“Odds?” Holman asked.
Perrone shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine how a single pistol bullet could have been fired to inflict more damage. But the prompt emergency assistance certainly helped. We were able to stabilize the patient, and he seems to be responding well. He lost an incredible amount of blood, as you can imagine, but by good fortune, our blood bank has an adequate supply of his type.” He made a wry face. “Or at least it did.” He put the pen away and slid the X rays back into the envelope. “One of the Medivacs is in Las Cruces, by good fortune. I imagine it will be here before we have Officer Hewitt transported to the airport. Sheriff Holman, I can’t give you odds. I am optimistic. We have a few things in our favor.”
“A few.”
“That’s right.”
“Is there any chance that we’ll be able to talk to him?”
“That’s very unlikely. He’s just been through almost six hours of surgery. He won’t even be out from under the anesthetic for some time. On the flight north, he’ll…well, you don’t need to know all that, but I can appreciate your concern. I’m also aware of the investigation and the delicacy, no doubt, that is warranted by that. If one of you needs to ride in the airplane, by all means do so. I would suggest to you that they probably have room for only one of you.”
“Bill?” Holman asked, and I nodded.
“You’ll need to be out at the airport now,” Perrone said, glancing at his watch. “Although the patient hasn’t yet left the hospital, it will only be a couple of minutes. They won’t wait for you, believe me.” He nodded at us and left abruptly.
“Let’s move,” I said.
Estelle Reyes paced me out of the building and in the parking lot handed me a small tape recorder. “You might need it if he comes around for a minute or so. We want to know who was standing with Fernandez before the shots were fired.”
“I know what the hell we need, Estelle,” I snapped and climbed into 310.
“Sorry, sir,” Estelle said quietly.
I slammed the door and buzzed down the window, already sorry I’d barked at her. “Have someone come out to the airport and pick up three-ten so it doesn’t get a stone through the windshield,” I said. I tried a smile, but it didn’t work.
“You want me to make arrangements for your trip back?”
“No, I don’t know when or how that’ll be.” I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the ambulance lining up at the hospital’s emergency doorway. At the same time, we could hear the synchronized moan of the air ambulance’s engines as it circled over the mesa and turned toward Posadas County Airport. Such goddamned good timing, I thought. The plane would arrive exactly on time, and would still have its engines idling for a quick transfer. Why was it, I thought, that timing, or fate, or whatever you chose to call it, couldn’t work in our favor beforehand? Why couldn’t Art Hewitt’s frantic roll on the ground to dodge the bullet have been better timed, or Benny Fernandez’s gun hand been less lucky?
“Just don’t miss anything, Estelle. Don’t overlook a goddamned thing,” I said, and then the ambulance began to move. The detective stepped away from the car, and I pulled out onto the street, lights and siren in concert.
Chapter 11
The transfer was flawlessly executed. The ambulance pulled up alongside the airplane as I was trotting across from the patrol car. It took a moment of careful jogging and shifting of the gurney, and then patient, medical staff, and paraphernalia were aboard. The ambulance pulled away promptly. I recognized everyone except a rail-thin nurse and a man who was almost tiny in stature. There was no time for introductions, but I guessed, correctly, it turned out, that the diminutive man was Dr. Chatman. Even as the door locks were thudding into place, the boarding-side engine came back to life.
One of the aircraft officers recited instructions to us about buckle-up, and I noticed that the crew up front was performing whatever checks were needed while the aircraft rolled down the long taxiway. From where I sat, I could turn and see only the right side of Hewitt’s face and neck, down to the white sheet. Tubes and plastic packets of drip joggled and vibrated. Three people were obviously planning to spend their every moment tending and monitoring, and I shifted a little, trying to relax for the takeoff. I must have looked even less assured than I felt, because a hand patted my shoulder and one of the flight officers smiled reassuringly.
“He’ll be fine, Sheriff. We’ll really be hoofin’ it, so it’s only an hour and a half flying time to Albuquerque. And the weatherman promises smooth skies. So relax, huh? He’ll be fine.”
For a good hour, I believed him. And then things fell apart. The first sign was a slight stirring from Hewitt. He hadn’t regained consciousness, but one leg flexed slightly and his head turned to the left. The emergency crew went to work, and I had sense enough to stay out of the way. I had to watch, though. I tried to will their efforts to success. At one point, the EMT officer who accompanied the aircraft slid forward past me.
To the pilot, he said clearly and loudly, “Straight in, Tom. We got a cardiac arrest.”
We were in a gradual descent, and by the high pitch of the engines, it was apparent that the flight crew was taking every advantage of power and gravity, booting that airplane through the sky for all it was worth. In back, I saw those awful electric paddles that come out as a last resort in all the movies and jolt the patient back to life. Chatman vetoed their use this time, though, with a quick shake of the head. At the same time that I saw the doctor plunge an enormous hypodermic into Art Hewitt’s chest, I heard the pilot, just a couple of feet behind my head, say, “Albuquerque approach, Air Ambulance Niner-one-niner is forty south, request change to priority straight on three.”
“Double Alpha niner-one-niner, plan straight in on three. Are you declaring a medical emergency?” The voice of the controller was as calm as ice.
“Niner-one-niner, affirmative.”
“And niner-one-niner, where do you want the ambulance? He’s parked by the Aero Club now.”
“Albuquerque, have him right at the intersection with eight. Can you do that? It’ll save us taxi time.”
“Roger, niner-one-niner. We will hold traffic commencing in five minutes until you’re down.”
“Roger, Albuquerque. Thanks for the expedite.”
“Niner-one-niner, you’re cleared straight in. Report twenty south and then proceed at your discretion. Tower has you.”
I have no idea how fast that Piper Navajo was traveling on the final approach, but any lineup with the runway was done at a dead run. Working at his own dead run was the doctor in back. He had given up the needles and my stomach tightened and churned as I saw him shifting position, face intent and scalpel in hand. With a single, decisive slash, the doctor cut into Art Hewitt’s rib cage. Blood welled up along the eight-inch incision that started just below the left nipple and curved down his side in line with the ribs. The EMT was at Hewitt’s head, working the masks and tubes there, and faintly, over the steady bellow of the plane’s engines, I could hear the click and hiss of the medical machinery. The nurse was hovering beside the physician, and the doctor, sweat now running down his cheeks, had his hand inside Art Hewitt’s chest, rhythmically massaging the young man’s crippled heart. I think, at that point, that the only person breathing in the airplane was Art Hewitt, and that was only by dint of mechanical assistance.