my brother said. “We’ve got three more nearby. Do you hear the sirens? In a minute we’ll be able to lift this car up off him. In just a minute . . . you tell him that, okay?”
I bent, face against the grass, reached in, and took his hand in mine. I didn’t dare shine the light in his eyes. Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell from his chest. His hand was cold. I pressed his finger between mine, the way we’d done in the trailer yesterday. “It’ll be okay,” I reassured him just as he had me about the burns on my hands. “We ought to have some of your magic burn cream, huh?” My voice was cracking. I had to swallow, but there was nothing but dryness in my throat. “Just another minute. Backups are coming. Hear the sirens? You know my brother’s a cop. He’ll have the whole force here to get you out.” I wriggled under the chassis. My head was near his shoulder, but I couldn’t hear his breathing, couldn’t see anything. Somewhere I’d read that people in comas can still hear. “I’ve got your hand. Don’t let go. Hang on. Guthrie, I love you. I love you.”
“You gotta move, Darcy. They’re going to lift the car.”
I slithered back, but I didn’t let go of his hand.
I didn’t dare.
9
THE FIRST TIME I saw Guthrie’s face was when they plugged him into the ambulance. His cheek was streaked with grease and soot, and his nose had been mashed down to the side. How can he breathe? I lunged toward him, but someone was holding me back.
“You’ll be in the way.” My brother’s voice was shaky. “You gotta listen to me.”
“His shirt’s sooty, but I didn’t see blood, did you?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Hard to say.”
I stiffened. Hard to say because you don’t want to hear?
Sirens were burping off; flashers battled red; squeals echoed at each other and the guys guarding the scene were yelling at civilians to stay on the far side of the street. Guthrie’s car had been halfway across the grass, but the scene supervisor was closing off the street and the entire park.
Across the road, lights had come on in the houses. People in bathrobes were standing on a front lawn.
A cab pulled up just as the ambulance shot off. I leapt in. I wasn’t surprised the driver was Webb Morratt, the cabbie John used for personal and off-label runs. I tried to interpret his appearance as positive, that John
called him for me because he knew Guthrie was headed to the hospital, not the morgue. He squealed off through the fog-dense and empty streets and caught the ambulance at the third intersection.
I couldn’t bear to think of Guthrie in the vehicle ahead, charging up the steep rise of Divisidero that made even Morratt downshift. Instead, I focused on the black convertible. Someone had driven that car over him. Carefully, so it covered his body. Someone had laid him on the grass when he was unconscious and then driven his car over him. In the dark. In a place it would be discovered as soon as it got light. Therefore they must have wanted him to be found before long. It made no sense.
“I spent a lot of time sitting around there,” Morratt was saying.
“The park? For John?” The ambulance raced over the top of Pacific Heights, through the intersection on the red light. Morratt followed. He must have been doing 80.
“Maybe.”
A city park with tree-shaded nooks. “Drugs, fights, kids, and liquor?”
“Sure.”
“What else?”
He hesitated. “Cars boosted, burglaries. Cat burglaries.”
“Huh?” We hit the congested part of Divisidero. The ambulance slowed. I leaned over the seat, peering through the windshield, willing the ambulance faster. Now it was behind a bus. Go around, dammit! If only Guthrie’d been driving! I squelched a sob—wanting him here to laugh at the irony.
We were closing in on the hospital. The ambulance cut into the ER. Morratt started after, hit the brakes.
I jumped out and ran inside. A clerk handed me clipboarded papers with questions I
I bent, face against the grass, reached in, and took his hand in mine. I didn’t dare shine the light in his eyes. Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell from his chest. His hand was cold. I pressed his finger between mine, the way we’d done in the trailer yesterday. “It’ll be okay,” I reassured him just as he had me about the burns on my hands. “We ought to have some of your magic burn cream, huh?” My voice was cracking. I had to swallow, but there was nothing but dryness in my throat. “Just another minute. Backups are coming. Hear the sirens? You know my brother’s a cop. He’ll have the whole force here to get you out.” I wriggled under the chassis. My head was near his shoulder, but I couldn’t hear his breathing, couldn’t see anything. Somewhere I’d read that people in comas can still hear. “I’ve got your hand. Don’t let go. Hang on. Guthrie, I love you. I love you.”
“You gotta move, Darcy. They’re going to lift the car.”
I slithered back, but I didn’t let go of his hand.
I didn’t dare.
9
THE FIRST TIME I saw Guthrie’s face was when they plugged him into the ambulance. His cheek was streaked with grease and soot, and his nose had been mashed down to the side. How can he breathe? I lunged toward him, but someone was holding me back.
“You’ll be in the way.” My brother’s voice was shaky. “You gotta listen to me.”
“His shirt’s sooty, but I didn’t see blood, did you?”
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Hard to say.”
I stiffened. Hard to say because you don’t want to hear?
Sirens were burping off; flashers battled red; squeals echoed at each other and the guys guarding the scene were yelling at civilians to stay on the far side of the street. Guthrie’s car had been halfway across the grass, but the scene supervisor was closing off the street and the entire park.
Across the road, lights had come on in the houses. People in bathrobes were standing on a front lawn.
A cab pulled up just as the ambulance shot off. I leapt in. I wasn’t surprised the driver was Webb Morratt, the cabbie John used for personal and off-label runs. I tried to interpret his appearance as positive, that John
called him for me because he knew Guthrie was headed to the hospital, not the morgue. He squealed off through the fog-dense and empty streets and caught the ambulance at the third intersection.
I couldn’t bear to think of Guthrie in the vehicle ahead, charging up the steep rise of Divisidero that made even Morratt downshift. Instead, I focused on the black convertible. Someone had driven that car over him. Carefully, so it covered his body. Someone had laid him on the grass when he was unconscious and then driven his car over him. In the dark. In a place it would be discovered as soon as it got light. Therefore they must have wanted him to be found before long. It made no sense.
“I spent a lot of time sitting around there,” Morratt was saying.
“The park? For John?” The ambulance raced over the top of Pacific Heights, through the intersection on the red light. Morratt followed. He must have been doing 80.
“Maybe.”
A city park with tree-shaded nooks. “Drugs, fights, kids, and liquor?”
“Sure.”
“What else?”
He hesitated. “Cars boosted, burglaries. Cat burglaries.”
“Huh?” We hit the congested part of Divisidero. The ambulance slowed. I leaned over the seat, peering through the windshield, willing the ambulance faster. Now it was behind a bus. Go around, dammit! If only Guthrie’d been driving! I squelched a sob—wanting him here to laugh at the irony.
We were closing in on the hospital. The ambulance cut into the ER. Morratt started after, hit the brakes.
I jumped out and ran inside. A clerk handed me clipboarded papers with questions I
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