Jade is unconscious and unresponsive. Her mouth still taped.
Eve guesses there’s a wound around the temporal or parietal bones on the left side of her head. She pulls off the tape, puts her fingers into a river of red and feels for a pulse.
There isn’t one.
She puts her hand to Jade’s mouth and can’t feel any breath. Eve’s not ready to give up. She presses the button on her radio. ‘I need paramedics and I need them Superman fast.’
Control has her coordinates so she doesn’t waste time waiting for a reply. Eve digs out a Swiss Army knife from her pocket and uses the blade to sever the thick plastic band around the girl’s wrists. She picks her up, lays her on the floor and checks her airway before she starts CPR.
Two beats in, Eve spots the muzzle-flash burns on the cushion. She can’t help but wonder what kind of woman could execute a young girl like that. Death was too good for the bitch.
She checks again for a pulse. There still isn’t one.
‘Goddamn it, come on!’ She starts another cycle of chest compressions. ‘Don’t give up on me, girl.’
Eve knows that the statistics are stacked against her. CPR seldom saves the lives of people shot and bleeding like this.
But there’s always a chance.
The wound is fresh, less than five minutes old, and that means there’s a slim hope of saving the brain from damage and keeping the heart pumping.
Sweat pours down Eve’s face. Muscles in her wrists and arms ache. But she doesn’t stop.
The door to the shack has been hanging open ever since she walked in. Through it she hears the thwack of helicopter blades. ‘They’re coming, honey,’ she whispers to Jade. ‘The paramedics will be here any minute.’
Dust blows in the doorway. The hum of rotors makes the floor vibrate.
She looks up and sees two medics. One has a defib machine, the other an oxygen kit and medicine case.
172
Inside the church of Our Lady of the Taper, one of the dog handlers respectfully calls an all clear. A watching inspector gives a thumbs-up. Another handler and his sniffer dog weave in and out of rows of seats.
Owain leaves them to it and walks the building on his own. He knows everyone is going to be searched and no one can get in here without prior vetting and electronic scanning. But he has a bad feeling — the kind Myrddin taught him never to ignore.
The service is being filmed, relayed to crowds outside and broadcast live to the world, but only three camera points have been allowed and none are on the altar. Covert but armed police are stationed at all three points and at the sound control desk. All the televisual crews have been thoroughly validated and will be body-searched each and every time they pass through the church.
Owain walks outside and watches officers direct onlookers to strategic areas behind street barriers. There are two cordoned-off sections specifically for photographers, journalists and camera crews. Over his head a trio of police helicopters circle high, wide and near.
Carrie Auckland walks through a checkpoint. She’s now more suitably attired for a church service, in a knee-length blue dress with high neckline.
As soon as she reaches him she breaks the news. ‘The Vatican helicopter has just touched down and the Guard are making the transfer to the Popemobile.’
‘How long?’
‘Ten minutes. No more.’
173
Eleonora makes Ross Green stand outside her car while she checks with Donovan that he is who he says he is, some PI from a hotshot international company she’s never heard of with special clearance from the FBI director to work on the case.
She rings off and shrugs. ‘My boss says you can help.’
‘Glad I passed the test.’ The SSOA operative leans against Eleonora’s Crossfire. ‘The shooter is called Chris Wilkins, aka several other false names. We believe his real identity is Charlie Wood, an unspectacular name for a very special breed of killer, kidnapper and all round bad guy. He’s married to an equally obnoxious waste of human DNA called Theresa Wood, née Tobin.’
‘And how do you know this?’
‘It’s my job to know it. Like I said, we’re on the same side. My colleagues are trying to help your colleague, and right now Wilkins is getting away.’ Ross dips into his jacket pocket and pulls out a fold of paper. ‘He’s booked on a flight out of Stockton in an hour. My betting is that after all this heat he’s going to skip it.’ He sees her going for her phone. ‘I’ve already got someone at the airport. And at Byron and Livermore Tracy and Camp Parks. Then I’m blown. Fresh out of personnel.’
‘And you want me to fix cover at the other airports?’
He nods. ‘I have a feeling he’ll try for a small private plane out of the state, then go international for a while.’
‘I can do this. I’ll call my office again.’
‘Good. Then give me your cell number and I’ll get moving. I see anything I’ll call you.’
She pulls a card from her jeans. ‘Where are you going?’
‘South.’
‘Mexico?’
‘Uh-huh. If he drives hard and straight, it’s six hours, max. I have to cover all bases.’
174
The airlift from Mount Diablo to the John Muir Hospital helipad takes only a few minutes.
Eve Garrett flies with Jade. She stays until paramedics roll her into the ER. As the surgery doors shut a mortuary crew trundles past with a gurney to pick up the corpse of the female kidnapper.
The SSOA agent cleans up in a washroom and is about to make herself scarce, when a stubble-faced young medic in scrubs catches her arm. ‘You best hang on; the sheriff is going to want a word with you.’
She shakes him off. ‘Don’t touch!’
‘My bad.’ He lifts a hands apologetically. ‘Just doing my job.’
The brunette dips into her pocket and produces a false ID. ‘I’m a PI. His office already has my number.’ She starts for the exit.
‘Wait!’
She turns and scowls.
‘Please. Is there anything you can tell me about the shooting — anything that might help us treat the victim?’
She stops and gives what little she’s got. ‘You’re still well within the Golden Hour. I was there when the shot was fired.’ She mentally chastises herself. ‘If I’d been seconds earlier the kid wouldn’t even have been hurt.’
He eases up on her. ‘Paramedics said you did a good job. Gave her a fighting chance.’
‘Did my best.’
He clicks a pen and prepares to write on a clipboard. ‘How long did you have to work her heart?’
‘Five, six minutes. Felt a whole lot longer.’
‘It always does.’ He makes a note. ‘How soon before they got oxygen to her?’
‘Less than ten. I was still working her when they arrived.’
‘That’s good. A lack of oxygen to the brain is always our biggest fear.’
‘You said fighting chance — you think she’s gonna make it?’
He weighs up how to respond and in the end goes for honesty. ‘Usually a head wound is the kind of trauma you don’t get over.’
Her face falls.
‘That said, the shot wasn’t straight on.’ He bends his wrist to demonstrate. ‘The kid has lost a lot of scalp and bone but no brain.’
‘So she’ll be okay?’
‘I can’t say that. Giving CPR and getting oxygen to her so quickly are big pluses though. At the moment, they’re dealing with shock and swelling, so she’s a long way from okay. That said, she’s hanging in there and if she’s a fighter then anything’s possible.’