Bottom line here was that the police were thinking about a sniper, but Asad Khalil was thinking about trying to cut off my head.
The blue-and-white NYPD helicopter was already on the pad, and I recognized it as the Bell 412, used mostly for air-sea rescue, and also fully equipped as an ambulance.
Bellevue Hospital, where we would be taking Kate, was also on the river, a few blocks south of the heliport. Bellevue handled what we called sensitive cases-sick and injured prisoners, as well as injured witnesses and victims who were thought to be at further risk, like Kate.
Jackson got the word, and Officer Regan opened my door and escorted me to the waiting helicopter. I thanked Ed, climbed into the cabin, and looked around.
As I said, this was a fully equipped ambulance and rescue craft, so it was packed with all kinds of rescue gear and medical equipment, including a locked-in gurney that looked comfortable, but not as comfortable as my La-Z-Boy.
The engine started and it got loud in the cabin.
In addition to the pilot and the copilot, both NYPD, there was also a SWAT team guy in the cabin, armed with an MP-5 automatic rifle. Were we making an air assault? The SWAT guy greeted me with a wave, then closed the door, which made it a bit quieter.
I noticed also that there was a lady on board, sitting in one of the seats, wearing a blue windbreaker and white slacks. She stuck out her hand and said loudly over the sound of the engine, "Heather. Emergency Services."
We shook, and I said, "John. Door gunner."
She smiled.
She seemed like a nice lady, maybe fifty or sixty years old-maybe younger, like twenty-five, with long flaming red hair, breathtaking blue eyes, and the face of a Norse goddess.
She said, "So, we're going to pick up your wife?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
"Oh… right." I'm married.
I took the seat facing her as the helicopter rose off the pad and slipped sideways over the river. We continued our ascent as we headed north, following the East River.
Heather asked me, "Do you like helicopters?"
"I love helicopters. How about you?"
"I'm not so sure."
"Can you swim?"
She smiled again.
Heather had the Post, and she buried her alabaster white face in the paper and read it with her big, velvety blue eyes.
I turned my attention to the window on my left and watched the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan slide by. We followed the Harlem River until it intersected the Hudson, and we continued north for a while, then turned west toward Sullivan County.
Heather put down the newspaper and asked me, "Who lacerated her carotid?"
I replied, "Some psycho."
She glanced at the SWAT guy and asked me, "You think he's still after her?"
"We're not taking any chances."
She informed me, "She's lucky to be alive. That's usually fatal."
"I know."
Heather observed, "She's getting very special treatment."
I replied, of course, "She's a very special lady." But she doesn't understand me, Heather. Actually, she does.
Heather observed, "You're wearing a vest."
And she looked like she was smuggling balloons. I replied, "I am." Why did I spend a thousand bucks on the shirt and sports jacket? As per protocol, I informed her, "And I'm carrying." I added, "NYPD, retired."
"You're too young to retire."
"Disability."
"Mental?"
I smiled and replied, "Everyone asks that."
She laughed.
Realizing that my wife would be on the return trip with Heather, I cooled it and asked, "Can I have part of that paper?"
"Sure."
About thirty minutes into the flight, the engine changed pitch and we began descending. In the far distance, I could see the runway of Sullivan County Airport where all this crap began not too long ago.
Within a minute I spotted the big white building of the Catskill Regional Medical Center, and then I saw the helipad to the side of the building.
A few minutes later, we were on the ground. The engine stopped, the rotary blades wound down, and the door opened.
Heather said to me, very professionally, and perhaps coolly, "Please stay in the aircraft."
She climbed down and moved quickly toward the hospital. The SWAT guy also got out and took up a position between the helicopter and the hospital. I also noticed two uniformed State Troopers near the hospital door, armed with rifles. This might be overkill, but someone had made the safe decision.
I watched from the door as Kate was wheeled out of the hospital and rolled toward the helicopter. She was wearing green scrubs and a white robe, but she had no IVs attached to her and no ventilator, which was a good sight. I saw she was carrying the stuffed lion in her lap. She saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back.
Four attendants lifted her and the wheelchair on board and I stepped aside.
As soon as she was placed on the gurney, I went over to her and said, "Hi, beautiful."
We kissed and she said, "It's good to see you."
Her voice was a little raspy, but I didn't mention it. I said, "It's good to see you. You look great." And she did look well. Her lip and cheek were still a little puffy where Khalil had hit her, but she had good color and wore a little makeup to cover the face bruise. There was only a small dressing over her wound, though I could see black and blue marks around the dressing.
One of the attendants gave me a bag that contained her helmet and boots, which I signed for, and I also signed her discharge papers, insurance forms, waivers, and what looked liked a codicil to my will leaving the hospital everything.
The engine restarted and within a minute we were airborne.
I stood beside Kate and held her hand. I could see now that her cheeks looked a bit sunken. She patted the lion and said, "This was in questionable taste."
"It was," I admitted, "but it's the thought that counts."
On the subject of lions, she asked me, "Do we need the SWAT guy?"
I replied, "It's SOP."
Heather came over and said to Kate, "Hi. I'm Heather. ESU. How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Heather asked Kate a few medical questions, put a temperature strip on her forehead, took her blood pressure, and said, "Everything's good." She also said, "Cute lion."
Kate replied, "My husband gave it to me," and smiled at me.
I thought Heather was going to say, "Oh, is John your husband?" But she just moved away and sat.
Kate observed, "She's very pretty."
"Who?"
"The nurse."
"Heidi?"
"Heather."
"Yeah?"
Anyway, we chatted awhile, but not about business. Her voice was weak and I urged her not to talk too much, and I helped her sip from a water bottle. She said, "I was able to get some Jell-O down this morning."
What's with the Jell-O? Why do hospitals give sick people Jell-O? When I was at Columbia-Presbyterian after I took three slugs, they kept bringing me Jell-O. Why the hell would I want to eat Jell-O?
Kate said to me, "And you had a poppy bagel for breakfast."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Was I smiling at Heather with a poppy seed in my teeth?
Kate informed me, "Someone from headquarters, a guy named Peterson, stopped by last night to see how I was doing."
It's not unusual for someone from Washington to call on an agent injured in the line of duty, but I was sure there was more to it than compassion and protocol. In fact, Kate said, "He reminded me not to speak to anyone about the incident-like I need reminding."