Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [3]
“Where the hell is the ambulance?” he shouted. “I need one, now!”
“It’s on its way.”
Two squad cars to patrol all of Coconut Grove just weren’t enough, but Vince was all too aware of the department’s economic reality.
“I have a sixteen-year-old white female, multiple stab wounds. Get me a doctor on the line. I need someone to tell me how to help her!”
“Keep her warm to prevent shock.”
“Already did that,” said Vince.
“Apply pressure to the wounds to slow the bleeding.”
“I’m doing that, but she’s got a sucking chest wound and possible damage to the carotid artery. We need help!”
“ETA is three minutes,” said the dispatcher.
McKenna was trying to speak. Vince added one last plea for the dispatcher to hurry, and then he disconnected, putting his ear to McKenna’s breath.
“Am I . . .”
“McKenna?” he said, as if to help her finish her thought.
“. . . gonna die?” she asked.
Blood was coming from her mouth.
Holy shit!
A huge part of him wanted to think only of that healthy and determined little girl he used to watch on the soccer field, the beautiful and intelligent young woman who had survived the social horrors of middle school. But as he looked into her eyes, he saw past his own denial and found himself staring into two darkening pools of the obvious and inevitable. Vince had seen that same look in the eyes of a fallen soldier in combat, in the eyes of his father in hospice care. McKenna was not long for this earth—he was almost certain of it.
Cop instincts took over. He wasn’t giving up all hope, but if the worst happened, Vince wanted to make damn sure that the lowlife bastard would pay for what he’d done to McKenna. He grabbed his phone, dialed his home number, and waited for his answering machine to pick up. From that point forward, all words—his and McKenna’s—would be spoken directly into his cell and recorded onto his machine.
Vince put the phone to McKenna’s lips. She seemed scared, so helpless, as she looked up at him.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “Am I dying?”
Blood had soaked all the way through the blanket. The folded square of torn bedsheet on her neck was completely red. But Vince couldn’t be that brutally honest.
“No, sweetheart. You’re gonna be just fine.”
“Really?”
“Who did this to you?”
“Am I going to die?”
“No, McKenna. You’re going to be fine. Who did this?”
“You really think I’m going to be okay?”
“Yes, it’s not your time. I saw much worse than this in Iraq, and they’re all fine. Tell me who did this to you.”
She was fading. Vince tried again.
“Who did this to you?”
She coughed on the blood in the back of her throat. Vince checked the chest wound beneath the blanket. Even with the makeshift bandage, the foam oozing from the slit between her ribs emitted a gurgling noise. That hole in her chest was literally sucking the life out of her.
“McKenna, tell me who did this to you.”
He put the cell to her mouth, and her eyes closed. It was too much effort to keep them open and speak at the same time. “Jamal,” she whispered.
“Your boyfriend?”
She tried to nod but couldn’t. “My first,” she said, her voice barely audible.
The gurgling noise from her chest gave way to sudden silence. McKenna’s eyelids stopped quivering. Vince dropped the phone, threw his leg over her body, and jumped into CPR mode.
“Come on, McKenna!” he said as he pushed against her rib cage. Frothy blood squirted from her chest wound like seawater from a blowhole, and Vince froze, not sure what to do. He tried mouth to mouth, but he was breathing into a pool of blood that had risen up in her throat. He checked her pulse. There was none. Her body was motionless. Vince tried one last series of chest compressions, and more blood shot from the blowhole. Vince fell forward, pounding