And then he stopped, because abruptly he realized he would not.
Rumplestiltskin had paled, face white as if moonlight was illuminating it. Blood that seemed like streaks of black ink was coursing down his arm and chest. He tried once more, feebly, to grasp his weapon and lift it up, but was unable. Shock was taking over rapidly, clouding his every motion and fogging his grip on events. It was as if the quiet that had settled on the two men, as the gunshot echoes faded, was palpable, blanketing every movement they made.
Ricky stared at the man whom he had once known and yet not known as a patient, and realized that Rumplestiltskin would bleed to death in relatively short order. Or succumb to shock. It’s only in movies, Ricky thought, that a man can be shot with a high-powered round at close range and still be strong enough to dance a jig. Rumplestiltskin’s chances could be measured in minutes, he guessed.
A part of him he had never heard before insisted he simply watch the man die.
He did not. He struggled to his feet and jumped forward. He kicked the pistol away from the killer’s hand, then took his own and slipped it into his backpack. Then, as Rumplestiltskin mumbled something, as the man battled against the unconsciousness that would herald death, Ricky reached down and grasped his adversary around the chest. Struggling against the weight, Ricky lifted the killer up and with as great a burst as he could muster, threw him over his own shoulder, in a fireman’s carry. He straightened slowly, adjusting himself against the weight, half struck by the ironies that seemed as dense as the humid air around him, and then he staggered forward, through the wreckage, carrying the man who wanted him dead out of the rubble of the farmhouse.
Sweat stung at his eyes, and he struggled with each stride. What he carried seemed far greater than anything Ricky ever remembered lifting before. He could feel Rumplestiltskin lose consciousness, and heard his breathing grow wheezy and labored, asthmatic with death lurking close by. Ricky sucked in great drafts of humid air himself, powering himself forward in sturdy, unimaginative steps, each harder than the previous one, each mountainous in challenge. He told himself that this was the only way to walk to freedom.
He stopped at the edge of the road. Night surrounded both men with anonymity. He dropped Rumplestiltskin to the ground, and ran his hands over the man’s clothing. To his relief he found what he’d expected: a cell phone.
Rumplestiltskin’s breath was coming in shallow, pained spurts. Ricky suspected that his first shot had fragmented as it struck the scapula, and that the burbling sound he could distinguish was from a torn lung. He stanched the man’s wounds as best he could, then called the number long remembered for Wellfleet fire and rescue.
“Nine-one-one Cape Emergency,” came a clipped, efficient voice.
“Listen very carefully,” Ricky said slowly, deliberately, pausing between words, enunciating each with deliberate pace. “I am only going to say this one time, so get it straight. There has been a shooting accident. The victim is located on Old Beach Road at the entrance to the late Doctor Starks’s vacation home, the place that burned down last summer. He’s right on the driveway. The victim has multiple gunshot wounds to the back shoulder and right upper arm extremity, and is in shock. He will die rapidly if you are not here within minutes. Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
“Who is this?”
“Do you understand!”
“Yes. I’m dispatching rescue now. Old Beach Road. Who is this?”
“Are you familiar with the location I’ve given you?”
“Yes. But I need to know: Who is this?”
Ricky thought for a moment, then answered: “No one who is anyone anymore.”
He disconnected the phone. He took his own weapon out and ejected the remaining bullets from the clip. These he tossed as far into the woods as he could. Then he dropped the pistol on the ground next to the wounded man. He also removed his flashlight from the backpack, switched it on and placed it on the unconscious killer’s chest. Ricky lifted his head. He could hear a distant siren starting up. Fire rescue was located only a few miles away, on Route Six. It would not take them long to reach the location. He guessed that the trip to the hospital was another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. He did not know whether the EMTs would be able to stabilize the wounded man or if the emergency room staff was capable of dealing with serious gunshot wounds. Nor did he know whether a suitable surgical team was on call. He looked down at the killer one more time, and could not tell whether the man would live through the next few hours. He might. He might not. For the first time, perhaps, in his entire life, Ricky enjoyed uncertainty.
The ambulance sound quickly grew closer, and Ricky turned and started to jog away, slowly for the first few steps, but then gathering pace rapidly until he was flat-out sprinting forward, feet pounding against the road surface with a steady rhythm, letting the nighttime darkness swallow his presence utterly, until he was completely hidden from sight.
Like a newly inspired ghost, Ricky disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Outside Port-au-prince
It was about an hour past dawn and Ricky was watching a small lime green gecko dart about on the wall, defying gravity with every step. He watched the tiny animal move in spurts, occasionally pausing to extend its orange throat sac, before dashing forward a few strides, then stopping, pivoting its head to the right and then left, as it checked for danger. Ricky admired and envied the wondrous simplicity of the gecko’s day-to-day world: find something to eat, and avoid being eaten.
Above him an old brown four-bladed paddle fan creaked slightly with each revolution, spinning the hot, dull air of the small room. As Ricky shifted his legs, swinging them out of bed, the mattress springs matched the paddle fan noise. He stretched wildly, yawning, running a hand through his thinning hair, grasping the pair of weathered khaki hiking shorts that hung from the bed stand and searching for his glasses. He rose and poured himself a small basin of water from a pitcher standing on a swaying wooden table. He splashed the water onto his face, letting some of the liquid run down his chest, then he took a threadbare washcloth and soaped it from a pungent bar that he kept on the table. He dipped the cloth into the water and washed himself as best he could.
The room Ricky occupied was nearly square, and more or less undecorated, with stucco walls once a flat vibrant white, but faded over the years into a color that seemed only one step away from the dust that hung above the street outside. He had few possessions: a radio which brought in spring training games on the Armed Forces channels, some clothes. An up-to-date calendar sporting a bare-breasted young woman with an inviting look in her eyes had that day circled in black pen. It hung from a nail a few feet away from a hand-carved wooden crucifix that he suspected had belonged to the prior occupant, but which he had not removed, because it seemed to him that taking down a religious icon in a country where religion in so many weird and conflicting ways was so critical to so many people, invited bad luck, and, so far, he thought, his luck, on balance, had been quite good. He had built two shelves against one wall. These were crammed with a number of worn and well-used medical texts, as well as some brand-new ones. The titles of these ranged from the practical
He went to the window and stared out at the street. It was only a half block to the clinic, and already he could see people gathered outside. There was a small grocery across the street, and the proprietor and his wife, two incongruously large middle-aged folks, were setting out some wooden crates and barrels that
