Then she saw Diehl’s eyes. Blue, squinting, and crazed. His mouth was open.
He will shoot.
The barrel swung their way and Art fired.
Diehl jerked and spun to one side, losing his weapon. He fell to the ground with a howl that made the hair rise on Mercy’s neck.
Art stepped closer, his weapon still trained on the shooter. Diehl was silent and motionless.
Mercy dashed past Art and knelt next to Diehl. His eyes were shut, and he still breathed, but the wound in the center of his chest rapidly bubbled with blood. “Hand me my bag,” she ordered Art as she unbuttoned Diehl’s shirt. Center mass. From six feet away. Art’s shot had been dead-on. This wound wasn’t like Eddie’s. Diehl’s wound was gaping and angry and spewed blood in a way that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder. Art hadn’t moved to get her kit; his arms were at his sides, his weapon in his right hand and his gaze fixed on the dying man.
“Art!”
He didn’t look at her.
Mercy surged to her feet and pushed past him to grab her kit, taking a split second to assess Eddie. His eyes tracked her, the green tube clenched in a fist on his chest. “I’m okay,” he said as she paused.
Like hell you are. But he was in better shape than Diehl. She snatched her bag, spun in the direction of her newest GSW, and deliberately ran one shoulder into Art as she passed. “Get moving! Call 911 again. Tell them we’ve got two injured now.” She collapsed next to Diehl and dug for another clotting syringe. Ripping the box open, she noticed the bubbles in his chest wound had stopped.
His open mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t breathing.
Airway first.
How . . .
Dumping equipment out of her duffel, she grabbed a CPR mask. She placed it over his mouth and nose and blew through the one-way valve. Blood splattered the underside of the mask, and she jerked away. The blood can’t get through the mask. She sucked in a deep breath and blew again. New bubbles formed at the wound in his chest.
Oh no.
She sat back on her heels and picked up the clotting syringe again. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her stress level surged, urging her to do something.
There’s no point.
A voice came through the adrenaline-hazed cloud around her head. Art was talking to 911 again. She needed to tell him Diehl was dead, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All her energy had vanished as quickly as it’d come. All she could do was stare at the man who’d died beneath her hands.
The gray hair on Diehl’s chest was covered in blood. His face sagged, wrinkles forming near his ears and around his neck. The angry blue eyes that had locked on her as he came around the corner were shut but crystal clear in her memory.
Mercy briefly closed her eyes as memories of her brother Levi’s death swamped her. He also had died under her hands. Shot. Bleeding.
Nothing I could do.
Mercy forced herself to her feet. Turning, she met Art’s gaze. She held it for a long second, words escaping her. They’d both have their own demons to deal with tomorrow.
Eddie moaned, breaking the moment.
She went to him, taking his hand, and was pleased to see he still had good color in his fingertips and lips.
“Thank you, Mercy.” He inhaled from his tube again. “This green thing is awesome.” His eyes struggled to focus.
The effects would be gone by the time he got to the hospital. Hopefully the EMTs could do something else for him. “That’s what I’ve heard,” she answered, as an emotional wave nearly knocked her over. Eddie could have been the dead one.
She tightened her grip on his hand, dizzy from the crush of relief and fear.
But he’s not.
FIFTEEN
The EMTs were pleased with Eddie’s condition and approved of Mercy’s field dressing. “Usually when it takes us over a half hour to get to a gunshot wound, it’s too late,” one of them had told her. He’d glanced at the body of Victor Diehl. “Like that one,” he said quietly.
“If you’d been here immediately, there’d still be nothing you could have done,” Mercy told him.
“I see that.”
Both of the EMTs had heard of the clotting agent she’d pumped into Eddie’s chest and the illegal analgesic inhalant but had never seen them used. Mercy had given them the packaging for the surgeon who’d eventually have Eddie on the table. They’d want to know what was inside the patient.
It happened so fast.
Anxiety and relief had made her vomit once the ambulance left with Eddie.
After Eddie had been driven away, Mercy and Art had sat silently on the tailgate of her Tahoe, waiting for Jeff and more county deputies to arrive.
“I choked when you asked for help,” Art had said quietly, staring at his feet. “Your reactions were amazing.”
Mercy leaned against him and gave a one-armed hug. “You got Victor before he got either one of us. I couldn’t get off a shot without it going through you.”
“I’ve never shot anyone,” Art admitted. He hadn’t responded to her hug. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed her touch. “All those years on the job, and the only time I ever drew my weapon was for practice.”
“That’s why we practice.”
“Can’t say I’ve practiced since I retired.”
“You did good, Art.” She tightened her arm around his shoulders again. He looked as if he desperately needed reassurance.
“I know I did the right thing. But you know what? It doesn’t feel very right.”
“It’s the adrenaline. You saw how it made me sick,” Mercy sympathized.
“No. It’s deeper than that. It feels soul deep.” He shook his head, still avoiding eye contact.
Mercy understood. “You’ll learn how to cope with it.” His guilt and sorrow were palpable. “I’m glad you took the shot. It would have been you or me on the ground over there.” The EMTs had left Victor Diehl for the investigators. She, Art, and a state trooper who’d been the closest law enforcement officer in the area had quietly waited with the body. Mercy had asked the trooper to keep Art in his sights at all times, knowing he’d be questioned about his actions before, during, and after the shooting. Two law enforcement witnesses would be welcome support for his story.
Once her boss, Jeff, arrived, he moved Art away from the property and into the care of a deputy. Jeff was unhappy that his agent had been shot and that a retired agent had killed a citizen. Mercy didn’t blame him. The entire situation was a highly charged emotional mess that would have to be unraveled by an impassive bureaucratic investigation.
He quizzed her on the events, and she recited every moment in a calm voice as he made notes. Then he asked her to tour Diehl’s home with him.
Inside the house, Mercy covered her nose and mouth.
How did Diehl live like this?
The odor of Victor Diehl’s home was similar to that of a garbage dump.
“He’s not a prepper or survivalist,” said Jeff with his hand over his nose. “He’s a hoarder.”
Mercy agreed. The home was a narrow rectangle, one room wide. One half contained a living area and kitchen. The other half had a tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a larger bedroom. Both bedrooms were crammed from floor to ceiling with boxes and bins, while Diehl apparently had slept in a recliner in the living room, which held its own fair share of junk. The kitchen counters overflowed with empty cereal boxes, frozen dinner containers, and empty food cans. She didn’t know how he’d used the sink. It was packed with filthy dishes. She jumped back as a roach darted out from under a dish.