Page 15 of Cross Down
His hand doesn’t move.
His eyes, closed, don’t blink.
She stands up. “Let’s get him on the gurney.”
Trudy gathers up their response bag, and Rachel, accompanied by the other firefighters and the detective—Jesus, look how tall he is!—gets Alex onto the stretcher. More straps are secured, and they go back to the open door of their ALS unit. Curtis Young, a firefighter/EMT assigned to Engine Company 2 who’s dressed in dull yellow turnout gear, yells, “I’ll drive, Rachel. To GW?”
“Right,” she says. “Level-one trauma center and less than ten minutes away.”
A police captain yells, “You’re getting an escort—we’ll make sure the streets are clear.”
The collapsible gurney is pushed into the rear of the unit and secured. Trudy goes left and Rachel goes right and they’re ready to really get to work when the huge detective climbs in.
“Sir,” Rachel snaps, “you can’t be here.”
“He’s my best friend,” he says, and she notes tears in his eyes. “Please, I’ve got to be here.”
Rachel thinks,It’ll be crowded, but there’s no time to argue,and she says, “Stay where you are and keep quiet.”
The doors are slammed shut and there’s a hard slap of a hand on the rear panel, and up front, Curtis flips on the siren and they’re on their way.
Chapter
17
I hunch overin the rear of the ambulance, trying to keep my balance as it roars its way to George Washington University Hospital. The two female paramedics get to work on Alex. The nasal oxygen tube is removed and replaced by a high-flow oxygen mask. His shirt is torn open, and round adhesive leads from a cardiac monitor are slapped on his chest. They slice off his suit jacket and dress shirt with a pair of shears. The interior of the ambulance has a familiar, metallic smell.
The smell of blood.
Alex’s blood.
The paramedic who’d told Alex her name was Rachel and who yelled at me earlier says, “Trudy, give me an IV kit.”
“Sixteen- or fourteen-gauge?”
“Fourteen.”
Trudy tears open a package and hands Rachel the contents. A tourniquet is tied just above Alex’s left elbow, the skin is scrubbed with an alcohol wipe, and then Rachel slides the needle into a vein. Blood flashes, and Rachel removes the needle, leaving the catheter in place. She attaches the catheter to a hanging IV bag and releases the tourniquet. Another bandage is placed on top of the bullet wound. The paramedic turns a dial on her waist radio and into the mic on her lapel says, “GW, GW, this is Medic Two, transporting priority trauma.”
A quick and clear reply from the radio. “Medic Two, this is GW. Go.”
“GW, we are about eight minutes out with a male gunshot victim, wound on left middle side of chest,” she says. “Patient unresponsive. Respirations thirty-five and shallow. Heart rate is one twenty, BP is one ten over seventy, and we are pushing fluids.”
Hold on, Alex,I pray,hold on.
I glance out the small rear windows and see something that chokes me up. At each cross street, blue-and-white cruisers are blocking traffic, giving us a clear path to George Washington University Hospital, and I know there must be at least three or four other cruisers up ahead clearing traffic away.
“Hey,” Rachel says. “I don’t like this!”
Trudy says, “Shit, I see it. His BP is falling. Now at ninety over sixty, and his heart rate is increasing. He’s pretty tachy.”
Rachel puts her stethoscope to his chest and says, “Decreased breath sounds on the left.”
I bite my tongue.
They know what they’re doing. They’re good at what they do. Many times I’ve watched paramedics work desperately on DC sidewalks to save the life of some poor wounded boy or girl who’s struggling to stay alive.
But this is different.
