What We Find (Sullivan's Crossing, #1)

She knew he probably had broken bones. She could tourniquet with a heavy length of double gauze or rope if necessary. She wasn’t wearing a belt but she had shoelaces and she could even take off her bra and use it as a tourniquet if necessary. He probably had a head injury; she could confirm or rule out. If there was an intracranial hemorrhage, he would die if it wasn’t relieved quickly. He could have a fractured skull, but if there wasn’t gray matter leaking, he had a chance.

She stood at the edge and sat down. “Tom! Get airlift support.”

“Done!” he said.

She turned, kneeling at the edge, facing the cliff. She edged backward and noted three men held the rope and slowly, let it out. It was the longest, most terrible twenty-five feet of her life and she didn’t remove that rope from around her waist when she felt her feet touch. She yelled up to them. “Hang on to the rope. In case...”

She squeezed into the very small area between Jackson and the ledge and removed her backpack. Remarkably, his legs seemed to be intact at first glance. Possible internal injuries. He was breathing; his respirations were good, his pulse stable. She wanted to know more about his spinal column and head. Right now she’d sell her soul for a real neck brace, but she thought she could improvise. She doubled a strip of blanket, slid it slowly and cautiously under his neck, over his shoulder to his chest. Then she did it again on the other side of his chest. She took a third strip, stabilizing his neck so she could carefully turn him. Then she reinforced that makeshift brace with the duct tape. He moaned. “Jackson, Jackson, don’t move, honey.”

Flashlight in hand, she looked into his eyes. She swore. The left pupil was huge; blown pupil. “Jackson, oh, Jackson,” she said.

His other eye opened, looking at her blankly.

She heard the sound of moving trucks, a helicopter in the distance. She dug in the backpack for gauze, alcohol, drill.

She prayed. God, I will trade anything for this kid’s life. Please, this once, make my mind clear and my hand steady.

“Gotta do this,” she said. She poured alcohol over his head on the same side as the affected pupil—that’s where the pressure would be. If she worked that drill bit too hard she could drive it right into his brain.

Trucks were moving, doors were slamming, rotor blades were spinning. She shut down her ears. She could only hear one thing, the inside of her head. She carefully turned him, lifting his shoulder and upper torso and holding him there, immobile. She fit a bit into the drill. The bit was bigger than she liked but she’d had patients in surgery with bullet holes in their head and pulled them through.

Zurrr, the drill said. Zurrr. Zurrr. Three tidy little burr holes. Thank God the current fashion was buzz cuts. She noted the discharge and crossed her fingers. She covered the holes with clean gauze, then a few seconds later, checked it. She was never so happy to see blood. Red blood.

And then his eyes popped open; pressure relieved.

“Jackson, do not move. We’re going to get you out of here but do not move.”

“Maggie?” he whispered, not understanding. He probably didn’t even know where he was.

“It’s me. You fell. Do not move.”

“Stay put, Maggie!” Tom yelled. “Help on the way!”

And exactly where was she going to go?

Jackson moaned and despite instructions, began to try to turn his head. Her duct tape brace held him in place. A swivel on the neck could be disastrous, so she put her palms against his cheeks and held him still with all her might.

“Jackson, listen to me. Jackson, you can’t move. I’m here, I’ve got you. We’re going to get you out of here. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Be still, honey. Still, still, still.”

It was the longest five minutes of her life, waiting. She kept whispering to Jackson, checking his pulse and respirations, watching the bleeding and soaking it up with gauze.

Finally, someone was on that ledge with her, down by Jackson’s feet. “Maggie, what the hell you doing?” Connie Boyle asked. He handed her a neck brace and she actually sighed in relief.

“I think you’re better off hoisting him up with my duct tape brace in place. You can cut it off in the helicopter and replace it, but I think it’s risky to do that here. Do you have airlift support?”

“Fifty yards up the road,” Connie said. “We can’t pull him off this shelf via cable to the helicopter. We’re going to have to take him up this way. First, I have to get rid of you. You go up,” he said, handing her a harness.

“Connie, I can’t get this on,” she said. “We have about a three-foot width here. I’ll never make it. Can’t they pull me up on this rope?” she asked, tugging on the rope.

“I don’t know what you were using for a brain, sliding down on that stupid rope tied around your waist. Stand. Back to the hill. Easy does it. Don’t make me step over Jackson to dress you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. She hugged the wall, carefully attaching the harness. It seemed to take her forever and while her hands had been steady to drill holes in Jackson’s head, they shook as she tried to fasten her harness.

“Take your time,” Connie said.

“Got it,” she said. “I hope.”