Boston suburbs—forty-five minutes later
Jenkins stared at the phone in disbelief. “Why was he there?”
“Someone was robbed at the ATM. We went over to help.”
“What hospital?”
“Boston Med.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Jenkins hit the Disconnect button and slumped back from the console. The van seemed to have shrunk in half, everything closing in.
“What’s going on?” asked Robinson.
“Johnny was just run over by a truck and a cop car. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
“What?”
“We’re closing down for the night. Shit.” He spun the phone in his hand, still in disbelief. Finally he clicked the map program up and queried the location of the hospital.
The Trauma Center and Emergency Department at Boston Medical Center was one of the finest Level I trauma centers in the world; the acute-care facility was studied as a model throughout the Northeast. It was a place where miracles occurred. But there were some things that no hospital, no doctor, could do, no matter how skilled, and the face of the first surgeon Jenkins met told him that saving Johnny Givens’s life very well might be one of them.
“We’re talking very severe injuries,” said the doctor. “It’s touch and go.”
Jenkins bit his lip so hard he could taste blood in his mouth.
It was better than the bile that had been rising from his stomach, and far less painful than the mental anguish turning every thought red. Against all logic, he felt responsible.
He’d never lost a man, not at the FBI, nor the two police departments he’d worked at before joining the Bureau.
God!
“I need to see him,” he told the doctor.
“Heavily sedated, but come on.”
The physician led him down the hall, past a computer station where patients were tracked. Spare equipment lined the walls below a large clock that ticked off seconds with a staccato beat. About halfway down the hall, they entered a room crowded with doctors, nurses, and other aides, all focused on a man who looked agonizingly small. Wires and tubes rose up from him, connecting to machines and displays that blinked with analytic precision, a sharp contrast to the hushed whispers of the people staring at the injured man.
“No—you’re going to have to get out,” said one of the doctors through her mask.
“I’m his boss,” stuttered Jenkins. “FBI.”
“I’m sorry. We’re doing what we can. Please.”
The surgeon who had led him in apologized and put his hand on Jenkins’s arm.
“We’re doing our best. His legs are gone.”
“His legs?”
“Completely crushed. His spine, his lungs—I don’t know that we’ll save him.”
Jenkins let himself be led out of the room. The voices seemed to get louder once he was in the hall.
“There was a woman with him,” said the surgeon. “She’s in that room over there.”
Chelsea Goodman was sitting in a chair next to an empty bed, her cell phone in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other.
“How is he?” she asked, looking up.
“I—I don’t . . .”
“I’m so sorry. I saw—”
She stopped. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Jenkins wanted to comfort her but had no idea what to say.
“Maybe we should pray,” he told her finally.
“OK. Tell me what to say.”