Steven rose from the floor and followed the paramedics into Emergency as fast as his wasted limbs would move. No sooner were they through the door than half a dozen staff descended on the wounded man. His skin appeared the same hue as the white hospital linen that lay beneath his tattooed arm.
“That leg looks bad,” said a man in black scrubs who appeared to be in charge. “All right, people. Chest, abdomen, pelvis and right femur films and call the lab. Four units, O negative.”
“Blood’s already on the way, Dr. Ott. Antibiotics going in now.” One nurse pierced the hub of the man’s intravenous line and injected the medicine while another drew blood from his opposite arm. The man moaned as she inserted the needle but didn’t pull away. Such an effort was no doubt beyond him.
“What are his vitals?” Ott asked.
“Pulse 160 and thready. Respirations 28 and labored. BP 60 over palp.”
“He’s bleeding out.” Ott passed a penlight back and forth across the young man’s eyes. “Right pupil looks blown. Keep bagging him, get me trauma surgery on the phone, and get that blood up here, stat.” The doctor’s grim expression grew more alarmed as he pressed his stethoscope to the man’s chest.
“God, this kid can’t catch a break.” He pulled a syringe from a nearby drawer and Steven winced as Ott slid what looked like two inches of needle into the man’s chest a finger width below his collarbone. The doctor sighed at the hiss of escaping air, smiling at the nurse standing across the body. “Most beautiful sound in the world.” A moment later, the chest resumed its rhythmic rise and fall with each forced breath.
“Surgery’s on the line,” shouted a nurse from the central desk. “It’s Dr. Paard. You want him on speaker?” At Ott’s nod, she pressed the button.
“This is Paard. What’ve you got?”
“Mid-twenties Hispanic male, unresponsive, through and through gunshot to the right chest, entrance wound in the right upper quadrant, two gunshot wounds to the right leg, collapsed lung on the right—”
“Just send him,” Paard said. “OR-3 is open. Neuro is finishing a case, so they’re available. I’m sending my resident down to bring your guy up.”
“We’ll get him ready for transport.” Ott checked the man’s pulse and glanced up at Steven, raising an eyebrow before turning to the nurse at his side.
“Prep this kid for surgery and call x-ray. Tell them to catch up to him in OR-3 to shoot that right leg and his chest to check tube placement.” The nursing staff continued their work and Ott stepped out of the bay, confronting Steven in the hallway.
“Can I help you?” Ott asked.
Steven’s jaw dropped. “Uh… sorry. I was looking for someone.”
“Are you a patient or family member of someone in Emergency?”
“Not exactly.” Steven’s hand went to his neck. “I was supposed to meet someone here.”
“We’re very busy right now.” Ott escorted him out of the treatment area and dropped him off in the waiting room. “You can wait for your friend out here.”
Steven caught the man’s shoulder. “You can see me?”
“Yes, young man. I can see you.” Ott rubbed at his neck and returned to the ER muttering, “Guess I’ll be calling psych down later.”
Steven wandered among the rows of chairs, his father’s old saying about how you can’t fool all the people all the time echoing through his mind. He settled for a seat next to a hacking toddler, the mother’s half-closed eyes adorned with the dark circles of too many sleepless nights.
No sooner did he sit than his hip erupted with heat as if set aflame. The pouch droned so loudly he clutched it to his side until he recalled that no one but him could hear it. A moment later, Lena and her boyfriend appeared at the main entrance and headed for the reception desk.
“I’m looking for Carlos Cruz,” the boy said between panting breaths. “The police said the ambulance brought him here.”
The receptionist punched away at her keyboard for several seconds before looking up, nonplussed by neither the boy’s insistent tone nor the girl on his arm fighting back tears. “You two family?”
“I’m his brother, Emilio.” His voice trembled with anger and adrenaline. “Is that family enough for you?”
“All right, Mr. Cruz. Stay calm. Your brother was brought in a few minutes ago. I’ll go check on him and—” Before she could complete her thought, the intercom barked to life.
“Attention, please. Surgery to Emergency, stat. Repeat, Surgery to Emergency, stat.”
The receptionist’s eyes fell.
“What does that mean?” The tremor in Emilio’s voice grew stronger, the rage replaced by simple, unabashed fear. “Is that Carlos?”
“Let me go check.” The woman excused herself and walked through a door to her rear. Emilio paced the floor while Lena stared off into space, her trembling fingers absently twisting her long, brown hair into tight coils.
Steven absently caressed the dragonfly clasped at his neck and drew the cloak close around his body. The pouch grew white-hot on his hip as Steven fell into line behind Lena and Emilio, the drone reaching a fever pitch when he brushed the boy’s shoulder. A moment later, the receptionist returned with one of the nurses Steven had seen working in the back. Their shared expression spoke volumes.
“Mr. Cruz?” the nurse said.
“That’s me,” Emilio said. “What’s going on with my brother? Cops said he was shot up pretty bad. Did he pull through? Is he—” Lena put her arm around Emilio’s waist as his words faded into choked whispers. The nurse pulled them into a side room. Steven followed and stood at the door, straining to hear her hushed words.
“Your brother’s up in surgery, but it doesn’t look good. He was in pretty bad shape when he got here. He was shot multiple times and he’d lost a lot of blood. One of his lungs that collapsed in the field has been reinflated and he has a tube in his throat to help him breathe. The doctors in the OR are working to stabilize him as best they can.” She looked away. “I’m sorry to say, they’re not optimistic.”
Lena sobbed and buried her face in Emilio’s chest. Emilio, on the other hand, took the information in stride. A look of bold defiance spread across his face. “Take me to him.”
The nurse led Emilio and Lena down the hall toward a bank of elevators. Steven waited a few seconds before heading out into the main hospital hallway. He perused the floor legend posted by the stairs and then, ignoring the fatigue in his limbs, sprinted up three flights to the surgical floor.
As Steven exited the stairwell, the nurse led Emilio and Lena past him and down the hall to a small waiting room. An older man in scrubs and surgical cap soon joined them, and Steven followed. Inside, Lena’s cheeks were wet and even Emilio’s stony visage had cracked, a single tear working its way down his cheek. From his position outside the door, Steven only caught snippets, but the meaning of the doctor’s words came through all too clear.
“… large caliber handgun… heart and lungs… nothing we could do… your parents…”
“… just us… only family… want to see him…”
“… cleaning him up… when he’s ready…”
The surgeon and nurse withdrew from the room, leaving Emilio and Lena alone. He passed Steven in the hallway, giving him no more than a cursory look as he pulled his surgical mask across his nose and headed back to the operating room. No sooner was he gone than Emilio broke down into tears, while Lena, who had cried nonstop since their arrival to the emergency room grew quiet. She held Emilio’s head to her chest and stroked his curly brown hair.
“I’m sorry, papi,” she whispered.
Steven moved down the hall to give the young couple a bit of privacy, pacing the blue and ivory checkered tiles of the hallway for the better part of half an hour as they all waited for the doctor to return. At first, he did his best to appear inconspicuous, but found regardless of what he did or where he stood, everyone who passed ignored him. Only one small child noticed anything out of the ordinary. Wide-eyed, he p
eered out at Steven from an open elevator. Steven held his finger to his lips and smiled until the doors closed.
Kids. Not so easily fooled.
After an interminable wait, the surgeon returned and ushered Emilio and Lena down the hallway toward the operating rooms. Steven followed them into one of the recovery rooms. The surgeon led the young couple to a corner sequestered by a curtain. Hearing Lena gasp, Steven drew close and peered behind the curtain.
The body of Carlos Cruz lay beneath the starched hospital sheet with only his head uncovered. Steven was grateful his mutilated face was all they could see. He knew all too well what horror rested beneath those thin sheets of cotton.
Lena sat at the foot of the bed sobbing while Emilio stood and stared at the wall, his body shaking with grief and rage. After a while, Lena gathered herself, rose from the bed, and wrapped her arms around Emilio from behind. The room remained quiet save for the boy’s occasional bursts of angry muttering in both English and Spanish and the girl’s soothing words.
Steven marveled at the power of young love, a distant pain echoing in his heart.
Emilio eventually disengaged from Lena’s embrace and headed for the door. As he drew near the pouch again grew hot and the crescendoing drone reminded Steven why he was there.
“Emilio Cruz?” He stepped into the boy’s path. “May I speak with you?”
“Who are you?” Emilio stopped and wiped the tears from his eyes. “What do you want?”
“My name is Steven Bauer.” A surge of guilt rushed through him. He avoided Emilio’s indignant glare. “I’m sorry to hear about your brother. I know the doctors here did everything they could—”
Emilio put a hand in Steven’s face. “To this hospital, my brother was just another banger. I’m sure the doctors did their best, but the last thing I need right now is to hear how sorry everybody is.”
“Believe it or not,” Steven said, “I know what you’re going through. I know what it’s like to lose someone. Trust me, the last thing I want to do is make this day any worse for you, but there’s something you need to know.” Steven cleared his throat. “Listen—”
“No, you listen, pendejo.” Emilio said. “You think you understand me? For the first time in months, everything was finally getting better, and now my brother is dead with Salvatrucha bullets in his chest.” Emilio crossed the room to the sink and splashed his face. The water washed away the salty trail of tears running down his cheek. “I know what I gotta do now.” Emilio’s voice trailed off. “I know what I gotta do…”
“I told you I’m not listening to that crap, Emilio.” Lena came out of her chair and joined her boyfriend by the door. “You’re not going anywhere near those bastards. Do you want to end up like your brother? Chest full of lead and your blood spilled on the ground?” Her voice trembled with a potent mix of panic and fury.
“My only brother is dead.” Emilio said. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand if you go down there and start mouthing off to the wrong people, I’ll be attending two funerals instead of one.”
“What do you want me to do, Lena? Let it go? Forget everything Carlos did for me?”
“I’ve been telling you for weeks to call the police, papi. It’s too late for Carlos, but not for you. Let them handle this.”
“The police won’t do shit. Another banger dies in the barrio, and they couldn’t care less.” Emilio’s eyes grew distant. “What I gotta do is go down there, find who did this, and…”
Lena pulled away and headed for the door. “And throw away everything Carlos ever wanted for you. If that’s what you’ve got to do, you can do it without me.” She stormed past Steven and out of the room.
“Lena.” Emilio took off after her. “Wait.”
“Great,” Steven muttered under his breath. “Here we go again.”
10
Barrel
The hospital’s main entrance opened onto an urban nightmare, the road so congested not even a pair of ambulances, lights on and sirens blaring, could move an inch. The cacophony of blaring horns only punctuated the chaos. Sprinting between the cars, Emilio and Lena led Steven by fifty yards, ignorant they were being pursued or that their lives had changed irrevocably the moment he entered their lives. Ignorance won’t save them if Black finds them unprepared.
The pouch barely warm at his side, Steven stopped at the sidewalk and pulled the cloak tightly about him. Emilio caught up to Lena at the corner and the girl spun around to let him have it. Though he couldn’t hear her words, her expression and body language were more than clear. The passionate exasperation reminded Steven of—
No time for that now.
As Lena and Emilio’s one-sided chat continued, Steven’s patience wore thin. No matter what else had happened, he still had a job to do, not to mention the Black was still on the hunt. He had taken no more than a couple of steps in their direction, however, when the fight ended. Lena pulled Emilio close, gently stroking the curly locks at the nape of his neck, and Steven’s voyeur’s guilt returned in spades.
After a moment of making up as only young lovers can, Emilio led Lena over to the red Honda motorcycle and started the engine. She held tight to the boy’s chest as he maneuvered the bike through the parking lot and out into the throng of immobile cars clogging the street.
As the motorcycle disappeared around the corner, Steven headed for the nearest door and unfastened the pouch from his belt. The polished glass of the hospital’s front entrance reflected a face filled with confidence and purpose, a face Steven hadn’t seen in some time. Then, with no more thought than if he were boarding an elevator, he crossed the door and stepped across the metal threshold.
Fifteen minutes later, Emilio brought his bike to a halt at the entrance of a run-down apartment complex. Graffiti covered the brick and faded trash littered the ground. Lena climbed off the back of the bike, took Emilio’s hand, and led him to a first-floor apartment marked 1217. Emilio produced a large ring of keys, unlocked the three deadbolts, and followed Lena inside.
From the window of the laundromat across the street, Steven looked on with no small measure of relief. His latest jaunt had left him exhausted, though the quarter hour spent waiting for Emilio and Lena to catch up to him had returned some of the strength to his weary limbs.
Steven had no idea how to approach all of this with Emilio. The pouch would no doubt do its thing when the time was right, though getting an angry and grieving teenager to listen to anyone about anything was likely a tall order. Not to mention, the problem of what to do with the girl, Lena.
“And this kid’s only the first.” Steven’s hand brushed the pouch, the smooth leather again warm to the touch and humming like a hive of bees. He stepped out of the laundromat and turned toward the apartment when a sticking pain at the base of this throat made him jump.
“What the hell?” Steven stopped in his tracks and jerked the dragonfly from his chest. “You pinched me.” As he decided which made him crazier, chatting with a leather sack or yelling at a piece of jewelry, a new set of players entered the scene.
A cluster of Latino males in their teens to early twenties converged on apartment 1217. Eleven in number, all were dressed in some variation of white ribbed tank tops, baggy black jeans and flashes of blue. A third of them didn’t appear old enough to need a razor.
“Amaryllis.” Steven stroked the dragonfly and returned it to his chest. “Thanks, Ruth.”
Steven pegged a tall hombre with greasy locks swept back under a blue bandana to be the leader of the group, his gait marked by the swagger of a man accustomed to respect. He pounded twice on the heavy wooden door. After a few seconds, the door opened to reveal Lena’s angry glare. Her small frame filling the doorway, her face flushed crimson as she spewed a rapid-fire barrage of curses in alternating English and Spanish. Though Steven’s two semesters of foreign language at Georgetown were a distant memory, the girl’s message was clear.
Steven edged closer in case things went south, stopping
beneath a nearby covered bus stop. Without warning, a cramp took his breath. Clutching his side, he watched the drama across the street unfold, hoping the twinge in his side was merely an aftereffect of his latest jaunt. In his heart, however, he knew all too well what the pain meant.
The gang stood impassive in the face of Lena’s anger. Blue Bandana maintained a distinct air of disinterest while a few at the back snickered at her outburst. This did nothing but escalate her fury. Spitting on the sidewalk at their feet, she slammed the door on the whole lot.
Blue bandana raised a hand. “Just wait, boys.”
Less than a minute passed before the door opened again. Despite Lena’s fervent shouts, Emilio stepped out and locked the door behind him. The group encircled Emilio and Steven wondered if they were going to jump the boy. The pain in his side faded to a dull ache and Steven craned his neck to listen as Blue Bandana slapped a firm grip on Emilio’s shoulder.
“Hey, esé. Sorry ‘bout your brother.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit, Vago.” Emilio brushed off the tattooed hand.
Blue Bandana’s face betrayed no emotion. “Traviezo was playing with fire, and he got burned, bad.”
“Don’t call him that. My brother’s name was Carlos. Last time I saw him, he said he was leaving all this shit behind.”
“Is that what he told you, manito?” Vago shook his head in mock sadness. “Carlos always said he’d make sure you made it to college, but trust me. He was going nowhere.”
“Screw you, man. My brother had more brains than all of you.” Emilio’s volume continued to escalate. “He was even thinking about college himself.”
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