Page 67 of The Bone Code
And closed in fast.
Ten feet.
Five.
Then sounds that will forever haunt my dreams.
The dullboomas the grille slammed Ryan’s flesh. The sharpcrackas his skull struck sheet metal. Theshss-thudas his body slid downward and hit the ground.
The car roared off. I squinted to read the plate. Saw only taillights shrinking to red dots, then vanishing into the night.
Heart thundering, I scrambled to my feet and, ignoring the pain in my knee, hobble-scurried to Ryan’s still body.
After he was thrown high by the impact, Ryan’s forward motion had been stopped by one corner of a bus shelter. He lay at its base, motionless, limbs twisted all wrong. Blood smeared the shelter’s street-facing wall in a streak that ended at his head.
Chest heaving, I fumbled my phone from my pocket. Blinded by a mix of rain and tears, it took me two tries to punch 911.
That done, I dropped beside Ryan. Ever so gently, fearful of causing further damage, I tested his carotid for a pulse.
Felt a timorous trembling?
In the distance, a siren wailed.
Around me, dead leaves swirled in a vortex.
“I love you, Andrew Ryan,” I sobbed to the rain-scented air.
Then I waited.
Watching Ryan’s blood washing from the dingy glass.
Seven hours later, I sat slumped in a chair drawn close to Ryan’s bed, a frenzy of emotions battling inside me. Anger. Fear. Regret. Ryan had taken the hit trying to protect me.
Fear dominated. An icy burning in my chest.
Muted sounds drifted through the open door. An elevator chiming. A cart rattling. A robotic voice paging a code.
My mind kept flashing back to the ambulance ride. To Ryan’s bloody face pulsing red, then going dark. To the brace on his neck. The mask on his mouth.
To the mantra throbbing in my brain.He is breathing. His heart is beating.
At the hospital, while Ryan was rushed away for X-rays, or a CT scan, or an MRI, maybe surgery, I’d been examined, under protest, in the ER. I’d wrenched one knee and scraped one elbow. Otherwise, I’d escaped unhurt.
Once released from the ER, I’d waited in the lobby. The chair was molded plastic. One edge was chipped, the gap shaped like a unicorn’s head.
Funny, the things you remember.
As word spread, law enforcement descended on the hospital, both SPVM and SQ. Leaving their cruisers and unmarked Impalas and Crown Vics jammed at odd angles outside the main entrance, they’d swarmed the atrium. Furious, powerless, showing support by their presence.
The case fell to the SPVM, the city cops. Two detectives questioned me, one apologetic, the other with his usual bully approach, each determined to nail the bastard who’d injured one of their own. Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau. I’d worked with both.
Still high on adrenaline and crazy with worry for Ryan, I’d tried to provide as detailed an account as possible. It wasn’t very detailed. Charbonneau was sympathetic. Claudel was peeved.
I’d described our path up Laurier. Shared my impression of the vehicle. Told them I’d been unable to see the driver or the plate. Looked blank when Claudel asked if the assault was intentional or a hit-and-run.
Eventually, they’d all gone.
Now we were in this room with its overcomplicated bed and beeping machines. Gauze protected the right side of Ryan’s head. A sheet covered his body from the neck down, leaving only his arms exposed. A pronged tube sent oxygen into his nose. A needle infusedliquids into a vein in his wrist. The IV arm lay tucked to his torso. The other lay loosely flexed across his chest.
