He recognized the crew from the rescue squad that was arriving, and briefly watched Kristin Engels, a volunteer like the vast majority of EMTs in the state, take the kid’s vitals while he hung on the spikes. Then he saw Henry Labarge climbing down the ladder into the hole, too. Henry was not simply one of his troopers, he was the man who’d driven all the way out to deer camp some two years earlier to tell him his daughters had died. Briefly—for a month, maybe—Terry had been unable to have this younger man in his presence, not exactly hating him for being the messenger, but unwilling to be reminded whenever he saw him of the moment he’d learned what had occurred back in Cornish. Like so much else that brought back images of Hillary and Megan, however—school buses and bridges and the sight of a group of kids playing T-ball—eventually the connection faded, and he grew to like Henry once again.
Sounds pretty gruesome, Henry said.
It is. I guess the poor kid just slipped and fell.
He gonna die?
I presume. Help me find someone who’s got a torch.
A light?
No, a torch. An acetylene torch. These people are building a building, so somewhere around here there’s got to be one. Let’s face it, we sure as hell can’t use a saw to get him down. A thought crossed his mind, and he asked, Anyone doing traffic up there?
Yeah, a pair of volunteer firefighters from East Middlebury.
Soon there were more men and women in uniforms in the pit—the khaki and green ones that Terry and Henry wore, the blue and gray of the officers from the county sheriff’s department, the yellow bunker coats the firefighters were wearing—than there were construction workers, and everyone stood in a tight sickle moon around the two men holding Kevin McKay. Though it seemed to take hours for the site foreman to bring a torch and a tank with some fuel, Terry guessed in reality it hadn’t taken more than two or three minutes. The foreman held the torch in his hands and asked, You want me to do it? I’ve at least got some experience with one of these.
What’s your name?
Ed Whittemore.
Terry looked him over. He was in his mid-forties maybe, and he looked pretty trim. Competent. He pulled aside Kristin Engels and the paramedic from the hospital, some young buck named Brent who right now looked a sick shade of green, and said, Seems to me old Ed Whittemore here is as qualified as any of us to cut the kid down. You okay with that?
I’m in no hurry to do it, Kristin said.
Brent?
Hey, I’ve never even held one of those things, he said, his voice weaker than Terry had heard it the three or four times their paths had crossed since Brent started working at the hospital.
Okay, then. Ed Whittemore’s our man.
Henry ushered in a pair of firefighters, and he was relieved to see they’d brought in a small booster hose instead of one of the massive attack lines: The last thing Kevin McKay needed right now was to experience 250 pounds of water pressure sprayed through a hose with a two-and-a-half-inch diameter. Someone up at the truck turned on the water, and briefly they all felt the cold spray as it bounced suddenly up and off the cement ground, before slowing to the trickle they wanted.
We’ll feather the valve, Terry heard one of the firefighters saying as he turned toward Ed Whittemore.
You know what you’re doing, right? he asked him.
Fuck, no! Whittemore snapped. This isn’t something they teach you. But at least I know how to use the torch.
That’s a start.
I mean, I guess I should keep the flame as low on the rebar as I can. I can probably run it along the metal three or four feet below him.
Think three feet. Not four. I don’t want us getting the kid up to the ambulance only to find out he won’t fit through the back doors because he’s still got so much pipe coming out both sides.
Eighteen inches above the ground? Whittemore suggested.
Okay, Terry said, and he led him back to the bars. On the way, he grabbed another volunteer firefighter he recognized—he believed his last name was Mikkelson—and told him to clutch each spike above where Whittemore was running the torch and let them know if he felt it getting hot.
A part of him hoped that McKay had died while they were tracking down a torch so his suffering would be over, but the fact that he wasn’t dead yet was beginning to give Terry some small measure of hope that they might actually manage to save the guy’s life. Wasn’t likely, of course. But stranger things happened, and he grew excited at the prospect that the young man might live.
He looked straight into McKay’s eyes—for better or worse, the kid was still very much alive—and said, We’re about to cut through the bars. At the same time, these firefighters here are going to dribble water on them. Your job? Tell us if you feel any warmth, okay? You feel some heat, any at all, you tell us to stop. Can you do that?
The kid moved his lips and seemed to say yes, but—as when he’d first tried to tell Terry his name—he didn’t make any sound.
I’m serious, he told McKay. You make noise if you feel something new. He motioned toward Mikkelson and added, This gentleman is going to tell us if he feels anything, too. Just in case. But don’t you be shy now, okay?
Then he stepped back and was about to tell Whittemore to go ahead when one more thought crossed his mind. Are there going to be any sparks? he asked him.
It’s a goddamn torch! Of course there will be sparks!
And so he turned to one of the firefighters and said, See if you can drape a wet bunker coat around that kid—and the two guys holding him. Let’s try not to compound our problems here by setting someone on fire.
WHILE ED WHITTEMORE held the torch against the individual rebar spikes, Terry and Kristin Engels stood like baseball umpires in front of McKay’s face—their bodies bent slightly over, their hands on their knees—watching for any sign in the young man’s eyes or any movement on his lips that he could feel the rods heating up. Terry was moderately impressed with the number of people he had wedged around the wall of steel rods, and downright amazed than none of the rescuers had bumped the kid yet and inadvertently killed him. Still, he didn’t see how they could get the fellow down with fewer people.
Occasionally Terry glanced up at the two guys who were holding McKay to make sure they were ready for the extra weight: Before starting he’d reminded them that as each of the rebars was cut away, McKay would get a bit heavier, until—he hoped—the only thing holding the man off the ground would be their arms. He guessed McKay didn’t weigh more than one-forty, one forty-five, and so he figured a couple of construction workers could hold him like that for the split second it would take for Brent and the EMTs to rotate the kid onto the backboard once Whittemore had sliced through the final rebar.
At one point while they were burning through the second of the three spikes, McKay closed his eyes for fifteen or twenty seconds, and both Terry and Kristin thought he had died. But then Whittemore finished with the middle rebar and the young man grimaced in pain, opening his eyes as if he’d just been slapped. The spike had moved inside him a bit, and clearly it had hurt like hell. If he could have spoken, he probably would have screamed.
THE THIRD REBAR was the most difficult to burn through, both because it was the one that went through McKay’s chest and because everyone knew that once it was severed, there would be nothing supporting the young construction worker but the two men. Still, Whittemore managed to cut through it without setting anyone’s clothing on fire, and, apparently, without causing the section of the spike inside McKay to slice through anything especially critical. The kid was still breathing and awake when he was carried on his side on the backboard to a plywood pile a few yards away, and Brent started him on a series of IVs.
Terry saw that while they’d worked to get McKay down from the bars, a group of construction workers had built a ramp with wooden beams and bricks that led up and out of the hole. It was wide enough for the EMTs to carry McKay up to street level, and while he watched them bring the kid out, he felt a moment of great sati
sfaction, greater than anything he had felt in a very long time. He was confident now that McKay would get to the hospital, where the surgeons were waiting, and there they would extricate the spikes from inside him. They would do this without ripping apart anything that couldn’t be sewn back together.
Terry was vaguely aware that Henry Labarge was standing beside him, his arms folded across his chest, and he allowed himself to take pride in what they had accomplished. Somehow they’d gotten the kid off the spikes. Three of them. Unbelievable, he thought. Unbelievable. The sensation didn’t last long, however, because in the headlights from the cars parked around the top of the hole he saw the litter bearers abruptly stop, and he saw Brent and Kristin suddenly checking McKay’s vitals. He could see by the way their faces were changing—alarm, then panic, then, quickly, frustration—that something had happened. Cardiac arrest, maybe. A seizure. Maybe McKay had simply stopped breathing.
Then he watched the group disappear into the back of the ambulance, and he knew they would work on McKay in the ER, perhaps drag him into the OR since it was most certainly prepped and ready. But the kid was already dead. If Terry had any hope left, it evaporated completely when he heard Henry murmur, What was that just now? Heart attack?
Your guess is as good as mine, he said.
I’d say heart attack.
You’re probably right.
Well. That sucks.
Yes, it does, Terry agreed.
I didn’t get the sense he was married.
No. I didn’t notice a ring. And he was pretty young.
So at least there aren’t any kids involved. At least not likely.
Nope, probably no kids. But his parents are still alive, I’d imagine, and I doubt they’re a hell of a lot older than I am. And if you want to know the real meaning of the word heartbreak, my man, outlive your children.
He realized he’d said more than he’d meant to, and—perhaps too energetically—he hit Henry on the back and said, We better get up there and see what the traffic looks like. Maybe give those volunteer firefighters a break.
AT DINNER THAT night Laura talked about a new litter of puppies the shelter had, a mix of Great Dane and German shepherd, and how massive she imagined the animals would be when they grew up. She mentioned that they were starting to receive the checks that came in every December from people who needed their tax deductions by the end of the calendar year, and even though many of the checks were only fifteen and twenty dollars, it all helped.
Briefly she and Alfred talked a bit about Kwanzaa, and she told the boy that she thought it would be fun to celebrate the holiday this year.
Terry gazed across the table at her, and he knew they’d been together long enough that she would understand from the vacant look on his face not to ask him how his day was. Maybe she would in bed. But not now. For now she would provide all the talking the table demanded, and allow him to sit and eat and listen.
In the morning, he knew, he would be fine.
“...and so although a lack of water was usually the most complicating aspect of our marches and either the capture or dispersal of the hostiles, this time the Pecos River was our greatest ally.”
SERGEANT GEORGE ROWE,
TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,
REPORT TO CAPTAIN ANDREW HITCHENS AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT AT CANYON CREEK,
MAY 9, 1876
The Heberts
The boy could look straight up into the horse’s great nostrils if he wanted. He stood before it, separated from the animal only by the thin wooden rails of the fence and a cord of rusted barbed wire, and ran his fingers down the Morgan’s slender nose. Quickly the animal curled her lip upward, momentarily trapping the boy’s smell inside her so she could study it more carefully.
The horse seemed happy enough with strange people, Paul thought, but you couldn’t be sure until you’d spent some time with the animal. Still, Paul was reasonably convinced this was a horse that he wanted. She stood fifteen and a half hands tall, and the two large coal-colored spots on her hide seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun. Her mane was black, and her body—those spots and a pair of white stockings on her rear legs notwithstanding—was a deep auburn. The color of the hills on the day the leaves have just started to turn.
Pet her all you want, Ruth said to Alfred. Let her get used to your smell, your voice. You’ll see she’s very gentle.
Ruth had taken three classes with Paul that he could remember, including one of his senior seminars: History 441, or “Ugly Vermont.” That was the course’s actual name in the catalog. In it they had studied, among other tawdry secrets one never discussed in regard to the Green Mountains, the state’s aggressive eugenics project in the 1920s and 1930s. Ruth had been a fine student, and managed to approach the material with irony instead of the merely politically correct earnestness that marked the work of most of the seniors.
Now Ruth was in her late twenties, and pregnant with her second child. She had a two-and-a-half-year-old boy napping back at the house, and a baby in her tummy who was pressing hard against her blue parka. The young woman’s hair was braided and fell down her back, and her eyeglasses fogged in the cold.
When she was in his class, her hair had been short and he couldn’t recall her wearing eyeglasses. Maybe she’d worn contact lenses then. Maybe he just didn’t remember. Either way, he decided, she’d grown from a pretty girl into an attractive woman, and the memory reminded him of how much he missed being around...children.
That was, after all, how he’d viewed his students for the last decade and a half he’d been in the classroom. Once he was more than twice their age—and then three times the age of the freshmen—they weren’t adults to him anymore. They were kids. He could refer to them as teenagers, young people, even young adults, but the fact remained, for him they were children. They were a hell of a lot closer to Alfred’s age than to his.
You won’t miss her? he asked Ruth, referring to the horse, and he stroked the animal’s cheek lightly when the animal was done chewing the handful of pony nuts the boy had just given her.
I will, she said. But I know I won’t be able to care for two horses and two children. We think we can handle one of the animals, but not both. Something tells me someone is going to wind up neglected.
For a moment all three people watched the other horse, a majestic gray Percheron, nuzzling the circle of thick Styrofoam Ruth’s husband had cut and set in the water bucket to help prevent a layer of ice from forming in the night. The Percheron had been with Ruth for more than six years—longer than the woman had been married, and twice the time she had been a mother. The Morgan had been with the family barely eighteen months, and so although Ruth loved both horses, she felt a greater loyalty to the gray one.
Paul bent down to examine the animal’s forelegs through the fence, and realized that unless the horse was grotesquely splay-footed or knock-kneed, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea whether the animal’s conformation was solid. But he didn’t notice any glaring deformities, at least, he didn’t see anything specific that might make the horse prone to lameness.
If anyone was going to come up lame, he decided, it was probably him. His knees cracked when he stood back up, and all too often they ached.
Can I ride her? the boy asked suddenly, his voice surprising both of the grown-ups. He hadn’t spoken more than a word or two since they’d arrived.
Why don’t you brush her first? Ruth suggested, and she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a rubber curry comb. She showed the boy how to slip his fingers through the buckle in the back, and then she gently guided him through the gate and into the paddock. Paul followed the pair, noting the small pyramids of light brown manure that dotted the field near the fence. Certainly their garden would benefit from the presence of the horse.
Mesa just loves to be brushed, Ruth said as the boy ran the comb over the big animal’s side. After Alfred had been brushing the horse for a minute or two, she took his free hand and placed it on a spot just between th
e horse’s shoulder and neck.
Feel that? It’s something special.
I feel a hole, he said.
You, too, Professor Hebert, she said. Right here. Put your hand here.
Paul, he said to her. At this stage in our lives, it’s Paul. Then he put his fingers where she had told him, and he felt an indentation that reminded him of his underarm.
A prophet’s thumb? he asked.
Yup.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt one before, he said. Of course, I haven’t been around a horse in a serious way in over eight years.
What’s a prophet’s thumb? the boy asked, and he seemed to be directing his question at Ruth.
It’s supposed to be good luck, she said. It means that the animal might be descended from one of Muhammad’s horses.
Muhammad?
He was a prophet, Ruth explained.
Of course, Paul said, what it probably means is that when she was a foal in her mother’s stomach, her hind foot was resting on her neck and the muscle atrophied. Let’s face it: Morgans weren’t real common in the Middle East in 600 A.D.
Still, Mesa’s a great horse, Ruth said. Even if she isn’t sacred.
Agreed, Paul said.
Can I ride her now? Alfred asked.
You’re really dying to, aren’t you? Ruth said.
Alfred nodded, but the gesture was muted, as if he feared he had overstepped some important boundary with his enthusiasm.
Tell you what, she said. Let me get a lead, and then you can walk her a bit. Once you’ve led her around, you can sit on her. Okay?
Sure.
The Buffalo Soldier Page 14