Closure (Jack Randall) (47 page)

•      •      •

“Hey, I may have something.”

Sydney and Larry dropped their respective handfuls of paper and walked to stare over Eric’s shoulder.

“It’s another DC map, but I’m unsure just what’s on it.”

Larry leaned over for a closer look at the small screen. “Those look like the subway lines. The red ones are the underground and the blue are above. The squares are the stations,” he explained.

“Where’s the hotel?” Sydney asked.

Eric scrolled the map around the screen until the Holiday Inn was in the middle. “Looks like the nearest station’s over a block away. He’d have to leave the hotel to get to it.”

“Yeah.” Sydney bit her lip as she studied the map. “What are the dotted lines I see? This one goes from the hotel to the main line here . . . and here.” She pointed.

“Dunno.” Eric’s fingers flew on the keyboard and a legend appeared in the corner. “Looks like service tunnels.” He punched more keys and numbers appeared on the map at every line. “Those are tunnel depths.”

“Shit, that’s maybe two floors below street level. What do you want to bet that’s his way out?” Larry mussed Eric’s spiked hair. “The newbie does it again. Better get on the horn to Jack.”

“I haven’t been able to get through.” She turned and pointed to one of the office agents assisting them. “Run upstairs and tell the HRT guys this.” The printer next to her began spitting out a copy of the map. She pulled it from the tray and handed it to the young man. “Give them this. Go!”

She then turned and pulled the cell from her pocket again. The speed dial did its thing and she soon heard the welcome sound of it ringing.

“Come on, Jack, answer the phone.”

•      •      •

As they slowed to a stop, Ron hit the button on the dash-mounted control module to turn on his scene lights. They showed him a view he had seen too often in the past. The victim, the blood, the onlookers. His mind automatically took in the sights before him and cataloged them. The scene was safe for him and his partner. No other medical assistance was on scene yet. A fair amount of blood could be seen both on the snow and on the patient’s clothes. The man was still breathing, fast and shallow. He could see his breath in the cold air but there was blood from the victim’s mouth, not a good sign.

“Scoop and run?” his partner asked as she pulled on her gloves.

“Let’s see what all we’ve got first, may have to work him here. Traffic is too bad, even if the cops help clear a path.”

“Okay.” She jumped out her side and began offloading equipment. Ron exited the truck and walked to the man lying in the snow. He sized him up further as he approached. A young woman was holding the man up with his head to one side. Her gloved hands covered the entrance wound in his chest. He coughed and a fresh rivulet of blood traveled down his cheek. Ron pulled out his trauma shears.

“Back up a little people, I need some room. Miss, I need you to lay him down gently and let me in there okay?” Ron spoke with his medic voice. While soft-spoken, it also left no room for argument. The young woman did exactly as he instructed. Ron took up a position at the man’s head and quickly determined that a pulse was present, but his airway was in compromise. As if on cue, equipment bags hit the cold concrete on either side of him. Ron felt himself go into autopilot. The noise of the crowd and the sounds of the streets around him faded. He passed his shears to his partner, who without a word began cutting off the coat and shirt. His hands pulled the laryngoscope from the bag along with the tube he had prepared earlier. The scope he flipped on and set next to the man’s head on the left side, the tube went on his chest. He returned to the bag for the tube holder and checker. An assembled bag-valve mask appeared in the hands of his partner and the sound of the portable suction registered in his brain. The suction catheter was shoved under the man’s shoulder on the right side, along with a set of magill forceps. He was ready.

With a nod to Danielle, he positioned the man’s head in the sniffing position and held it until she placed her hand on the forehead to keep it in place. With her other hand placed over the victim’s vocal cords, she applied pressure to move the windpipe toward the back of his neck. This also served to cut off the esophagus should the patient suddenly vomit.

“Got it,” she voiced.

Ron let go and took up the scope in his left hand. With his other, he used his thumb and finger to open the man’s mouth. As expected, he encountered blood pooling in the trachea. He inserted the blade and elevated the tongue. Without taking his eyes from the view he had, he grabbed the suction catheter and cleared the blood until he was able to see the man’s vocal cords. At this point he returned the suction tube to its position under the shoulder, and grabbed the intubation tube that was within his view and deftly inserted it into the man’s mouth.

“A little right, Danny,” he instructed.

Danielle pressed the cartilage of the man’s throat to the right and promptly felt the tube pass through the cords.

Ron pushed the tube in until it was at the 23-centimeter mark printed on the side. He then pressed the 10cc syringe he had attached beforehand to inflate the bulb on the end of the tube, thereby securing it from anything foreign that may try to enter the lungs. Leaving the laryngoscope on, he dropped it next to the head on the left side and removed the stylet from the tube. He picked up the tube checker—they called it the Turkey Baster—squeezed it and placed it on the tube. It returned to its original shape without hesitation. He removed it and tossed it aside. His partner immediately attached the bag-valve mask and waited. Without letting go of the tube, Ron placed his stethoscope in his ears one ear at a time. The bell went over the stomach.

“Squeeze,” he instructed. He heard nothing. He moved the bell to the right lung and nodded his head. Another squeeze and he heard air enter and escape as it should. He moved it to the left. A bubbling sound was heard, along with what sounded like Rice Krispies popping. No real surprise.

“I’m in.” He pulled the scope from his ears and began looping the tube holder around the man’s neck, being sure to position the tube in the right corner of the mouth to allow for easier suctioning later. When he was satisfied everything was in place, he donned the stethoscope again and listened to the lungs one more time to be sure. No change. He eyeballed the CO2 detector and saw that it had turned gold. Good. He looked up and scanned the onlookers. He saw a police officer looking back.

“I need a path cleared to the hospital,” he barked.

The officer nodded and reached for the mic clipped to his lapel.

Ron turned his gaze on the crowd and searched faces until he found one that was suitable. A young man in a nice coat. He had a military haircut and his expression was one of curiosity other than horror. He was only slightly startled when Ron pointed right at him.

“You, I need your help. Come down here.”

The man hesitated for a second before complying.

“What do I do?”

“What’s your name?”

“Craig.”

“Craig, I need you to hold this bag in both hands and I want you to squeeze it like this every three seconds. You got it? Every three, just like this.”

“Okay.”

Ron watched as the man did exactly as he was told. Good. “You feel how hard you’re squeezing? If it gets any harder, I need to know immediately.”

“Okay.”

Ron turned to see Danielle placing a plastic wrapped dressing over the entrance wound. She used their largest tape to secure it. The wound was to the lower part of the left chest. Definitely the lung on that side, Ron thought, possibly the spleen, or maybe a major vessel.

“Let’s hope not,” he said to himself as he reached for the backboard and slid it over to lay on the man’s right side.

He looked up to see Danielle ready with another dressing. He reached across the man’s body and rolled him up on his side. Gazing over the shoulder he could see a large exit wound in the back, slightly lower and toward the outside of the entrance. His partner wiped it clean, slapped the dressing down and quickly sealed it.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping his shoulder. He looked up to see a middle aged man holding the crying girl’s head to his chest.

“Is he going to be all right?” he asked.

He used the standard answer. “We’re doing everything we can. Do you know him?”

“Yes, that’s Senator Harper. We work for him.”

“Senator?”

“Yes, from Georgia.”

He turned and looked at Danielle. She just rolled her eyes and continued tightening straps around the victim.

“Shit,” was all Ron could say.

•      •      •

Jack tried to look inconspicuous as he strolled through the dining area of the hotel. Several people were engaged in a late night meal or business meeting. The jacket with the large letters over the obvious body armor was making it a lost cause. He scanned all the faces, and headed for the kitchen entrance when the phone rang. He had turned the volume up to its maximum setting when he was descending the stairs and it now cut through the conversations and soft music like a siren. He got several more looks as he clawed at his belt for the offending device. He glanced at the screen before answering.

“Yeah, Syd,” he spoke with his regular voice. Screw the diners, they were going to be pissed anyway when they found out they couldn’t leave. He continued his walk toward the kitchen entrance as her voice exploded out of the tiny speaker.

“Jack, where are you?”

“I’m still in the hotel. I yelled his name just before the shot and then I kicked in the wrong door. I think he escaped down the stairs, but I’m not sure. We have the hotel sealed off, and we’ll be going room to room soon as we have the manpower. Was it Harper?” he asked.

“Yes, looks like he got it in the chest, but I only know what I can see on the TV. Listen, Eric found some maps of DC. One is of the subway system, and there are service tunnels. One of which connects to the main line about a block away from that building you’re in. I think he may be going out that way. Can you find the basement?”

“Hold on, I’m looking.” He pushed his way through the double stainless steel doors into the kitchen area. He was met by several waiters with trays on their shoulders and busboys pushing carts. It was wall to wall people. Fortunately, he could see over most of them. He looked for exit signs, but saw nothing that looked like stairs. He made a quick decision. He pulled a chair out into the aisle and stood on it.

“Everybody listen up!” He paused as the heads all turned his way. “I’m looking for the basement. Where is it?”

As a group, they all pointed toward a large walk-in refrigerator. He looked to see a walkway around it leading toward the back of the building. He felt a tug on his jacket, and looked down to see a young man with the obligatory tray. It was empty.

“I’ll show you,” was all he said. With a practiced shrug, the tray fell off the shoulder into both hands and was then slid onto the stainless counter top. He then spun on the rubber soles of his black tennis shoes and walked toward the cooler. Jack jumped down to follow and almost busted his ass on the red tile floor. He had gone through several different environments today, and still didn’t have the right footwear. As he followed the boy he vowed to wear tennis shoes everyday from now on. He had almost forgotten the phone in his hand.

“Syd?”

“Still here,” she answered.

“Can you hear me?”

“You’re kind of broken.”

“I’m being led downstairs. I’ll probably lose signal. Do you have anything else?”

“No. All we can see is that you’re only a couple of blocks from Union Station. You think he may try that?” Sydney was screaming into the phone now, as if that would improve the signal. Jack had to hold it away from his ear to make out what she was saying. It was not the time to correct her.

“Anything to indicate he’s going there?”

“No, but if I had just shot someone, I’d be getting out of town fast as I could.”

Good point, he thought. “Okay, tell Greg upstairs I’m looking for this tunnel of yours. I’ll call you back. Keep looking.” With that he hung up the phone. He was standing at the top of a stairwell and needed his hands free again. He thanked the kid and replaced the phone with the Hi-Power. Keeping it out in front of him, he descended the stairs and was soon in the laundry room where the staff froze at the sight of him. He held up the picture and two of them pointed to another door across the room. He waved them all upstairs before he strode across the room to the steel door. The sign simply read Maintenance. No window. He reached out and grasped the knob. He slowly turned it until it stopped. At least it was unlocked. He took a deep breath and thought about what he should do. This was just what they told him not to do at the academy. It was a good way to get shot. He weighed it against all the time he had lost on the stairs and in the dining area. He also admitted he wanted to confront Sam alone. It might keep his friend alive.

“Screw it,” he voiced under his breath. With a strong tug, he opened the door and dived through it. He came up against the wall in a crouch and scanned right to left. A boiler room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed something shining at him from the corner. On a closer look, he made it out as a broken padlock. He gazed slowly around the boiler at knee height until he saw the door. It was open an inch. Jack approached carefully until he could feel the cold air escaping from the crack. He opened it slowly, wincing as the old hinges let out a squeak.

He waited for the shot, but it never came.

The state of Virginia holds 35,067 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 23,494 are repeat offenders.

—FORTY-SIX—