James Hayman - The Cutting

The rational side of his brain knew the man was more likely running away. He’d have to know his bullet hadn’t killed Sophie immediately. Have to know McCabe would call for help. He probably saw Sophie move as he fired, and saw the bullet strike her arm, not her head. Yet he couldn’t know how badly hurt she was. She might have died from loss of blood. Or he might have simply nicked her and she was lying low to stay out of sight. McCabe kept singing. She’s got freckles on her butt, She is nice.

He heard sirens. First in the distance, then closing fast. Less than a minute later, two state police cars and an ambulance screamed onto the quiet road. The ambulance and one of the cars pulled up next to the Bird. A young trooper sporting a Marine Corps-style buzz cut swaggered over, picked up the Mossberg, and signaled McCabe to roll down the window. He did.

An EMT pushed past the trooper and opened the door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’

‘I’m fine. She’s shot in the upper arm. Arterial bleeding. A lot of it.’

‘If you can slip out of the car without letting go of her arm, I’ll lean in and we’ll trade places.’

McCabe did as he was told. The EMT slid by McCabe in the opposite direction, reaching into the car until his hands could join McCabe’s on the wound. McCabe slipped out. The EMT and his partner slid Sophie onto a stretcher and hurried her toward the ambulance.

McCabe turned. The trooper had his service weapon out and pointed at McCabe. ‘All right, sir. Please turn around slowly and place both hands on the car.’

McCabe did as he was told. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said to the trooper. ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’

Pause. ‘Where’s your shield and ID?’

‘Back pocket. Left.’

McCabe felt the trooper’s hand enter his pocket and extract the wallet. The man opened it and looked it over.

‘Okay, you can turn around,’ the trooper said. McCabe did, and he handed the wallet back. He holstered his weapon. ‘You’re a little off your turf, aren’t you, Sergeant? What’s the story?’

McCabe gave a weary sigh. He wasn’t in the mood to explain his presence in Gray or discuss jurisdictional issues with a gung-ho ex-marine. ‘Just call Colonel Matthews and tell him I’m here in conjunction with the Katie Dubois murder investigation. It’s a Portland PD case. And get reinforcements. There’s a skilled sniper with a rifle and probably a night-vision scope fleeing this area. On foot, for now.’

The medics were sliding Sophie into the back of the waiting ambulance. ‘I’m going with them,’ McCabe announced.

From the driver’s seat of the Bird, McCabe retrieved his cell phone, as well as the bloody jacket that had been covering Sophie and the. 45. He turned and trotted toward the ambulance. ‘By the way, take care of that Mossberg for me,’ he shouted to the trooper. ‘It’s a fine weapon, and I want it back.’

The EMTs already had Sophie’s good arm hooked up to an IV when McCabe hopped in behind the stretcher. ‘I’m riding with you,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question. The medic looked up and nodded but said nothing. McCabe closed the door and squeezed himself into a corner against lockers filled with medical supplies.

McCabe looked out the back door. He could see the trooper hesitate for a moment, then pick up the shotgun and walk to his car, no doubt to start the radio calls that would work their way up the chain of command to Matthews. The ambulance took off, its lights flashing and siren screaming an unmistakable urgency to the quiet countryside.

Somewhere in the dark, the shooter watched and listened and began planning his next move.

Tuesday. 10:30 P.M.

McCabe watched the EMT work from his perch in the back of the ambulance. The man placed an oxygen mask over Sophie’s nose and mouth. He wrapped what looked like an Ace bandage as tightly as he could around Sophie’s wound and resumed applying pressure against the artery above the wound. He looked competent. There was no conversation.

Up front, the driver radioed the ER dispatcher at Cumberland Medical Center. ‘Cumberland, this is Gray Emergency. We’re coming in, lights and siren. We’ve got a woman. Gunshot wound. Left arm. Arterial bleeding. Kind of shocky. We’ve got one line normal saline, wide open. Hundred percent O2. BP soft.’

‘Eighty-five over sixty, pulse one ten,’ shouted the man in the back.

The driver relayed the information. ‘ETA seventeen minutes,’ he added. ‘Please advise.’

The voice from the hospital crackled from a speaker above McCabe’s head. ‘Open a second line if you can. The trauma team will be ready and waiting. Give us your one-minute ETA.’

‘Roger that.’

McCabe leaned back as best he could. He looked like an accident victim himself, covered with Sophie’s blood. He pinned his shield to his bloodied shirt and used his cell to call Maggie.

‘McCabe, what’s going on? I thought you’d be back by now.’ He could barely hear her through the scream of the siren.

He filled her in on the shooting, omitting anything he didn’t want the EMT to hear, which was most of it.

‘I’ll meet you at the hospital,’ she said. ‘I’ll call Jane Devaney and get her over here before I leave.’

McCabe hesitated, trying to figure out if that was the best way to keep the bases covered. He hated waking Jane in the middle of the night but, in the end, figured that was the best solution. ‘Alright. Can you bring me some clean clothes? I’m a little unsightly at the moment.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘No. Underwear’s in the dresser. Shirts and pants in the closet. Bring some kind of jacket.’ She said okay. ‘Also please call Bill Fortier and have him coordinate the search with the staties. Ditto the crime scene people. I want Jacobi working that SUV.’

‘Sure. Have you had anything to eat?’

McCabe had to think about that for a minute. ‘No. Not really. Everything good there?’

‘Yeah. Casey’s a little nervous. She just went to bed, but I don’t think she’s sleeping. You want to talk to her?’

‘Not from here. Just tell her everything’s fine, I love her, and I’ll see her tomorrow.’

They were on the turnpike now. Sophie seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness.

‘BP softening to seventy-five systolic, pulse up to one twenty,’ the EMT called to the driver. ‘I’m inserting the second line.’ The ambulance slowed and pulled over to allow the man in back a steady platform to insert the needle for the second IV. He put it in above the first in Sophie’s good arm.

He taped the needle in place. ‘Okay, go!’ he shouted.

The ambulance started back on the road and roared south on 95. What little traffic there was pulled to the right to let them pass. They cut across Washington Avenue and then south on 295. About half a mile north of the Congress Street exit, the driver again spoke to the hospital. ‘Cumberland, this is Gray. Second line open full. One minute from touchdown.’

‘See you when you get here.’

One minute later they pulled into the ambulance bay at the Cumberland Medical Center ER. The ambulance crew grabbed both sides of the stretcher and exited the vehicle at a run. McCabe followed. Twin automatic doors burst open, and they hurried Sophie directly into the hospital’s brightly lit trauma room. A full reception committee, at least ten doctors, nurses, residents, and students, stood in position, ready to receive.

The EMTs and a pair of residents lifted the sheet under Sophie and used it to transfer her to the trauma room stretcher. Someone in scrubs called out, ‘Trauma room three!’ They headed where she was pointing.

As they went, a serious-looking young woman, thin with a long horsey face, checked Sophie’s IVs and oxygen, then addressed one of the EMTs. Her plastic badge identified her as Dr. Maloney. ‘Give me what you’ve got.’