One Was a Soldier

her way to the edge of the track. She could see them now, one kid, then another, then another, popping out of the forest trail and pelting down the grassy slope toward the cinder track. The sight of the end must have juiced them, because she swore she could see them pick up speed. A kid in Millers Kill colors pulled even with and then ahead of the front-runner, a lanky boy from Argyle Central. The crowd was screaming, she was screaming, and she saw it was Jake McCrea and she screamed even louder.

Then Jake glanced behind him, looking for the kid in maroon and white, and that was all it took. His leading foot slipped in the grass, skidded, and he flipped, tumbled, head, shoulders, tailbone, through the air, landing with a thud Hadley could swear she heard from where she stood.

The crowd’s scream became a collective indrawn breath. The other runners kept on course, racing past Jake toward the finish, but Hadley lost sight of them as she waited, two seconds, four, six, for Jake to get up and run or walk to the edge of the field. He did neither.

“Shit.” She ducked beneath the tape.

“Lady,” someone yelled. “Hey, lady, you can’t go out there!”

She pulled her badge out of her back pocket and flashed it toward the voice without stopping. She wasn’t the only noncontestant on the field now-Flynn was running toward Jake, and a woman weighed down with clipboard, walkie-talkie, and stopwatches, followed by a graying man she recognized as the Millers Kill coach. She and Flynn reached the boy first.

“Jake. Hey, buddy, how are you doing?” Flynn knelt next to Jake and pressed his fingers to the side of the boy’s neck.

“My chest hurts.” Jake was pale and sweaty, but his pupils were normal, symmetrical, and he tracked Flynn’s finger from left to right and back again without a problem. “Maybe I just-” The boy curled up into a sitting position and gasped. Hadley took his hand and let him squeeze it until her knuckles cracked.

“Where does it hurt?” Flynn gently touched Jake’s rib cage, first one side, then the other. “Here?”

Jake shook his head then winced. “Higher.”

Hadley looked at Flynn. “Collarbone.”

Flynn laid four fingers over the boy’s collarbone. Jake yelped. “That’s it.” Flynn looked at Hadley. “I can already feel it swelling up.”

“I broke my collarbone at the first meet of the season? Oh, God, that’s so lame.”

“No way, dude.” Flynn smiled brilliantly at the boy. “You’re a wounded warrior. The chicks are going to be falling all over themselves to help you in the lunch line, carry your books. You wait and see.”

“Should I call an ambulance?” Coach Bain asked.

“Quicker if we take him in my vehicle,” Flynn said.

“The division regs state any injured child should be transported professionally unless released into the care of a parent or guardian,” the timekeeper said.

“We are professional.” With her free hand, Hadley flapped her badge at the woman. “Officer Flynn’s car is equipped with a light bar, siren, and emergency service radio. I’ll ride along.”

“Oh. Oh. Well, in that case…”

“I’m sorry, Coach.” Jake blinked fast and hard as Hadley and Flynn helped him to his feet. “I’m really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have looked back. I knew it, and I did it anyway.”

“You did great out there,” Coach Bain assured him. “You ran a great race. You go with Kevin and Mrs. Knox-I’m sorry, with Officer Knox-and after this little ding heals up, we’ll see about you breaking some records for the indoor track season. Kevin, I’m going to grab his medical authorization out of my truck. I’ll meet you at your car with it.” Coach Bain strode off, the track official double-stepping to keep up with him.

“Here.” Flynn stripped off his T-shirt, pulled the neck over Jake’s head, and ran the body of it under and over Jake’s arm. He tied some sort of three-way knot with the hem and the sleeves and presto, Jake’s arm was snug against his chest in an all-cotton sling. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God,” Hadley said, “You really were an Eagle Scout.”

“Yeah.” Flynn looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

Then she saw the other tattoo. A second, smaller Celtic knot, this one circling his left nipple. “Jesus, Flynn.” Even with the injured boy standing between them, she felt a jolt low in her belly at the sight. It was… erotic. Not what she wanted to be feeling around Kevin Flynn. “If the chief sees that, you’ll be pulling the dog shift for the rest of your natural life.”

He grinned. “Good thing I’m not planning on stripping down for the chief, then, isn’t it?”

In Flynn’s car, away from the other kids, Jake let himself lean against Hadley and shut his eyes. While Flynn turned on his lights and began the drive back to Millers Kill, she tried to reach Jennifer McCrea. She left a detailed voice mail at Jennifer’s home and cell numbers, and when she had clicked off, she said, “I’m sure she’ll get the message soon, and your dad will be on his way. The dispatcher will tell him what happened.”

Jake bit his lip. “He’ll be mad.”

“No, honey, he won’t. It wasn’t your fault you broke your collarbone, and even if it was, he wouldn’t be mad at you.”

He blinked again. “It hurts.”

“I know it does, honey.” She glanced out the window. “We’ll be there in five minutes. I promise you, I’ll stay with you until your mom gets there, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kevin parked in the MKPD spot outside emergency and they both helped ease Jake out of the car. The boy looked pinched and scared and about nine years old. Hadley tried his mother’s numbers again while Kevin checked him in at the admission desk.

The ER nurse let Hadley wait outside the blue curtained area while he helped Jake change. Hadley stood at his bedside while the resident cheerfully agreed that yep, it sure looked like a broken collarbone to her. They ice- bagged the spot, now purple and swollen, and started an IV, which left Jake groggy.

“We need him for fifteen minutes in radiology,” the resident said. “Then the orthopedist will be in to talk with you.” She glanced at Jake’s chart. “You’re not the mom?”

“We’re trying to get hold of her.” Hadley squeezed Jake’s noninjured arm. “I’ll call your mom again while you’re getting X-rayed.” He nodded sleepily as they rolled him away.

Kevin Flynn was shivering in the waiting area, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth, looking for all the world like an extra from Braveheart who had mistakenly swapped his kilt for a pair of baggy shorts. “Here you go, Celtic warrior.” She handed him his T-shirt. “The goose bumps don’t go too well with the tats.”

“They didn’t have AC in ancient Ireland.” He pulled the shirt over his head. “How’s he doing?”

“They’ve doped him up and taken him in for X-rays.” She glanced around the ER waiting room while she redialed Jennifer McCrea’s home and cell numbers. Tired institutional paint, wide, armless sixties-style couches and chairs, a goateed teen, a grandmotherly type in a cardigan, a weather-beaten man asleep and listing. Jennifer’s recorded voice invited her to leave a message. Hadley started to repeat her message when the ER doors whumphed open and Eric McCrea strode through. He spotted them.

“How is he?” He must have come straight out of his unit; he was still wearing his rig, radio at his shoulder, his service piece holstered at his hip.

“He’s fine,” Hadley said. “They’re pretty sure it’s just a broken collarbone. He’s in radiology now. They’ve given him Demerol for the pain.”

“What happened?” Eric said.

“He pulled the lead maybe two hundred meters from the finish,” Flynn said. “He was really flying. You would have been proud of him.”

“What happened ?”

“He couldn’t resist checking out where the closest runner was. He looked behind him…” Flynn shrugged. “That’s all it takes to put a foot wrong.”

“Oh, Christ. Of all the boneheaded moves.” Eric clenched his fists. “He knows better than that. He knows better!”

“It’s a broken collarbone,” Hadley reminded him. “Which is a lot better than a broken leg. Or a broken neck.