Kit Crumb: Body Parts

“Unit 88, Code 3.” The voice paused and static continued to crackle from the speakers. They looked at each other knowingly. A Code 3 meant lights and sirens, 88 was Mad Dash.

“Heart attack, 238 Wilshire Way, Cascade Circle Estates.”

“Shit, I knew it,” Claire said, grabbing her towel and streaking across the room.

“At least we’re still getting calls,” Rye said.

Claire stopped, spinning to face him. “Right, back to the bottom of the barrel. You know how many false alarms have come out of that retirement community?”

Mad Dash had visited Cascade Circle Estates dozens of times before acquiring Jessel County. Residents were prone to panic with every new ache or pain.

They drove the five miles in silence, entering the circular driveway that passed in front of the retirement home where the manager, Jim Webb, met them. He always looked a little chagrined whenever they drove up. The facility had been the site of so many false alarms over the years that he felt embarrassed every time an ambulance pulled into the drive.

Claire went around to the rear of the Beast, putting on the backpack that contained the oxygen and the AED defibrillator. Rye walked over to greet Webb.

“Helen pulled her emergency cord. When I went up to her apartment she said she thought she was having a heart attack, She’s in room 208. I hope this isn’t another false alarm.” He looked at his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “God, what am I saying?”

“Better safe than sorry.” Rye smiled at the agitated manager. “Never hesitate to call, really.”

Claire was half way to the front double door when Rye caught up with her.

“Helen Horwitz, Room 208.”

When they exited the elevator on to the second floor Helen was standing, with the help of her cane, just outside her apartment door. Rye jogged up to her.

“How’s the heart?”

“Oh I’m so embarrassed. I took a Tums and my symptoms simply disappeared. It must have been the sausage.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but as long as we’re here we could hook you up and look at the numbers. No cost, no problem.”

Helen reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. “No thank you, dearie, I’m fine.”

He smiled down at the tiny woman. “I’m glad it was a false alarm.” He gave his watch a quick glance. “Better find my partner, see if we can grab a quick brunch.”

He looked around and spotted Claire at the end of the hall moving in his direction. He parked the gurney by the elevator, and headed up to meet her. He passed a couple returning to their room with the slow halting gait of the elderly.

“Hello,” Rye said, as he came up beside them.

The man stopped, seemingly happy for the rest, leaned on his walker, and looked up at Rye. “Did Helen have another case of indigestion?”

“Looks that way.”

The man turned to his wife. “Told you so.” Without another word, the couple continued on their way.

When he looked up, Claire was standing next to him.

“Someone up the hall need our assistance?” Rye said.

“Just talking. The woman says her neighbor has been on a list for a liver replacement over a year, and is beginning to fade.”

Rye reached for the elevator button marked 1, then hesitated. “Do you think we should pay her a visit?”

Claire shrugged her shoulder to reposition the backpack. “Better not, we’re already in enough hot water.”

“You’re right.” He pressed the button.

As they exited the elevator Rye looked around for Webb, sticking his head in the office while Claire pushed the gurney through the double doors. He soon joined her at the ambulance.

She reached under the gurney and pulled the lever that dropped it from waist high to inches off the ground. “You find the manager?”

“Nah, he’s probably dealing with some other crisis.” He bent, grabbing the rail of the collapsed gurney. “Two, three, lift.” Together they lifted the gurney and pushed it into the ambulance. “Did that woman say what her neighbor is going to do about the liver?” Rye asked, latching the gurney in place.

“You won’t like the answer.” They walked around and climbed in the cab.

“What’s she going to do?” Rye said, snapping his harness in place.

“Apparently the son is going to buy a liver off the black market.”

“You’re right, I don’t like it. I just read how black market organs are usually contaminated, and how a black market liver can cost up to three hundred thousand.”

He started the engine but left it in neutral while two seniors crossed in front of the ambulance.

They tried to eat at the Plaza Café whenever they were in town because it had outside seating, and the food was good. Claire would set the alarm to lights and horn. It seemed they were always just beginning a meal when a call came through and suddenly the ambulance came alive.

But on this day, Rye packed a lunch and set out to find a place to park, and as he liked to say, eat in. He pulled the ambulance under a huge Monterey cypress that hung over a corner of the parking lot of Ruby Park.

Claire released her harness and leaned against the door. “Here we are brown-baggin’ it in a vintage ambulance with next to no chance of getting a call. What say we call it a day and head home?”

First static, then a frantic voice—not the dispatcher. Rye reached across to the scanner, and cranked up the volume.

“10-7 requests assist. Old Hanley Farm.” That was it, no repetition of the address, no lingering static, and definitely not dispatch.

“Isn’t that Paul’s place?” Claire said.

Lunch forgotten, Rye brought the ambulance to life with a twist of the key.

The look in his eyes told Claire all she needed to know. She flipped on the lights and set all the sirens howling.

Paul Casey was Rye’s childhood friend. They’d both been runners in school and had been running together at least once a week for thirty years. Paul was a Private Investigator retired by a bullet to the hip. Six months later, he lost his wife to cancer leaving him to raise their six-year-old daughter. Rye had set up an emergency dispatch trigger at the farm tuned to a special channel on his scanner both in the station the ambulance.

Paul’s voice over the scanner had been tight with alarm.

Rye turned onto Rural Ranch Road slowing to accommodate the potholes that littered the dirt track.

“There’s Paul.” Claire pointed to a franticly waving figure standing between the farmhouse and the barn.

Rye slowed the ambulance to a crawl and guided it next to the horse barn. He’d just shut off the engine when his door was yanked open, and he was confronted by a mud-covered figure.

“Rye, thank God. It’s Amy she’s fallen down a well.”

Claire circled around the front of the ambulance, stepping within inches of Paul to get his attention. “Are you OK?” She’d never seen him so distressed.

“Oh Claire, she’s fallen down a hole. I can hear her but can’t see her.” His voice nearly broke, and he was beginning to shake.

“Where? Paul, show me where.”

She followed him while Rye got rope and a shovel from the lower compartment of the ambulance.

They were a hundred feet behind the barn when Paul broke into a limping run, taking just ten steps then throwing himself face down onto the dirt where he crawled to what looked like a low spot in the ground.

Paul cupped his hands around his mouth. “Amy baby, it’s Daddy.” He looked up at Claire, his eyes pleading.

Without hesitation Claire flopped down next to him, shading her eyes in an attempt to see down the hole. “Amy this is Aunt Claire. Are you hurt?”

She turned her head to catch any sound that might come out of the hole. The tremulous tones of a child’s voice drifted to the surface.