Baldwin felt like he was watching the scene underwater. Every motion was sluggish, unhurried, casual. He stared for a moment in disbelief, then snapped back to real time. Gabriel had landed neatly at Taylor’s feet, three shots to the chest, his tainted blood mingling with Taylor’s where’s she’d fallen. It was all over in a second, but Baldwin felt a lifetime had passed. He could hear his own screaming, but it was simply a background noise to the commotion that ensued.
“Officer down, officer down, get the EMTs in here now!” Fitz was on the walkie-talkie screaming for help, Marcus was on the radio in the car yelling for assistance. People were rushing around in the background, yet Baldwin couldn’t identify them. More sirens wailed closer and closer, and suddenly the yard was full of people babbling, yelling.
Taylor was down, one booted leg bent, hands to her neck. He dropped by her side. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. Bright red arterial blood spilled recklessly from her neck.
He pressed his hands against the flow, and her eyes opened, briefly, full of pain. “You’re going to be okay, just hang in there. Don’t try to talk.”
The eyes closed again, and Baldwin felt his heart stop. Had he just seen her eyes for the last time? No, don’t think it, don’t think it, man.
“Come on, Taylor, open your eyes for me, come on sweetheart, open them up.”
But she lay still as marble. He was pulled back off her, and fell into the dirt. The EMTs had arrived. They hustled her onto a gurney and slapped a pressure bandage on her neck. The doors to the ambulance closed and it screamed away.
Baldwin was on the ground next to Gabriel; he couldn’t move. He stared at their suspect. The man was dead, head cocked toward Baldwin, his eyes open, a small smile playing on his lips. Baldwin sat paralyzed, almost as if Gabriel’s mythical death gaze had turned him to stone.
He thought of Taylor’s dreams, her nightmares. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t stand it.
Then he was up, on his feet. Fitz pulled him toward the car.
“Don’t give up on her yet,” he said grimly, and started the engine.
They followed the ambulance in Taylor’s car. Surreal, it was all so surreal, so fast and unthinkable. She’d been on her feet, had shot Lucas, and suddenly was down, on the ground, bleeding out, the knife calmly resting in the dirt by her head, just out of reach of Lucas’s outstretched hand.
The ambulance screamed down Hillsboro, blowing by all the cars and trucks. Fitz drove without speaking, though Baldwin could see his lips moving in silent prayer. Baldwin was still in shock, not seeing the trees, the cars and signs as they sped through the neighborhoods toward Vanderbilt University Hospital, the closest available trauma emergency room.
They arrived at the hospital in record time, less than ten minutes after they had left Gabriel’s lair. In the Emergency bay, the ambulance doors opened. Taylor’s limp body was pulled out, rushed into the hospital.
Fitz screeched to a stop behind the ambulance. “Go, go. Go with her.”
Baldwin gave him a tight smile, then ran, right on the heels of the stretcher. Taylor was so pale, so pale, they were pumping air into her, the EMT perched on the stretcher, doing chest compressions, the pressure bandage dark and wet.
Someone in blue scrubs grabbed his arm, shouting, holding him back.
“Sir, sir, you have to wait here, they’re taking her into surgery. I’ll go check and give you an update. You can’t go in. Sir, sit here.” She pushed him hard into a chair. Baldwin felt his world shrink to pinpoint depth. All he could hear in his head was his own prayers.
And Taylor was gone, through the honey-colored wood doors, a hand trailing off the edge of the bed, her blond hair red with blood.
Seventy-Four
Two interminable hours had passed since the doctors had taken Taylor up to Surgery. It seemed every cop in Nashville had arrived at the hospital. Price and Sam were in a corner, Sam crying her eyes out. Simon stood at her elbow, helpless, tears running down his face. Marcus and Lincoln slumped in two chairs opposite a coffee machine, contemplating the linoleum floor.
Fitz found Baldwin staring at the door to Surgery, not seeing, overcome with his internal dialogue, which he didn’t realize he was saying aloud. “Dear God, don’t let her die. Dear God, don’t let her die.” The mantra seemed to be comforting him somewhat, but Fitz could tell the man was in shock, and was furious no one had attended to him.
“C’mon, Baldwin. Sit down here. Good, good, that’s more like it. Here, drink this.” He handed Baldwin a cup, which he drank automatically. It was brown and bitter; he assumed it was supposed to be coffee.
“She’s going to be okay, Baldwin. Taylor’s the toughest chick I’ve ever seen. She’s going to pull through, you just watch. She’s too stubborn to die on us.” His words thickened, and Baldwin noticed he was wiping tears from his eyes.