I hear a groan – more of a rattle – that I think is coming from Serrano, but when I go to check that he is still unconscious I hear the groan again.
Jackson!
I run to him, face down on the rock, and roll him over onto his side. His face is covered with blood and he is scarcely breathing. But he is alive.
“Oh Jackson, oh Jackson, oh Jackson,” my relief at his being alive is tempered by the realisation that I need to do something to make sure he stays that way. I can barely talk through sudden and violent tears. “Hang in there Jackson.” I manage. “Hang in there.”
Somehow, I manhandle him to the front of the van and lie him down across the seat. I climb in after him and put his head in my lap. I can feel his breath on my leg and it feels very weak, and getting weaker as I put the van into drive and take off from that awful place.
I have no idea where I am, and I don’t have a phone. Fortunately, the van has a GPS built into the dash. I hit the navigate button and type in ‘hospital’.
The closest is in Palm Springs, and is only about half an hour away, although the navigation unit seems very confused by my current location. I don’t blame it. I am very confused by my current location.
The drive through the desert at night is terrifying. The Joshua trees that seemed so friendly before now seem to leap out at me. Rocks crop up suddenly out of nowhere, many large enough to disable the van should I drive onto one.
Eventually I find a road and follow the GPS directions towards Palm Springs, glad to be driving on smooth asphalt, rather than the undulating, boulder-studded rock of the desert.
The hospital is big and brightly lit. Large signs direct me to the emergency bays where two or three ambulances are parked, nose out. I don’t bother with that. I park haphazardly across two of the bays and run inside, yelling for a doctor.
I don’t know where they have taken Jackson. I just know that wherever it is, it is his best chance of survival. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, whether he got shot, or like me, run down by a car. I pray he will be okay. I should never have dragged him into this.
I am sitting in a wheelchair in the emergency department beside a table with a pot plant. Some kind of fern that is desperately under-watered, pale and floppy. It looks how I feel.
I don’t understand the need for the wheelchair. I can walk fine. A doctor has seen me and a stout but friendly nurse has treated some minor cuts and abrasions. But they insist I stay in the chair and every time I try to get up, an elderly black orderly scowls at me until I sit back down.
The police are on their way. I refused to give a name for me or Jackson and from the nature of our injuries the hospital staff are very suspicious about what has happened to us.
They’ve a right to be.
I am in two minds. Staying here and getting a proper examination sounds like a good idea. All of my body hurts, and I am sure that next time I undress I am going to see some pretty nasty colours all over my skin.
But my experience of the police has not been a good one over the last few days and I know there is an outstanding arrest warrant – or there was. I feel I would be better off disappearing. I also feel I need to ring D’Tox and tell him about Jackson.
I have Jackson’s phone. One of the paramedics found it in his pocket as they were bringing him in and handed it to me. Thoughtful of her. Wish I’d thought to look for it earlier.
I bring it out now, despite glares from the elderly orderly, and find D’Tox’s number.
He answers after an interminable number of rings. Maybe he does sleep after all.
“Yes, what?” is his greeting. He’s seen the number and thinks I’m Jackson.
“It’s Cassie,” I say.
“Hi Cassie,” D’Tox says cautiously.
“Look, I know you guys broke up,” I say.
“Oh sure now he tells you,” D’Tox says. “Now he’s not ashamed of me.”
I don’t want to get into that conversation. I just say, “He’s in hospital.”
The change in D’Tox’s tone is sudden.
“What hospital? Why?”
“In Palm Springs,” I say, and give him the address. “He’s been hit by a car and I think he’s been shot in the head.”
“Jesus H Christ!” D’Tox explodes. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Just get down here.”
I hang up. I don’t want to hang around.
“Miss Clark.”
I freeze. I haven’t given anybody here my name. I turn slowly to see the man who wasn’t there. The grey-haired, military-looking man. He wasn’t there at the campus café and he wasn’t there at the Phoenix airport. But he is here now.
He places his hand on my arm and I feel a little sting.
I try to open my mouth, to call out, but my voice is no longer working. I try to raise an arm but it no longer seems to respond to my command. There is a greyness affecting my vision, seeping in from the outside, turning everything from colour to black and white, like an old TV, and then it all fades slowly to black.