Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

As I gently exerted pressure, I listened. Was the shooter planning to try again? All I heard was the gurgle of the creek.

The blood slowed to a trickle and fanned out into a delta of ripples, first on Tom’s shirt, then on the snow-dusted rock. He blinked and grunted as he reached for the radio.

“Don’t do that!” Hysteria threaded through my voice as my hands, slippery with blood, lost their grip on the wound.

He held the radio up with his right hand. “Talk.” His voice was thick. I composed myself and pushed in again on the wound. “Talk into the radio,” Tom muttered. He groaned again, a deep guttural sound that didn’t sound human.

“All right, all right,” I promised hastily as I first stabilized my pressure on the wound, then scooted awkwardly to get closer to the radio. “Just don’t move again. Please, Tom - “

“Goldy, I’m sorry …” His voice had descended to a hoarse whisper.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

“No …Goldy “

Fear spiked up my spine. Where was the shooter? My hands began to cramp on the wound. I willed them to relax.

Again Tom said, “I’m sorry … .”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. Somebody will be here soon. Ambulance, cops … they’re on their way.”

“I can feel my right arm, but not my left - “

“They’re bound to be here any sec.”

Tom’s eyes rolled back in his head, then came forward again. “Goldy.” He was struggling to speak. “I have to tell

you.” Each word heaved out, like an enormous, painful sigh. “I’m …” with great effort, he said, “I don’t love her.”

“Tom! Be quiet. You’re delirious.”

“I was just … trying to figure out … what was going on. So you’ll understand … .” His voice trailed off.

I stared at him.

“Listen,” Tom said again, weakly. “I’m … so … sorry.”

My voice made no sound as I concentrated on stopping the blood still leaking from the ugly wound in his shoulder. But my mind screamed, “Sorry for what?”

-7-

How long had it been since Tom had been shot? Seconds. Hours. No, not hours. Minutes. Fractions of minutes. Tom floated in and out of consciousness, his face drained of color, his body slumped against the boulder. He looked like a dying bear. There was no further sound from the radio. I pressed against Tom’s wound and begged for him to live.

Then something changed. At first I was not sure if the piercing noise was sirens or ringing in my ears. And perhaps the distant wop wop wop was the drumbeat of my heart, and not the helicopter I desperately wanted it to be.

Please, I prayed again.

Then: Men shouted. The sirens screamed closer. Not far away, a helicopter landed with a blast of air that hurt my ears and made my eyes water. The helo engine cut off and more men yelled. Overhead, I thought I could hear another copter.

“Here!” I yelled, without moving from Tom’s side. “We’re over here!”

After what seemed like a century, a policeman in full SWAT gear leaped through the rock barrier ten yards from us. He was big, muscular, and limber, with dark skin and dark hair. Crouching expertly, he spoke into a radio as he scrambled across the distance to us.

A second later, he was crawling around Tom and me. He told me not to move my hands as he bent in to get a look at the wound. He felt for Tom’s pulse, murmured into his own radio, then turned his full attention back to Tom.

“Schulz! Schulz! Can you hear me?” The SWAT guy’s radio crackled. “Schulz!” he cried again. “Are you in there?”

“Of course,” Tom said unexpectedly, and I almost laughed with relief.

The SWAT cop nodded to me. “Are you hurt?” he asked. I shook my head. “Can you talk?” I nodded. “Good. How many shots?”

“Three.” My voice sounded weird. “One went into his shoulder. Another hit his car. The last one struck one of my van doors.”

“Could you tell where the shots came from?”

“From across two-oh-three, it seemed. At the time, I thought someone was up on the hill in Cottonwood Park. In the trees.”

“How far up the hill?” the cop demanded.

I didn’t know. “Maybe a hundred feet, maybe fifty.” Tom’s eyes had closed again, and I leaned in close to him, murmuring his name.

The SWAT guy talked into his radio, then tried again to communicate with Tom until his radio crackled back. The cops must not have found the shooter, because the officer jumped up, waved over the boulder, and hollered for the medics.

Moments later, two medics - both young men with shaved scalps - clambered over the boulders. They instructed me to ease off the compression and move out of the way. I obeyed. One assessed Tom’s wound while the other checked his vital signs. The second medic told the SWAT guy to get the police copter out of the meadow. They were bringing in Flight-for-Life. This meant the medics were skipping the ambulance. Again I wished I didn’t know so much. They were skipping the ambulance because of the severity of Tom’s wound. Time had become critical and an ambulance would take too long… .

I felt dizzy and keeled backward. My body was shutting down, drained of its initial surge of adrenaline. One medic ordered me to lie on the ground. He told the SWAT officer to check me for shock.

Without realizing how I got there, I was suddenly lying on an uneven sheet of ice. A rock stuck into my left shoulder blade. My whole body turned very cold, very fast. I have to call the Hydes, I thought, as the blue sky whirled over my head. There’ll be no luncheon today. The SWAT deputy was talking to me, telling me to keep my eyes open, to keep looking at him. He asked if my collar was tight. I didn’t care about my damn collar. I couldn’t see Tom. The deputy informed me that the situation on the other side of the rocks had stabilized. The shooter had fled. Captain Lambert of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department had radioed to say I could follow the medical helo down to the hospital. If I wanted to. If I was well enough.

I said I was fine. I tried to sit up but my head swam and I sank back, helpless and frustrated. I wanted to be with my husband, my voice croaked. And could someone please call the Hydes, Eliot and Sukie, who owned the castle on the hill above the chapel, and tell them what was happening? The SWAT man nodded and told me the police chopper was leaving now, so Flight-for-Life could land. When the medical helo left, the police chopper would come back to take me to the hospital. Did I understand? I nodded. Captain Lambert would meet me in Denver. A trauma team at the hospital was

already getting prepared for Tom.

A trauma team. I was having trouble breathing. The SWAT deputy had not mentioned the body in the creek.

When officer needs assistance, shots fired comes in, I knew, everything else gets dropped. My mind repeated the words. A trauma team. Getting ready. For Tom.

I couldn’t hear the SWAT guy anymore.

I registered the deafening racket and harsh wind of one helo taking off and another landing. A uniformed man and woman - both flight nurses, I realized - threaded through the boulder wall. They stabilized Tom’s head, tersely asked the SWAT deputy for a report, then bandaged Tom up and belted him into a stretcher. I craned to watch. My dear Tom, big in body and spirit, charismatic with his men, loving to Arch and me, was always on the move, without being hurried. Now he was unconscious, his face gray, his body drenched in blood. Working in sync, the two nurses expertly heaved the stretcher bearing Tom over the boulders. The SWAT man didn’t stop me as I struggled to my feet. When I swayed and nearly fell, he gripped my elbow and walked me through the rocks.

The sheer number of cops assembled was astonishing. At least fifty police officers, their uniforms and cars emblazoned with the insignia of the Furman County and nearby Jefferson County sheriff’s departments, as well as Littleton, Lakewood, and Morrison police departments, were crowded onto the road, talking into their radios, taking notes, investigating the scene, keeping tabs on more officers combing the trees. I wished that Tom could have seen it.