by P A Duncan
The paramedic skirted the gun Mai held and parted Mai’s blood-matted hair.
“Jesus, ma’am, how can you not feel that?”
“Adrenaline. How’s my partner?”
“We’re trying to stabilize him for the ride to the hospital.”
Another EMT handed her Alexei’s shoulder holster and gun. They’d cut the straps on the shoulder holster. That would piss him off. The EMT also gave her his phone and wallet. She holstered her gun so she could hold the things that were his. The EMTs had stretched Alexei out on the ground to work on him. He seemed deflated, two-dimensional. An EMT dashed over with a backboard. Mai flinched when the female EMT pressed a pad of gauze against her head.
“I need…” Mai said. “I have to ride with him.”
“Sure. Hold this against that cut.”
“How bad is he?”
“Bad, ma’am. He’s bleeding out faster than we can pump fluid in.”
In the back of the ambulance, its siren wailing as it sped away, the EMTs continued to work. All Mai heard was a dull murmur of voices. She knelt on the floor at Alexei’s head and looked into his bloodless face, half covered from the oxygen mask. Drops of blood from her cut splashed on his cheek, mingled with the blood staining his beard.
Say goodbye while you can, she thought. Mai placed her lips on his forehead, held them there. He was so cold.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” she whispered, lips at his ear, hands cupping his head. “Ya vsegda lyubil tebya.”
I have always loved you.
Chaos had arrived at the nearest emergency room before the ambulance. People had walked in, arrived in police or private cars, and triage was underway. Alexei was first priority. No one stopped Mai when she entered the trauma room. She stepped back to one side of the doors.
A doctor said, “What’s this guy’s type?”
“A positive,” Mai replied.
The doctor looked over his shoulder as the nurses cut away Alexei’s clothes. “Why are you bleeding in my trauma room?” he asked.
“He’s my part… I’m his wife. I’m not leaving. I’m also A positive. Take blood from me if you need it now.”
“You’re bleeding too much for that.” To a nurse, he said, “Get her out of here.”
“No,” Mai said. “If he’s dying, I’m staying.”
“Have a little faith. I don’t let my patients die.” He gave orders for A positive and universal donor units. Blood dripped from the gurney onto the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Mai said. “He wears a necklace. It’s important to him. Could I please have it?”
The doctor nodded to a nurse, who brought Mai Alexei’s gold chain with the two charms. It lay bloody in the palm of her hand. She closed her fist around it.
Mai watched the activity, familiar with it. This wasn’t the first time. Adrenaline left her blood, and the head wound and her side throbbed.
An EMT came into the room with an opaque plastic bag and held it out to her. “In case the gun makes folks nervous,” he said.
Mai dropped Alexei’s belongings inside it and clutched it to her chest. For the first time, she felt woozy and took a deep breath.
“I gotta go back to the scene,” the EMT said. “Should I notify your precinct?”
Until she remembered her lie, Mai wondered what he meant. “If you see any ATF agents, tell them where Agent Fisher is,” she said.
“You get someone to take care of that cut.”
A nurse said, “Pressure’s dropping.”
The doctor’s orders were crisp and rapid, but the erratic beeping became a steady, flat whine.
Mai went to the foot of the gurney and laid her hand on Alexei’s foot, ignoring how cold it was. It was an Irish thing; he would know her touch when he left her.
She remembered the ring he’d given her at Christmas, which she’d put away. If she’d worn it, she could put it on his toe.
“No, you don’t,” the doctor said, “not after I bragged to your wife.”
Mai regretted having to lose contact with Alexei for the three jolts it took to restore his heartbeat. She squeezed his foot and retreated again to a corner of the room.
The trauma room door opened for a gloved and gowned surgeon.
“Bob,” the trauma doctor said, “slumming?”
“ORs are full. We’ll have to do this guy here,” Bob said.
“Good. I don’t think he’d survive the elevator ride.”
The doctors conferred in hushed tones, and Mai’s vision tunneled. No, not now, she told herself. The surgeon came to her, but before he spoke, she said, “I’m staying.”
“I hear you, but you’re hurt. The way you’re losing blood, you’ll pass out in the middle of his surgery. A nurse will take you to another room and have that injury treated.”
“In his wounds, you’ll find shrapnel. Save it, establish a chain of custody. It’ll have to go to the FBI or ATF. It’s important you do that.”
“We’ll take care of it. Nurse, take Mrs.?”
“Burke,” Mai said. Near death, and they had to maintain cover. He couldn’t have his own name.
“Put Mrs. Burke somewhere I can find her. Get the cut treated.”
Mai let the nurse lead her away. She’d already said goodbye.
45
Escape
The old car responded to his foot mashed on the accelerator. He lost track of time, had no idea how far he’d gone, and thoughts raged in his head.
Not over the fact he’d blown up a building.
Mother of God, he’d blown up a building.
Siobhan. His eyes blurred with tears, and he let them fall.
The car moved so fast it seemed as if other cars moved out of his way. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel.
Blood on his hands.
Her blood.
He glanced down at himself. Nothing on his dark jeans and jacket.
Her blood on his hands bothered him.
The car was so quiet. Everything was quiet.
Of course, he still wore his ear plugs.
The blood on his hands drew his eyes back.
Not only her blood. Everyone’s. Hunks of flesh, gouts of clotted blood; fresh blood flowed, filled the footwell of the car, pooled in his lap.
The headless Iraqi of his nightmares sat beside him, blood fountaining from his neck.
A horn’s blare brought him back to reality.
From the glovebox, he took his bag of wet wipes. He tore the packets open with his teeth and cleaned his hands, tossing the empty packets and used wipes back in the bag.
A strange, gasping sound. Was the car dying? No, it him, sobbing.
He used all his wipes until no crease of his knuckles, none of his fingernails, bore any trace of her blood. He cleaned the steering wheel and blew his nose on some McDonalds napkins. He jammed the plastic bag back in the glovebox.
Why had Siobhan acted that way?
The INS had gotten to her, threatened her with deportation.
She’d let him go.
He smiled. The government had tried to get her to betray him, but she hadn’t.
“I’ll find you again,” she’d said.
Right, right. She wasn’t free to talk, but he understood.
He concentrated on putting the road between him and...
He shot a look at his watch. Almost an hour since…
No. Don’t think about that.
He looked at the road ahead. The future, where he had to go.
Siobhan hadn’t betrayed him. She’d find him again. In their future.
He relaxed so much he almost missed the flashing blue lights behind him. He checked his speed. Eight miles over.
Oh, God, he thought, they got me.
No, keep cool. You were speeding.
His heart racing, he signaled and moved a lane to the right. By the time he pulled onto the shoulder, he saw it was a county police car. Not the feds. They wouldn’t trust a local for this.
He put the car in park and put hi
s hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock. The officer leaned down to the window, hand on his gun.
“‘Morning, sir,” said the officer.
“Good morning, officer. I’m sorry for going too fast.”
“Do you know you have no license plate?”
His hands tightened on the wheel. The fucking rag heads had moved the car. They must have taken the plate so he’d get caught.
“No, sir, I didn’t. I bought this car a few days ago and switched my old plate over. I thought the dealer put it on tight.”
“That happens. License and registration.”
Carroll took out his wallet and handed over his license. “The registration is in the glovebox.”
“That’s fine, son. Bring it out slowly.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned to his right, stopped when the officer grabbed him by the collar. The barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head. County cops in Missouri didn’t fuck around.
“Are you carrying a weapon, son?” the cop asked.
“Yes, sir. I have a carry permit from Arizona.”
“No good here. Do not move.”
The gun stayed in place, but the cop’s other hand left Carroll’s collar and snaked beneath his windbreaker to take the Glock.
“Son, get out, slow, and put your hands on the roof. Be careful of the traffic.”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t know my permit was no good here.”
“Yeah, it’s a shitty law, but it’s the law.”
The cop handcuffed him and walked him to the prowler.
“Will I lose my gun, sir?” Carroll asked.
“If your record’s clean, you’ll pay a fine and get a lockbox for it until you’re out of state. Sorry to cuff you, son, but I have to do that. You’ll be booked at the jail.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Carroll felt the knot in his stomach ease.
“Here, I’ll put you in the front seat. Let me get you belted in, and I’ll take your keys and lock your car. I’ll call and have it towed to the jail later.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
So far, so good. A routine traffic stop. Good thing he had no meth in the car.
The cop returned to the car and climbed in. “So, you carry a Glock,” he said. “You like it?”
“I had some jamming problems with it, but the company made it right. You carry a Sig, I see. How’s that?”
“I’d like to have a Beretta like I had in the Army, but the Sig’s what they issue. It’s a good gun, but nothing fits your hand like a Beretta.”
Carroll remembered the Beretta recently pointed at him. It had fit Siobhan’s hand well.
46
Pandemonium
To free the trauma room where a physician’s assistant had stitched her head, a nurse put Mai in a chair near the intake desk. She watched the emergency room move past chaos to pandemonium and stayed focused by refusing an analgesic for the pain from the gash.
She wanted to rub Emmet Brasseau’s nose in this.
She shifted in the chair, the plastic bag rustling. Inside, atop the items was Alexei’s wallet, a Ferragamo she’d given him. On a mission, he used a money clip or a cheap, untraceable wallet. The fact he’d pocketed the expensive wallet, as well as worn his necklace, testified he thought this would be short and sweet. He’d had faith in her last night.
Last night. That seemed like days ago.
She opened the wallet. Blood had seeped inside. That tightness in her chest coiled again.
Legend had it you could find out a cheating husband by examining his wallet for hotel receipts, slips of paper with strange phone numbers. Alexei would never be that stupid. Thoughtless, yes, but never stupid.
He’d arranged his folding money large bills to small, facing the same direction. In the slots on the left were but four credit cards: a Visa, a MasterCard, an American Express, and a gas card, all in his alias, Alex Burke.
The Visa was gold level, the American Express Platinum. She’d been with him for eighteen years and didn’t know he had a Platinum American Express, though his teasing about hers was endless.
On the right side behind clear plastic was his Virginia driver’s license. She’d never seen this either. The picture was the face most people saw, emotionless, harsh. In the slots above the license were his gun permits, blotted with blood. Four pictures had somehow avoided the mess. The sentimentality they implied surprised her.
One was of his son, at his UVA graduation. Another was this year’s school picture of Natalia, where she looked more like a little girl than the near-woman from last night. The fading photo of his younger half-brother was a mild surprise, but the fourth wound the tension in her chest tighter.
She never let her picture be taken casually, but somehow Alexei had managed it. He was a spy, after all. She turned the photo over, and before tears blurred her vision, she read, “Moya zhena.” My wife.
And she remembered. The day before she’d discovered she was pregnant with what was their last child, thanks to him, the one who didn’t survive her being a Serbian warlord’s prisoner.
She returned the wallet to the plastic bag, ambivalence gone. If he needed to hear the words, she’d say them, if it wasn’t too late.
A clock in the waiting room told her it was noon. She would have sworn it was midnight, and she wasn’t going to wait around for someone to emerge and tell her she was a widow.
Her mobile was smashed. Alexei’s was intact but wouldn’t turn on. That would be good for a twenty-minute lecture from the Budget Department about trashing not one but two of the satellite phones. She turned on the ATF radio. Static. She looked around until she found a sign for a pay phone.
When she got to the bank of pay phones, she was surprised one was available. She dialed Nelson’s direct number and added her long-distance access code.
“Nelson.”
“I’m on an unsecured line,” Mai said.
“Stand by. Okay, we should be good. Watch what you say.”
“I have information for our friend Emmet.”
“Sit rep first.”
“He’s in surgery.”
“How bad?”
“Bad, but no one’s told me to buy black.” Yet.
“He’ll make it. What do you have?”
“My friend is in a yellow Mercury Marquis, mid-eighties model. Black jeans and tee-shirt, dark blue windbreaker, black ball cap, combat boots. I pulled the license plate from his car.” She’d forgotten it was still hidden under her jacket.
“You found him?”
“Too late,” she said.
“How did he get away?”
A pounding headache joined the pain from the cut on her head. “Fuck it, Nelson. I knew Alexei was closer to the building than I was when it blew. He was my priority. I’d already fixed it so someone would spot the car. Needless to say, Carroll’s armed.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“I’m at a pay phone in some hospital. I don’t know the name.”
“I’ll pin it down from the number. And, pay phone?”
“Both mobiles are toast. Take it out of my salary.”
“I’ll get a replacement for you on the way.”
“Send them to the house. I’m calling Olga to get my pilots here.”
“Get back in touch when…when able. Are you hurt?”
“Not one of my better days.”
She hung up and turned away from the phone. Surgeon Bob stood at the intake desk, talking to a nurse, who pointed at Mai. In the treatment room where the PA had stitched her head, she’d washed Alexei’s necklace and put it on. Her hand went to it. If she turned around and went through the doorway to the stairwell, she wouldn’t have to hear he was dead.
Alyosha. Her Alyosha.
She walked toward the surgeon. “Doctor?” she said.
When he turned to her, he didn’t have a bad news face on, and she allowed herself some hope.
“Mrs. Burke, I’ll be honest. He’s in bad shap
e. The good news is no organs were damaged beyond repair. He did, however, lose a lot of blood. He could have bleeders inside we didn’t find. His lack of a spleen heightens his chance of infection. He took a blow to the head, but a neurosurgeon evaluated him. A bad concussion but no inter-cranial bleeding. He coded on us twice during surgery. I can’t, I won’t suggest he’s out of the woods. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We’ll move him to CCU, and you can join him. Your injury?”
“Dealt with. I’m fine.”
He handed her a business card. Dr. Robert O’Donald. “That’s my pager number. Now, for the stupid admin crap. The intake desk needs insurance information.”
“Certainly.”
“I understand you’re a cop. I’m hearing this was a bomb.”
“Yes.”
“Arabs?”
Terrell’s theory about Gerald Parker came to mind, as did the two middle eastern men she’d passed on the street.
Someone moved Carroll’s car. Why?
Ah, to assure it wouldn’t be damaged in the blast. That implied planning from someone who’d done this before.
“No,” she told Dr. O’Donald. “Closer to home.”
“Well, fuck me.”
“My sentiments exactly. Thank you, doctor.”
“Don’t thank me yet, not until we see how strong a will to live he has. You and him, you’re both cops?”
Mai shrugged.
“Find the bastards who did this and make them pay.” He left when a nurse called to him.
Mai’s vision tunneled again, an image filling her head: the person who should pay for the dead, dying, and wounded.
Before she went to deal with hospital bureaucracy, Mai slipped the license plate from beneath her blood-soaked shirt and tossed it in a medical waste bin.
The staff settled Alexei into CCU, and the beeping on the monitor comforted Mai. The noises meant he was alive.
“Can I make long-distance calls from that phone?” Mai asked a nurse and pointed to the phone near the bed.
“It’ll go on your bill.”
“Not a problem.”
“Instructions are by the phone.”
