When Luca next regained consciousness, he could hear the snipping sound of scissors, and became aware of the sensation of fabric being tugged and pulled at every part of his body, and he knew what was happening even without opening his eyes. He was in the emergency room, and someone was removing his clothing. Of course, he had known that they would undress him, but that knowledge did nothing to lessen the shock of feeling so totally vulnerable in front of strangers. Weakened from loss of blood and the fact that he was not fully coherent yet, he submitted to the indignity, powerless to object. At the foot of the gurney, another person was unlacing his boots.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother's authoritative voice, "Dominic, always make sure you put on clean underwear every day. If you're in an accident, you want the doctors to see you with clean underwear!"
He supposed every mother in the whole country probably warned her offspring about such matters, and thoughts of her caused tears to burn behind his eyes. She was a strong woman, but petite in stature, a dark-haired dark-eyed beauty who governed her offspring with an iron fist in a tiny velvet glove. Her worst nightmare was coming true. She was more than aware of the fact that he was in a high-risk occupation. How many times had she urged him to be careful? He had sought to reassure her, reminding her of the bulletproof vest intended to protect him from such an injury. The vest he had failed to wear. Who would inform her of her son's shooting? Who would be there to comfort her and help her get through the agonizing worry?
During his tour of duty in Vietnam, he had been told that even the most hardened combat veterans thought of their mothers when wounded, longing for her gentle hand to soothe his brow, to kiss his cheek, and offer comfort in ways that only a mother could. He supposed it was memories of boyhood that inspired such yearning, for a boy�s mother was always there to oversee his recovery and make him feel better. Oh, how he longed to see her just one more time. But she wasn't even in town. She was visiting his sister, Isabella, in New Jersey. He knew she would immediately try to find a plane back to California as soon as she was given the news, but he was acutely aware of the fact that she might not get back in time.
Something was placed against his nose, and he inhaled the pure oxygen that it supplied to each nostril. It was looped behind his ears to hold the nosepiece in place. Almost immediately, his mind began to clear as the oxygen drove back the drowsiness that had lingered during the gradual return to consciousness.
The air in the room was cold, and he felt the gooseflesh rise on his exposed skin as the last article of clothing was pulled away. A sheet was thrown over his body from the navel down, but it did nothing to warm him. He felt a twinge of annoyance, wondering why they didn't consider the comfort of the patients in places like this. The answer was obvious -- the rooms were kept comfortable for the busy pace kept by the doctors and attendants who had no idea what it was like to be lying naked on an examining table with nothing except a thin cotton sheet to sustain warmth.
The chill helped to rouse him, and he became aware of the pungent aroma of disinfectants and other repugnant smells he wasn't sure he wanted to identify. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the distressing sounds of someone thrashing, weeping, and crying out in pain and confusion. He did not have to ask to realize the source. Clearly, it was the victim of an accident of some kind. The person�s pain was palpable, until the sounds abruptly stopped.
An urgent voice called, "Blood pressure's dropping, Doctor. We're losing her!"
"I've lost her pulse!"
"Get the crash cart!"
Dom's eyes fluttered open, and ignoring the white-clad individuals who were working on him, he turned his head toward the privacy drapes that separated his area from the next. He could see nothing through the heavy drape, but he could hear the sounds of the doctor and his team as they attempted to revive the victim with the defibrillator.
"I've got a pulse!" announced a nurse.
"All right, good. We can't wait any longer. Let's get her up to surgery, and send for two more units of blood," responded the doctor. A moment later, there was total silence behind the curtain as the patient and her physician departed for the operating room.
Hoping that the woman would be all right, Dom shifted his gaze to the bright light overhead, not wanting to watch as his doctor and staff worked on him. Farther down, he could hear a small child wailing in apparent misery and the staff attempting to sooth him, assuring him that he would be okay. On his other side, also hidden behind a curtain, a woman was moaning softly in discomfort. All around him, he was curiously sensitive of the sounds throughout the busy emergency room, as if his injury had given him a heightened sense of awareness.
A needle pricked his left wrist just above his thumb, drawing his attention back to the action inside his own curtained cubical, and he flinched slightly in reaction to it. That would be the i.v., intended to supply nourishment and fluids. Someone was tapping the inside of his other arm, searching for a vein, and a moment later he felt another needle prick at the bend of his elbow. This time, he did look, even though he was already able to determine that it was to replace the blood he was losing. As expected, he saw the bag of dark red blood suspended on a hanger beside the table, and watched as the thick red liquid made its way along the clear tubing to his arm.
Idly, he wondered who had provided the blood. Who had taken the time from perhaps a busy work day to give the gift of life to the blood bank? When this was over, perhaps he would reciprocate, giving back what had been given to him. If he survived.
He drew a deep, pain-filled breath. No, he must not think like that. He was young and in excellent physical condition, thanks to Hondo�s rigorous training maneuvers. He would fight to stay alive.
The doctor lifted the bloodied cloth that covered the wound again, and began probing the flesh around the injury with deft yet urgent fingers, apparently trying to determine by feel the depth of the penetration of the bullet, but for Luca, the probing generated a fresh wave of pain. He was unable to suppress a strangled cry of pain.
A firm hand pressed down on his shoulder, pinning him to the table, so he raised his own hand in a feeble attempt to bat the offending hand away from the source of his pain, a purely reflexive motion, but a nurse grasped his wrist to hold it away from the wound. In that moment, he became fully aware of the degree of his weakness, for he was unable to generate the energy to pull away from her grasp. His breathing became rapid and irregular from the effort and from the pain.
Finally, the doctor moved away from the injury, but the pain he had caused lingered, and Dom felt an almost overpowering urge to roll onto his side where he could double over his body to protect the wound from further abuse. Unfortunately, he didn't have the energy to make the effort.
Realizing that Dom was both conscious and coherent, the doctor leaned over him, gazing solemnly into his face. The officer was young, but the physician had a tremendous amount of respect for him and what he had accomplished at the school. "Officer Luca, you're in the hospital emergency room. You've been shot."
Dom stared up at him, disbelievingly. For some reason, he could not seem to find his voice to reply to the announcement, but his mind supplied the rhetorical response: You think that fact has somehow escaped my notice?
Unaware of the sarcastic comments that were in his patient�s mind, the doctor continued, �I�m Doctor Windom. We�re going to take good care of you, so try to relax.�
Lifting his stethoscope from where he had draped it around his neck, he positioned the earpieces and pressed the cold steel disk against the officer's chest, listening to his heart, then moved it to various positions around his torso to listen to his lungs.
He then lowered the stethoscope, and returned it to its original position. "Lungs are clear. Let's get him hooked up to the monitor," the doctor ordered.
Electrodes were affixed to the bare skin of his chest with round adhesive patches, one on each of his pectorals, and another on each side of his ribs. A moment later, the switch on the monitor was flipped on, and he heard the monotonous blips of his own heartbeat. Even to his own medically challenged degree of knowledge, his heart rate sounded too fast, and he turned his head to look at it, watching the wavy lines that spiked with each beat of his heart.
The doctor followed the direction of his gaze, and was impressed that even seriously injured, the officer noticed everything around him, including the abnormal rate of his own heart. In a calm voice, intended to alleviate any concerns he might have, he said, "The reason your heart is beating so fast is due to the amount of blood you've lost. The heart has to work harder to pump what's left through the veins. We're giving you a fresh supply of blood, and once we have you stabilized, we'll be taking you up to surgery."
Dom heard his heart rate step up a bit at the mention of surgery. He had never had surgery before, and the thought that he would soon be wheeled into the operating room without time to mentally prepare for it was a bit disconcerting.
The doctor seemed to understand his apprehension, and he smiled slightly. "Try not to worry. The blood is helping to stabilize you, so it won't be long now. We have one of the best surgical staffs in California. We'll also do our best to make it so that the scar will be minimal. It will fade in time. Your lady friends will hardly notice, but if they do just tell them it's a battle scar. I'm sure they will be suitably impressed."
Dom blinked, startled by the reference to his lady friends. Had one of the guys told the doctor about his reputation with women?
Unaware of the nature of the officer's thoughts, the doctor turned to his assistants. "Okay, let's get him to x-ray. I want some pictures of that bullet's precise location."
"Yes, doctor," replied the attendant.
To another attendant, he said, �Have O.R. Two prepared.�
�Yes, doctor.�
Within moments, Luca's gurney was mobile again, pushed by an attendant he could not see, for the person was above his head. All the equipment was following him, pushed by another attendant. Someone threw back the drapes that had provided privacy. With curious eyes, he saw a janitor had already appeared in the space where the woman had been, and was mopping something off the floor, his expression grim. Lifting his head slightly to see over the edge of the gurney, he saw that it was blood. Accustomed to the comings and going of critically injured patients, the janitor didn't even look up as the officer was wheeled past.
Exhausted by the effort, Dom laid his head back down, but kept his face turned so that he could see the other people inside the busy emergency room. At the next curtained cubical, he saw a large gap where the drapes did not meet, and inside it was the child, a small boy. A nurse was holding him down while a doctor was attempting to look inside his throat. It was impossible for the injured officer to determine with certainty what was wrong with the child, but he suspected tonsillitis. He lay back, feeling relieved that the child would probably be all right.
The gurney turned a corner, and he was wheeled out the door and down a long corridor, moving at a fairly rapid pace, reminding him of the urgency of his own situation.
He was still lying on his back, his head on a pillow that was so small it barely qualified for the title, and his eyes were looking straight up at the ceiling. The florescent ceiling lights flashed rapidly by, one after the other, in a dizzying manner that made him feel sick. He turned his head away, unable to watch it, only to find that the doors rushing past were just as annoying.
Nurses, orderlies, and physicians moved back and forth across the corridor with equipment and charts, stepping hastily aside to avoid interfering with the gurney. Most of them ignored him, so accustomed to the hectic pace of injured and sick patients that they were unmoved by the sight of a desperately wounded man being wheeled past them.
Against a long tiled wall was a tall, very wide supply rack, and he turned his head on the pillow to observe it as they wheeled past, noticing that it contained many shelves filled with boxes and bottles of things that he could identify due to the speed at which the gurney was traveling. Beyond the wall and the supply rack were more doors leading to unknown rooms, and the dizzying effect of them returned. Unable to watch those annoying lights or the doors, Luca closed his eyes again to wait out the ride.
A few minutes later, he felt the bump and jolt as the gurney was wheeled onto an elevator, and he recoiled at the pain which shot through his body. A firm, steady hand pressed on his shoulder, as if to hold him down.
�I�m sorry, Officer Luca,� said a voice above his head. �I know that probably hurt, but there is a space between the floor of the corridor and the elevator floor. Just try to relax and we�ll have you in X-Ray in no time.�
The orderly briefly stepped into view beside the gurney as he reached out and pressed one of the buttons on the elevator panel, and a moment later he heard the doors close and the car began to move upward.
A ding! announced the arrival on the appropriate floor, and he felt the gurney begin to move again. Again, there was a painful jolt as the wheels rolled across the gap, and he felt himself slipping into darkness again. Welcoming its painless oblivion, he did not fight it, content to let it engulf him.
But it was pain that aroused him once again sometime later, and he experienced a strange sensation of movement and realized that he was being transferred from the gurney onto a table with the use of a drawsheet. He heard the gurney�s wheels on the floor as it was pulled away from the table.
Opening his eyes was difficult, but he forced the lids apart and squinted with discomfort at the bright light that was shining down on him, so he turned his head away from it. There were people all around him, people wearing white gowns, caps, and surgical masks. A nurse was unfolding a stack of sterile linens, preparing them for use, while another was arranging a set of stainless steel instruments on a tray. Near the wall, a man was holding an X-Ray film against a lighted panel, studying it intently.
Even though he had never seen one before, he knew immediately that he was in the operating room, and realized that he had passed out on his way to X-Ray. Obviously, the pictures of the bullet had been achieved, for they were now being studied and quietly discussed.
�Doctors, he�s awake,� said a voice. With so many mask-covered faces in the room, it was impossible to determine which of them had spoken.
The man with the X-Ray turned toward him. �Officer Luca, we�ll be removing that bullet shortly.� He recognized the voice as that of the doctor who had examined him in the emergency room. �Doctor Metcalf, one of our most skilled surgeons, will be performing the operation, and I will be assisting. We have the bullet pinpointed on the X-Rays, and we will try to make the surgery as minimally invasive as possible. There has been some internal damage, but we expected that due to the location of the bullet. We will repair the damage while we�re in there. Now, try to relax and it will be over soon.�
A voice spoke near his head, �I�m your anesthesiologist. I�m going to be placing a mask over your mouth and nose, now. Just breathe normally, and you will be asleep within a minute.�
The mask appeared from his left side and was placed over his lower face, held there by a disembodied hand. He was unable to detect any odor coming through the mask, so he tried to breathe normally as he looked straight up at the tiled ceiling and waited for the anesthetic to take effect.
-()-
The doors to the elevator slid open and its passengers moved forward to depart, but stopped short when they saw four SWAT officers wearing their service jumpsuits waiting to board. Startled, they hesitated, as if uncertain whether the officers intended to storm the elevator car, and then seemed both surprised and relieved when the four men backed away and stepped aside to permit the departing passengers to exit.
The passengers stepped quickly from the elevator, casting apprehensive stares at the four policemen as they exited in a tight group, apparently deciding there was safety in numbers. A few of them were actually pushing at the persons in front of them in an attempt to hurry them along. The four police officers watched this curiously, and had the situation been different, they might have found their behavior amusing. But at the moment, it only aggravated their already bad moods.
When the car was empty, the SWAT unit boarded. Several other people awaiting the elevator did not enter with them, choosing to wait for the next one.
�What the hell is wrong with them?� Street asked as he punched the button for the surgical floor a little more forcefully than necessary. The button immediately illuminated, and the doors closed. �They act like we�re going to open fire on them or something.�
The others spread out in the car, and an instant later, it began its ascent to the appropriate floor.
�They want us around when they need us, but the rest of the time they don�t even want to know we exist,� Deke replied, wearily. �Sort of makes you feel unappreciated, doesn�t it?�
�Yeah,� Street agreed with a heavy sigh as he backed up against the wall behind him and leaned on it as if for support. Why did he feel so suddenly tired? �If it had been one of those gang members who got shot instead of Luca, the media would have condemned us as trigger-happy killers.�
T. J. did not join the conversation. Tipping his head back against the wall, he watched the numbers over the door as they lit up in succession until they reached the surgical floor, where the car stopped and the doors opened again.
As they stepped into the corridor, noticing the startled expressions on the faces of the next group of passengers, Hondo said, �Don�t dwell on it, Street. We just do our jobs.�
They proceeded down the corridor to the large surgical waiting room, hoping they would not be called back to duty before they received word of the condition of their colleague. They passed a young woman who, like the others, stared in apparent horror and crowded close to the wall as if to get as far from them as possible.
Street turned his head to watch her as she hurried away, frowning his annoyance. �You know, a lot of people act differently around us, but this is the worse I�ve ever seen. You�d think we�re carrying the plague or something.�
As one, the group of officers paused in the wide doorway to look around, deciding where they wanted to sit. It was T. J. who moved first, shouldering his way past the others and moving to a quite corner, away from the family and friends of other patients. He sank into a chair against the wall with a heavy sigh. Jim and Deke followed him and sat down in chairs across from him, but Hondo did not immediately take a chair. Instead, he restlessly paced back and forth in front of the coffee maker.
T. J. did not seem aware of their commander�s pacing, but the other people in the room did. They stared at the obviously agitated lieutenant, shrinking back whenever his pacing carried him too near their chairs. It was Deke who noticed that their eyes seemed to be irresistibly drawn to the front of his jumpsuit, visibly disturbed by what they were seeing, and they whispered anxiously among themselves whenever he turned his back to them and moved away.
As Harrelson turned around and started back toward his teammates, it suddenly dawned on the sergeant why the people were reacting to them in such a negative way. �Hondo, you have blood on your jumpsuit.�
Harrelson immediately stopped to look down at the front of his clothes, observing the large stain that darkened it. He had noticed it before, but it had slipped his mind. �I had forgotten,� he admitted.
Street looked at his hands and found that they were also stained with drying blood. �That explains the funny looks we�re getting.�
�I suggest that we have Sam bring our regular uniforms in,� Deke continued.
�Good idea,� Hondo agreed. Lifting his microphone, he summoned the driver, �Sam? You still there?�
�I�m here, Lieutenant,� the driver�s voice crackled over the radio. �I�ve moved the van out to the parking area. How�s Luca?�
�Not good. Sam, I need a favor. We�re going to be here for a while, so I would appreciate it if you would get our regular uniforms out of our lockers and bring them to us. We have blood on our jumpsuits, and we�re making the other people in here uncomfortable.�
�Sure thing, L.T. I�m leaving now.�
Hondo heard the engine start as Sam turned on the ignition. �Thanks, Sam.� He returned the microphone to its position, then turned toward the coffee pot, his eyes settling on the black brew in the glass bowl. He really didn�t want a cup, but at least it would give him something to do with his hands, so he poured a generous amount into a Styrofoam cup and then returned to his subordinates and sat down beside T. J., who remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.
He observed the younger man for several moments, understanding that he and Luca had formed a bond of friendship that had progressed beyond professional camaraderie. They often double dated, met for drinks or dinner after their shift, and frequently exchanged playful banter. He wanted to offer words of encouragement, but there was nothing he could say that would change the fact that Luca was seriously injured and was perhaps even dying. He lowered his gaze to the steam that rose from the hot coffee in his cup.
�Lieutenant, has anyone thought to notify Luca�s family?� Jim Street asked.
�No,� Hondo replied. �I thought we should wait until we hear something. I would hate to tell them that he�s alive only to have the doctor come out ten minutes later to say that �� He broke off, catching a sharp glance from Street.
�I have to disagree, L.T.,� Jim said. �When I got shot last year, my family was very upset that they weren�t notified immediately. I wasn�t hurt bad, but they still wanted to know. Good or bad, they have a right to know what�s going on.�
Deke spoke up, �I�m afraid I have to agree with Street. Want me to call them?�
�No,� Hondo said. �That�s my job. I�ll call the station and get his mother�s phone number from personnel.�
�She�s not home,� T. J. replied, speaking up for the first time and stopping Hondo as he was starting to rise. �We stopped for drinks at the pub last night, and he mentioned that she was out of town visiting one of his sisters. I don�t know which one, but the family priest might know. Damn, he asked me to call the priest.� He sat up straighter in his chair as his eyes scanned the room, seeking a telephone. �Does anyone see a phone in here?�
�It�s on the table next to you,� Street said, nodding toward the plain black telephone that sat on an end table with a stack of magazines. �Do you have his number?�
�No, but he should be in the book.� T. J. picked up the telephone book and opened it up to the page that listed Catholic churches, and then dialed the phone number of the parish priest of San Angelo�s.
It was answered after four rings, and a kindly voice on the other end answered, �San Angelo�s. Father Manucci speaking.�
�Father, you don�t know me, but my name is T. J. McCabe. I�m a friend of Dom Luca. The reason I�m calling is because . . . � He paused, briefly. He had never been required to deliver this type of news before, and he was uncertain how to proceed. He rubbed his furrowed forehead with his fingertips, as if nursing a headache, then continued, �I�m afraid I have some bad news. Dom was involved in a shooting this afternoon at the high school --�
�I heard a news bulletin about that,� Father Manucci interrupted. �They�re saying that an officer has been shot, but I didn�t realize it was Dominic. Oh, dear. This is going to be very hard on his mother. This is her worst nightmare. How is he? Is he hurt badly?�
�Yeah, I�m afraid it�s pretty bad. He took a bullet in the abdomen. He�s in surgery right now, and probably will be for a couple of hours.�
�I don�t understand this, Officer McKay ��
�McCabe,� T. J. corrected, then instantly regretted it. Did it really matter?
�Oh, pardon me,� the priest said quickly. �How could this happen? His mother told me that he always wore a bullet proof vest.�
�It�s kind of a long story, but he had to take it off due to the unforeseen circumstances. Anyway, the reason I�m calling is because Dom asked that I get in touch with you . . . just in case. And we also need to call his mother, but she�s out of town.�
�She�s visiting her daughter in New Jersey. She left the number with me in case of an emergency, so I will call and notify the family.�
A grateful sigh was heaved from T. J.�s lungs. �Thank you. I appreciate that. Maybe it will be easier coming from you.�
�I don�t think anything can cushion the blow of this, Officer McCabe. I will call her first, and then come to the hospital. Where are you at?�
�Valley General, in the surgical waiting room. It�s on �� He broke off abruptly. Even though he had been watching the floors on the lighted panel on the elevator, he could not remember where it had stopped. He glanced at Hondo. �What floor are we on?�
�Third floor.�
�We�re on the third floor,� T. J. relayed.
"I will be there soon.�
T. J. heard the click on the other end of the line as the priest hung up, and he slowly pulled the handset from his ear and returned the phone to the table. �He�s going to call Luca�s mom.�
Hondo nodded, and the others saw relief in the older man�s eyes. �That�s good. Its better that it comes from someone they know.�
The men fell silent. Deke picked up a magazine and began quietly reading. T. J. and Street went into the men�s room to wash the blood from their hands, and Hondo sipped his coffee until Sam arrived with their regular uniforms, and the officers returned to the men�s room to change into them while Sam remained in the waiting room in case the doctor came out with any news. Then they sat down to wait again.
Go to Chapter Seven