by Leslie Glass
The last thing April saw was Grebs on fire, writhing on the floor when the explosion hit. The blast was enormous. It shook the earth and shattered windows all up and down the block. The roof collapsed above them, and the raging fire shot up into the sky.
77
Boom. Shock waves jolted the street, setting an overhead street light swinging wildly in the intersection in front of Jason’s taxi. The car in front of them swerved to avoid a kid on a bike, skidding out of control.
“What the—”
The taxi driver slammed on the breaks, smashing Jason into the plastic divider that separated them.
“What are you doing?” Jason cried. “Go ahead.”
The taxi spun out and stopped sideways in the intersection. Above, the light, still showing green, swung back and forth.
“You blind, mon?” the driver shouted over his rasta music. He pointed to the dense black smoke that was already beginning to spew up into the sky, several blocks ahead of them.
Horns started honking around them. They were blocking the traffic flow into the intersection.
“Go on,” Jason said wildly. They had about six blocks to go. “Go on.”
“No, mon, I don’t want to get near no fire.”
Fire. Oh, shit it was a big fire. Grebs set fires. Jason could see the flames now, shooting up over the tops of the two-story houses. Oh, God. Too late.
“Go on,” he cried. “We’re not there. Go on.”
“Not going no farther, mon. We’ll get stuck in there.”
“It’s only a few blocks. Hurry up.” Jason dug in his pocket and pulled out the wad of bills he had left from his California trip. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars to take me six fucking blocks. Come on. It’ll only take you a few minutes.”
The light turned red. The horns blared. The driver eyed the thick wad of bills. He shrugged.
“Okay, mon. It’s your money.”
Jerk, jerk, jerk. They lurched forward as the taxi accelerated into traffic moving the other way, causing a gridlock. Shrieking fire engines raced into the mess, adding to the chaos of a dozen furious horns honking all around them. Above them, the sky turned black. Jason got out on the side of the car that had a door handle and started to run.
78
The blast blew out the front wall of the garage apartment, causing the collapse of half the roof. Fire raged out of the jagged opening. A large piece of crumpled aluminum siding fell on the driveway in front of the garage door. Shattered glass littered front lawns and sidewalks all up and down the block.
The stakeout cop who had been tinkering with the car had seen Mike and April go into the garage. He’d followed to provide backup. He hadn’t had time to make it up the stairs. The house shook with a deafening bang. April, Sanchez, and the woman hostage were blown out the door and propelled down the stairs, knocking the stakeout cop over.
Choking on smoke and plaster dust, all four struggled for air. Three of them had landed in a tangled heap on the cement floor. Emma lay curled motionless on her side. April sprawled over her legs. Sanchez’s full weight came to rest on April’s twisted ankle. The stakeout cop smashed against the wall, where two lawn chairs crashed on top of him. From upstairs came the powerful smell of charcoal, burning electric wires, and charred flesh.
Better get out of here. April was the first to move. Her ankle throbbed. Her eyes stung with smoke and dust. She couldn’t see anything. She put her hand out to Emma. “You all right?” Of course she wasn’t all right. April had crashed down on her hard. The woman had no clothes on. April could feel the black soot and plaster dust that clung to her sticky skin. Emma’s fingers touched hers. She groaned, but didn’t say anything.
Sanchez was a dead weight.
“Mike?” April cried. “Mike—”
“Uh.” He grabbed the back of the blackened car, struggled to his feet. The heat in there was intense. He held out his hand to April, jerked her up. “We got to get out.”
The stakeout cop untangled himself from the lawn chairs, cursing. “Come on,” he said. He stepped forward and fell on his face. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit.”
“Mrs. Frank.” April leaned over her. “Mrs. Frank, can you stand up?”
“I don’t know.” Emma’s voice was hoarse and panicked.
“It’s okay, we’ll get you out.” She put her arm around Emma and helped her up, though she could hardly stand herself. Her jacket and pants were peppered with cuts and burns. Her hands and face, too. Her whole body felt scorched and bruised. She ignored it. She figured Emma felt a lot worse. Sanchez supported her other side.
April nodded at him to start moving, and saw that the fire had singed off his mustache and eyebrows. His upper lip was red.
Emma looked from one to the other. “He was going to—” Her blue eyes filled with tears.
“Yeah, but he didn’t get to.”
Soot covered the drawings on Emma Chapman’s face. April could hardly see her through the stinging smoke. It looked like Emma had a clay mask on. That was all right, the woman probably had mud packs all the time. It looked as if her features were still perfect. They hadn’t been damaged. April put a hand to Emma’s hair. It was matted and dirty, but at least she still had it.
“I shot him,” she told April. She was in shock.
April nodded. “Probably saved your life. Come on.”
The stakeout cop was on his feet. The four of them slowly started moving. Only minutes had passed since the explosion. Three firemen in hats and rubber coats came into the garage to help them out. Outside, people were already gawking at the devastation, and the ferocity of the fire. Fire engines and police sirens wailed.
Fire equipment, police cars, three ambulances with their lights flashing were already on the scene. With the help of a fireman twice her size, April hobbled out into the chaos. The first thing she saw was a kitchen sink and part of its cabinet crashed onto the hood of a car in the street. The unmarked car from the Two-O was rubble.
It was dusk. In the fading light, people drawn out of their houses by the blast were complaining, pointing at the fire, shaking their heads. One woman with her hair in curlers rushed toward them shrieking, “Help me. Oh, God. He had a heart attack. He’s in the house. He won’t get up—” A black female fire fighter went to help her.
“Oh, God,” April muttered. It was a mess. What would her mother say about her job now? Never mind the cuts and burns on her hands and feet, or the sprained ankle—if she was lucky. Sai Woo would look on dark side. She wouldn’t say her daughter big hero for saving Noblewoman Trapped in Cave. She would say her daughter strong enough to blow up whole neighborhood. And still not married. Pah.
“I’m fine,” she protested to the fireman, who wanted to deposit her in an ambulance. She wasn’t getting into any ambulance. She turned back to Emma.
Emma’s fireman had put his coat on her and carried her out because she had no shoes.
Sanchez touched her arm. “You okay?”
April nodded. “What about you?”
“Fine.” He nodded, too.
She knew he wasn’t fine. She could see the blood from many small cuts through the holes in his clothes. His face looked burned and one of his ears was the color of raw hamburger. Well, her ankle hurt like hell and was beginning to swell. It was his fault for falling on top of her, but she didn’t want to mention it now. Maybe some day she’d tell him he wasn’t good in close.
“Thanks,” was what she said now.
“Yeah, what for?”
“Everything.” She saw a car from the Two-O and turned away to help clear the street for the ambulance that was coming in for Emma.
The fireman stood there holding onto her. “Could you put me down? I need to call my husband.” Emma still looked stunned.
“No, you’ll cut your feet.” The fireman cocked his head at the ambulance driver, a guy with a ponytail and a thick gold hoop in one ear.
The ambulance stopped and a white-jacketed medic jumped out of the front seat. “Wh
o’s first?”
“She is,” April indicated Emma.
“Can she stand?”
“Not without any shoes, she can’t. Hurry it up, will you. I got things to do.” The fireman looked back at the fire.
The medic opened the back doors and held out some white cotton blankets to wrap Emma in so he could give the fireman back his coat.
“My husband’s a doctor. I can’t go to a hospital. Call him. I want to go home.” Emma resisted being put in the ambulance.
“Got to get in, lady. It’s the rules.”
“Don’t worry,” April said quickly. “I know where he is.”
Emma stared at her.
“I called him. He’s on his way. He’s the one who helped us locate you. He’s a great guy.”
Emma started to cry again.
“Come on, it’s okay. In you go, and then I’ll find him for you.”
April helped the two paramedics put Emma into the ambulance. When they exchanged the coat for the cotton blankets, no one commented on the artwork on the woman’s body.
April could hear the shouts of police and fire fighters, yelling at curious people not to cross the lines, not to try to go back to their houses yet. April got out of the ambulance.
Sanchez stood with Sergeants Joyce and Aspiranti, describing what happened, by the look of it. Down the block near the diner, Jason Frank was trying to argue his way past a roadblock.
April hobbled down the street toward him. “She’s over here,” she shouted to Jason. “He’s a doctor, let him through,” she ordered, flashing her ID.
Jason pushed through the uniforms, his face white with fear. “Where is she?”
“She’s in that ambulance.” April pointed at it. She tried to reach out and stop him, so she could tell him what to expect, what happened to Emma and what she looked like. But he didn’t stop. He wanted to get to his wife and didn’t hesitate, not for a second. April stood there on one foot, staring after him until Sanchez came to get her.
Epilogue
By April’s watch it was nearly eleven o’clock. The lights were on in the two-patient room, and her hospital bed was still cranked up in a sitting position. A male nurse had been in a few minutes before to tell her not to push the button that made it go down. They wanted her to sleep sitting up. Several pillows served as a prop for her ankle, which had a small makeshift splint on it instead of a heavy cast, because of the burns. Puffy bandages covered patches of her feet, ankles, hands, wrists, and head. There were none on her face but two on the top of her head, where the odds were good, she’d been told, that her hair would eventually grow back.
The other bed as empty. There was no way of telling if the lights were on for the expected arrival of another patient sometime soon, or simply because no one had thought of turning them off. April wanted out. She felt as naked without her gun as she did without her clothes. For four hours different doctors and technicians had poked and prodded and x-rayed her. An Indian with a turban had covered her burns with various kinds of antibiotic grease and dressed them with the special gauze pads that weren’t supposed to stick. There was an IV needle embedded in her arm. She saw no reason for the IV, or for staying the night, and told the balding doctor whose ID tag said he was the orthopedist that all she needed was a cane and a release. But he had not been interested in her opinion.
In fact, she was all too well aware that the hospital staff could do anything to her, and no one from the department would stop them or complain. The police yielded their authority in hospital zones. They stood outside doors marked Do Not Enter, waiting endlessly for treatment and information just like anybody else. It really pissed her off.
Who had taken her things away and locked them up—her badge, her gun, her handbag? Her notebook with her important telephone numbers? She didn’t like this. The steady ache of the burns made her feel feverish, but that didn’t bother her as much as the pulsating pain in her ankle. The ankle was badly swollen and couldn’t support any weight at all. She didn’t have the feeling she’d be using it anytime soon.
Outside in the hall it had grown quiet. April knew that quiet, when the hospital carts had finished dispensing juice and medication and the graveyard shift was about to come on. When she’d been in uniform, she had guarded suspects in hospitals, sat outside their doors all night long. She’d taken people to emergency rooms for any number of reasons many times over the years, even crazies to Bellevue to be locked up in the middle of the night. It always took hours. This was the first time she had been in the hospital as a patient. She didn’t like it.
Twelve o’clock was shift change in the precinct. She wondered what was happening in the squad room now. Probably everybody, except Mike and her, was cleaning things up, typing reports, congratulating themselves for getting the hostage out unharmed. Blaming them for the damage. April was upset because the car she had signed out was a blackened burned-out wreck. But that was the least of it.
She turned her head toward the window. The shade was down, so she couldn’t even see what side of the building she was on. She knew she was in Queens, had been taken to the nearest hospital. Her mother had been notified and, driven by the need to scream at her for a while for being a cop and not a smart one, had managed to find her way to the hospital.
Why did April have to get blown up, Sai Woo had wanted to know. A smart cop would have been outside, not inside. No way to tell her that the hostage had been inside, so inside was where she had to go. Sai Woo left her daughter some oranges in a string bag, even though it was clear April couldn’t use her hands to peel them.
She closed her eyes agianst the memory. Moments later she heard a shuffling in the doorway but didn’t turn her head, in case it was a mouse.
“Hey, querida.” It wasn’t a mouse.
“Wrong room, buster. Beat it.” April tried to sit up higher, turning her upper body toward the door. Then she sank back in shock.
What the—? The man who stood in the doorway was wearing paper slippers, pale blue hospital pajamas, and a matching robe. Half of his face was swathed in bandages.
“Oh God, Mike, is that you?” April said softly.
“As far as I know. How are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I shouldn’t even be here.…” The words trailed off. He could walk, but he looked bad. “They can give you something to make you sleep,” she said slowly. “The nurses don’t tell you, but there’s lots of stuff you can have.” He had called her querida. He must be in a lot of pain.
He lifted his shoulders, then winced. “An ugly little guy told me they’re real good with plastic surgery these days. I wondered if he was an example of their work.… Anyway, my eye’s all right, and the rest of the body still works.”
April guessed he was more worried about his looks than he was about the pain. She didn’t know what to say.
He shuffled over and sat in the chair. “How do you feel?”
“I want to go home. Can you get me out of here?”
“And miss spending the night with you, are you kidding?” He leaned over, searching for the TV monitor.
“Forget it. It’s not hooked up. You have to give them a certified check or something.” April wanted to put her hand out on the bed, maybe touch him.
Sanchez had put his body in front of hers. He had saved her face. Her human face and her Chinese face, too. Now she would always see him lunging through that curtain of smoke, through the fire, coming back for her, risking his life to get her out of the way of what hit him. Then he told her it was nothing. It was what a rabbi does.
So now Sanchez was her rabbi as well as her supervisor. And he called her querida. No one in her whole life had ever used such an endearment in connection with her. She believed the word meant darling or sweetheart. Sanchez probably had a fever.
“I’ll order out, we’ll watch a little TV … maybe fall asleep after a while. Then tomorrow you can tell the world you slept with me.” He laughed, then grimaced.
“Anybody ever tell you you can’t sle
ep with the person you’re supervising?” April murmured. “Rabbi-ing.”
“Nope.” He punched the button and the TV came on.
“I thought it wasn’t—”
“Stick with me, I have special powers.”
“Oh, come on, Mike, I don’t want to watch TV, I want to go home.”
He checked his watch. “Tomorrow, maybe you’ll go home. Tonight we’ll watch this.”
He pushed the buttons, looking for the station he wanted. April allowed her eyelids to droop. Suddenly a voice she knew came out of the speaker.
Her eyes popped open in time to see Sergeant Joyce’s image jump out at them from the screen. She was standing with Arnold Diaz in front of the smoldering wreckage on Hoyt Avenue, surrounded by a gawking crowd. Powerful lights had been turned on the area, but it was impossible to see very much except for the sergeant.
“Look at her!” April shrieked. She couldn’t believe it. Joyce’s hair was combed and she looked extraordinarily good. Her voice was confident and professional and warm as she told the tristate area how she personally had located the abducted actress, Emma Chapman. How her detective squad’s operation from the Twentieth Precinct on Manhattan’s Upper West Side had succeeded in freeing the hostage unharmed.
“Miss Chapman has been reunited with her family and is reported to be in good condition,” she said, smiling widely, implying that New York’s Finest were very, very fine.
She did not mention Emma’s body art, but just before the microphone was whisked away from her face, she did take a moment to mention the hospitalization of two unnamed squad detectives for the minor injuries they sustained during the rescue of the abducted woman.
The two nameless detectives were happy to hear that the hospital had listed them in stable condition and that they were expected to be released soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leslie Glass is the author of HANGING TIME, LOVING TIME, TO DO NO HARM, JUDGING TIME, TRACKING TIME, and STEALING TIME. She divides her time between New York and Sarasota.
