Cold Hit

21

I picked up Mercer’s hand and spoke his name with an urgency I had never known before. His eyes opened, and he tried to talk but could not.

“Thank God,” I said. “Stay with me, Mercer. I’m getting help.”

The doorway gave against my push and I was on the street. Three teenage boys were Rollerblading, heading westward to the piers. I had no idea where in the gallery I had dropped my tote and the cell phone I kept inside it. “Call nine-one-one,” I shouted at them. “Please call nine-one-one-tell them a cop is shot. Please!”

One of the kids held his index finger and thumb together in an “okay”sign and skated off, I assumed, to a telephone on the corner. The other two came to the sidewalk and were only seconds behind me as I scrambled back to Mercer’s side.

I sat on the floor next to his motionless body and tried to find where he was hit. His eyes flickered open and he attempted to follow the movements of my hands.

“Oh, shit,” I said, both to myself and to the boys, who stood dumbfounded at my back, not knowing what to make of the dead girl and the dying cop. “Are you sure your friend’s going to call nine-one-one? One of you should stand in front of this place so you can point it out when the police car comes.” I was barking commands like a general. “Get out to Tenth Avenue. Flag down anyone you can find to get in here to help.”

One kid took off but the other watched with fascination as I folded back the lapels of Mercer’s jacket and saw the bullet hole that had torn through his clothes and perforated the left side of his chest, terribly close to his heart.

“Bad,” Mercer mumbled as I held my ear over his mouth to better hear him. He opened his lips to say more. No sound came out as he turned his head away from me and his eyelids shut.

“Don’t close your eyes, Mercer. Don’t close your eyes, please.” I could hear sirens in the distance and I kept on praying that he wouldn’t lose consciousness, that I wouldn’t see his eyes roll back into his head. I held one of his strong hands in my own, stroking his face and head, trying to keep him with me by talking at him ceaselessly.

“Listen to me, Mercer,” I begged him. “I can hear a siren. They’re on the way. We’ll get you to Vinny’s in three minutes. Stay with me, Mercer. You got that son of a bitch, now stay with me, please.” Saint Vincent’s Hospital was less than ten blocks away, with an emergency room well equipped to handle trauma like gunshot wounds.

I watched his chest move up and down, his labored breathing giving off a low, rumbling noise from his throat. “Keep looking at me, Mercer. I’m gonna be with you through everything, just give me a chance. Breathe for me.” I was wiping sweat off his forehead with my fingers as it dripped down both sides of his neck and into his eyes.

The smallest blader skated back in the door. “We got a fire truck, okay?”

“That’s great, that’s excellent. Hear that, Mercer? We got a truck coming in.” I turned back to the kid. “Tell them we need an ambulance.” He was gone again.

Mercer’s mouth curled up on one side, as though he was trying to smile. I pressed the palm of his hand to my lips. Again I started babbling anything I could think of to keep him alert. I talked about Mike and about food and about the department and about how he could go to my house on the Vineyard for his recovery, and as I was rambling on to the next topic, four firemen in all their gear tore into the room and surrounded us.

I got up and stepped back, telling them that Mercer was a detective and that he had been shot at close range in the chest. Before I could finish the explanation, an ambulance had pulled up next to the hook and ladder parked in front of the gallery. I got lost in the commotion as the EMS team started an IV drip in Mercer’s arm and loaded him onto a stretcher. As I stood on the sidewalk, five radio cars pulled into the block from both directions, responding to the call for assistance that each cop dreads most of all, for himself and for everyone else in blue.

Now I was just a hanger-on at the fringe of the growing crowd. None of the officers who arrived knew me, and my identification and badge were somewhere in my bag on the floor of the gallery. I pushed the kids who had helped me out of the way, trying to explain to the cops who Mercer was and what had happened.

The EMS workers lifted the stretcher onto the rear of the ambulance, and as it tilted, I could see that Mercer’s eyes were closed shut. “I’m going with you,” I shouted over the heads of the firemen who were clustered around the wagon.

“Sorry, lady. You’ll have to meet us at the hospital-Seventh Avenue and Eleventh Street.” One of the men was getting into the driver’s seat and the other was closing the first side of the double rear doors.

I squeezed ahead and climbed up onto the back running board. There was no point telling them I was an assistant district attorney. That fact, without any supporting identification, didn’t buy me a ride on the ambulance. “I’m his wife!” I screamed at them. “I’m going with him.” I ducked into the van, and the medical technician came in behind me and slammed the door.

I held Mercer’s hand for the short ride, ambulance sirens blaring, as we were escorted to Saint Vincent’s by three police cars leading the charge downtown.

I couldn’t tell if the moisture on the crease near Mercer’s left eye was perspiration or a tear, but a big drop formed and hung there until the shifting of the stretcher dislodged it as his body was removed and carried toward the entrance of the emergency room. He didn’t open his eyes, not even for a moment.