’ll tell them what I know, and take what’s coming to me.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Because of what you did up there,” he replied, with a vague wave back in the direction of the Gold Dragon. “You knew you were walking into an ambush, but you did it anyway. You saved her life.”

  The patrol car pulled up to the hospital’s ER entrance, stopping next to the ambulance. The EMTs already had wheeled Millie’s gurney through the waiting area, past the check-in desk, and down a wide, door-lined corridor. I started running to catch up with them, Colin hard at my heels. A muscular orderly blocked our path, his voice stern, but not unkind. “This is as far as you go, sir.”

  “But, that’s my wife they just brought in,” I pleaded.

  “Sorry, sir. Hospital rules. They need work on her. You would just be in the way.”

  Colin spoke up. “They might need me for a transfusion. The medics said something about checking to see if my blood matched hers.”

  The orderly nodded. “Okay, you come with me and we’ll get that started. Not you, sir,” he told me as I tried to follow them down the hall. "You need to speak to the nurse at the Admissions desk. She’ll have some forms for you to fill out.”

  Reluctantly, I walked over to the Admissions desk and identified myself to the nurse. She made note of my name, and handed me a clipboard holding a sheaf of forms to complete. I took a seat near the desk and steadied the clipboard on my lap as I rapidly filled in the blanks for Millie’s name, home address, phone number, next of kin, and insurance coverage. My pace slowed when I reached the section of the form dealing with her medical history, and came to a full stop when I got to the questions about mammograms, PAP tests, and prior pregnancies. I completed as much of the form as I could, then returned the clipboard to the nurse.

  "When can I see my wife?” I asked her. “What’s happening? Why hasn’t anyone told me what’s happening?”

  “They’re working to stabilize her,” she replied with a professional smile that failed to reassure me. “Dr. Gutierrez will talk to you as soon as she can.”

  An orderly brought me a mug of hot coffee and a set of scrubs to replace the blanket that was still wrapped around me. I cooled my heels in the ER waiting room, blindly leafing through the same magazines over and over again, checking my watch every couple of minutes. Periodically, I returned to the Admissions desk, pleading for news, begging to speak with the doctor. Each time, the nurse told me to return to my seat and wait. At last, I heard my name called.

  I walked up to the Admissions desk, where I was met by a petite woman, with dark, wavy, shoulder-length hair. “Mr. Dickens? I’m Dr. Francesca Gutierrez.” Her voice was low and calm, and she had a kind face. But she seemed young, and I wondered in passing about her competence. I didn’t want a junior resident holding Millie’s life in her hands.

  “How is my wife, Doctor?”

  “Let’s sit down.” My heart was hammering in my chest. It’s been my experience that good news is delivered standing, bad news sitting down. Gutierrez led me to a quiet corner and waited until we were both seated. “Your wife received gunshot wounds to the upper arm and the head,” she began.

  “I know. I was there. What is her condition? Will she…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question, but the doctor knew what I was asking.

  “I won’t lie to you,” Gutierrez said. “Her condition is critical. We managed to control the bleeding, and to stabilize her vitals for the moment. But she’s lost a lot of blood. Her blood type is unusual, and we don’t have much AB-negative blood in the bank. It’s fortunate Mr. Hewitt is a good match for her. We’ve already taken two pints from him. He is resting now and replenishing his fluid balance. The hospital blood bank has sent out a request to other area hospitals and to the local Red Cross for more blood. We’re prepping your wife for surgery now. Dr. Agulnik will operate as soon as he is confident of having sufficient blood on hand.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “I tried to stop the bleeding. I applied a tourniquet to her arm, but I couldn’t do anything about her head.”

  Dr. Gutierrez patted my arm, her touch as gentle as her voice. “The tourniquet saved her life. One of the bullets hit her upper arm, fracturing the hum
erus and chipping off a splinter of bone, which nicked her artery. She might have bled out if you hadn’t acted.”

  “Can I see her? Just for a moment?”

  Gutierrez hesitated, her eyes searching my face, “She’s unconscious, and it’s against hospital policy. But, under the circumstances, I can let you have a moment with her.”

  She led me to the ER room, where Millie lay on a wheeled gurney, awaiting transport to the surgical floor. Her eyes were closed, her face the color of unbleached linen. A wide swath of her scalp had been shaved where the bullet had creased it. An IV line dripped clear fluids into a vein in her uninjured left arm. As I entered the cubicle, a medic was loosening a tourniquet on the injured arm. He waited for a few seconds, then tightened it once again. Except for her exposed arms, Millie’s body was covered up to her chin with a white hospital sheet. At a signal from Dr. Gutierrez, the medical team stepped back, allowing me to approach the gurney. I moved forward, careful not to jostle the IV line or the lengths of wire connecting Millie to various pieces of equipment.

  I bent over and kissed Millie’s forehead, then stroked her cheek with my fingertips. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her lips moved as she tried to say my name. “Shhh,” I whispered, “I’m right here.”

  I felt a touch on my shoulder and heard Dr. Gutierrez’s voice. “It’s time, Mr. Dickens. They’re ready for us upstairs.”

  I straightened up and stepped back, watching through a film of tears as the medics wheeled her away from me. “I love you, Millie,” I whispered. “Don’t you leave me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The so-called Visitors lounge in the surgical wing of the sixth floor was a windowless cage in which I alternately sat and paced, paced and sat, for hours as I waited for one of the doctors or nurses to tell me what was happening. Lt. Davila had found me here, but left after a few minutes. He told me Colin had surrendered to police, but was being allowed to remain close by in case he was needed for an additional blood donation. He was being held in a room on the security floor, under police guard. At my request, Davila had contacted Susan, and she arrived about a half hour after the surgery began. She sat quietly in the lounge with me, her silent presence comforting.

  “Mr. Dickens?” Rising, I turned toward the source of the baritone voice. A man who could have passed for James Earl Jones stood framed in the doorway to the room. He was wearing a rumpled set of scrubs. His eyes were serious, but his face bore the trace of a smile. “I’m Dr. Agulnik. Your wife is out of surgery. She’s a real fighter.” I started to thank him, but he raised a hand to stop me. “Let’s sit and talk a moment.”

  My mouth went dry at his words. My knees weakened, and I collapsed onto a nearby couch. Susan came over to sit next to me, and Dr. Agulnik pulled up a chair to face us. “You need to understand that Mrs. Dickens is not out of danger,” he said. “We were able to repair the artery in her arm, and we removed the splinter of bone that caused the damage. If there is no collateral nerve damage, her arm should heal completely and she’ll have full use of it in time.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s the head injury that most concerns me. The pre-op CT scan I ordered revealed that the second bullet did more than crease her scalp. It lodged under the surface next to her skull, resulting in a hairline fracture. We were able to remove the slug without causing additional damage. Nevertheless, any skull fracture is worrisome, and the next 48 hours are critical. We are monitoring her closely for any evidence of subdural hematoma. Swelling within the cranium due to a blood clot. If she makes it through the next two days without incident, her chances of full recovery will be good. Otherwise…” he let his voice trail off.

  I sat very still, trying to absorb what I had just heard. I swallowed hard, cleared my throat. “When can I see her?”

  “We’ll be transporting her to the ICU shortly,” he said. “You’ll be able to view her from the corridor. The walls separating the corridor from the ICU suites are glass.”

  “I want to stay with her in the room.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. There’s not enough space, for one thing. Besides, she’ll be in a drug-induced coma for the next 48 hours. She won’t even know you’re there. The best thing you can do for your wife, Mr. Dickens, is to let us do our job.” He placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet, fatigue evident in his posture. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my patient.”

  I followed Dr. Agulnik into the corridor and observed from a distance as a team of nurses and orderlies wheeled Millie into the glass-enclosed ICU ward. Once she was in her cubicle, I watched them transfer her from the gurney to the bed and hook her up to an array of instruments that would have done NASA proud. I pressed my forehead to the glass, willing Millie to feel my presence. To be comforted and take strength from me. I sensed Susan’s approach and turned, leaning my back against the glass. “You need sleep,” she told me. “Come back with me to the hotel and rest.”

  I shook off her suggestion. “No, I’m staying here until Millie wakes up. Until I know she’s going to be all right. You go ahead. There’s no need for both of us to remain. Besides, I think I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  “I understand. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. If you need anything before then, if there’s any news…”

  “I’ll phone you immediately.”

  I waited in the corridor outside the ICU until the duty nurse came out. “How is she?” I asked.

  “Critical but stable at the moment.” The gray-haired nurse assessed me over a pair of old fashioned pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “You need to get something to eat, Mr. Dickens. And some rest.”

  “I’ll bunk down in the Visitors lounge,” I told her. “Please call me if…”

  She interrupted me with an understanding smile. “I promise to come for you if there’s any change whatsoever in your wife’s condition.”

  The lounge was equipped with a coffee dispenser, and a vending machine stocked with unhealthy snacks. I used all of my loose pocket change to buy a couple of stale Hershey bars, washing them down with the warm dishwater that passed for coffee. Then I tried to make myself comfortable on the rigid cushions of the aluminum-framed, upholstered couch. Sleep didn’t come easily. I got up from time to time, walked down the corridor, and watched Millie through the glass, taking comfort in the regular beeps emanating from the monitoring equipment. To my untrained eye, there was no discernible change in her condition. I told myself that was a good thing, and returned to the lounge.

  Eventually, I dozed off, my sleep punctuated by fractured images in troubled dreams. I awakened with a start. The lights in the lounge were dimmed, as were the hallway lights. I sat up, listening hard, hearing footsteps in the hallway. Thinking the nurse might be coming to fetch me, I rose and went into the corridor. The nurse was nowhere in sight, but someone else was. A figure dressed in hospital scrubs was standing in the corridor, staring at Millie through the glass. His left arm was in a sling. His right hand held a gun. Panic jolted me into action when I realized who it was.

  “No!” I shouted, as I ran toward him. “Turpin! No!”

  Turpin spun around, his gun pointing in my direction. Adrenaline pumping through my body, rage propelling me forward, I lunged at the same instant he pulled the trigger. My head plowed into his midsection and, as we had done on the roof, Turpin and I wrestled for the gun. I was on top of him, twisting the pistol out of his hand, when I heard a muffled shot, followed almost immediately by a grunt. He stopped struggling, and flopped onto his back. I could see an expanding red bloom where the bullet had entered his chest.

  My heart was pounding and my vision grew red as my hand tightened on his Glock. I pushed myself to my feet and emptied the entire magazine into him. The click of an empty chamber brought me to my senses. I leaned against the corridor wall, drained of energy and of feeling, the pistol dangling from my hand as I watched Derek Turpin die.

&
nbsp; The ‘ding’ of an elevator reached my ears as though coming from a great distance. Running feet. A voice shouting, “Freeze! Drop your weapon! Hands in the air!”

  I raised my eyes, my vision blurred, my mind still stunned at what had happened. Stunned by what I had done. The constable held his service revolver at me, the mouth of its muzzle wavering just a little less than his voice. “Drop your weapon!” he shouted once again. “Turn around! Hands against the wall!”

  My mind cleared. With slow, deliberate motions I lowered the pistol to the floor, turned, and placed my open palms on the glass wall of Millie’s cubicle. I could see my wife in her bed, cocooned by modern medical technology, oblivious to what was taking place just a few feet from her. I spread my legs at the constable’s order, submitting to an awkward pat-down. Satisfied I wasn’t packing another weapon, he reached for my arms one at a time, and handcuffed my wrists behind my back.

  By now, the corridor was teeming with activity. Additional uniformed officers had arrived on the scene, led by the same police sergeant who had delivered Colin and me to the hospital several hours before. He took charge, issuing a series of rapid-fire orders, then walked me to the Visitors lounge to take my statement.

  The adrenaline rush had worn off, replaced by a sensation of extreme fatigue, accompanied by a searing pain in my side. I looked down to find its source, saw a smear of blood on my scrubs. All at once, the room began to spin and my knees buckled. The sergeant helped me into a chair. I heard him call for medical assistance as the room went black.

  When I regained consciousness, my handcuffs had been removed, the left side of my ribcage bore a large bandage, and I was lying flat on my back on a gurney. A familiar face loomed over me, and I tried to sit up. A nurse’s firm hand pushed me back down, her equally firm voice telling me to stay put unless I wanted the bleeding to resume.