Mad Mouse

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ihear knocking on the glass door.

Ceepak. I raise my head above the counter and scream. “Call nine-one-one! Call nine-one-one!”

Ceepak reads my lips and slams his palm against the lock above the doorknob. When the lock won't pop, he slams the door's steel frame with his shoulder. He bounces back and does it again, putting his bulk behind it. I see him wince at the impact but the door flies open.

“She's hit!” I call out.

Ceepak punches the shoulder mic to his walkie-talkie.

“This is Officer Ceepak. Urgently request Medevac helicopter. Schooner's Landing. Saltwater Tammy's. Gunshot wound.” He peers over the counter and sees Katie sprawled on the floor, her head cradled in my lap. “Severe chest trauma. Send the helicopter now. Over.”

“Ten-four,” I hear our dispatcher say. “I'll check with the chief and-”

“Now! Do I make myself clear, over?”

“Roger. But Medevac is state and-”

“Do it. On my say-so. Over.”

“Roger. But-”

“Send the chopper, Helen. Send it now.”

“Roger. Wilco.”

When you ask Ceepak to call 9-1-1, he calls 9-1-1. He crouches behind the counter, looks at Katie's chest.

“A,B,C,D, Danny,” he says. “Make sure her Airway is open.” He scoops some pinkish foam and chunky vomit out of Katie's mouth. “Second, monitor Breathing.” He bends down to listen to her nose and mouth. “Shallow but steady. Check Circulation.” He grabs her wrist and flicks over his watch so he can monitor her pulse. “Weak. Check for any Disability.”

“Disability? He fucking shot her!”

“Danny? Focus.”

I hear sucking sounds echoing Katie's short, hollow breaths. Every time her chest expands, I hear a gurgling wheeze, like someone's Hoovering the bottom of a milkshake.

“Is there any Saran Wrap in the shop?” Ceepak asks. “Perhaps a plastic bag?” Ceepak tears open Katie's blouse. I see blood has seeped into and stained the bottom of her left bra cup. The one over her heart. “Danny? We need a sheet of plastic. ASAP.”

Ceepak pumps Katie's chest.

“Any plastic will do.”

I pull the half-empty bag of Junior Mints out of its box, dump the chocolates on the floor, hand Ceepak the plastic bag.

“That'll work. See if you can secure some tape.”

“Tape.”

“Roger that.” He keeps pressing down on Katie's chest at regular, rhythmic intervals. In between pumps, he spreads and smooths the plastic bag over her chest wound.

I head for where I see a stack of foldable white boxes near a candy scale. There's a roll of “Saltwater Tammy's” cellophane sealing tape.

“Exhale, Katie.” Ceepak waits for her to expel a breath. “That a girl.” He stretches the plastic sheet taut over the bullet hole. “Tape. Three long pieces.” He extends his right hand like a surgeon calling for a scalpel. My hands shake but I'm able to rip three pieces off the roll using my teeth. Ceepak tapes down three sides of the bag. “We need to leave one corner open to create a makeshift flutter valve,” he says after securing the plastic to Katie's bloody chest. “We don't want air becoming trapped in the chest cavity.”

He leans in close to Katie's ear.

“Help is on the way,” he says, lightly stroking damp hair out of Katie's eyes. “Help is on the way.”

I sink back on my haunches. Scared. But I know: help has already arrived.

A helicopter landing at the entrance to Schooner's Landing wasn't listed on the schedule of “Special Labor Day Weekend Events,” so the noisy arrival of the whirlybird draws a crowd when it touches down. Paper cups and napkins and newspaper sheets scatter like grass clippings in the wake of an enormous leaf blower.

Ceepak and I run beside the gurney as they wheel Katie out. We move into the air wash under the blades. The EMTs have strapped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. IV bags dangle off poles welded onto the sides of the rolling stretcher. The helicopter is thumping and whumping so I can't hear everything Ceepak's saying to the paramedics, but it sounds like he's giving them a rundown of Katie's vital signs. They give Ceepak the thumbs up and slide Katie into the chopper.

“Danny? Go!” Ceepak tilts his head to tell me to climb in and ride in the helicopter with Katie.

But I remember what Katie said: “Do your job.”

“No,” I yell to Ceepak. “I can do more here.”

Ceepak slaps the side of the chopper.

“Go!” he yells to the pilot and, hunched over, we trot away as the helicopter lifts off, swoops south, banks west, and zooms across the bay.

“She'll be at Mainland Medical in under five,” Ceepak says. “The trauma team is standing by at the ER and will be fully briefed by the incoming EMTs.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“We need to notify her family.”

“She … doesn't have any. Her parents are both dead.”

Ceepak nods.

“She's strong, Danny.”

“Yeah.”

“Real strong.”

“Yeah.”

“John?” It's Chief Baines. “Inside.” He does a quick head tilt toward the candy shop. “Now!”