He squatted, turned Drew’s shoulder, and saw a similar but smaller pumping action in his chest.
He walked, not real steady but fast, toward the kitchenette, tossing the contents of a cupboard until he found a roll of Saran wrap, a spool of duct tape. Ignoring Drew’s groans he forced him to a sitting position, wound the Saran around his chest, flung his arms out of the way, and then reinforced the impermeable barrier with the tape.
Drew’s breathing improved enough for him to try to talk.
“Shut up, save your strength,” Broker said as he reached for the phone on the drawing table. It had just occurred to him that the people down on the street had probably not called the cops.
Broker called 911, identified himself, gave the address, told the call taker he had a man down with a sucking chest and a woman dead on the scene. Broker described the first aid he’d given and said the wounded man was breathing and able to talk.
Then Drew started to topple over, so Broker put down the phone and hunkered with Drew and straightened him up again.
Drew wheezed, “Say. .”
“What?”
“Sane. .”
“Drew, be quiet.”
“Saint. Her. Crazy. Said she killed. . some woman. Take the blame. She had one of those medals.” Drew rallied and forced out a whole sentence, “Broker, she said she killed that guy. .”
Broker was too focused on the immediate demands of the situation to process what Drew was saying. He told Drew to be quiet.
“No, listen; she. .” Then he pitched back against the bookcase and gasped, completely exhausted.
“You rest. Help’s on the way,” Broker said. He propped him upright with a chair so the internal bleeding wouldn’t collapse the lung, wedged him so he wouldn’t fall. Then he went to check on Janey and Laurie.
Janey had scrubbed the blood from Laurie’s face and hair and had swaddled her in the towel. He bent to them, inspecting them for shock. That’s when he saw the medallion around Laurie’s neck. That meant something, but at the moment Broker wasn’t entirely sure what. They were okay. Drew was okay too, if the medics stepped on it.
He put his hand on the porch railing to steady himself, beginning to feel real fuzzy around the edges.
Equally vaguely, he now recognized the dead woman in the bathroom as Annie Mortenson. The librarian. Harry’s ex-girlfriend. He began to feel dizzy. He began to shake.
Funny, out in the winter snow, shock could be a sheet of fire. Now, in this heat, it wrapped him in cold shivers.
Down below he saw people come up the street and gather in a semicircle around the stairway. Several had bottles in their hands; probably they’d just left bar stools. In the distance, bracketed by the first thunderclap of this July, he heard the wolf pack sirens.
Goddamn, he was tired of sirens.
Something soft and cool grazed his face, and at first he thought it was Janey. But then he realized he was feeling the first temperate breeze in weeks. And the sky was darkening, thickening up with real thunderheads.
Broker slouched against the rail and looked for the ambulance. As he waited, he watched one of the oldest scenes in the world: a woman rocking a terrified child in her arms and saying over and over, “It’s all right. It’s all right. Mommy’s here.”
He was looking at Janey and Laurie. He was seeing Nina and Kit. He turned and faced north and west, the direction bad weather came down from North Dakota-where Nina had ditched their kid.
Then he heard the darkness grumble, and down the river valley he saw white veins bulge in a bundle of black clouds. Ten seconds later, he heard the crash of the thunder overhead. When the ambulance screeched to a halt on the street, the big, fat, cool raindrops had already started to scatter down and sizzle on the baked concrete.
Blood dripping from his wounded hand, Broker started down the stairs. A paramedic ran up, yelling, “Where’s the sucking chest?”
“Inside, keep going,” Broker said. He took two more steps and ran into a Stillwater cop whom he recognized but whose name he couldn’t place just now.
“Whoa, hey Broker, you better sit down, man,” the copper said.
“Outa the way, gotta go. Airport,” Broker insisted. He shook his head to clear his vision because the raindrops splashing on his face were making his thoughts all runny. .
“Sit him down; he’s in shock.”
Many hands were on him now, gentle but firm, pushing him down to a sitting position on the stairs. Someone mashed a compress into his palm. Raindrops and blood mingled in the white gauze.
“Airport, goddammit. Gotta get. .”
“No problem,” said a female paramedic in a soothing voice as she worked on his hand.
Broker gathered himself and surged up against the cops and medics.
They were too many. Too strong.
They didn’t understand.
