CHAPTER ONE
In the SWAT command center in the basement level of Olympic Division Dominic Luca poured a fresh cup of coffee into his ceramic mug, and replaced the fragile glass pot on the warmer. As he lifted the cup, it immediately became apparent that he had overfilled it, for the steaming black liquid skimmed dangerously near the top, threatening to spill over the rim. Carefully, he clutched it in both hands, and took a step back from the small square table on which the coffee maker was situated, nearly bumping into Jim Street, who was approaching from behind, intending to fill his own cup.
Noticing that his teammate was balancing the hot coffee with great care, he quickly stepped aside to avoid a collision. “S’cuse me, Dom.”
“Mm-hmm,” Dom responded without removing his eyes from the cup.
Regaining his momentum and keeping a wary eye on it, as if staring at it would somehow prevent a spill, he turned and started toward his desk. This time, it was T. J. McCabe who approached, sidestepping as Street had done when he realized he ran the risk of being splashed.
“Say, Dom, in case you haven’t noticed, you got that a little full.”
“Thanks for passing along that information, T. J.,” Dom said, maintaining his vigilance of the coffee cup.
Sergeant David “Deacon” Kay, a good humored black man and second in command of the unit, watched with a smile as Luca moved slowly and carefully past the open door of the Lieutenant’s private office. Inside the office, Daniel “Hondo” Harrelson sat at his desk thumbing through his paperwork, unaware of the balancing act being performed by his youngest officer.
“You know, Luca, my wife says you shouldn’t focus so intently on a full glass or cup,” Deacon suggested. “She says you can hold it level easier if you’re not watching it.”
“Deke, that trick may work for your wife, but I don’t have a woman’s finesse when it comes to this sort of thing,” Luca told him without removing his eyes from the cup. “If I don’t look at it, I’ll spill it for sure.” He was only a few paces away, now. “Almost there,” he murmured to himself.
T. J. was grinning with good-natured humor. “Wonder what would happen if I yelled ‘Boo!’ or goosed him in the ribs?” he wondered aloud.
“You’d get a face full of hot coffee, that’s what would happen,” Luca warned.
“That might be worth seeing!“ Street said.
Success!
At last, reaching his desk, Dom carefully maneuvered the coffee cup down toward the cork coaster on the smooth surface.
No one had noticed Hilda, the vending lady, as she descended the staircase, until she spoke a rather abrupt greeting. “Hi, boys!”
Dom’s hand jerked reflexively, and hot liquid splashed over the rim onto his hand and splattered on the desk.
“Ouch!”
Laughter rose from the other three officers, who had all paused what they were doing to watch, attracting Harrelson’s curious attention, who looked up from his paperwork to see what was going on.
Luca thumped the coffee mug down on the coaster, for there was no longer any need to be careful. The damage was done. He shook his hand to cool it as he lifted accusing eyes to the middle-aged woman who stopped halfway down the wooden staircase, realizing that she was the cause of his mishap.
“Oops. Looks like the Italian Flash had an accident,“ she teased as she came down the rest of the steps. “Are you going to arrest me for that?”
“Don‘t tempt me, Hilda. Don‘t tempt me!” Dom growled, but even across the room, she could see the friendly twinkle in his dark eyes, assuring her that no real harm had been done. “Assaulting a police officer with hot coffee. That‘s a felony, you know.”
“Hey, son, you need to show some respect for your elders!” she shot back with a smile, willing to play the game.
T. J. approached with a handful of paper napkins, and offered them to his friend and teammate.
Luca accepted them gratefully and wiped off his hand, then began to blot the paperwork, now stained with rings of coffee. “That‘s just great,” he muttered. He picked up the report he had been writing by hand. “Look at that. It‘s ruined. Now, I‘ll have to start over.”
“I guess that means you‘re not interested in one of my Danish pastries,” Hilda said.
“Oh, you mean you‘re selling real Danish pastries now?” he asked, sarcastically.
She feigned offense. “Very funny, Luca.”
“Besides, you’re late,” Dom continued. “It’s lunchtime. I‘m all for a pizza. Anyone wanna join in?”
“Sure,” T. J. said. “Sounds good. How ‘bout you, Hilda? Why don‘t you stay and join us?”
Before she could answer, the telephone rang.
“You got some on the floor, too,” Street pointed out, indicating where the coffee had dribbled over the front edge of the desk.
T. J. knelt and wiped up the dribbles on the floor while Luca worked on the desk top.
The telephone rang again.
“Are you planning on answering that sometime today?” Harrelson asked, glaring at them from his desk.
Still kneeling on the floor, T. J. rose up to look over the top of Luca’s desk at the lieutenant’s stern face. “Got it.” Rising, he reached for the phone and picked it up. “Olympic SWAT.”
He fell silent, listening. Phone calls to the SWAT division generally meant trouble of a nature so severe that it was not handled by the usual street units. Beside him, Dom continued to clean up his mess while the others waited.
Finally, T. J. replaced the handset on its cradle, and turned to Harrelson. “There’s a situation at the high school. Gunmen have taken some students and teachers hostage. No word yet on their demands.”
“All right, men, let’s roll,” Harrelson commanded, even though it was not necessary. Kay and Street were already rushing into the arsenal room, unfastening their gun belts as they went. The pistols would be left behind during the run, favoring the higher powered, more accurate firepower of the automatic rifles. Shoulder harnesses would be put on inside the van along with the rest of their gear.
T. J. turned and dropped the napkin in the waste basket as he passed his desk, with Harrelson so close behind him that he was almost stepping on his heels.
Hilda moved back against the wall at the foot of the stairs, staying out of the way. “I’ll catch you boys another time,” she told them as they rushed past.
Dom quickly finished mopping up the spilled coffee from his desk, then looked quickly around for his waste basket. Someone, presumably the cleaning personnel, had moved it. Rushing forward, he dropped the wad of wet napkins in T. J.’s basket, and hurried into the arsenal room to retrieve his weapon. Then, he followed them to the back door, which opened onto the rear lot where the SWAT van waited.
“Watch yourselves, boys,” Hilda said with genuine affection as she heard the van roar out of the lot with its siren wailing. Turning, she climbed the stairs to peddle her goods to the desk officers.
Christopher O’Bannon, the school’s assistant principal, was waiting on the steps of the school entrance when the armored SWAT van pulled into the faculty parking lot and screeched to a stop at the foot of the steps. He watched with a combination of apprehension and intense interest as the rear doors of the van burst open and five men emerged, all wearing jump suits and bulletproof vests. Four of the men carried automatic rifles, the fifth man carried a sniper’s rifle with a long range scope.
O’Bannon shuddered. He abhorred the idea of violence in his school, and the thought of so much firepower around the students made him uncomfortable, but, even worse, was the thought of a group of armed madmen holding those students hostage. No, he’d had no choice but to call the police in this matter. There was no other way to resolve the issue.
Ignoring the crowd of onlookers who were being held back by uniformed patrolman who had arrived on the scene moments earlier, the SWAT team hurried up the steps and came to a halt before him.
A tall man with a distinct air of authority scrutinized him with piercing blue eyes. “Are you the one who called this in?”
“Yes. I’m assistant principal O’Bannon.”
“I’m Lieutenant Harrelson. Olympic SWAT. What’s the situation here?”
While Harrelson was speaking, O’Bannon was distracted by the four other men who were observing him while at the same time surveying everything around them with alert eyes, taking in everything, missing nothing. Obviously, they were seeking to identify possible danger points or alternative ways in or out of the school. Their attentiveness made him even more nervous, but even more upsetting were the weapons they carried. He had heard about the SWAT units that had been organized to deal with particularly troublesome circumstances, and he found himself wondering how many bad men had fallen under those fearsome looking rifles.
A television news crew rolled into the parking area, and was instantly intercepted by the police. They stepped out of their vehicle, and began arguing with the street officers about freedom of the press and the right to cover news events, but were dutifully held at bay. They began setting up their cameras outside the police perimeter.
“Mr. O’Bannon?” Harrelson prompted, ignoring the reporter who kept yelling for his attention. “What is the situation here?”
“Oh, sorry. We’ve never had anything like this happen here before. Except for a few problem students -- you know the type -- our student body is generally peaceful.”
“I’m sure you are,” the lieutenant said with an outward appearance of patience, but this team knew him well enough to know that he was chomping at the bit to get the situation resolved as quickly and efficiently as possible. The assistant principal was costing them valuable time. “Where are the gunmen?”
“They’ve sequestered about thirty students and faculty members in the cafeteria. They’re not allowing anyone near there.”
“How many gunmen are there?” asked the black man who stood beside the lieutenant, obviously the second in command.
“We’re not sure. I personally didn‘t see any of them, but one of the teachers managed to escape during the initial abduction. She says there are at least three, maybe four.”
“We’ll need to talk to that teacher,” Hondo stated. “What are their demands?”
“You’ll need to talk to the principal about that. He talked to them a short while ago.”
Hondo cocked his head slightly, surprised. “He talked to them?”
“Yes. He approached the cafeteria to try to talk them into leaving peacefully. They fired a warning shot over his head, but he said he managed to get their demands.”
“That was a foolish and dangerous thing to do,“ Harrelson told him, sternly. “Take me to him.”
“Yes, of course. This way, please.”
O’Bannon turned and led them through the multiple doors into the cavernous entry hall.
“The offices are on your right,” he told them.
They followed him through the large foyer, down the wide corridor on the right, and through the door that led into the school’s administrative offices.
The room was in a state of chaos. Panic-stricken receptionists and school counselors attempted to answer questions on the telephones from frantic parents inquiring about the safety of their children, while several hysterical teachers wrung their hands with anxiety. A tall, well-dressed man with a receding hairline and glasses was admonishing them for their hysteria, attempting to regain some semblance of order among his staff.
Almost as one, every person in the room stopped what they were doing to stare at the five heavily armed police officers who stood observing the scene before them with critical eyes.
“Well, it’s about time!” the distinguished looking man said, haughtily.
A ripple of annoyance darkened Hondo’s face and narrowed his eyes, but he made no comment. To his men, he said, “This will be our base of operation.” Turning to the man with the receding hairline, he said, “I need this room cleared. All non-crucial personnel are to evacuate the premises immediately.”
The man with the glasses rose up to his full height, apparently believing it made him appear intimidating. It may have worked with his staff, but it had no effect on the SWAT leader or his men. “Now, see here!” the man said, indignantly. “This is my school and my staff, and I say who leaves and who stays, is that clear? Regardless of what is going on, these people have a job to do, and it is my job to see that they do it!”
“Who are you?” Hondo asked, casually.
The man stared at him with offended eyes, as if astonished that his distinguished appearance did not automatically set him apart from the others in the room. “I am Principal Ames,” came the short response. “I am in charge here.“ He paused to adjust his glasses, as if to gain a better look at the police officer. “Who might you be?”
Clearly unimpressed, Hondo gave him a dismissive glance as his eyes swept the room, observing the staff and the equipment that was at their disposal. “Lieutenant Harrelson, Olympic SWAT,” he responded without addressing him directly.
For the first time, a flicker of respect could be seen in Ames’ eyes. “SWAT?”
“That’s right. My men; Sergeant Kay, Officers Street, Luca, and McCabe.”
Each officer dipped his head in a single nod as his name was introduced.
While the principal digested that information, Hondo continued to survey the room, noticing the long countertop that separated the public area from the staff area. Behind it were several desks, all with telephones, a few with typewriters and calculators. Against the wall to his right was a long worktable covered with school flyers and brochures, presumably regarding school events. Behind the desks was a long row of windows overlooking the staff parking lot, where the SWAT van and its driver waited. Hondo noticed a television camera was aimed toward the offices, but he knew that the tinted windows would prevent the news crew from obtaining any information to pass on to their viewers.
On his left was a narrow corridor leading to several smaller offices, obvious belonging to the principal, the assistant principal, and the boys' and girls’ counselors. Greatly intimidated by the rifles the police officers carried, the entire staff was staring at him and the other four men, who stood beside him. Hondo’s eyes briefly settled on each individual before dismissing each one in turn.
Finally, the lieutenant’s eyes completed their sweep of the room and came to rest upon the principal again. “Mr. Ames, it is my job to bring this to a safe resolution. As long as there is a situation here, I am the man in charge, and everyone in this room will answer to me, and that includes you. Is that clear?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “This is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation. Now, get these people out of here.”
Ames hesitated, his defiant glare withering somewhat as his resolve faded.
Hondo met the gaze with fire in his blue eyes. “Now!” he said, sternly.
Finally, with a sigh of defeat, Ames turned to his staff. “All right, you may leave.”
The others rose from their chairs to make their departure, but Hondo stepped in front of the door and raised his hand, temporarily blocking their exit. “Mr. O’Bannon says that one of the teachers escaped from the gunmen. Where may I find this teacher?’
"That would be Mrs. White,” Ames said, gesturing toward a very distressed middle-aged woman who sat in a guest chair beside one of the desks. Another teacher or possible a member of the office staff was beside her, offering comfort. Hondo could see that the woman was trembling in the aftermath of what was probably the most terrifying experience she had ever endured.
Hondo’s expression softened somewhat. To the teacher, he said, “We’ll only detain you for a few minutes, Mrs. White. We just need to ask some questions about the gunmen.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be much help,” she said, her voice shaking.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to help us a great deal. Okay, the rest of you may leave.” He stepped aside, clearing the doorway.
As the staff moved toward the exit, a telephone began to ring. One dedicated young receptionist automatically reached for it.
“Just leave it, Miss,” Deacon instructed.
She hesitated, glancing at Ames for confirmation. “Some of the parents have heard about the gunmen on the radio. They’ve been calling about their children.”
“Disconnect the switchboard,” Hondo instructed.
Again, she deferred to the principal, who nodded, affirmatively. Her fingers hesitated over the switchboard, reluctant to disconnect the parents who were only calling out of concern for their children. After a moment, she complied with the request. The telephone instantly ceased ringing. Then, she followed the others to the door. Only Ames, O’Bannon, and Mrs. White remained with the five SWAT officers.
Hondo stepped through the waist high swinging door that provided access into the administrative areas, and he knelt down on one knee beside the badly shaken teacher. “Mrs. White, I know this is a traumatic experience for you, but we have to know precisely what happened. How did these men manage to take the people in the cafeteria hostage?”
“They aren’t really men,” she said, her voice quivering. “They’re hardly more than boys. I had one of them in my class just last year. No one paid much attention to them when they came in because they looked like they belonged.”
“How many of them did you see?”
“I saw three, but there was a fourth boy who looked might have been with them. I was just leaving as they came in, and when I saw Michael, I remembered he had dropped out last spring, so I stopped and turned around to ask him how he was doing. I thought perhaps he had realized his mistake in dropping out and was returning to class. They were all wearing jackets with some kind of sea creatures stenciled on the back.”
“What kind of sea creatures?” Luca asked, curiously.
Hondo turned his head to look at him, wondering what significance that had on the current situation, but he made no comment. Luca would not have asked out of idle curiosity.
“Oh, I’ve seen it before, but I’m so nervous, I can’t remember what it’s called,” she replied.
Luca fell silent again, but it was obvious that he had something on his mind.
“What happened next?” Hondo asked.
“They pulled the guns from their pockets and fired a couple of shots at the ceiling to get everyone’s attention.”
“Do you know what kind of guns they were?” Street asked.
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know anything at all about guns. They were small, though, not like the ones you’re carrying.”
“Hand guns?” Street asked. “Pistols?’
She nodded. “Yes.”
“See there?” Hondo told her with a patient smile. “I told you, you would be able to help us.”
The knowledge that she had provided information that they could use seemed to calm her down. “That really was a help?” she asked.
“Very much so. Now we know what kind of firepower we’re facing. That’s very important. What happened next?”
“I didn’t stay long enough to find out what they wanted. I was just inside the door, so I ran out and came here to report to Mr. Ames.”
“You did the right thing to get out of there, Mrs. White,” Hondo assured her, trying to alleviate any thoughts she might have that she should have stayed behind with the other teachers and students who were in the cafeteria at the time. He stood up and offered his hand. “You can go now.”
“Thank you, officer,” she said, accepting his assistance by placing her hand in his. When she was on her feet, she withdrew her hand from his, and said, hesitantly, “Officer, please try not to hurt them. They‘re all just teenagers who fell in with the wrong crowd.”
“We’ll do our best, Mrs. White, but I’m afraid that is up to them.”
She nodded, then moved toward the exit. Luca opened the door for her, and she glanced at him as she passed through it, thinking that he did not look much older than the students in her class.
“Thank you, Mrs. White,“ he said to her. When she was gone, he pulled it closed behind her.
Turning to Ames, Hondo asked, “What about the classrooms? Are there any students still in class?’
“No. It was the lunch hour, so many of the kids were outside while others were in the cafeteria. We only had a few classes still in session, and Mr. O’Bannon had those rooms cleared.”
“Good,” Hondo said, approvingly. “Where is the cafeteria located?”
“At the rear of the school behind the gymnasium. There is only one corridor leading to it.”
Hondo glanced at T. J., then turned to Ames again. “Is there a high place I can post my marksman so he can observe the inside of the cafeteria?”
Ames glanced at the young man with curly blond hair and a rifle with a sniper scope, and instantly understood that the SWAT leader wanted to position the marksman for a possible shot at the gunmen. He shuddered involuntarily at the notion of someone actually being shot or killed in his school. “You’re not planning to assassinate them, are you?”
“Mr. Ames, murder is not how we operate. We shoot only when necessary. But my marksman is also my eyes. He reports to me what he sees through that scope, and I can better make necessary decisions to assure the safety of hostages and my own men.”
Ames nodded, accepting the explanation. “I understand. However, there is no place for him to get a good view. The only windows are for ventilation, and they’re located just beneath the ceiling. The cafeteria is gymnasium sized, so the windows are very high up. That’s why those thugs chose that particular room. They knew the police couldn’t get to them.”
“We’ll get to them, somehow,” Hondo assured him. “What about a back door?’
“There is a back door through the kitchen. It opens onto a small parking lot used by the kitchen staff and the janitor. There’s no way you can get in through there, though. Their leader told me that they’ve locked the door and blocked it with a set of heavy metal pantry shelves. There is a doorway at the end of the corridor near the cafeteria that opens onto the school grounds, but they have posted a guard there to prevent anyone from getting in. He’s well armed.”
“Mr. O’Bannon said you’ve been in contact with the gunmen. What is it they want?’
“You’re not planning to negotiate with those thugs, are you?” Ames asked, incredulously.
“We intend to cover every option, Mr. Ames, and that includes negotiations for the release of the hostages.”
“From what I can gather, a couple of their friends had been picked up and jailed, but I don‘t know the details. They want their friends released, plus they’re demanding ransom money for the hostages.”
Luca was nodding, understanding the motivation behind the demand. “Drug money. This is part of a street gang. I know them; the Stingrays.”
Hondo glanced at him quickly. That was why Luca had asked Mrs. White about the sea creatures on the backs of the jackets. He must have suspected it would identify the gang. “Stingrays? The sea creatures on their jackets.”
Luca nodded. “I ran up against them when I was in Vice. I don’t remember their leader’s name, but they’re heavily into drugs, and about as mean as they come. It’s a very expensive habit, so they get money whatever way they can, which usually means petty theft and holding up convenience stores. As long as they’re demanding the release of their members, why not go a little farther and secure some cash to feed their habit?”
Hondo was in agreement with Luca‘s analysis. “I find that likely. Are these four the only members?"
Luca shook his head. "When I encountered them, there were about twenty members. We had captured some of them, jailed a few, convinced a few more to drop out, but I seriously doubt that these four are the only remaining members. They will have recruited more to replace their losses. They probably decided that a smaller group could infiltrate the school easier than a large group.”
Turning to Ames, he asked, “Why do you suppose they picked your school?”
“Probably because some of them attended classes here, at least for awhile. As Mrs. White said, Michael Collins was a student here, so I’m guessing the other boys probably were, too. They know their way around.”
“What can you tell me about this Michael?”
“He was always in trouble. I knew him well because he was a frequent visitor to my office for disciplinary action. There wasn’t much that could be done about him the last year, though. He’s defiant toward authority, and he did not fear discipline.”
Hondo considered everything he had learned about the situation. “Do you have a floor plan of the school?” he asked. “We’ve got to find a way to get close to them.”
Ames nodded. “We keep a floor plan on the wall in the lobby showing the emergency exits in the event of a fire. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led the five officers into the lobby, and indicated the large diagram on the wall, positioned in such a way that it could be easily observed by the students if evacuation was required. A good idea, but the three younger officers, who were not so very many years out of high school themselves, knew that the students, consumed with their own interests and problems, probably never even glanced at it. Most of them probably passed by it every day, unaware of its existence or its lifesaving potential.
Ames pointed to a position at the bottom of the map. “We’re here. The cafeteria is back here.” He traced an invisible line with his finger. “This is the route you have to take to get to it.”
“Looks like a gerbil run,” Luca commented in regards to the maze of corridors.
T. J. and Street chuckled, indicating that they had been thinking similar thoughts, but Ames gave him a look that was distinctly unappreciative. “The planners probably should have built a second story when the population outgrew the original design, but instead they decided to keep adding on to the ground level. Some of the other schools were reporting problems with the boys standing at the bottom of the stairs so that they could watch the girls in mini skirts coming down ---”
“Luca was probably an expert on that practice,” T. J. quipped.
“Hey,” Luca admonished, swatting him playfully on the arm with the back of his hand.
Accustomed to the friendly banter between his officers, understanding that it was a healthy way to relieve tension, Hondo ignored the comments. When it came time to get down to business, he knew that each and every one of his men would meet whatever challenge came their way in the most effective and professional manner. He was still studying the map, intent on a large area across the hall from the cafeteria. “What is this room here?” he asked, pointing to the position on the floor plan.
“That is the auditorium. If you could get in there, you might be able to see them. A side door on the east side opens across from the cafeteria, the other two doors open into this long corridor on the north side, here.” He pointed to the long hallway.
“Can we get in there from the north hallway?” Deacon asked.
“Unfortunately, no. They’ve placed a guard there to patrol the corridor. They’ve turned some of the cafeteria tables over on their side to form barricades. They’re pretty well secured, there.”
“There’s no other way into the auditorium?”
“No. They had this well thought out. I’ve got to tell you, Lieutenant, I don’t know how you’re going to get those people out of there.”
“We’ll get them out,” Hondo assured him. “But first, I want to talk to them.” He pointed an authoritative finger in Ames’ face. You stay here.”
Ames was more than happy to comply. He had already seen the former students’ guns and their jittery behavior, and had no desire to see them again. He waited in the foyer while the five police officers walked swiftly around the corner, heading toward the cafeteria.
CHAPTER TWO
Leaving the principal and assistant principal in the foyer, the five SWAT officers hurried from the main east-west corridor into the adjacent north-south corridor. Like all school hallways, it was long and wide, proving sufficient room for a crowd of students to pass both directions as they moved to and from class. Lining the walls on either side of them were metal lockers, painted beige and numbered, their contents protected by combination locks.
Some of the classroom doors were open, providing unobstructed views of the interior, while others were closed. Curiously, the officers stole peeks through the open doors and the small glass observation windows, inspecting the empty classrooms and their rows of student desks arranged facing the larger teachers’ desks. The assignment was bringing back conflicting floods of memories for the three younger officers, the oldest of which was hardly more than a decade out of high school himself.
Street leaned close to McCabe, nudging him with his elbow. “Talk about deja vu,“ he said, keeping his voice low. “I still have nightmares about still being in school trying to find my locker.“
“You too?“ T. J. asked. “Man, I thought I was the only one! I search all over and never find it!“
“Me too!”
“Pipe down, you two,“ Hondo commanded.
Street and McCabe said no more, and the group proceeded in silence, taking the appropriate turns toward the school cafeteria. Everything about their accoutrements was designed for silent approach, from their soft-soled shoes to their rifles, and they barely made a sound as they made their way along the tile floor toward their destination.
They were nearing the corridor that had been barricaded by the gang members, and as they crept up on the junction of corridors, Hondo raised his hand, stopping his team. Motioning for them to stay back, he leaned around the corner to observe the barricade that had been erected by the gang members.
The gang members must have thought it ingenious, but to the combat-experienced policeman, it was a ridiculously ineffective effort to deter intrusion by the authorities. Two tables stood upright, shoved together to create a single surface. Two other tables had been overturned in front of them, leaving a long narrow space where the upright edge did not meet the edges of the overturned tables. Obviously, it was intended to create a crude bunker, but the teens were apparently unaware that the SWAT unit’s M-16 rifles were capable of not only penetrating the Formica surface of the tables, but would easily turn them into something resembling Swiss cheese.
Pacing restlessly on the other side of the barricade, the teenaged gang member assigned the task of guard suddenly realized his space was being violated, and he instantly dodged under the table. A moment later, the muzzle of a pistol emerged through the narrow gap, and Hondo could see his eyes peering through at him. Had the situation been different, Hondo would have been amused by the youth’s belief that he was protected by his barricade.
“Stay back!” the teen warned.
“Just simmer down there, son,” Hondo said, raising his hand in an attempt to placate the youth.
“I ain’t your son!” the teen shouted, a frantic edge to his voice. “You a cop?
“Yes, I am. I’m Lieutenant Harrelson, WCPD.”
“That principal was told not to call the cops!” He slammed his fist against the barricade in frustration and anger. "Michael ain't gonna like this! He ain't gonna like this at all!"
“He’s high as a kite,” Luca said, quietly, drawing Hondo’s attention to the younger officer. “Let me talk to him.”
Because of his youthful appearance and his ability to get close to people and earn their trust, Luca had been a specialized Vice officer, usually working undercover, before joining the SWAT unit, and Hondo knew that the younger officer was experienced in dealing with drug addicts. His instincts on the subject had proven viable in every test put before him, so far.
Hondo nodded his approval, and stepped back. “Be careful, though,” he instructed. “We don’t want to get him riled up any more than he already is.”
Luca stepped to the corner, taking Hondo’s place before the youth, allowing him to get a look at him. Speaking pleasantly, as if initiating a normal conversation, he said, “My name is Luca. What’s yours?”
“None of your business!” the boy shouted. “You’re another cop!”
“Yes, I am. Principal Ames had to contact us. What? You thought he could just waltz into the jail and secure the release of the prisoners without anyone raising an eyebrow?”
The teen was silent, thinking about that, indicating that he had not considered that small detail.
“You didn’t think about that, did you?” Luca asked. “Well, drugs can do that to a person. Causes them to make irrational decisions. And this, my friend, is a very irrational decision.”
Again, there was silence behind the barricade, but Luca could see the muzzle of the gun pointed at him through the gap between the upright and overturned tables. He did not like facing the wrong end of a gun, but he knew he was well protected by the bulletproof vest. He was only vulnerable in the head and extremities. Hopefully, the teen was not a crack shot.
“Why don’t we talk about this?” he asked.
“I got nothin’ to say to you!”
“All right, then why don’t I do the talking, and you can listen? Whoever came up with this idea didn’t have the mental capacity to think it through rationally. I know it wasn’t your idea, though. I think you’re smart enough to know that this plan won’t work. Am I right?” He paused to give the youth time to think about it and time to answer. When he didn’t, Luca continued, “Listen to me. You’ve really gotten yourself in a bad situation, here. there’s no way out for you, you must know that by now. The school is completely surrounded by the police. The best thing for you to do is to surrender peacefully. Believe me, it’ll go better for you in the long run if you surrender and cooperate with us. So, what do you say? I promise you’ll get fair treatment. Just put down your gun, and walk toward us.”
There was a long moment of silence as the teen mulled over his words. Just when they thought perhaps they could coerce the youth into surrendering, he dashed their hopes. “Yer outta yer mind! Michael will kill me if I rat on him!”
“No, he won’t. I promise. We’ll protect you, but you have to cooperate with us.”
“You pigs are all liars!” he shouted. “Michael was right! We can’t trust anyone except each other!” The muzzle of the gun was shaking, indicating that the teen was trembling with fear, rage, or frustration, or a combination of all three.
“That isn’t true,” Luca insisted. “You can trust us. We want to see you get out of this in one piece.”
“No you don’t! I have to get my brother out of jail! Michael said he could get Chris out of jail! He’s the only one who cares about me!” His voice had risen to a frantic pitch. “I’m warning you -- go back, or I’ll shoot!”
Hondo grasped Luca by the vest and pulled him back. “I don’t like the tone of his voice,” the senior officer said.
“Yeah, I don’t either,” Luca agreed. “In his present state, he could even shoot by accident. He’s really wired. We know one thing for certain, though; he isn’t the leader. He’s just a scared kid who got mixed up in something over his head in a misguided attempt to free his brother from jail. The leader, Michael, is probably in the cafeteria with the hostages.”
“Why do you think that?” asked Deke.
“My guess is, this Michael person probably intends to terrorize the hostages. You’ve seen how volatile this one is. Imagine a kid who already has a tendency toward hostility, according to what Ames told us, who is on drugs and has a gun in his hand. These gang members don’t reach the level of leader by being nice. Believe me, Michael will make this kid look like an alter boy.”
Hondo drew a deep breath. Clearly, that was not what he had wanted to hear. After a moment of consideration, he leaned around the corner again. “Listen to me; we need to speak to Michael.”
Another pause ensued, then the teen asked, “What makes you think we have someone here named ’Michael’?”
“You just told us,” Hondo reminded him.
The youth fell silent again, thinking about that, apparently trying to remember if he had indeed revealed Michael’s name, or if the cops were bluffing.
Luca leaned close to the corner to make himself heard. “It’s those drugs again. They play havoc with the mind, don’t they? Besides, Michael was recognized when you guys came in here. We know you’re with the Stingrays.”
Panic crept into the boy’s voice. “No, you’re bluffing!”
“I’m giving it to you straight,” Luca told him. “You’re all wearing gang jackets with stingrays on the back. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.”
The boy was fidgeting under his barricade. Hondo could see him tugging at his hair with his free hand, trying to decide what to do. Between the effects of the drug Michael had given him and the demands from the cops, the pressure was almost too much for him to handle. Finally, the muzzle of the pistol was withdrawn from the gap, and he crawled out from under the table.
Pointing the pistol toward the cops, he started backing toward the cafeteria. “All right, I’ll get Michael, but don’t you dare come any closer, or you’ll wish you hadn’t!”
“All right,” Hondo promised. “We won’t come any closer."
The officers waited at the corner and listened to the teen’s footsteps retreating down the corridor toward the cafeteria. Then, they heard the sound of angry voices, suggesting that Michael was not happy about the idea of confronting the police. Finally, they heard two pairs of footsteps returning to the barricade.
Hondo leaned around the corner to get a look at the newcomer. This boy was entirely different than the nervous guard who had been placed at the barricade. His sun bleached hair was long and dirty, and he walked with the confident swagger of a gang leader. They could see a ragged scar across his left cheek, possibly made by a knife wound, evidence of a violent past.
He raised his pistol, threateningly, aiming it at Hondo. “You stay put, cop! I know how to use this!”
“I believe you,” Hondo told him in a placating voice.
“I heard you pigs want to talk to me.” His voice contained the aggressive tone of someone high on drugs.
“If you’re Michael, yes we do.”
“That‘s me. Whad’ya want?”
“I advise you to give it up. This road you’re on leads nowhere but an early grave. Let’s end this peacefully, and you boys will get off a lot easier than you will if you hurt someone.”
“We ain‘t boys, Pig! We’re Stingrays, and we ain’t interested in anything except getting our comrades freed and collecting a ransom for the hostages. You do that, or else we’ll start executing our prisoners!”
The men exchanged somber glances.
“Think he’ll do that?” T. J. asked.
Luca was quiet for a moment, then nodded, slowly. “Maybe. You can tell by his voice that he’s as high as the other one is. We have to assume he’s capable of anything.”
“If you got no more to say, I suggest you back off and see about getting our friends out of jail!” Michael demanded.
Hondo muttered to himself, “I’ve got more to say to you, you little punk.” Raising his voice to be heard, he said, “Listen to me, Michael. The school is completely surrounded. There is no way you can get out of here. It would be better to surrender now.”
“We can last a long time in here!” Michael retorted. “We have plenty of food!”
“It won’t last long, with so many people in there. You also have to sleep sometimes.”
“Just don’t you worry about us!” Michael told him. “We know what we’re doing!”
“If only that were true,” Luca said, quietly, to himself.
“Now, back off!” Michael demanded.
Hondo glanced at Luca, who nodded. “Better do what he says, for now,” Luca advised. “He’s a time-bomb waiting to go off.”
Hondo nodded affirmatively. “I agree.” To the teenagers, he said, “All right, we’re backing off for now.” He gestured back the way they had come, and the five police officers retreated back down the corridors toward the lobby.
Ames was waiting for them, pacing nervously while O'Bannon leaned against the wall. Ames stopped and looked up anxiously when he saw them come around the corner. “So, what’s the plan?”
“We’re not sure, yet,” Hondo answered, truthfully.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Ames asked, shocked. “I thought you SWAT guys were supposed to be so good!”
“We are good, Mr. Ames,” Hondo told him, his annoyance beginning to show. “But we can’t go in there with guns blazing and risk injuring or killing the hostages. We must come up with a plan that enables us to resolve this as peacefully as possible.”
T. J. was listening to the conversation, but, as was typical among the SWAT officers assigned the task of sharpshooter, his eyes shifted from one point to another, always seeking the best advantage point from which to work. His eyes came to rest on a grill that covered an air duct near the floor.
“Do these air ducts lead into all the rooms?” he asked.
Ames looked at him, surprised. “Why, yes. We just had a new system of ducts installed during summer break.”
“What are you thinking, McCabe?” Hondo asked.
“If we can get through those air ducts into the auditorium, it’ll put us across the hall from the cafeteria. From there, we should be able to neutralize the one patrolling the corridors. That’ll get us into a good position to show the others the firepower they’re coming up against. Maybe they’ll surrender peacefully when they see they’re out manned and outgunned.”
“Maybe,” Hondo said, doubtfully. “If they are all as high as their leader seems to be, I don’t that they’ll be able to respond in a rational manner. At least it’ll get us into a position where we can end this stand-off. That’s a good idea, McCabe. Mr. Ames, do you have a schematic of the network of ducts?”
“Yes. It’s in the utility closet. I’ll go get it.”
While the principal went to the utility closet to fetch the schematic, Hondo withdrew a small screwdriver from his utility belt and used it to remove the screws in the grill, which was set aside. Then, the five police officers leaned over and inspected the small square opening with critical eyes, each one instantly realizing the problem they faced.
Deacon squatted down and placed his hands on either side of the opening, as if measuring the width in his mind. All the while, he was shaking his head. “I don’t know, Hondo. That is awfully small. I don‘t think we‘re going to be able to get through there.”
“I was thinking the same thing.,“ Hondo said, regretfully. “It was a good idea, McCabe, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“You would’ve thought a school would have a bigger ventilation system,” T. J. commented.
“It’s a small school,” O'Bannon pointed out, then added, “Or at least, it started out that way."
They fell silent for several moments, observing the air duct as if it held the utmost interest, while their minds searched for an alternative plan.
“I can only think of one way to end this,” Deacon said, reluctantly. “That is to storm the corridor and apprehend the guard, and proceed as quickly as possible to the cafeteria. That way, we maintain the element of surprise. Luca can shoot a cannister of tear gas through one of those windows, and in the confusion we might be able to overcome them before they have a chance to harm the hostages.”
Luca was shaking his head in disagreement. "I remember how the cafeteria windows open up in my own school. They tilt at an angle, and my cannister is likely to bounce off the edge and fall back without going in. And if they hear it, they'll know something's going on and we will lose the element of surprise. Perhaps I could get up on the roof and simply drop the cannister inside."
Here, O'Bannon objected, "The gap between the window and the roof is too great. You wouldn't be able to reach that far."
“Our best bet seems to be to wait them out and try to talk to them again," Hondo said. "They’ve trapped themselves. Eventually, they must realize there’s no way out.”
Luca was looking at the air duct, aware that the others could not get through it safely, but as the team’s smallest member, he wondered about himself. T. J. was nearest his height than the others, but Luca was slimmer. “I can get through it.”
Everyone turned to look at the youngest and smallest member of the team. He saw doubt on their faces.
“I know, it’ll be a tight squeeze, even for me, but I can do it,” he insisted. When Hondo continued to hesitate, he persisted, “Look, it’s the only way we can get back there without being detected. You said yourself, the element of surprise is the only way to assure that those kids can be rescued with the lowest risk of loss of life.”
Hondo could not deny his own logic, but he was not happy about the idea of sending a single man into the auditorium alone without any backup. “We don’t know how many of them there are. They could have even moved the students out of the cafeteria and into the auditorium or even the gymnasium. We just don’t know.”
“I’ll take a look around through the grill before I leave the duct. If anyone is in there, I’ll find another exit.”
Hondo looked at the young officer who stood before him, awaiting his approval. He saw neither reckless fervor nor glory-seeking enthusiasm in the dark eyes that gazed solemnly back at him. What he saw was a highly trained police officer volunteering for a potentially dangerous job.
He let his eyes shift to each man in turn. All of them were watching him, waiting for his decision. Even though all of them except himself and Deacon were in their twenties, all were seasoned veterans of police work. All of them were dedicated and capable of accomplishing the task, but in this particular instance, it appeared that only Luca was capable of actually getting there.
The principal hurried into the room with a rolled up schematic tucked under his arm. Quickly, he popped the rubber band and unrolled it, then spread it open against the wall near the duct. O’Bannon held the other end of it to prevent it from slipping, while the others crowded around to look at it.
“We’re here,” Ames said, pointing to the spot on the chart. “Once inside the duct, what you’ll need to do is follow this duct along to your right until you reach this junction.” He traced his finger along the chart, following the outline of the duct. “Be careful. The duct has a vertical intersection that leads down into the basement.“
“Is it a straight drop?“ Dom asked.
“No. The architect drew up these plans with the idea that maintenance crews might have to enter the duct for one reason or another, so they placed them on a slope.“
“A maintenance crew of what? First graders?“ T. J. asked, a gibe referring to the narrow scope of the duct, drawing chuckles from his teammates and a tolerant smile from the assistant principal.
Ames stared at him with the eyes of man who found no humor in the comment. “How can you joke around about something like this?“ he asked.
“Mr. Ames, there is a difference between joking around and relieving tension,“ Deacon replied. “These men put their lives on the line every time they put on that uniform. Cut them some slack.”
Ames backed down. “All right. Go across the basement intersection, and continue on until you reach the next junction. There, you’ll turn left, and follow it to the next junction. There, you’ll turn left and continue on for about twenty feet. The duct runs under the stage, and the grill into the auditorium will be on your left.”
Luca carefully studied the schematic, noticing that the duct continued on past the auditorium opening, finally terminating in a corridor beyond. If the auditorium was occupied, he could make his exit into the corridor, provided another guard wasn’t posted there.
He turned to his supervisor. “So, what do you say, Lieutenant?’
Finally, Hondo nodded his consent. “All right, Luca. But be careful. Once you’re in the auditorium, take a look around and see if you can locate the guard. You should be behind him. Report back to me before you do anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I always knew he’d be good for something,” T. J. quipped. “I just wasn’t sure what!”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Luca bore up to the teasing with a tolerant smile.
Still a bit mystified by the officers’ ability to banter back and forth during such a serious crisis, the principal presented Luca with a pry bar he had secured from the utilities closet. “You’ll need this to pry the grill off the duct.” He sighed, heavily, knowing that he would be required to explain the damage of the ventilation grill and any other damage that might be caused by the officer as he made his way through the ducts. “The school board won’t be happy about ruining the grill so quickly after they were replaced during the summer, but I’m sure they’ll understand the need to resolve this issue as quickly as possible.”
Luca accepted the pry bar, and knelt before the open duct. He paused to look into the narrow black tunnel, then gave an exaggerated shudder. “Whew, that is small!” Looking up at the others, he said, cheerfully, “Well, I guess I’ll see you on the other side.”
He started to enter the duct, inserting his arms and his head into the dark tunnel, but his bulletproof vest caught the top edge of the duct. Shifting position, he made another attempt but encountered the same problem on the bottom edge.
He withdrew and sat back on his heels to look up at Harrelson. “The only way I can get through here is to take off the vest,” he said.
“No,” Hondo replied without hesitation. “Absolutely not. That vest is the only protection you have. You leave that on!”
“I guess that settles it,” Deacon said, giving up on the idea. “It was a good idea, T. J., but it looks like it won’t work.“
T. J. nodded.
“We’ll just have to try something else.”
“We can‘t just give up on this!” Luca protested. “It was a great idea.”
“If you can’t get through, Luca, you can’t get through,” Hondo said, impatiently. “It’s as simple as that. There is nothing to be done about it except to put our heads together and try to find another way.”
“What if he carried the vest with him?” Street suggested. “He could put it back on when he gets there.”
“His hands are already going to be full with the rifle and the pry bar,” Deacon pointed out. “I don‘t think he can carry anything else and still manage to pull himself through the tunnel.”
T. J. suggested, “What if he carried the vest and tied the rifle to his ankle by the straps and dragged it behind him?“
Luca gave him a withering glance, indicating a distinct lack of enthusiasm at the thought of dragging a loaded weapon through a dark tunnel behind him. “And what happens if it accidentally goes off, eh? It’d get me in the rear -- or worse!”
“Not to mention the fact that it would alert the gang members of your location,” Hondo said. “Then you’d really have a problem!”
“Maybe I can just sort of push the vest through the tunnel ahead of me.”
Hondo was quiet for a moment, considering the idea, but still reluctant to risk the life of one of his men. “Maybe.”
“I can put it back on when I get out of the tunnel. Come on, Lieutenant,” Luca urged. “It’s the only way to get a handle on what’s going on back there.”
Hondo knew that was true. Negotiations could last hours or even days. With plenty of food in the cafeteria’s kitchen, there was no need for the teenaged gunmen to rush into surrendering. They had plenty of breathing room to reinforce their demands. Finally, seeing no other way for him to get through the tunnel and end the hostage situation, he nodded his consent. “All right, but the instant you’re out of the duct, that vest goes back on before you do anything else. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.
Luca propped the pry bar and the rifle against the wall, and stood up again. Quickly, he removed the vest, and temporarily laid it aside while he removed his shoulder holster and the pistol it held, and handed them to Street.
“Okay, Luca?” Hondo said, drawing the rapt attention of the younger officer. “Let us know when you get to the auditorium, then check on the kid who’s patrolling the corridor.”
“Yes, sir.” He started to turn away, but was stopped by Hondo’s hand on his shoulder.
“Do not engage those gunmen until we get up and in position. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“And remember, you won’t be able to turn around in that tunnel, so make absolutely certain that you are familiar with each and every junction on that schematic.”
Luca went to the schematic again and took another long look at it, committing his route to memory. Finally, he nodded. “I could find it with my eyes closed.”
“You won’t need to go in the dark,” O’Bannon said, stepping out of the administrative officers. No one had noticed that he had slipped away. He carried a flashlight, which he offered to the officer. “This will help.”
Luca took the flashlight and tested it by turning it on. Satisfied that it worked, he returned to the opening and knelt before it. Taking up the pry bar in one hand and the rifle in the other, he crawled into the opening.
| CHAPTER THREE The air duct was narrow, even for a man of Luca’s slight stature, forcing him to take extra precautions with the automatic rifle, which was carried in his right hand. A bump in the wrong place could sent a spray of bullets ricocheting through the metal tunnel, alerting the teenaged perpetrators of his position, and possibly causing himself bodily injury, all decidedly undesirable possibilities. The flashlight and the pry bar were carried in his left hand. Unable to bring his knees far enough forward to propel himself through the square tunnel, he was forced to drag himself along with his arms, inch by inch, using his elbows for momentum. The going was slow, as he sought to protect the expensive rifle from being bumped or marred on the edges of the tunnel. By memory, he selected the appropriate junctions as shown on the schematic, working his way through the maze toward the auditorium, squeezing his slender frame through some very tight corners as he changed direction when necessary. He knew he was not making good time. Any moment, now, Lieutenant Harrelson would be checking his progress to see what was taking so long. As if on cue, an impatient voice on his radio broke the silent in the tunnel. “How’s it going, Luca?” Luca laid down the rifle and pressed his body tightly against the wall of the tunnel so that he could reach the microphone that was attached to his belt at his waist, banging his elbow on the side of the tunnel. He grimaced at the tingling sensation that shot down his arm, and resisted the urge to utter an oath. Instead, he gripped his elbow for a moment, thinking bad words to himself. Then, as the discomfort passed, he pressed the button on the microphone, and replied, “Let me put it this way, Lieutenant: I have a brother who owns one of those terriers that chases rabbits down their burrows. Now I know what that dog feels like. Or a moth in a cocoon. Or maybe a cork in bottle. Take your pick.” His two teammates and Deacon smiled at one another, and even though Hondo’s eyes were smiling, his voice was typically stern, reflecting not a trace of amusement as he replied, “Just keep your mind on getting into the auditorium, Luca.” “I figure I’m almost there, Lieutenant. However, it is a little hard to tell with no landmarks in here to guide the way.” He replaced the microphone on his belt, picked up the rifle again, and proceeded. After taking the correct turn at the final junction, Luca finally found himself looking through the grill in the school auditorium. As expected, it was empty. Laying down the gun and the flashlight, he inserted the flat edge of the pry bar into the cleft where the grill was affixed to the wall, and pulled back on the bar. With a squeal of protest, the screws lost their grip and separated the grill from the wall. The noise seemed loud in the narrow tunnel, and the police officer instantly froze, waiting to see if the sound would attract the attention of the gang members who patrolled the hallway just outside the auditorium doors. The moments passed uneventfully as Luca peered cautiously through the grill, watching and waiting for one of the young gunmen to reveal himself. He shifted, pressing his head against the side of the tunnel, trying to see as much of the auditorium as possible, but nothing moved inside the room. The auditorium and the tunnel were so quiet he could hear his watch ticking on his wrist. Finally, deciding that the sound must not have carried into the corridor, he reached down and removed the microphone from his belt again. “Lieutenant,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The auditorium is empty. I’m leaving the duct now.” “Okay,” Hondo responded, quietly. “See if you are in a position to neutralize the one in the corridor closest to us, but above all, try not to alert the others in the cafeteria of your presence. We don’t want to lose the element of surprise.” “Yes, sir.” Satisfied that it was safe to leave his hiding place, Luca returned the microphone to his belt, and pushed the grill from the opening, then pulled himself out of the tunnel, spilling rather ungracefully onto the floor. Grateful that none of the other guys had seen that rather uncoordinated exit, he got himself quickly into an upright position, and crouched on the floor to observe his surroundings. The auditorium could have been located in any school in America. Every auditorium he had ever seen was pretty generic in design. Three sections of seats, built on a downward slope and separated by two aisles on either side of the center section and two more outside aisles, faced the stage, which was constructed of polished wood and concealed behind heavy draperies. On his right was a single side door that he knew from the diagram would lead into the corridor near the cafeteria, where the students were being held hostage. Directly before him, at the head of each of the two primary aisles, were the doors leading into the north corridor in which the guard had been posted. The doors were both open, and Luca crept silently up one of the sloping aisles between the rows of seats, and stopped beneath the illuminated sign that read: EXIT. With the muzzle of his rifle pointed at the ceiling, he pressed his back against the doorjamb, then leaned cautiously into the corridor for a quick look. On his left, the nervous teenager was pacing back and forth behind the barricade of overturned tables, but he never once looked behind him, obviously expecting that an attack would come from the front, not the rear. As Luca watched, the teenager stopped and cocked an ear toward the front corridor, listening for any indication that the police were coming. Luca smiled slightly, but he felt a certain sympathy for the youth. The waiting must be torture for the obviously inexperienced gang member. The biggest curiosity was the fact that the jittery teen had been placed as the guard. Perhaps an initiation test to prove his worth? Shifting his rifle to his shoulder, bringing the barrel into firing position, Luca left the cover of the doorway and moved quietly up the corridor toward the boy. Still pacing and muttering to himself, the teenager was not aware that he was being stalked until Luca was within ten paces of him. Suddenly, sensing that someone was behind him, he whirled around to find the policeman gazing at him down the long barrel of the M-16 rifle. The teen’s gasp of fright was loud in the quiet corridor, and for a moment, Luca feared he would scream. “Not a sound,” Luca commanded quietly. “Lay your pistol on the barricade.” The expression on the boy’s face was sheer terror as he stared into the black bore of the fearsome looking rifle. Without hesitation, he placed the pistol on top of the barricade, and thrust his hands into the air, willing, if not eager, to comply instantly with the officer’s request. In the youth’s face, Luca was certain he saw a trace of relief that his participation in the event was over. Luca continued to advance toward the boy, intending to handcuff him, but the boy was greatly intimidated by the sight of the rifle. With eyes fixed on the muzzle, as if waiting for the muzzle flash, he took an apprehensive step backward. Finally, in a panic, he abruptly turned and fled. Luca snatched his microphone from his belt, and spoke quietly. “Lieutenant, the kid in the hallway panicked. He’s running up the corridor toward your position. He’s unarmed.” “Got him,” Hondo responded. “I’m going to try to see inside the cafeteria,” Luca advised. “All right, but be careful, Luca. Do not -- repeat -- do not engage until we‘re in position.” “Yes, sir.” Luca replaced the microphone and made his way back through the auditorium to the exit leading to the cafeteria. The auditorium door was not directly across from the cafeteria door. Instead, the door to the cafeteria was positioned slightly to the south, Luca’s right, offering a good view of much of the interior of the cafeteria through the double doors, which were open wide, revealing the frightened students, teachers, and cafeteria workers, and one of the teenaged gunmen. Recalling that there was another door leading outside onto the schoolyard from the south end of the corridor, Luca leaned quickly around the edge of the open door for a peek, this time looking to his right, then dodged back to the safety of the auditorium interior. In that brief moment, he located the final gang member near the door, gazing through the window beside the heavy door. Wondering what had attracted the boy’s rapt attention, Luca chanced another peek, and saw that several uniformed police officers were positioned in the street across from the school ground. Mindful of the presence of the other hall guard, Luca shifted his focus to the events inside the cafeteria. Deacon was waiting near the lobby to intercept the panicked boy when he pounded around the corner. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the startled teen by the shirt and flung him up against the wall, slapping the cuffs on the boy’s wrists before he could blink twice. Then, he turned his captive around and slammed his back against the wall. “Okay, son, I want you to start talking. How many of your friends are still in the cafeteria?” The teenager was shaking so badly he could hardly find his voice. He began to cry. “I didn’t know they was gonna do this, I swear! You gotta believe me!” “Talk to me, boy,” Hondo said, sternly. “Your leader, Michael. Is he capable of killing those hostages?” The boy was shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I didn’t want to join them in the first place!” he sobbed. “I asked them to help get Chris outta jail, and they told me I had to help. I told ‘em this would never work! I told ‘em, but they never listen to me!” “He’s useless,” Hondo said. “Get a uniformed officer in here to make the arrest.” O’Bannon approached him, hesitantly. “Excuse me, Lieutenant? Your young officer forgot his vest.” He held up the bulletproof vest that Luca had left behind. Hondo exchanged a worried glance with Deacon. “Too many distractions,” Deacon said. “I forgot about it, too.” “So did I,” Hondo admitted. “Damn it! I should never had allowed him to take it off.” “Should we contact him and warn him?” Harrelson shook his head. “No. He’s close to the cafeteria door. Contacting him by radio might give away his position. I instructed him not to engage, so we’ll take it to him.” Hidden from view behind the auditorium door, Luca continued to monitor the situation inside the cafeteria, and what he was seeing and hearing made his blood run cold. The acoustics in the cafeteria were excellent, allowing him to overhear nearly everything that was being said to the hostages. As he had predicted to Harrelson, the leader was terrorizing his captives. “Obviously, they are not taking us seriously,” said the teen known as Michael. He was pacing back and forth, and his path took him in and out of Luca’s line of vision. His face was flushed, and even from the distance, Luca could see that wild-eyed appearance inherent to drug addicts. The boy was wired, primed for a violent action. In his hand was a pistol, which he waved carelessly at the hostages, who cowered and cringed, fearful of being shot. Occasionally, he paused to point the gun at one of them, laughing hysterically when they recoiled in fear. Then, in a matter of seconds, his mood turned sour again. Luca grimaced, hoping the gun did not go off by accident. “I told them I would start executing hostages,” Michael ranted to the students and teachers, who had no choice but to sit and listen to his insane ravings. “They think we’re not serious because we’re still in our teens. They think we’re still just boys.” He whirled on one of the teachers. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Weiss?” The teacher shrank back from the pistol that was thrust into his face. “Michael, please just give up this madness. Surrender to the cops, and ---” “Shut up!” Michael screamed in his face, enraged. He must have sprayed saliva in the teacher’s face, for Weiss grimaced and jerked his head back and turned his face away, repulsed. Michael stalked menacingly down the line of students who sat against the wall on the floor, looking at each of them in turn. “We need to do something to make those pigs realize that we’re serious. If we conduct an execution, they’ll sit up and take notice soon enough. Then they’ll release Chris and Mitchell and pay the ransom for the others.” Another boy, unseen by Luca, said, “I’m not sure this is a good thing, Michael. Killing other gang members in a fight is one thing, but what you’re talking about is murder. If we kill one of these people, we’ll do hard time in prison! They will never let us go!” “Yes they will,” Michael insisted. “They‘ll realize that we mean business, and they‘ll have more respect for us.” He laughed again. “Maybe they‘ll even stop hassling us when we’re protecting our turf.” “This was a stupid idea, Michael! They ain’t never gonna let us outta here, no matter what we do!” Michael ignored him, continuing his path down the line of students, seeking the appropriate candidate, someone he had hated while still in class himself. Finally, he seized a boy by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. “How ‘bout it, Brett? You wanna be the first to be executed?” Luca felt his pulse quicken. The situation was becoming deadly. He reached for the microphone at his belt again, intending to inform Harrelson, but the situation was progressing too rapidly. His hand returned to the rifle. Brett’s eyes were wide with fear. “N-no, please Michael. I never did anything to you.” “No? You’re just the perfect student. All around athlete, honor student, class president, and all the girls. Mister Popular. Yeah, I think you’ll do just fine.” Luca raised his rifle to his shoulder, prepared to react to the new turn of events, and sighted on the boy’s torso. He had been ordered not to engage, and would not do so unless the youth was a direct threat to the student. But as he sighted down the long barrel, he knew that he could not fire unless Michael made a clear and definitive gesture, such as raising his pistol to the boy‘s head, and if he shot the gang leader at that point, reflex would cause the teen to pull the trigger anyway. If that happened, he would be crucified by the department and the press for causing two deaths. As Luca considered this, Michael raised the pistol and aimed it at Brett’s head. Believing he was about to die, Brett closed his eyes, his face distorted as he struggled not to cry. “No, please don’t kill me,” Brett begged. Luca shifted the barrel slightly, sighting on the pistol that was clutched in Michael‘s hand. T. J. was the sharpshooter, the one accustomed to making bull’s-eye shots. But T. J. wasn’t there. It was up to Dominic Luca to stop the murder of the innocent teen. Make it count, Luca, he thought as he closed his left eye and focused intently on the pistol with the right eye. “Good bye, Brett!” Michael said. Dramatically, he cocked the hammer of the pistol. Carefully, Luca squeezed the trigger on his rifle. A deafening report echoed through the corridors as the pistol jumped from Michael’s startled hand. In an instant, the stunned teen whirled to face his attacker, and recognized the hopelessness of his situation. He did not try to recover his pistol, knowing that it would be ruined. He thrust his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot me!” he cried. In the foyer, the two principals jumped at the sound of the gun, and the SWAT officers instantly spun toward the direction of the shot. Distorted by distance, it was impossible to determine if it had come from the M-16 or one of the pistols carried by the teens. Harrelson snatched the microphone from his belt and shouted into it, “Luca! What‘s going on? Did you fire that shot?” Luca was too busy to respond. The other boy, the accomplice who had protested against the execution, stepped into Luca’s line of vision, his pistol in firing position, as if prepared to ward off attack. Luca‘s initial reaction was to shoot before being fired upon, but his finger hesitated on the trigger. The teen‘s gesture was decidedly threatening, but the police officer was reluctant to put a bullet into a boy who was probably bluffing. Sure enough, when faced with the wrong end of an M-16, the teen‘s resolve disintegrated. Michael saw that his accomplice was weakening. “There’s only one of them! Shoot him, Hauser!” Hauser glanced at Michael, then back at the officer, realizing instantly that the police officer possessed a weapon that far outdistanced his handgun in firepower. “If I do, he’ll kill us both!” His hands shot into the air, and he allowed the pistol to dangle uselessly from his finger by the trigger guard. “Don’t shoot!” “You coward!” Michael spat, angrily. “You and Dickens are both cowards. Mitch said you weren’t worthy of being a Stingray when you first wanted to join. And Dickens, he ain’t nothing like his brother, Chris!” “Throw the pistol out here toward me,” Luca commanded. “Use your left hand.” The teen wasted no time in transferring the pistol to his other hand, and tossing it out the cafeteria door. It clattered on the tile floor and skidded against the opposite wall of the corridor. Emerging cautiously from the doorway, Luca shifted his eyes and his weapon quickly to his right, looking for the teen who was posted at the south door. He was nowhere in sight, and Luca presumed he had fled through the door when the shot was fired. So much for his declaration to Harrelson that the Stingrays were as mean as they come. He was only one man, yet he had somehow managed to overcome all four of them with only one shot fired. This is too easy! a voice inside his mind warned, but he dismissed it. It had happened, and the hostage situation was now under control. Turning back to the teens in the cafeteria, his weapon still in firing position, he gestured with the muzzle of the rifle. “Over there, against that wall,” he commanded. The two teens had no choice but to comply. As they moved toward the wall, they were helped along when several of the male teachers and students shoved them roughly from behind. The only available restraint was a roll of masking tape that one of the students had been using to tape posters to the walls. It was wrapped liberally around the two perpetrator’s wrists, binding them together behind their backs. One teacher, the one called Weiss, glanced out the door at the SWAT officer. “Thank you, officer. You couldn’t have cut it any closer.” “Yeah, well, my boss may not be so forgiving,” Luca said, more to himself than anyone else. Harrelson would be incensed that he had disobeyed a direct order not to engage, but he hoped the lieutenant would be understanding of the life-threatening situation with which he had been presented. The satisfaction Luca felt at saving the boy’s life would override the tongue-lashing he was sure to receive from his supervisor. Lowering the rifle, he turned to retrieve the pistol that was still lying on the floor, and caught an unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye. Raising his head, he saw that the door to the boys’ restroom was slightly ajar, and through it he could see the round muzzle of a pistol aimed at him. Instantly, he raised the M-16 again, but it was too late. He saw the muzzle flash as the pistol was fired, and an instant later he felt the impact as the bullet struck him in the abdomen. He was flung roughly to the hard tile floor, knocking the breath out of him. Without making it a conscious thought, he was aware of the teachers and students scrambling for cover inside the cafeteria. Some of them were screaming in fear. The teen fired a second shot as the officer fell, but it sailed harmlessly over Luca’s head and impacted the wall farther down the corridor. Still, it had been close enough that Luca could actually hear the whine as it passed only inches from his head. As his training dictated, Luca rolled, scrambled to his feet, and darted into the protective cover of the auditorium again. With his back pressed against the doorjamb, he paused briefly to catch his breath, then leaned out the door, rifle to the ready. The teen fired again, the bullet shattering the wood frame of the door. This kid was good! Luca dodged back, then leaned out again and returned fire, but he was not in a proper position to take accurate aim. He was right handed, and he was firing to his right, so the auditorium door that protected him from the teen’s view also prevented him from properly positioning the rifle without stepping into the corridor to clear it. Fired hastily, the bullet whistled past the teen’s head, and bored a hole in the glass window behind him. A spider-web design of cracks spread outward from the round hole in the center. Alarmed by the additional gunfire, Harrelson’s voice shouted over the radio, “Luca! What the hell is going on back there?” Outgunned, the teenaged gunman saw prudence in flight. As the officer dodged back inside the auditorium again, he shoved the restroom door open, and raced for the exit. Luca leaned out into the corridor again, and saw the teen fleeing. Taking a step out to clear the doorway, he fired, but the bullet went wild, striking the wall beside the door. He did not bother to fire again, knowing that the kid could not escape. He would be easily apprehended by the uniformed officers outside. The possibility also existed that he might recognize the impending capture, and decide to reenter the building, so Luca backed into the auditorium again and leaned against the wall behind him, breathing heavily, waiting to see if the youth returned. “Luca!” Harrelson’s voice shouted again. He knew by the breathless quality to Harrelson’s voice that he and the others were running toward his position at that moment, not knowing what awaited them. Resigned to the reprimand and possible disciplinary action he would receive, Luca reached for the radio, but stopped, noticing that his hand was shaking. He stared at it in surprise, recalling the last shot he had fired. It had gone wild. He had just fired a perfect shot at the pistol to disarm Michael, and followed it with two wild shots. Something was wrong. His legs felt wobbly, and he was becoming strangely weak, as if all his energy had suddenly drained from his body. Something warm and wet was spreading across his abdomen. The adrenaline rush was fading, and he began to feel pain in his midsection. Looking down, he saw the front of his jumpsuit was soaked with blood. His blood. With a combination of surprise and despair, he remembered the vest that he had mistakenly left behind in the lobby. This was the price he paid for his careless error. He laid his head back against the wall, silently cursing his negligence. Outside the twin north doorways of the auditorium, he could already hear his teammates approaching at they raced along the corridor, approaching the cafeteria. This time, in their haste to reach the scene of the shooting, they made no attempt to be silent. So, this is what it feels like to be shot, he thought to himself. Unable to support his weight any longer, his legs folded beneath him, and he sank down the wall in a seated position to await the arrival of his teammates. | ||
CHAPTER FOUR
When the gunfire had initially broken out, the four officers who had remained in the foyer with the two principals had instantly begun to run in that direction to assist their comrade. They had no idea what had triggered the gunfight, nor had they any idea what to expect when they got there, but as they neared their destination, they were easily able to distinguish the individual shots fired by the small caliber pistol and Luca's high powered M-16, evidence that it was not a spontaneous disagreement between the gang members. For reasons unknown, Luca had apparently disregarded his orders and engaged the teens, or else he was returning fire after being detected. Hondo knew he would have some serious questions to answer before a board of inquiry investigating the shooting. He hoped Luca could provide satisfactory answers to those questions.
When the gunfire abruptly ceased, the corridors were filled with an ominous, ear-splitting silence.
The officers glanced quickly at one another as they continued to run, wondering what they would find when they reached the cafeteria. Hondo's repeated requests for reports on the situation went unanswered by Luca, raising concern among the team members for his safety. Every one of them was vividly aware of the bulletproof vest that Hondo was carrying.
As they reached the barricade, Harrelson, Kay, and Street covered it as McCabe circled it and thrust his sniper rifle inside it in the event that the gang member who had surrendered might have been replaced. He looked up and shook his head. "Empty."
"That means they're holed up inside the cafeteria," Harrelson said, his eyes shifting to the twin entrances to the school assembly hall. "Or possibly the auditorium."
All four men followed their leader's gaze to the open doors, thinking they would be the perfect spot from which to conduct an ambush, especially if they managed to catch the police officers in a deadly cross fire between the two doors.
Hondo gestured toward the doors with a nod of his head. "Check out that room. McCabe, you take the door on the right; Street, you take the one on the left."
The two men instantly complied with their commander's order. With weapons at the ready, they ran quietly to the doors, and when both were in position, they stepped inside, assuming a slightly crouched, defensive stance as they surveyed the auditorium with sharp eyes peering down the long barrels of their rifles, each man covering his own half of the room. Particular attention was paid to the rows of seats, which could provide cover for the perpetrators, and the heavy draperies that were drawn across the stage. They saw no sign of movement, and no indication that the room was occupied.
With an affirmative glance at one another, they withdrew from the auditorium, and hurried to catch up with Hondo and Deacon. Having heard no indication from the two subordinate officers that the auditorium presented a threat, they had proceeded down the long corridor toward the T-junction, which turned toward the cafeteria on the right. Directly ahead, the long corridor continued toward the gymnasiums.
The two senior officers had stopped at the junction, and were peering around the corner toward the cafeteria. Deeming it safe, Deke darted across to the other side. With one on each side of the junction, they leaned around the corner to gaze down the long hallway toward the exit at the far end. They knew the cafeteria would be on the left side of the corridor, with the single auditorium door on the right. The hallway was empty, but they could hear the buzz of excited conversation and fearful weeping inside the cafeteria.
Hondo glanced at Deacon. "What the hell happened in there?" he wondered aloud.
Deke could not supply an answer to the question, so he merely shook his head.
Street and McCabe rejoined their commander.
"The auditorium is empty, Lieutenant," Street reported.
"All right," Hondo said. "Let's check out the cafeteria."
Pressing close against the wall on the same side of the corridor as the cafeteria, they crept cautiously toward the open double doors of the lunchroom, maintaining constant watchfulness of the doors they were approaching.
When they reached the doors, they halted. On Harrelson's silent command, they all burst around the corner with rifles at the ready.
A teenaged girl, standing just inside the doorway, screamed with fright as the four heavily armed men with high-powered rifles filled the doorway with those fearsome looking weapons ready for action. Her scream set off a brief chain-reaction among several of the other girls in the room as everyone whirled to see what had alarmed their schoolmate. Then, sudden silence followed as the officers evaluated the scene before them.
The incident appeared to be under control. Two teenagers, dressed in gang jackets, were being pulled roughly to their feet by a couple of boys who had the heavily muscular appearance of football players. Apparently, even the gang members had dropped to the floor during the shooting. When they were on their feet again, they were shoved against the wall will no pretense of gentleness. Obviously, these were the perpetrators of the crime.
The officers shifted their attention to the other men, women, and students who were scattered in the large room. Some were crawling out from under the long rows of cafeteria tables, apparently believing they had been protected there. Dutifully, the teachers were checking the students for injuries.
"Is everyone all right?" Harrelson asked, lowering his weapon.
"Yes," responded one of the male teachers, who seemed to have his wits about him a little more fully than the others. "I think so, anyway."
Harrelson gestured toward the two teenaged prisoners whose hands were bound with masking tape. "Are these the Stingrays who started this fiasco?"
"That is Michael Collins on the left and Tim Hauser on the right, both former students of ours before they decided that spending their time with a bunch of losers was preferable to a decent occupation. They posted another gang member at the south door. I think I heard the door open after the shooting started, so he may have escaped."
"McCabe, check it out," Hondo ordered.
T. J. rushed out the cafeteria door. A moment later, they heard the south exit door open as the police officer went through it.
"There was also one posted near the north entrance to the auditorium," the teacher continued, "but I guess you took care of that one, or else you wouldn't be here."
"He's in custody," Harrelson assured him. Surprised that no one had been injured during the shootout, his eyes swept the room, looking for the police officer who remained unaccounted for.
The teacher seemed to realize that the SWAT officer was looking for his subordinate. "If you're looking for your young officer, the last time I saw him was in the hallway just before the shooting broke out. He had disarmed both of these boys in here, but apparently was unaware of the third one in the hall. They had quite a gun battle out there. I'm not sure, but he may have gone after the shooter. He had just stepped out of my line of vision at that point."
Hondo nodded, thinking that perhaps T. J. would come across him outside. He turned to his second in command. "Deke, once we get that final gang member located and we know that everything is secure, we need to see about getting these kids out of here."
"Right," Deke agreed.
A moment later, T. J. jogged into the cafeteria to report his findings. "Lieutenant, the boy who escaped was apprehended outside by the uniformed officers. He's in custody."
Hondo nodded, pleased. "That's the last one. All right, lets get these students out of here."
"Out the back door?" Deke asked.
"No, lets move them to the front of the school. The principal can see to notifying the parents, or whatever he wants to do with them. Also, get a couple of uniformed officers in here to take custody of these two punks."
Deke turned to the students, and raised his voice to be heard by all of them. "May I have your attention, please? I want everyone to evacuate this room. Proceed to the front of the building. Your principal is waiting there; he'll take charge of moving you from the building."
Without hesitation, the students moved toward the exit, eager to see an end to their ordeal. As they filed past, they all cast apprehensive and intensely interested glances at the combat-ready police officers. Several of the teachers took charge of them, turning them in the right direction and hurrying them along.
Then, as Deke got on the radio to request a couple of uniformed officers, Hondo approached the teacher with whom he had spoken before.
"Mister ---"
"Weiss," the teacher offered.
"Mr. Weiss, there will be an investigation into this incident, as there always is whenever a police officer is involved in a shooting. I need to know who fired the first shot. Not this final gunfight, but the initial shot. From our original position, it was impossible to determine that fact."
The teacher hesitated, realizing by the tone of the lieutenant's voice that the question was not asked out of idle curiosity. Apparently, it was a question that was critical to the investigation. Recalling Luca's curious comment about his supervisor not being as pleased as everyone else was, he understood that in saving the life of the student, the young officer had disobeyed an order not to shoot. "Well . . ."
"You were in a position to determine that fact, were you not?" Harrelson asked, realizing that the teacher was reluctant to answer.
"Yes, I was. The officer fired the first shot, but before you jump to conclusions, you must understand ---"
"Street, find Luca and tell him to get his butt in here," Harrelson interrupted, his face darkening with anger. "He's got some explaining to do. I expect a satisfactory answer as to why he disobeyed my order not to engage. You got that?"
Street's eyes flashed with resentment that Harrelson's anger at Luca was being directed at him, but he merely replied, "Yes, sir." He exchanged a brief glance with McCabe, then turned and walked out of the room.
Harrelson had seen the look that had passed between the two younger officers, and he also realized by Street's expression that it was an order he did not wish to carry out. This camaraderie between the three younger officers inflamed his anger even more, for it seemed to him that Street, McCabe, and Luca were willing to cover for one another to prevent disciplinary action. Glancing at McCabe, he saw his sharpshooter staring at him with a pensive frown, clearly critical of his supervisor's abrupt reaction.
When Street had gone, Harrelson turned to Deke and was surprised to see that same expression of disapproval on the dark face of his second in command. "You got something to say?" he asked.
"Yes, Hondo, I do. There may have been extenuating circumstances," Deke pointed out.
"If there were, then I'll hear them," Hondo said, but both Deke and T. J. could still see the fire of anger that flamed in Harrelson's eyes. "But if I'm not satisfied that he was justified in his actions, he will face disciplinary action and possible reassignment."
"Reassignment?" Deke repeated, startled. "I'm not sure that's necessary."
"Excuse me, officer," the teacher broke in, trying to explain, but Hondo ignored him.
"This is a team, Deke, and I cannot have a man on my team who is not a team player. He was given explicit orders not to engage until we were all up and in position. He blatantly disregarded those orders. His actions put everyone in this room in danger!"
T. J. looked stunned. "Lieutenant, you know Luca. He would not have disobeyed your order unless he felt the circumstances necessitated his doing so."
Weiss raised his voice, "Excuse me! Lieutenant, is it? Your assessment of the situation is entirely incorrect!"
Harrelson turned his piercing eyes upon the teacher. "Then why don't you tell me, what is the 'correct' assessment?"
Weiss gazed at the lieutenant for a long time, understanding that this was a man who expected to be in charge of everything and everyone around him, and who believed that he knew the answer to everything. The teacher indicated the two prisoners, who awaited the arrival of the uniformed officers who would escort them to the jail. "Michael decided it was time to execute one of the students. He picked Brett, the boy over there by the wall."
He gestured toward a dazed youth who stood apart from the others, reluctant to join the rest of the students in the evacuation of the room. Another teacher and several students were attempting to comfort him, yet he was still shaking violently, and the crotch of his jeans was wet, indicating that he had lost control of himself. Self-consciously, he attempted to cover the wetness with his trembling hands.
"Your officer waited until it was absolutely certain that they were going to kill Brett, then he shot the gun out of Michael's hand." He pointed an accusing finger at the lieutenant. "I'll tell you now, and I'll testify before your review board, or whatever it is that police officers have to go through to prove that a shooting is justified, that under the circumstances, your officer did the only thing he could do. In fact, I insist on testifying on his behalf! Don't you officers have a motto or something: 'To serve and protect'? That officer did his job, and I don't give a damn about your orders! The life of that boy is worth a hell of a lot more than the value of your orders, and there is no doubt in my mind that Brett would be dead right now if not for him! In my mind, that young officer is a hero."
Weiss would have continued to browbeat the lieutenant, but Hondo finally raised his hands as if in surrender. "All right, all right, Mr. Weiss. I believe you. I will accept the fact that Luca appears to have reacted appropriately. I'll make certain the investigative team understands that as well. I have no doubt that he will be exonerated."
Placated, Weiss tamped down his anger. "Well, that is good, but I still insist on speaking to them myself. And I intend to speak to the press, as well."
Hondo blinked with surprise. Apparently, the teacher did not trust him. "I'll have it arranged," Hondo promised.
"Is that his name? Luca?"
"Yes. Dominic Luca."
Weiss nodded. "That was one impressive shot, if you don't mind my saying so.
"Where is the pistol?"
Weiss pointed toward the pistol, which still lay untouched beneath one of the tables. "Over there. We thought it best to leave it where it was in case you needed fingerprints or something."
Deke retrieved the pistol, picking it up by inserting a pencil through the trigger guard, and he held it up for Hondo's inspection. The cylinder was disfigured by the bullet that had struck it and rendered it unfit for further use.
"That was one hell of a shot!" Deke said.
"I'll say!" T. J. agreed. "A small target with no scope! Maybe I should worry about my job!"
Hondo smiled. "Well, I wouldn't go that far, but I'd say all that training we have to go through paid off." His smile faded, and he heaved a sigh of regret. "Deke, remind me on occasion to get all the facts before I pass judgment."
"Hondo, what you need to do is learn to trust your men," Deke replied, the calm voice of reason.
Hondo looked surprised. "I do trust them!"
"No, you don't. Not completely. Not one of your men would have disobeyed your orders without sufficient cause, and you should have known that. You have the best damned SWAT team in the entire city. They were hand picked by you because they are the best at what they do. You know their worth."
Hondo nodded with a surprisingly sheepish expression. "You're right, Deke."
"While you're at it, you might want to consider offering him a compliment on his shooting. None of the boys expect it, but it's good to hear, sometimes."
The cafeteria was almost empty, now. Two uniformed officers appeared to take the gang members into custody.
Hondo nodded. "You're right, Deke," he repeated. "I've been drilling into their heads about the need for teamwork, and I've resisted the concept myself." He glanced at his watch. "I wonder why it's taking Street so long to find Luca?"
With his left leg folded beneath him and his right leg raised, bent at the knee, Luca sat quietly on the floor of the auditorium, his back propped against the wall behind him, his head resting against the hard surface. His hand had sought out the wound, and he applied pressure to it in an effort to staunch the flow of blood, but he could feel the sticky wetness that seeped between his fingers.
Behind him, through the wall and the open door, he had listened to the students as they had filed out of the cafeteria, and the voices of the teachers, urging them to proceed to the lobby without dawdling. Finally, the parade of footsteps faded and died, leaving silence in its wake.
Something was wrong with his vision. The room seemed to be fading into darkness. Allowing his head to fall forward until his forehead was almost touching his knee, he allowed reality to slip from his grasp, seeking a place where there was no pain.
"Dom, what are you doing in here? We've been looking for you."
The voice broke into Dom's mind, bringing him back to consciousness, and he raised his head, his pain glazed eyes settling on the man who knelt before him. It was Jim Street, who gazed at him with a worried expression on his face.
"Dom, what are you doing on the floor? Are you all right?"
"No," came the soft answer, barely above a whisper.
Street lowered his gaze to the hand that was tucked between Luca's abdomen and his raised knee. Blood was streaming from between his fingers. "Oh, God," Street breathed. Laying down the rifle, he snatched the microphone from his belt. "Lieutenant? You'd better get over to the auditorium right away."
Startled by the urgency he heard in Street's voice, Hondo glanced at Deke as he raised the microphone to ask, "Why? What's up?"
"Luca's down," came the response he had not wanted to hear.
T. J.'s face fell, and he turned and raced out the door, with Hondo and Deke following.
| CHAPTER FIVE With a heavy heart and an almost overwhelming sense of dread, T. J. was the first to reach the auditorium. Hondo and Deke were almost on his heels, and their eyes immediately fell upon the stricken officer. Street was kneeling beside Luca, his hand on the younger man's shoulder, and he turned his head to gaze up at his commander, his somber expression saying more than words in regard to the severity of the injury. Luca was still seated against the wall in a position that had prevented them from seeing him when they had searched the auditorium minutes earlier, his head tipped slightly to the left, as if the effort to hold it up was too great. His eyes were closed, and his lips were pressed together in a tight line, indicating that he was still conscious and suffering terribly. His right hand was pressed tightly against the wound in his abdomen; the left hand was clenched in a tight fist on the floor at his side. T. J. dropped heavily to his knees beside him and propped his rifle against the wall, staring with large eyes at his friend and teammate. He placed a hand on Dom's other shoulder. "Dom?" Dom opened his pain-glazed eyes, his gaze meeting that of the team's sharp shooter, but he did not speak. Turning his head, T. J. looked up at Hondo, imploringly. For once, even the always-composed Hondo seemed temporarily at a loss for words. He pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture of despair. His eyes dropped to the bulletproof vest that he held in his other hand, the vest that would have prevented such an injury had it been worn. The one time, the one time he had not worn it, the unthinkable had happened! Replacing the cap, he regained his sense of command. "Deke, radio for an ambulance." Deke nodded, grasping the microphone at his belt. "Right away." While Deacon radioed for help, Hondo squatted down in front of the badly wounded officer. "Dom?" Luca turned his head slightly to look up at Hondo. "I forgot my vest," he said, softly. "I didn't even realize until after I was hit." Hondo nodded, glancing at the vest. "I know, Dom. We just found it back there where you had left it. It isn't your fault. None of us thought about it, either." His expression was very concerned. "Help is on the way. Just sit still." I'm not going anywhere! Luca thought, feeling strangely amused by the comment. The others saw the slight smile the curled the corner's of the wounded man's lips, but none understood it. Then the smile turned into a grimace as he fought a wave of increased pain. His body stiffened slightly, his hand pressed tighter against the wound, and a low, wordless exclamation of pain could not be stifled, even with his lips pressed tightly together. T. J.'s hand on Dom's shoulder tightened, as if he was attempting to ride out the pain with him. Finally, the pain seemed to diminish a bit, for Dom’s body relaxed somewhat, but a strange sense of dizziness had come over him. He stared with large eyes, seeking his teammates who were gathered around him, and felt sudden anxiety that everything seemed to be growing dark. He drew several deep breaths, trying to fight the unconsciousness that he knew was rapidly approaching, but it did not help. The darkness was closing in all around him, like a door to reality slamming shut. He turned his eyes in the direction that he knew T. J. was kneeling, and reached toward him with his left hand, but the hand groped the empty space beside the officer. "Teej?" Alarmed, T. J. grasped the groping hand that could not seem to find him. "I'm here, Dom." "I-I think I'm g-gonna ---" Faint. Which he did. T. J. caught him in his arms as he slumped over, and gently lowered him to the floor, then placed his fingers against Dom's throat beneath his jaw, and was relieved to feel the steady throbbing of his pulse beating beneath his fingertips. He looked up at Hondo with urgency. "Lieutenant, we have to get him to the hospital, now!" "I know, T. J. The ambulance is on its way." Deke placed a hand on Harrelson's shoulder to attract his attention as he returned his microphone to his belt. "I'm afraid there's a problem getting the ambulance here," he said, quietly. Before Hondo could respond, he explained, "There was a serious accident at the intersection of 5th and Holland. No injuries, but many cars are involved, and traffic is backed up in all directions. ETA on the ambulance is at least twenty minutes." "Twenty minutes!" Hondo exploded. Glancing at his two subordinates, he saw Street and McCabe were staring at him. He lowered his voice. "Damn it, Deke! Luca isn't going to last twenty minutes without medical attention! Did you explain the situation to them?“ “I explained it, but there is nothing they can do. An ambulance will have to be routed around it, and that will take time.“ “What about a chopper?" "I already asked. It's out on another call. Heart attack. They can bring in one from another area, but again, it'll take awhile to get here." "Then we only have one choice." He snatched microphone from his belt. "Sam?" "Yes, boss," came the response from the van driver. "I have a man down. We need to get him to the hospital on the double. Bring the van around to the south exit. Deke will meet you back there. Back up to the door, as close as you can get, and try not to alert the press that anything is out of the ordinary. No lights or sirens just yet. I don‘t want them in the way." "I'll be there in thirty seconds," Sam promised. Deke turned and rushed to the back door. A few seconds later, the van appeared, pulling onto the grassy field of the schoolyard. Deke gestured to him, beckoning him to hurry, and Sam instantly complied. Grass sprayed from the wheels as he speed toward the back door. He skidded to a halt, slammed the vehicle in reverse and backed up to the door. Inside the auditorium, Hondo passed his rifle to Street, and reached for the fallen officer. "I'll carry him myself. Street, make sure all the doors are open. McCabe, you take the equipment." While Street hurried out the door, Hondo lifted Luca into his arms, cradling him as if he was a child. Unsupported, Luca’s head fell back, and his arm dangled limply. T. J. picked up Luca's rifle, as well as his own, and the bulletproof vest, and followed him. At the south entrance, Street was holding the school door open and just outside the door, Deke had opened the back doors of the van. Hondo carried Luca carefully through the doorway, and stepped into the van, placing him on the floor. Street, T. J., and Deacon climbed in and pulled the doors closed behind them. "Okay, Sam," Hondo said into the microphone. "Get us to the hospital, lights and sirens. There is an accident at 5th and Holland. Route us around it." "You got it," Sam replied. The van pulled away from the school, and speed across the soccer field to the street. They rolled off the curb, and sped toward the nearest hospital. The first thing that Luca became aware of as consciousness returned was the pain, an intense wave of agony that embraced his body in a merciless grip of torture. He knew that the pain meant that he was still alive, but whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he honestly could not give an objective opinion at that moment. Never in his life had he known such unbearable torment. To let go, to pass into the other world where, according to his devoutly religious mother, there was no pain, would surely be better than what he was experiencing at that moment. Gradually, his other senses began to return. All around him, there was noise. He could hear the steady hum of a finely turned engine, always maintained to keep it in the peak of performance, and the whishing of cars rushing past. No, that was not correct. He was in the vehicle that was traveling at a high rate of speed, and it was whishing past the other vehicles. A siren was wailing, a shrill, monotonous sound. He knew he must be inside an emergency vehicle of some kind; perhaps an ambulance? No, that was not accurate, either. If he were in an ambulance, he would be lying on a gurney. Instead, he was lying on the hard floor, where every bump, every imperfection in the road sent a shock of agony through his wounded body. He could actually feel the vibration of the chassis as it sped across the hard surface beneath the tires. There were voices around him, familiar voices, voices he heard nearly every day. They were conversing quietly, scattered fragments of words and phrases, all heavy with concern, and one of them had a tense, angry edge to it. He had heard that angry clip before, had even been on the receiving end of it on more than one occasion. Harrelson. Uh-oh! You're in for it now, Dominic, he thought, his own voice mocking him inside his head. You messed up. You engaged without awaiting approval. Harrelson will have your hide for that! Slowly, he became aware of someone holding his right hand, and he concentrated on that as if it was a lifeline to his existence in this world of the living. It was not a woman's hand. He determined that quickly. It was larger, more powerful, obviously belonging to a man, but it was holding his hand now in a compassionate, consoling grip intended to offer comfort. He struggled to open his eyes, wanting to see the owner of the hand. Who was it? After several tries, he finally succeeded in achieving that goal, gazing through lids that were mere slits at the man who sat beside him. It was T. J., seated on the floor beside him. Ignoring the blood on Luca’s hand, he was gripping it firmly in “mod” handshake fashion, a worried expression on his face. When the other officer saw that his teammate was looking at him through heavy-lidded, pain-glazed eyes, he glanced over his shoulder at the person behind him. "Lieutenant? He's awake." Hondo leaned over with that same worried expression he saw on T. J.'s face. "Decided to be a hero, did you?" he said, trying to make the comment sound light, but it was weighed down by that distinct undercurrent of concern. Luca's lips parted to speak, but the words seemed slow to form. "That's all right," Hondo assured him, leaning over to place a hand on his shoulder. "Don't try to talk. We'll be at the hospital in a few minutes." The hospital. Of course. That was why he was gripped by such agony. He had been shot. Mustering all the strength he possessed, he finally managed to push one word through his lips, a mere whisper, but it was heard and understood by his friend. "Kids . . ." "They're fine," T. J. responded. "All of 'em. Thanks to you." "You saved that kid's life, Dom," Hondo said, his voice more gentle than usual, and Luca noticed that he had used his first name, an occurrence that happened only rarely. Worried that he might never get another chance to say it, he added, "We saw that gun you shot from that kid's hand. You've been holding out on us. Why didn't you tell us you could shoot like that?" "Didn’t . . . have a choice," Luca said, weakly, his voice edged with pain. “Had to . . . “ He grimaced briefly. “ . . . make it count.” "Well, you did good, Dom. You did real good." As the van neared the first major intersection, Sam was surprised to see that two police cars were sitting at either side of the crossroads with lights and sirens on. Having heard the communications over the radio about a badly wounded SWAT officer enroute to the hospital, they had cleared the busy intersection of traffic in all directions. When the van sped through it, the two cars fell in with it as escorts, one in front the other behind. At every major intersection they reached, they encountered the same assistance as other officers farther up the road cleared the streets and intersections of traffic, and then joined in the escort. In the rear of the van, the SWAT team could hear the sirens, and exchanged glances, wondering what was taking place. As if reading his commander's mind, Sam's voice crackled over Hondo's microphone. "I wish you could see this, Lieutenant. WCPD has cleared all the intersections of traffic. We have a clear road all the way to the hospital. Even with the reroute, we’ll get to the hospital before an ambulance would have! You can hear the escort that's accompanying us." Emotionally moved by the unified tribute to his wounded officer, Hondo said, "God bless them." Leaning over the wounded officer, he placed his hand on Dom's forehead, smoothing back the sweat-damp hair, and said, "Did you hear what he said, Dom? Can you hear them?" Gazing up at the ceiling of the van, Luca listened to the chorus of sirens that surrounded the SWAT van. To most people, the sound would have been unsettling, but to an officer in distress, it was as beautiful as music. The message was clear: We care, we’re here for you, and we want to help. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Sirens . . ." "They're clearing the streets of traffic, and giving you escort to the hospital." Emotional tears welled in Luca's eyes at the honor being paid to him. When he blinked, they spilled from the outer corners of his eyes in thin wet lines down his temples and into his hair, already damp and starting to curl slightly from the pain-induced perspiration. By the time they neared the hospital, more than a dozen police cars, every car in the vicinity, had joined the escort in honor of their critically wounded brother in arms. Dom's mouth felt very dry, yet he felt the need to swallow, a puzzling reflex that seemed unnecessary. "It's bad, isn't it?" he whispered, an effort that took almost every ounce of his strength. T. J. swallowed hard, and Dom noticed the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He had never noticed that before. Funny, how his senses seemed more focused on things than ever before. It was as if his mind wanted to notice everything before . . . T. J. hesitated, glancing at Harrelson as if for authorization, and Dom knew he didn't want to answer. Even the straight-talking Harrelson seemed to be avoiding the answer. "Truth," Dom whispered. Finally, T. J. nodded, slowly, unable to lie to his co-worker. He would find out soon enough anyway, and if he were in that position, he would want a truthful answer. "Yeah, it's bad, but you're tough. You're gonna be fine." Luca heard the uncertainty in his friend's voice, and he did not fail to notice the way Hondo and Deke exchanged glances behind him, confirmation that T. J. was trying to comfort him by offering hope that might not be realistic. A painful pressure against his abdomen drew his attention to his left, and he saw that Jim Street was on the floor on his other side, holding his hand against the wound in his abdomen in an attempt to impede the flow of blood. Someone had opened the front of his jumpsuit and pushed up the tee-shirt he wore beneath it to expose the wound. Again, he saw that same expression of intense concern on Jim's handsome face that he had seen on the faces of the others. In response to Dom's gaze, Jim managed a weak smile. "Hang in there, Flash," he said. Lowering his gaze, he managed to lift his head slightly and looked down at the blood-soaked cloth that Jim was pressing against the wound, and experienced a ripple of alarm. Could anyone lose that much blood and survive? The movement of his head caused the dizziness to return, and Luca could feel himself slipping into darkness again. His head dropped to the floor again, and he wondered if he was dying or if he was merely losing consciousness. He had been neglectful of his church attendance, but if he was dying, he would need the family priest. "T. J.?" His voice was getting weaker. T. J. leaned closer to better hear him. "Yeah, Dom?" "Send for Father Manucci," he requested. T. J. felt a twinge of emotion in his heart, understanding that Luca was asking that Last Rites be administered. Behind him, Deke and Hondo exchanged grim glances. "I'll send for him," he promised, but he never knew whether or not Dom had heard. The eyes closed again, and the hand he was gripping relaxed. When it was apparent that Luca had lost consciousness again, T. J. again placed his fingertips against his throat to assure himself that he was still alive. Once more, he felt the steady throbbing that confirmed life. "Hang on, buddy," he said, softly. "Hang on." The van screeched around the corner into the hospital lot's emergency entrance, forcing everyone inside the van to brace themselves. T. J. and Street held on to Luca to steady him and prevent him from being flung across the floor by the abrupt turn. Sam sped through the lanes, swerving around slow vehicles and ignoring speed signs. Once, he honked the horn loudly to hurry along a couple of slow moving pedestrians who decided to step off the curb at that moment. Startled, they jumped back to the safety of the sidewalk until the police van had passed. They stared after it, wondering what was going on. Once in the hospital parking lot, the police cars began to fall out, one by one, as the van neared its final destination. They would be required to return to duty, but their thoughts and their prayers would be with the wounded officer. Most of them did not personally know Dominic Luca, but he was a fellow officer, and that made him as good as kin. Reaching the emergency entrance, Sam backed the vehicle up to the automatic double doors, and stopped. Hondo flung open the back doors of the van, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A young intern stood just inside the entrance, and upon witnessing the arrival of the van, he stormed angrily through the door. Pointing a condemning finger at the van, he said, "Excuse me, sir, but you can't park here. This is an emergency entrance, for ambulances only. Kindly move this vehicle!" Hondo was in no mood for nonsense from a pompous intern with an over-inflated sense of self-worth. Street was almost certain he saw sparks snapping from the lieutenant's piercing blue eyes as he seized the young man by the front of his white smock and yanked him up to eye level. "Listen to me, boy! I have a badly wounded police officer in that van, so you may consider it an ambulance. Now get a doctor and a gurney out here, right now!" Held up by the front of his smock, the intern was literally standing on the tips of his toes. Shifting his gaze, he glanced at the officer lying on the floor of the van through the open doors, then back at those angry eyes, and mumbled, "Yes, sir." Hondo released him, and he backed away, greatly intimidated. Whirling, he rushed inside the hospital again, and nearly collided with a physician, who was walking in swift strides toward the door. The doctor spoke a few quick words with him, then the intern rushed to locate a gurney, while the doctor exited through the doors, walking in long, urgent strides. The doctor did not hesitate, but immediately climbed into the van. T. J. instantly relinquished his space to allow the physician room to examine Luca. He lifted the cloth that Street had been holding against the wound, but his eyes and expression betrayed no hint of his thoughts as he observed the wound. "Is this the SWAT officer who was wounded in a shootout at the high school?" he asked, replacing the cloth. Moving his hands to Luca's face, he lifted one eyelid and then the other, and examined the responses of his pupils with a penlight. "Yes," Hondo replied, surprised. "How did you know?" "Your driver radioed ahead to tell us to be expecting you." Bless you, Sam! Hondo thought. "How long has he been unconscious?" "He fades in and out," T. J. answered. “He’s only been unconscious this time for a few minutes.” "We have an emergency room waiting," the doctor continued. He snapped off the penlight. Turning to the intern, who waited on the sidewalk with a couple of orderlies, he said, "Get that gurney over here." The orderlies pushed the gurney against the rear of the van, and Luca was carefully lifted from the van and placed on the clean white sheets. The orderlies rushed him inside the hospital, and as the doctor passed Hondo, he glanced at the front of the lieutenant's jumpsuit. "Are you injured as well?" Hondo glanced down, noticing for the first time that there was blood on the front of his jumpsuit. "No, it's his blood. I carried him to the van." "All right. There's a waiting room at the end of the hall. I'll talk to you there, later." Hondo nodded. The doctor started to move away, then stopped and turned back, his expression sober. “Lieutenant? I think someone had better notify his family. We can do it, but maybe --” “No, we take care of our own,“ Hondo told him. “We’ll do it.” Even as he said the words, it was a phone call he did not want to make. As the doctor followed the gurney into the emergency room, Hondo turned somber eyes to his other officers. Street, T. J., and Deacon all stood in the van, gazing at the doors through which their teammate had just been taken. Hondo understood the concern that they felt for their friend and colleague. Raising his microphone, he said, "Dispatch? This is Harrelson. Forward a message to the chief. I would like to declare us unavailable. See if Sunset division can cover for us for a while." "Roger that, Lieutenant," came the reply. "Any word yet on Officer Luca?" "Not yet. All I can tell you is that he's still alive. If you're a religious woman, please pray that he stays that way." "I will, Lieutenant," she promised. "Thank you. Will keep you informed." His eyes shifted to the driver, who had gotten out of the van and came around to the rear. "Thank you, Sam, for radioing ahead so they'd be ready for us. I should have thought to do that." "Well, you were a little preoccupied." "Yeah, I guess I was. Well, I guess you'd better get that van out of the way before another one of those pit bulls comes out here to tell us to move it!" "Right, Lieutenant. Keep me updated on Luca, okay?" "I will." He turned to his other officers. "Well, lets go to the waiting room. Something tells me its going to be a long day." While Sam moved the van, Hondo, T. J., Jim, and Deke walked through the automatic doors in search of the waiting room. | ||
| Chapter Six When Luca next regained consciousness, he could hear the snipping sound of scissors, and became aware of the sensation of fabric being tugged and pulled at every part of his body, and he knew what was happening even without opening his eyes. He was in the emergency room, and someone was removing his clothing. Of course, he had known that they would undress him, but that knowledge did nothing to lessen the shock of feeling so totally vulnerable in front of strangers. Weakened from loss of blood and the fact that he was not fully coherent yet, he submitted to the indignity, powerless to object. At the foot of the gurney, another person was unlacing his boots. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother's authoritative voice, "Dominic, always make sure you put on clean underwear every day. If you're in an accident, you want the doctors to see you with clean underwear!" He supposed every mother in the whole country probably warned her offspring about such matters, and thoughts of her caused tears to burn behind his eyes. She was a strong woman, but petite in stature, a dark-haired dark-eyed beauty who governed her offspring with an iron fist in a tiny velvet glove. Her worst nightmare was coming true. She was more than aware of the fact that he was in a high-risk occupation. How many times had she urged him to be careful? He had sought to reassure her, reminding her of the bulletproof vest intended to protect him from such an injury. The vest he had failed to wear. Who would inform her of her son's shooting? Who would be there to comfort her and help her get through the agonizing worry? During his tour of duty in Vietnam, he had been told that even the most hardened combat veterans thought of their mothers when wounded, longing for her gentle hand to soothe his brow, to kiss his cheek, and offer comfort in ways that only a mother could. He supposed it was memories of boyhood that inspired such yearning, for a boy’s mother was always there to oversee his recovery and make him feel better. Oh, how he longed to see her just one more time. But she wasn't even in town. She was visiting his sister, Isabella, in New Jersey. He knew she would immediately try to find a plane back to California as soon as she was given the news, but he was acutely aware of the fact that she might not get back in time. Something was placed against his nose, and he inhaled the pure oxygen that it supplied to each nostril. It was looped behind his ears to hold the nosepiece in place. Almost immediately, his mind began to clear as the oxygen drove back the drowsiness that had lingered during the gradual return to consciousness. The air in the room was cold, and he felt the gooseflesh rise on his exposed skin as the last article of clothing was pulled away. A sheet was thrown over his body from the navel down, but it did nothing to warm him. He felt a twinge of annoyance, wondering why they didn't consider the comfort of the patients in places like this. The answer was obvious -- the rooms were kept comfortable for the busy pace kept by the doctors and attendants who had no idea what it was like to be lying naked on an examining table with nothing except a thin cotton sheet to sustain warmth. The chill helped to rouse him, and he became aware of the pungent aroma of disinfectants and other repugnant smells he wasn't sure he wanted to identify. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the distressing sounds of someone thrashing, weeping, and crying out in pain and confusion. He did not have to ask to realize the source. Clearly, it was the victim of an accident of some kind. The person’s pain was palpable, until the sounds abruptly stopped. An urgent voice called, "Blood pressure's dropping, Doctor. We're losing her!" "I've lost her pulse!" "Get the crash cart!" Dom's eyes fluttered open, and ignoring the white-clad individuals who were working on him, he turned his head toward the privacy drapes that separated his area from the next. He could see nothing through the heavy drape, but he could hear the sounds of the doctor and his team as they attempted to revive the victim with the defibrillator. "I've got a pulse!" announced a nurse. "All right, good. We can't wait any longer. Let's get her up to surgery, and send for two more units of blood," responded the doctor. A moment later, there was total silence behind the curtain as the patient and her physician departed for the operating room. Hoping that the woman would be all right, Dom shifted his gaze to the bright light overhead, not wanting to watch as his doctor and staff worked on him. Farther down, he could hear a small child wailing in apparent misery and the staff attempting to sooth him, assuring him that he would be okay. On his other side, also hidden behind a curtain, a woman was moaning softly in discomfort. All around him, he was curiously sensitive of the sounds throughout the busy emergency room, as if his injury had given him a heightened sense of awareness. A needle pricked his left wrist just above his thumb, drawing his attention back to the action inside his own curtained cubical, and he flinched slightly in reaction to it. That would be the i.v., intended to supply nourishment and fluids. Someone was tapping the inside of his other arm, searching for a vein, and a moment later he felt another needle prick at the bend of his elbow. This time, he did look, even though he was already able to determine that it was to replace the blood he was losing. As expected, he saw the bag of dark red blood suspended on a hanger beside the table, and watched as the thick red liquid made its way along the clear tubing to his arm. Idly, he wondered who had provided the blood. Who had taken the time from perhaps a busy work day to give the gift of life to the blood bank? When this was over, perhaps he would reciprocate, giving back what had been given to him. If he survived. He drew a deep, pain-filled breath. No, he must not think like that. He was young and in excellent physical condition, thanks to Hondo’s rigorous training maneuvers. He would fight to stay alive. The doctor lifted the bloodied cloth that covered the wound again, and began probing the flesh around the injury with deft yet urgent fingers, apparently trying to determine by feel the depth of the penetration of the bullet, but for Luca, the probing generated a fresh wave of pain. He was unable to suppress a strangled cry of pain. A firm hand pressed down on his shoulder, pinning him to the table, so he raised his own hand in a feeble attempt to bat the offending hand away from the source of his pain, a purely reflexive motion, but a nurse grasped his wrist to hold it away from the wound. In that moment, he became fully aware of the degree of his weakness, for he was unable to generate the energy to pull away from her grasp. His breathing became rapid and irregular from the effort and from the pain. Finally, the doctor moved away from the injury, but the pain he had caused lingered, and Dom felt an almost overpowering urge to roll onto his side where he could double over his body to protect the wound from further abuse. Unfortunately, he didn't have the energy to make the effort. Realizing that Dom was both conscious and coherent, the doctor leaned over him, gazing solemnly into his face. The officer was young, but the physician had a tremendous amount of respect for him and what he had accomplished at the school. "Officer Luca, you're in the hospital emergency room. You've been shot." Dom stared up at him, disbelievingly. For some reason, he could not seem to find his voice to reply to the announcement, but his mind supplied the rhetorical response: You think that fact has somehow escaped my notice? Unaware of the sarcastic comments that were in his patient’s mind, the doctor continued, “I’m Doctor Windom. We’re going to take good care of you, so try to relax.” Lifting his stethoscope from where he had draped it around his neck, he positioned the earpieces and pressed the cold steel disk against the officer's chest, listening to his heart, then moved it to various positions around his torso to listen to his lungs. He then lowered the stethoscope, and returned it to its original position. "Lungs are clear. Let's get him hooked up to the monitor," the doctor ordered. Electrodes were affixed to the bare skin of his chest with round adhesive patches, one on each of his pectorals, and another on each side of his ribs. A moment later, the switch on the monitor was flipped on, and he heard the monotonous blips of his own heartbeat. Even to his own medically challenged degree of knowledge, his heart rate sounded too fast, and he turned his head to look at it, watching the wavy lines that spiked with each beat of his heart. The doctor followed the direction of his gaze, and was impressed that even seriously injured, the officer noticed everything around him, including the abnormal rate of his own heart. In a calm voice, intended to alleviate any concerns he might have, he said, "The reason your heart is beating so fast is due to the amount of blood you've lost. The heart has to work harder to pump what's left through the veins. We're giving you a fresh supply of blood, and once we have you stabilized, we'll be taking you up to surgery." Dom heard his heart rate step up a bit at the mention of surgery. He had never had surgery before, and the thought that he would soon be wheeled into the operating room without time to mentally prepare for it was a bit disconcerting. The doctor seemed to understand his apprehension, and he smiled slightly. "Try not to worry. The blood is helping to stabilize you, so it won't be long now. We have one of the best surgical staffs in California. We'll also do our best to make it so that the scar will be minimal. It will fade in time. Your lady friends will hardly notice, but if they do just tell them it's a battle scar. I'm sure they will be suitably impressed." Dom blinked, startled by the reference to his lady friends. Had one of the guys told the doctor about his reputation with women? Unaware of the nature of the officer's thoughts, the doctor turned to his assistants. "Okay, let's get him to x-ray. I want some pictures of that bullet's precise location." "Yes, doctor," replied the attendant. To another attendant, he said, “Have O.R. Two prepared.” “Yes, doctor.” Within moments, Luca's gurney was mobile again, pushed by an attendant he could not see, for the person was above his head. All the equipment was following him, pushed by another attendant. Someone threw back the drapes that had provided privacy. With curious eyes, he saw a janitor had already appeared in the space where the woman had been, and was mopping something off the floor, his expression grim. Lifting his head slightly to see over the edge of the gurney, he saw that it was blood. Accustomed to the comings and going of critically injured patients, the janitor didn't even look up as the officer was wheeled past. Exhausted by the effort, Dom laid his head back down, but kept his face turned so that he could see the other people inside the busy emergency room. At the next curtained cubical, he saw a large gap where the drapes did not meet, and inside it was the child, a small boy. A nurse was holding him down while a doctor was attempting to look inside his throat. It was impossible for the injured officer to determine with certainty what was wrong with the child, but he suspected tonsillitis. He lay back, feeling relieved that the child would probably be all right. The gurney turned a corner, and he was wheeled out the door and down a long corridor, moving at a fairly rapid pace, reminding him of the urgency of his own situation. He was still lying on his back, his head on a pillow that was so small it barely qualified for the title, and his eyes were looking straight up at the ceiling. The florescent ceiling lights flashed rapidly by, one after the other, in a dizzying manner that made him feel sick. He turned his head away, unable to watch it, only to find that the doors rushing past were just as annoying. Nurses, orderlies, and physicians moved back and forth across the corridor with equipment and charts, stepping hastily aside to avoid interfering with the gurney. Most of them ignored him, so accustomed to the hectic pace of injured and sick patients that they were unmoved by the sight of a desperately wounded man being wheeled past them. Against a long tiled wall was a tall, very wide supply rack, and he turned his head on the pillow to observe it as they wheeled past, noticing that it contained many shelves filled with boxes and bottles of things that he could identify due to the speed at which the gurney was traveling. Beyond the wall and the supply rack were more doors leading to unknown rooms, and the dizzying effect of them returned. Unable to watch those annoying lights or the doors, Luca closed his eyes again to wait out the ride. A few minutes later, he felt the bump and jolt as the gurney was wheeled onto an elevator, and he recoiled at the pain which shot through his body. A firm, steady hand pressed on his shoulder, as if to hold him down. “I’m sorry, Officer Luca,” said a voice above his head. “I know that probably hurt, but there is a space between the floor of the corridor and the elevator floor. Just try to relax and we’ll have you in X-Ray in no time.” The orderly briefly stepped into view beside the gurney as he reached out and pressed one of the buttons on the elevator panel, and a moment later he heard the doors close and the car began to move upward. A ding! announced the arrival on the appropriate floor, and he felt the gurney begin to move again. Again, there was a painful jolt as the wheels rolled across the gap, and he felt himself slipping into darkness again. Welcoming its painless oblivion, he did not fight it, content to let it engulf him. But it was pain that aroused him once again sometime later, and he experienced a strange sensation of movement and realized that he was being transferred from the gurney onto a table with the use of a drawsheet. He heard the gurney’s wheels on the floor as it was pulled away from the table. Opening his eyes was difficult, but he forced the lids apart and squinted with discomfort at the bright light that was shining down on him, so he turned his head away from it. There were people all around him, people wearing white gowns, caps, and surgical masks. A nurse was unfolding a stack of sterile linens, preparing them for use, while another was arranging a set of stainless steel instruments on a tray. Near the wall, a man was holding an X-Ray film against a lighted panel, studying it intently. Even though he had never seen one before, he knew immediately that he was in the operating room, and realized that he had passed out on his way to X-Ray. Obviously, the pictures of the bullet had been achieved, for they were now being studied and quietly discussed. “Doctors, he’s awake,” said a voice. With so many mask-covered faces in the room, it was impossible to determine which of them had spoken. The man with the X-Ray turned toward him. “Officer Luca, we’ll be removing that bullet shortly.” He recognized the voice as that of the doctor who had examined him in the emergency room. “Doctor Metcalf, one of our most skilled surgeons, will be performing the operation, and I will be assisting. We have the bullet pinpointed on the X-Rays, and we will try to make the surgery as minimally invasive as possible. There has been some internal damage, but we expected that due to the location of the bullet. We will repair the damage while we’re in there. Now, try to relax and it will be over soon.” A voice spoke near his head, “I’m your anesthesiologist. I’m going to be placing a mask over your mouth and nose, now. Just breathe normally, and you will be asleep within a minute.” The mask appeared from his left side and was placed over his lower face, held there by a disembodied hand. He was unable to detect any odor coming through the mask, so he tried to breathe normally as he looked straight up at the tiled ceiling and waited for the anesthetic to take effect. -()- The doors to the elevator slid open and its passengers moved forward to depart, but stopped short when they saw four SWAT officers wearing their service jumpsuits waiting to board. Startled, they hesitated, as if uncertain whether the officers intended to storm the elevator car, and then seemed both surprised and relieved when the four men backed away and stepped aside to permit the departing passengers to exit. The passengers stepped quickly from the elevator, casting apprehensive stares at the four policemen as they exited in a tight group, apparently deciding there was safety in numbers. A few of them were actually pushing at the persons in front of them in an attempt to hurry them along. The four police officers watched this curiously, and had the situation been different, they might have found their behavior amusing. But at the moment, it only aggravated their already bad moods. When the car was empty, the SWAT unit boarded. Several other people awaiting the elevator did not enter with them, choosing to wait for the next one. “What the hell is wrong with them?” Street asked as he punched the button for the surgical floor a little more forcefully than necessary. The button immediately illuminated, and the doors closed. “They act like we’re going to open fire on them or something.” The others spread out in the car, and an instant later, it began its ascent to the appropriate floor. “They want us around when they need us, but the rest of the time they don’t even want to know we exist,” Deke replied, wearily. “Sort of makes you feel unappreciated, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” Street agreed with a heavy sigh as he backed up against the wall behind him and leaned on it as if for support. Why did he feel so suddenly tired? “If it had been one of those gang members who got shot instead of Luca, the media would have condemned us as trigger-happy killers.” T. J. did not join the conversation. Tipping his head back against the wall, he watched the numbers over the door as they lit up in succession until they reached the surgical floor, where the car stopped and the doors opened again. As they stepped into the corridor, noticing the startled expressions on the faces of the next group of passengers, Hondo said, “Don’t dwell on it, Street. We just do our jobs.” They proceeded down the corridor to the large surgical waiting room, hoping they would not be called back to duty before they received word of the condition of their colleague. They passed a young woman who, like the others, stared in apparent horror and crowded close to the wall as if to get as far from them as possible. Street turned his head to watch her as she hurried away, frowning his annoyance. “You know, a lot of people act differently around us, but this is the worse I’ve ever seen. You’d think we’re carrying the plague or something.” As one, the group of officers paused in the wide doorway to look around, deciding where they wanted to sit. It was T. J. who moved first, shouldering his way past the others and moving to a quite corner, away from the family and friends of other patients. He sank into a chair against the wall with a heavy sigh. Jim and Deke followed him and sat down in chairs across from him, but Hondo did not immediately take a chair. Instead, he restlessly paced back and forth in front of the coffee maker. T. J. did not seem aware of their commander’s pacing, but the other people in the room did. They stared at the obviously agitated lieutenant, shrinking back whenever his pacing carried him too near their chairs. It was Deke who noticed that their eyes seemed to be irresistibly drawn to the front of his jumpsuit, visibly disturbed by what they were seeing, and they whispered anxiously among themselves whenever he turned his back to them and moved away. As Harrelson turned around and started back toward his teammates, it suddenly dawned on the sergeant why the people were reacting to them in such a negative way. “Hondo, you have blood on your jumpsuit.” Harrelson immediately stopped to look down at the front of his clothes, observing the large stain that darkened it. He had noticed it before, but it had slipped his mind. “I had forgotten,” he admitted. Street looked at his hands and found that they were also stained with drying blood. “That explains the funny looks we’re getting.” “I suggest that we have Sam bring our regular uniforms in,” Deke continued. “Good idea,” Hondo agreed. Lifting his microphone, he summoned the driver, “Sam? You still there?” “I’m here, Lieutenant,” the driver’s voice crackled over the radio. “I’ve moved the van out to the parking area. How’s Luca?” “Not good. Sam, I need a favor. We’re going to be here for a while, so I would appreciate it if you would get our regular uniforms out of our lockers and bring them to us. We have blood on our jumpsuits, and we’re making the other people in here uncomfortable.” “Sure thing, L.T. I’m leaving now.” Hondo heard the engine start as Sam turned on the ignition. “Thanks, Sam.” He returned the microphone to its position, then turned toward the coffee pot, his eyes settling on the black brew in the glass bowl. He really didn’t want a cup, but at least it would give him something to do with his hands, so he poured a generous amount into a Styrofoam cup and then returned to his subordinates and sat down beside T. J., who remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. He observed the younger man for several moments, understanding that he and Luca had formed a bond of friendship that had progressed beyond professional camaraderie. They often double dated, met for drinks or dinner after their shift, and frequently exchanged playful banter. He wanted to offer words of encouragement, but there was nothing he could say that would change the fact that Luca was seriously injured and was perhaps even dying. He lowered his gaze to the steam that rose from the hot coffee in his cup. “Lieutenant, has anyone thought to notify Luca’s family?” Jim Street asked. “No,” Hondo replied. “I thought we should wait until we hear something. I would hate to tell them that he’s alive only to have the doctor come out ten minutes later to say that –“ He broke off, catching a sharp glance from Street. “I have to disagree, L.T.,” Jim said. “When I got shot last year, my family was very upset that they weren’t notified immediately. I wasn’t hurt bad, but they still wanted to know. Good or bad, they have a right to know what’s going on.” Deke spoke up, “I’m afraid I have to agree with Street. Want me to call them?” “No,” Hondo said. “That’s my job. I’ll call the station and get his mother’s phone number from personnel.” “She’s not home,” T. J. replied, speaking up for the first time and stopping Hondo as he was starting to rise. “We stopped for drinks at the pub last night, and he mentioned that she was out of town visiting one of his sisters. I don’t know which one, but the family priest might know. Damn, he asked me to call the priest.” He sat up straighter in his chair as his eyes scanned the room, seeking a telephone. “Does anyone see a phone in here?” “It’s on the table next to you,” Street said, nodding toward the plain black telephone that sat on an end table with a stack of magazines. “Do you have his number?” “No, but he should be in the book.” T. J. picked up the telephone book and opened it up to the page that listed Catholic churches, and then dialed the phone number of the parish priest of San Angelo’s. It was answered after four rings, and a kindly voice on the other end answered, “San Angelo’s. Father Manucci speaking.” “Father, you don’t know me, but my name is T. J. McCabe. I’m a friend of Dom Luca. The reason I’m calling is because . . . “ He paused, briefly. He had never been required to deliver this type of news before, and he was uncertain how to proceed. He rubbed his furrowed forehead with his fingertips, as if nursing a headache, then continued, “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Dom was involved in a shooting this afternoon at the high school --” “I heard a news bulletin about that,” Father Manucci interrupted. “They’re saying that an officer has been shot, but I didn’t realize it was Dominic. Oh, dear. This is going to be very hard on his mother. This is her worst nightmare. How is he? Is he hurt badly?” “Yeah, I’m afraid it’s pretty bad. He took a bullet in the abdomen. He’s in surgery right now, and probably will be for a couple of hours.” “I don’t understand this, Officer McKay –“ “McCabe,” T. J. corrected, then instantly regretted it. Did it really matter? “Oh, pardon me,” the priest said quickly. “How could this happen? His mother told me that he always wore a bullet proof vest.” “It’s kind of a long story, but he had to take it off due to the unforeseen circumstances. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because Dom asked that I get in touch with you . . . just in case. And we also need to call his mother, but she’s out of town.” “She’s visiting her daughter in New Jersey. She left the number with me in case of an emergency, so I will call and notify the family.” A grateful sigh was heaved from T. J.’s lungs. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Maybe it will be easier coming from you.” “I don’t think anything can cushion the blow of this, Officer McCabe. I will call her first, and then come to the hospital. Where are you at?” “Valley General, in the surgical waiting room. It’s on –“ He broke off abruptly. Even though he had been watching the floors on the lighted panel on the elevator, he could not remember where it had stopped. He glanced at Hondo. “What floor are we on?” “Third floor.” “We’re on the third floor,” T. J. relayed. "I will be there soon.” T. J. heard the click on the other end of the line as the priest hung up, and he slowly pulled the handset from his ear and returned the phone to the table. “He’s going to call Luca’s mom.” Hondo nodded, and the others saw relief in the older man’s eyes. “That’s good. Its better that it comes from someone they know.” The men fell silent. Deke picked up a magazine and began quietly reading. T. J. and Street went into the men’s room to wash the blood from their hands, and Hondo sipped his coffee until Sam arrived with their regular uniforms, and the officers returned to the men’s room to change into them while Sam remained in the waiting room in case the doctor came out with any news. Then they sat down to wait again. | ||
Chapter Seven
Father Manucci replaced the telephone handset on its cradle and gazed somberly at it for several moments. Passing along news of this manner was always the most depressing part of his profession, but his close association with the Luca family made this a particularly distressing event.
Transfers from one parish to another were a common part of the life of every priest, but because of his Italian roots, the Luca family had continued to attend mass at his parish, even if they were required to drive across town to do so. Mrs. Luca in particular had always been a faithful member of his parish, and he was well acquainted with her and her large family. Like teachers, priests were not supposed to have favorites, but there was something about the Luca family that had touched him in a very personal way. Their love and devotion to one another was absolute. Even though the Luca children had grown up and many had moved away to various locations throughout the country, they had always remained close. Family get-togethers were lively and entertaining for all involved, and as the family priest, he was frequently invited to these functions, and was made welcome to the point where he felt he was almost a part of their family.
It was now with a heavy heart that he opened his personal telephone book and located the number of Mrs. Luca's daughter in Passaic, New Jersey. Lifting the handset again, he dialed the number and listened as the phone rang on the other end.
Finally, he heard the click on the other end as the receiver was lifted, and a woman's voice said, pleasantly, "Hello?"
"Am I speaking with Mrs. Isabella Bonetti?"
Immediately, the friendly tone of her voice became suspicious, indicating that she was tired of being pestered by solicitors. "Yes, it is. Who is this?"
"This is Father Manucci from San Angelo's Church. I'm trying to get in touch with Mrs. Mariana Luca. You are her daughter, I believe?"
Her voice relaxed again with recognition. "Yes, I remember you, Father. You were at the Christmas party at Mama's house last year. She's here, if you want to talk to her. I'll get her ---"
"No! Wait! I have some news for her, and I think perhaps it would be better if she heard it from you."
Icy cold fingers of dread gripped Isabella's heart in response to his ominous words, sensing that the news would be bad. "What's wrong, Father? What's happened?"
"There is no easy way to say this, Mrs. Bonetti. I just received a phone call from one of the SWAT officers who works with your brother Dominic informing me that he has been shot."
For several moments, Isabella felt as though she was suffocating. It was if she was caught in a vacuum; she simply could not draw a breath. Her throat constricted painfully, and she felt her heart starting to pound with apprehension as the image of her youngest brother flashed into her mind. No, not Dominic! "How bad?" she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
"I'm afraid it's bad. They told me it's an abdominal wound, which is almost always very serious."
Confusion filled her voice. "I - I don't understand. He wears a bulletproof vest. How could – how could something like this –"
"I don't know the particulars, but I was told that due to circumstances on the scene, he wasn’t wearing the vest. They've requested my presence at the hospital in case it becomes necessary to administer Last Rites."
A sob tore from her throat, and she pressed her hand against her mouth stifling the rest. "Oh, God, no!" she groaned.
"The officer who called said that Dominic is in surgery right now to remove the bullet and repair the damage caused by it," Father Manucci continued. "As long as there is life, there is hope. I want you and your mother to hold on to that. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything."
"Yes, please do that.” Frustrated anxiety made it difficult to think straight, and there was much to be done. “I'm going to call the airlines as soon as I get off the phone and see about getting a flight out there, so if we're not here when you call, we'll be on our way."
She paused to glance at her watch. It was just after five o'clock in the afternoon, Eastern Time. Her husband would be returning home from work soon. He must be told what was going on, and she would have to find someone to look after the children after school for a few days. She would have to see to supper for her family before she left. It was a long flight from New Jersey to California, the Flight from Hell, her husband called it. The flight would be particularly unbearable this time, because they would be completely out of touch regarding news of her brother's condition. He could die, and they would be unaware of it until they landed.
"Father, unless we're lucky enough to catch a direct flight, we'll probably have to make connections, so I have no way of knowing how long it will take us to get there. If we do have to make connections, I want to be able to call you. Where can we get in touch with you?"
"You can call here at San Angelos, or if I'm not here, call Valley General Hospital. I'll be either one place or the other. If you will let me know when you're flight arrives, I can arrange to pick you up at the airport," he suggested.
"No, that's all right. I'll see if someone from the police department can pick us up. They can get us to the hospital faster."
"All right. I'm leaving for the hospital now. I'll be praying for him," the priest promised.
"Thank you, Father. So will we. If you get to talk to Dominic, tell him we'll be there as soon as we can."
"I will."
Isabella hung up the telephone and covered her face with her hands as she gave in to her emotion. She must be in control when she passed the news to her mother, but she needed to take a few minutes to recover from the shock herself. She would not get the chance.
"Isabella? Who was that on the phone?"
Isabella turned toward her mother's voice and quickly brushed her hand across her cheeks to wipe away the tears as her mother entered the living room from the kitchen, where she had been cooking supper, but Mariana instantly realized that something was terribly wrong.
Concern flashed across her face as she approached her daughter. "Isabella? What happened? Is it Rick? One of the children?"
She shook her head, trying to force back the tears that refused to stop. "No, Mama, not Rick or the children." She took her mother's arm and guided her to the nearest chair. "Please sit down. I have something to tell you, and I want you to be sitting down."
Feeling weakened by her apprehension, Mariana allowed her daughter to coax her into a chair, understanding that this would be dreadful news. With wide frightened eyes, she asked, "What is it? Isabella, you're scaring me!"
"Mama, that was Father Manucci on the phone."
She was briefly surprised, until she remembered having informed him of her trip to Passaic and had left her daughter's phone number in case of an emergency. Obviously, an emergency of some kind had occurred. "Father Manucci? Why would he call me here, unless . . . ?" Realization struck like a lightning bolt, leaving her numb with grief. "Dominic?” She grasped Isabella’s arm as if for support. “Has something happened to Dominic?"
Isabella nodded. "He's been shot. It's very bad. Mama, they don't know if he's going to make it.” Her throat constricted with emotion again, and she drew a breath to calm herself. “Father Manucci is going to the hospital in case he needs to give Last Rites."
Seized by overwhelming anguish at the possible loss of her youngest child, Mariana began to sob, "Oh, my son! My boy! Mio bambino!"
Confronted with her mother's agonizing grief, Isabella was unable to hold back her tears any longer. Throwing her arms around her mother, they wept together. They were still weeping when Isabella's husband, Ricardo Bonetti arrived home from work. It was instantly apparent that something was dreadfully wrong.
"Honey, what is it?" he asked, alarmed.
She explained to him the devastating news she had been given. "Mama and I have to fly to California as soon as we can get a plane out."
"Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed without hesitation. “The kids and I can manage while you're gone. I just wish I could get off work to go with you."
"So do I, but there is nothing you could do anyway. We'll probably be spending most of our time at the hospital. I need to call the airport for reservations. And I'll see if your mother can watch the kids when they get home from school." She pressed her hand to her forehead, remembering the rest of the family. "I need to call the rest of my brothers and sisters. They have to be told."
"I'll take care of all that," he assured her. "You two start packing. I'll call the airport and see when I can get you a flight out."
She embraced him, gratefully. Then, she and her mother went upstairs to begin packing while he telephoned the airport.
“What's taking so long?” T. J. asked, turning over his wrist to look at his watch. It had been more than two hours since he had watched as Luca was wheeled into the emergency room. They had heard nothing at all since then except for the nurse who had come out to inform them that he was being taken into surgery, and they should move to the waiting room on the surgical floor. “I hate this waiting! Why don’t they tell us something?"
"It really hasn't been that long, T. J.," Deacon said patiently, looking at his own watch to verify the time. “These operations can go on for hours.”
T. J. fell silent. The others were looking at him without disapproval, for they were as tired and bored and frustrated and worried as he was, but his close personal relationship with Luca made the waiting harder for him. As he met their gazes, they offered slight smiles of encouragement, then directed their attention elsewhere. For a long time, there was no sound in the room except the occasional rustling of clothing as someone shifted positions, or turned the page of a magazine, or heaved an occasional soft sigh.
Finally, someone entered the room, and T. J. and the others looked up expectantly. A tall slender man wearing a black suit and the collar of the clergy stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp features indicated that he was obviously of Italian decent.
Assuming he would be the Luca family priest, T. J. stood up and extended his hand. "Father Manucci? I'm T. J. McCabe. I'm the officer who called you."
The priest accepted the handshake. "A pleasure to meet you, Officer McCabe. I just wish it was under better circumstances." His eyes swept the room, observing each of them in turn. "Has there been any word yet?"
"Not yet." T. J. indicated the rows of chairs and sofas. "Have a seat, Father."
The priest sat down. "I notified his family. Dominic’s mother is visiting one of his sisters in New Jersey, so I'm afraid it will take some time before she can get back home. What happened?" he asked, curiously. "I heard on television that there was a hostage situation at one of the schools, but I was under the impression that you gentlemen always wore vests to protect yourselves."
Hondo sighed with regret. "It was a unique set of circumstances, Father. The only way we could get into position near the place where the hostages were being kept was to send a man through the air ducts. Luca was the only one slender enough to fit through, but even he couldn't get through with his vest on. He was supposed to push it along in front of him and then put it on when he reached the other end, but with everything going on, we got distracted and he left it behind. We're not sure exactly what happened on his end, since he and the shooter are the only ones who know precisely what led to the shooting. I'll interrogate the gang member when I get back to H Q."
"The news man said that Dominic saved a boy's life," Manucci stated.
Hondo nodded. 'That is true. One of the students was about to be executed by one of his captors, and would almost certainly be dead right now if Dom hadn't intervened. By doing so, he revealed his location to the gang members. He had a choice to make, and he made it."
Manucci nodded. "I'm sure it will be of comfort to his family to know that he saved someone's life."
The conversation dwindled and died. The priest removed his Rosary from his pocket and began to pray quietly while T. J. watched in silence. Like Luca, he did not regularly attend church services. Always, it seemed there was never enough time. He squirmed inwardly, realizing that it was not quite the truth. He might as well admit that there were other things he enjoyed more. Perhaps he would attend services with his mother next Sunday.
The door opened again an hour later, and this time it was Dr. Windom. As one, all four police officers, the driver Sam, and the priest stood up, anxiously.
"Well?" T. J. asked, nervously before the doctor could speak. "How is he?"
The doctor beckoned them all to sit down again, and when they were seated, he said, "He survived the surgery, but I'm afraid he's not out of danger yet. We've taken him to Recovery, and then later when he’s stabilized from the surgery, we'll move him into Intensive Care. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be crucial." He had removed his surgical attire, and replaced them with his white smock, and he reached into the pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag, which held a small piece of lead. "Here is the bullet. I'm sure you'll need it for forensics."
Harrelson reached out to take it. "Yes. This will help prosecute the shooter."
The doctor shifted his gaze to the priest. "You're the family priest?"
“Yes. Father Manucci," the priest replied. “Would it be all right if I prayed over him?”
“Not in the recovery room, but once we move him into his Intensive Care unit I will summon you to go in.”
“Thank you."
Dr. Windom stood up again. "I'll keep you informed of any changes."
After the doctor had gone, Father Manucci stood up. "I'd better update the family on his condition."
“The phone is here, by me,” T. J. said. He stood up and moved to another chair, allowing the priest to take his.
Picking up the phone, Manucci charged the call to his personal number, and dialed the Bonetti residence again. When Rick Bonetti answer, the priest relayed word that Luca had come through the surgery, but he was unable to give them the reassurance they sought that he would recover.
In turn, he was informed that Isabella was unable to secure a flight out of Passaic that evening, and would board a plane with her mother at eight-thirty the next morning, and with only one stopover in Chicago, expected to arrive in California sometime late that afternoon. Hondo assured her that a police unit would be there to pick them up and take them directly to the hospital.
After hanging up the call, they settled in to wait again.
A television set was turned on in the waiting room, and, even though it was difficult to get interested in any of the programs, most of them watched television while they awaited additional news of Luca.
| Chapter Eight “Officer Luca?” The voice penetrated his anesthetic-induced slumber, muffled and distant, as if through a long, dark tunnel, and it roused him ever so slightly. His mind was sluggish, almost numb in its inability to achieve total wakefulness, and he did not bother opening his eyes. It simply required too much effort, and he only wanted to go back to sleep. Before he could come fully awake, he allowed his body to relax again, sinking back into the darkness. “Officer Luca? Can you hear me?” That cursed voice again interrupted the quiet peaceful oblivion of sleep, bringing him a little more awake than before. “Officer Luca, it’s time to wake up now,” the voice spoke again in a soothing tone. “You’re in the recovery room. You came through the surgery just fine, but I need you to wake up. Can you open your eyes for me?” The voice was sweet and gentle, and he realized without making it a conscious thought that it was the recovery room nurse. He tried once to open his eyes so that he might put a face to the voice that was speaking to him, but his eyelids refused to cooperate. In fact, nothing seemed to be working properly. She said I had surgery, he thought, drowsily. Well, I’ll think about that later. The grogginess was overpowering, and he made no more attempts to open his eyes. Perhaps he would see the nurse later. “What’s wrong with him?” asked a second voice. This voice was hesitant and concerned, clearly belonging to someone less experienced than the first, possibly a nurse in training. Great, use me for a guinea pig. “He’s all right. Sometimes they have trouble coming out from under the anesthesia. He’s going to be really groggy.” “Is it normal to leave the breathing tube in like that?” “With critical patients, yes. The concern is that if the throat swells or he takes a turn for the worst they won’t be able to get it in again, so they will leave it in until they’re sure he can breathe on his own.” Luca heard the words in a totally detached fashion, as if they were not really talking about him. Breathing tube? “Officer Luca? Can you hear me?” the persistent nurse repeated her question. He felt his body flinch as the voice pierced his drowsiness again. Damn it, why don’t they let me sleep? he asked himself silently with irritation. It’s been a hard day, and I just want to rest! “I know you’re very sleepy, Officer Luca,” the voice persisted, “but I need to you open your eyes. Can you open your eyes for me?” Dom didn’t want to open his eyes, and he didn’t want to come fully awake. He just wanted to sleep. “His blood pressure is a bit low,” said the second nurse, unwrapping the cuff from his upper arm. “Let’s warm him up a bit,” suggested the first nurse. A moment later, a blanket was placed over him, and he felt the nurses working together to tuck it around his body. It was very warm, and had clearly been heated. It felt wonderfully comforting, like Mama’s old patchwork quilt that she used to wrap him in when he was sick, but the warmth only made him want to sleep more. I wonder what happened to that old quilt, he asked himself silently, feeling very cozy and comfortable. I’ll have to ask Mama next time I see her. He drifted off again. He was uncertain how much time had passed when he was roused again by the same voice speaking his name. “Officer Luca, you need to wake up.” He wanted to sigh his annoyance at the nurse’s exasperating persistence, but oddly the air at that moment was going into his lungs instead of out. A moment later, he felt himself exhale, followed by another forced inhale. It seemed to be accompanied by a peculiar whooshing sound. It was a odd sensation, but he was still too far under to concern himself with it, so he simply allowed it to continue. “He just doesn’t want to wake up, does he?” asked the second voice. “He isn’t in a coma is he?” “No. Sometimes it just takes a while. He was under for hours during the surgery.” “You know, I heard some of the nurses talking about him. They said he saved a boy’s life during that hostage thing at the school. They said he actually shot the pistol out of the hand of one of the gang members. He must really be good.” He felt a soft, cool hand on his forehead, smoothing his hair back. “Yes,” the first nurse agreed. “He’s really a hero.” Hero? Me? What happened? How did I get here? He was beginning to rouse himself enough that his mind struggled to recapture the events that had occurred during the day. As the memory slowly began to return, he recalled the incident in the school. It had been up to him to save that boy’s life, and then moments later he had been ambushed by another perpetrator who had been hiding in the bathroom. I’ve been shot! Silently, he cursed his carelessness. Damn it, Luca! You should have realized that one of them might have been hiding there! You were careless, and you paid the price! His next memory was of the frantic ride in the War Wagon, when his fellow colleagues in blue had offered him their moving tribute in an attempt to speed up his ride to the hospital. He remembered the coldness of the emergency room table, and the sickening ride on the gurney to the operating room. And now, he was apparently in the recovery room drifting in and out of sleep and listening to a pair of nurses talking about him. As his mind crawled slowly toward full wakefulness, unfamiliar sounds began to invade the quiet place in which he lay, strange blips and beeps and hisses, but he was unable to identify them. There seemed to be activity around him, and the sounds of other voices speaking nearby, but he was unable to make out the words. Gradually, he became aware of an odd sensation of heaviness in his abdomen, almost a feeling of stress or urgency. He attempted to move his hand to the area in an attempt to sooth that peculiar sensation, but he felt strangely numb, and the hand did not respond to his attempts to move it. Alarm rippled through him at his inability to make simple gestures. What has happened to me? he thought. Why can’t I move? Have I been paralyzed? She must have seen the tightness in his expression, for he felt her comforting hand on his forehead again. “It’s all right, Officer Luca. Try to relax.” Would you make up your mind? his mind retorted, angrily. First you want me to wake up, and now you want me to relax! “Are you in any pain?” the nurse asked, then apparently realizing that he was unable to speak, she took his hand. “Squeeze my hand if you’re in pain, and I’ll give you something for it.” He felt the fog beginning to lift, carrying him closer to full cognizance. His throat abruptly constricted, attempting to rid itself of something invasive, something long that extended from his mouth down through his esophagus. A burst of air went into his lungs, and he experienced a moment of intense apprehension, realizing with sudden cognizance that he was on a respirator. What the hell! His body tensed, and instantly that sense of urgency in his middle transformed into unbearable pain. His hand closed tightly around the nurse’s hand, so tightly that she gasped in discomfort, and then he felt those brief moments of awareness begin to slip away again, carrying him back to a place where there was no pain. His last sensation of awareness was the nurse’s voice. “Officer Luca? I think he’s losing consciousness.” T. J. sat brooding in a corner, alone, ignoring the television and the presence of the others in the room. His mood darkened with the growing nightfall. Throughout the afternoon and evening, the relatives and friends of other surgical patients came and went, as people who had been there earlier in the day went home or to other places in the hospital and were replaced by others who had been notified of accident victims or sudden illnesses, each one waiting anxiously for news. The SWAT team had been there for hours, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, pacing the floor, thumbing through magazines they did not want to read, and watching the television that was mounted on the wall. They broke for supper in the hospital’s cafeteria, leaving Father Manucci, who volunteered to remain in case news was delivered in their absence, but no one enjoyed his meal very much. They returned to the waiting room and were informed that there had been no additional news, and sat down again. Now, the other men had gotten involved in watching The Bionic Woman, allowing themselves to temporarily be removed from the reason that they were seated there, but T. J. was not interested. He had retreated into his own mind, his thoughts firmly fixed upon his wounded friend. Finally, at seven thirty, Doctor Windom stepped into the waiting room again, and everyone stood up to observe him with anxious faces, all of them hopeful, but obviously expecting the worst. "I just wanted to let you know that we've moved him to Intensive Care." “Has there been any change in his condition?” Hondo asked. “No, not really. About all I can tell you right now is that he’s stable.” “Can we see him?” T. J. asked, hopefully. “Family only, at this point,” the doctor replied. His eyes darted to the priest who stood patiently behind the other men. “Since his immediate family is out of town, however, I will briefly allow the family priest inside, but no one else.” He looked around the room at the tired faces of the police officers. "Look, there really isn't anything you can do for him by being here. Why don't you all go home and get some rest? We'll notify you if there is any change." The men exchanged glances and shifted restlessly. As much as they hated to admit it, as much as they were pulled by the desire to be at the side of their wounded comrade to lend whatever support they could, they knew the doctor was right. After a moment, Hondo pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket, scribbled his phone number on it, and handed it to the doctor. "That's my home number. I'd appreciate hearing from you if there is any change. Any change at all. I'll notify the rest of the men." The doctor accepted the slip of paper, and tucked it into his smock. "All right. You gentlemen get some rest. He's continuing to hold his own, so try not to worry too much." He turned to the priest. “Father? If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to I.C.U.” Father Manucci rose from his chair, bade the others goodnight, then followed the doctor down the hallway. The SWAT officers returned to the van and endured a quiet ride back to Olympic Station. Storm clouds had moved into the area, blotting out the moon and the stars, and lightning flashed on the distant horizon. They would see rain before morning. Few words were spoken during the drive back to the station, and the mood inside the van was as gloomy as the approaching weather. No one spoke the words, but every one of them wondered if Dom Luca would still be alive come dawn. When they reached the station, T. J., Jim, and Deacon somberly made their way down the long flight of steps to the lower level and changed out of their uniforms back into their street clothes while Hondo remained upstairs answering the inevitable questions from the night staff regarding the shooting and Luca’s current condition. As they finished dressing, Hondo came down the steps and approached them. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I can’t keep us unavailable any longer. They're giving us until noon tomorrow, and then we're back on active duty. Now, we need to go home and get some rest. I'll see you gentlemen back here at noon for briefing." There was no sound from the men, no grumblings or complaints about returning to work. Without a word, they collected their gear, closed their lockers, and walked out to the parking lot where their personal vehicles were waiting. One by one, they pulled out onto the street heading toward their respective houses or apartments. At the traffic light just out of the parking lot from the Division, T. J. sat quietly in his car waiting for the green light. He had automatically pulled out in the direction of his apartment, but as he sat at the light, his mind on his fallen partner, he knew that he would be unable to rest at all during the night for worrying about his friend. When the light changed, he turned the corner and drove toward the hospital. Visiting hours were over when he arrived at the medical facility, a fact that provided him access to a fairly decent parking place in the parking lot. After locking his car securely, he walked toward the main entrance. The parking lot was well-lit with tall street lamps, illuminating the vehicles and making a safer environment for people walking in and out of the building. However, as his policeman’s eyes quickly noted, he was the only individual who was crossing the huge parking area at that moment. Lightning flashed, nearer than before, and he detected the fresh scent of rain in the heavy, humid air. The trees and shrubs stood absolutely motionless, as if in anticipation of the life-giving moisture. The large double doors slid open to admit him, and he looked around the lobby, realizing that he did not know Luca’s room number. The hospital staff was not likely to provide him with that information, but he knew someone who might. Locating a bank of pay phones just off the lobby, he withdrew the number he had written down belonging to Father Manucci. “You know, of course, I could have you thrown out of this hospital!” The female voice, sharply clipped, authoritative, and decidedly angry, pierced Luca’s mind like a sharp knife and roused him slightly from the deep state of unconsciousness in which he had found peace. Unable to come fully awake in the lingering after-effects of the anesthetic, he stirred imperceptivity, then allowed his body to settle back into the mattress with the desire to drift back to sleep. “I don’t mean to cause any problems,” a male voice replied with enough annoyance to indicate that this discussion had begun prior to Luca’s awakening. “I’m just worried about my friend. I’m the closest thing to family he’s got in town at the moment. His mom and sister are flying in tomorrow, but they won’t be here until sometime in the afternoon. Please, I don’t want him to be alone. Just let me stay with him for a while.” Recognizing the voice as belonging to his friend and partner, T. J., Luca struggled to open his eyes, but remained too groggy to offer any kind of voluntary movement. “It is against hospital policy for anyone other than family to be allowed into the Intensive Care unit! I’m sorry, sir, but you should not be in this room. Had I not been on the phone with another patient’s family, you never would have made it past the desk! Now please, sir, I must ask you to leave.” He heard a heavy sigh from the SWAT officer, who apparently was refusing to give ground. “Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want to sit with him for a while. Why is that such a problem?” “I explained to you that it is against hospital policy!” the nurse retorted with obvious exasperation that the man was continuing to argue with her. “Cathy, would you please call Security to have this man escorted from the building?” “Cathy, don’t do that, please,” T. J. said, his voice firm. Groggily, Luca wondered if this Cathy had obeyed the nurse or the sharpshooter. “I know you have your rules and regulations, but what possible harm would it do for me to sit with him for a while?” You tell her, Teej! “It is not allowed!” the nurse repeated, reiterating policy. “Only family is allowed inside these units! I have explained this to you over and over again!” “And I’ve told you over and over again that his family is out of town!” “Is there a problem here?” asked another male voice, a voice that seemed familiar to the wounded officer. “I’m sorry, Doctor Windom,” the nurse apologized. “This gentleman walked past the nurse’s station while I was on the telephone and Cathy was checking on a patient. He is trying to get into Officer Luca’s room. I have explained hospital policy to him, but he refuses to leave. I was just telling Cathy to call security to have him removed.” “You are one of the police officers who were here earlier, correct?” Windom asked. “Yes,” T. J. replied. “McCabe.” “Well, you are certainly dedicated.” The doctor’s voice contained a just a trace of something that might have been mild amusement at the standoff that was occurring in the open doorway to Luca’s room. Dom wished he could see it too, but every time there was a pause in the conversation, he felt himself sliding toward unconsciousness again. “Look, Doctor Windom, I’m not trying to dispute hospital policy, but as I just asked your nurse, what possible harm could it do for me to just sit with him for awhile?” The doctor hesitated. "It isn't our usual policy to allow non-family members into the Intensive Care units. If we allowed friends, there would be a constant parade of people going in and out of these units, and it would disturb not only the one patient, but all of them. You have to understand, these are critical care patients with special needs." “That is what I have been trying to explain to him, Doctor, but he refuses to listen,” the nurse said. "I know, and I understand that," T. J. assured him. "It's just that his family won't be in town until tomorrow afternoon, and I thought it might help if someone he knows is with him, you know, to let him know we care. I just don't want him to be alone, you know?" There was a long pause as Doctor Windom apparently mulled over the sharpshooter’s request. In the silence that followed, Dom nearly drifted off again, until he was roused by the nurse’s sharp voice. Even though he was unable to make it a conscious thought, he was beginning to form a dislike for this nurse and her cutting voice. “Doctor, do you want me to call Security?” Seeing that the doctor’s resolve was weakening, T. J. persisted, “Doctor, I was reading one of those magazines in the waiting room, and it spoke of recent studies in the medical field which indicate that the presence of family is beneficial to critical patients. In the absence of family, a good friend can lend the same compassion and support if given the same opportunity.” “And the brotherhood of police is commonly known as a strong bond,” Windom said, completing the officer’s thought. "I have read those studies myself, and I agree with them. Still, to set aside hospital policy ---“ “Doctor, please,” T. J. insisted. “I know you have your rules, and I know you can’t suspend them for everyone who comes in, but this is a unique case. Dom was willing to sacrifice his life to save the life of that kid, and now he’s lying in this unit completely alone. I would be willing to bet that most people who come into this ward have at least one family member to come in and sit with them. At the moment, Dom doesn’t have anyone. We’re best friends, Doctor. We’re nearly family to each other. That’s why I’m asking you to bend the rules this one time. I promise I will leave when his mother arrives.” There was another long pause, then the doctor finally said, “Very well.” “Doctor!” the nurse protested. “I know,” Windom said. “This is highly irregular and a breach of policy, but I'm going to allow it in this case. I do believe it will be beneficial to the patient to have someone he knows in the room with him.” Dom heard the nurse’s footsteps walking away, and knew that she was displeased that the doctor had not backed her up. “But only until his family arrives,” Windom continued. “Thank you, Doctor,” T. J. said, gratefully. “I really appreciate this. How’s he doing?” Again, Dom was unable to form a conscious thought process, but he could sense that his friend was standing just inside the door, and could almost feel him looking at him. “According to the recovery room nurses, he experienced some intense pain when he came out from under the anesthetic, but he passed out before we could give him anything for it. It may take him a while to come around again. Other than that, there has been no real change. He remains stable. I was just coming to check on him before I left for the night. I’ll be back in the morning. If you’re still here, I’ll see you then.” Again, Dom struggled to open his unresponsive eyes, but finally gave up the fight and sank back into that quiet, peaceful place where there was no sense of awareness. | ||
Chapter Nine
The rumble of thunder penetrated Luca’s mind, reverberating softly in the stillness, bringing him out of that dark, comfortable place that had cloaked him, and he gradually became aware of a difference in his environment. The recovery room nurse who had been attempting to rouse him before was conspicuously absent, and he experienced a curious sense of regret that he had never seen her face. Also absent were the sounds of distant voices discussing the condition of other patients, and he knew that he had probably been moved to a private room.
It was very quiet in the room, except for the strange beeps and hisses that he had heard before, sounds he had not yet identified. He was moving closer to total wakefulness, but his remembrances of his experiences inside the hospital seemed indistinct, as if the boundary between reality and imagination was not clearly defined. He had a vague memory of T. J. arguing with one of the nurses, but it was impossible to determine if it was real or if he had dreamed it.
He felt very tired and weak, but that overpowering drowsiness that had existed before was melting away, rousing him against his desire to remain in that warm place he had found that was without pain, and he was powerless to stop it. The pain in his abdomen was building again with agonizing severity, and he attempted to moan softly, but something in his throat was preventing the expression of pain to reach the surface.
As before, he felt sudden alarm at the air that was being forced into his lungs with steady regularity, and his instinct was to fight the unnatural quality of it. Strangling sensations tightened his throat, and the urge to gag was unbearable. Panic rose inside him again as he struggled to breathe. His eyes came open, but it was difficult to focus. He saw an undistinguishable shape near his face, something that was holding the tube in place, and he reached toward his mouth, determined to pull the device from his throat.
There was a sudden rustle of clothes as someone in the room moved toward him, and hands grasped his wrists, holding them firmly. Desperately, he attempted to struggle against the person who was preventing him from removing the offending object from his mouth, but the hands maintained their grip, keeping them just out of reach. The hands were larger and stronger than those of a woman, and he realized that they belonged to a man.
He fought back, frantically trying to free himself from this person’s grasp. Pain exploded in his mid-section, and he cried out in pain, but the cry was blocked by the tube in his throat, resulting in a strangling sound that seemed to upset the person holding his wrists.
“No, Dom,” said an anxious voice. “You have to leave that there.”
Dom recognized the voice, and his eyes shifted, seeking the face of the man who was preventing him from removing the device. The blurry form slowly took shape, and he recognized the blond curls as belonging to his friend and co-worker. Unable to speak, he used his eyes and his expression in an attempt to convey his needs, imploring his friend to help him. T. J.! Take it out! It’s choking me! his mind begged.
The door to his room burst open suddenly, startling both of them, and he shifted his pleading eyes toward it. Without altering his grip on Luca’s wrists, T. J. also turned toward the door. The ICU nurse, responding to the evidence of his distress in the elevated heart rate on the monitor at the nurses’ station, hesitated in surprise when she saw the sharpshooter holding the struggling patient by the wrists, but quickly recovered. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“He’s trying to pull out that tube,” T. J. explained.
She approached the bed quickly, and leaned over patient, quickly recognizing the expression of panic in the wounded man’s pleading eyes as he stared back at her. Her expression was sympathetic, giving the wounded man a brief moment of hope that she would help him.
“He’s fighting the respirator,” she announced. Instead of helping him, she placed her hands on his shoulders and held him firmly against the bed. “Officer Luca, you need to calm down. I know it’s uncomfortable, but you need to stop fighting the respirator. It’s helping you to breathe.”
Helping! Dom thought, frantically, incredulously. It’s strangling me! Oh, God! I can’t breathe! He thrashed, desperately, trying to break free from T. J.’s grasp, but the hands around his wrists tightened.
“Calm down!” the nurse repeated, more forcefully than before. “Relax and let it breathe for you.”
Dom’s eyes darted back to T. J. and saw that the sharpshooter was almost as frightened as he was, and was clearly upset that Dom was not calming down at all. If anything, he was struggling worse, and the coughing, gagging sounds he was making were terrifying. Both men’s eyes were huge, Dom’s with panic, T. J.’s from horror.
“Can’t you help him?” T. J. pleaded.
“I’m going to summon a physician. Just keep holding his wrists,” the nurse instructed. “But be mindful of the i.v. And whatever you do, do not allow him to pull out that tube!”
She disappeared through the door, leaving the frightened sharpshooter alone with the equally frightened Luca.
“Dom, settle down,” T. J. urged with more emotion than he had ever heard in his voice. Dark brown eyes bored deep into his blue ones, pleading for help that he could not offer. “The respirator is there to help you!”
The pain in Dom’s abdomen was excruciating, but he could not speak, could not alert anyone to his agony. A strangled cry managed to work its way past the tube as Luca tried to call out T. J.’s name.
“Dom, please, settle down,” T. J. continued to plead. “The nurse has gone for a doctor, but you need to relax. The machine is helping you breathe. Relax and let it do its work.”
Dom’s struggles were growing weaker as he exhausted himself, but his eyes remained locked with T. J.’s, as if attempting to desperately convey a message that was not being understood.
In actuality, T. J. understood completely that Dom was desperately asking for help, but he could not help him in the way that Dom was requesting. He could not remove the breathing tube; that could only come from the physician’s direct order, and until then it must remain in place.
After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality only few moments, the nurse returned with a young doctor in a white smock. She had apparently told him what was happening, for he was carrying a syringe loaded with something that T. J. hoped would help his friend.
“I tried to get him to calm down, but either he can’t hear me or he’s too panicked to obey,” the nurse was saying as they came through the door.
The doctor assessed the situation quickly. “All right, I’m going to sedate him. I don’t want him pulling out that tube or opening up that wound again.” Quickly, he uncapped the syringe and emptied the contents into the i.v. line.
Almost immediately, Dom felt the effects of the medication as it seeped into his bloodstream through the i.v. tube. At first, it carried with it a pleasant numbing of the pain in his abdomen, and his rigid torso began to relax. He felt T. J.’s hands still gripping him tightly around the wrists, but he no longer felt any inclination to struggle against him.
As Dom ceased his struggling, he felt the sharpshooter lower his arms onto the bed at his sides and finally release him. The light in the room was beginning to fade, and then there was blessed darkness.
The nurse immediately inspected the i.v. needle to make certain it had not come loose during the struggle.
The doctor withdrew a coiled stethoscope from the pocket of his smock, put the earpieces in place, and slipped the metal disk down the front of the hospital gown and pressed it against Luca's chest and sides, listening to his heart and lungs.
T. J. watched as he did this, trying to interpret that peculiar neutral expression worn by most physicians as they examined their patients. He wondered if they received special training to maintain that expressionless countenance indigenous to medical doctors.
Nodding with satisfaction, he returned the instrument to his pocket. “He seems okay, now. Doctor Windom has gone home for the night, but I am certain that he will want to remove that tube in the morning, so, in the meantime, we’ll keep him sedated to prevent a repeat.” He looked up, focusing on the wide-eyed man who stood on the other side of the bed. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
“Doctor Windom gave permission for him to stay,” the nurse told him in a clipped voice when T. J. failed to speak. She was obviously still annoyed that he had been allowed to remain.
From the instant change in the young doctor’s demeanor, T. J. deduced that Windom carried some administrative clout within the hospital. “Well, it’s against procedure, but if Windom gave his approval then I cannot overrule it. In actuality, it’s probably a good thing you were here. Nurse McGuire told me you were already restraining him when she came into the room.”
T. J. nodded, mutely, too upset by what had just happened to speak.
“The way he was struggling, he could have broken open that wound or pulled out that tube, and if there is any swelling in there it could have been difficult to reinsert.”
T. J. nodded again. He cleared his throat, but he was surprised by the quaver in his voice when he asked, “Is he doing any better?”
“He’s still holding his own,” the doctor replied. “We probably won’t see any significant change in his condition for another day or so. Until then, we’ll just keep hoping and praying that he will continue to hold out. You’re planning on remaining the rest of the night?”
“Yes.”
“All right. If you notice any changes, summon a nurse immediately. We’ll want to keep a close eye on him for a while.
“I will.”
The doctor and nurse left the room, pulling the door closed behind them, leaving T. J. alone with the wounded Luca again. T. J. sank down in the chair he had pulled near the bed, calming his pounding heart as he looked at the now-sleeping patient. The incident had shaken him badly, and he was profoundly grateful that Dom’s mother had not been there to witness it.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The only noise in the room was the repetitive blips of Dom's heartbeats on the monitor and the low whishing sounds of the respirator, and T. J. had sat for a long time and watched the electronic green line spike with every blip. It seemed steady, a good sign, but he was admittedly no expert on medical matters.
He felt a yawn building, and tried to fight it off but without success, and as he yawned he simultaneously rubbed his fingers in his eyes in an attempt to push the sleepiness from them, but it only made them feel more tired. Standing up, he stretched his legs and moved to the window to gaze out into the night.
It was raining now, and the normally busy streets that ran before the hospital were nearly deserted. Only a few vehicles with their headlights turned on made their way toward destinations unknown to the troubled officer. Farther out, most of the business complexes were dark, waiting for the employees to arrive for work. Only a few contained lights in the windows, attesting to a few night-owls or nightshift employees. There were still cars in the hospital parking lot, but that was not unexpected, given the number of patients and staff.
Rolling his head around his shoulders in an attempt to work out the stiffness, the weary officer returned to the bed and sank down in the chair again to gaze with worried eyes at the face of his friend and teammate. Since the brief return to consciousness and the struggle over the respirator hours earlier, Dom had not moved at all during the rest of the night. His eyes remained closed, and his face was relaxed, as if sleeping. But it was not a natural sleep; it was drug-induced to prevent him from causing further injury.
It was difficult to see Dom Luca in this way, but it was more difficult to think of leaving him there alone. The quiet form on the bed was a startling contrast to the cheerful man he knew, so full of life and energy.
Deep in thought, T. J. was not aware when the door opened. Lieutenant Harrelson paused in the doorway, surprised to see the other officer standing at the window, gazing with a worried expression at the motionless form of their wounded colleague.
He slipped quietly inside, and carefully closed the door behind him. "T. J.?"
Startled by the unexpected presence of the team leader, T. J. whirled toward the door. "Lieutenant."
"What are you doing here?" Harrelson asked.
T. J. shrugged. "I couldn't get him off my mind, so I decided to come back here. I thought maybe having someone in the room with him, someone he knows, might help. You know, let him know that we care."
"I came by to see how he was doing, and the nurses told me you were here.”
T. J. gestured toward the door. “How did you get past that linebacker at the nurse’s station?”
“It wasn’t easy. I had to do some mighty fancy talking, I tell you that. She granted me five minutes, and If I’m not out of here by then, she’ll come to get me."
Harrelson moved closer to the bed, observing the pale face of his wounded officer. T.J. noticed with surprise that the lieutenant’s face was uncharacteristically gentle with concern as he viewed the respirator and the monitors. His jacket and trousers were spotted with raindrops.
"So, has there been any change?"
"He was awake for a few minutes before midnight, but he started fighting the respirator so they had to sedate him.” He deliberately neglected to inform the lieutenant about the frightening struggle, and how badly shaken it had left him afterward. “Didn’t you go home?”
"I'm wound up tight as a fiddle string," Hondo admitted. "Betty was getting tired of my tossing and turning, so I went down to the jail and dragged that young punk out of bed, the one who shot him. He told me he was hiding in the boys' bathroom, and admitted that he shot Luca from ambush. Dom went down on the first shot, but he must not have realized that he was hit, because he got back up and traded shots with the kid. It ended when the kid tried to hightail it out the door."
Just a bunch of stupid kids," T. J. said, bitterly. "They'll be back on the street before the ink is dry on their fingerprints.
"Not this time, at least not the shooter. The attempted murder of a police officer will keep him behind bars while he awaits trial."
"What about the others?"
Hondo shrugged. "Well, that is a bit less certain. My guess is that the first one we apprehended, the one who panicked and ran, will probably be back out in a day or two. This is his first offense, and he doesn't seem to be directly involved in anything violent. I think they'll go easy on him. As for the other two, we have them on intent to commit murder, particularly this Michael fellow."
T. J. got up from the chair and wandered to the window again, as he had done intermittently all night. Pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the pane, he gazed out at the wet parking lot below, lit by street lamps. Moths fluttered around the bright glow of light, apparently oblivious to the rain.
Hondo observed his sharpshooter quietly, detecting weariness in his posture. Mental stress could be as exhausting as physical stress, and he knew that was what he was seeing. Turning over his wrist, he glanced at his watch. "It's nearly three. I think it's time we went home and got some sleep."
"You go ahead. I want to stay a while longer."
Hondo could see that his sharpshooter was exhausted. "T. J., you won't do him any good by ruining your own health. Now, I want you to go home and get some rest and have a good meal."
T. J. shook his head, negatively. "I'm all right, Lieutenant."
Hondo was dissatisfied with the response, "T. J., you're exhausted. Do I have to make it an order?"
T. J. drew a deep breath, and released it in a heavy sigh, a vivid gesture of resentment. Disobeying an order issued by his supervising officer was an offense that could incur disciplinary action, but he knew that if Hondo issued this particular order, he would ignore it. Looking directly at his supervisor with defiance in his eyes, he said, "Lieutenant, please don't make it an order, because it's an order I'll have to disobey."
Hondo was not surprised by the response; he had, in fact, expected it. "Do I detect deliberate insubordination?" he asked.
T. J. continued to gaze at him, steadily. He did not answer verbally, but the expression in his blue eyes offered vivid confirmation.
Hondo finally nodded. "All right. I won't make it an order. But you need rest, T. J. We return to duty tomorrow, and the city expects us to honor our commitment to the community. The chief was very generous in giving us until noon, but even with that you’re going to be sleep-deprived.”
“So are you,” T. J. replied. “So are Jim and Deke. Do you really think any of us are going to get any sleep tonight?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Lieutenant, I want to stay here until his mother gets back. Now, I’ll be there at noon if you absolutely need me there, but afterward I’m coming back here.”
Harrelson drew a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh. “Very well. I’ll give you permission to stay here, but remember we’re on call tomorrow. Do you have your beeper?”
“It’s in the car.”
“Get it and keep it handy. If we get a call, I expect you to be there.”
The door to the room opened, and Nurse McGuire stood silhouetted against the light behind her, her hands on her hips. “Lieutenant, you talked me into giving you five minutes and you’ve gone over that time.”
“Sorry,” Hondo apologized. Turning to T. J., he said. “Hopefully, we will not get a run tomorrow, but if we do I expect you to be there.”
“I will be,” T. J. promised.
“Lieutenant,” the nurse insisted.
“Coming.” Casting one last, lingering glance at Luca, he made his departure. The nurse stood there for several moments looking disapprovingly at T. J., who obviously had no intention of leaving. Then she backed out the door and pulled it closed behind her.
| Chapter Ten Something was happening. Even in his unconscious state, Luca could feel the changes that were occurring in both his mind and body. Deep in his mind, with only the barest thread of awareness, he sensed that he had slipped into a unique place somewhere between life and death, and without making it a conscious thought, he realized that he was gradually releasing his hold on life. Already, he was enveloped in a floating sensation, as if freed from the confines of his earthly body, but curiously, he felt no fear, for it was not a bad place to be. There was nothing to invade his blissful tranquility, no pain that had to be endured; only the warmth and a peace far greater than anything he had ever imagined. It’s up to you. There had been no spoken words, exactly. It was more of a sense of perception; an understanding that it was his decision whether or not to hold on to the life he had led or to let go of his earthly self and go to wherever humans went when they passed from one life to the next. Like the rest of his siblings, Luca’s Catholic upbringing had been instilled in him since birth, along with the firm belief of a greater Hereafter. But he was only human after all, and it was normal for humans to doubt and wonder -- What lay beyond the realm of the living? Was there simply nothingness? A deep, dark void with no awareness? Would he simply cease to exist? Or was it the wonderful place of everlasting life that his mother believed it to be? He did not know the answer to that question, but he sensed that he would find out, very soon. All he had to do was let go of whatever umbilical was keeping him earthbound, allow his spirit to drift away from his body, and it would be over. But did he really want it to be over? Did he want to permanently release his hold on life? A light penetrated the darkness around him, startling him with its intensity. His first instinct was that it the doctor’s penlight looking into his eyes, as he had done many times since his arrival at the hospital. But he had heard of people who had been brought back from the brink of death, claiming to see a light. Was this what was happening to him? Was it a Heavenly beacon, illuminating the path to the other side? Was his father waiting for him beyond that light? And his grandparents, who had pampered and adored him as a child; were they there as well, waiting for him to join them? All he had to do was let go of that final thread that connected him to his life. Release it, and he would solve the mysteries that existed in the minds of all humans. But once released, there was no going back. You’re giving up. Are you sure this is what you want? Again, the peculiar sense of knowledge nudged at his mind, speaking to him without words, and he wondered at its source and the slightly condemning quality of it. Was it his conscience? Or was someone trying to remind him of the things he would lose by letting go? He had enjoyed a richly fulfilling life, with many friends and relatives. He had seen many things, experienced the joys and trials that were a part of the life of every human being. He had loved and lost, taken pleasure in his successes and endured crushing failures, he had made mistakes and learned from them (most of them, anyway), and through it all, he had always maintained his passion for life, eager to see what else there was to see, to touch, to taste, to love. Was it true that he was giving up? Or was it simply his time to go, his turn to make that inevitable transition? It doesn’t have to be this way. You’ve never given up on anything before in your entire life. Always, you saw things through to completion. Why should he go back? The pain was more than he could tolerate, more than anyone should have to bear. There was no reason to endure that again. He knew he had already experienced the worst part of dying. Why should he go back and face it all over again, later? You’ve made a difference in the lives of so many people. There are others who need your help. How can you just walk away from it? From them? Looking back on his life, it didn’t feel like he had made any difference at all. If he had done so much good, why did it always feel like he hadn't done enough? There were always so many more; more people who get on drugs, more people who wanted to take their own lives because they felt there was no solution to their problems, people who stole because they couldn’t afford to keep food on the table and believed there was no other way out for them. It never stopped. Many of them were beyond help, from him or anyone else. Where was the justice for them? You can't save everyone, the silent speaker advised. You're only one man, after all; you cannot take on the weight of the world. But you do your share; perhaps even more than your share, and that is not something to be ashamed of. You go that extra step to help others in need. His father had taught him that. “Always do your best, my son,” the elder Luca had advised in his thick Italian accent. “Always go that extra step to do what’s right. Never give up. Always, see it through to the end.” His father’s words washed over him like a warm embrace, moistening his eyes and tightening his throat with longing. Would Pop have been proud that he had chosen to become a police officer? Would he have been proud of his son’s desire to help others and to protect the public? Yes, he believed he would be very proud of his youngest child. But he would not be so proud to know that Dom was thinking about bailing out. Of giving up. Pop did not approve of quitting. “Always see it through to the end.” Was this the end of his natural life, as had been preordained by some higher Power? Or was he quitting? Taking the easy way out? It’s up to you, the “voice” seemed to sigh with disappointment. Suddenly, Luca knew he did not want to give up on his life. He was young. There was still too much to do, too many new things to experience, so many years ahead of him to enjoy, and he wanted it all. He wanted to sample everything there was to enjoy. He wanted to live! Without warning, the pain returned in a dizzying rush, nearly doubling him over in its intensity, and he heard someone groan before he realized that it was himself, reacting to the pain. The groan was muffled, and he realized it was because of the breathing tube that was still in his throat. With that realization, he again felt the air being forced into his lungs, but this time he did not have the strength to fight it. His body was weak and relaxed, and he simply allowed the machine to breath for him. And he had not nearly doubled over in pain, for his body was totally immobile. It had merely been a sensation; a need that could not be achieved. He could feel his spirit returning fully to his wounded body, and somehow he understood that the crisis had passed. He would not die. It was not his time. More and more, his sense of reality was coming back to him. There were people in the room with him; a soft hand, probably a woman, was resting lightly, comfortingly, on his forehead. He focused all his attention on that hand, allowing it to draw him back. Gradually, he became aware of an emergency alarm sounding somewhere nearby. He was lying flat, and the pillow had been removed from beneath his head. “He’s back,” he heard a male voice beside him say in apparent relief. There was a long pause of silence as the person continued to monitor his condition. “His heart rate is returning to normal. Cancel the Code Blue.” The speaker must be a doctor, he realized. Lying there on the bed, relying solely on sound and touch as his primary senses, he listened as the unused “crash cart” was wheeled out of his room. Then, the room became quiet as the alarm outside his door was silenced. The hand was removed from his forehead, and an instant later it lifted his head and slipped the pillow beneath it. The bed was returned to its original position and other hands straightened the hospital gown. He knew they had given him chest compressions. It had been close, he realized. He had come very close to death, and the hospital staff believed they had brought him back with their medical techniques. But Luca knew that there was more to it than just that; he had come back because he wanted to; because someone had cared enough to remind him of how much he would be giving up. I’m proud of your courage, my son, that strange wordless understanding penetrated his mind again. Your mother and Isabella will be arriving soon. You must be here for them. “Pop?” The word choked in his throat, held back by that damnable tube. He could feel it in his mouth, pressing against his tongue and against his throat. Feeling resentful of its presence, he attempted to open his eyes, but they were as unresponsive as the rest of his body. “Is he choking?” asked a feminine voice, filled with concern. He could feel the doctor gazing into his face, examining him carefully. “No,” he answered a moment later. “I think it’s just an involuntary reaction to the tube. Keep a close watch on him for a few hours, and if he continues to improve, then we’ll remove it.” “What about his friend? Should I let him back in the room?” Several moments of silence ensued before the doctor replied, “Tell him that Officer Luca appears to be stabilizing, and send him down to the cafeteria for breakfast. If he continues to stabilize over the next few hours, we’ll let him back in.” He heard the rustling sounds of their clothing as they left the room, and then he was alone. Listening to the sounds of the instruments that monitored his vital signs, he slipped into the darkness again, but this time it was peaceful, much needed slumber. The small glowing orb shining directly into his eye was painfully bright. He attempted to turn his head away from it, but he would have been unable to achieve that desire even if he had possessed the strength to do so, for something was holding his head still. He realized quickly that it was a hand, pressed firmly against his forehead, effectively pinning him to his pillow. The thumb of the same hand had pried his eyelid open, forcing him to stare at that detestable light. It was a small penlight, shining into the eye with a flicking motion, obviously intended to test the responses of his pupil to light. Though somewhat blurred, he could see the serious face of the physician behind it, peering into the eye with a studious expression. Finally, the physician released that eyelid, moved to the other one, and forced it open, subjecting it to the same scrutiny as the first with that infuriating penlight. Dom felt a twinge of annoyance at the duration of time it was taking the doctor to make his examination and remove that irritating light. How long did it take a trained professional to tell that the pupils were responding to light? As a police officer, specializing in vice, he had been taught emergency medical procedures, and it had never taken him this long to determine that a drug addict's pupils were dilated or unresponsive. When the doctor removed his hand, allowing the eyelid to close again, Dom's brow tightened in a slight frown of irritation. About time! There was a long pause, indicating that the physician had seen the movement, as slight as it was, and was surprised by it. "Officer Luca?" he asked, hoping to generate a response from him. Dom was able to distinguish his name, and he attempted to respond to it, but could not seem to find his voice. His eyes would not open of their own accord, but he had little time to feel alarmed by that inability to control his own body. As he moved closer to consciousness, he was becoming aware of the pain in his middle, intense and constant, and all his senses focused on that excruciating discomfort. Involuntarily, he drew a deep, shuddering breath, and released it in a low groan, a groan that reached the surface this time. The respirator, he realized with great relief, was gone, and he was breathing on his own. "He's in pain," he heard the doctor say to someone else in the room. He felt the hand on his forehead again, and hoped the physician did not intend to pry his eyelids open and shine that light in his eyes again. He had endured enough of that abuse. Even though he couldn't see the physician, he could sense that the man was looking at him carefully, trying to determine the level of consciousness that he had managed to achieve. Finally, after a brief moment, the hand was removed again without touching the eyelids. "He's starting to come out of it," the doctor said to that other person in a voice that was more discernable. When next he spoke, the voice was close to his face, indicating that the doctor was leaning over him in an attempt to make his words more distinct to his semi-conscious patient. "Officer Luca? If you can hear me, I'm going to get something to ease the pain. Just bear with it a little longer. This will only take a few minutes." Dom was unable to reply, but he would have liked to make a favorable response to the announcement that the pain would soon be reduced. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but instead of standing here talking about it, could you go get it,, please? "I'll be back momentarily," the doctor said, but Dom was uncertain if the words were spoken to him or to the other person in the room. He suspected it was to the other person, for the words were spoken farther away from him. Luca heard the door open and close, and then, except for the blips of his own heartbeats on the monitor beside the bed, there was silence. Whoever the other person was, he or she had made no verbal responses to any of the doctor's announcements. He assumed it was probably a nurse or perhaps an intern assisting the physician and learning the ropes. He drew several deep breaths, fighting that excruciating pain in his abdomen, but the act of breathing seemed to only increase his discomfort, and he felt frustrated that voluntary movements were so difficult to make. The urge to double over onto his side was almost as unbearable as the pain. He turned his head slightly on the pillow, and stifled another low groan. The other person seemed to understand his distress, for he felt a hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder. "Hang in there, Dom. The doctor'll be back in a few minutes." He recognized the voice. It was T. J. He could feel the veil of unconsciousness trying to return, a byproduct of the intense pain, but he fought it, trying desperately to stay awake. Finally, after considerable concentration, his eyes fluttered and came partly open. For a moment, everything was blurred and hazy. He blinked a couple of times, and the images slowly came in to focus. T. J. was standing beside the bed, gazing anxiously at him. He looked terrible. His unshaven face was pinched and drawn, and the darkness under his eyes indicated that he had not slept in a while, a fact that made him wonder how long he had been unconscious. Noticing that his friend was looking back at him through half-open eyes, he said with a fleeting smile, "Hey, Dom. It's good to see you awake again." Dom managed to part his lips slightly in an attempt to speak, but could not muster the strength to make a sound. He felt a desperate need for a drink of water, but was unable to make his requirements known. "It's okay," T. J. assured him, realizing that Dom was trying to speak, but unaware that he wanted something from him. "Don't try to talk. Just save your strength." He paused briefly to glance at the door, as if anxious for the doctor to return. Turning his attention back to his wounded friend, he offered, "Your mom’s coming back from New Jersey. Her plane will be landing some time this afternoon." Something in Luca's expression told T. J. that his friend had heard and understood, but after a moment or two, his eyes closed again, too weary to hold them open for very long, but he remained conscious, focused on that agonizing pain in his middle. Recalling his fears that he would not live long enough to see his mother again, he was overjoyed that he would be granted the opportunity, but he did not want her to see him in this much pain, knowing that it would cause her great distress. What is taking that doctor so long? After what seemed like an eternity, when in reality it was only a few minutes, the door opened again, and he heard the whispering sound of a doctor's smock rubbing against his clothing as he walked. The individual moved to the other side of his bed, and he felt the i.v. tube move slightly as the doctor positioned it so that the needle could be inserted into the rubber cap to inject the medication into it. "I'm giving you a dose of morphine," the doctor explained. "Later, we'll find a painkiller that is not so addictive, but for now, this will make you feel better." While Dom waited for the drug to take effect, he considered the irony of being administered morphine to ease his suffering. Morphine was a highly sought-after, highly addictive drug on the streets, one that was difficult to overcome when addicted. When he was in Vice, he had witnessed the effects of withdrawal on addicts, observing them with a feeling of sympathy and helplessness as they had struggled through the insomnia, muscle spasms, fever, nausea, severe stomach cramps, and muscle aches. If he had been able to speak, he would have requested the less addictive medication now, rather than later, even if they were not as strong as morphine and unable to eliminate the pain completely. He had heard of police officers and military personnel who had become addicted while taking legally prescribed doses of morphine following injuries, and he was determined that he would not become one of them. But at that moment, he only wanted to feel the numbing effects of the drug he had been given. He would worry about everything else later. Fortunately, he did not have long to wait. He knew that morphine is a fact-acting painkiller, and he soon began to feel the gradual easing of the pain, and the feeling of well-being associated with that particular drug. It was that sensation of euphoria that made it so highly desirable among addicts. He relaxed, feeling comfortable and content, and he allowed the blessed darkness of sleep to creep in and overtake him. T. J. watched, sensing that his friend was drifting off to sleep. "His eyes were partly open for just a moment while you were gone," he told him. "He tried to speak, but couldn't. Is that a bad sign?" The doctor smiled. "No. The night staff had him pretty heavily sedated. It's only natural that it will take some time for him to overcome it. Believe me, he's greatly improved. The next time he awakens, the drug should have worn off enough that he should have recovered the ability to speak. Right now, what he needs is rest." He glanced at the weary face of the curly-haired officer who had so generously demonstrated the value of friendship during the past twenty-four hours. "Which is what you look like you could use, as well. I don't suppose I can impress upon you to go home and get some sleep." T. J. shook his head. "His mother will be arriving some time later this afternoon or evening. I'll leave when she gets here." "All right. Well, I have other patients to see. I've upgraded his condition from critical to serious. I think he's out of immediate danger, but if you notice any changes, or if he shows signs of coming to again, send for me." "I will," T. J. promised. Doctor Windom left the room, and T. J. sank into the chair once more, but this time, it was renewed hope that Luca was going to recover. | ||
| Chapter Eleven Luca awakened feeling warm and comfortable and content, yet strangely tired and drained of energy, as if he had really been put through the proverbial ringer. Yawning, he turned his head slowly to the right on the pillow as his eyes opened, expecting to see the familiar objects that decorated his own bedroom. Instead, he experienced a jolt of surprise when he was confronted with the small intensive care unit and the medical equipment that had monitored his condition throughout the night and day. With an expression of astonishment on his youthful face, his eyes slowly made their way around the room, observing the equipment and furnishings. The electronic line on the heart monitor continued to spike with each beat, but the sound had been turned off, apparently for the purpose of allowing him to rest. He watched it for several moments in silent fascination at the evidence of his own heartbeat, then continued his examination of the room. Beside the bed was a chair, and in the chair, T. J. had dozed off with his chin in his hand. On T. J.'s right was the closed door leading out of the room. What lay beyond the door, he had no idea, but he could hear the muffled sounds of conversation on the other side. The voices were female, probably nurses and CNA’s. A pair of footsteps passed the door, apparently proceeding to another room. Turning his head on the pillow to look to his left, he saw the i.v. tower which held the bag of clear saline that slowly dripped its contents through a long tube into the wrist at the base of his thumb. Other equipment that he could not identify stood unused in the corner. Confusion puckered his brow as he struggled to remember what had happened to him. His mind was jumbled, unable to separate one event from another. He was obviously in a hospital, but he had to concentrate intently to bring the specific details into his strangely perplexed mind. We were on a call to a school, he remembered. Yes, that was it. A street gang had taken hostages. Satisfied that his normal mental functions were returning, he began to relax. A single soft snore drew his attention away from the equipment, and he turned to his right again to observe T. J. The arm of the chair had a smooth, flat top, and his elbow was propped on that smooth surface, his body twisted and balanced so that he would not slide off. His chin was planted firmly in his hand, and his eyes were closed. Another soft snore reached his ears. An amused smile slowly formed on Luca’s lips. He would have to remember to give his friend a hard time about his snoring later. Vaguely, he recalled seeing his partner at his beside earlier, but the memory was foggy. Reaching out a hand, he placed it on T.J.'s knee and squeezed it. T. J.'s eyes snapped open, and he immediately jerked his head up. He saw instantly that Luca was awake and looking at him. "Hey, Teej," Dom said in greeting. Weak and hoarse, his voice did not sound like his own. His throat was very dry and sore. He tried to clear it, but the sound was dry and raspy. Intense relief flashed across T. J.'s face, and he leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. "Hey, it's good to see you awake! How are you feeling?" he inquired. "A little tired," Luca croaked in response. "You?" "The same." He observed the other officer's stubbled face. "You look tired. How long have I been out?" "You were brought in a little after noon yesterday." He glanced at his watch. "It’s five o’clock, now." "You've been here the whole time?" "Pretty much." He shrugged, embarrassed to admit just how worried he had been about him, but he could see the understanding in Luca’s eyes, and knew that he appreciated it. His throat was so dry he could barely stand it. "T. J., I could really use a drink of water. My throat is as dry as the Mohave Desert." T. J. made a lame gesture toward the door. "I'll have to ask the doctor, first. He wanted me to summon him if you woke up." He stood up and moved toward the door. "I'll be right back." Left alone as the door slid slowly closed behind the other police officer, Luca closed his eyes to rest and tried not to think about his parched throat. He could still feel a dull pulling in his abdomen with each breath drawn, but the pain he had experienced before was mercifully absent. He slipped his hand beneath the sheet and sought out the wound. Through the fabric of the hospital gown, he could feel the stiff bandage that was held in place with adhesive tape. He knew it was a bad place to be shot. As a police officer, he had seen people die from similar wounds. "Well, I must say, you're looking much better, and you're more alert than I would have thought,” Doctor Windom said as he came through the door, bringing Luca’s eyes open again. He was quick to notice that the doctor was carrying a jug of ice water. “Do you know where you are?" Dom looked at him as if he was crazy, then his eyes darted around the small room for emphasis. "I think it's pretty obvious that I'm in the hospital," he replied. "Probably Valley General." Windom smiled. "Okay, that was a stupid question, but I need to determine the extent of your cognitive responses. You'd be surprised how many people who have been unconscious don't know the answer to that! Do you remember what happened to you?" At first, it had been difficult to separate dreams from reality, but he remembered the events at the school and the bullet that had felled him. The pain he had felt in his abdomen upon first waking was a dead giveaway that it had been very real. "I was shot by a gang member during a hostage situation at the school." "That's right. We removed the bullet ---" "You promised you'd keep the scar as small as possible," Luca reminded him, greatly concerned that his girlfriends would be put off by an unsightly scar. Understanding the nature of Luca's thoughts, T. J. hid a smile behind his hand. Windom looked surprised. "I did say that, but I wasn't sure how alert you were when I said it." He nodded. "Yes, I did my best to keep the incision small, and the resulting scar should likewise be small. Fortunately, there was not a lot of surrounding tissue damage, so it should heal just fine. It will fade over time." "Could I have a drink?" Luca asked, changing the subject abruptly. "My throat feels like 2000 year old parchment." Windom nodded. "All right." He poured some water from the plastic pitcher into a plastic glass with a straw in it. He bent the top of the flexible straw downward, and held the glass against the side of Luca's face, pressing the tip of the straw against Luca's lips. "Not too much," he instructed. "Just take a sip." Luca gripped the straw between his lips, and, ignoring the doctor's instructions, drew a long mouthful of water. It felt cold and delicious. He swallowed it and gulped another, but the doctor pulled the straw away before he could take in more. Dom felt the startling shock as the cold water hit his empty stomach, and experienced a moment of panic when he thought the water was going to shift into reverse. He had endured nearly every indignity that could be imposed upon a patient since his arrival at the hospital. He did not want the rebellion of his stomach to be included among them, especially with his partner standing nearby watching! No, not that! he pleaded, silently, taking several deep breathes as he appealed to his stomach, which was churning like boiling lava. Not in front of T. J.! His hand moved to his abdomen again, stroking it urgently in an attempt to sooth it. Finally, he felt the immeasurable relief that came with the realization that the water was going to stay put. He began to relax, and sighed heavily with gratitude and relief. Whew! That was close! The doctor was watching carefully, his hand on the empty plastic container that sat on the bedside table, waiting to respond to any turn of events that might be presented. "You okay?" he asked. He nodded. "Yeah. Thanks," he murmured to the doctor. "We'll give you a little more later," the doctor promised, then scolded, "You almost took too much. A little more, and it would have come right back up again." Dom gave him a shamefaced glance. "Yeah, I know. When you told me not to take too much, you should have told me why I shouldn't take too much!" Windom laughed, amused. "I'll remember that. However, as a police officer, you must surely understand about taking orders. When I say not to drink too much, you must know that I have a profound reason for it!" Dom smiled, sheepishly. "Okay, okay. Point taken." "So, how do you feel?” Windom inquired. “Are you feeling any pain or discomfort?" Dom shook his head on the pillow. "No, not really. A pulling feeling in my stomach, but not really painful. Just enough that I know it’s there." "Good. I gave you a dose of morphine a couple of hours ago because you seemed to be in a lot of discomfort." Dom thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, I remember a little bit. It hurt like hell, but I couldn't say anything. But about the morphine, if you don't mind, I'd rather have something else. I used to work in vice, and I've seen what morphine addiction can do to a person. It's too easy to get hooked." The doctor smiled. "All right. We have plenty of options for pain relief, but you will be needing something for a few days. There’s no need to struggle with the pain when we have the means to manage it." "Doc, am I ---" He hesitated, almost afraid to ask the question. "Am I gonna make it?" Windom nodded. "Yes. Barring any catastrophic infections or sudden, massive hemorrhaging, I'd say you're going to be just fine." "Is that likely?" he asked. "The infections or the hemorrhaging?" "No, it isn't likely, so don't worry about it. Considering what you've been through, you're making a remarkable recovery. We've seen tremendous improvement in the past eight hours. Depending on how well you continue to progress, we'll probably move you into a regular room tomorrow or the next day. I'll leave you to rest, for now. If you need anything, just summon the nurses." He moved toward the door, and departed. Left alone again, the two officers fell silent for several moments, then Dom became very serious. "It was close, wasn't it?" T. J. hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, it was close. You had us pretty worried there for a while." "Is everyone else okay?" he asked. T. J. nodded. "Yeah. Everyone's fine. They arrested the gang members without incident. Except for Michael, the leader, I think they were all glad when it was over. None of the students were hurt. The boy who was singled out for execution is fine, too. A bit traumatized, but he should get over it with some therapy." Dom closed his eyes, briefly, grateful that no one else had been hurt. "Good. I'm glad." "His mother brought by some flowers for you. They're holding them at the nurses' station until you're a little bit better." T. J. watched him for a moment, and shoved his hands in his pockets, then changed his mind and withdrew them again to gesture toward the door. "Well, I probably better leave you alone to get some rest." "Maybe you should go home and do the same," Dom suggested. T. J. hesitated, reluctant to leave, but he knew that Dom was right. He really did need to get some rest, or he was going to end up collapsing on the floor. Finally, he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I guess you're right. You call me if you need anything, all right? Anything at all." "I will." T. J. moved toward the door, but was stopped by Dom's voice. "Teej?" He turned to face him again, a questioning expression on his face. "Yeah, Dom?" "Thanks. For everything." T. J. smiled and nodded. "Sure, Dom. Just don't make a habit out of getting shot, okay?" "That's a deal!" T. J. pulled open the door, and then was gone. Dom relaxed on the bed, and closed his eyes to rest awhile before Mama and Isabelle arrived. If he looked as tired as he felt, he worried that his appearance to frighten them. And he knew he could expect a good tongue-lashing for forgetting his vest. His eyes suddenly popped open, trying to remember who had told him that Isabella was coming, too. T. J. had just said his mom was coming; he had made no mention about his sister. Then it came to him with a sensation of wonder and surprise. He had dreamed about his father, and in the dream, Pop had told him about Isabella coming back with their mother. His eyes gazed at the ceiling, thinking about the very real qualities of that dream. He would never know for certain if it was a dream or if it was something else, but he would always prefer to think of it as a very special gift, a gift for which he would always be grateful. Her gentle caress was whisper soft against his cheek, drawing him out of the haze of slumber, but there was no mistaking the touch; he easily sensed that the soothing presence was that of his mother. His eyelids fluttered and opened, and he turned his head to look at the two women who stood at his bedside, gazing anxiously at him with love and worry. He was not surprised to see his oldest sister, Isabella, standing beside their mother. They both saw recognition in his eyes, and a slight smile formed on his lips, but his eyelids remained heavy with fatigue. "Hi, Mama," he said, his voice weak. "I didn't mean to wake you up," she apologized, attempting to blink away the tears that were filling her eyes. "No, its okay," he assured her. "I was only dozing." He reached down and pulled the sheet higher, as if trying to hide the evidence of the heavily bandaged wound that he could feel beneath his hospital gown. "T. J. told me you were coming. How long have you been here?" "We just arrived and came straight from the airport. One of your friends –“ She paused, glancing at her daughter for help. “Officer Street,” Isabella added when her mother failed to remember the name. “He took our luggage to the house for us. We would have been here sooner, but we had trouble getting a flight out of Passaic. How are you feeling?" she asked with a trembling smile as she brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead with a tidying stroke of her fingers, then trailed her hand down his face to cup his cheek in her palm. "You look so tired! Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?" "I feel fine, Mama," he assured her, lifting one hand to grasp hers, and he pressed the back of her hand against his lips, the closest thing to a kiss that he had the strength to muster. "A little tired, though. They gave me some medicine to control the pain, and it's made me a bit drowsy. I can't seem to stay awake." "Oh, Dominic!" Succumbing to her emotion, she covered her face with her hands, and began to weep. "No, Mama, please don't cry," Dom begged, helplessly. A painful lump was forming in his throat, and he glanced quickly at his oldest sister, seeking help. "Mama, please." Isabella placed her arms around her mother. "Mama, it's okay. Remember what the doctor said? He's going to be just fine." Faced with the possibility of making her injured son cry too, something that would likely cause him pain, she forced back the tears, rubbing them away with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry. I just can't help it. I don't know what I would do if I lost you, Dominic." "I'm going to be fine," he assured her as he reached out to grasp her hand in his. “I’d offer you a tissue, but I can’t reach them. They put my things on the table, and then push it out of the way and forgot to move it back.” She reached for the box of tissue and withdrew one, dabbing her eyes with it. As her sobs subsided, his eyes shifted again to his oldest sister. "Hey, big sis. Did you have a good flight?" "Hey, little brother," she responded, very gently rubbing her hand on his shoulder, as if fearful of causing him pain if she touched him carelessly. "It was a terrible flight, if you must know the truth. It was a long flight, and we worried about you the whole time. The first time ever that the whole family is out of town at the same time, and you have to go and get yourself into trouble. What are we going to do with you?" "Love me, I guess," he replied with a feeble smile. "We contacted the others," she added. "They'll be here as soon as they can. We haven't been able to get in touch with Angelina, yet. She and her family are on vacation in England. Rick's trying to find out which hotel they're at." "There's no need for her to cut her vacation short," he objected, but he was too weak to inject much force behind his objection. "I spoke with the doctor earlier, and he says I'm going to be fine. Let them to enjoy their trip. I insist." "She'll be furious if we don't let her know what’s going on. You know how uptight she gets if she thinks we’re withholding things from her." "Then tell her what's happened, but stress that there’s no need for her to come back," he repeated. "They scrimped and saved for a long time to be able to take this trip. I'll see them when they get back." Her lip trembled as she observed his sincere face. Impulsively, she bent and kissed his forehead. "You're pretty special, you know that?" she asked. "Father Manucci told us what you did to save the life of that boy. We're so proud of you, Dominic. You're a hero." "No, I’m not a hero, Sis. I didn't do anything that the other guys wouldn't have done," he told her. "Well, I don't know about them, but to me, you're a hero." He managed a faint smile, but he was growing extremely weary, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the moment. "I'm likely to just drift off to sleep at any moment, so if that happens, don't think I’m being deliberately rude. It's just the medicine." "Don't you worry yourself about that," Mariana assured him. "You just rest. We'll be here when you wake up." He glanced toward the bedside table where the glass of water was placed tantalizingly near, but just out of reach. "Would one of you fetch that glass of water for me? It's hard for me to reach that far." "Sure." Isabella picked up the glass, and held it close enough to his face that he could take a couple of sips through the straw. He settled back again, satisfied. "Thanks." She replaced the glass on the bedside table. "Is there anything else I can get you?" "Yeah; one of Mama's famous spaghetti dinners with lots of Italian meatballs and garlic bread." He smiled and expelled a contented sigh as he envisioned his mother's wonderful cooking served on a huge steaming platter. "Oh, that sounds so good. I can almost smell it. They won't let me have anything to eat." "Mama and I will get to work on it just as soon as you get out of here," Isabella promised. "The biggest, tastiest spaghetti dinner you've ever had! And a mountain of toasty garlic bread, just for you." "Can't wait . . ." he murmured. His voice trailed off, and his eyes closed. Within moments, his deep, even breathing indicated that he had drifted off to sleep again. Isabella gazing lovingly at her youngest brother's handsome face, then turned to her mother. "He's going to be all right, Mama," she said. "He's going to be just fine." Mariana nodded, too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. He was uncertain of the amount of time that had passed when he was awakened by the sound of voices speaking nearby. The voices, spoken quietly but with a tense edge, penetrated Dom's drug-fogged mind, rousing him from his slumber. He recognized both of them; the rather commanding, authoritative voice of his mother, and the calmer, reasoned voice of his sister, and as the words began to take form and make sense to his sleepy brain, he understood that the conversation revolved around him and his career decision, a decision he knew he would have to defend. “He wants to make a difference, and he is,” Isabella was saying. “That boy is alive right now because of Dom.” "I am glad he saved the life of that boy, and I am proud of him for doing so,” Mariana replied, her voice sharply clipped with annoyance, “but it nearly cost my son his own life, and it would have been better if he had never joined the police force. First, I had to suffer through his tour of duty in Viet Nam, and now this. It has been my nightmare ever since he enrolled at the academy that something like this would happen." He heard the soft rustle of clothing as Isabella moved toward the window and paused there. Her sigh of frustration was heavy in the stillness of the room. “It is an honorable profession, Mama. I worry about him too, but he is a grown man and this is the career he has chosen. What right do we have to pressure him into doing something else?” "He is young," he heard his mother continue as if she had not heard her daughter’s argument, and he felt her hand as it rubbed lovingly up and down his arm, aware for the first time that she was also holding his hand. "He will do all right in whatever career he chooses." Dom had no intention of choosing another career, and he knew he was going to have to join this conversation to put the matter to rest. It was a struggle, for he was still terribly groggy, but he managed to open his eyes very slightly. Through the narrow slits, he saw his mother first, seated in the chair beside the bed, but she had turned toward Isabella, clearly expecting her daughter to back her up. A yawn was building, but he suppressed it. Shifting his attention, he saw Isabella standing at the window, her arms folded as she gazed out across the city. She looked very uncomfortable with the discussion, and Dom suspected that his mother’s persistence was getting difficult to deny. Mariana Luca was very persuasive, and he had been on the receiving end of her determined urging many times, particularly due to the fact that he had not yet married. He sympathized with his sister, who was still doggedly holding out. "I understand what you’re saying, Mama, and I agree with you to a point, but Dom will have to make his own decision whether or not he wants to remain with the force. It isn’t up to us." “We are his family,” Mariana insisted. “It is up to us to make him see how dangerous this profession is that he has chosen, and that it would be wise to seek another.” She turned back toward the bed and unfolded her arms to sweep one hand toward the bed. “I’m sure he’s perfectly aware of how dangerous it is.” At that moment, unable to suppress it any longer, he yawned widely, attracting Isabella’s attention. “Dom, I hope we didn’t wake you,” she said, a guilty expression on her face. Mariana turned quickly to verify that her son was awake and saw that his groggy, slightly unfocused eyes were observing them with disapproval. She placed her hand on his forehead to smooth back the hair that fell softly there. “I’m sorry if we woke you, Dominic.” “Mama, would you please stop arguing about this, eh?” “You go back to sleep,” she crooned, soothingly. “We will discuss this when you’re feeling better.” “No, Mama. There’s no need to discuss it any further. We’ve already been through all then back when I first joined the Academy." “And you wouldn’t listen to reason then, either,” she retorted. “You are stubborn, like your father.” A soft, knowing smile turned up the corners of his lips, but he did not reveal its true source. “I believe Pop would approve of what I’m doing.” “Your father would have been proud of you, no matter what you chose to do with your life. You frightened me, Dominic. You frightened me terribly. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.” His dark eyes settled on the woman he loved as no other, the woman who had given him life, and he wished he could alleviate her fears, but knew that he couldn't. "Mama, I know you just want what's best for me, but Isabella’s right. I made my career decision, and even now, I have no regrets. I was shot because I made the bad decision to remove my vest. That won't happen again, I promise, but . . ." Tears welled in her eyes. "But you'll be going back to the force, won't you?" "Yes. As soon as they'll let me." "And what if you are killed? What about those you will leave behind?" “Mama, chances are, I’ll never be hit again.” "And if you are?" “Then I will have died doing what I was trained to do,” he told her, knowing that his words would not calm her fears, but they vividly expressed his determination to remain on the job. “Mama, I like what I do, and I give you my word that I will be careful, but that’s the best I can do.” Mariana turned to her daughter, hoping to enlist her help in the continuing discussion with her son. "Isabella, you must help me make him see ---" "I'm sorry, Mama, I can't," she said. "I just can't. I've been listening to everything you've said, and I agree with you in principle, but Dom knows his own mind. He's a grown man, and the choice is his to make. We can't make it for him." "Isabella!" Mariana protested, shocked at her daughter's refusal to back her up. "How can you not see the wisdom in convincing him to seek another profession?" "Mama, please," Dom said, grasping his mother's hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. "Mama, you know I love you more than anything in this world, and I would never do anything to deliberately hurt you, but Isabella's right. This is my decision." "But Dominic –" "Mama, I can appreciate your feelings about this, and I'm sorry for everything I've put you through, but I love my job. I know you'll never understand why I chose to become a police officer, but if I had it to do all over again, I would do it exactly the same way." He paused briefly, then added, "Well, I'd remember to put the vest back on before engaging the bad guys, but everything else the same way." He was smiling, his eyes brighter and more alert than she had seen them since arriving. She lowered her gaze to the sheets, conceding defeat. "Then I'll go on worrying about you," she said, soberly. "Mama, no," he insisted. "You don't need to worry about me. I've learned the value of our bullet-proof vests." He shrugged. "I had to learn the hard way, but it's a lesson I won't forget." He had chosen long ago not to reveal to her the other times that the bullet-proof vest he wore had prevented serious injury or even death, and he would not tell her now. Better that she think this was an isolated incident, one that was not likely to repeat. He placed his finger under her chin to lift her face so that he could see her eyes. "Mama, we take every precaution. We don't risk our lives recklessly." The door opened again, diverting their attention. Doctor Windom stepped inside, and smiled when he saw them. "You must be the Luca family," he said as the door slid closed behind him. "Mama, this is Doctor Windom. Doc, this is my mother, Mariana Luca, and my much older sister, Isabella Bonetti." In reaction to the emphasis he had placed on the much older sister, she started to whack his shoulder, as she had done when they were younger, then remember that he was hurt, and resisted the urge. "Obviously, he's feeling much better, now," she commented. Windom nodded his agreement. "He's looking better," he agreed. "Better than I've ever seen him look, in fact," he said. Directing his question to the officer, he asked, "Are you feeling any pain or discomfort?" "No, but I'm having trouble staying awake," he replied. "I'll feel reasonably awake for a short time, and then I can't hold my eyes open any longer." "That's normal. We gave you a sedative to make sure you rest. We don't want you moving around too much and breaking open that incision. We'll ease back on them tomorrow." He glanced at the two women. "Would you mind stepping outside for awhile while I examine him?" "Why don't you two go down to the cafeteria and get a bite to eat?" Dom suggested. "They won't let me eat anything yet, but there's no reason why you can't partake in nutritional sustenance." Windom smiled, amused by his patient's sense of humor. "If you're hungry, I think we can arrange to send up some soup later this evening." He turned to the women. "However, that might be a good idea if you two went down to the cafeteria. I'm sure it's been a long trip for you." "Yes, it has," Isabella agreed. "Very well. We'll be back in," she paused to glance at her watch on her wrist, "Oh, say forty-five minutes or an hour?" "I'll just wait here," her brother promised, then added with a wry smile, "It's not like I can get up and walk outta here, eh?" "All right," Isabella consented, then pointed a finger in his face. "You mind your manners, little brother, you hear?" "Yes, ma'am," he quipped. Mariana leaned over to kiss her son, then she and Isabella left the room, allowing privacy for the physician to examine the injured officer. | ||
| Chapter Twelve She was the most voluptuous woman he had ever imagined. Her slinky bronze legs were beautifully demonstrated by her tight clingy mini skirt. Her long silky hair cascaded down her back to her trim waist and seemed to lift and float in the gentle breeze. Her eyelids fluttered seductively, revealing alluring blue eyes. As he watched, captivated by her charms, her arm stretched toward him, and her ruby red lips turned up in an inviting smile. "I'm free this evening. Why don't we spend some time together?" Willing, if not eager, to accept her invitation, he started to move toward her, but a hand clamped down on his shoulder, effectively restraining him. "Officer Luca?" asked an unfamiliar voice. "Come on, Dom," the girl in the mini skirt beckoned. "We'll have some fun before you go back on duty." The hand on his shoulder shook him, gently. "Officer Luca?" the voice repeated. Dom's eyes popped open, startled, and he found himself staring into the unexpected jowled face of a plump, middle aged nurse. He blinked himself back to reality, then raised his hands to his face and groaned miserably as the wonderful dream and the beautiful girl slipped away forever. nstantly, there was concern on the nurse's face. "Are you in pain, Officer?" "No, I'm not in pain. I was just having a wonderful dream about the most incredible girl I've ever seen! Agh!" His hands dropped beside him on the bed, a gesture of frustration. "Now, I'll never know how it ended!" "She ran off with another man," she told him. Taking his arm, she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it and began pumping it up. "Take my word for it; you're better off without her." When the cuff was uncomfortably tight, she became quiet for several moments as she took the reading and wrote it down on his chart. “This isn’t really part of my job,” she explained as she glanced at her watch and wrote down the time. “A nurse’s aid should be doing this, but we’re a bit short handed tonight.” Ask me if I care! Luca sullenly bit back the remark he wanted to make. Already, the image of the girl in his dream was fading until he could no longer remember what she looked like. "Doctor Windom left instructions that the nurse on duty should see if you needed a sleeping pill," she said as she returned the chart to its original position. Incredulously, Dom stared at her earnest, overly powdered face. Had he actually heard her correctly? "A sleeping pill? You woke me up from a sound sleep and a wonderful dream to ask me if I need a sleeping pill?" The nurse drew back and placed her hands on her hips with a haughty air of superiority. "Don't you get huffy with me, young man. I was just following the doctor's orders!" "I'm not getting huffy," he said in his defense. "But shouldn't it have been perfectly obvious to you that if I was sound asleep, I would not need a sleeping pill?" "Young man, I don't have time to stand here and argue with you. Do you want a sleeping pill or not?" "No! I do not want a sleeping pill!" Rather roughly, she unwrapped the blood pressure cuff from his arm. "All right, then. I have other patients to see." "Are you planning to wake them up too?" The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, but he could not say he regretted them. It was easy to envision her going from one critically ill or critically injured patient to another, disturbing their rest to ask them stupid questions. She glared at him, offended, as she stalked toward the door, and then made her exit muttering, "Ungrateful little . . . " "Ungrateful little what?" he called after her, raising his head from the pillow. His only answer was the door drifting closed behind her. He sank back down on his pillow, and closed his eyes. If he was lucky, maybe he could recapture the dream or at least generate one equally as interesting. Then his eyes opened again. The nurse had forgotten to turn out the light. "Hey!" he called. "You forgot the light!" When there was no answer, he called again, "Excuse me! You left the light on!" Again, there was no response. "I don't believe this!" Lifting the remote that was draped over the bed’s side panel for easy access, he pressed the button with the symbol that resembled a glowing light bulb, and the reading light came on behind him. He pressed it again, turning it off. “I don’t believe this!” he exclaimed again. He examined the controls on the side panels and pushed the button with the same result. “This is ridiculous!” His eyes fell upon the call-button on the panel, shaped like a red cross. "I'll show you!" he muttered. Pressing his finger on the red button, he clamped it down firmly, and with great satisfaction, he heard the buzzer sound at the nurses' station outside his door. "Take that!" he said, quite pleased with himself. A moment later, he heard the nurse's footsteps striding rapidly toward his room. She shoved the door open and her large stature filled the entrance. "Officer Luca!" she scolded. "All you have to do is press the button once, and then remove your finger. I assure you, we only need to hear it once! You're disturbing the other patients!" He wanted to remind her that she was the one who was disturbing the patients, but he refrained from the comment. Instead, he said, "You left the light on." She glanced at the overhead light as if to confirm the obvious, then returned her scornful gaze to his youthful face. "You called me back in here for that? If you don't want it on, then turn it off!" "When I press the button, the reading light comes on. And besides, I'm not the one who turned it on." She sighed heavily as she glowered at him, resentfully. "You don't want to get on my bad side, young man." "Or what?" he asked, boldly accepting the challenge. "Lay a hand on me, and I'll arrest you for assaulting a police officer!" "You're too weak to arrest a fly,” she retorted. She stood in the doorway for several moments, as if contemplating her options, then finally, instead of immediately turning off the light, she stepped into the room and moved to the bed where she stopped to gaze down at him, her arms folded across her generously endowed bosom. Feigning an Irish accent, she said, "If its war ya be wantin', laddie, its war ya'll be gettin'! The Irish against the Italian! Who do ya think'll be winnin' this battle?" There was an implication in her words and demeanor that made gooseflesh rise on his scalp. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You're scheduled for a bath at seven this morning." She glanced at her watch and smiled a nasty smile. "I was goin' to order Leon to do it, but I think I'll assign him to Mr. Higgins. I'll be seein' you -- all of you -- in about three hours." Dom's heart leaped up in his throat. "You mean . . . " "Don't worry. I'll be gentle with you. I'm sure that is a phrase a handsome boy like you is familiar with!" He stared at her with wide eyes, rendered speechless. How could he respond to the news that this heavily powdered linebacker of the fairer sex was going to give him a bath at dawn? "Oh! Yer not so cocky now, are ya, laddie?" she asked, enjoying the look of horror that stared back at her through his dark brown eyes. With a wicked smile, she flipped off the light and he heard the rustling of her clothes as she returned to the door. When she opened it, a shaft of light stretched inside, illuminating her in silhouette. Even though he couldn't see her expression, he knew she was still smiling that evil smile. "Sleep well, Boy-O!" she told him, then she stepped into the corridor. With large eyes, Dom watched as the door glided shut again, and the room fell into darkness. In the silence that permeated the room, he was aware that his heart was pounding in his ears with dread of what was to come. The nurse was built like Joe Namath. In his present condition, there was no way he could fight her off. He wasn't sure he could fight her off even if he was in peak physical condition! Beautiful dreams about enticing women were far from his mind, and for the next three hours, he lay in his bed and stared up at the ceiling through the darkness. Occasionally, his eyes strayed to the clock, watching the hours and minutes tick by as if he was a condemned man awaiting execution. Finally, at seven o'clock sharp, the door opened and Nurse McGuire entered the room with a pan of water, a sponge and a large smile. "Top o' the mornin' to ya, laddie-boy! Guess what time it is?" Dom swallowed hard, and put on his most handsome smile. "Look, we got off on the wrong foot last night. Maybe we should talk this over." "Oh, I don't think there's anything to talk about," she said, thoroughly enjoying the heat that was creeping into the officer's cheeks. "Just listen, okay? This is where I apologize profusely and promise to buy you flowers every day for the next month, and you go get Leon. Deal?" "What? And miss the opportunity to tell all those giggling young nurses about all your . . . " Her eyes strayed down his torso, leaving no doubt as to the direction of her thoughts. " . . . shortcomings?" "I think I'm having a relapse!" Dom exclaimed as she approached the bed and placed the pan on the bedside table. Snatching the covers, he pulled them up to his chin. "Go get Doctor Windom! I think I'm bleeding again!" "Liar." She grasped the covers and yanked them back. "Let's just get this over with, shall we? Causing a fuss is not going to make it any easier for either of us. And remember, struggling might open up that wound again! So just lie still, and let me do my job." With a grimace on his face, Dom closed his eyes tightly and surrendered to her will as she reached behind his neck to unfasten the ties of his hospital gown. "Relax, Officer Luca!" she told him. "You look like you've just eaten a persimmon!" "Where's my gun?" he asked through clamped teeth. It was nearly noon. Dom lay quietly on his bed, staring glumly at the uneven surface of the tiled ceiling, still reeling from the aftershock of Nurse McGuire hours after the fact. The fight had gone out of him, realizing at last that it did no good to argue with her. Trying to reason with her was like trying to reason with a brick wall. She had size and strength over him, both of which she had wielded like a sword, her biting insults like salt in his wound. I'm hurt! he lamented, feeling very sorry for himself. How could she treat me like that? The door opened, and he flinched, expecting to see the nurse again. With great relief, he saw that it was Doctor Windom striding through the door with a professional expression and a soothingly calm demeanor. "Well, how are we doing this morning?" he asked, cheerfully, his eyes scanning the chart. "When can I get out of here?" Dom asked. Windom looked up from the chart, surprised by the blunt query. "Oh, you'll be here for at least a few more days. That was a very serious injury you sustained. We want to be absolutely certain that there won't be any complications before we release you." "Then when can I get moved out of intensive care?" Windom smiled, noticing the scribble on the chart that he recognized as Nurse McGuire's scrawling handwriting. She had given the officer his bath that morning. Even though he already suspected the answer, he asked, "Why the sudden eagerness to leave?" Luca's eyes darted nervously toward the door, lest he offend the venomous nurse again. If he complained about her and she found out, there would be hell to pay, and he had already paid dearly! "Well, I just . . . I'm feeling much better, now, and wondered if I could pleeeeease go to another floor." Windom could not help but smile at the pleading quality to the officer’s voice. "Well, actually, I was thinking we might move you upstairs this afternoon. You're out of danger, now, so there's no reason to keep you in ICU." At last, some good news! "I would really appreciate that, Doctor." He hesitated briefly, then asked, "Um, Nurse McGuire won't be on that floor, will she?" Windom laughed aloud. "You wouldn't believe how many times I hear that question!" Yes, I would! "No, she won't be on that floor, unless of course, you'd like me to ask her ---" "No! That's okay. I wouldn't want to bother her." I just want to arrest her for sexual assault! "Okay, Officer Luca, I'll order up some blood work, and if everything checks out all right, we'll move you upstairs later today. Does that meet with your approval?" "Very much. Thank you!" "You're welcome. Now, you had some soup for supper last night. Did it cause any nausea or discomfort?” “Nope, and I’m starving for something solid." “Okay. I’ll have the kitchen send something up for you.” Windom left the room, and with his spirits considerably lifted, Dom closed his eyes to nap awhile before his mother and sister arrived. After all, he had not acquired a full night of sleep thanks to Nurse McGuire. And -- hallelujah! -- he would be off her floor before morning bath time arrived again! Deacon Kay strolled down the corridor toward the intensive care unit, passing Nurse McGuire with her pan of water and sponge. Obviously, she had been making the rounds, a remembrance he'd sooner forget. Quickly, he averted his eyes, hoping she hadn't recognized him from his own stay in the hospital. "Well hello, Bright Eyes!" she said with a broad smile. "Welcome back!" An involuntary shudder shivered down his spine. The courage he typically demonstrated in the line of duty shriveled and skittered into hiding behind his Adam’s apple. He swallowed in an attempt to dislodge it. "Uh, hello, nurse. I'm just visiting – " He gave a feeble wave down the corridor toward Luca’s room. "You must be here to visit Officer Luca," she said, cheerfully, pleased with the fact that men were so obviously intimidated by her. Kept them manageable. "Uh, yes, ma'am." "He's in Unit Twelve." "Thanks." Hurrying away from the dreaded nurse, he entered the intensive care unit and pushed open the door to Luca's room. Dom turned toward the door as it opened. "Hi, Deke! It's good to see you." Deke stepped forward and shook Dom's outstretched hand. "It's good to see you looking so much better. You had us worried there for awhile." He glanced nervously at the door. "Uh, Dom, I think I'd better give you fair warning. Whatever you do, DO NOT get on Nurse McGuire's bad side! She has a way of getting even, and believe me, you won' like it!" "You mean the Wicked Witch of the West? With a capital B? I would have called her 'Broom Hilda', but I didn't want to insult the Roach Coach!" "Uh-oh. I'm too late with my warning, aren't I?" "Yeah, you're definitely too late! She got you, too?" "Boy, did she ever! Every time she looks at me, I feel like I'm totally naked!" "Yeah, I know what you mean." "Well, I just came by to say hello, and to give you some good news. Our insurance will only pay for a double room, but the guys down at the station have taken up a collection to pay the difference so you can have a private room. We thought you might appreciate that more than flowers." Dom was moved by their generosity. "Thank them for me, okay? I really appreciate that." The door opened again, and Nurse McGuire stepped inside with a syringe and a length of rubber tubing. "Doctor Windom ordered some blood work," she told him. Correctly reading the expression on his face, she added, "I was the only one available. Now, give me your arm." Deke backed toward the door as if seeking an escape route. "I'll be seeing you later, Dom." "Coward!" Dom called after him as the nurse wrapped the tube around his arm and thumped the bend of his elbow to locate a vein. Then she inserted the needle. "Ouch! Damn it, woman, are you trying to stab me to death?" "Hey! There will be no foul language on my shift!" she told him. "I have a bar of soap handy, and don't think I won't use it!" "Oh, you don't have to convince me!" "Are you getting flip again?" "No." "Because if you are ---" "I'm not!" "Not what?" asked a voice near the door. Luca and the nurse both turned toward the voice, and found Mariana and Isabella standing in the doorway. Luca's heart leaped with the pleasure of seeing them. Saved! "I'm so glad to see you both!" Dom replied. "Nurse McGuire was just leaving." The nurse smiled, the most pleasant smile he had seen from her. "You must be Officer Luca's family," she said as she withdrew the needle from his arm, having drawn sufficient quantity for the tests. She slapped a cotton ball against the drop of blood that oozed from the needle prick, then took his wrist and with no gentleness whatsoever folded his arm back to hold it in place. "You have such a fine son, Mrs. Luca." "Thank you," she replied. "I'm very proud of him." "As well you should be. Well, I'd best get this blood over to the lab." Nurse McGuire strode toward the door and opened it to make her departure. "She seems very sweet," Isabella remarked as the nurse stepped through the door. "As sweet as sugar!" Dom replied, loudly enough for the nurse to hear. Still smiling, Nurse McGuire made her exit, and the door swung shut behind her. As the door closed, Dom's expression changed to a grimace, and he added, "Boiled in vinegar!" "Dom!" Isabella and Mariana protested. "I heard that!" Nurse McGuire called from the other side of the door. Mariana Luca gazed a moment longer at the closed door through which Nurse McGuire had just passed, then turned to her son, surprised by the sudden tension that had permeated the air in the nurse's wake. Her expression was quizzical as she asked, "Dominic? I didn’t teach you to be so disrespectful to others! Now tell me what's going on between you and that nurse." Luca gave her a reproachful look, as if shocked that such a horrifying thought could even enter his mother's mind. "Mama, please! She's not my type!" But Mama was not fooled by his attempt to gloss over the incident with humor. "That is not what I meant, and you know it! You said a nasty thing about her, and she seems like such a nice lady! Now, tell your mama what's going on." Keeping secrets from Mariana Luca had always been difficult. She could always tell when he and his siblings were lying to her, but he hadn't a clue what it was about mothers that inspired that unique ability. Mama had a sixth sense and eyes in the back of her head. Luca hesitated, trying to determine how he should respond to her inquiry. How do I tell my mama that a woman nearly old enough to be my grandmother just stripped me and bathed me like I was a child, and there was nothing I could do about it? That can’t be legal! It was the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to me! “There's nothing to tell," he insisted, but the slight coloring in his cheeks alerted her to the fact that he was not entirely truthful. "She just came in to draw some blood, and wasn't exactly gentle with the needle." Among other things! "Your face tells me there is more to it than that. Now, what happened?" "Nothing happened," he repeated. "Dominic, you have that look! Maybe I should talk to her, set things right." "No!" he exclaimed, quickly. Too quickly. He could see that Mama’s curiosity had piqued. Unless he could nip it quickly, she would get the answers she sought from someone else, and talking to Nurse McGuire was the last thing he wanted her to do! "Mama, please, eh? Nothing happened!" He turned his attention to his sister. "So, how did you sleep last night?" he asked, cheerfully. Isabella smiled, understanding that Dom had deliberately changed the subject. One look at Mariana told her that she knew it too, but unlike Mama, Isabella was willing to allow her brother some secrets. Some things were better left alone, and she suspected that this was one of them. "Better than the night before," she replied. "It was a relief knowing that you're all right." He nodded, pleased. "That's good. I'm sorry I had you both so worried.” “Just don’t let it happen again,” she told him in the bossy tone she had used when they were kids. “Promise,” he said, smiling his most charming smile. The door opened again, and Nurse McQuire stepped inside carrying a tray with the familiar food cover. “I was just heading down to the lab when this arrived. Doctor Windom asked the kitchen to send up some lunch for you, so I offered to bring it to you.” She placed it on the rolling bedside table and adjusted its position to make it easier for him to eat it. When it was directly in front of him, she lifted off the cover to reveal a plate of lasagna that instantly made his mouth water. “You’re in luck,” she added. “The lasagna is one of the better items on the menu.” He looked up at her apprehensively, and resisted the urge to ask if she had spiked it with arsenic. He was aware of his mother sitting quietly, taking all of this in with a pensive frown. “Don’t worry, Officer Luca,” Nurse McGuire said. “You can eat it with confidence; I didn’t poison it.” Luca looked at her for a long moment, the smell of the cheese and pasta sauce making his stomach grumble with eager anticipation, as if wondering what the hold-up was. So, this woman had a sixth sense also; the ability to read minds. “What is going on here?” Mama blurted suddenly. Nurse McGuire smiled again. “It’s all right, Mrs. Luca. Your son and I are just playing a little game.” “What kind of game is this? A game of insults?” Mama asked, disapprovingly. “It’s my fault entirely, Mrs. Luca,” the heavily powdered nurse assured her in a pleasant voice. “You have a fine, upstanding son here, and I’ve just been pulling his leg a little. You know, having a little fun with him.” She gave Luca a discrete wink, and started for the door. “I’m going off duty soon, but someone will come by later for the tray.” With a wicked smile, she said, “They tell me you’ll be moved upstairs to a room this afternoon, so you’ll be gone when I come back on duty. It’s been a real pleasure seeing you, Officer Luca.” Luca felt his cheeks heat up again, a sight which gave Nurse McGuire a tremendous amount of pleasure. Trying to ignore her, he turned his attention to his lunch as she made her exit through the door. In addition to the lasagna was a side of green beans, hot coffee, a glass of water, and a dinner roll. A small bowl of cherry crisp for dessert rounded out the meal. “At last!” he said, enthusiastically, cutting a piece of the lasagna with his fork. “I was beginning to think they never planned to feed me anything except that nasty brothy soup!” He placed the piece of lasagna in his mouth, and a dreamy expression crossed his face as he chewed it only once or twice before swallowing it. “Oh, this is good!” He cut a bigger piece. “As good as Mama’s?” Isabella asked. “Nothing’s as good as Mama’s, but when you’re starving, everything tastes good!” “Eat slowly, Bambino!” Mariana protested. “Eating too fast is not good for you, especially when you haven’t eaten in so long.” Reaching out, she finger combed his hair to tidy him up a bit. “But I do love to see that you have a good appetite. That is a good sign, yes?” “Yes, it is,” Isabella agreed happily as she watched her youngest brother devour the plate of lasagna. For Luca, things were definitely looking up. A good meal at last, and no more Nurse McGuire! | ||
| Chapter Thirteen Later that day, hours after his mother and sister had gone home, promising to return that evening, Dom relaxed quietly on his bed, alternately dozing and staring at the ceiling, wishing for something to do. There were no televisions or even radios in ICU, for most patients housed in these units were too critically sick or injured to concern themselves with such things. For Luca, that made for a long day. The lasagna lunch had been delicious, but supper would not be delivered for awhile, yet. He had that to look forward to. With a yawn, he attempted to turn over onto his side, as the nurses had instructed him to do, but this task was very difficult. The effort pulled at his incision, and his rear end seemed to be Velcroed to the bed. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t move. With a sigh, he settled back on his back and turned his head on the pillow to look toward the window, but all he could see was blue sky beyond the glass pane. T. J. had not come back to visit since leaving the evening before, and Luca suspected he had gotten a good night’s sleep and then returned to active duty this morning. He was probably in the E.C. Room right now, working on the endless flow of paperwork that came across their desks or on the telephone. His eyes darted quickly to the bedside table, seeking a telephone. He could at least call his friends at the station and give them a hard time for not visiting. He knew that only family was typically permitted inside the ICU ward, but it wouldn’t stop him from chiding them about their lack of attention. Unfortunately, there did not seem to be a telephone in the room. Again, he realized that was due to the severity of the patients’ conditions in this ward, another reason to be eager for the transfer to another floor. The door opened, and Doctor Windom stepped inside, examining a set of medical records. "Well, Officer Luca, your blood test looks good. No infections, all organs are functioning normally. There is no reason why you should remain in intensive care, so if you’re ready, we'll get you moved out of here in a little while." "I'm ready right now!" he stated, emphatically, eager to be gone before Nurse McGuire came back on shift. “There’s no television in here, I have no magazines to read, and I’m bored out of my gourd!” Windom chuckled. “You should have said something; I’m sure we could have arranged for some magazines.” Lifting his eyes from the paperwork, he looked at the young SWAT officer, noticing the brightness in his eyes. No one would have guessed how close to death he had come only 32 hours earlier. Luca lifted his eyebrows slightly in good-natured amusement. “I’d rather have the TV.” "All right. I'll order you a room, and then summon some orderlies to help get you moved." “I’m supposed to be getting a private room,” he said. “Yes, I see where your comrades have gotten together to pay the difference. That was a nice thing to do.” “Any idea how long it might be?” “Patients are constantly being moved around with new patients coming in, healthy patients being discharged, so it’ll just depend on when one becomes available. Don’t worry, though. It’ll be sometime today.” Then, with a smile at Luca’s relieved expression, Doctor Windom made a few notations on the chart, and left through the door. Impatiently, Luca’s fingers drummed on the metal bars as he waited. Now that his transfer was at hand, the minutes dragged by with impossible slowness. Finally, after more than an hour, Windom returned with two large orderlies who pushed a gurney into the room, and positioned it next to the bed. As a skilled surgeon, Windom did not normally escort his patients from one room to another, but the brave young officer had placed himself in the line of fire to rescue a boy marked for death by a vicious gang member, so the physician had decided early on that courage and dedication of that nature deserved some special recognition. Rather than spending it over a cup of coffee in the staff room, he was using his personal break to accompany the officer to his new room on the pretext of checking his vital signs once he arrived. As the orderlies lowered the bed’s side rails in preparation for the transfer, Dom started to rise up on his elbows, but Windom pressed his hands against the officer's shoulders, forcing him back down. "Just lie still, and let the orderlies do the work," the physician advised. "Okay." Dom grimaced, expecting that the transfer from the bed to the gurney would at the very least cause some painful discomfort. Working with great experience, having moved many patients in their tenure at the hospital, the two orderlies grasped the edges of the sheets and quickly and efficiently transferred the wounded officer onto the gurney, and covered him again with a sheet. The i.v. tower was moved closer to the gurney so that it could be transported as well. "You guys are good at this," Luca said, approvingly, looking up at them from the gurney. "I hardly felt any discomfort at all." "We're paid to be good," said one of the young men. "Just lie back and enjoy the ride, Officer. Usually, we just move the whole bed, but this bed is designed specifically for ICU, so you’ll be getting a different one.” He folded one arm behind his head to make up for the thinness of the pillow, and was wheeled out the door and past the nurses' station. All of them smiled and bid him goodbye, but then one called, "Oh! Don't forget your flowers!" Dom turned his head toward her, reminded that T. J. had mentioned flowers the day before. "Flowers?" "Yes. They arrived yesterday morning, but they weren't allowed in the ICU room, so we kept them here for you." She grabbed the large arrangement from the countertop, and approached the gurney, reading aloud from the card that was held in place by a long clear spike. "It's from a Mrs. Gwen Davis, and she says 'Thank you for saving my son. Best wishes for a speedy recovery'." "That was nice of her," he said. "It was nice of you to save her son, like that," she said, beaming down at him with a sunny smile of admiration. "You must be very brave to put yourself in danger like that!" He shrugged with feigned modesty. "Well, it was just part of my job." "I'll take those," Windom said, accepting the arrangement. Normally, he would not have considered the carrying of flowers to be part of his job, but there was something special about the young officer. "Let's go." The gurney began to move again. Only one orderly was needed to push the transport to its new location, so the other stayed behind to attend to other tasks. Luca was wheeled out the ICU doors, and down the corridor. They passed a middle aged couple, who moved closer to the wall to allow them room to pass, but Luca noticed that they were looking directly at him. He had little time to wonder about it, though, for the gurney turned a corner and came to a stop at the patients’ elevator, and the orderly pressed the “up” button on the wall. While they waited, another orderly and a nurse approached with a patient on a rolling bed, and Luca was aware that they were stealing quick glances at him, trying not to be too obvious about it. Even the patient had turned her head on her pillow and was looking at him with unabashed curiosity. What are they looking at? The question repeated unanswered in his mind. The other patient seemed hardly different than himself, so there couldn’t be something unique about him. Dismissing the stares, he watched the illuminated numbers light up as the elevator cars moved up and down from one floor to another, and finally they heard a “ding”, and the doors behind them slid open. “Why is it always the one on the other side?” the orderly complained good-naturedly. So, instead of pulling the gurney through the nearest set of doors, he pushed it into the elevator across the hall. The gurney wheels bucked slightly as they rolled across the space between the corridor and the elevator floor, causing Luca to grimace slightly as the jolt found its way to his injury. “Sorry ‘bout that,” the orderly said. “There’s no easy way to get over that crack.” Windom followed them into the elevator, then the doors slid shut and it began to move upward. Luca sighed, contentedly. It was nice being out of the room, even if it was just for a short while traveling in an elevator. It broke the monotony. His eyes fell upon the vase of flowers in Windom’s hand, and the card that was attached to a clear plastic spike. He would have to acknowledge the woman’s kindness. A moment later, the elevator stopped and the doors swung open. As carefully as he could, the orderly wheeled the gurney off the elevator, and they started down the corridor again. As they turned a corner, they passed three people, obviously there to visit other patients, and quickly noticed that they were looking at him. As they moved past and continued down the corridor, he heard them whispering to each other. “Has my face turned purple or something?” Luca asked as they moved past the crowd of people. “Everyone is staring at me.” Windom smiled. “They probably recognized you from your picture in the paper. There was a write-up yesterday about how you saved that boy.” Luca perked up, interested. “Really? No one told me about that. Was it a good article?” “An excellent article,” Windom replied. “They interviewed some of your co-workers, the teachers, the principal, and the boy’s mother. She thinks you’re quite the hero.” “Really?” Luca asked eagerly, then tried not to sound so excited when he added, “I ask because the only publicity we tend to get is the negative stuff; you know, the big bad bullies in SWAT smoked some poor guy out of his home by force. I mean, never mind that he had freaked out on drugs and was holding his wife and kids hostage with a bazooka.” “Does that happen often?” the orderly asked, intrigued. “You’d be surprised! Some reporters are positively venomous when they write about us. It’s good to have a few nice things said about us for a change. I don’t suppose someone can get me a copy of the paper, could they?” “I’ll see if I can find you one,” Windom promised as they moved past the nurse’s station. The nurses looked up from their work as he passed, and several actually stood up to see over the countertop. A few of them were very pretty, Luca noticed, hoping that one of them would be assigned to him. “Isn’t that the police officer who saved those kids at the high school?” he heard one of them ask. “I didn’t know he was going to be assigned to our floor!” Windom grinned, amused. “You’ll have to excuse their excitement. They’re not used to having a celebrity on their floor.” “Celebrity?” Luca asked. “Me?” Enjoy it while you can, a voice spoke inside his head. It’ll be over before you know it! He fell silent, watching the overhead lights and the doors to the rooms go past, and experienced a vague memory of his arrival in the emergency room, when they had wheeled him at a rapid pace through the corridors. It had been a dizzying ride that day, but this time the pace was much less frenzied, almost leisurely. He had no memory at all of being wheeled into the intensive care unit following the surgery to remove the bullet. The gurney turned a corner, and they proceeded down an adjoining corridor, leaving the nurse’s station behind. Just before reaching the window at the far end of the hallway, the orderly pulled up and guided the gurney into the room that would be his until he was discharged. Two nurse’s aides were waiting in the room, preparing the bed for his arrival, and they stood back as the gurney was wheeled up to the edge of the bed. Moving to the other side, they assisted the orderly in pulling him into his new bed and getting him and his i.v. adjusted. There were two plump pillows under his head, and a television attached to a holder near the ceiling, bringing a smile to his handsome face. He was going to like it here much better! Doctor Windom placed the vase of flowers on the window sill where he could easily view it, then withdrew his stethoscope from around his neck and leaned over to listen to Luca’s heart and respiration. “Sounds good,” he announced, stepping back. “We’ll probably keep you here a couple more days, then I think we’ll be able to release you. Is there someone who will be staying with you for a few weeks?” The smile faded. He had not considered that he would need a baby sitter. “Well, I hadn’t really thought about that. I guess I can stay at Mama’s house for a while.” Windom nodded his approval. “That sounds like a good idea.” He turned his wrist over to look at his watch. His break was almost over. “I need to get back downstairs. Is there anything you need before I leave?” "Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, could you have someone get Mrs. Davis's phone number? I'd like to call her to thank her for the flowers." Windom’s smile faltered slightly, again experiencing that strong sense of admiration and respect for the police officer. There was much more to this young man than met the eye. "Why, yes. I think we can do that. Anything else?" Luca’s eyes swept over the two women near the foot of his bed, one tucking in the light blanket and the other placing extra pillows in a nearby chair. “Nope, I’m good. Don’t forget the newspaper, though!” With a nod of acknowledgement to the aides, Doctor Windom left the room. “If you need anything, just press the call button,” one of the aides told him. He smiled his most charming smile at the petite young woman. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.” The new nurse’s aides left the room, and Luca pressed the buttons that adjusted the bed to a more comfortable position, elevating his upper body so that he was almost in a seated position. A jug of water with crushed ice sat beside the bed, so he poured a glass. It was deliciously cold. Next, he reached for the remote and flipped on the television set, settling back to watch an afternoon game show. An hour later, a nurse’s aide came with a folded newspaper. "Doctor Windom asked me to bring this to you," she said. She withdrew a slip of paper from her pocket. “He asked me to give you this, too.” He reached for it. It was the telephone he had requested. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.” She placed the telephone on the bedside table, and wheeled it closer to the bed, placing it within easy reach. As soon as she had left the room, he picked up the newspaper and opened it up. The headline jumped out at him: SWAT Officer Saves Student's Life. Below the headline was a photograph of himself in uniform, that had obviously been supplied by the police department. The caption below it read: Officer Dominic Luca remains in critical condition. In the body of the article was a photograph taken of the youth whose life Luca had saved with his well-placed shot, and another photograph of the gang members being led away in handcuffs. Curiously, he read the article, the supportive words spoken of him by his comrades, and the tearful words of praise from Mrs. Gwen Davis, the mother of the boy who had been singled out by the gang members. When he finished reading the article, he folded it up again and placed it on the bedside table, not knowing whether he should feel embarrassed by the attention or pleased by it. After all, he had not gone into the situation that day seeking to hog all the glory. He had reacted at a moment’s notice to an escalating situation; any one of his comrades would have done the same. Well, he though with a twinge of heat in his cheeks, they would not have forgotten their vest. And neither will I, next time! The slip of paper beside his glass of water caught his attention again, and he picked it up to look at it. Then, he reached for the phone and dialed the number. When a woman’s voice answered, he asked, "Is this Mrs. Gwen Davis?" "Yes, it is," Gwen replied, puzzled by the man’s voice on the other end of the line. She sounded rushed, and Luca suspected that she had just gotten home from work, and starting supper for her family. "Who is this?" "My name is Dominic Luca. I'm a police officer with Olym---" "Luca?” Recognition sprang to her voice, which instantly sounded less guarded. “You're the officer who saved my Brett's life!" she exclaimed. "Well . . ." "Don’t be modest, Officer Luca. You did a wonderful thing. I wanted to visit you yesterday morning, but they said you were still in intensive care, and they wouldn't let me in. You're getting better, then?" "Yes, ma'am. I'll be stuck in here a few more days, but I'm expected to recover fully." "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. I've been praying for you." "Thank you. I'm sure it helped. I just wanted to call to thank you for the flowers. That was very thoughtful of you, and I appreciate it." "Well, I appreciate what you did. Brett is my only child. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost him." "I'm glad I could help, ma'am. Well, I'd better let you get back to what you were doing." "Thank you for calling, Officer Luca. Goodbye." "Bye." He hung up the phone and pushed the bedside table away from the bed, then relaxed onto his pillow again. "You're right, Pop," he said aloud to the memory of his father. "It feels good to make a difference." The day passed pleasantly. Even the soap operas and game shows were more enjoyable than spending the afternoon staring at the ceiling in the ICU. Mama and Angelina dropped by for a few hours, relaying well-wishes from his siblings and their families. They remained with him when supper arrived, and Mama encouraged him to eat his meal, even though it was far less appetizing than the lasagna he’d had for lunch. Finally, he pushed it away and went straight for the peach cobbler and the chocolate chip cookie. They left as Visiting Hours were drawing to a close, promising to return the next day. But they had only been gone a few minutes when he heard a tentative knock on his door. “Miss me already?” he called, thinking his mother and sister had returned. The door opened, and T. J. McCabe poked his head inside. "Dom? Are you decent? I've got Susan with me." "Hey, Teej," came the immediate response. "As decent as I can get in this nighty thing, but I'll keep the covers pulled up. Come on in." Together, T. J. and Susan stepped into the room. “We can only stay a few minutes,” T. J. apologized. “We went first to the ICU, thinking you’d still be there, but they told us you’d been moved up here. We were just stepping off the elevator when they announced that visiting hours would be over in ten minutes.” He didn’t mention that seeing the cleared room with the empty bed had scared him. Dom's smile was bright as he looked at Susan, who slipped her long blonde hair back behind her shoulders. "Just what I needed to see – a pretty face. I'm afraid I haven't seen many of those in here!" "Well, that would be a first!" she quipped. She stepped to the bedside and bent over to exchange pecks on the cheek with her fiancé’s partner. "You're looking good," she said, rising up again and rubbing the lipstick from his cheek with friendly affection. "I feel good. What have you got there?" he asked, spying the tapes that were clutched in her other hand. "Just some tapes," she replied, showing them to him. “T. J. said they’re some of your favorites, so we thought maybe you’d enjoy listening to them while you’re stuck in here.” “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything with me to play them in.” “Oh,” T. J. said, as if surprised to find that he was still carrying a portable tape recorder under his arm. He removed it and placed it on the bedside table. "Well, we thought you might be getting pretty bored without a television -–" He glanced at the television that was suspended from a platform attached to the wall. "—However, I see that has been rectified. Anyway, we thought you might want to listen to some music, so Susan and I got you a tape recorder and some tapes." Dom browsed through the selection of tapes, his expression delighted. "Thanks! I really appreciate that." He snatched one from the stack. "Hey, I was going to pick this one up, but never got around to it!" T. J. and Susan exchanged smiles, pleased that their gift had been well-received. "So," Susan said. "How long will they keep you cooped up in here?" "Probably another two or three days," he replied, tearing the cellophane wrapping from one of the tapes. "Just a precaution, but man! I'm ready to go home right now." He paused to look around for a waste basket to put the cellophane in. T. J. took if from him and dropped it in the basket. "You're not going back to your apartment alone, are you?" she asked, concerned. "No. They said I need someone to help take care of me for awhile, so I'll be moving in with Mama for a few weeks.” He rolled his eyes. “Doctor Windom won’t release me unless I have someone to baby sit, and you know Mama. She insists. I just hope she doesn't start in on me again about finding me a wife. She's relentless on the subject." "Well, if it gets too bad, you can move in with me for awhile," T. J. offered. "Thanks, Teej, but I couldn't stand the snoring," Dom replied casually, slipping the tape in his new tape recorder as a smile played around the corners of his mouth. T. J.'s expression was shocked as he stared at his partner. "I don’t either snore!" he protested. "No more than a buzz saw," Dom replied, pressing the "play" button. After adjusting the volume, he placed it on the bedside table and turned to Susan to explain. "He fell asleep in here yesterday morning, and was so loud it woke me up from my state of unconsciousness!" "You lie!" T. J. exclaimed. Turning to Susan, he asked, "Will you listen to this guy? He was already coming out of it when I fell asleep, but I do not snore!" Dom gestured toward T. J.'s fiancée, who had thus far managed to remain neutral. "Susan can tell ya! Right Susan? Doesn't he saw logs like a lumberjack?" She glanced helplessly from one man to the other, reluctant to take sides. "Well, I . . ." "Tell the truth," Dom urged. "Come on!" "Well, maybe a little," she confessed. "See?" Dom said, triumphantly. T. J. stared at Susan in disbelief. "Do I, really?" "Well, not very often, but sometimes you do," she said, then sought to gloss it over. "Just a couple of funny snorts, not really what you would call snoring, actually." Dom burst out laughing as his partner's face turned bright red. "You two are in this together, aren't you?" T. J. asked. Still laughing, Dom offered the tape recorder to Susan. "Maybe you should take this to prove it to him!" "What is this? Pick on T. J. day?" the curly haired officer asked, but an embarrassed smile had formed on his lips, indicating that he was not offended by the bantering. He glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time. "Well, I'd better get going before someone comes in here to round us up. And I need to take Susan to the airport. She's going to Portland for a magazine spread. I'll be by to see you again tomorrow." "Okay. Thanks again, you two," Dom called as they passed through the door. T. J. pushed the door open again and leaned back inside. "I do not either snore!" Dom and T. J. grinned at one another, then the door closed quietly behind the sharpshooter as he followed his fiancée back to the bank of elevators. Dom settled back on his pillow and cranked up the volume on his tape recorder until a nurse came in to scold him. | ||
| Chapter Fourteen Luca lay quietly on his side in the hospital bed, the head slightly elevated, one arm tucked beneath his pillow. The tape recorder that T. J. had given him several days ago lay on the bedside table in the “off” position beside his breakfast dishes, and the television mounted to the wall displayed a morning game show that he was not watching. The door to his room was open, and occasionally he saw someone glance in as they walked past, apparently visiting friends or relatives. He had finally managed, yesterday, to pull himself over onto his side per the nurse’s continued insistence. It had required tremendous effort the first time, and had been accomplished only by seizing the bedrail in both hands while the nurse pushed from the other side. She had placed pillows behind him to hold him in place, and he had to admit it was more comfortable than being on his back all the time. Now, he was starting to get the hang of it by himself, managing to roll over on either side with less effort, and he interpreted that as an indication that he was starting to heal. Perhaps soon, he would be allowed to go home. It seemed like such a long time since he had walked out of his apartment that last time, when in reality it had not even been a week yet. The days were starting to run together, long, boring days of soap operas and game shows. The hospitality clerk had brought a newspaper to him before breakfast, but he had never been much on reading the paper. It now lay on the bedside table tucked under the rim of his breakfast plate, having been glanced at for the headlines before being folded and set aside. He remembered fondly that his father had started each and every morning with a cup of coffee and the newspaper before going to work while Mama had cooked breakfast, but Dom had trouble settling into the habit. Mornings now were spent rushing to get out the door to avoid being late to the station. Yesterday afternoon, Hondo and Deke’s wives, Betty and Cleo, had come to visit for a few minutes, both bearing gifts: a colorful flower arrangement and a cute teddy bear that had been cleverly dressed in a replica of the SWAT jumpsuit complete with cap. Both sat together on a small table near the bed. A very large, almost gaudy flower arrangement filled up the space on the console table on the other side of the bed, courtesy of his brothers and sisters. Mama and Isabella came to visit twice a day, each morning and evening, and the guys came by whenever they had the chance, but most of the day was spent fighting the boredom that came with incarceration. His brothers and sisters had come in from varying states yesterday evening, filling the small room to capacity, and more than once their laughter had resulted in a request by the nursing staff to “hold it down”. It had been good seeing all of them, but at his insistence, they had returned to their homes and jobs today, assured that their baby brother would survive his injury. Only Isabella remained, and she had booked a flight back to New Jersey the next day, satisfied that everything was going to be fine. The quiet of the room this morning was sharp contrast to the rather boisterous reunion, and added to his feeling of boredom and depression. On the television, the audience was cheering the selection of the right door on the game show, and Luca turned his head to glance at the host as he congratulated the contestant. With a sigh, he turned to face the door again, just as a young man who was walking past glanced inside, drawn by some irresistible force to view the patient inside. Noticing that he had been seen, the man quickly averted his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets as he continued on his journey down the corridor. Luca sighed with boredom and closed his eyes, almost wishing the man had simply stepped inside for a visit instead of hurrying guiltily away. He, too, had been guilty of glancing inside the open doors along the corridor while visiting a friend or relative. He supposed it was just human nature to be curious about such things, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel resentful of the violation of his privacy. He had, after all, asked the nurse to leave the door open when she had left a few hours earlier, and that invited the curious looks from passersby. The television continued to drone, a steady background noise, but he was tempted to turn it off. Maybe he could fall asleep; that would kill some time. But sleep would not come, and his hand did not reach for the remote, preferring the company of it. Idly, he wondered what the guys were doing right that moment. Were they relaxing in the EC room with one of Hilda’s Danishes, or were they out on a run? What were Mama and Isabella doing? It was late-morning; they had already been to visit him, so perhaps they were getting ready to head out for some shopping. They had always shopped together whenever Isabella was in town, an activity whose appeal he could not comprehend. The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him to a possible visitor, and he opened his eyes expectantly, waiting to see if the person continued past the door. A moment later, a figure entered through the door, and he saw that it was only Nurse Barber, a kindly middle aged woman with a cheerful personality. Presumably, she had come to take his vital signs, and he could not suppress the sigh of disappointment. “What? Not happy to see me?” Nurse Barber asked with a knowing smile. “Oh, it’s not that,” he replied, listlessly. “I’m just getting a bit tired of game shows and sob stories.” Nurse Barber lifted an amused eyebrow as she pushed the bedside table out of the way. “Sob stories?” “That’s what Mama calls soap operas.” She laughed. “Good name for them. Everyone is miserable on those shows, ever notice that?” Without waiting for a response, she continued, “Doctor Windom wants you out of bed for a while this morning.” Luca lifted his head from the pillow, immediately interested in the prospect of doing something different for a change. “Out of bed? You mean I finally get to get up and walk around?” “Well, you’re to get up, but I don’t think you’re going to do much walking around just yet. You’ve been off your feet now for four days. We’ll get you up and move you around a bit to see how you’re doing.” Eagerly, Luca tossed back the sheets while the nurse raised the head of the bed a bit more to get him into a seated position that would make it easier for him to get up. “All right,” she said. “Let’s move your legs over the edge of the bed and see if you can scoot this way a bit more.” Luca obeyed, taking hold of the bar and carefully pulling himself toward the side of the bed as he swung his legs over the edge. His free hand went automatically to his abdomen as if to make sure everything stayed in place. The nurse was watching him closely, monitoring his reaction with an experienced eye. “Any pain?” “Only a twinge. It’s amazing how many things you use your stomach muscles for without even realizing it.” “That’s very true. Let me know if you feel any discomfort, and we’ll get you back on the bed. Now, when you’re ready, see if you can stand up.” He hesitated. “You realize, of course, that the back is completely open on this hospital gown, right?” She laughed again, a pleasant infectious sound that made him smile as well in spite of himself. “Trust me, young man, you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen a zillion times before since I became a nurse. They all look pretty much the same. However, if you wish, I can get you a robe to wear.” “Would you, please? You know,” he glanced toward the door as a young woman walked past carrying a small flower arrangement. As expected, she glanced in, and he saw her eyes slide down to his bare legs before she disappeared from view. “Anyone could just walk in here . . . . I feel a little vulnerable.” “Sure, just wait here for a moment.” Turning silently on the ball of her soft white shoe, she stepped outside again, leaving Luca perched on the edge of his bed. It was tempting to make his first attempt at standing while by himself, but he knew that was risky. If his legs were unable to support his weight, he might just slide down to the floor, and then all those people passing the door would probably get quite an eye full! So, he sat quietly and waited until Nurse Barber returned with a hospital robe. It was threadbare and looked like it had been laundered several hundred times, but it would cover all the exposed areas he didn’t want to be seen by passing visitors, and that was all that mattered. “Here we go,” she said lightly, as she helped him guide his hands into the arms of the robe, and arrange it so that it was comfortable for him. “If you want, you can have your family bring a pair of pajamas. There’s no real need for a gown at this stage in your recovery.” “Thank you,” he said. He was already feeling slightly winded, just sitting up of his own power, but he didn’t utter a word that might prevent him this opportunity to get out of bed. Still gripping the rail with one hand and the nurse’s shoulder with the other, he eased himself onto his feet for the first time since he had collapsed in the school auditorium. It was easier than he thought it would be. His legs were holding his weight with no problem, and it seemed that this was going to be a cinch – until he tried to straighten up. The pulling in his abdomen created a mild stabbing sensation, and he placed his hands under the wound in an attempt to offer support for the muscles that had not been used in so long, and gravity seemed to be causing all of his insides to shift. Lying on his back in a relaxed position was one thing, but standing up was quite another, and he found he was unable to stand completely upright, settling instead for a slightly hunched over position. Nurse Barber seemed to understand. “You don’t have to stand completely upright if it’s uncomfortable for you. This is only your first time up, so just take it slow and easy. Let’s see if you can walk to the bathroom door and back.” Still bent forward at the waist, Luca carefully took a step forward and grimaced. That careful step seemed to resonate through his injury as if he had slammed his foot down, but he set his mouth in a determined line and took another step away from the bed. “I must look like a little old man hobbling along,” he quipped with humor he did not feel. “No, Officer Luca. You look like a man who has survived a serious injury, and who is working toward a complete recovery.” Concentrating on taking one painful step at a time, he made no comment, but her kind words meant more to him that she knew. He glanced over at her, and found that she was standing slightly back, giving him ample room to make this endeavor on his own, but near enough to intervene if he became weak. “Are you strong enough to catch me if I fall?” he asked, trying to include a note of good humor. She smiled. “I’m stronger than I look, but if I were you I’d try to avoid falling,” she added with a wink. “Just let me know if you need assistance.” Determinedly, he continued to slowly place one foot in front of the other as he progressed slowly across the room. By the time he had reached the bathroom door, he was standing a little more upright. Pausing beside the chair that had been placed near the bathroom door, he placed his hand on the back of it and rested for several moments. “Do you need to sit down and rest a bit?” she asked. He shook his head, more determined than ever. He had always been the most independent of his siblings, with the possible exception of Isabella, the eldest, who had been accustomed to taking care of her younger brothers and sisters. He did not like being weak and helpless, and he knew that the sooner he was able to maneuver on his own, the sooner he would be allowed to go home. Releasing the back of the chair, he slowly and carefully pulled his lean frame into a fully upright position, ignoring the pulling of the stitches that held the edges of his wound together. A strong sensation of triumph flowed through him. Maintaining his erect carriage, he released the chair back and slowly walked back toward the bed, placing his feet carefully to minimize the shock. When he reached the bed, he did not stop, continuing onward past the foot until he reached the window. His hand sought out the window sill as support, but he stood before the tall glass pane for several minutes, gazing at the world outside the confines of the hospital. The view was not that good; below him were the rooftops of other hospital buildings, and directly across from him he could see a medical helicopter settling carefully onto the landing pad marked with a large red cross. A waiting medical team rushed forward with a gurney as the door to the helicopter slid open. Luca watched with interest as the patient was lifted from the helicopter onto the gurney, and he was rushed back inside the building. Lifting his eyes from the helicopter, he gazed farther out, beyond the hospital grounds, where he could see the city’s skyline, and beyond that, the clear blue sky. It looked like a beautiful day, and he longed to be outside. With a heavy sigh of yearning, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass pane. Weariness was beginning to settle over him. Nurse Barber placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re tired, Officer Luca. We should get you back into bed. We’ll get you up again later today.” Submitting to her gentle coaxing, he allowed her to lead him back to the bed. Pausing at the edge, he slipped out of the robe and climbed carefully onto the bed. She draped the robe over the back of the nearest chair, and helped him pull the sheets back up to his waist. “I’ll leave the robe there for later,” she said. “You did very well your first time up. Doctor Windom was a little upset that you hadn’t been gotten up yesterday. We like to get the patients out of bed as soon as they’re physically able. All right, then. I’ll let you get some rest, and then I’ll come back this afternoon and we’ll let you walk around again.” “Thanks.” With a pleasant smile, Nurse Barber left the room and pulled the door closed to give him a bit of privacy. Feeling much more content than before, Luca closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep -()- He hadn’t slept long when he was awakened for lunch, and then after finishing his meal, he lay in his bed and watched T.V. or listened to his tapes the rest of the afternoon until he heard the authoritative footsteps he associated with Doctor Windom. Sure enough, as he turned his head toward the door, the white coated doctor rounded the corner and stepped into the room. Luca smiled to himself, pleased that his senses were still sharp and his powers of deduction astute. Perhaps, after he had completed his responsibilities as a SWAT officer, after he was older and more experienced, he might be able to move up the police ladder to detective. It was an ambition he had not really considered at this point in his life, being young and yearning for the action of being in the field, but he knew his mother would be pleased if he was in a less dangerous position. But that was something to think about for the future; for now, he was content where he was. “You’re looking well this evening,” Windom said as he picked up the chart and flipped it open, his eyes quickly scanning the information left there throughout the day by the attending nurses. “They let me up for a while this morning,” he replied. “It felt great to get out of bed, finally. I’m not a person who likes to lie around.” A smile tugged at the corners of Windom’s mouth. “A man of action, eh? Well, we should have gotten you up yesterday, but I had a few emergencies and wasn’t able to pass that along to the staff. So, did you experience any discomfort while you were up?” “Just a few twinges and some pulling,” Luca replied. “And when I first stood up, it felt like my insides had plunged down and were trying to force their way out my incision, but other than that . . . “ Windom laughed. “I never heard it put quite like that before, but it seems to be a common complaint of abdominal injuries. Gravity feels a little more intense when you’ve just had surgery. It’ll get easier each time you’re up.” “The nurse said I can get up again this afternoon,” Luca said, hopefully. “Yes. Okay, lean back and I’ll have a look at that incision.” Luca leaned back on his pillow while Windom pulled the gown up to his chest, leaving the sheet discreetly covering his lower body. Carefully, Windom pulled at the large adhesive bandage covering the wound until it was completely removed, and he carefully examined the incision. “Looks good.” He pulled the gown back down. “I’m going to leave it uncovered now. You’re healing very well, Officer Luca. You’ve been getting sponge baths, correct?” Luca felt his cheeks heat up as the memory of his unpleasant encounter with Nurse McGuire came over him with the abrasiveness of a Brillo pad. Fortunately, that duty had been taken over by a good humored orderly named Stuart, but it was still not an event that he looked forward to. “Yes.” “If you continue to get up and down with no problem this afternoon and evening, I think you should be able to take a shower in the morning.” Luca instantly perked up, and the eagerness in his dark eyes did not go unnoticed by the doctor. “Solo?” Windom nodded. “Unless you think you need assistance.” “No! I’d love to take my own shower. Thanks.” “There’s a call button in the bathroom, so if you run into any problems, just press it and someone will come into help. When you take your shower, let the warm water wash over the wound, and then pat it dry when you’re done.” “I will. Thank you, Doctor.” “All right, then. I’ll try to swing by sometime in the morning to see you again.” With a pleasant smile, Windom strode out of the room, presumably to check on other patients. Luca settled happily back on his pillow, looking forward to his shower tomorrow, and determined that there was nothing on this earth that would keep him from successfully getting up and walking again this afternoon. -()- As promised, Nurse Barber returned a short time later for another session of walking, and this time he walked several times back and forth across the room. It was much easier this time, even though he felt that now-familiar pulling in the wound as he straightened up, but it seemed less intense this time. By the time he was back in bed, he began to smell food drifting down the corridor, which signaled the arrival of supper. “Mmm, supper smells good this evening,” Nurse Barber said as she adjusted his covers for him. “I’m going off duty in a couple of hours, so someone else will come in to get you up this evening. I have a couple of days off, so you’ll probably be out of here by the time I come back on duty.” “Any idea when that might be?” he asked, curiously. “Whenever Doctor Windom thinks you’re ready.” “Is he an emergency room doctor?” Luca asked. “I didn’t think they stayed with a patient after leaving the E.R.” “Oh, no, he’s not an E.R. doctor. He’s a surgeon, specializing in gunshot wounds. From what I understand, your driver called ahead to let the hospital staff know that a police officer had been shot and was coming in, so they paged Doctor Windom to meet you in emergency. You’re lucky he was on duty. He’s the best there is.” “Oh, I see.” He had only vague memories of that frantic ride in the War Wagon, of lying helpless on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to the wailing of the sirens while T. J. and Street knelt beside him. It occurred to him also that the staff had been discussing his case if she knew about Sam radioing ahead. Outside the door, he heard the clatter of the tray cart as it stopped next door, and heard his neighbor’s tray being removed from it. His stomach rumbled with eager anticipation, as he waited and listened for the approach of his own tray while Nurse Barber took his vital signs and wrote them down on the chart. At last, a nurse’s aid entered the room carrying a food tray, and Nurse Barber stepped back to give her room to place it on the table and wheel it in front of him. She pulled the cover off the entrée with a smile. “Fried chicken today.” “Looks great,” Luca said. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal,” Nurse Barber said. She placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Remember, we don’t want to see you back here like this again. Is that a deal?” “Deal,” he agreed with his usual charming smile. Nurse Barber walked out of the room and out of his life, although he would remember her occasionally in a fond way. Alone again, Luca watched the evening news while he ate his fried chicken and a hot roll. The steamed carrots were bland, so he ignored those, and went straight for the square of chocolate cake for dessert. Then, satisfied, he pushed the tray table as far to the side as he could, and picked up the phone and dialed Mariana’s number. When she answered, he said, “Hi, Mama, it’s me. Look, when you come up tonight, would you bring one of Pop’s old robes, his pajamas, and a pair of his slippers? They’re letting me out of bed now, and the floor is cold. I think I might get out of here soon!” Mama burst into tears of joy. | ||
| Chapter Fifteen Luca was abruptly jerked from his sleep by the alarming, clattering sound of something falling in the hallway outside his door, and lifted his head from the pillow to listen intently. His door was cracked open only slightly, and he could see shadows of people walking past. His room was dusky with early morning twilight visible through the window near the foot of his bed. It was almost dawn. From the nurse’s station, he heard laughter and an amused, “Ooops.” He had no idea what had fallen over, but obviously it wasn’t anything serious, so he laid his head back down and closed his eyes again, hoping for just a bit more slumber before he was roused for breakfast by the staff. Outside the door, he heard someone stacking the items that had been dropped, and a moment later they were carried away. Then he remembered: he was allowed to have a shower this morning! His eyes popped open again, this time with eagerness. Suddenly, all thoughts of sleep were driven from his mind at the wonderful notion of being able to clean himself properly under torrents of warm water. The folded pajamas and robe that Mama and Isabella had brought last night were folded on one of the visitor’s chairs, waiting for his use. He had been tempted to put them on the night before, but had decided to wait until after his shower. Tossing back the sheets, he carefully pulled himself upright and paused there for a moment. Getting up was getting easier, and after determining that the movement was not causing any discomfort, he stood up, pleased that the pulling sensation was growing less and less noticeable. Holding the back of the gown together with one hand, he went to the chair and gathered up the pajamas with the other, then made his way into the small corner bathroom. It was tiny and cramped, with barely enough space to turn around. The small tiled shower stood in the corner, more inviting than he had ever thought possible. A white towel and washcloth were draped over the rod. The red call button was positioned beside the shower within easy access, but he knew it would not be needed. He pushed the door closed and turned on the shower, allowing a few moments for the water temperature to heat up. While he waited, he hung the pajamas up on a hook on the wall, then untied the neck of the detested hospital gown and allowed it to drop to the floor and pushed it against the wall with his foot, glad to be rid of it. Pausing, he carefully observed the wound in his abdomen, noting the black stitches that bristled from it. The body hair that had been shaved off for the surgery was growing back, stiff and bristly, but he knew it would not be enough to completely hide the scar that would be visible there. With luck, it should fade over time, as Doctor Windom had said, but it was overly optimistic to think that it would disappear completely. Curiously, he probed it with his forefinger, feeling the stiff thread and the thin line where Doctor Windom had skillfully repaired the damaged skin. It was tender to the touch, but no longer ached continuously. Turning to face the mirror, he observed his reflection for the first time in five days, and was startled by his appearance. An orderly had shaved him two days ago, but had not done so yesterday, and dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks. He was paler than he had been prior to the injury, and the skin around his eyes seemed darker, as if he had missed a few nights’ sleep. He could not say that he looked exactly gaunt, but his countenance bore the general appearance of someone who has been in ill health. Once he got home, Mama’s good cooking and some fresh air should take care of that. He smiled when he thought of Mama’s cooking. He knew without a doubt that she would be bringing his meals to him until she was assured that he was completely well again. Turning his attention to his hair, he could not suppress his sigh as he reached up to finger the wild mess that it had become over the past few days. He had forgotten to ask Mama to bring a hair drier, so with nothing to tame his unruly locks after his shower, it would become a disorderly mixture of curls and waves, but at least it would be clean. His eyes dropped to the narrow shelf beneath the mirror and saw a small bar of soap still in its wrapper and a small bottle of complimentary shampoo. Beside them was the razor the orderly had used and a diminutive sized can of shaving cream. Deciding that he would shave himself after his shower, he picked up the soap and unwrapped it, dropping the paper wrapping in the waste basket beside the door. Moving closer to the shower, he leaned his hand under the spray, checking the temperature of the water. Finding it satisfactory, he stepped inside. The spray pounded the center of his chest and streamed down over the wound, soothing it with its warmth. Closing his eyes, he reached out to adjust the spray higher and turned his face to the warm jets of water, enjoying the feel of it on his bare skin and relishing in the soothing spray of water as it drenched his skin and hair. Dipping his head slightly, he allowed the spray to soak his hair, then stepped back to lather it with the shampoo. After rinsing his hair, he lathered the washcloth and scrubbed himself clean. Soap suds and shampoo cascaded off his body where it was swallowed up by the drain. Finally, feeling totally refreshed for the first time in nearly a week, he turned off the shower and grabbed the towel from the rod. Vigorously, he toweled off his wet body, taking care around the incision, then toweled the excess water from his hair. The towel was then wrapped around his middle as he turned his attention to lathering his face and shaving off the dark stubble. After rinsing his face in the sink, he dried it with a smaller hand towel and decided that he looked much more presentable. Except for the hair. He did not have a brush handy, so there was nothing he could do except finger comb it and hope for the best. He tossed the towel aside and put on the pajamas, then opened the bathroom door and stepped outside into the room again, marveling at how invigorating a shower could make a person feel. The wall on the clock showed 6:45; it would be awhile before breakfast arrived, so he picked up the robe and put it on and stepped into the slippers, then walked to the door and opened it. Stopping there to get his directions, he looked first to his right, where the corridor continued onward until it terminated at a tall window. On the left, he could see the nurse’s station several doors down, and just beyond that was another corridor leading to points unknown. Taking note of his room number, he turned to the right and wandered down to the window. In the light from the rising sun, he could see the city stretched out for miles. Already, cars were on the roads, hurrying to early morning jobs or out for a bite to eat before heading for the workplace. Street lamps were beginning to go out. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the cool pane and gazed longingly out across the orderly neighborhoods, and the barren California landscape in the distance, beyond the city limits. After several minutes, he turned and wandered back up the corridor, continuing past his room until he reached the nurse’s station, where he paused to look at the men and women who were gathered there. There had been a shift change, and he did not recognize any of the nurses, orderlies, and aides who were going over the daily roster. After a moment, several of them noticed him and looked up. “Can I get you anything, sir?” asked a young woman. “No, I’m just going to take a little walk down the hallway.” “All right.” Bowing her head, she returned to the duty roster, while one of her coworkers rushed to pick up the ringing telephone. A haggard looking young intern dropped a chart on the countertop and rubbed his eyes. “Mrs. Collins needs an i.v. change.” A nurse picked up the chart and hurried off to perform the requested task. It appeared that no one had realized who he was. The attention and curiosity he had received initially upon arriving on the floor had apparently faded, and he was now just another patient. This suited Luca just fine, for there were other patients with greater need, now that he was recovering, and he never considered himself a celebrity. He was just another police officer doing his job. However, as he started to turn away, he thought he saw several of the nurses looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. Turning his back to the scene, Luca turned the corner beside the nurse’s station and started down the long corridor. Hand rails were positioned along both sides of the hallway, obviously placed there to assist patients who, like him, were up for a bit of exercise, and he slid his hand along the nearest one as he walked. He really did not think he needed its assistance, but only yesterday he was struggling to stand upright, so it seemed prudent to use them. He passed no other patients, and most of the doors along the corridor were closed or slightly ajar, but as he walked past a door that was slightly ajar, he heard the sound of someone whimpering inside, someone who was apparently in a great deal of discomfort. Looking urgently up and down the hallway, he saw no staff member in sight, only the empty stretch of corridor with a few linen carts standing idle. All the staff, he knew, was still at the nurse’s station, and that was a long walk back for someone moving as slowly as he was. Another whimper and a muffled sob roused his attention again, and after a hesitation, knowing he was about to enter the room of a perfect stranger, he placed his hand on the door and pushed it open. At the very least, he could use the call button to summon a nurse to help whoever was in such pain, since it appeared that person was unable to do so. As the door swung open, his eyes fell upon a girl lying on the bed in a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her abdomen, and tears streaming down her face. The hair that framed her thin face was matted and listless, clearly having seen neither a brush nor shampoo in quite some time. Concerned, he approached the bed. “Are you all right?” “Do I look all right?” she spat back. The unexpectedly hostile retort rippled through him like a heat wave, but he shrugged off the offended sensation it had caused. Her harsh response had surely been brought about because of her discomfort. “Okay. That was a stupid question, I know. Can I call someone for you? A nurse, perhaps?” “They won’t help me,” she told him, bitterly. “I’m sure they will,” he insisted. “They won’t give me what I really need! I need a fix!” In response to his startled expression, she added in a voice filled with anger and self-loathing, “I’m a junkie, can’t you tell?” He moved closer, where he could better see her face in the rather dusky room, and recognized the emaciated look of a person who had not seen a balanced meal in a long time. Her eyes were unnaturally dark in her pale face, as if both had been bruised, and he could see the needle marks up her white arms. Her thin, wasted face was contorted with pain that he had witnessed many times on the faces of others experiencing the symptoms of drug withdrawal. “Yes, I see,” he said, softly. “Revolting, isn’t it?” she demanded, trying to read his expression through the haze of pain. “Maybe you think I deserve it,” she added in a challenging tone. He shook his head, slowly. “No, I don’t think you deserve it. No one deserves to be in that kind of pain, but I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” “Oh, now that makes me feel better!” she moaned. “You’re a real bundle of good cheer, you know that?” “Sorry.” He moved closer until he was standing beside the bed. With sympathetic eyes, he noticed the restraint halter that was wrapped around her chest and tied beneath the edge out of her reach to prevent her from getting out of bed. “Look, I know it won’t be easy to do, but you’re doing the right thing getting off that stuff. It only leads to an early grave. Trust me, I know.” She cocked her head slightly, and he saw curiosity flicker beyond the haze of pain. “Who are you?” “My name is Dom Luca.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “I’m just down the hall and around the corner.” “Are you a junkie too?” “No, but I’ve known a lot of people who were.” “Then you don’t know anything!” “Not on a personal level, but I do know a few things about it.” “I don’t want to be here!” she raised her voice in frustration, struggling against the restraints. Her struggles became more intense, almost violent, as she jerked her body back and forth in an effort to break the restraints. He watched her struggle until she tired, and her body relaxed again. She fell back, gasping for breath. “I take it you’re not here voluntarily, then,” he said quietly. “What do you think?” she snapped. He observed the dry, tangled hair and her emaciated features. It was obvious that she had been living on her own for some time. “I think you were probably picked up on the street and brought here because they didn’t know what else to do with you.” “Oh, you’re a real genius,” she said, sarcastically. “Some do-good cop caught me going through a trash bin and brought me here.” “That do-good cop, as you put it, probably saved your life. So you were going through the trash looking for other people’s scraps? Are you a runaway?” “Did they send you in here to talk to me?” she asked, ignoring the question. “Are you some kind of drug counselor or something?” “Or something,” he said with a slight smile, reluctant to reveal that he was a police officer. In spite of her sarcasm, he sensed that he was making a connection with her, however precarious, and feared that she would clam up upon learning his occupation. “And no one sent me in. I was passing your door, and knew that you were hurting. What’s your name?” “None of your business.” So much for connecting. “Hey, I told you mine.” He glanced at the foot of her bed and saw the chart with the name printed across the top. “Jane Doe. So you are a runaway.” She rolled her eyes, resentfully. “So now you know.” “Obviously you family doesn’t know you’re here. Don’t you think they would want to be here with you? Don’t you think they’d want to help you?” “They don’t care about me, and I don’t want them here. They’ll just tell me how stupid I’ve been and how I need to conform to their idea of what a family is.” “And what is their idea of a family?” “Oh, you know. White picket fence, school all day, church on Sunday, two point five kids; the usual fairy-tale life where everyone knows their place and does what they’re told.” “You don’t want that?” “Why do you think it’s any of your business? Why all the questions?” “I’m just trying to understand why someone would prefer living on the street and digging in garbage, rather than living in a warm home with three square meals and a nice bed. So tell me, what is it you want?” This question seemed to catch her off guard, and she considered her answer for several moments before shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to make my own decisions. To be left alone.” He observed her quietly, detecting the way she looked away when she answered, and the way her voice dropped, both good indications that she was lying. “I don’t think you want to be alone. No one wants to be alone.” When she looked back, he noticed that her eyes had filled with tears, and he knew he’d struck a nerve. She wasn’t quite as tough as she was pretending to be. With effort, she forced the harshness into her voice again as she replied, “They just want to tell me what to do. They’re always telling me what to do!” “That’s what parents do. No one is immune to that. I had plenty of that when I was growing up, believe me!” “Not as much as me, I bet.” “Hey, my mother is Italian!” he told her, as if that explained it all. “Italian mothers expect to be in charge. Even Pop didn’t dare go against her. She was like a miniature drill sergeant. She’s a very small woman, but I tell you, we didn’t dare stick a toe out of line for fear of getting it chopped off!” “So how did you handle it?” “Not by running away, that’s for sure.” He grinned his most charming grin. “Well, I ran away once when I was eight, but I wasn’t even gone three hours when my oldest sister found me and dragged me home by my ear.” “You’re making fun of me,” she accused. “No, I’m not! I swear, she did!” She looked at him in silence for a few moments, and he sensed that she liked what she was seeing. He knew he was considered attractive, and also knew that he could use it to his advantage with women, but with this lost teenager, he could use his charm to help get her back on the right path. “Look, I don’t think there is anyone who hasn’t thought of running away at one time or another. But it really doesn’t solve anything, does it?” He paused to give her a chance to respond, but she clearly did not want to admit that she might share any part of the blame for the problems she was having with her parents. She looked sullenly toward the wall behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. He lifted his eyebrows and shrugged at her attempts to remain indifferent, even though it was obvious that he was giving her food for thought. “Look at you,” he continued. “You obviously haven’t had a decent meal in weeks. You’re living on scraps out of the dumpster.” Again, he waited for a response that did not come. “My point is that even though they sometimes get on our nerves and make us do things we don’t want to do, our family is one of the most precious gifts we have. When you’re young and trying to find your own independence, it sometimes seems like they’re interfering when all they really want to do is keep you safe.” She remained quiet, her expression bland. “You know, they’re probably very worried about you.” “I’m not telling you who I am or who they are, so just drop it. Did you come in here just to torment me?” “No. I came in to see if there was anything I could do to help.” “What could you possibly do to help?” “Well, maybe just keep you company for a while. Maybe we could talk, or something. If you want to talk, I’m a good listener.” “I don’t want to talk! Besides, you’re doing enough talking for the both of us.” With a low moan, she doubled her body tighter. “I need a fix! My stomach hurts!” “I know,” he said, soothingly. “That’s one of the withdrawal symptoms.” A dull ache was beginning to settle into his middle as well, telling him he’d been on his feet too long. “Do you mind if I sit down?” “What does it matter?” she retorted. “You’re going to do whatever you want, whether I mind or not.” He pulled a chair closer to the bed, and sat down. “Well, I’m not sitting because you don’t want me to, but because I’m starting to feel a little weak. I was just taking a stroll down the hall and heard you crying.” “I was not crying!” she declared. “Okay.” She observed him for a few moments again, and changed the subject. “So what are you in here for?” “I got shot.” He placed his hand over the wound. “Right here.” Interest flickered in those pain-glazed eyes. “Shot? How?” “With a gun.” “Jerk.” He chuckled, softly. “I’ve been called that, among other things. Seriously, though, I was shot by a gang member who was strung out on drugs. You know, drugs make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.” She rolled her eyes again. “Great. Here comes the lecture.” “No lecture. You just asked a question, and I answered it.” He fell silent here, waiting for her to make the next move. For a long time, she was quiet, staring at him, until her curiosity got the better of her. “Was it bad?” “Very bad. I nearly died.” “I guess your family was pretty upset; a lousy junkie shooting you like that.” “They were upset, yes. But they’ve been praying for the junkie, that he’ll seek the help he needs. There are better alternatives to the life he’s leading.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Look, I don’t want to come down on you, okay? I know you’re not feeling too good right now and you think everyone here is against you, but I would like you to understand that you’re on a fast highway to nowhere. You’re obviously very young; what, about fourteen?” “Fifteen!” she shot back immediately, as if offended, then decided she’d been tricked. “You knew if you said something younger, that I’d correct you, didn’t you? Well, you’re not going to trick me into saying anything else.” “It wasn’t a trick, not really,” he said. “It’s almost impossible to tell how old a junkie is. In fact, you look older than that. You’re prematurely aging yourself.” “You’re a jerk, telling a girl something like that.” “Maybe you think so, but it’s the truth. I’ve seen twenty year old women who looked twice that age. And I’ve seen sixteen year olds dead in the morgue.” She grimaced, not from his words, but from the pain. “Are they giving you anything for the pain?” he asked. “They said they can’t give me anything without parental permission, and since I won’t tell them who I am, all they can do is strap me down and let me suffer.” “You’re suffering needlessly, you know. There are several things they can do to help you through this, but you’ll need to cooperate. You need your mother and father. You need a solid foundation to hold on to. You know they’re not going to turn you loose again, don’t you? You’ll go into a juvenile facility.” He saw surprise and possibly fear flicker across her face, indicating that she had not considered the fact that they would not turn her loose again. “Juvie-hall, you mean?” “Probably. They won’t turn you back out on the streets because they know you’ll go right back to using.” “I’ll just run away from there, too. No one will care anyway.” “I care,” he answered truthfully. “I care very much.” “Why? You don’t even know me!” “Do you have to know someone personally to care about them? Why did you run away? The real reason,” he added. “Not this nonsense about wanting to be left alone.” She sighed heavily, resenting the questions, but to his surprise, she answered. “They don’t like anything I do. They don’t like the way I dress. They don’t like the music I listen to. They don’t like my friends. And they don’t like my boyfriend.” A knowing expression crossed his face. “Ah, that’s the main reason, isn’t it? You ran away from home to be with him, right?” “They forbid me to see him anymore, as if anyone could do that,” she added, rolling her eyes with sarcasm again. “Nothing can keep us apart.” “He obviously hasn’t been taking very good care of you. Is he the one who introduced you to the drugs?” “So what if he is? What business is it of yours?” He did not reveal that his profession made it his business, but instead gave a slight shake of his head that she interpreted as patronizing. “Well, don’t you think that gives a little insight about why they think he’s the wrong person for you?” “You’re just like them,” she accused. “So high and mighty, thinking you know everything.” “I don’t pretend to know everything, but I do know that perhaps if your boyfriend would admit that he has a problem and would be willing to seek treatment, then maybe your parents would think more kindly about him. Maybe you could convince him to come here and get help for his addiction. You could go through the rehab together.” She laughed, bitterly. “Nobody tells him what to do! He’s never going to give it up. “ “Until it kills him, you mean.” His words were spoken calmly, but with enough conviction that it gave her pause. For the first time, a worried frown passed across her forehead. “No, that won’t happen to him. He’s too smart to let that happen.” “Smart? He’s a junkie! Do you call that smart?” “Don’t talk about him that way! You don’t know him!” “No, but I know a lot of people like him. They think they’re invincible, until they wind up dead in a back alley somewhere.” “That won’t happen to him!” she protested. “He’s – he’s –“ “Too smart?” he prompted. “We’ve already been there. He’s a junkie, and there is nothing smart about being a junkie. Why do you think they call it ‘dope’? They keep doing more and more, increasing the dose as the effects start to diminish, until one day they take too much. That’s his future; an early grave. Is that what you want? To watch him die?” “No! I don’t want him to die!” Frustrated, she covered her face with her hands and he heard her choking back sobs. “I don’t want to talk about this any more! Just leave me alone!” Rising from the chair, he placed his hand on her forehead, smoothing back the dull, dry hair that, at her age, should have been lustrous with good health. “I can’t do that. Let me help you.” She withdrew her hands and looked at him through bloodshot eyes. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you care what happens to me?” He shrugged. “I guess I’m just a caring person.” “Maybe I like doing drugs. Maybe I don’t want your help” “I don’t think you like doing drugs,” he said, softly. “I think drugs aren’t giving you what you need. I think your boyfriend isn’t giving you what you need, either. He obviously isn’t taking very good care of you. Look at you! You haven’t seen a decent meal in ages.” “He does the best he can.” “I’ll wager almost all the money he gets goes to buy more drugs, doesn’t it? Why are you living like this? Is he worth it?” “I love him!” “Does he love you? Does he care more about you than his drugs?” Something flickered in her eyes, something that resembled a cloud of doubt, but he knew she did not want to face it. “He’s never told you that he loves you, has he?” “He doesn’t have to,” she said, defiantly defending him. “I know he loves me.” “And is he giving you the kind of life you really want?” She shrugged. “We’re just having some rough times right now. Things will look up.” “I don’t think this is what you want,” Luca told her, softly. “You want something more. You want that stable life your parents have, complete with the picket fence and school every day, the life you say you’re running away from.” She did not answer, and he knew he had hit the truth. “Listen to me,” he told her. When she turned her face away again, he cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “Listen to me! You’re a beautiful girl with a long life ahead of you, a life that doesn’t deserve to be cut short because of some bad decisions. You can beat this habit. You can stop the drugs from taking over your life. You can get your life back.” She brushed her wrist across her eyes, wiping away the tears. The veil of toughness she had been wearing seemed to fall away. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.” “I think you are. I’m not going to tell you that it’ll be easy, because it won’t. But things that are worthwhile are rarely easy.” “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” “Why don’t you start by telling me your name?” “So you can call my parents?” “Don’t you think they’d want to be here with you? Whatever they did to make you run away, I’m sure it was out of love.” “I love them too, but . . . “ She choked back a sob. “But what?” he prompted. “I don’t know! I never wanted to become a junkie. It was just supposed to be one time. My boyfriend was doing it, and he said I’d like it. I told him I didn’t want it, but he kept calling me names, saying I was chicken and that I didn’t know how to have a good time. So I let him shoot me up, and then I couldn’t quit! Then Mom and Dad started ragging on me about him, telling me how he was no good, how he was changing my personality, and I just ran away to get away from it.” He watched her quietly for a moment, allowing her time to cry. As her tears began to subside, he pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to her as he continued. “I hate to say this, but if he really cared about you, do you think he would call you names and pressure you into doing things he knew you didn’t want to do, things he knew could hurt you?” She shrugged. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. He’d never do that! He just . . . he just wanted me to share something that gave him pleasure.” “Did it give you pleasure?” She looked away again, as if reluctant to face the truth of his words. “I don’t want to talk about this any more.” “You’re having doubts about him, aren’t you?” “You’re imagining things.” “No I’m not. I can see it in your face. Your common sense is telling you things, and you should listen to it.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, and to his surprise she reached up and placed her hand on his wrist, as if savoring the kindness of his touch. “You don’t deserve to live like this. You know there are better things in life than artificial highs and digging in the garbage for other people’s cast-outs. You don’t have to go through this alone. You need your family.” “They’ll be so ashamed of me! They’ll hate me!” “No, they won’t,” he assured her, his voice gentle. “No one could hate you.” “What if they don’t want me back? What if they tell me to get lost?” “It may not be easy, but I think they’ll forgive you. Think about it from their point of view. Don’t you think they’re probably beside themselves with worry and fear, wondering what happened to you? Give them a chance; I’m sure they’ll want to help you.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After a long hesitation, where she seemed to be struggling with some inner torment, she nodded. “All right.” “All right?” She sighed heavily in defeat. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I tell you, are you? My name’s Cassie Edwards. My dad’s name is James.” He smiled gently and took her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Cassie. Now, why don’t you tell me your boyfriend’s name? Maybe we can help him too, before it’s too late.” Here, she balked. Shaking her head, she said, “He’d be furious at me if I turned him in.” “For a while, he probably will. But in the long run, maybe he’ll realize that you only wanted to help.” “I don’t know where he is, anyway. I haven’t seen him in almost a week. Michael said he knew of a way to get a lot of money, and then he was going to meet me, but he never showed up.” “Michael?” A strange sensation of déjà vu crept into Luca’s stomach, and he gripped the bedrail tightly to fight off the sudden dizziness. “Are you all right?” she asked, suddenly alarmed. He did not acknowledge her question, and did not even seem to have heard. “This Michael of yours wouldn’t happen to be a member of the Stingrays, would he?” “Stingrays? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She paused, briefly, thinking. “He has a jacket with a picture of a stingray on the back. Is that what you’re talking about?” “You mean you don’t know?” he asked, incredulously. “Cassie, your boyfriend and his buddies belong to one of the meanest gangs in the area.” Cassie looked horrified. “No, he can’t be a member of a gang! I’d have known! He would have told me!” She fell silent again, thinking frantically, desperately trying to deny the truth, but he could see that deep down she had known he was keeping secrets. “No wonder your parents didn’t like him! This gang is heavily into drugs and crime, committing most of the robberies of convenience stores and gas stations in this area to support their addiction. You’re telling me that you knew nothing about this?” “No! He has his friends, but they aren’t gang members. They can’t be.” “I know you don’t want to believe it, Cassie, but it’s true. Five days ago, they went into a local high school and took hostages. They demanded the release of their friends from jail, plus a ransom in exchange for the hostages.” “How – how do you know this?” “Because they’re the ones who shot me, that’s how!” he told her with more harshness in his voice than he intended. Cassie drew her breath in sharply. “No! He wouldn’t! He couldn’t!” “Listen to me, Cassie. Michael nearly executed one of those hostages. He was perfectly willing to commit murder to get what he wanted!” “You’re lying!” “I was there! I saw the whole thing!” He sighed, and his voice became gentle again. “Cassie, I hate to be the one to tell you all this, but you have to know that Michael and his friends were arrested. That’s why he didn’t meet up with you afterward. He’s in jail, and he’s going to be in jail for a long time.” Her eyes welled with tears again. “Please tell me you’re lying,” she begged. “I’m not lying,” Luca continued. “He has a long list of crimes against him, including attempted murder, armed robbery, various drug crimes, kidnapping, and assault. He’s going to be charged as an adult for those crimes. He probably won’t get out for years.” She wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “Being in jail is going to kill him.” “Maybe not. If he comes clean, shows remorse, and get’s his act together, then it might even be a positive thing for him. He can get some help with his addiction, maybe even learn a trade. Then, when he gets out, he’ll be able to live a normal life.” “He’s never had a normal life.” Luca sighed, sadly. That was the case with many drug addicts. They had no home life, no structure and balance, and no parents fit to guide them or be a roll model. Others, like Cassie, came from good families and were led into it, either willingly or through peer pressure. “Well, at the very least, maybe he’ll learn that society has boundaries, and he can come out of it a better person than he was when he went in.” Even as he said the words, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. Going in at such a young age, Michael was likely to come out even more hardened than when he went in. Cassie was quiet again for a long time, thinking about everything he had told her, but when she spoke again, there was resignation in her voice. “I’m never going to see him again, am I?” “I don’t know, but I do know that it’s out of our hands. He made some bad choices, and now he has to pay for them. But it doesn’t have to be like that for you. You have a second chance. You can turn your life around.” “My parents are really going to nail me down, now. They’ll give me the ‘I told you so’ lecture, and I’ll probably be grounded until I’m thirty.” “Well, I think that’s a possibility,” he said with a smile, and in spite of herself, a hint of a smile flickered across her lips. “Seriously, though, you can expect them to tighten the reins on you quite a bit. It’s going to be up to you to prove to them that you can be trusted again. You’re fifteen, Cassie. You’re not a little girl any more, so you need to be mature and accept whatever punishment they give. Take it like a man – I mean, like a woman.” He saw her eyes brighten a bit, and had she not still been in pain, he thought she might have smiled at that. “When I came in here, I had no idea this whole thing was going to come full circle like this.” His eyes rested on her for a long time as she struggled to gain control over her emotions. “Maybe I was supposed to be here,” he mused. “Maybe I was supposed to be the one to help you.” She sniffled and wiped her nose again. “You believe in fate?” “I don’t know. But you have to admit, it’s pretty far-fetched that I would come into your room like this, and have your boyfriend turn out to be a member of the gang that put me here.” “Yeah, I guess.” She paused for a long moment, then said, “Would you have them call my mom and dad now?” Her face contorted with pent-up emotion again, and it was obvious that without Michael to take care of her, she was frightened and alone. “I think I need to see them.” “I’d be happy to,” he replied, softly. Slipping a finger under her chin, he tilted her face up. “You’re going to be okay, Cassie. You have the strength to do this.” “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’re welcome.” Turning, Luca shuffled slowly toward the door, his shoulders sagging. The emotional conversation had left him feeling both physically and emotionally drained. “Mister?” He turned back to face her. “I’m sorry for what Michael and his friends did.” “It wasn’t your fault, Cassie. Don’t think for a minute that any of this was your fault.” He gave a backward wave of his hand. “Take care.” Leaving Cassie alone again, he stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door mostly closed. With a deep exhale, he started down the long corridor toward the nurse’s station. This time, he stopped at the counter and without waiting to be noticed, he said, “You know that Jane Doe down the hall?” This got their attention as nothing else could have, except maybe a coronary. “Her name is Cassie Edwards,” he continued. “Her father’s name is James.” Astonished looks swept across the faces of the staff, and all of them spoke at once, their voices jumbling together so that he could not understand any of the words, but he understood the meaning. “I heard her crying and looked in on her. We talked a little bit, and she opened up to me.” “You must have used some incredible persuasion!” said one of the nurses. “No one else has been able to get anything out of her.” He gave a shrug. “Well, she’s a bit mixed up. I think she needed to bend someone’s ear, and it happened to be mine. I think she needs her mom and dad pretty bad.” One of the nurses jotted the name down on a piece of paper. “I’ll see if I can locate them.” With their attention directed elsewhere again, he made his way back toward his room. Behind him, he heard them chattering among themselves about how he’d been able to do what no one else had, but he didn’t care about staying to listen.. All he wanted at the moment was to lie down and rest for a spell. | ||
| Chapter Sixteen With the nurses’ voices behind him still marveling at the fact that he had somehow managed to coax information out of the young drug addict, Luca shuffled slowly toward his room. The experience had drained him, both physically and mentally, and he was eager to lie down and rest for a while, yet at the same time he felt deeply satisfied that his hospital stay had yielded positive results in the life of a very needy girl. It reminded him of the time he had spent in Vice; difficult times wrought with frustration that he had been unable to help all of the addicts who had crossed his path, but nothing could equal the satisfaction he had felt whenever he had busted a dealer who was selling to kids or managed to persuade an addict to seek treatment. His mind was preoccupied as he turned into the doorway of his room, and as a result he nearly collided with his mother, who was on her way out. They both stopped abruptly and stepped backward in surprise. Mariana recovered from the surprise first. “Dominic! I thought I heard your voice out here. What are you doing out of bed!” She seized his arm with surprising strength for such a small woman, and guided him into the room. “You must come back inside at once!” Luca gave a wry smile, thinking how vehemently Cassie had complained about her parents always telling her what to do. At her age, it had bothered him too, but now he found Mariana’s love and concern very comforting. “Yes, Mama,” he said, obediently. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?” he added, bending to kiss her on the cheek. She beamed with pleasure at his display of affection, and her eyes became misty. “Not very often, but I do love to hear it. Now, back to bed!” Isabella had been sitting in one of the chairs waiting for him to return, and she stood up to help him off with the robe. “Mama’s been frantic ever since we got here, wondering where you were,” she told him. “I was not!” Mariana quickly denied the claim. “It just gave me a turn to come in to your hospital room and find your bed empty.” “I just took a little walk down the hall,” he explained. To his sister, he added, “I thought you were flying back to New Jersey today.” “It isn’t until this afternoon. I wanted to see you once more before I left.” “Well, as you can see, I’m coming along wonderfully.” He stepped out of the slippers and climbed back on the bed. He released a contented sigh as he sank back on the pillow. “Ahh, that feels good.” Mariana bustled around, pulling the sheet up to his waist and tucking him in as if he was a small child, and he allowed her to do so without commenting, but exchanged a knowing smile with his sister while his mother’s attention was focused on straightening the sheets and fluffing his pillows. “They need to replace your pillows,” she declared as she wrestled with one of them, trying to make it plumper than it actually was. “They’ve all gone flat!” “I think they’re all that way,” Dom told her. “You must be doing a lot better if they’ve allowed you to take a walk by yourself,” Isabella commented. “Yeah, they said I could get up and move around, and they even let me take a shower by myself this morning. I figured that the sooner I start taking walks to start getting my strength back, the sooner they’d let me out of here.” “How about this morning?” asked a masculine voice from the doorway. Doctor Windom had entered the room unnoticed, and as they turned to face him, they saw that he was watching the Luca family with a smile, clearly amused at the way Mariana was fussing over her son. Luca hardly dared to believe he had heard correctly. “You mean it? I can leave this morning?” “There really isn’t anything more we can do for you here. You’re back on your feet, you’re eating solid food, you’re off the i.v. The only catch is that you must either get someone to stay with you for the next couple of weeks or so, or that you stay with someone for that time. You’ve made great progress, but you’re not ready to be totally on your own yet.” “You will come stay with me,” Mariana spoke up. She had paused in her attempts to plump the pillows, and now resumed the task with enthusiasm. “Your mama will take care of you.” Luca hesitated. Staying with his mother was not exactly what had had in mind. “No, that’s okay, Mama. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m sure I can find someone to stay with me for a few days.” “Nonsense,” Mariana scoffed, failing to comprehend the true significance behind her son’s protest. “You won’t be any trouble to me at all. You can move back into your old bedroom, and I will take care of you. There will be no argument from you, Dominic. You will stay with me and that’s final.” Isabella was grinning, understanding that her youngest brother had other resources in mind as caregivers during his recuperation, but knew also that her mother would not be put off. “Better just accept it, Dom,” she advised. “You know she’s going to win in the end, so you may as well save your breath.” “I think it’s an excellent idea,” Doctor Windom said. “There is no care in the world to equal that of a mother. In fact, I prescribe two weeks of rest under your mother’s care and good cooking.” “How did you know she’s a good cook?” Luca asked. “I’ve never met an Italian woman who wasn’t a good cook!” Mariana beamed with pleasure. “Now, you’ll need to take it easy for a while, but that doesn’t mean bed rest,” Windom continued. “You can get up and move around, just don’t do any driving for another week or so, and no heavy lifting or strenuous activity for about six weeks.” “Okay. What about exercise? Can I start taking walks?” He gave a single nod. “You can start easing into it slowly, maybe walking to the end of the block first and then gradually increasing the distance. We’ll send you home with some pain pills and some written instructions. I’ll want to see you again in a few weeks to check your progress. Other than that, I think you’re good to go. I’ll get your release papers in order, and you can get out of here in about an hour. How does that sound?” “Sounds great!” “That’ll give you just about enough time for breakfast before we let you go.” He stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and Luca accepted the handshake. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Officer Luca. The best of luck to you.” “Thank you.” With a wave, Doctor Windom made his departure, leaving Luca alone with his mother and sister. Mariana was still standing at his bedside, obviously pleased that her youngest child would be staying with her for a few weeks. With probing fingers, she tried to straighten his unruly mop of hair. “Dominic, you need a haircut.” “It’s just curling from being washed, that’s all,” Luca told her. “I forgot to have you bring a hair dryer.” He fell silent for several moments, thinking, and turned his attention toward the window, but all he could see was the blue sky and the edge of an adjoining building. “Mama, do you remember that old patchwork quilt that you used to wrap around me whenever I was sick?” “Yes.” “Do you still have it?” “I think it’s in one of the closets. Why?” “I was wondering if maybe I could use it while I’m there.” “Of course you can. But why would you think of that old thing after all these years?” “When I was in recovery, the nurses put a heated blanket over me. It just reminded me of that old quilt. It was so . . . warm and comforting. I can’t explain it. I just want to be wrapped up in it again, like when I was little.” Mariana smiled fondly at her son. “I will fix you a nice spaghetti dinner while you wrap yourself up on the sofa with the quilt. It will be wonderful having you home again, son.” Even though it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind, Luca had to admit that it would be nice being at his mother’s house again for a few weeks, enjoying her company and her good cooking. “That sounds good, Mama.” “It sounds real good,” Isabella agreed. “I wish I could stay and enjoy it with you, but I have to be at the airport by twelve thirty.” “You could change your flight,” Luca suggested. She smiled fondly at him. “I wish I could, Dom, but now that you’re back on your feet, I really need to get home. Rick and the kids are probably living on canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches!” “Well, we can’t have that!” he teased. “No, we can’t,” she agreed. “So, I think I’ll make a pot of spaghetti too. Mama’s recipe, and we’ll all be thinking of you when we enjoy it.” As the thought of her homemade meals entered his mind, so did the aroma of the breakfast cart in the corridor; quite inferior to Mama’s food, of course, but pleasing enough to make his stomach rumble eagerly. Within minutes, a student nurse came inside carrying the breakfast tray. “I understand this is your last meal with us,” she said cheerfully as she placed it on the table in front of him. “I hope you enjoy it.” He grinned happily at her, his eyes clearly enjoying her long blonde ponytail and trim figure beneath her crisp white uniform. “Oh, I’m sure I will.” She smiled back, lingered briefly as if to admire his good looks a bit longer, then turned to leave, Smiling to himself, he lifted the cover on the plate and looked at the scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage that awaited his pleasure. “That smells pretty good,” Isabella said. “Want some?” he offered. “No, we’ve eaten. It just looks better than I expected.” “Actually, it looks better than it is,” he told her, pushing the runny eggs around with his fork. “But when you don’t have anything else, you just eat it.” “Just wait until I get you home!” Mariana declared. “Can’t wait!” -()- A little over an hour later, an orderly entered the room pushing a wheelchair. “You ready to get out of here, Officer Luca?” he asked in a cheerful voice. “You bet I am!” came the enthusiastic response. Isabella rose from her chair, digging her keys from her purse at the same time. “I’ll bring the car around.” She picked up one of the largest of the flower arrangements and the teddy bear SWAT officer. “I’ll take these with me, so there will be less to carry.” After she had gone, Mariana bustled around the room gathering up the rest of her son’s possessions while the orderly assisted him into the robe and then into the wheelchair. The tape recorder and tapes were placed in Luca’s lap, and Mariana held the other flower arrangement. “All set?” the orderly asked. “All set,” he replied. The chair was pushed through the open doorway, and was wheeled past the nurse’s station. Most of the staff had dispensed since he had seen them earlier, and only one nurse remained at the desk, a telephone propped against her shoulder as she sorted papers in search of an apparently requested bit of information. She glanced up as he was wheeled past, and raised her hand in a farewell wave before returned her attention to the caller. They turned the corner and moved down the adjacent corridor toward the public elevators. A “ding” announced the arrival of the elevator, and a moment later, a middle aged man and woman hurried around the corner toward them, their expressions very anxious. They glanced quickly at him and the man gave a quick nod as they approached, but neither spoke. A moment later, they turned into the doorway where Cassie Edwards was recovering from her drug addiction, and Luca heard their exclamations of both relief and concern as they saw their daughter. “Stop here for a moment,” Luca said when they drew even with the door. The orderly did as directed, and although Mariana was surprised by the unexpected pause, she instantly saw that something had attracted her son’s attention and remained silent, as his attention was riveted on the scene inside the room were the man and the woman were embracing the girl in what appeared to be a joyous and tearful reunion. The woman was weeping. “Oh, Cassie! We’ve never been so worried in our lives! We imagined all kinds of dreadful things had happened to you!” “Why didn’t you think you could come to us, Sweetheart?” the man added. “We would have helped you through this.” “I’m sorry I put you through all that,” Cassie said meekly. “I guess I didn’t want to admit that I had become a drug addict. I was afraid you would hate me when you found out.” “We could never hate you, darling!” he exclaimed. He affectionately brushed a lock of hair from her forehead with his fingers. “We don’t understand why this happened, but you’re our daughter! We love you! Nothing could ever change that!” “I love you too, Dad,” she said, choking on her tears. “I know I put you through a lot, but I guess I didn’t want to admit that you were right about Michael.” “He’s the one who got you started, isn’t he?” “Yeah.” “What made you change your mind about him?” She glanced toward the door and caught sight of Luca watching and started to speak. He placed a finger to his lips, urging her to remain silent. There was no need for anyone to know that the decision to notify her parents had been pressed upon her by a well meaning stranger. Better to let them think it was her idea. She nodded her understanding, and looked up at her father again. “I guess I just realized what kind of person he really is. And I know now that family is the most important thing in the world, and I really don’t want to lose that.” Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. “I love you both so much, and I’ve missed you.” Succumbing to her tears, she began to cry, and her mother bent over to embrace her while her father reached for her hand. Satisfied that Cassie was going to be all right now, Luca motioned to the orderly to continue, and he responded by pushing the wheelchair forward again. As they proceeded down the hallway, Mariana glanced over her shoulder at the doorway, curiously. “Who was that girl?” she asked. “You’re the one who convinced her to let her parents know, weren’t you?” the orderly asked almost at the same time. “Yes, but no one needs to know that,” Luca replied. “She has her family with her, and that’s all that matters.” “She was brought in last night. From what I heard, she was going through a dumpster behind a restaurant, and the owner called police. They were worried about her because she had obviously not eaten in a long time, so they brought her here to have her checked out. She came in kicking and screaming. Man, she was one of the most combative patients we’ve ever seen with a pretty good right hook! One of the cops has a black eye, and she gave the E.R. doctor a fat lip! She tried to make a break for it at one point. That’s why she was tied down. They were going to notify the juvenile authorities this morning.” “I wondered about that.” “Well, thanks to you, things worked out for her. She’ll be a lot better off with a loving family.” Luca grasped his mother’s hand and pressed it to his lips with great affection. “Like she said, family is the most important thing in the world. I hope she’ll let them help her through this.” “Looks like she’s starting to get a handle on it,” the orderly said as they turned away from the public elevators and made their way down another corridor. “Oh, by the way, here’s a prescription for you and some instructions for your care the next couple of weeks.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, which he passed to Luca. “Doctor Windom said to get the prescription filled today.” Luca accepted the small prescription slip and the larger instruction sheet which detailed the dos and don’ts of his recovery period. “Thanks.” They came to a halt at another bank of elevators. “This elevator will take us right down to the patient discharge area.” The orderly punched one of the buttons, and they waited for the doors to open. When it arrived, Luca was wheeled into it, and he pressed the button for the first floor. It felt strange to be sitting in a wheelchair, his line of vision well below that of everyone else. The orderly stood behind him, his hands resting on the handles of the chair, while Mariana stood to her son’s left, still carrying the flower arrangement. All three of them tilted their heads to watch the lighted display which counted off the floors, one by one, as they made their descent. At last, they heard the “ding” of the elevator bell, and the doors slid open to reveal the corridor which led to the patients’ exit area, and the orderly pushed him at a brisk pace with Mariana hurrying along behind. Isabella was waiting beside the car in the patient pick-up area, and she opened the passenger door for him. The orderly wheeled him beside it, and Luca stood up to transfer himself from the chair to the cushioned seat of the car, but he did not immediately get into the vehicle. Instead, he stood for a moment in the warm sunshine, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze against his face as it softly rustled his hair. It was a beautiful day, a perfect day for driving over to the beach or spending an afternoon at the pool. With a sigh, he slowly climbed into the vehicle, wincing slightly at the tugging sensation in his abdomen. He wouldn’t be spending time at the pool or at the beach for a while, not until he was fully healed. Dr. Windom would flip out, and his mother would have a coronary if he even suggested it. When he was settled, the orderly pushed the door closed, then turned to retrace his steps back into the hospital. Mariana placed the flower arrangement in the back seat beside the other one, then got in directly behind her son. Isabella took the driver’s seat and started the engine. “All set?” she asked. “You bet I am. Let’s get outta here!” -()- The ride to Mariana’s house was blissfully uneventful. Luca sat quietly in the front passenger seat, gazing out the window at familiar sights as if he was seeing them for the first time. It had not been that long since he had seen Mama’s neighborhood, just a few weeks, yet being in the hospital was like being in another world, far removed from the sights and sounds to which he was accustomed. Somehow, it made everything on the outside seem new and different, even though very little had changed: the lawn on the corner still needed mowing, as it did most of the time, children were playing in the parks, people were walking their dogs. He made an occasional comment about what he was seeing, but mostly he was content to simply sit back and observe. When they arrived at the house, Mariana opened his door for him against his objections that he should be opening the door for her, but she said, “Nonsense!” and reached for his arm to help him from the car. He could have managed on his own, but of course he allowed her to assist him, and she continued to hold on to his arm as they walked up the sidewalk to the front porch. Isabella opened the door, and Luca stepped into the house in which he had been raised. Mariana followed him in, and quickly set aside her purse. “Just lie down on the sofa,” she urged. “I’ll put clean sheets on your bed and run the vacuum cleaner in your room. It will be ready for you whenever you’re ready to take a nap.” Still standing in his pajamas and robe, Luca started to protest. “Mama, please don’t go to any --- ” With a stern expression, she raised her hand as she had often done when her children were small. It was a signal for immediate silence, and Luca had been conditioned his entire life to instantly comply with that wordless command. “You just lie down and rest, and let Mama do what needs to be done.” Luca did not argue any more. He was feeling very tired, and as much as he hated to admit it, he needed to lie down for a while, and the sofa was starting to look mighty inviting. He sat down on it, yawned, then pushed off the slippers and tipped over, resting his head on the throw pillow. Satisfied that she would get no further argument from him, Mariana stopped at the linen closet for fresh sheets, then proceeded down the hall to the room he had used as a boy. Isabella followed to help, and working together they had the room cleaned up and ready for occupancy in just a few minutes. Left alone in the living room, Luca raised up slightly and fluffed up the throw pillow a bit, It was small and rather flat, but it plumped up a bit, so he repositioned it and laid his head back down and closed his eyes, feeling content and happy to be out of the hospital. Within moments, he felt his body begin to relax and knew that he was about to drift off. He welcomed it, but just as the warmth of sleep began to blot out all other sensations, he felt something heavy and warm settle over his body. Curiously, he fought back the sleepiness and opened his eyes. Mama was standing over him, tucking the old patchwork quilt around him. Drowsily, he said, “You’re going to spoil me.” “That is my intention,” she replied with a smile. “Now, your bed is turned down in case you want to go to bed, but you are more than welcome to nap here if you prefer. Isabella and I are going shopping so I can make you a fresh batch of spaghetti for supper, then I am going to drop her off at the airport on the way back, so you just sleep as long as you want.” He lifted his head from the pillow again. “You’re not coming back to the house?” he asked. Isabella shook her head. “No. I need to get to the airport to get checked in.” He tossed back the quilt against his mother’s and Isabella’s protests that he need not get up, but he wanted to say a proper goodbye to the sister who had flown all the way across the country to be there for him and assist their mother during those first frightening days. “I’m glad you came, sis,” he said, drawing her into his arms. Isabella leaned into her youngest brother’s warm embrace. “Promise me you won’t put us through something like this again!” His hesitation before answering reminded her that the nature of his profession placed him in dangerous situations, and the reality was that a promise of that nature was one he might not be able to keep. “I promise I will do my best to make sure nothing like this happens again.” She drew back to look into his dark brown eyes, and felt her eyes well with tears. “Well, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that. You take care of yourself, little brother.” “I will, big sis. Say hi to Rick and the kids for me.” “I will. We’re coming back for Christmas this year, so I’ll see you then.” “See you then.” After one more embrace, Isabella gathered her suitcase and purse, and she and Mariana went out to the car, leaving Luca alone in the house. With nothing else to do, he lay back down on the sofa and pulled the quilt over him again. Then he snuggled down beneath it’s warmth and soon fell asleep. | ||
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Four weeks later . . . Dressed casually in a pair of faded blue jeans, sneakers, and a sleeveless yellow shirt, Dominic Luca wandered aimlessly around his mother’s house trying to find something to do. Doctor Windom had declared him fit and healthy, and tomorrow he would be returning to his own apartment. Mama had protested his desire to return to his own place, urging him to remain with her another week or two, but he knew she had accepted his need to be independent, for she was making a large pan of homemade lasagna for supper and she had promised to wrap up the left-overs for him to take home to his freezer. It would be good to get back home with his own television, his own stereo, his own books, and his own bed. It had been nice staying with Mama, but it was time to ease back into his own routine. That is not to say there were no feelings of guilt that he was leaving. As the youngest in the family, it had been difficult to leave home the first time, for he had left his widowed mother alone in the house, but it seemed worse this time. This time, she had nearly lost him to a gang member’s bullet, and he knew there would probably be tears from both of them. It was early evening, and the smells coming from the kitchen were enough to make his stomach come alive with yearning. As he passed the kitchen door, where Mama was checking the progress of the meal, the mouthwatering aromas of pasta, homemade marina, and Mama’s own blend of Italian cheeses grew stronger from the open door of the oven, and he brushed his hand across his grumbling abdomen as if to sooth it. Glancing out the large kitchen window toward the back yard, his eyes came to rest on the tree house that was nestled securely in the branches of the sprawling oak tree. It wasn’t very big, considering the number of kids that had played in it, but Pop had made it sturdy, and it would probably last many more years. Intrigued, he entered the kitchen and walked toward the back door. Mariana closed the oven door and turned around. “Going outside?” she asked. “Yes.” “You stay out of that tree house,” she cautioned, anticipating his intentions. He wasn’t sure if it was her sixth sense that gave her such insight, or if it was a seventh or eighth sense unique to mothers. In any case, she somehow always knew what he was going to do, especially if it was something he didn’t particularly want her to know about. “You might fall and break open that wound!” she continued, unaware of his inner amazement at her ability to read his mind. “You’re just now back on your feet. I don’t want you in the hospital again.” “Mama, I’ve been on my feet for four weeks now, and I’ll be careful. I promise.” “You never listen to me,” she complained as she transferred the extra marinara sauce from the pot to a jar for later use. “He never listens to me.” “I listen to you, Mama,” he assured her. “I just don’t always do what you say.” With a smile, he opened the door and stepped outside in the fresh air. Like the day he had come home from the hospital, it was a beautiful day with plenty of sunshine and a mild breeze. The grass needed mowing, but Mama wouldn’t allow him to do it for her, citing the fact that he had not been released for such activities by the doctor yet. He knew she was right, but it was getting boring, just hanging around the house all the time. Trotting down the steps, he made his way across the yard, surprisingly spacious for crowded Southern California, toward the huge old oak tree that held the small structure nestled in its branches, and he tipped his head back to look at it. It was an impressive tree house complete with a small porch, walls, a roof, and a tattered flap of a curtain in the window. Pop had been gifted with the knowledge of how to build things, and he had constructed the little house for his children many years ago. The pain of his father’s loss was still with him, and he recalled that he had retreated to this very tree house when his father had passed away. It was within those carefully crafted walls that he had grieved in private, for he had felt closer to him there than anywhere else. For some reason, he felt the need to be there again. Moving forward, he grasped the ladder in his hands, checking the rungs for weaknesses before proceeding. It seemed sturdy, so he climbed all the way up, knowing that his mother was probably watching from the window, expecting him to fall. She had argued vehemently against building the tree house, fearful that one of her children would hurt themselves, but Pop had stood his ground. Tree houses were as American as apple pie and football, and he had been proud to become an American citizen. Stepping off the ladder, he ducked his head and stepped through the small doorway into the interior. It was bright and cheerful, with large windows and a small bench, and Luca sat down on the window sill, willing himself to feel his father’s presence, as he had felt it in the hospital when he had nearly died. But he felt nothing except the warmth and the gentle breeze. He did not know how long he had been there when he heard a gruff, rather muffled voice, calling, "You're surrounded! Come out with your hands up!" Rising from the window sill, Dom poked his head out the window, surprised to see T. J. standing at the base of the tree looking up at him. Obliging his friend's joke, he put his hands up in the air. "I surrender!" They laughed together, then T. J. said, "I hope you don't mind my dropping by unannounced." "No, not at all." He gave a beckoning gesture with his arm. "Come on up. Unless you’re afraid of heights," he added. T. J.'s job as sharpshooter had placed him in many high points in the line of duty, but he rarely had the opportunity to climb a tree just for the fun of it. He grasped the ladder, and ascended into the tree. Dom was waiting inside the doorway when he reached the small narrow porch. "I haven't been in a tree house since I was a kid," T. J. said. "Really? Did you build it yourself?" "No. My cousins had one." The doorway was so low that they had to duck their heads to avoid bumping them as they entered the small room, but once inside they were able to stand upright. T. J. tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he looked around the interior. "This one is a lot nicer than theirs, though," he added, noticing the hand-hewn wooden benches against the walls. “Someone put a lot of work into the construction.” "Pop helped us build it when we were kids. My sisters made the curtains in exchange for user privileges. They also insisted on a flower box that they kept filled with impatiens, until they realized that they had to water them. It wasn’t easy carrying buckets of water up the ladder. We ended up tying a rope to the handle and pulling it up. It was fun the first few times, then it got old. We spent a lot of time up here, though. Mama keeps it around for the grandkids to play in when they visit. She worries about them, though, just like she always worried about us, but I guess that's her job." “Yeah, when she was leading me through the house, she was saying that the tree house has been a menace ever since it was built, and that she has always worried that one of the kids would fall out of it.” He was quiet for a moment, then asked. “Did anyone ever fall out of it?” “Nope,” Luca answered. “I nearly pushed one of my brothers out of it once, but I knew Pop would ear me out, so I decided I had better not.” T. J. laughed. “Why did you want to push him?” A pensive frown flickered across Luca’s brow as he thought back to that long ago day. “I can’t remember. Whatever it was, it made me mad.” “Obviously,” T. J. joked, amused, then suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit. “Oh, the reason I came was this.” Reaching back, he pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket and held it out to Luca. “This came to the station for you. Sorry it’s a bit wrinkled. I sat on it.” He reached out to take it, and glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to Officer Luca, c/o Olympic Police Station. He shifted his gaze to the return address and saw that it was from Cassie Edwards, Bartlett Rehab Center. “It’s from Cassie!” he exclaimed, ripping it open. “Who’s Cassie?” T. J. asked. He was trying to sound casual, but Luca could tell he was dying of curiosity about who would be writing to him from a rehab center. “She’s a girl I met in the hospital, a junkie. The amazing thing is, she’s the girlfriend of Michael, the gang member who intended to murder that student.” “You’re kidding.” “I kid you not.” He sat down again on the window sill as he pulled the letter from the envelope and a smile formed as he began to read. “She says she’s dried out, and they’re going to let her go home for a visit in a few more weeks. She has to stay there a while longer, but she knows she’s going to be okay. That’s wonderful news,” he said as he finished the letter. “Think she really will be okay?” T. J. asked rather skeptically. “I’ve heard it’s hard to get off that stuff and even harder to stay off it.” “This one has a loving family to help keep her on track. Yeah, I think she’ll be fine.” "So, I heard you passed your Psychological Evaluation," T. J. said, sinking down on one of the benches. It was a little undersized, built specifically for children, but reasonably comfortable. "Mm-hm," Dom replied. "Doc Windom says I can go back to work on the desk in a couple of weeks. He's set me up with a physical therapist, so I should be able to pass the physical exam soon, and then I can get back in the field." "Are you okay with that?" Dom was suddenly suspicious of the motivation behind T. J.'s visit, and a frown creased his brow. "Did Harrelson send you out here to quiz me on my mental state?" "No, no, he didn't," T. J. replied. "I'm here on my own, and anything we talk about is between us; I promise. I know it's kind of hard facing the bullets again after you've been shot. Remember, I was shot a couple of times, too. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, if you need to talk about anything." Dom nodded, recalling the two occasions when T. J. had been felled by bullets from the weapons of the people they were attempting to arrest. "I appreciate that, Teej, but I'm not afraid to go back." "Not at all?" "Nope. Let's just say I'm smarter than I was before. I took the vest for granted. That won't happen again. I'm not any good at just sitting around reading magazines or watching soap operas and game shows while Mama waits on me. I'd go back right now, if they'd let me." T. J. nodded, satisfied. Dom cocked his head, curiously. "Were you nervous about going back on duty?" "A little," he confessed. "Being shot out of that tree was the worst." "You joked about it," Dom recalled. "Something to the effect that the first step was a killer." "Yeah. It was easy to joke about it at the time, but the first time I went up to a high point afterward, I have to admit, my stomach tightened up a bit. You see on TV and in the movies all the time where the guy who gets shot says something like, 'Aw, it's just a flesh wound.' Let me tell you, flesh wounds hurt like hell." "Tell me about it," Dom agreed. He paused, briefly. He had been unable to discuss his shooting with his family members for fear of upsetting them, but he knew that T. J. would understand what he was going through. "I couldn't talk about that with any of my family, especially Mama and my sisters. I didn't even realize I had been hit at first. I had heard that in intense situations like that, the adrenaline takes over and blocks out everything except what you're doing, and I guess it's true because I didn't feel it. It knocked me off my feet, and I still didn't feel it. After it was over, and things started to calm down, I started realizing that something was wrong. I felt so weak, and my hands were shaking. I looked down and saw the blood and realized that I was in trouble. That's when I finally started to feel it. I figured I was probably dying." "There was one time when Dr. Windom said they almost lost you," T. J. remembered. He nodded, slowly. "I tell you one thing; I don’t ever want to go through something like that again! And yet I know that I could.” "Yeah, I know," T. J. replied, softly. “We’re in a dangerous line of work.” Dom nodded. “Yeah. Mama thinks we should think about doing something else.” “What could two retired SWAT officers do?” T. J. asked, shaking off that melancholy feeling that had settled over them during the more serious discussion. “I don’t think I could stand sitting behind a desk all day long. Maybe we could open a private detective business, or something along those lines." “I can see the etching on our door,” Luca said, jokingly. “Luca and McCabe, Private Investigators.” They both paused to think about it, then grinned at each other. “Nah,” they chimed together. Laughing, Luca said, “Mama made some fresh lemonade. Wha'd'ya say we go get a glass?" "Sounds good." “And you will stay for supper, I hope. Mama made lasagna, and she makes enough to feed Cox’s army.” “She’s already asked, and yes, I’d love to.” Together, the two friends climbed out of the tree house and made their way back to the kitchen. -()- Two weeks later, Dominic Luca stood before the mirror on his dresser, gazing critically at his own reflection as he tied his uniform necktie. Deciding that he looked quite handsome, if he did say so himself, he finished the task of dressing by attaching the tie clip in the appropriate place, and adjusting it so that it was straight. He was returning to the job for the first time since the shooting that had sidelined him for the past six weeks, and he was forced to admit, at least to himself, that he was rather nervous about returning to duty. He wasn't sure exactly why. As he had told T. J., he was not nervous about facing the bad guys again. He had done that many times without bodily harm, but it was more of an emotional situation that he had not expected to face. Life on the force had gone on without him, and he wondered how everyone would react to him being there again. Would they make an unnecessary fuss over him? Or would they totally ignore him? Either would be equally uncomfortable. Shrugging aside those peculiar thoughts and feelings, he picked up his gun belt and fastened it around his trim waist. In spite of Mama’s cooking, he was still a little thinner than he had been before, and he found that it was necessary to take the belt up one notch. The holster was adjusted so that it was comfortably positioned at his right hip. Ready for his first day of work, he grabbed his car keys and drove to the police station. When he walked through the main door, he paused briefly at the front desk. The desk sergeant was on the telephone, and barely glanced at him as he passed. A slight wave of his hand was the only acknowledgment he received. Dom raised his hand in reply and proceeded. As he walked through the station toward the stairs that led down to the SWAT room, his presence received little attention. It was still very early; the sun was barely up, and the evening shift had not yet returned from patrol. Only a few of the day shift had arrived, and most of them were gathering in the briefing room, so with hardly any recognition of his return to duty by the regular force, Dom trotted down the wooden staircase into the basement room. He paused near the bottom of the stairs to gaze fondly into the room in which he had spent so much time as a police officer, and noticed immediately that several rather large stacks of paperwork had been placed on his desk. He felt his resolve weaken slightly. Apparently, they intended to use him for combination secretary, filing clerk, answering machine, and anything else involving paper and telephones. I'll sure be glad when the doctor gives the okay to return to the field! Seated at his desk, Deacon Kay looked up when he saw his young subordinate standing on the stairs leaning over the rail. "Luca, there are some reports on your desk that need to be completed before the day is out." Then he returned to his own paperwork. Dom stared at him, shocked. There had been no "Welcome back" or "Glad to see you". Not even a handshake. "Okay," he responded, too bewildered to say anything else. He completed his trek down the steps, and saw Lieutenant Harrelson emerge from the arsenal room. Harrelson was going over an inventory sheet with a typical scowl on his face, and he looked up when he neared the younger officer. "Luca, your tie clasp is crooked. Straighten it out. Then I need you to double check this ammunition inventory. We didn't get a chance to do that after our last run." Dom gaped at him for a startled moment, then dropped his eyes to his tie clasp. It was indeed slightly off the perfectly horizontal position, but hardly enough to be noticed. He made the expected adjustment, and then accepted the inventory sheet that Harrelson had thrust at him as he passed. He did not see the discreet wink that was exchanged between the lieutenant and the sergeant. "Oh, Luca," Harrelson said, turning back to face him. Dom looked up, expectantly, his eyebrows lifting in a quizzical fashion as his tongue slid between his lips. Surely the lieutenant was going to offer a welcome back. "I need that before lunch." Disappointed, Dom glanced quickly at his desk, piled with file folders and stacks of paper, suddenly feeling very abused and neglected. He would have thought his return would have generated more interest than simply shoving all the paperwork off on him! "Yes, sir," he responded. With a barely audible sigh, he pulled out his chair and sat down at the desk to begin working on the mountains of reports. Harrelson watched with an unusual twinkle in his blue eyes, then he turned and walked into the back corridor, which led to the SWAT van. Waiting out of sight in the corridor, T. J., Jim, Hilda, and Sam the driver were making the final preparations by tying balloons to the handles of the metal tray cart on which sat a huge sheet cake. They all looked up when the lieutenant entered. "He's here," Harrelson said quietly. "We've barely acknowledge his presence, and I think he's feeling pretty dejected about now, so unless we want to extend the torture, let's get this cart out there!" Wearing large grins, they quietly pushed the metal cart into the SWAT room, and stopped it near the lieutenant's office door, almost behind their unsuspecting victim, who had already begun work on his reports and remained unaware of their presence. Deke quietly rose from his chair and joined them. "SURPRISE!" Dom nearly shot straight to the ceiling, and his felt-tipped pen left a long, bold line across the face of his report. With eyes that were large from the shock of their abrupt chorus, he spun around in his chair to face them. They stood in a row behind him, laughing at his startled reaction. He leaned back in his chair, his hand spread on his chest as if to calm an alarmed heart. "You guys could have given me a heart attack!" he admonished them, but he couldn't suppress his wide smile. "Well, maybe this'll make you feel better," Street said. They stepped away from the tray cart, revealing the huge cake and the colorful balloons that were tied to the cart’s handles. Written in large letters on the cake: WELCOME BACK, LUCA! A creative decorator had managed to paint a miniature replica of the SWAT van out of icing, and it occupied a prominent place on the cake along with representations of other police accouterments. Dom's smile faded as he looked at the cake through eyes that were suddenly growing a bit misty. This was more than he had expected. He rose from his chair, and looked it over with appreciative eyes. "Wow, this is great," he said, for lack of anything better. T. J. slapped his arm. "Welcome back, buddy." "Thanks, guys." He turned skeptical eyes to Hilda. "You didn't make this, did you?" "No, I didn't make it!" she retorted with mock offense, then stepped forward and drew him into her arms to embrace him with great affection. "I'm so glad you're back, Flash." "I'm glad to be back," he said, then cast a woeful glance at the pile of paperwork on his desk. "At least I think I am!" They laughed again. "Don't worry, Luca," Harrelson said, stepping forward to claim one of the stacks of paperwork. "I had everyone pile their stuff on your desk to make it look like there was more work waiting for you than there really was." "Oh, that's mean," Hilda scolded. "How could you do that to him? Here he is, barely out of the hospital, and you're treating him awful!" "Yeah," Dom agreed. "How could you do that to me?" "We're not taking it all back, Luca," Hondo said with a smile. "Just part of it. I do need you to take care of the ammunitions report. I mean, we wouldn't want you to get bored, would we?" He picked up his own paperwork and deposited it on his desk, then strode back out of his office. "Well? Are we going to cut that cake, or not?" "I didn't have any breakfast, so this really looks great," Dom said as he picked up the cake knife, and offered it to Hilda. "Would you do the honors?" She took it with a smile. "It would be my pleasure." Luca watched as the knife bit deep into the soft fluffy cake. The first piece was deposited on a paper plate, and offered to the Italian Flash. "This looks so good," he said as he picked up his fork and took a bite. "Eccellente!" he said. Smiling happily, he watched as slices of cake were passed around to his friends. "Oh, Luca, I almost forgot," Harrelson said. Leaning into his office, he withdrew an envelope from the corner of his desk, and passed it to his young subordinate. "This came in yesterday for you. I knew you'd be in today, so I just held it for you." "What is it?" Luca asked, worriedly, looking at the very official-looking envelope. "It has your name on it, not mine," Hondo told him with a smile. "Am I in trouble or something?" "Open it and find out!" Dom looked at the return address. It was the seal of the mayor's office. "It's from the mayor." "Open it!" the other said in an impatient chorus. "Okay, okay!" Lifting the flap, Luca withdrew the sheet of paper, and his eyes grew misty again. "It's a letter of commendation," he announced. "But why? I didn't do anything that the rest of you have done." T. J. was leaning over his shoulder, reading. He pointed to a paragraph. "It tells you right here -- You 'placed yourself in physical harm without regard for your own personal safety to save the life of a member of the community'." "Good job, Flash!" Hilda told him. "Don't let it go to your head!" Jim Street quipped. Everyone laughed, including Luca. "Okay, everyone," Hondo said, sternly. "I hate to break this up, but we have work to do." Turning, he went back into his office. Carrying their slices of cake with them, the other officers returned to their desks, and Hilda found an empty chair in which to enjoy hers before returning to her daily chore of peddling her vended goods. Luca scanned his letter of commendation one last time with a pleased smile, then sat down in his chair again, ready to return to work. ~ The End ~ | ||
