Accidentally leaning some weight against the post caused a chunk to break loose. It fell to the floor, and with it, some dirt rained down from the tunnel roof.
Walker lunged out of the total darkness, misled by the faint light, and stabbed his fishing knife into the soft post. Dirt and debris cascaded down on both of them as Matthews cried out and jumped back, her feet catching on another pile of debris. She went down hard, falling backward, her hands groping to cushion the fall, her head striking yet another post. A large chunk of mud fell into her lap, followed by a volley of rocks. Walker staggered toward her, seen only as a looming shape-a dark mass. She swung the brick at his head with the force of a tennis serve, but it impacted his shoulder as he, too, tripped over that pile of debris. She swung again and clipped him squarely in the ear, and separated a piece of his scalp.
"Fuck!" he shouted, his reaction time much faster than seemed possible as the knife flashed in the darkness and she felt her left forearm burn. He cut her again, higher on the arm.
He staggered forward, and she delivered the brick again, but his eyes had adjusted, and he careened out of the way, falling against the wall, smashing into another post with enough force to dislodge it. An overhead beam cracked loudly, spraying splinters and chunks of wood. It swung down toward the wall as if hinged and slammed into Walker, knocking him back and pinning him half standing. He fought to get it off him as Matthews heard it-a sound she understood before its effects were felt.
She took two steps backward but was stopped by sight of a flashlight beam. It appeared out of the darkness, well beyond Walker, who broke the fallen beam and shoved it to the side.
"Matthews!"
John! She burst into tears at the sound of his voice. She yelled a warning only seconds before the ceiling caved in, earth and wood and rock, like water from a burst dam. She dived back, rolled, came to her feet, and scrambled away, the ceiling disintegrating. Looking back, she lost sight of LaMoia and his light as the earthen roof rained down.
She screamed again for him, but the world came down as if a dump truck had dropped its load from above. The fantail of light she'd seen ahead was suddenly a beam, and then a spotlight, and then the sky, as the collapsing tunnel ripped open a section of street or alley. As fast as she could scramble, the debris filled in around her and under her. It briefly overcame her, winning the race, covering her, burying her. She dug out frantically, gasping for air, struggling for purchase, then suddenly lifted by a giant wave of moving earth. She climbed, slipped, and ripped her way toward the crest of the wave. As it broke and settled, reversing its direction, sucking her back down, Matthews clawed out and grabbed hold, a moment later finding herself dangling, clinging to a buried pipe and a lattice of tangled wires.
Air. Lights.
Behind her, below her, was nothing but dirt, and mud, and asphalt, and wires and broken pipe, all formed in a giant V pointing down from where she'd come.
No other voices. No other sign of life.
A Dog in Sand
Boldt and Babcock reached the back end of the cave-in only minutes after it had happened, his radio miraculously sparking back to life seconds before a plume of dust billowed down the runnel and briefly overcame them. Dispatch called a general alarm over the radio that an officer was down, buried in a cavein.
An address was called out. Babcock, reading a GPS in hand, said to Boldt, "That's us."
Then, from somewhere ahead, they heard the sound of rock against rock. Someone was digging!
Believing Matthews buried, Boldt dived into the pile and started tossing anything large enough to grab. Babcock called him off, condemned him for nearly burying them as well, and instructed him to carefully remove the larger debris and only from the tunnel's very edge-to stay below the cover of an overhead beam whenever possible. By directing him in a controlled and determined manner, she saved John LaMoia's life.
When they reached him, LaMoia was frantically digging in the wrong direction-into the collapse. Boldt seized his legs and pulled. LaMoia gasped for air, retched, and coughed. Dazed and disoriented, he would not stop digging-as frantic as a dog on a beach.
Again Boldt pulled at the man's legs, finally stopping him. "John! Daffy!" he shouted.
"I saw her," LaMoia said, returning to his chaotic digging.
"Saw her!" He turned his mud-caked face toward Boldt and shouted manic ally "Help me!" as he once again clawed into the pile, pathetic in his determination.
Over the radio, a male voice: "Shield nine-twenty is ten forty-five-A, enroute to Harbor view." Boldt heard it: 10-45ACondition of Patient Is Good.
LaMoia heard this too, and finally stopped digging. Boldt held the man by the ankles, in an attempt to drag him out of there. They met eyes in the light of Babcock's flashlight. Something communicated between them, as it can only communicate between two men who love the same woman.
"Nine-twenty," LaMoia breathed, the white of his teeth showing behind a smile. Her.
"Yeah," Boldt said. "I heard."
Faint Hope
As two male nurses rushed Matthews through Emergency into a curtained stall where blue-clad physicians awaited her, Matthews asked, "Was there a girl... a pregnant girl... ?
One of them aimed a small light into her eyes and pulled at her forehead, stretching and lifting her eyelids. She blinked furiously.
"You're in Harbor view Medical Center's emergency room," a man's voice reported calmly.
She took the doc by his surgical scrubs and pulled his face down to hers. "A girl... a knife wound ... pregnant."
The doctor separated himself, barked a few orders for injections, and then checked with his nurse, a gentle-eyed black woman. This nurse shook her head gravely at the doctor while eyeing Matthews. "She didn't make it. I'm sorry."
"The baby?" Matthews asked. Someone pricked her skin with a needle. She winced. The clear plastic tubing of an IV rig was quickly untangled. A fluid dripped, followed by a warm wave of relaxation and peace. A sedative. The feeling threatened to consume her.
"We're going to stitch you up," she heard the doctor say. "We've given you something to help with pain."
"The baby?" she whispered at the nurse.
The nurse leaned into her, her face suddenly much more gentle.
"They were going to try to deliver the baby postmortem."
She could barely keep her eyes open. Sleep pulled her down. But she managed to reach out and find the nurse's hand. The woman leaned in closely. Matthews said, "LaMoia ... police officer is he okay?"
The woman looked at her with soft eyes. "Rest," she said peacefully.
"No drugs," Matthews said.
"It's just something to relax you."
"Not me," she complained hoarsely, trying to sit up, but failing.
The nurse eased her back down. "Cowboy ... no drugs. He can't have drugs. He ..." She couldn't get another word out, her tongue an uncooperative slug. A deep purple light fanned in at the edges of her eyes, stealing away the nurse and finally the overly bright light above the bed. Just before the goo dragged her down for good, she thought she heard the nurse say something, but it blended into a dream, and she lost all track of it.
Winning the Yes
"I owe you," LaMoia called out from behind the roar of his kitchen blender and a batch of LaMoia's original-recipe margaritas.
Blue patrolled the kitchen floor licking up spills. LaMoia drizzled tequila through an open hole in the lid. A plate of raw salt awaited to his left.
"Damn right you do." She wore a sling on her left arm, some bandages he couldn't see. She sat on a padded stool at his kitchen counter. Even her bottom was sore.
He wore a series of serious bruises on his face and arms like medals of honor. He caught her looking. "You could kiss them to make them better."