highway. “Pretty good.”
“Do not go near that body, understand? You could fall into the water.”
Oh-kay, I thought as Tom signed off. A chilly February wind rocked the van and pummeled the spruce trees across the road. A car swooshed past, then another. No one slowed to gawk. Andy Balachek’s body must have been situated in such a way that it couldn’t be seen from the road. No one gave me a second glance.
Do not go near that body… . What was Tom so worried about, besides my tumbling into the creek? The killer still being around? If you dumped a dead guy,
you wouldn’t wait to see who discovered him, would you?
I tried to warm up by snuggling closer to the dashboard heater. According to my watch, it was quarter after seven. Overhead, the charcoal sky was lightening to a velvety blue. Not far away, an engine growled. Less than a minute later, as promised, Tom’s big Chrysler roared into view. It turned left to cross the creek, then roared into the lot and pulled up fifteen feet to the right of my van. Puzzled, I unbuckled and jumped from the van, then trotted toward him.
Tom was walking calmly in my direction. He passed Andy’s body. Without glancing toward the creek, he motioned me back to the van.
A shot rang out. Tom reeled back, clutching his left shoulder. I screamed. Without thinking, I raced toward him. When I reached him, his right hand grabbed my arm. Another shot fired and pinged off Tom’s car. Then another shot hit one of my van doors.
“Move!” he hollered. Panting with pain, he wrenched me toward the boulders lining the far side of the parking lot. “Get behind those rocks and stay down! See if we can, see if we can…”
Running hard, my heart thudding, I thought he said, See if we can dig a hole. Dig a hole? I stumbled; Tom’s hand wrenched me upright. I couldn’t catch my breath. Those shots had not been like the explosion that rocked our house. They’d been higher-pitched, not as loud, more like a firecracker… .
I let go of Tom’s hand and leaped above the crevice between two boulders. When I slid down, Tom pushed himself next to me. Blood from his shoulder stained the rocks. I gasped. How badly was he hurt? Where was the shooter? Why was this happening?
“Stay down,” Tom ordered me. His sleeve was wet with blood.
Oh, God, I prayed. Help him, help us. I couldn’t tear my eyes from Tom’s wound. Sometimes I think I learned too much in Med Wives 101. The subclavian vein. If that major artery had been hit, Tom could bleed to death in minutes. Please, God. Not Tom.
With his good hand, Tom pulled the radio off his belt. “Officer needs assistance. Shots fired.” He bit the words, his face contorted with pain.
How could I compress the wound? Think, I ordered myself desperately as a voice answered Tom’s call. “Unit calling?”
“X-ray six,” Tom replied. “Location is south side of Cottonwood Creek, by Hyde Chapel, on Highway two-oh- three.” Tom’s involuntary groan sent my heart racing. If there were no broken bones, if the bullet had not nicked a lung, then perhaps I could compress it and stop some of the dangerous blood loss. “Am behind boulders by chapel parking lot,” he went on. “Am now fifty yards from Cottonwood Creek, next to Highway two-oh-three. Do not know mile marker.”
There was static on the other end of the radio, but I prayed the operator was telling him that units were responding. What have I done? Why didn’t I get out of here when Tom told me to? Where had the shots come from? Was there someone on the other side of the road, up in the trees of Cottonwood Park?
“Believe assailant has a rifle, possibly AR-fifteen. My shoulder’s hit. .
. .”
“Can you give location of assailant?” the operator?s voice crackled.
“Believe he is on north side of road. Possibly fifty yards up in the trees, judging from sound of shots.”
“Can we land a helicopter there, X-ray six?”
“Don’t know - ” The radio fell from
Tom’s hands. It was slick with blood. I picked it up and pushed what I hoped was the correct button.
“This is Tom’s wife, Goldy Schulz,” I yelled into the radio. “Send paramedics with your team!” Tom had slumped forward. Static spewed from the radio. I placed it on the ground and leaned in close to my husband. “Tom!” His eyelids fluttered. “I’m going to compress this wound,” I told him. “You have to tell me if it feels like you’ve got a broken bone. You also have to tell me if pressure makes it harder to breathe. Do you understand?” His face paled as he nodded. I couldn’t imagine his pain. If the collarbone was broken, any weight I put on the wound would cause him agony.
I steeled myself. He was losing on awful lot of blood. With shaking fingers, I pushed on the area where blood spurted through his once-white shirt. Tom moaned but did not tell me to stop. His eyes sought mine. Tears ran down my cheeks as I pressed on the hot, bloody slash in his left shoulder.
As I gently exerted pressure, I listened. Was the shooter planning to try again? All I heard was the gurgle of the creek.
The blood slowed to a trickle and fanned out into a delta of ripples, first on Tom’s shirt, then on the snow- dusted rock. He blinked and grunted as he reached for the radio.
“Don’t do that!” Hysteria threaded through my voice as my hands, slippery with blood, lost their grip on the wound.
He held the radio up with his right hand. “Talk.” His voice was thick. I composed myself and pushed in again on the wound. “Talk into the radio,” Tom muttered. He groaned again, a deep guttural sound that didn’t sound human.
“All right, all right,” I promised hastily as I first stabilized my pressure on the wound, then scooted awkwardly to get closer to the radio. “Just don’t move again. Please, Tom - “
“Goldy, I’m sorry …” His voice had descended to a hoarse whisper.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
“No …Goldy “
Fear spiked up my spine. Where was the shooter? My hands began to cramp on the wound. I willed them to relax.
Again Tom said, “I’m sorry … .”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. Somebody will be here soon. Ambulance, cops … they’re on their way.”
“I can feel my right arm, but not my left - “
“They’re bound to be here any sec.”
Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, then came forward again. “Goldy.” He was struggling to speak. “I have to tell
you.” Each word heaved out, like an enormous, painful sigh. “I’m …” with great effort, he said, “I don’t love her.”
“Tom! Be quiet. You’re delirious.”
“I was just … trying to figure out … what was going on. So you’ll understand … .” His voice trailed off.
I stared at him.
“Listen,” Tom said again, weakly. “I’m … so … sorry.”
My voice made no sound as I concentrated on stopping the blood still leaking from the ugly wound in his shoulder. But my mind screamed, “Sorry for what?”
-7-
How long had it been since Tom had been shot? Seconds. Hours. No, not hours. Minutes. Fractions of minutes. Tom floated in and out of consciousness, his face drained of color, his body slumped against the boulder. He looked like a dying bear. There was no further sound from the radio. I pressed against Tom’s wound and begged for him to live.
Then something changed. At first I was not sure if the piercing noise was sirens or ringing in my ears. And perhaps the distant wop wop wop was the drumbeat of my heart, and not the helicopter I desperately wanted it to be.
Please, I prayed again.
Then: Men shouted. The sirens screamed closer. Not far away, a helicopter landed with a blast of air that
