blood.”
“His pressure is dropping.”
He felt cold. He had never felt so cold.
“On my call. Go.”
The overhead light brightened, blinding. He felt hands lifting him up before placing him back down. Others cut the clothing from his body.
“Do we have X-rays yet?”
Hands touched his chest and abdomen. He felt the cold on his back. “Patient has gunshot wound entrance site in right upper shoulder and right midthigh. Log roll him.”
They rolled him onto his side. Fingers touched the back of his thigh and shoulder. “Exit wounds in upper thigh and right scapula.”
“Can you move your foot? Can you move your foot?”
Sloane wiggled his toes.
“Possible neurological damage. Likely pneumothorax. I’ll need a chest tube.”
“What about an air-evac to Harborview?”
“He won’t last that long.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
MADISON PARK
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Malcolm Fitzgerald nodded to the security guard in the brick booth, and the crossbar raised, allowing his Bentley access into the gated community. Located just a few miles east of downtown Seattle, the homes in the development started at just over $2 million, even in the still depressed housing market. For that price you received gated entrances with security guards at two locations, a private golf course, pristine streets swept regularly, manicured lawns and yards, and a whole host of regulations about what you could and could not do with your property. No basketball hoops at the end of driveways or mounted over garage doors. No bikes left forgotten on front lawns. No cars parked in the street. Garden lights were to be subtle, like the light from the streetlamps, evenly spaced to account for safety, and tempered so as not to destroy the ambiance.
Despite the turbulence at work, Fitzgerald had left the office early, which for him meant while it was still light out. He turned into the driveway of his two-story brick house. With white wood trim, dormers on the roof, and a burgundy-red front door, hethought it looked like a fraternity house on Greek Row. It was certainly big enough to house a fraternity. Their real estate agent had told them not to concern themselves with the front of the houses she showed them, rationalizing that they would only see it coming and going. Fitzgerald thought the woman had a valid point, but his wife had not been so easily placated.
He parked in the garage and listened to the automatic door rattle closed, the noise probably a violation of some homeowner regulation. The short porte cochere led to the mud- room, where he replaced one of his daughter’s stray shoes next to the match on the built-in cubbyhole professionally labeled ADRIENNE’S SCHOOL SHOES . Fitzgerald couldn’t decide what was worse, the fact that his wife was anal enough to separate the shoes into categories, or had enough free time to make the labels. Then again, time was a luxury he could afford for her, along with the three-million-dollar home and the $55,000 Mercedes station wagon she needed to cart the girls to and from private school, piano lessons, ballet, and the seemingly never-ending soccer practices.
Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Fitzgerald hid behind the doorjamb. As Sarah slid around the corner, her socks gliding over the freshly waxed floor, he surprised her from behind.
“Boo!”
She screamed and jumped.
Adrienne followed a split second behind her sister, yelling. “You cheated.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You didn’t say ‘go.’”
“I said three.”
“You still have to say go.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Fitzgerald stepped between them, hugging them both. “Why don’t we just call it a tie?”
“No way,” Sarah said. “She always cries when I win.”
“That’s because you cheat.”
“All right,” Fitzgerald said, “no more calling anyone a cheater.”
He hugged them again, and they followed him through the kitchen into the living room, where Adrienne sat quickly at the piano bench.
“Want to hear my recital
“His pressure is dropping.”
He felt cold. He had never felt so cold.
“On my call. Go.”
The overhead light brightened, blinding. He felt hands lifting him up before placing him back down. Others cut the clothing from his body.
“Do we have X-rays yet?”
Hands touched his chest and abdomen. He felt the cold on his back. “Patient has gunshot wound entrance site in right upper shoulder and right midthigh. Log roll him.”
They rolled him onto his side. Fingers touched the back of his thigh and shoulder. “Exit wounds in upper thigh and right scapula.”
“Can you move your foot? Can you move your foot?”
Sloane wiggled his toes.
“Possible neurological damage. Likely pneumothorax. I’ll need a chest tube.”
“What about an air-evac to Harborview?”
“He won’t last that long.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
MADISON PARK
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Malcolm Fitzgerald nodded to the security guard in the brick booth, and the crossbar raised, allowing his Bentley access into the gated community. Located just a few miles east of downtown Seattle, the homes in the development started at just over $2 million, even in the still depressed housing market. For that price you received gated entrances with security guards at two locations, a private golf course, pristine streets swept regularly, manicured lawns and yards, and a whole host of regulations about what you could and could not do with your property. No basketball hoops at the end of driveways or mounted over garage doors. No bikes left forgotten on front lawns. No cars parked in the street. Garden lights were to be subtle, like the light from the streetlamps, evenly spaced to account for safety, and tempered so as not to destroy the ambiance.
Despite the turbulence at work, Fitzgerald had left the office early, which for him meant while it was still light out. He turned into the driveway of his two-story brick house. With white wood trim, dormers on the roof, and a burgundy-red front door, hethought it looked like a fraternity house on Greek Row. It was certainly big enough to house a fraternity. Their real estate agent had told them not to concern themselves with the front of the houses she showed them, rationalizing that they would only see it coming and going. Fitzgerald thought the woman had a valid point, but his wife had not been so easily placated.
He parked in the garage and listened to the automatic door rattle closed, the noise probably a violation of some homeowner regulation. The short porte cochere led to the mud- room, where he replaced one of his daughter’s stray shoes next to the match on the built-in cubbyhole professionally labeled ADRIENNE’S SCHOOL SHOES . Fitzgerald couldn’t decide what was worse, the fact that his wife was anal enough to separate the shoes into categories, or had enough free time to make the labels. Then again, time was a luxury he could afford for her, along with the three-million-dollar home and the $55,000 Mercedes station wagon she needed to cart the girls to and from private school, piano lessons, ballet, and the seemingly never-ending soccer practices.
Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Fitzgerald hid behind the doorjamb. As Sarah slid around the corner, her socks gliding over the freshly waxed floor, he surprised her from behind.
“Boo!”
She screamed and jumped.
Adrienne followed a split second behind her sister, yelling. “You cheated.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You didn’t say ‘go.’”
“I said three.”
“You still have to say go.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Fitzgerald stepped between them, hugging them both. “Why don’t we just call it a tie?”
“No way,” Sarah said. “She always cries when I win.”
“That’s because you cheat.”
“All right,” Fitzgerald said, “no more calling anyone a cheater.”
He hugged them again, and they followed him through the kitchen into the living room, where Adrienne sat quickly at the piano bench.
“Want to hear my recital
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