And then Cliff Skeete starts yammering into his microphone.
“This is the Skeeter with a live WAVY news update. Officers John Ceepak and Danny Boyle, two of Sea Haven’s finest, are currently on the scene administering CPR to Mrs. O’Malley.”
“Danny?” This from Ceepak who doesn’t even look up from his chest compressions.
“Cliff?” I slice my hand across my neck, give my buddy the cut sign.
“And now back to more sizzling sounds of the Jersey shore. Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes. ‘I Don’t Want To Go Home.’”
I do. But I’m busy staring at my wrist, timing Ceepak’s CPR. “One minute!”
Ceepak goes back to the yellow box. “Reanalyzing cardiac status.”
He doesn’t bother to report what the LED on the AED unit says.
He simply swings back to Mrs. O’Malley’s chest, starts thumping it again. Off in the distance, I can hear the approaching whoop-whoop of a siren. The rescue squad ambulance. The whoop-whoop is shattered by the blast of an air horn. The fire department.
All the first responders are racing to the scene.
But it’s too late.
Mrs. O’Malley’s brain isn’t sending signals of any kind to her heart any more. It isn’t beating.
We ran up here as fast as we could.
But it took us too long to reach her.
Ceepak keeps pounding on Mrs. O’Malley’s chest.
“Dammit,” he mutters.
He has to keep administering CPR until the paramedics or a doctor shows up. Those are the rules.
But I can tell we’re not winning any life-saving merit badges today.
4
A team of paramedics climbs up the telescoping ladder off the back of a fire truck.
They administer some drugs to see if they can get Mrs. O’Malley’s heart to quiver a little, stimulate some kind of shockable rhythm.
It doesn’t work.
One of the guys takes over for Ceepak. The other one radios the hospital.
The doctor at the other end calls it.
Mrs. O’Malley is officially dead.
The paramedics climb back down the steep aluminum ladder to the fire engine below.
We don’t want the civilians trying to do that, so Ceepak and I will stay up here with the stranded roller coaster train until it starts rolling again.
This is what I’m thinking as Mr. O’Malley, with Ceepak’s assistance, slowly climbs back into the first roller coaster car so he can cradle his dead wife’s head in his lap.
They should’ve let the damn train keep going till it reached the end of the line. It would’ve saved us five minutes.
It could’ve saved Mrs. O’Malley’s life.
“Mommy’s dead?” This from Mary O’Malley, squirming in the first row of the second car. She’s the oldest of the five O’Malley children, maybe thirty-five, but she sounds like she’s six.
I nod because I’m closer to her than Ceepak. “Yeah.”
Believe it or not, Mary giggles.
“What are you gonna do now, Momma’s Boy?” she leans forward to tease Skip in the car in front of hers.
Skip glares over his shoulder. Hard. I see tears in his eyes.
“She didn’t want to ride this stupid ride! Kevin made her!”
“Shut up, Skippy,” says big brother.
“She was afraid of roller coasters.”
“I said shut up.”
Skippy sniffles. Poor guy. He has a hard time hiding his emotions. Doesn’t make you prime police cadet material, something I know Skippy still wanted to do, even though his summer as an auxiliary cop didn’t end with a job offer. Friends tell me he signed up for one of the New Jersey police academies, paid his own tuition. I guess that didn’t pan out, either. He never graduated. Still works at his dad’s miniature golf course.
“Momma’s Boy, Momma’s Boy!”
“Okay, you guys,” I say as I work my way up the walkboard. I need to be closer to Mary, who’s rocking back and forth in her seat. A side effect of her meds, I’m guessing. “We should probably lower those safety bars.”
“Good idea,” says Mayor Hugh Sinclair, who’s seated beside Cliff Skeete in the second row of car number two. They lower their safety bar. So does just about everybody else. I hear the crickety-clink-clicks all around me.
Except in Mary’s row.
“What can I tell ya, Danny Boy?” says her snotty brother Sean seated beside her. “Me and Mare be lunchin’, livin’ on the edge.” From six feet away, I can smell his breath. It reeks of booze. And it’s ten o’clock in the morning.
“Lower your damn safety bar, Sean!” This from Kevin O’Malley. He’s the oldest boy. Sean’s the youngest.
“Yo, bizzle. Chill.”
“Lower it!”
Meanwhile, up front, Mr. O’Malley is still sobbing and stroking his dead wife’s hair.
“Officer?” Uh-oh. The mayor. Talking to me.
“Yes, sir?” I say.
“Is it possible for us to ride this thing down to the finish line? Now?”
“Hang tight,” I say. “We’re working on getting everybody down safely.”
“For rizzle?” says Sean, who, I’m remembering, is a major-league butt wipe. “From over here it looks like you popos be doing shiznit.” He pulls out his cell phone. Starts thumb-texting someone.
I turn to face Ceepak who has climbed off the track and is back up on the narrow-gauge walkboard.
“What’s our play?” I ask.
And that’s when I hear Mary stumble up and out of the roller coaster.
“Whoa!” says her drunken brother as their car rocks like a canoe.
“I’m a little birdy,” says Mary, flapping her arms.
She’s teetering on the walkboard. Three feet in front of me. Fifty feet above the pier below.
“Danny?” This from Ceepak. Behind me.
“Give me your hand, Mary.”
“I’m a little birdy.” More arm flaps.
“Mary?” Mr. O’Malley shouts. “Sit down! Now!”
“Sit,” echoes Kevin.
She doesn’t. She skips backward. Doesn’t hold on to the handrail. She’s too busy fluttering her arms up and down.
“Okay, Mary,” I say with a smile. “Time to fly back to the nest.”
We’re about four cars up the coaster now. Everybody who isn’t staring at crazy Mary is staring at me, the crazy cop about to plummet with her off a rickety track propped up by knotty pine chopsticks.
We clear the train completely. Keep climbing up the steep incline.
I glance over my shoulder.
Ceepak is maybe twenty yards away, now. He needs to stay with the others. Stop anybody else from going for a stroll. I glance down at the fire truck. Fortunately, they’re not sending up the ladder again because it would
