96

Rune Alignment

Chapter 35

Come on, answer. Ring. Answer, goddamn it. It rang again. Bobby had called Gleason's new cell phone. It rang again. He squeezed his eyes tight with the fingers of his right hand. It rang again. Oh, Christ! He flipped his cell closed and slid it back into his pocket.

"Put the cherry in the window," Bobby told Eames. She reached under the seat and pulled up the cantaloupe sized light. He grabbed it from her, plugged the cord into the adapter outlet on the dash, and set the light on the piece of hook and loop tape stuck to the top of the dash. Without thinking, he clipped his shield to his outer lapel. Eames sped up and wove through traffic.

He pulled his cell from his pocket again and pressed 'speed dial 1'. It rang. Again. And again. Once more. Another ring. Another ring. She told me she'd stay inside. She swore! The cell continued to ring. He felt the bile rise in his gut.

A sea of flashing blue and white, red and white lights lit up the area in front of Belzberg Hall. Fire trucks and ambulances lined Selman and Lowell Streets. Students wandered around in shock, crying, holding onto each other. Uniformed officers were everywhere. EMTs hurried inside carrying equipment; others carried out a stretcher to the waiting ambulances. Television trucks pulled up onto sidewalks.

Eames braked hard and put the right two wheels on the curb. They jumped out and jogged into the mess. Bobby grabbed a uniformed and asked, "Where'd it happen?"

"Everyone down is on the second floor."

Bobby ran to the building, tore through the lobby and took the stairs two and three at a time. He stopped at the top and stared. Bodies, backpacks, books littered the hallway. He heard moans, crying. Medical personnel attended to several. Bobby stepped past two bodies, looking, afraid of finding her. Don't be here, don't be here, don't be here, was his mantra as he looked at the people on the floor. Eames came up behind him, touched him lightly on his arm.

"Look for her."

Don't be here, don't be here, don't be here.

She was on her back just outside the faculty office door. He dropped to his knee beside her and yelled, "Over here! Over here, she's breathing." He took off his overcoat; his suit coat came with it, and covered her. He gently turned her face toward him.

Gleason opened her eyes and fought to focus on his face, "Baub . . ."

"Don't talk, shush, don't talk." He gently wiped his hand over her forehead, she felt cool. "Come on! Over here!" An EMT trotted over, knelt to her right, pulled aside Bobby's coat and began to assess.

"I, I'm . . . sau--," her breath came in shallow gasps; he saw her color begin to fade. Blood covered her chest, neck, arms, it crept from under her body; her laptop lay near her feet with a slug lodged in the underside.

"Just stay still, stay quiet." He took her hand from the bloody floor and laced his fingers with hers; he lifted her hand to his lips. The EMT shouted for a stretcher.

"Bau . . . canna . . . bree . . ." Gleason's eyes started to close.

"Look at me! Honey, look at me!" Bobby released her hand and laid it on her chest.

"Gleason, open your eyes!"

"Help me turn her over," the technician said. He ripped open a package containing a large, thick pressure pad and laid it on top of his case; a pair of scissors sat beside it.

"We're going to turn her over so I can get to her back and staunch this bleeding. Put your hands under her left arm and catch her when I lift her. Hold onto her. Ready?" he looked up at Bobby and Bobby nodded, slipping his hands under her arm. "Here we go." The tech slid his hands under Gleason's right arm and under her back and lifted. Gleason rolled into Bobby's arms. "Try to keep her off the floor." Bobby held her.

The tech took the scissors and cut her sweater and then her undershirt from hem through the neck. He set down the scissors and pulled the fabrics open. He stopped short when he saw the design on her back. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled; he recovered and reached for the pressure pad and applied it. "Let's roll her back." Bobby pushed her limp body with his arms and the EMT caught her and gently laid her down. Bobby watched blood pump from one hole with every heartbeat. The tech retrieved another pressure pad, ripped it open and pulled off her sweater and shirt. He applied the pad and told Bobby to lean on it. He did. Bobby didn't see Gleason's pulse in her neck where it had always been. She wasn't breathing.

The stretcher arrived, "Sir, you're gonna have to step aside." Bobby stood and took a step back. Eames moved to his side.

They lifted her from the floor onto the stretcher. Still working at floor level, Bobby and Eames watched one tech swab a spot on her right arm and try to insert an IV. Another fitted a mask over Gleason's mouth and nose and then checked her blood pressure. They worked fast and finished. With one tech on each side, "on three," they lifted the stretcher and rolled her toward the stairs. The third tech, the one who had applied the pads, asked, "Do you know this woman?"

Eames looked up at Bobby, who watched them carry Gleason down the stairs, and said, "Yes, Dr. Gleason Wintermantle." The tech wrote the name on a form attached to a clipboard.

"Are you family?" he asked.

"No." Eames took a business card from her jacket pocket, gave it to the tech and said, "Let me give you my cell. Use that number to contact us." She dictated the number as the man wrote it on the back. "Is she going to be ok?"

The tech looked at Bobby and then back at Eames, "She's in a really bad way, detective."

Eames asked, "Where are you taking her?"

"Either DeGraff or Presbyterian."

Bobby watched, not believing this was happening. Eames retrieved his coat from the floor, put a hand on his arm again and said, "Come on."

They walked through the chaos toward the SUV. Eames carried his coat. She pulled his shield from the lapel and handed it to him. Without a word, he took it and automatically clipped it to his belt. They sat in the car while Eames called both hospitals to find where they had taken her. Four calls, and thirty minutes later, she found that Gleason was at Methodist General. Bobby sprawled in the passenger seat, seat belt undone, right elbow leaning against the window, hand over his eyes. They rode in silence. She thought she heard a sob.

"We're here."

Bobby stirred, sniffed, wiped his eyes with a squeeze from his right hand, then wiped that hand on his pant leg. He cleared his throat, opened the passenger side door, and stepped out. Eames opened the back door, pulled out his overcoat, withdrew his suit coat, tossed the overcoat back in and slammed the door. "Here, put this on or carry it in front of you."

He followed Eames into the ER and waited for her to get the details. She returned to his side and said, "She's in grave condition, but they've stabilized her and she's being prepped for surgery." Bobby exhaled as if he had been holding his breath. "We have to fill out some paperwork. I didn't see her purse in the hallway. All of her information would be in it."

Eames stepped back to the window and the ER clerk slid a clipboard and pen through the slot under the window. "Please fill out all the highlighted areas and sign. Are you the responsible party?"

Eames looked over at Bobby and then back at the clerk, "He is." She took the clipboard and returned to him. "Come on let's find a seat."

They found two seats together and she handed him the clipboard. "You do it," he said numbly.

Eames filled in the professor's name, profession and place of employment. That was all she knew. "Where does she live?"

"1123 Murdock. Apartment 5C."

"When's her birthday?"

He didn't reply.

"How old is she?"

Silence.

"Is she a citizen?"

Nothing.

"Do you know her mother's maiden name?"

Nothing.

"Is she allergic to any medications?"

Again, nothing.

"Her medical history? Surgeries, pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions?"

It was clear how little he knew of her. Bobby turned to his partner and said, "I don't know anything about her."

Eames set down the pen. "Most of this information will be on record at the university. We'll get it all tomorrow." He sat looking down at his jacket covering some of the blood that covered his shirtfront and sleeves.

"Bobby, do you want to sign as the responsible party?"

He took the clipboard from her and signed.

He followed her to the elevators and they stepped off on nine.

Eames went to the reception desk and spoke with the attendant for a few minutes. She walked back to Bobby and said, "Gleason isn't in surgery yet. The nurse is going to get the surgeon. Come on, let's have a seat." She led Bobby to a chair and sat across from him. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced in front of him; he stared at the floor.

Other people in the surgical waiting room cast furtive glances at the pair. Eames took a good look at him – blood covered Bobby's white shirt, tie, and gray suit coat, he had it on his pants. His hands were dark with blood. A swipe of blood marked his eyes where he had wiped them.

"Bobby, why don't you go wash up." He didn't respond.

"Bobby . . . ," He stood and looked around, saw the men's room and walked toward it.

He turned on the water, took off his suit coat, and laid it over the next sink; he pulled off his tie and tossed it on top of his coat. He unbuttoned the top two shirt buttons, each cuff and rolled up his sleeves. The water was steaming; it ran over his hands and he watched the dark water swirl down the drain. He pumped soap onto his hands and rubbed them clean, then washed his face. He splashed water on his face, turned off the water and reached for paper towels. Only then did he look at himself in the mirror. 'Don't let her die, don't let her die, don't let her die' became his new mantra. He gathered up his coat and tie and walked out.

Eames stood, talking to Deakins, Sledge and Bishop, two uniforms stood nearby; everyone stopped as Bobby approached.

Deakins spoke, "Eames was bringing us up to date on the professor. They'll take good care of her here."

Bobby looked at his boss, "Who did this?"

"They found the shooter among the casualties," Bishop offered, "he shot himself."

"Any ID?" Bobby asked.

Everyone looked at the floor at the same time. Sledge took a step away. "Elliott Baughman," said Deakins.