Return to Innocence
Part 7
Peter's first cognizant sensation was the heavy weight pressing his body against the floor, restricting his ability to move. The next sensation was sound. He heard Barnes, Wilson and Pearson's voices yell as one, "Gun!" "Police, drop the weapon!", "Man down!". Then the sound of a second shot. "Got him. He's down."
Peter shook his head. He couldn't feel the bullet. He had been shot before, several times, and he could always feel the bullet. He knew the feeling of the searing heat as the foreign object penetrated his skin. But he felt nothing. . .nothing but the heaviness. Was he paralyzed? His mind raced with sudden panic.
Then the realization hit him. . .the voices. . .only three. Peter's eyes flew open and blond hair filled his vision. It was Michael. Michael was on top of him. He struggled to push his friend's heavy weight off his body, "Michael, get off. I can't breath."
There was no response. Peter's panic increased. He shouted out to his team members, "Michael's down! Help me!" He looked into the apartment and saw Wilson, radio in hand.
Wilson's voice boomed, "Officer down. We need two ambulances at 213 W. Taylor, Apartment 302." The black man then kneeled down next to Peter and Michael. He helped Peter lift Michael's limp body off and settle it on the floor next to the detective.
Peter raised to his knees immediately, feeling no pain. He was not hurt. He looked into his friend's face and knew the same could not be said of his former partner.
The man was unconscious, skin pale, breathing heavy. Wilson's hands skimmed the fallen man's body. Peter looked at him confused, "He's wearing a vest. Just has the wind knocked out of him, right?"
Wilson's hands came away from their inventory, coated in red, sticky blood. "Oh my God," the man muttered and ripped away Michael's jacket and unhooked the bulletproof vest. Once the protective clothing had been removed, Peter saw what Wilson had realized. Michael had been shot, but the bullet had missed the vest.
The small bullet had penetrated Michael's body beneath his armpit on the left side of his body. The wound was bleeding profusely.
Peter pushed down his panic, removed his jacket and pressed it into the injury, expecting Michael to react to the pain of the contact. The man did not move.
Michael's breathing became more labored. Peter closed his eyes and could feel his friend's chi drifting, like an unanchored boat in the ocean, "Michael? Stay with us, Michael. You're going to be okay," Peter whispered to his friend.
He concentrated all of his efforts and sent a burst of energy from his hands into his friend's body, making a desperate grab for the drifting spirit. Michael's eyes fluttered opened, staring into nothingness, not recognizing his surroundings. Then the eyes drifted and made contact with Peter's. The hazel eyes cemented with the blue, both unwavering. Peter smiled slightly, trying to project an image of hope, "Michael, you're okay. Help is coming. You just need to hang on."
Michael's eyes didn't blink. He shook his head slightly, his voice filled with pain, "No. . .no Pet. . .Peter," he took a deep breath and swallowed. "Too. . .late." He closed his eyes.
Peter closed his eyes and felt his chi leave his body and enter his friend's. Michael's eyes opened again, "I. . .I feel. . .you," his voice had a slight hint of wonder in it.
Peter smiled, "I'm with you Michael." He grasped his friend's hand, holding on to him tightly, feeling that if he were to let go his friend would float away forever.
"Pete. . .take care. . .of Kathy. . .and Elizabeth. . .for. . .," suddenly, Michael's body arched off the floor, his eyes closing tightly, a loud groan of pain echoing through the room.
"Michael!" Peter yelled. Michael had stopped breathing. Peter felt for a pulse. There was nothing. He propped back Michael's chin and began CPR. Wilson straddled his team member's chest and began the compressions. One minute went by. . .then two. Neither man stopped. Both were sweating profusely, breathing heavily, but neither man gave up. Five minutes passed. Then their bodies were pulled away by Barnes and Pearson. "EMT's are here. Let them take over."
Peter looked up, startled. He had not even heard the approaching sirens. He stared at his friend, lying in a pool of blood on the floor. He looked down at his own body. His friend's blood had soaked through his jeans and stained his hands.
The EMT's continued CPR and proceeded to load Michael onto a gurney and within minutes, his former partner's body had been removed from the scene, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
Peter looked into the apartment and saw two other EMT's moving around the bed which occupied the wall opposite the front door of the apartment. Peter realized that he had been so focused on Michael, that he did not have a clue as to what had happened after the sound of the first gunshot.
Barnes was watching the EMT's work on the body lying in the bed. Peter took two wavering steps towards the leader and heard one of the medics say to the other, "Bullet went through the right shoulder. We have the bleeding under control. Let's take him in."
They raised the gurney to the level of the bed and for the first time Peter saw the object of the raid. Theodore Watson was sitting upright in his bed, leaning heavily against the wall, eyes closed. His upper body was exposed, blood coating his chest, the bed sheets were tangled around his legs. The man had tears rolling down his face and he was whispering words that Peter could barely hear, "Didn't know. . .Why?" The black man's head was shaking in denial and pain.
Peter looked at the Captain's hand and saw a revolver which had already been bagged as evidence. Peter looked again at Watson and felt his anger towards the man grow. Theodore Watson had shot a police officer. . .had shot his friend.
Pearson and Wilson had returned to business and were searching the small apartment for evidence. In a few moments they approached Barnes, holding two evidence bags. "Found these, Captain." Inside each bag was a small packet of white powder.
The EMT's assisted Watson from the bed and onto the gurney. "We've nailed the son of a bitch," Peter heard Barnes mutter under his breath.
Peter nodded absently, his mind still with his injured friend. "Captain. . .can I go. . ." he started to ask for permission to go to the hospital to check on Michael's status.
Barnes nodded his head, "Go. Keep me informed of his condition. We'll secure the area." The Captain's voice had become strangely cold. "Have one of the support units take you.
Peter took one last look at the suspect and shook his head. The man would go down hard for this. Peter would make sure of that.
The police cruiser pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance of the hospital. Peter thanked the unknown officer for the lift and hopped out of the car, running through the entrance. He had tried to feel Michael's chi. . . tried to offer his own in support, but could feel nothing. Peter prayed it was because of the physical distance between the two. He was unwilling to consider the alternative.
He ran to the admitting desk, cutting in front of two other people who had been waiting for assistance. Neither objected, however, once they saw the panicked man, covered in blood, holding up his badge.
"I'm Detective Peter Caine. I need to know the status of the police officer who was just brought in."
The nurse gave him a dirty look at first, protesting the man's abruptness, and then realized that the detective was only concerned about the fate of a fellow officer. She nodded, "Follow me."
Peter and the nurse went down the corridor. "He's in ER #2," she pointed. "You're the first officer here."
Peter knew the implication of that statement. When an officer was shot, a fellow officer always remained in the ER for security reasons as well as evidence issues. Peter would be that officer.
He entered the ER and was assaulted with Michael's bloody body arching off the table. He heard the doctor yell, "Again!. . .Clear!" and the paddles connected with the detective's bare chest, causing every muscle to go rigid. "I'm not getting anything," the doctor muttered, more to himself than to those around him. "Take it to 400. "Clear!" The paddles made contact, the body arched.
There was still no response. Peter looked the cardiac monitor next to the bed, but there was a steady hum coming from the machine. The line on the monitor was straight. The doctor shook his head slowly. "That's it. . .it's over," he whispered. "Log the time of death at. . .2:32 a.m."
The supporting hospital staff said nothing. There was nothing that could be said. Each one knew they had failed. . .they had lost a cop. Peter felt the tears welling up in his eyes. He closed them tightly, the tears squeezing out the corners. He reached out with his chi in a desperate attempt to find his friend. . .to offer an anchor for the drifting boat. But the boat was gone. It had drifted over the horizon.
End Part 7
To Part 8