2 Chapter 2
“Thank God you’re here. This patient needs a helluva lot more care than I can give him.”
Three of the paramedics unzipped duffel bags and rapidly took over applying pressure on Will’s wounds, checked his vitals, started oxygen and IV fluids.
“I’m David, Dr. Bergstrom,” the lead paramedic firefighter introduced himself.
Bond lifted his bloody hands. “I’d shake, but—”
David handed him a bottle of water and some paper towels. While Bond washed his hands, dried them, and finished with alcohol gel, he listened as the firefighter set up the radio and contacted the ER’s mobile intensive care RN to report the procedures they’d implemented and discuss the victim’s EKG tracings and vitals with her.
Bond knew the MICN would report the findings to the ER physician.
In moments David said, “Dr. Goodman, sir,” and handed the receiver to Bond.
“You’ve got a nasty one there, Bergstrom. What’s your call?”
Stan Goodman was an excellent physician, and Bond was glad he was on duty. “I’d medivac him to a trauma center. We don’t have a thoracic surgeon on staff, and I doubt we have a general surgeon who’s experienced with gunshot wounds that might involve major organs. I could assist, but my specialty—”
“Is orthopedics.”
“Right. I don’t recommend me despite my battlefield experiences.” At times, he’d had to do it all because it was him or no one. “It’s your call, Stan. The ER doc is always in charge.”
“From what I’m seeing on the readouts, I agree a helo trip is his best option. The MIC nurse is ordering it now. You okay?”
“Other than having almost peed my pants at being shot at, I’m okay.”
Goodman laughed. “Well, if he survives, he’s damned lucky you were there,” he said, and signed off.
The paramedic suggested flushing Bond’s eyes with normal saline in case any blood had gotten in them. He didn’t protest.
As he patted them dry with a gauze square, he began to feel the letdown in the aftermath of the emergency setting in. Exhaustion followed. By the time he’d answered the deputies’ questions, waited for, and repeated his story to detectives named Wilson and Johannsen, he was ready to go home.
Before getting in his car, he used the lakeshore’s foot shower to rinse blood and sand off his shoes, feet, and legs. His shirt—still on Hammond’s belly and reinforced with bandages and secured with tape—would fly to the ICU in the valley and would become evidence. He could kiss it goodbye.
He stuck his wet shoes in the trunk. Torso and feet bare, he drove home.
After he’d parked in the garage and secured it, Bond unlocked the door leading into the service porch. He poured liquid soap in the washer and stripped, thinking to wash the blood, dirt, and sand away. “Oh, to hell with it,” he said, and strode outside in his birthday suit to dump it all in the bear-resistant trash bin at the rear of the house. Huff Vernon, who owned the house behind his and was his closest neighbor, was away and there was no one to see him.
After walking naked through the dark, quiet house to the upstairs bathroom, he stepped in the shower and lathered every inch of his body head to toe. The warm water, verging on hot, rinsed away the lather and fatigue. He felt halfway revived when he emerged from the bathroom clean and dry.
He selected a pair of hospital scrubs from a drawer and pulled them on. Although the hospital provided them in the surgeons’ dressing room, he kept his personal supply at home because they were so comfortable to lounge in around the house. He was ready to head down to the kitchen when his cell rang.
Marshall, one of the area’s only plastic and reconstructive surgeons said, “Are you okay? On the seven o’clock news, they’re calling you a hero.”
Bond couldn’t squelch the groan escaping his throat. “Hero, like hell. All I did was call 911. We don’t even know if the guy’s gonna make it.”
“The video shows your gorgeous torso shirtless while you talk to the cops. What were you doing out there? Swimming?”
Since this was an attempted murder, he was reluctant to discuss it. “I was jogging.”
Marshall nodded. “I hear you covered him with your body when they shot at you and the victim again.”
Bond let out a grunt of disgust. “You know how the media sensationalizes things.”
His new acquaintance laughed his agreement. “I have pizza and beer, and I’m not on call. Care to share?”
“Only if you come here. Nothing but salads in my fridge, and after ten hours in surgery, then jogging and tending a wounded man, I’m beat.” A little surprised because they didn’t know each other that well, he nevertheless wasn’t going to turn down an offer of food. He was exhausted and starving.
