Closure (Jack Randall) (49 page)

“How did he know when he was going to be at the station? I mean they have trains coming and going all the time? We ran the credit cards we found and there aren’t any multiple purchases on the same number. The computer at the station isn’t showing any buys like that for tonight either. I’m at a loss.”

Jack paced the floor with the officer watching. It helped him think. He didn’t want to know how Eric had gotten access to a major transportation hub’s computer.

“Syd, what train leaves the most? I mean, what comes and goes very regular?”

“Hold on.” He heard her repeat the question to Eric and he tapped his wet feet while he waited.

“Looks like the shuttle to Dulles and the New York shuttle. Eric says you can buy a multi-pass for either one.”

“He wouldn’t go to Dulles . . . I’ll call you back.” Jack hung up and spun around to face the cop. He had been joined by a station security officer.

“The ramp to the New York shuttle?”

The man raised his arm and pointed. “Leaving in about four minutes.”

“You’re with me, both of you.” Jack turned and sprinted for the indicated ramp. The overweight cops struggled to keep up.

The state of Washington holds 16,148 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 10,819 are repeat offenders.

—FORTY-SEVEN—

“D
amn it, why does he do that!” Sydney stared at the dead phone in her hand. “I swear I’m going to kill him if his buddy doesn’t first!”

“Calm down, Sydney, Jack’s a busy man right now,” Larry spoke from across the table.

She looked at him and immediately felt embarrassed for her outburst. Larry was often her voice of reason. “I know. I just hate it when he does that.”

“Best we can do is work on helping him. Let’s call Greg and get him updated. DC police, too. Eric, you have anything more?”

“Negative, but I only have a few files left to crack. Soon we’ll have seen everything.” Eric rubbed his eyes and cracked his knuckles before returning to the keyboard.

“I’ll tell them, you take a break,” Larry said as he headed for the stairs. The list of trains was in his hand, written in his own shorthand.

“Just sitting by the phone, feels like prom night,” Sydney groused.

•      •      •

Sam, too, was waiting. He had found a comfortable position with his back to a post where he could see the entrance stairs at one end of the ramp, and the gate leading onto the tracks on the other. He didn’t like his position. The gate only led to the tracks that then led to the surface. The stairs would be the most likely approach of anyone pursuing him. No doubt the entrances to the station were all guarded by now. The streets would be crawling with cops. The airports were out of the question. He needed the train and he needed it soon.

He casually swung the empty briefcase against his leg, and held the folded paper up as he pretended to read it. Blend in, he told himself. Resist the urge to watch the entrance. Just give it a glance once in a while. Be ready to move when the train gets here. Get a spot standing near the door. Be ready to exit as soon as you clear the DC area, he coached himself as he waited.

The pain came back without warning, nearly doubling him over. He fought it hard, but the cramping was like it hadn’t ever been. He used the pole for support and held on, determined not to call attention to himself. He felt the sweat break out on his face and his skin go clammy. He forced some deep measured breaths. After a full minute, the pain subsided enough for him to stand upright. He glanced at his fellow commuters, but everyone was too engrossed in their own little life on the ramp to have noticed. He reached in the pocket of the coat and retrieved the pills. Palming one, he tossed it back and managed to get it down without water. Some further breathing and the pain became tolerable, but didn’t fully leave. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket containing the gun, careful not to snag the hammer and pull it free, also. The sweat was mopped from his forehead, and the glasses, which did nothing to correct his vision, were also cleaned before being placed back on his nose.

He had just adjusted the glasses on his nose when he caught some activity on the entrance stairs. An officer slowed to a walk as he reached the bottom. He began scanning faces as he walked toward Sam. Sam estimated only a minute or so before he got to him. The paper came back up to his face, and he watched over the top as the cop stopped and asked a young man a few questions. He referred the man to the picture in his hand. The man just shrugged and shook his head. Sam was so engrossed in watching the cop working his way closer, he failed to see Jack walk down the steps. He finally spotted him when he stopped halfway down and began scanning the crowded ramp. The sound of his train approaching could be heard. The one on the opposite side opened its doors and the population of the ramp began to decrease. Sam struggled to keep track of both the cop and Jack’s scanning gaze.

It was only a matter of time.

•      •      •

The needle struck the edge of the clavicle as intended, before Ron guided it around. As he worked it deeper, he was careful to maintain the proper angle and began applying negative pressure to the syringe. It made for an awkward hand position, but it was the tried and true method for placing a central line in the field. As the needle passed the two-inch mark, Ron felt a moment of resistance followed by a flash of dark blood in the syringe. He immediately froze his hands, and advanced his index finger, sliding the catheter over the needle and into the Senator’s right subclavian vein. When the catheter hub touched the skin, he pulled the needle from the catheter and placed his thumb, coated with Betadine, over the opening.

“Janice, hand me that tubing.” Ron pointed with his chin.

Janice quickly snapped out of her awe at what she had just seen and grabbed the IV tubing from the senator’s chest. Ron took it in his right hand and pulled the blue cover off with his teeth. As fast as he could, he uncovered the catheter and attached the tubing. The object was to get as little air as possible in the line. The man didn’t need an air embolism on top of his gunshot wound.

Ron looked at the tape strips he had stuck to the cot, but the movement of the ambulance had stuck them all down. He made a face. Stan saw the problem. With one hand still bagging, he reached into the IV kit and grabbed a fresh roll. He saw Ron had tabbed the end out of habit. Getting the first piece off was a bitch with gloves on. You needed your fingernails. He handed the roll to Janice.

“Three pieces, about four inches long,” he instructed. “That was very nice, Ron, I’m impressed,” he added.

Ron watched the drip rate. Just short of a steady stream, it was just what he wanted.

“Thanks, just wish I had some O-neg to give him.”

“They can hang it soon as we get there now.”

Janice was busily taped the lines down where Ron indicated. She noticed him checking the drip chamber with every strip. She was learning. He must be checking that it doesn’t kink, she thought. But he had just stuck a
sword
in this guy’s chest, and the chief thinks that’s a good thing? She would have to ask later.

“Still hard to bag, Ron,” the chief prompted.

“I’m on it,” he replied, pulling his stethoscope from his neck and twisting it around so it was in his ears correctly. He placed the bell over the left chest. The bubbling was much more diminished from what he had heard earlier. He cocked his head to check the depth of the breathing tube. Twenty-three centimeters—should be perfect. The man’s lung was collapsing. There was air, blood, or both, in the chest cavity and he had to release the pressure building up on the lung so it could expand. He pulled the scope from his ears and looked for the 14-gauge catheters he had discarded earlier. He found them on the cot between the man’s arm and his body. He opened two and laid them back on the chest. As he turned to dig in his IV kit again, he heard the beat of the monitor skip. There was no bump in the road to coincide with it.

“Better hurry,” Stan urged.

“It’s coming. Janice, I need you to move to the other side.” She quickly grabbed the overhead rail with both hands and stepped over the senator. A sudden lurch to the side threw her into the seat. Her head struck the padded edge of the cabinet. She felt the welt start over her eye.

“Y’all right?” Stan questioned.

“Yeah, I’ll live.”

“They pad em for a reason. Grab this bag for a second, one every three. We’ll check your head later.”

She grasped the bag in both hands and gave it a squeeze. She just naturally watched the man’s chest, and was surprised when only the right half rose. It startled her so much she almost stopped bagging. She noted the chief placing the wastebasket from the door bracket between the cot and the bench. The medic was pulling out another one of those swords. This one was a little shorter, but bigger, and still intimidating.

Ron pawed through the inventory in the kit until he located a three-way stopcock. He made sure it was closed and ready to fix to the end of the catheter. This time, he remembered to speak before he stuck the Betadine swab in his mouth.

“Let’s dance again,” he instructed Stan.

They both rose and switched places. Stan retrieved the bag from Janice and resumed the pace. The monitor began beeping more irregularly, as if urging them on by itself.

Ron straddled the trash can and placed it between his knees, holding it up to the left side of the chest. He paused to zip up his jacket. He pulled the man’s left arm up and over his head where Stan held it with a forearm. With Janice watching, his fingers probed the man’s ribs until he found what he wanted. Ron ripped open the swab with his teeth, this time getting a taste which he spit out. Janice leaned in to see what he was going to do.

“Don’t lean in,” Ron warned. “This might be messy.”

Before she could get all the way back, Ron stabbed the needle straight in just over the fifth rib. He felt the pop as he punched through the chest wall. The catheter flashed red. Holding it with a thumb and finger he removed the needle. A jet of air and blood shot out and coated the wall of the wastebasket. Its force was enough to splash out and onto the front of Ron’s jacket. The jet slowly reduced to a trickle, at which point Ron attached the valve.

“Better,” Stan reported after squeezing the bag.

Ron nodded as he listened to the chest again. Still sounded like crap, but at least the pressure was off the lung and major vessels. He pulled the stethoscope away in time to hear Danielle cussing the traffic in front of her. This was followed by the brakes and a couple of swerves, punctuated by the air horn.

“Time, Danny?” Ron yelled.

“About ten!” she replied.

“Too damn long,” Ron complained. “Push that button marked NIBP on the bottom left of the screen for me,” he instructed Janice. She searched the face of the heart monitor until she found it. The machine began pumping air into the blood pressure cuff again. Ron doubted that he’d get an accurate reading with all the bumps they were hitting, but he had to try. He couldn’t feel a pulse at the wrist. Ron stripped off his second set of bloody gloves and pulled on a third. He then reached around Stan for the radio. Flipping it on, he dialed in the proper frequency for the hospital emergency room. He looked at the IV bag. 700cc’s in and no radial pulses. Heartbeat was getting erratic. Oxygen saturation was still low. A pressure reading popped up on the screen: 76/42. The man was bleeding out somewhere internally.

“Stan, talk her through another bag of ringers, and this time use the infuser.”

He keyed the mic as Stan began instructing Janice with his teaching voice.

“George Washington-Medic 11.”

•      •      •

The train pulled into the station with the customary rush of wind and squeal of the brakes. It stopped just slightly off of the loading positions marked in yellow on the concrete. People gathered their belongings all around him and began gravitating toward the doors. The crowd thinned. Sam stood his ground and watched Jack. He was slowly scanning faces, but he was quite some distance away. As the number of people between them thinned, Sam began to move toward the doors. He hovered on the edge of the gaggle of commuters slowly boarding. There was no way around them without calling attention to himself, so he waited patiently, dividing his attention between Jack and the strolling security officer. The bell sounded, indicating one minute to departure. He turned the collar of his coat up and pushed the glasses up his nose. The train on the opposite side of the ramp began moving. The security man scanned the windows as it rushed past in a vain attempt to see the departing faces. When it was gone, he turned his attention to the crowds boarding Sam’s train. Thirty seconds. Most of the people were boarded. The ramp was almost empty. The doors started to close on the woman in front of him and he automatically stuck out an arm to stop them. As the woman boarded, he straightened up and turned his head slightly to check on Jack.

•      •      •

Jack forced himself to calm down, even though his heart was beating fast from the run to the ramp. He noticed the security guard was no longer with him. He wasn’t surprised. Judging by the man’s gut, he hadn’t run anywhere in some time. He glanced up at the overhead signs and verified he had the right ramp. Aside from a few support pillars, he had an unobstructed view. The crowd was thick when he had arrived, but was now thinning quickly as the commuters boarded the two trains. The one on his right was the New York shuttle. He concentrated his scan on that side, wishing he could tell the security man to do the same, but they had no communication. The one minute bell sounded.