Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood Read online

  “He’d been getting out on his own lately. I should have done something about that.”

  “Don’t do that, Boone,” Pastor Sosa said. “We can’t control everything in this life.”

  For much of the next hour, Boone sat in the conference room, lips pressed together, slowly shaking his head. This couldn’t be happening, mustn’t be happening. How was he to accept such horror? He had so many questions for Pastor Sosa, but he didn’t dare start because he knew his venom would spew. Everything he would demand to know would come out as a challenge. How could God do this? And if he didn’t do it, as he knew the pastor would say, how could he allow it? It made no sense.

  So many people deserved to die, some even to be tortured to death by fire. But why Joshie? And why Nikki?

  His knees were bouncing, so eager was he to see her before she slipped away. Would he pray that she died rather than suffer from such ghastly injuries, as Dr. Sarangan had suggested? He’d seen the results when people survived massive burns. Their faces looked rubberized, their extremities stubs if they existed at all. From what he gathered, Nikki would be worse than anything he had ever even imagined. No limbs, no eyes, some rebuilt face and scalp harvested from the little expanse of skin protected by Josh’s body.

  If her brain was intact and she was able to speak, would that be enough? Was he willing to care for her around the clock for as long as she lived? He had made that vow, and he was one for keeping promises. But would she want to live that way? Would anyone? Boone sure wouldn’t.

  Part of him wanted to pray, to plead, to beg, to promise. He would pledge to be as devout and passionate about his faith as Pastor Sosa wanted him to be, if only . . . if only what? Nikki survived? It would be selfish, mean even, to expect her to endure such agony just for him. No, he would make such an earnest supplication and promise only if God would restore her. Couldn’t he do that? Didn’t he still work miracles?

  Wasn’t it enough that he and Nikki had lost the most precious gift they had ever received? Was there not something in modern medical science that could allow Nikki to grow tissue, get eye transplants, keep her limbs, even her fingers and toes? Boone didn’t care if her dramatic beauty never returned. He loved that about her, of course, was proud of her, had never tired of just gazing at her. But what he really loved was her person, her character, who she was.

  “You’ve got to be hungry,” Pastor Sosa said. “You didn’t get any lunch, did you?”

  “We didn’t,” Keller said. “I’ll get us all something, but you know it’s gonna be something out of a machine.”

  “I couldn’t eat,” Boone said.

  “Even if you don’t feel hungry, you need nourishment,” Sosa said. “Just something to keep you functioning.”

  “I need to see Nikki. I just know someone’s going to come in here with the bad news, and I’ll have missed any chance to say good-bye.”

  “Murari won’t let that happen if he can help it, Boone. You know that.”

  Keller stood to go get the food. “I’ll see what I can find out, too.”

  Boone felt himself beginning to hyperventilate and puffed his cheeks to blow and try to slow his respiration. “What’m I gonna do, Pastor? I can’t live without them.”

  “You’re going to find out what the body of Christ is all about, Boone. You will not believe how your brothers and sisters will rally around you, stand by you, minister to you.”

  It was all Boone could do to keep from slamming both fists on the table and cursing the pastor and God. He knew the man meant well, and he had little doubt that the people of Community Life would do just what Sosa had said. But nothing would be enough to dull this pain, and Boone couldn’t imagine attending that church alone.

  “I’ve got to call Nikki’s parents. How am I going to tell them?”

  “You need me to do that?” Sosa said.

  Boone shook his head. “They have to hear it from me.” He dialed their home in Alaska, where her father, Steve McNickle, was stationed at the Elmendorf Air Force Base as an attorney with the Area Defense Counsel. Nikki’s mother, Pam, was a nurse at the base hospital.

  The phone went to voice mail, and Boone panicked. “Uh, yeah, Mom and Dad McNickle, I’ll try to call you on your cells or at work. We’ve got a serious emergency here, so call me on my cell if you get this before I reach you.”

  Boone tried to reach Steve at his office, only to be told that he was researching a case in the field. He left a message and, while dialing Pam McNickle’s cell, got a call from their home.

  “This is Boone.”

  “It’s Pam. What’s wrong?”

  It sounded like such a cliché to urge her to sit down, but he didn’t know how else to start. He knew she could tell from his voice that this was no broken arm or ordinary emergency room visit. “Pam, this is the hardest call I’ve ever had to make.”

  Boone heard her stop breathing. To spare her even worse agony, he gushed the news of the fire, that Josh had been killed, and that Nikki was not expected to live.

  “Oh, God, oh, God,” she prayed. “No. Boone, no.”

  He told her he was at the hospital and gave her the address and phone number.

  She sounded hollow and spoke in a monotone. “I’ve got to reach Steve. We’ll get there as soon as we can get a flight. Would I be able to talk to Nikki? Could they put her on the phone?”

  “She’s in surgery.”

  “Boone, you tell her we love her and to hold on and that we’re coming.”

  “She doesn’t know about Josh.”

  She hesitated. “Stay strong for her.”

  Too late.

  Keller returned with three perfectly awful plastic-wrapped bologna sandwiches that felt, looked, and tasted three days old. Boone chewed each bite till it was mush and still had trouble swallowing. How could anyone eat at a time like this?

  “Okay, listen,” Jack said. “Here’s what I got from the Indian guy. Nikki’s about to be moved from the operating room to ICU, and while he doesn’t believe there’s any way she can survive the night, she will not be anything close to conscious for at least another half hour. Here’s the good part. He asked the attending to concentrate on her larynx and windpipe, just to see if there was any way she might be able to speak at all. He’s making no promises and wants me to remind you that even if they somehow succeed, she has very little possibility of being lucid.”

  “I understand. I appreciate it anyway.”

  “So, figure about forty minutes from now he wants you to come to the intensive care unit and meet the attending surgeon. Then you can be with her.”

  “For how long?”

  “He said that if you’re prepared for whatever might happen, you can stay with her to the end.”

  Boone felt as if someone had reached into his chest and pulled the cord on the light of his life. How could anything ever be the same? His thoughts were a mess, starting to include foreseeing the funeral, both families coming, everyone trying to help, to advise, and looking at him with pity. His mother would insist on doing things for him; his father would have some sort of plan. Boone wanted none of it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go on at all.

  When it finally came time for them to make their way to ICU, Boone started at a rapid pace. On the one hand, he hoped against hope that he would see Nikki before she died. On the other, he was afraid of what he would see. Eventually the stress caught up to him, and his limbs felt like lead. It was hard to put one foot in front of the other, but he was not going to stumble, and he was certainly not going to be helped along by anyone.

  Pastor Sosa stayed half a step behind Boone, while Jack Keller hurried on ahead. When they reached ICU, Dr. Sarangan introduced everyone to the attending surgeon, Dr. Catherine O’Connor. She was short and dark with black hair and held her folded surgical cap in one hand.

  “Officer Drake, I am so sorry for the loss of your son,” she said. “I know Dr. Sarangan has told you everything, so I trust you’ll understand if I ask whether Father Sosa would like to a
dminister the last rites to your wife.”

  “It’s Pastor Sosa, and we’re not—”

  “I would be honored to pray for her, Boone,” Sosa said. “It’s your call.”

  “Why don’t you do that now,” she said, “and I’ll join you in a few moments with more information. Oh, you’ll both have to wear masks.”

  The sight of his mummified wife stopped Boone short. A sheet had been tented over most of her body to the neck, her bandaged arms suspended by thin wires from a contraption over the bed. Her arms were thickly wrapped in gauze, as were her hands, which looked like grotesque oven mitts. The white around her head and face was the size of a basketball. Two tubes ran into a tiny hole through the gauze to where her nose and mouth would have been.

  “Oh, Nikki,” Boone whispered.

  Sosa put one hand on the bed rail and the other lightly on Boone’s forearm. Boone found himself deeply moved that the pastor’s tears were streaming as he prayed with obvious difficulty. “Father, we confess we don’t understand you right now, and all we can do is thank you for Nikki and what a precious wife and mother she has been. We love her and we know that you do too. I pray, if it is your will that she leave this earth, that you would welcome her to yourself without further pain or agony. And I pray your merciful, miraculous comfort for Boone. Please, Lord. Please.”

  The pastor squeezed Boone’s arm and said, “I’ll be right outside.”

  It struck Boone that, besides Sosa’s admonition that Boone not blame himself, the pastor had not tried to advise or counsel or even comfort him other than by prayer, touch, and tears. Anything else would have been futile anyway, but he did appreciate that the man was there and trying. When he turned at the sound of Dr. O’Connor, he saw Jack Keller weeping openly in the hall.

  “Let’s sit here for a moment before you try to talk to her, Mr. Drake.”

  They sat a few feet from the bed, Boone never taking his eyes off Nikki, the tubes, and the quietly humming machines.

  “Let me tell you exactly what we’re dealing with here, sir. Your wife is in profound shock due to massive shifts of fluid. Her body is fighting a hopeless, losing battle to heal itself. Normally, with a major burn victim, the first thing we do is establish respiration and circulation. Frankly, we couldn’t do a tracheotomy because the flesh around her neck was virtually vaporized. We couldn’t administer intravenous fluids because her arms and legs were burned to the bone.

  “We have oxygen being pumped in directly through her nasal cavity and down her traumatized esophagus and then we’ve threaded it directly to the lungs. The other tube is carrying the fluids and anesthetic, mostly to her stomach, which seems intact. Dr. Sarangan told us of your wish to try to converse with her, which I trust he told you is not likely. Nevertheless, seeing that there is no chance to save her, we did concentrate our efforts on her mouth and throat. Her tongue is intact, but she has no lips, so if she were to try to speak, you may not be able to understand her. And with the amount of sedation we are administering, there is no telling when or if she would be conscious.”

  “I understand.”

  “The machine is breathing for her, but the scar tissue already forming around her chest wall restricts expansion and would be painful if she could feel it. If she had any more skin to work with, we might have performed an escharotomy, searching for healthy tissue. The sad fact is, she has virtually none, except for where she cradled your son. And that’s not enough. I don’t know how else to say it, but your wife’s body was, for all practical purposes, burned to the skeleton. And had your neighbor not doused the flames, her internal organs would have been lost too. As it is, we are not entirely certain what is keeping her alive. And you have to know it won’t be long.”

  “Her parents are coming more than 3,500 miles.”

  “I can’t imagine they will get here in time to see her. I’m sorry.”

  “So when can I try to talk to her?”

  “The hallucinogenic narcoleptic we used for surgery should wear off in a few minutes. We will know when she attempts to move at all. I can assure you she will feel no pain. Whatever nerve tissue remains is being anesthetized by what is commonly referred to as a morphine drip, but which in this case is actually a morphine stream. See that bag there? It is essentially being poured into her. When she passes, it will be without discomfort and probably without even awareness.”

  “So talking to her is useless?”

  “The mind and body are remarkable instruments, Mr. Drake. There is evidence that hearing is sometimes the last sense to go. And we know from people who have come back from the brink of death that they have not only heard their loved ones’ good-byes, but they have also comprehended them, beyond all reason.

  “I’m not going to sit here and promise that you will get to communicate anything meaningful to your wife, but if there is any chance, it will come within a few minutes after the sedative wears off. And while I don’t expect her to try to speak, if she does, you’ll need to listen very carefully. She suffered severe damage to her throat, but it is possible she could generate some kind of sound.”

  Boone sat staring, still finding it hard to take in. How long had it been since he had been looking forward to a little lunch with Jack? Everything in his life had been smashed beyond recognition; nothing would ever again be the same. How could something like this happen without warning?

  “Um, I have a question.”

  “Anything.”

  “If she’s on life support, how will we know when the end has come?”

  “When to turn off the oxygen, you mean?”

  Boone nodded.

  “Those two monitors over there. One shows her pulse—elevated, of course, as her body struggles to stay alive—and the other shows brain activity. While she is clearly not conscious, she is still emitting brain waves. Those two readouts depend on each other. If her heart stops, her brain will soon follow. And vice versa.”

  “Can’t you keep her heart beating artificially too?”

  “Almost impossible in her condition, and there really is no benefit to it. It would only prolong the inevitable. The truth is, she should not have survived this trauma at all, and while we did everything we could to preserve her for this final good-bye, we’re all surprised she’s still with us.”

  Boone looked down. “I see what Murari meant about not even wanting her to survive.”

  Dr. O’Connor put a hand on his. “Oh yes, I’m sorry, but none of us wishes that on her. She would remain on the verge of death with every breath and would be unable to move, let alone do anything for herself. Hard as this is, the absolute best thing for your wife now is to pass.”

  Boone sighed. “I sure appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “I only wish we could have saved them both, Mr. Drake. Now, would you like me to stay with you, or . . .”

  “No, I’m fine.” He reached for his wallet. “Let me show you what they looked like.”

  “Oh, my! Beautiful. And he’s a doll.”

  It was hard for Boone to look at the pictures.

  “We’re monitoring everything from outside,” the doctor said. “And I’ll be close by. Just watch for some attempt to move, then say your good-byes. She is not likely to linger.”

  Boone pulled his chair next to the bed and began scanning the monitors while also keeping an eye on Nikki. What had he told the doctor? “I’m fine.” What a laugh.

  When there was no movement from Nikki for more than half an hour, Boone pulled the call cord and a nurse hurried in, followed by Dr. O’Connor. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just wondering. You said the anesthetic should have worn off by now.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it has,” the doctor said as the nurse checked all the connections and changed the morphine bag. “I wish I could promise she would exhibit some animation, but I can’t. Her system may be protecting whatever reserves she has left by remaining asleep. And of course, there’s the morphine.”

  “Could I wake her by talking to her?”

  �
��That’s possible, I suppose, but you risk that any disruption might push her past the brink. Your best chance to communicate with her would be to wait.”

  “But the longer I wait . . .”

  “Mr. Drake, I don’t know the likelihood that she’ll rouse. I don’t recommend overt action, but I won’t forbid it either. As I’ve tried to make clear, it’s moment to moment, so . . .”

  “I’ll wait.”

  And the wait was excruciating. Every half hour until early evening, the nurse stepped in, sometimes accompanied by Dr. O’Connor. It became clear to Boone that people were waiting around long after their shifts were over. He wanted to tell them that he appreciated it but that they should feel free to go home.

  At about six he poked his head out into the hall, where Jack was sitting with Pastor Sosa. They both quickly stood.

  “Nothing yet,” Boone said, and over their shoulders he saw that the pastor’s wife and several of the church elders had congregated outside a waiting room down the hall. Boone noticed several uniformed officers from the 11th milling about too.

  “I don’t know how long this is gonna be, Jack,” Boone said. “You should go, really.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Keller said. “I’d leave my partner at a time like this. Now shut up and get back in there, and keep us posted. Nobody’s goin’ nowhere.”

  Just minutes after Boone returned and sat, Nikki moved her head a few inches. He leaped from the chair, and it was all he could do to keep from touching her. He leaned close. “Nikki?”

  She stopped moving.

  “Nikki, I love you. Thank you for being such a wonderful wife and mother. Thank you for loving me.”

  He heard something raspy from deep in her throat.

  “What is it, Nikki? Talk to me, baby.”

  She seemed to hum; then came a sound like she was trying to clear her throat. With tubes running down her throat, it was no wonder. He leaned close and put his ear near her mouth.

  “Josh,” she managed.

  “Josh is fine,” he said. “You saved him. He’s going to be fine.”