A line of scarlet, about two-hands wide, stretched across the concrete floor. Definitely drag marks. And the smaller red splotches running along the left side of it looked suspiciously like a single handprint, repeated over and over again. And the prints didn’t start or end with the broken-nosed man. They kept going right past him.
She scuffed forward on her hand and knees, following the trail...
Then stopped and stared.
A man lay at the end of it, slumped back, arms and legs splayed, grey hoodie stained with blood, face the colour of antique ivory. And behind him, one arm still wrapped around the guy’s chest, was Logan.
That’s why there was the one handprint, over and over again on the concrete floor. Logan must have dragged this guy in here.
She scrambled over, grabbed a fistful of bloody hoodie and hauled him off Logan. ‘No, no, no, no, no...’ Smoke burned its way down into her lungs making her hack and cough and splutter.
‘Logan!’ Roberta took hold of his shoulders. Shook him.
Nothing.
This was no’ the way today was meant to end. ‘IN HERE! HE’S IN HERE!’
Three huge fire engines sat in the gap between the two agricultural buildings, pumping water onto the cattle court. Diesel engines growling. Their lights spun blue and white through the smoke, their warning chevrons fluorescing in the headlights of the ambulances.
Rain hissed on the cattle court’s roof, adding to the massive plumes of steam and rolling smoke.
‘Get off me.’ Roberta slapped Rennie’s hands away as she paced up and down the length of Logan’s ambulance. Coughing — dry and rattling, burning up through her sandpaper throat.
‘You’ve probably got smoke inhalation.’
‘You’ll probably get a shoe-leather hernia if you don’t sod off and leave me alone!’ Another trip up and down the concrete.
‘At least drink some water.’
‘I mean it, Rennie — the whole bastarding shoe!’
They had the ambulance doors shut, muttered voices and barked instructions coming from inside. What the hell was taking them so long?
Tufty lurched over, hands and face smudged a dirty grey-black. He pointed at the closed doors. ‘Any news?’
Moron.
‘Does it sodding look like it?’
Rennie shook his head. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. And I mean a lot.’
‘It’s all my fault...’ Tufty shuffled his feet. Obviously waiting for someone to tell him that it wasn’t. Well tough. He nodded, cleared his throat, and spat out a dark-brown glob. Then pointed at the other ambulance. ‘We’ve got an anonymous I–C-One male suffering from breathing in too much smoke and probably concussion. And another one who’s been shot in the stomach. Paramedics think they’ve got him stabilised. No sign of anyone else.’ He spat again. ‘Well, you know, other than the body wrapped in plastic.’
At that, the other ambulance bleep-bleep-bleeped as it reversed through a gap between the fire engines. Did a three-point turn, and raced away down the driveway — siren on full tilt, all lights blazing. Getting smaller and smaller. Disappearing into the rainy night.
You know what? Sod this.
Roberta stormed up the remaining ambulance’s rear steps and flung the door open.
Logan was laid out on the stretcher trolley. They’d cut off his jacket, his hoodie, and his T-shirt, exposing skin pale as moonlight... at least the bits not covered in blood. A couple of IV lines snaked into one arm, wires hooked his chest up to a monitor.
She banged on the open door. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’
One of the paramedics hurried over to shut it again.
Behind him, the other one stuck defibrillator lines onto Logan’s bloody skin. ‘Charged. Clear!’
The door slammed shut, and they were gone.
48
‘Shh...’ Susan wrapped an arm around Robbie and gave her a squeeze. ‘He’ll be OK, you’ll see.’ Because, let’s face it, Susan hadn’t made it this far through life by not being Princess of the Glass Half-Full People. Queen of the Silver Lining. Empress of Looking on the Bright Side.
The blinds were partially drawn, shutting out the storm, quivering in the air that whistled through the vents. Rain crackled against the window. Machinery bleeped and whirred. The ventilator hissed and squealed with every artificial breath.
And at the centre of it alclass="underline" Logan. Still and so painfully, painfully pale. Hollows beneath his eyes. Tubes, wires, drips...
Susan gave Robbie another squeeze, then dug out a hanky and wiped away her tears.
Robbie blinked at her, all bloodshot and wobbly. ‘What if he doesn’t—’
‘Roberta Steel, you listen to me: Logan isn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t dare.’ Susan kissed her on the forehead — still a bit smoky even after three showers. ‘This is nothing more than a tiny setback. I promise.’
‘Three hundred. Charging...’ The defibrillator screen filled with the wobbly yellow scrawl of ventricular fibrillation. A shrill bleep sounded and the shock light turned red. Khadija looked up from the machine. ‘Everyone stand clear!’
The whole team skipped away from the bed, like a lumpen ballet in pale-blue scrubs, and she pressed the button.
The patient stiffened, arms and legs rigid, then sagged back onto the sheets. Pale and naked, with a chunk of stained wadding over his side.
Khadija checked the monitor again: still in ventricular fibrillation. ‘Damn it...’ She thumbed the button up to five hundred joules and glowered at him. ‘You are not breaking my winning streak. Charging!’
The Rolling Stones rocked out of Danielle’s noise-cancelling headphones: ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. Perfect accompaniment to putting up a chunk of stud partitioning.
Danielle positioned the length of CLS in the compound mitre saw and pulled the handle down — timing the blade’s shriek to the music. Then dabbed the cut ends with preservative and carried it over to what was going to be the kitchen wall. Wedged it into place and hammered the bottom edge till it sat flush with its neighbour. Nice and tight.
She grabbed the nail gun and whacked a couple in down there, bracketing them, then did the same at the top and twice more in between for good measure.
Right — next stud.
She turned and...
Ah.
A police Transit and a couple of patrol cars scrunched to a halt on the track in front of her house-to-be. Their doors flew open and about a dozen officers burst out of them, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, and some really big ones in riot gear.
They swarmed up onto the concrete foundations, circling her, batons at the ready.
A goofy-looking one with bleached blond hair and a righteous expression on his stupid pink face strode through the ranks. He pointed a tin of pepper spray at her. ‘YOU! DROP THE WEAPON! HANDS UP!’
She switched Mick off and removed her headphones. Raised an eyebrow at Blondie. ‘Rennie, isn’t it?’
‘DROP THE WEAPON!’
Weapon?
Danielle’s eyes drifted down to the nail gun in her other hand. It’d be a challenge, but she could probably take three or four of them down before the rest got her.
Then again...
She shrugged, lowered the nail gun, and put her hands in the air.
‘Urgh...’ Logan peered out at a strange room that smelled of disinfectant. Small. Blinds closed, thin slivers of sunlight chiselling their way in through the gaps to gouge holes in his eyes.
The air tasted... horrible. Like someone had rubbed a toilet brush around the inside of his mouth.