Mercy 6

Bar-fight calls mixed with music spilled out the doorway with her, creating a strange and better song, jumpy lyrics and melody punctuated by dark cheers, yelps, groans.

The sidewalk was almost as crowded as the bar. The late-afternoon light gave everyone a golden-haired look, varied only in brightness, lined by tall shadows, glints off high windows. She reached for a slice of lime, felt more than once for it before realizing, jostled by the crowd, that it was with her tracksuit, two changes removed.

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Five pedestrians dropped, knees buckled, torso forward, then over to the right, following their dominant side. They were all right-handed. This was what she registered as they fell. They dropped in a line approaching her, parting the thick crowd, only the last two next to each other. Most of the crowd looked around, sure it was yet another flash mob.

Mendenhall at first ignored the dead and hurried to a woman who stumbled away from the middle of the fall line. People shouted.

Phones came out. Some covered their mouths with handkerchiefs, hands, or elbows. Some had masks ready. Up and down the sidewalk the mouth covering turned epidemic. Some tried to run from the fallen; some stood paralyzed with fear or disbelief. This created a pool of confusion, rougher and thicker than the ER bay.

Mendenhall was able to clutch the shirttail of the stumbling woman. Her yank broke one of the woman’s heels, and she reeled closer. Here Mendenhall felt the pull of the stricken, and she tried to sidestep to the nearest body. Sirens — all types, near and far — were going off.

The woman tried to slap Mendenhall away.

“Stay with me.”

“We need to get away,” the woman hissed, then cried.

This split response convinced Mendenhall even further.“You need to come with me.” Mendenhall tugged her toward the body, a man in a business suit with white hair. His sunglasses had stayed put. He lay in a Z pattern, with mantis arms.

She sensed helplessness all around and within, the spin-away, a crush line pulsing over the city. The crowd was gathering to help the woman get free of Mendenhall.

“I’m fine,” the woman was sobbing, mascara running, making her look younger, prettier, forlorn in a French film. Surprising Mendenhall with her angle, she pulled free. She bumped into someone, and Mendenhall gained ground and then a hold but felt herself giving up on the man in sunglasses. If Pao Pao were here it would’ve been easy, routine, doctor going one way, nurse keeling the other.

A swell moving through the crowd, an ambulance’s arrival, and an extra shove from those wanting to run knocked the woman free of Mendenhall’s grasp. She gave up on the chase, just called once more, “You need to come with me.”

Covey appeared first, cupping the woman’s shoulders, soothing her with soft words Mendenhall could not hear. The ambulance nosed its way through the crowd. More people clustered by the vehicle as though it offered a shield or cure. The EMTs disembarked wearing masks and gloves and goggles.

Covey gazed at Mendenhall, held the woman softly, waited.

As soon as the woman realized that Covey was linked with Mendenhall, she shrieked and squirmed away. A hooded figure, skinny and quick, earbuds loose, seized the woman.

It was Kae. Kae Ng 23. Mendenhall was sure she was imagining him, another former patient slipping in front of her mind’s eye.

But he was there. He took hold of the woman’s wrist. With his free hand he drew a plastic strip from his hoodie pocket. Kevlar cuffs.

Cops used them to bring bound patients to the ER. Kae had a bundle of them in there, frayed out and shining in the low sun and ambulance lights. He expertly wrapped and locked the plastic cuff around his wrist and the woman’s. Mendenhall pictured escaped convicts, movies again.

She kept moving, in mode. She flashed Covey one look, then headed for the ambulance. Covey understood. She called to the EMT nearest the ambulance doors, the one guarding the open spread and ramp. The EMTs with the gurney were confused, not knowing which body to attend.

“Please,” said Covey. She used a soft voice that drew the EMT to her. She bent over and held her forearm. He reached for her.

Mendenhall went into the ambulance, saw the syringe she needed, took it and a swab packet, and hopped out. She hurried to Kae and his captive. Kae watched, enthralled by Mendenhall’s grip and twist, the way she paralyzed the thrashing limb. She swabbed the woman’s forearm, the one fastened to Kae’s, and injected the Trapanal. The woman gently collapsed against Kae, caressed his face with her free hand. “Good boy,” she said.

“Don’t let her go under.” Mendenhall escorted them away from the EMTs. “She shouldn’t, but I only guessed the dose. So don’t let her.”

She palpated his shoulder, saw him wince. She noticed that three of his knuckles were split, lines of dried blood. Covey joined them before Mendenhall could say anything to Kae, ask him anything.

What could she ask? Who are you? Why? How in hell?