A great gal, but a high-school dropout. And with the last kid, she had gotten heavy. Those awful tents she wore. Why did the prints always have to be so garish? Why didn’t she realize she would have looked more sophisticated and sleek in a plain black suit?
That was Tess.
Ken sighed inwardly, wishing she’d wipe the tears off her cheeks. Because she was embarrassing him. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief fantasy of Sherrie. Sherrie, with her milky eyes, her sensuous mouth, her wonderful hips, her full breasts, and her MBA from Stanford.
They had met on interoffice E-mail, she being in marketing, he being two floors up in stock research. He joked that it had been love at first byte. The affair was almost immediate, fueled by the thrill of their respective infidelities and what each one could do for the other’s career.
Yes, Ken still loved Tess on some level. And yes, Ken still cared for the kids. But life was about reaching one’s potential. The marriage just wouldn’t work any longer.
Times change, he had told her.
Life changes.
You move on.
With each pronouncement, Tess had shed a new batch of tears.
Still, the drama of the evening did little to quell his appetite. As much as he hated himself, he had to admit that telling Tess it was over was a definite high. The exhilaration of liberation.
Flying high with freedom, Ken paid no attention to the thin young man. Not even when the young man’s face fell flat, turning his physiognomy into something inanimate, his eyes as murky as pond water.
No one even noticed when he reached into the pocket of his green jacket.
Not until he pulled out a gun and the lead began to fly.
But by then, it was too late.
A microsecond flash of yesteryear as images too frighteningly clear burst from the hidden recesses of Decker’s brain. A familiar scene with familiar sounds and smells. Charlie’s discards. Twisted corpses. Moans of the wounded echoing through a gripping fog of panic. Medics worked frantically, hands and arms bathed in blood and flesh. The metallic odor of spilled blood mixed with the stink of emptied bowels. Surreal. The magnitude of death and destruction. It destroyed faith in a hand clap.
Decker swallowed, trying to lubricate a parched throat. Rationally, he knew Nam was over. So what was this? An instant replay? Except the surroundings were off. Confusion reigned. But only for a moment.
Because there was work to be done.
Instantly, he rolled up his jacket and shirt sleeves, gloved his hands. Saw a woman whose leg had been turned into Swiss cheese by dime-sized bullet holes. Lying in a pool of crimson. Her complexion pasty … clammy. Pushing aside debris with his foot, Decker made room for himself … knelt at her side.
Stop the bleeding, treat ’em for shock, get ’em to a chopper.
Scratch the chopper, make it an ambulance.
“You’re going to be all right,” Decker spoke soothingly as he worked. Perspiration had soaked through his jacket from his armpits. His crotch was as hot and humid as an Orlando summer. Sweat was dripping off his hair, off his face and brow. He turned away from his patient, shook off the water like a drooling mastiff. He said, “Just hang in there.”
Lots of bleeding, some of it arterial. Rhythmic squirts of bright red blood. Decker put pressure on the leaking area as the woman screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks.
He bit his upper lip, nibbling on his ginger mustache, trying to keep his own breathing slow and steady. He examined her torn tissue, working through bits of bone. Femoral artery appeared to be intact … the other major arteries as well. Arteriole bleeding, probably from one of their branches. She didn’t realize it, but she had been a very lucky pup. Much better than her male companion, who’d never again see the light of day.
“I need a blanket, STAT!” Decker shouted.
“We’re out!” someone shouted back.
“Then get me a tablecloth, napkins … something!” Decker screamed back. “I got shock settling in!”
“You and half the room! Get it yourself!”
“For Chrissakes—”
“Here!” A tiny female paramedic with green eyes threw Decker a tablecloth. She was bent over a bearded man, wrapping a bandage around his neck. Instantly, the starched white linen turned tomato-colored. Her eyes glanced at Decker, at his shoulder holster peeking out from under his jacket. “What ambulance company are you from?”
“LAPD. Lieutenant Peter Decker.”
The paramedic raised her brows. “Celia Brown. Need anything, just ask.”
“Thanks.” Spreading out the tablecloth as best he could, Decker raised the woman’s good leg, dabbing her forehead and face as she sobbed and spoke. She told him her name was Tess. She had heard popping noises. Then everyone had started screaming, running for cover. Her leg exploded as she dived under her table.
Taking mental notes.
The victim wore a thick gold chain around her neck; her purse was still at her side. A horrific crime but robbery didn’t appear to be a motive. Or maybe the gunman just didn’t bother with her. She wasn’t decked in diamonds and pearls, not like some of the other patrons. She wore a loud print dress that appeared to be a couple of sizes too big for her body. She asked Decker if her leg was still there. She couldn’t wiggle her toes. All she felt were throbs of agony.
“Your leg is there.” Again Decker checked for bleeding. “You’re doing great.”
“My husband …”
Decker was quiet.
“He’s dead?”
Again there was silence.
“I want to know,” Tess whispered.
Decker took a deep breath. “The dark-haired man wearing a blue serge suit?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s gone.”
Tess said nothing, looked away with tears in her eyes.
“Just keep as still as you can.” To the paramedic, Decker said, “Got any spare wound gel, topical, and bandage?”
Celia gave him some equipment. “You need a shot of coagulant?”
“Bleeding’s subsided. Besides, I’d prefer if one of you administered the meds.”
“Fine.” Celia thought a moment, then said, “You’re a lieutenant … as in a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Calling in the big shots for this one.”
Muted by the enormity of destruction, Decker couldn’t make chitchat.
Celia said, “They must be training you guys pretty well in ER services.”
“I was a medic in the army.”
“Ah, now it makes sense. Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
“Betcha