A Fountain Filled With Blood

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind back into its normal channels. Opening them again, he peered at the ground, estimating his distance. “You done good,” he said. “I’m maybe five feet above the stream.”

“Okay. Get ready. Here we go.”

The net jerked, jerked, jerked down, and then his butt was in the cold water, sliding over slick round rocks. “I’m down, I’m down,” he said.

“Okay, I’m letting it go,” she said. The net collapsed all around him as several yards of the wide strap ribboned over itself. He flailed out of the wet netting and sloshed the two steps to dry ground. He reflexively patted himself down to make sure everything was there and wiggled the bows of his glasses where they were clamped to the side of his head by his headset. He was intact. He glanced up and waved his arms. “I see you,” she said. “You’re a couple yards downstream from Waxman. Can you see him?”

He picked his way upstream over loose stones. He could clearly see Waxman’s backpack resting against the cutaway curve where the sides of the crevasse met the bottom. Then he spotted Waxman. He was sprawled awkwardly near the stream, half-hidden by a boulder.

“I’ve got him.” Russ crouched next to the unmoving form and placed two fingers at the side of his neck. “He’s got a pulse.” He ran his hands lightly over Waxman’s body and head. “I’m pretty sure both his arms are broken. His legs may be okay. God only knows about his spine.” He looked up to the chopper as if he could see Clare’s face. “Even with the stuff we brought, we’re taking a risk by moving him.”

“I could fly us to Glens Falls and alert the life-flight helicopter. That’ll tack on another hour and a half, two hours before he gets any treatment. You’re the man on the ground, Russ. Literally. It’s your call.”

He looked back down at Waxman. His face was pale despite his tan, and a swollen purple bruise spread across his forehead and disappeared into his hair. Russ pried open one eyelid, but Waxman remained unconscious, his pupil fixed and unresponsive.

“I don’t think he’s got that kind of time,” he said finally. “Let me get the stuff and I’ll bind him up as tightly as I can.” He picked his way back to the net and hauled out the lawn chairs and bag of rags. Opening one chair, he leaned it against the boulder and jumped on it like a kid engaged in vandalism. The flimsy rivets snapped, and he had a floppy chaise longue. He wrenched off the U-shaped leg pieces and stomped them into relative flatness before jamming them through the webbing in two parallel lines. He held up his impromptu backboard and shook it. It still shifted more than he liked, but it would give Waxman a chance to get out of this without being paralyzed. He laid it on the ground next to the unconscious man and carefully rolled him into place on top of the aluminum poles, praying that he wasn’t causing more unseen damage.

The rags needed to be knotted together before he could stretch them across Waxman’s chest and tie them to the chair’s webbing. Waxman’s breathing was shallow and sparse, more like hiccups than actual breaths. Russ pulled his headphones off to listen for the telltale hiss of a punctured lung, but he didn’t hear anything. He tied Waxman’s shoulder, chest, and waist to the supports and stood up to tackle the other chair.

This one he smashed against the boulder until it broke apart into pieces. He took the aluminum poles, splinted them against Waxman’s arms, and tied them in place with the remainder of the rags. Then he tore the plastic grocery bag in two and used it to tie Waxman’s immobilized arms to the jury-rigged backboard. He stood up and surveyed his handiwork, wiping the sweat from his eyes. Waxman looked like a victim of backyard bondage gone awry. If we don’t kill this guy trying to save him, it’ll be a miracle, he thought.

“Okay, I’m going to load him in,” Russ said. He picked up the top edges of the lawn chair contraption and dragged the injured man travois-style to the net. He unfolded the edges of the net and pulled it out of the water before wrestling Waxman into place at the center. He stood up, looked around the area one more time, then hefted the abandoned backpack onto his shoulder and rolled it into the net, next to its owner.

Russ stepped into the net, sat down tailor-style facing Waxman, and tugged the backboard onto his lap. It was awkward, but he figured he could give some added support with his crossed legs. “Clare,” he said, “we’re good to go.”