Bend, Oregon
April 22
Homer was out of breath as he ran up to the lead truck on the gravel road. A deputy was holding the passenger door open. “Captain Sheffield said I’m to get you to the air ambulance ASAP.”
Homer gently laid Diesel on the seat, and conducted a swift examination. Fresh blood was oozing from several lacerations on the dog’s neck and chest. Homer tore open another packet of hemostatic gel and spread it over the wounds. He scooped up Diesel, then sat and cradled the battered animal on his lap.
“Hand me those compresses,” he instructed the deputy. Homer applied pressure to stop the bleeding, but the lacerations were too numerous and lengthy to cover all of them.
The deputy stomped down on the accelerator, sending a plume of dust and gravel into the next vehicle in line. He kept his focus on the rutted and bumpy road, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Twice, the pickup fishtailed as it came into tight turns too fast. Somehow, the deputy managed to stay on the road and avoid sliding sideways into trees or boulders.
The bumps and jostling—some severe enough that Homer hit his head on the roof liner—seemed to have no effect on Diesel. The canine appeared to be unconscious and unresponsive. Homer placed a hand on the dog’s chest, and thought he felt a heartbeat, but he couldn’t be certain. “How much farther?”
The deputy stole a quick glance sideways before returning his attention to the road. “Not far now. Maybe another five minutes.”
Homer had enough advanced first aid training to recognize that severe hypovolemic shock due to excessive blood loss had set in. Diesel’s battered body was losing the battle. His kidneys and gastrointestinal tract were likely being starved for oxygen as the limited remaining blood was shunted to his lungs and brain. Homer had rendered aid to critically injured men before. Based on his assessment of Diesel’s condition, he wasn’t sure they had five minutes. “Go as fast as you dare. We’re running out of time.”
The deputy coaxed more speed out of the truck and still managed to stay on the road. He flipped a switch and the red and blue lights came on along with the siren. They were speeding toward the Cascade Lakes Highway, just ahead. The deputy slowed enough to make the tight left turn then floored it again. Cars on both sides of the highway pulled over, allowing the emergency vehicle to pass. Homer glanced at the dashboard: the speedometer registered 100 miles per hour.
Homer was pitched forward and the tires squealed when the deputy braked for the turnoff to Mount Bachelor then raced again toward the empty parking lot. The air ambulance was already there, the rotor blades turning and the whine of the turbine engine overpowering the roar of the truck engine. Locking up the brakes and spinning the wheel, the deputy drifted the truck sideways and came to a stop near the helicopter.
Homer pushed the door open and rushed to the air ambulance, his arms folded around the pit bull. The EMT accepted the dog without a word—if there was any surprise, he didn’t show it. Captain Sheffield must have radioed ahead and made it clear that this was not going to be a routine transport. Homer climbed in and held Diesel on a gurney while the EMT secured the door. The helicopter rose, and as soon as the pilot had sufficient altitude to clear the trees, the aircraft was streaking forward toward Bend.
The EMT placed a stethoscope against Diesels chest. “Pulse is faint and rapid.” He reached into a compartment and removed an IV bag. It took some searching to find a vein that he could use, but soon saline fluid was dripping into Diesel’s body. It would help to raise his blood pressure and buy some time, even if only a few minutes.
With the movement that had occurred, Diesel’s wounds started bleeding again, the compresses were bright red and some looked to be nearly saturated. While the EMT was monitoring heart rate, Homer ripped open a packet of sterile bandages and laid several over the chest wounds. Then he gently lifted Diesel while the EMT wrapped a roll of wide gauze around the canine’s chest to secure the bandages.
Suddenly the helicopter started to slow and then hover. Looking out the side window, Homer saw they were setting down in another parking lot. Glad the parking lot isn’t packed with cars, he thought. As the air ambulance touched down with a bump, Homer noticed the sign above a wall of windows—Animal Emergency Center.
The EMT thrust open the door and Homer slid out. He once again cradled the red pit bull, laying the IV bag on top of the dog. Ducking his head until clear of the rotors, he dashed for the door, already held open by a woman wearing dark blue scrubs. “This way!” someone shouted, and Homer ran toward the voice. Three women were already in the surgical suite, waiting for him. They all wore white surgical masks and latex gloves.
One woman stepped forward. “I’m Doctor Kumar. This is Alicia and Courtney. They’ll be assisting.”
Homer nodded. “Jesper Mortensen.”
“Your captain called and told us to expect you—this dog was in a fight?”
“Yes, it was bad.” He didn’t see any reason to go into details.
“Just lay him on the table,” Doctor Kumar instructed. As Homer did so, Alicia lifted the IV bag and hooked it on a stand. Doctor Kumar proceeded to check the heart beat while Courtney replaced the IV with a fresh bag. Homer stood back, out of the way.
Suddenly, Kumar shouted, “Cardiac arrest!”
Both techs jumped into action. One prepared a defibrillator while the other began CPR. Doctor Kumar grabbed Diesel’s snout, gave three quick puffs, and then reached for the defibrillator pads, placing them on either side of Diesel’s chest. “Clear!”
A brief convulsion marked the electric shock. Doctor Kumar placed her stethoscope against the dog’s chest. She listened intently, moving the diaphragm as she concentrated. “Pulse is faint and rapid. Breathing is shallow. I’m not picking up any fluid in his lungs. Administer Vasopressin and insert a breathing tube; I want him on oxygen. Get his blood typed and a transfusion started. We have to get some blood back into this guy before he goes into cardiac arrest again.”
Courtney gently grasped Homer’s arm. “You should wait in the lobby, sir.”
He nodded, looked at Diesel once more, then turned and left.
About six miles away, Peter was wheeled on a gurney into the emergency center at St. Charles Hospital. En route down from the mountains, the Sheriff’s SUV was met by an ambulance dispatched from Bend. Sheffield, Vashal, and Commander Nicolaou escorted the gurney down the hallway to an examination room.
When the ER doctor entered, his attention was immediately drawn to the armed escort. “Would someone mind telling me what’s going on? Is this patient a threat to my staff?”
“No sir,” answered Sheffield, his voice calm and even.
Doctor Prescott exhaled deeply, his brow knitted. “All three of you may wait in the lobby.”
Jim remained rooted in placed, his hands relaxed by his side. Sheffield and Vashal followed his cue.
“I said—”
“We heard you, Doctor Prescott,” Jim answered, pre-empting the objection about to be issued. “Mr. Savage is under our protection. We will wait at his side while you treat his injuries.”
Not easily intimidated, Prescott eyed Jim, taking in his uniform and shoulder insignias. He also noticed the rifle slung over Jim’s shoulder, muzzle pointed down, magazine removed from the receiver, as well as the large pistol in a tactical holster at his thigh.
Jim stood straight and tall, never blinking.
“Nurse!” Prescott called, and then moved past Jim to begin his examination of Peter. First, he conducted a superficial examination of the arm and leg wounds. Satisfied that blood loss was not a life-threatening issue at the moment, he placed his stethoscope against Peter’s chest while the nurse measured his blood pressure. Prescott looked up at Jim. “Lungs are clear. Heartbeat is strong.”
The nurse interrupted. “Blood pressure is 80 over 55.”
The ER doctor placed his hand on Peter’s forehead. The skin felt cool and dry. His coloration was slightly pale, but not sufficient to suggest excessive blood loss.
“Start a fresh bag, normal saline. I think he’s probably dehydrated. Draw a blood sample and have the lab run a complete analysis.”
Doctor Prescott returned his attention to the lacerations, manipulating the deeper cuts between his thumb and forefinger, drawing fresh drops of blood. Peter winced in response. “Sorry about that. Can you tell me where you hurt?”
“Every—” Peter’s mouth felt dry, and it took some effort to moisten his tongue so he could enunciate clearly. “Everywhere.”
“Can you tell me your name?” Prescott asked.
“Peter. Peter Savage.”
The doctor continued his examination, making small talk as he palpated various areas of Peter’s chest and abdomen. “Looks like you rolled around with a wild animal,” he said. He pushed against the lower ribs. “Does that hurt?”
Peter winced and nodded his head.
Doctor Prescott stood and approached Jim. “The good news is that I don’t think he suffered any internal injuries. His ribs are pretty tender, maybe only bruised, but I’ll want a chest x-ray to be sure. Also, I recommend a CT scan. There’s some bruising on his forehead. Looks like he took a pretty good blow to the head.”
Jim nodded. “Whatever you need to do.”
“It may help to know what happened to this man.”
“It’s classified.”