A slow grin spread over his face—white teeth on onyx skin, like a marble rendering of a god come to life. “Yeah. Me too.”
Central Park in Louisville wasn’t massive like the NYC counterpart, so finding the patient didn’t prove difficult. As soon as they coasted into the parking lot, sirens wailing and lights spiraling, a scruffy vagrant in holey jeans and a Wildcats hat waved them down.
“Did you call about the unresponsive male?” Lane asked, shouldering her bag as she squared up to the old man. She could smell last night’s whiskey on his breath and count twenty years of substance abuse on his wizened face. Not a guy who had seen the softer side of life.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s me. Freddie.” He stuck out a grimy hand.
Lane ignored it—not from any lack of respect, but the normal germophobia that came from working in emergency services. “Take us to him,” she said as Jerome joined them, wheeling the stretcher.
“Course, of course. This way.” Freddie walked fast but with a noticeable limp. “My buddy and I, we sleep here every night. I woke up this morning and the ground around him . . . I don’t know, man. I think he’s dead. It was like aliens or something.”
As Freddie led them towards the park green, Jerome caught her eye with a raised brow. Lane shrugged—not the first loon they’d helped. Wouldn’t be the last. They had no shortage of weirdos in Louisville.
The men had made camp on a secluded patch of grass near the back of the park where they were protected by a copse of young evergreens. Though Lane had to guess the entire area beneath the trees had once been thick bluegrass, because the ground beneath Freddie’s pal was dried, cracked dirt. The patch of dead ground roughly mimicked the shape of his body.
Lane pulled a pair of latex gloves from her bag and snapped them on. She knew the man was gone before she touched him: he had the ashen, slack-jawed lifelessness she had come to recognize after eight years in an ambulance. Death had a special inanimacy to it—a complete void of motion, color, or life. Even in photographs, death was obvious.
Lane squatted beside the strange patch of dirt and pressed two latex fingers to his neck. She shook her head. “He’s cold.”
“Aw, man!” Freddie turned a circle with his hands on his head, his limp even more pronounced on the spongy grass.
Jerome squatted for a closer look, but didn’t touch the body.
“No visible trauma,” he observed.
Lane gestured to the dry earth beneath the body. “Beyond the dead ground around him. Something caused that.”
“I’m guessing your pal didn’t fall asleep on dirt last night?” Jerome directed the question to Freddie.
“Grass. That was the softest damn spot in the park. We fought over it.”
“Be thankful you lost. He been sick?”
The old man paused in his dizzying circles. “Nah, healthy as a horse. He liked to run down at the waterfront. Athletic. Played ball in school.”
They heard that a lot: But he was so healthy! Lane learned early that being healthy didn’t necessarily denote a long and trauma-free life.
“Did you touch him?” Jerome asked.
Freddie shuddered. “Nah, man. I don’t fuck with dead bodies.”
Jerome reached for his radio to call for backup.
Some calls passed so quick, Lane barely had time to learn the patient’s name. Others turned out to be hurry-up-and-waits, in which the cops had to poke, prod, and catalog everything before they could be cleared to transport the body. Especially situations like strange deaths on mysteriously dead ground in the park. Waiting on the cops was the more boring part of their job, but a necessary one.
Lane was kicked back in her seat, boots on the dash, listening to classic rock and watching Jerome laugh with a few of his cop buddies when her cell rang. Her mother’s face flashed across the screen: blonde hair, blue eyes, cheekbones that could slice cake.
“Laney!”
The ear-splitting shriek made her pull the phone away from her ear. “Yeah, Ma. It’s me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. We’re on a run. Can I call you when I get off tonight?”
“Yes. Please do. And be careful today. Something is wrong. I feel it in my bones. I have to call your sister now.”
Lane rolled her eyes. “Okay, Ma. Call you tonight.”
Lane loved her batty, fast-talking mother dearly. About the time Lane’s mother divorced her father, she’d decided she was psychic. Lane didn’t really have an opinion on her mother’s legitimacy as a fortune teller, but at least the hobby kept her busy. She was usually too wrapped up in reading cards for strangers on the internet to hover over Lane.
“Look sharp, P.” Jerome smacked a hand on the ambulance door, startling her. “Song and dance is done. Time to load up our passenger.”
Lane swung out of her seat. “Any idea what killed him?”
Without confirmation of what had killed the man, the first officer on scene had declared the patch around the body a hazardous area. They’d roped it off with police tape and “Caution” signs, though that wouldn’t keep the more adventurous neighborhood kids away. Police tape might as well have been a glowing neon marquee announcing Check out this awesome crime scene! Dead body was here!
“Not even a hint,” Jerome said, shrugging. “They took some soil samples. Hopefully, the ME can figure out what got him.”
“Guess we’re suiting up?”
“Yeah. Better not risk it.”
Lane located the ancient, unused hazmat suit stowed beneath her seat and suited up. She’d only used the gear once or twice as a precaution, so it took some finesse to layer everything properly.
She finally joined Jerome at the stretcher.
Lane pointed at the crime scene. “These are the things they don’t prepare you for in school.”
Jerome laughed. “Strange and Unusual Deaths 101?”
“Could be core curriculum. They need to get on that.”
They guided the stretcher over the lumpy grass and pulled it close to the body, shortening the distance they would have to carry him. Lane paused before the yellow crime scene tape. The dry, dead earth gave her a strange feeling—especially after her mother’s cryptic phone call. Her gut shifted, nausea bubbling to her throat. Crap. Not right now.
She swallowed the excess saliva and forced her feet to move.
She ducked beneath the barrier and grasped the man’s ankles. Jerome gripped his shoulders, bearing the brunt of the weight as they heaved the body onto the body board and transferred him to the stretcher.
Lane tucked his feet into the body bag and worked the zipper up, intent on her side of their usual flawless teamwork. She didn’t notice Jerome’s stillness until she reached the dead man’s pelvis and realized his arms were still outside the bag.
“J? What’s wrong?”
Jerome motioned her over. “Look at this.”
Lane circled the stretcher and sidled up beside her partner. He turned over the man’s hand, exposing his fingertips. The pads of the dead man’s fingers were red and raw, with visible black streaks spreading under his skin like veins.
“Jesus Christ,” Lane breathed.
“Ever seen anything like it?”
“Not outside of a sci-fi film.” She prodded the man’s fingertips, searching for any strange anomalies she could feel, but whatever had caused the black streaks wasn’t textured. “Poison?”
“No clue. Radiation, maybe.”
Lane stopped short of leaping away from the dead man. Her insides twisted. “Strange place for radiation poisoning.”
“There’s no telling what’s beneath us.” Jerome shoved the man’s arms into the body bag and finished zipping. “You ever think about the end of the world?”
“I can’t say that I do.” Lane took hold of the end of the stretcher, and together they shoved it across the grass toward the sidewalk.
“I do. I like to wonder whether it will be biological warfare. Or an atom bomb. A meteor. Maybe aliens.”
<
br /> Lane scoffed. “Aliens?”
“What, that’s less possible than a meteor? Both come from space. There’s a vast sea of endless opportunity out there. Whether it’s space dirt or an intelligent race, both are equally likely.”
Lane balanced the front of the stretcher as they bumped over the curb into the parking lot. She couldn’t exactly argue his logic. “What on earth prompts you to wonder about the end of the world?”
“Curiosity, I guess. Or existential dread. Take your pick.”
“I didn’t know you had existential dread. Should I start calling you Nietzsche?” She turned the latch on the back of the truck and opened the door, then hoisted herself inside.
“Doesn’t everybody have existential dread?” Jerome kicked the wheels up on the stretcher, and they slid their passenger home. “You stare too long at the abyss, and the abyss stares back.” He brushed his hands off and winked. “Nietzsche said that.”
“With a little more wit and charm, I’m sure.”
“Don’t question my wit and charm. My milkshake brings all the girls to the yard.”
“You just quoted Nietzsche and twentieth century R&B in the same conversation. You need more Jesus,” Lane joked, quoting her mother’s favorite saying.
Jerome crossed himself with a grin. “Hallelujer.”
Lane leapt from the truck, a motion she did multiple times every day, but the weightlessness of the fall caught her off guard. The water and antacids in her stomach coupled with the two pieces of dried toast she’d choked down for breakfast made a swift reappearance. Before she could lose what little was in her stomach in front of her partner, she ran for the bushes at the edge of the park.
Moments later, she emerged, feeling better but still a little nauseous. She mounted the passenger seat to her partner’s worried gaze.
“You okay? I’ve seen you hold a man’s intestines in his abdomen without blinking.”
“Well, somebody had to do it,” Lane deadpanned. “I’m fine. Something I ate disagreed with me. Come on. Let’s drop the stiff before we end up with radiation poisoning, too.”
Jerome pulled out of the lot and aimed the truck toward the hospital. “Whatever you say, boss.”
10:32 am
After depositing the mysteriously dead guy with the coroner, they made a pit stop at the gas station for free coffee. Jerome raided the last of the stale doughnuts while Lane stared blankly at the fridge, afraid anything she chose would vacate the premises immediately.
Jerome joined her, already halfway through his first chocolate glazed. “No doughnuts?”
“Not feeling fried dough.”
He lifted a dark brow. “Since when?”
“Since now. Can’t a girl want a banana sometimes?” She punctuated her statement by choosing a banana from the shelf and brandishing it at him like a weapon.
“That’s not even ripe.”
Lane rolled her eyes.
“Seriously. It’s green. That’s gonna taste like crap. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shoved the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and chewed, giving her his best I-told-you-so eyes.
Lane groaned and chose another slightly-less-green banana, then turned on her heel to go pay at the counter.
The middle-aged man behind the register reluctantly left his ancient box TV to cash them out. As he comped their coffee and charged their food, Lane’s attention caught the clipped tones of a morning newscaster.
“Reports are emerging this morning from China of a dangerous fall of acid rain. Let’s go live to Shanghai, where Rupert Loudon is standing by.”
As Jerome swiped his debit card, a new voice flowed from the TV.
“Thank you, Stacey. I’m here outside the hospital in downtown Shanghai where we’re told no less than fifteen people are in critical condition after acid rain deluged the city early this morning. While it isn’t clear just what caused the phenomena—”
“I thought acid rain just eroded buildings,” Jerome remarked.
Lane hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention, too. “Same here. Isn’t China one of the most polluted countries?”
“It’s one of the most populated, not most polluted.” Jerome thanked the cashier. “China is one of the observers of climate change protocol, last I heard.”
Stifling heat blasted them as they emerged into the lot. “You and that big gorgeous brain of yours. You could win a game show with all that useless trivia.”
“It’s only useless until it comes in handy. Then I’m the life of the party.” He grinned and shoved another doughnut in his mouth before reaching for his door handle.
“That remains to be seen. Maybe the rain had something to do with the overpopulation, though. More people means more pollutants in the air?”
“Or it could be the end of the world,” he intoned.
Once inside the truck, Lane peeled her banana as Jerome turned onto Broadway. “You have the imagination of a ten-year-old.”
“Keeps things interesting, don’t it?”
She bit into the sour fruit and grimaced. Jerome had been right.
The radio crackled to life, and their familiar call number crossed the airwaves. “Radio to unit 320.”
Jerome grabbed the mic and keyed up, deep voice flawlessly clear despite the half a doughnut in his mouth. “Go ahead, radio.”
“Please respond to 1911 S 1st Street on a possible allergic reaction in a juvenile male. Per caller, the child is conscious and breathing at this time.”
Lane hit the lights and sirens, and Jerome pulled a U-turn. It was his favorite part of the job—legally breaking transportation laws. She snorted at his gleeful—and somewhat maniacal—giggle.
“Ten-four. Copy us en route.”
1911 S 1st had once been a brick and mortar public school, but when the area’s population outgrew the building, a new facility was built and the old school was sectioned into studio apartments. Mostly hipsters and college kids lived there now, but the occasional family popped up every so often. Not to stay; more for transitory purposes than any desire to live among the woefully collegiate partiers.
A hysterical young woman rushed them the moment they parked, meeting Lane at her door. A small child clung limply to the tearful woman’s neck. Every bit of visible skin on his body burned bright red and was swollen like a puff pastry.
“Please help me!” the woman pleaded. “He was playing in the sandbox, and he collapsed. His skin is hot to the touch.”
Without a word, Jerome took the kid from her arms and climbed into the truck.
“How is his breathing?” Lane asked the woman, guiding her to the open bay doors so Jerome could monitor the interview while helping the kid.
“Very shallow.”
“Does he have any allergies?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Have you given him anything like Benadryl since the onset of his symptoms?”
The woman looked taken aback. “No. Should I have?”
“It’s okay,” Lane assured her before she could have another panic attack. “We’ve got it from here. You riding with us?”
The woman nodded so hard her loose bun bobbled atop her head. Lane offered her a hand up into the truck, where Jerome was calmly and methodically administering to the kid, then took the driver’s seat.
“Is he going to be okay?” the young mother asked, her voice cracking.
Lane pulled onto S 1st and hit the gas.
“We’re going to do our best,” Jerome assured her.
“I don’t understand. He was just playing in the sandbox. He plays there every day.”
Jerome’s response was low and comforting. “He could have been bitten by a bug or come into contact with some kind of foreign substance. We’ll keep him comfortable until we get him to the hospital.”
The woman let out a small, scared sob.
Lane tightened her grip on the steering wheel and pushed the pedal a little harder. She had responded to sick kids and kids with broken limbs and bleeding k
ids and dead kids. It was part of the job. Kids were no less capable of tragedy than grown-ups.
But that was before she knew . . .
Her stomach turned over and bile rose in her throat. She prayed she’d make it to the hospital in time for the kid—and for her.
12:01pm
The previously sunny sky had turned cloudy and gray by the time they parked the truck at their usual lunch spot.
“I didn’t know it was supposed to rain today,” Lane remarked, eyeing the darkening sky.
“Supposed to be hot and clear according to the morning news.” Jerome pulled the door open and stepped aside to let her pass first.
The diner was cool and noisy, the air redolent with cooking sausage and hot brewed coffee. Rather than the normal stomach rumbles she often got the minute they walked in, the scent turned her stomach.
She hadn’t had anything but water and an under-ripe banana, but she felt it coming full circle. She felt Jerome’s concerned gaze on her back as she made a bee-line for the toilets.
A few valiant dry heaves and nothing but bile later, Lane pressed her hot forehead to the cool stall door and focused on her breathing. She hadn’t felt this bad since the flu two years back, when she ended up in the hospital with a one-oh-five temperature and burst blood vessels in her eyes from the coughing.
A glance in the spotty bathroom mirror confirmed she looked as bad as she felt. Despite the heat in her face, her skin was pale, almost green, her hairline sweaty and the hollows beneath her eyes deeper than usual. She splashed her face vigorously with cold water before returning to the restaurant.
Jerome had already ordered her a cup of coffee. She slid into the booth and dumped a pack of sugar in her mug.
“You sick or something, P?” Jerome asked. His gray eyes had that probing look she hated, as if he could see right through her.
She couldn’t keep lying to him. He wasn’t dumb. But she wasn’t ready to tell him either. “Maybe a stomach flu.”
“You need to go home?”
She walked a fine line between being a damsel in distress and being the partner he knew and trusted, so she opted for political. “I’m good for now but if it gets too bad, I promise I’ll let you know.”
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