| |
GEMSON BREATHED IRREGULARLY, but he was breathing. He had grabbed my wrist and then passed out. I examined his wound. He’d been shot in the head, but it turned out to be just a graze—deep but not fatal. He was lucky the Mexican guy hadn’t double-tapped him.
Careless, but lucky for Gemson.
Blood loss was a different story. He had lost a lot of blood. I couldn’t tell how much, but his skin color had faded. He wasn’t quite blue like a corpse but wasn’t far from it.
Most police cruisers were equipped with a first aid kit in the trunk, so I popped the trunk and scrambled back to it. I looked inside and found the kit. It was a small green case with a white cross on the lid. I grabbed it and closed the trunk. Then I returned to Gemson and opened the case. I pulled out a long strand of gauze and medical tape. I wrapped his head several times—tight. Then I taped it off. I tilted his head to one side. Gravity should slow the bleeding.
I grabbed the radio, clicked the button, and put the receiver to my mouth.
Pressing down on the call button, I asked, “Is anyone out there? Officer in need of urgent medical assistance!”
I released the button and waited. Listened hard. Static, and then I said, “Respond!”
Static again.
I said, “Respond! Officer down!”
No response. Gemson was on his own tonight.
I thought maybe if he needed backup, he was supposed to call for it on his cell phone. I dug through his pockets and found his phone and searched through his contact list. I found Grady’s information, hit the call button, and waited. Dial tone and then a ring. Two rings in and the sheriff answered. He was groggy. Probably asleep.
He said, “It’s late. This had better be an emergency.”
“Gemson has been shot.”
Silence on the other end.
Grady asked, “Who is this?”
I said, “You need to come! He’s dying! He’s been shot!”
Grady asked, “Widow? How’d you get out of your cell?”
I said, “There’s no time! He’s been shot in the head. He’s lost a lot of blood. Get over here! Now!”
Then there was silence on the line. I imagine that Grady’s brain was still half asleep and trying to process the information.
He said, “Take him to the clinic. It’s only two blocks south of the station. I’ll be there.”
He hung up.
I looked around then looked at the car keys hanging in the ignition of Gemson’s cruiser.
I could’ve left him in the clinic parking lot and driven away. I could’ve been miles away in their police car before I’d have to dump it. Under the cover of darkness, I might’ve passed the state line. I could’ve driven straight north and crossed over into Tennessee. The state had a lot of back roads — plenty of places to dump a car. I could’ve been back on the road and leaving this nightmare behind, but a voice in my head said, You must do the right thing.
It echoed over and over like some kind of predetermined destiny, some kind of instinctual voice set deep in my bones, something that had started with my ancestors and cursed my line for all time.
I looked down at Gemson’s dying body in my arms, and then I reached across him and slammed the passenger door closed. I turned the key and fired up the car and hit the gas. I was there in seconds. Seven of them to be precise.