Sunday Morning
Beverwyck Homestead
Jim woke before most of the Homestead was up. He got dressed, then went down to check on Charlie, who was out of traction and in a cast, but still in bed. It was Sunday morning and they were two days behind schedule. Jim tracked down Dr. Warner.
“Is Charlie well enough to travel?”
Dr. Warner’s eyebrows rose. “If necessary, yes.” They would have to consult Gordon, but he wasn’t available yet.
Jim decided he had time to run into town to do a few errands. He grabbed the keys and headed out, his mind on the night before.
She’d called him ‘Hal’.
The Laird had put Ginny in counseling after the incident and resisted any attempt on Jim’s part to find out what happened in those sessions. Ginny, too, had declined to talk about her relationship with Hal, but yesterday he’d gotten a glimpse of it. A condescending, overbearing, chauvinist.
If she could confuse the two of them, even in the heat of battle, he hadn’t been treating her right. She needed a demonstration of his faith in her, his respect for her. And it would cost him, because—whatever he came up with—there was no way he could protect her from the consequences.
* * *
Sunday Morning
Albany, NY
The dry cleaning attendant pulled the leather jacket off the rack, then opened a drawer and fished out a paper envelope.
“Thought you might want this. We found it in the lining. The holes needs patching and we can do it, but you’ll have to leave the jacket here for a week.”
Jim opened the envelope and found a .45 slug, which explained why Charlie hadn’t been able to find the one from the hijacker’s gun. “Thanks! I’ll think about it.”
He opened the car door, and leaned in to hang the jacket on the hook. In this manner he had his back to the shop when it exploded.
The earth shook under him and he lost his balance. When he got to his feet, he looked over, and found the building in flames.
Jim stared at the wreckage, shocked and unsure what had just happened. He closed the door on the SUV, realizing it had deflected part of the blast. The dings in the metal made him wonder if he’d been hit and he explored the backs of his legs. Blood there was, but nothing spurting, and all nerves intact, as near as he could tell. It was hard to examine his own backside.
Jim’s brain suddenly kicked into high gear. There had been an explosion. He’d been caught in it. There might be other casualties.
There were workers from the dry cleaners out front, staring up at the structure in dismay. He approached them, asking if everyone had gotten out safely and getting blank stares. Jim looked them over quickly. None seemed in imminent danger. They would have to be properly triaged, of course. Where were the first responders?
“Has anyone called 9-1-1?”
“They’re on their way.”
“What happened?”
The worker who had spoken shook his head. Jim asked more questions, but that was all he got. They were clearly in shock. He tried to get them to move back and to wrap up against the cold, but all the warm clothing, their own and everyone else’s, was inside the shop. No one had been cold inside so no one was wearing anything warm. The irony was that the shop was putting off so much heat no one was cold.
Jim turned and looked at the structure, watching the flames consume the roof. He knew such places used lots of chemicals. Perhaps one of them had gotten loose and ignited. He glanced around at the employees, wondering if any of them would know, and discovered there were more people in the parking lot than there had been. They were not looking at the fire, wandering instead away from the area, headed for the street.
Jim moved to intercept the first of the wanderers. She had burns down one side of her body, on her arm, her neck and ear, and her hair on that side had been burned off. He looked her over quickly.
“Where did you come from?”
She looked at him, then pointed toward a field behind the shop. Jim sat the woman down, telling her the ambulance was on its way, then headed for the field.
At first glance it looked as if the snow was on fire, but closer examination showed it was actually flaming debris. There were also bodies. Jim looked up and saw the problem.
An elevated mass transit station stood behind the shop. There had been a train in the station. It hung from the platform, cars sliding toward the earth, in flames, or blackened by fires now burning out.
“Dear God!” he whispered.
Jim hurried to the SUV, threw open the back and dug out his medical kit. He tossed his sling onto the seat, pulled on gloves, grabbed dressing supplies and his stethoscope, and headed back into the chaos. He could not help much. He didn’t have any airways, for instance, or drugs, and only one tourniquet.
There were burns, penetrating trauma caused by flying shrapnel, impact injuries from falling or being thrown against hard surfaces, and breathing problems associated with inhaling heated gas.
Jim went from victim to victim, trying to identify anything he could do something about. He tore clothing from the victims to make bandages and shanghaied a number of the less wounded to help control bleeding or hold jaws in place so the victim could breathe.
By this time the police, fire department, and ambulances had begun to arrive. Jim kept working. He was kneeling beside a woman, watching the life leave her eyes, unable to do more than hold her hand as she died, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me. I noticed the stethoscope. Are you a doctor?”
Jim nodded.
“May I speak with you, please?”
Jim nodded again, put the dead woman’s hand down, and climbed to his feet. He followed the official across the field.
“This way, please.” The man looked back at him to make sure he was following. “We’ve set up a command center over here.” He indicated a large square police truck. As they reached the area, a door swung open and an older man got out. He caught site of Jim and frowned. “Is this the man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much of that blood is yours?”
Jim blinked, unsure of the question. “What?”
The older man walked toward him, then around behind, then back to stand in front of him. “You’re covered in blood. How much of it is yours?”
Jim glanced down and realized he was right. His jeans were soaked through and the oversized white camo parka had large patches of red on the sleeves and front.
“I think the backs of my legs may have been hit. I was bleeding when I picked myself up off the ground.”
“You were caught in the blast?”
Jim nodded.
The older man seemed to come to some rapid decisions. “George, take him around back, process him and his clothes. Check him for injuries. Take his statement.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jim found himself hustled into a popup tent that had been set up in the parking lot. It had a sink, space heaters, tables and chairs, and racks filled with supplies. He was quickly stripped and his outer clothes, including his shoes, placed in plastic bags. They also helped him wash his face and hair, which had suffered splashes of human tissue and body fluids.
When he was reasonably clean, but before he was allowed to get dressed, he found himself face to face with a physician who proceeded to look him over.
“Pin pricks and a bit of a first degree burn on the back of your right leg. Where were you when the blast hit?”
Jim explained about being half in and half out of the car at the time. The physician nodded. “I’m told you’re a doctor.”
“ER.”
The other man raised his eyebrows. “That explains a lot. We got a report there was someone on scene, but no one could tell us who or how he got there so fast.” He stripped off the exam gloves and washed his hands. “You know how to keep those wounds clean. I assume you’re up on your tetanus. If you suspect contamination, get some prophylactic penicillin onboard.”
Jim nodded, thinking he was already on exactly that, thanks to the wolf.
The other man stuck out his hand. “Martin Keller.”
Jim shook the offered hand. “Jim Mackenzie.”
“Really quickly, ‘cause I’ve got to get back out there and get to work, tell me what you’ve been doing. Oh, and you can get dressed.” He pointed at a table marked ‘Red Cross Disaster Relief.’
Jim looked over and found piles of socks, shoes, shirts, pants, and sweaters laid out, already sorted by sizes. He picked through the offerings, then settled down in a chair to put them on. While he was doing that, he told Dr. Keller about the victims, summarizing, because he knew the triage teams were already sorting through the casualties.
“Did you mark the ones you thought could be saved?”
“I didn’t have any way to do that, just made sure there was someone with them and told them to yell loudly as soon as an official showed up.”
Dr. Keller nodded. “We need to run your fingerprints and get you to write a statement and do a short form victim chart on you, to cover our little visit here. Then we need for you to chart on the people you saw, as much as you can possibly remember. Every detail matters.”
Jim nodded. “What can I do to help right now?”
“Paperwork.”
Jim made a face. “I’ve seen trauma before. I can help.”
Dr. Keller shook his head. “I’m sure there are people out there whose lives you saved today, but you are officially off the case. You’re a victim, not a responder.”
“But—”
“No buts. Help me out by doing exactly what I need. I’ll send someone in to walk you through it.” With that, he turned and left. A woman entered on his heels, wearing the uniform of an Albany police officer. She produced a digital fingerprint scanner and took Jim’s prints, then set him up with a small computer. Jim settled down and began to compose his victim statement.
The woman was hovering in the background, which made him a bit nervous, but he told himself it was only to be expected. Once they knew he was a licensed physician, even if a volunteer, they could add his name to the reports.
The woman stepped outside and he could hear her talking to someone. He was done with the statement before she returned.
“Dr. Mackenzie?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Keller tells me he asked you to write out a complete report on all the people you came into contact with today.”
Jim nodded.
“I’ve been instructed to take you to the station and set you up with a desk.”
“Can’t I stay here?”
“I’m afraid we need this space. Besides, you’ll be a lot more comfortable indoors.”
Which was true. There was a cold draft coming in under the edge of the tent. “All right, but I’d like to stop by my car first. I have extra shoes in the trunk.”
She hesitated, looking down at his sock-clad feet. “Better let me get them for you. There’s debris all over the ground and anything you might pick up could be evidence.”
Jim nodded, then handed her the keys and told her where to look for his hiking boots. He’d had no need to take them indoors at any of the homesteads since he’d been wearing his sneakers pretty much continuously. He just wished he’d thought to stuff a pair of wool socks in the toes. The cotton ones the Red Cross had supplied were not very thick.
* * *