Part 8 (1/2)
”But-”
”I'll stay out of your way. Let's go.”
She wasn't about to waste time arguing. She hopped into the truck and turned the key waiting in the ignition. The wide truck tires sent gravel spraying in all directions as she made a U-turn in the middle of the street, hung a left at the intersection onto Bourner's Mill Road, and tore out of town, headed east. It was eight o'clock and dark and, when the road pa.s.sed into the woods outside of town, darker still. In the shadowed interior of the pickup's cab, she cast Sam a quick glance.
”You know, this man's going to be in awful shape,” she said.
”I got that idea,” he replied.
”The chopper's probably coming from Ashland, Wisconsin and isn't going to get there for a while. I'm going to be busy until it does.”
”Katie, what's your point?”
She spared him another look to find him staring intently at the road ahead. What was her point? She remembered that seeing someone in pain bothered him, but she also remembered that he moved quickly and confidently when something needed doing fast. He might not know a thing about emergency medicine, but his pilot's training would give him an edge over most people in controlling the urge to panic. The more she thought about it, the more she realized, if she needed help, she couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have with her than Sam.
”I'm sorry the evening got ruined this way,” she answered finally. ”But I'm glad you're here.”
And she was glad. It felt strange, but in a good way, racing off on an emergency with someone riding beside her. The next few hours had the potential for being a nightmare come to life, and no matter how the story ended, it would be nice, for once, not to have to face it all alone.
Sam's heart pounded, the adrenaline pumping through his veins at a furious pace, as he rode beside Katie. It was a jarring ride, and he kept one hand braced on the door and the other along the back of the seat. His respect for Katie's driving grew with each pa.s.sing mile, though it never surpa.s.sed his respect for her composure.
He wondered what it would take for him to feel the way she looked. But then, if she had his problem, would she be so calm? She only had to worry about whether her training, time, and luck would be enough to save the man's life. If they weren't, she'd feel terrible, but she wouldn't be called upon to violate the laws of nature to s.n.a.t.c.h the guy back from the grave. He'd try to get through this without giving himself away. But if he couldn't, well . . . it wouldn't take long to pack his things and leave.
Yet as Katie spun the pickup onto a rutted dirt road, where a wooden sign read WANAGAN CREEK C AMPGROUNDS, Sam had the craziest moment of wis.h.i.+ng that she did know the truth about him. He didn't have any choice in this business, no more than he'd had in California. But maybe, he thought briefly, it would be easier to live with that reality if he didn't always have to go into these situations feeling so d.a.m.ned alone.
Seven.
Kate dropped to her knees in the blood-soaked dirt beside the unconscious man. He was covered with a blanket, his lower body elevated by a board, and in the light cast by the Coleman lantern someone had lit, she quickly observed her patient's cold, white skin and his shallow, rapid breathing. His pulse was barely palpable, and she didn't have to take his blood pressure to know it was dangerously low. He was in shock from loss of blood, close to death.
Clenching her jaw in rebellion against the voice that said she was too late, she did a quick check of the man's upper body, noting abrasions and bruises, none of which were life-threatening, before turning to focus on the one wound that was. Across from her, Bob Bradley swore, his hands slipping on ragged flesh as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from the man's left thigh.
”He was on his face,” Bob rasped. ”I turned him over and tried to get the dirt out of his nose. But I can 't stop the bleeding!”
”Lift his leg,” Kate said, her steady voice giving away none of her anxiety.
Bob complied as she opened the lid of her emergency kit and grabbed her last pair of surgical gloves and a bandage that would serve as a tourniquet. Pulling on the gloves with a practiced snap, she slipped the strip of cloth under the injured man's thigh, securing the tourniquet in seconds flat. Then, with a sinking feeling, she reached for the only bag of IV solution she had- 250 cc of Ringer's. It wouldn't be nearly enough. Yet if she thought now about her frustrations over getting medical supplies, she'd go nuts. So she set up the IV, telling herself it would have to do.
The man's s.h.i.+rt, like his jeans, was in tatters, and it was easy to rip off the sleeve, but when she tried to find a vein for the IV needle, she was hindered by the growing darkness. She started to call for more light, but the sudden brightness of a high-power flashlight beam, focused directly on her patient's arm, made the request unnecessary.
Kate looked and saw Sam, crouched next to Bob, holding the flashlight for her. Offering a quick thanks, she finished setting up the IV, then, with a wad of gauze bandages in hand, turned to have a closer look at the leg wound. What she saw, after she'd mopped up the pooled blood, made her stomach lurch.
”Oh, my G.o.d,” Bob muttered, then quickly turned away.
The chunk of flesh the bear had ripped from its victim's leg went down to the bone. He wasn't a big man-probably five foot seven or eight and less than a hundred and sixty pounds-and he'd already lost a tremendous amount of blood.
With a worried glance at her patient's pale face, Kate's gaze dropped to his chest as she picked up his wrist to check his pulse. She had done all she could do, and it wasn't working. He was getting worse.
”What's the ETA on the chopper?” she asked.
The man standing behind her answered. ”Thirty minutes. I've got a CB in my truck, and I checked the time just before you got here.”
”Are you this man's friend?”
”Yes. I'm Jeff Lindstrom. His name's Ray c.o.o.ney. We're up from Chicago on a fis.h.i.+ng trip. Is he . . . ? Well, should I call his wife?”
She held c.o.o.ney's wrist with one hand as her other moved in an unconsciously soothing gesture across the blanket that covered his chest. ”You'll have to fly with him to Marquette,” she replied. ”You can call her from there.” And pray it isn't to tell her that her husband's dead. But with every pa.s.sing second, she grew more certain it would be.
Time. She needed more time. She needed an emergency room ten minutes away. She needed an ambulance that didn't take an hour to arrive on the scene. She needed more Ringer's, because the 250 cc was almost gone. And what she needed most was a miracle.
”Kate, I've got to set up flares in the meadow for the chopper.”
She acknowledged Bob's statement with a nod, then, with a glance at Lindstrom, said, ”Could you try to get an update on the chopper? Maybe you could hurry them along.”
Looking grateful for something to do, Lindstrom took off toward the pickup parked on the far side of the clearing. That left Sam, kneeling across from her, the dying man between them.
His voice was low and rough. ”Katie, is this guy going to make it?”
”Not if the chopper doesn't get here in the next five minutes with more Ringer's,” she muttered. ”He's in severe shock and-”
”Move your hand a little.”
”-he's barely- What?”
She broke off when Sam reached out to nudge her hand holding the blood-drenched gauze away from the tourniquet. Flicking the gauze aside, he placed his own hand directly over the gaping leg wound, while his other hand rested on the unconscious man's chest. Then, with a long, shuddering sigh, he closed his eyes, and his head dropped forward.
At first, his actions merely baffled her. Then she wondered, somewhat doubtfully, if he could be praying. But when he lifted his head and she saw the expression on his face, her thought was not that he was praying but that he was fighting the devil himself. He was covered with sweat, and the sharp angles of his features were drawn in lines of pain.
Casting a quick glance around to see that Lindstrom was still in his truck, fifty yards away, and that no one was witnessing this bizarre scene, she whispered, ”What on earth are you doing?”
”Watch,” Sam whispered back. ”Just keep acting busy and . . . watch.”
Her mouth dropped open. ”Sam, what are you talking about? You can't-”
”Shh. Quiet.”
She might have gotten angry then, but at that moment his face contorted in a grimace of agony, and he threw his head back, his breath rus.h.i.+ng out in a hoa.r.s.e groan.
”Katie, it's okay,” he rasped. ”You'll see . . . I can't- I've got to-”
”I'll see what?” she demanded, her voice breaking with panic. It was bad enough that she was facing the loss of a patient. It was more than she could handle to discover that Sam had lost his mind.
Reaching out, she grabbed his hand to pull it off the wound, but the instant she touched him, she jerked back, gasping. His skin was hot-burning hot.
”Katie . . .” His whisper was barely audible. ”Trust me. It's going to be all right now.”