A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  He looked at his legs; he was bleeding into the juice from somewhere, a faint rim of red diffusing into the orange. He was hit. There were nails sticking out of his left calf, but his thighs and torso were mostly okay. His back hurt; there had to be some shrapnel, but the fridge door had taken the brunt of the bomb.

  It will hurt more if I wait until the adrenaline fades, Jenner thought. He stretched down and plucked the nails out.

  Something tugged at his wrist. Amanda was standing over him, mouthing, pulling on his arm. He nodded, struggled to his feet.

  The bomb had destroyed half of the cabin. Small hunks of metal had blasted through the outside wall, and the cheap chipboard of the kitchen counter had been blown apart, scattering pots and pans across the living room.

  The dog.

  Jenner could only see his front half; he wasn’t moving, buried under the kitchen table and couch pieces. The table, its thin metal legs torn off, had tipped over on top of him, hiding his hind quarters. His muzzle was covered in blood, the fur of his chest matted.

  Amanda was leading Jenner toward the door, but he pulled away and went to the dog. She watched him drop to his knees, slide aside the linoleum table top and its bent frame, and push the debris off the animal.

  The dog’s eye rolled toward him; it tried to raise its head as its tail twitched.

  Jenner stroked the animal’s back, feeling for nails. Deep in the fur of the chest, he could feel small punctures, the size of buckshot. Shrapnel injuries through the fur. His hands came away bloody.

  People were coming through the doorway now; he recognized the two stocky college guys who’d been tossing a Frisbee by the pool the day before. They held their jerseys up to cover their noses and mouths, but most of the smoke was venting through the blown-out windows or the holes in the wall.

  The taller one took Amanda out, the other grabbed at Jenner’s arm.

  Jenner shook him off.

  Now sound was starting to come back; Jenner could hear a quiet roar, dulled and flat, as if he were standing knee-deep in it. The jock grabbed his arm again. Jenner pushed him away angrily.

  Jenner got onto his knees and gently slipped his arms under the dog’s body. He struggled to stand; then the guy saw what he was doing and supported Jenner from behind as he got to his feet.

  Jenner had the dog. He moved toward the door, behind the jock.

  The burning drapes had set the breakfast nook paneling on fire, and the pale wood finish now burned indolently, darkening and peeling like some effect slowly being applied from a spray can.

  Walking was hard—Jenner’s injured leg threatened to buckle with each step.

  The kid went out the front door, and a fireman with an ax came in, followed by another fireman.

  The second went to help Jenner, but Jenner shrugged him off and kept going. The fireman tried to take the dog, but Jenner held tight, shaking his head fast until the fireman backed off. The fireman put a hand on Jenner’s shoulder and pressed him firmly from behind, steering him to the door.

  Outside the parking lot was gridlocked, residents scrambling to move their cars away from the burning cabin. An ambulance was in front of the cabin, another at the lot entrance, and two large fire engines jockeyed for position; their lights lit up the Palmetto Court residents like escaped convicts in a prison spotlight as they milled around in sweatpants and bathrobes.

  Amanda Tucker was slumped on the step at the back of the ambulance, breathing oxygen while the paramedic felt her pulse; Jenner could see the condensation in her plastic mask. She looked at Jenner coolly. She was completely calm now; she could have been sitting by a fountain in the atrium of a mall, sipping an Orange Julius.

  The dog twitched in Jenner’s arms. He had to get him to the car.

  One of the firemen—maybe the chief, certainly high up—stood in front of him, talking and gesturing; Jenner couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Jenner looked over to Amanda. Her jacket was gone, her shirt torn open, her skirt bloodied. She had yanked the mask off and was speaking into a cell phone. She turned to the paramedic, and Jenner saw the black transmitter box tucked into the back of her skirt, and the wires disappearing under her shirt, and he knew.

  The chief was still talking at him. Jenner shook his head. He carefully formed the words, “I have to get my dog to the vet.” He knew it came out too loud.

  The chief stopped talking and just jabbed his finger toward the EMS truck.

  Jenner shook his head. Again. “I have to get my dog to the vet.”

  A fireman came and pulled the chief away, and Jenner sagged against the roof of the Accent. The door was unlocked, his keys still in his pocket; he’d been home less than five minutes.

  He tugged the door open, slid the dog onto the passenger seat, felt the tail slide wetly over his arm.

  The engine started immediately; the right front light had shattered in the blast. It hurt Jenner to turn—he definitely had shrapnel embedded in his back. He pumped his horn twice; there was a flurry of cluttered movement behind him as rubberneckers stepped away. He reversed slowly. A fireman was waving at him to stop. Jenner saw no one behind him, so he kept pulling back.

  He made a tight, painful three-point turn in the lot; now there were two firemen waving him down.

  Jenner edged forward. A sheriff’s department car was at the entrance now that the fire trucks were in the lot.

  He had to tell Rudge. Rudge should know. Rudge would help.

  The fire trucks. Jenner turned his head and leaned back; the hoses were spraying into his cabin. Now white steam was rising from the windows. It wasn’t a big fire, wasn’t a big loss.

  He felt the dog’s tail flick against his arm. He looked down; in the pale green light of the dashboard, the blood glistened dark brown. Jenner reached out to stroke the dog’s flank, felt the hurt muscle fibrillating under the short fur; his hand came back sticky and red.

  He edged the car forward slowly, but the crowds were too thick.

  He turned the wheel, lurched up across the sidewalk. There were angry shouts as the firewatchers scattered, and then he was going down the shallow grass slope toward the honeymoon cottages. The car shook and bumped, and then he was on the dirt ramp. He turned left, and rose up the slope alongside the main parking lot. At the barrier, he got out and took down the chain, then drove through into the back lot.

  Jenner nosed the car out onto the road. His hearing was getting better; now there was sound, but it felt distant, a dull, low roar like he was on a plane, like he was over the ocean at 34,000 feet. He passed another sheriff’s department car heading toward the motel.

  Then the damp road was empty, the world quieter. The light on the streets seemed yellower.

  He pulled out his cell, found Maggie’s number.

  He watched the bright little screen; he couldn’t hear the receiver. He worked his jaw and swallowed, trying to pop his ears as if he was on a plane approaching the final descent. The animation showed the call had connected, and he said, “I’m sorry to bother you, Maggie, it’s Jenner. I…I need your help. If you’re talking, I can’t hear you. There’s been a bomb. My dog is hurt—I’m on my way to the shelter. Will anyone be there? It’ll take me about fifteen minutes.”

  Jenner didn’t know if he was speaking to her or her voice mail. He gave up.

  CHAPTER 84

  Jenner parked the Accent in front of the Super Target. The mall lot was almost empty; there was no sign of Maggie’s Mercedes.

  He took a towel from the trunk, wrapped the dog in it, and carried him to the shelter entrance; there were lights on inside. Jenner leaned against the buzzer. The dull sound sharpened abruptly as his higher-pitch hearing returned.

  A young black woman in blue surgical scrubs and short dreadlocks opened the door for him. He heard most of what she said—enough to tell she had a faint African accent.

  “Dr. Jenner? Ms. Craine said you’d be coming. Let’s get him into the exam room so I can have a look at him.”

  She se
emed young. Her scrubs had the logo of an animal hospital in Miami, and her name tag read DR. GUBI ADE; she was a first-year veterinary resident.

  She saw him looking at her tag and grinned. “Don’t worry, doctor. I’m volunteer labor here, but I’m good at what I do.”

  Jenner nodded and said nothing. He laid the dog down on the metal table; the dog’s eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone threw a bomb into my cabin, a pipe bomb, with nails and screws. He was on the ground when it went off.”

  Dr. Ade palpated the dog’s chest, her bare hands feeling through the bloody fur. She said, “When did this happen?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago, maybe twenty.”

  She was going so slowly. He asked, “Do you have X-ray or fluoroscopy here?”

  “X-ray.” She turned to him; her expression grave but gentle. “Doctor, he’s got multiple defects in his anterior chest; some might be penetrating the chest cavity. His pulse is fast and thready—I think he’s lost a good bit of blood. Was there a lot of external bleeding at your cabin?”

  “A bit. Not a lot.” Jenner wiped his eyes blearily. “But, I don’t know—I’m used to humans, and I don’t know if that was a lot for a dog. There was a cup of blood, maybe two.”

  “That’s a lot for a dog.”

  She stroked the dog’s head gently. “So multiple penetrating injuries of the thorax, possible barotrauma. He’s going into shock. I’m going to get some oxygen and fluids going.”

  She looked at him. “I have to tell you…”

  Jenner said, “I’m a physician—I understand the situation.”

  She nodded. “He’s in bad shape; I’m sure you understand his chances aren’t good. We’ll shave his chest, get a better look. Take an X-ray, check for retained projectiles.”

  On the stainless steel table, the dog’s legs were twitching but his eyes remained shut, his tongue lolling from his mouth onto the bare metal surface. Dr. Ade placed a funnel-shaped mask on his snout, and there was a quiet hiss of oxygen.

  She looked up at Jenner. “Okay, doctor: you think you can carry him into surgery? I’ll take it from there.”

  Jenner nodded and lifted the dog up in his arms. Dr. Ade pointed him toward the operating room, following him with the oxygen canister and dragging a drip stand, a bag of saline, and a drip set.

  CHAPTER 85

  Still no answer from Rudge.

  Jenner shut his cell phone and continued pacing the waiting room.

  Maybe he should go in? He was medical, she’d let him stay.

  But she wouldn’t want him there, either. He’d done autopsies with family members present, and it was something he never wanted to do again.

  Family members—he hadn’t even given the dog a name! Anyway, he didn’t know if he could stand seeing that.

  He sat. There were stacked copies of Dog Fancier and Show Dog World on the side table, but nothing…normal.

  “Jenner.”

  Maggie Craine stood in the doorway, dressed in black and gray. Her hair was loose, spilling onto her shoulders; Jenner thought it looked contrived, like she’d taken the time to style it just so, not because she’d hurried to the shelter.

  She looked down at Jenner, then took the cigarette from her mouth and exhaled through pursed lips. She said, “You look like shit. Have you seen yourself?”

  He shook his head. “You didn’t have to come.”

  She stuck the cigarette back between her lips and sat next to him. She rummaged through her big orange Kate Spade beach bag, then pulled out a packet of wipes. She murmured through the clenched cigarette, “Sit up.”

  He sat straight, and looked into her face.

  Maggie dabbed the damp tissue around his forehead and temples, around his eyes, washing him down like a cat grooming a kitten; there was a faint smell of rubbing alcohol.

  “Chin up.”

  Jenner tilted his head back and she wiped his neck. She leaned back and looked at him critically. “Better.”

  Not once had she made eye contact.

  “Oh, God, your arms! I can’t do those—that’s too much.” She stood. “Come on—go into the bathroom and wash yourself down, Jenner. You can’t sit around bloody like that.”

  He stood, a little dazed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Okay. I should finish this outside anyway.”

  He was exhausted. He watched her sweep out of the waiting room, then he walked slowly to the bathroom. The first rush of pure adrenaline was settling, and now Jenner felt every step, and every step hurt. He didn’t understand her.

  In the tiled quiet of the bathroom, Jenner looked himself over. He was like one of those cartoons where a black cat gets dipped in flour; his hair was black with soot but Maggie had left his face glowing white.

  His arms weren’t funny, though, torn up and smeared red and brown; no wonder she’d complained.

  He washed his arms gingerly. His shirt was soaked in blood; it stuck to him, clung to his face and neck as he fought through the pain to lift it above his head. As the garment peeled off his back, it tethered and caught; Jenner kept pulling at it, wincing each time something popped out of the skin and the cloth tore free. He heard dry gravel sounds as shrapnel fragments hit the floor.

  And then the shirt was off. He turned slowly; the left side of his back was leopard-spotted with shrapnel punctures and scratches, many now freshly bleeding, some with torn tags of metal still embedded. Staring at his back in the mirror, he tried to stretch back to reach them, but the pain got worse, and blood began to leak out, and he stopped.

  His hands were bloody again; Jenner leaned against the sink, dazed, trying to decide what to do.

  There was a tap at the door. Maggie.

  “Come in.” He didn’t turn.

  He heard a gasp and straightened. In the mirror he saw Deb Putnam peeking around the door. She froze, and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped inside, and closed the door shut behind her.

  “Oh, Jenner, my God! I’m so sorry…”

  He kept rinsing.

  “I’m okay, Deb. It could’ve been worse—they’re just cuts.”

  “Jesus, Jenner—they’re worse than that. Wait here.”

  She disappeared, came back a couple of minutes later with some towels, a spray bottle of Bactine, a kidney-shaped steel bowl and a scrub suit top. She was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans; she took off the shirt and tied it around her waist. She had on a ribbed white cotton tank top underneath, when she stood next to him, it felt close, intimate.

  “Bend over the sink. I’m going to clean you up.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Saw it on the news, went by the motel. Bobby Gentry from P.F. Fire and Rescue said you’d run away with the dog; I figured you’d bring him here. How’s he doing?”

  “They’re looking at him now.”

  Deb tore open a paper envelope and removed a sterile forceps. She soaked one of the towels in warm water, and he did his best to stay still as she softly wiped his back, and then went over it slowly, plucking out small chunks of metal, dropping them in the bowl, then wiping the skin clean.

  He tried to say something, but she shushed him. “Let me finish.”

  After about ten minutes, Jenner couldn’t stand anymore, so Deb dragged in a chair from the waiting room, turned it so the back pressed against the sink, and had him straddle it facing the sink; she talked to him in the mirror.

  She smiled. “My dad once got peppered on a turkey shoot. My mom picked the birdshot out of his back in our garage, then hosed him down in the garden before she let him inside the house.”

  Jenner flinched as she pulled out one of the larger pieces.

  “I’m sorry, but the surgical tape isn’t very sticky—it’s not gonna hold that well. Call me tomorrow, I’ll redo the dressings. It’ll give us some time to chat about Maggie Craine—I have to say, I didn’t see that coming. How long have you been seeing her?”

  “I don’t t
hink ‘seeing’ is the right word. Are you almost finished?”

  “As a matter of fact…” There was a quiet click as Deb dropped a fragment into the bowl. “That’s the last of it.”

  She washed his back down, ignored his wincing as she patted him dry. She stepped back to look at his wounds; she whistled quietly. “I hope you like scars—you’re going to have some nice ones.”

  Her voice was thick, and when he looked in the mirror, Jenner was surprised to see that Deb was crying again. She saw him see her, and looked away.

  She grabbed the Bactine. “Okay, Romeo. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”

  CHAPTER 86

  Dr. Ade was in the waiting room, talking with Maggie. Maggie glanced at Jenner and Deb as they came out of the bathroom, then turned to the vet.

  Doctor Ade said, “He’s pretty lucky he’s a fat, hairy thing—that extra padding probably saved his life. One of the projectiles breached the chest cavity—there was some subcutaneous emphysema and a small hemopneumothorax. I put in a chest tube, drained a little blood, and the lung seems to have expanded nicely.”

  Jenner said, “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know how extensive the injuries in the thorax are, but I want to avoid opening the chest unless I absolutely have to; the shrapnel injuries are probably shallow, but any lung damage from the shock wave could get worse if I do a thoracotomy. I’ve packed the chest, sealed the wounds. I’m going to see how he does like that.”

  She looked Jenner in the eye. “Your dog’s not out of the woods yet—he’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s not a puppy anymore—but I’m hopeful.”

  Jenner shook her hand and said, “Thanks, doctor, I understand. I really appreciate it.” He turned to Maggie and said, “Thanks, Maggie.”

  She nodded, then stood and draped her wrap around her shoulders. “I should get home. Lucy’s with Rosa; I don’t like to leave her alone for too long.”

  She barely glanced at Deb as she swept out, but her glance was long enough for her to appraise and judge.