Page 38 of Rooke
“Oh my god! She’s been shot!”
“Help! Somebody, help!”
Cries go up all around us, drowning out Jake’s voice. Adrenaline fires through my body, and my hands begin to shake. “What the fuck? What the fuck’s going on?” I scan the area; it’s only when people start rushing to the left of the museum that I see what’s happening. A figure is on their knees, on the ground, leaning against an elderly guy wearing a thick blue coat. He’s trying to prop the figure up, but he’s struggling. Another guy in a suit rushes forward, dropping his briefcase on the ground. It cracks open, and sheaves of paper go flying, swirling upward on the wind as he helps the figure—a woman—to her feet.
She lifts her head, her face covered in blood, and it’s her. It’s Sasha. I was right.
“Fuck.” My blood drains from my head, pooling in a sickening fashion somewhere low in the pit of my stomach.
“Is that her?” Jake asks.
I nod. “I have to get to her. Shit. She’s hurt. She’s hurt really bad.”
“She’s cool, man. Look, the EMTs have her. She’s okay. She’s okay.”
A couple of guys rush to her, jump bags in their hands, relieving the businessman and the elderly guy of their burden. At the same time, about twenty guys with cameras all surge forward, snapping off shots and shouting out questions. The flashes from their Canons and their Nikons seem to make the dull, grey day suddenly brilliant white. Sasha flinches, raising a hand, squinting, shaking her head. She’s freaking out. The police hurry in from either side. A tall blond woman goes to Sasha, talking to her as the EMTs look her over.
I want to hit pause. I want to stop everything so I can go to her myself, to push everyone out of the way, scoop her up into my arms and carry her away. She looks terrified and stunned, like she’s just not able to comprehend what’s happening.
“Do not do anything dumb right now,” Jake warns. His fingers dig into my arm again. Now that we’re clear of the crowd, it would be easy enough to shrug him off and go charging over there, but he’s right.
What use am I to Sasha right now? I’m not a medical professional, so I can’t take care of her injuries. I’m not a cop, so I can’t question her about what’s happened. Or I could, but then what? I don’t have my gun. I can’t storm the museum and go find the motherfuckers that have done this to her. I can’t go in there and arrest them.
I am no good to her right now.
“What’s the closest hospital to here?” Jake asks.
“The closest hospital?”
“Yeah, man. Think. They’re not gonna keep her out here any longer than they need to, are they? They’re going to take her to get checked out. If we head to the hospital, you’ll be able to talk to her there.”
Damn it. He’s right. I wrack my brain, thinking.
“It’s Mount Sinai, right?” he asks.
“No. Lenox Hill. They have an emergency department there. That’s where they’ll take her. Greenwich Village, just across the park.” Of course, nothing is “just across the park” in New York. Central Park is massive. We’ll never beat an ambulance to the hospital on foot, never in a million years. “We need a cab.”
Jake’s already come to that conclusion. He gestures up the street. “Traffic won’t be moving here any time soon. Let’s get over to Amsterdam.”
******
It takes twenty-five minutes to get to the hospital. When we arrive, it’s to find that the ambulance has indeed already beaten us, and that no, we aren’t going to be permitted to see the patient. The nurse on the front desk says “the patient” as if Sasha is some sort of alien, some freak of nature that’s under investigation by local authorities, and that we’re mad for even thinking we might be able to share the same breathing space as her. We’re told we can’t even wait in the waiting room for her. A pair of thuggish security guards appear, hands on a pair of Glocks, and we’re ushered outside the building where a crowd of news reporters are already setting up their equipment, bright LED lights shining down over the parking lot, making the grim, oppressively cold day look like it’s actually seventy degrees and sunny out.
“Fuck this. There has to be another way in.” I scan the perimeter of the ground floor, looking for another entrance that we might have overlooked. There doesn’t appear to be one, though. Jake blows out a sharp breath down his nose, his eyes glittering with frustration.
“Dude. Donotgo back into that building. It’s asking for trouble. Why don’t you just come home with me now? We can see what happened on the news? She looked fine.”
“She didnotlook fine. She was covered in blood. Jesus Christ, man—”
“All right, all right. Fuck. Don’t lay me out. I’m just trying to keep you out of jail here.”
I scrub my hands over my face, nodding. “Sorry. I don’t fucking like this, though. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”
Jake gives me a long, hard look, sizing me up. Figuring me out. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he says. “You’re freaking me out. Just take a deep breath, okay? There’s nothing we can do right now. We have to be patient, and—”
I hear a burst of static behind me—the sound of a police issue radio. In juvi I learned quickly that you stopped and listened whenever you heard that sound. Frequently, it meant the guards were being informed that the governor was coming by to toss the cells. Sometimes it meant that a friend was being returned to general population. Other times, it meant a hailstorm of fire and shit was about to rain down on us and we were about to get our asses beaten.
“…seems disoriented. Couldn’t really give us a clear description. Either way, there’s no one there. The place was empty. We’ve gutted the place from top to bottom.”
