Heartshot by Steven F. Havill

taxiway. From where I sat, I could turn and see only the right side of Hewitt’s face and neck, down to the white sheet. Tubes and plastic packets of drip joggled and vibrated. Three people were obviously planning to spend their every moment tending and monitoring, and I shifted a little, trying to relax for the takeoff. I must have looked even less assured than I felt, because a hand patted my shoulder and one of the flight officers smiled reassuringly.
    “He’ll be fine, Sheriff. We’ll really be hoofin’ it, so it’s only an hour and a half flying time to Albuquerque. And the weatherman promises smooth skies. So relax, huh? He’ll be fine.”
    For a good hour, I believed him. And then things fell apart. The first sign was a slight stirring from Hewitt. He hadn’t regained consciousness, but one leg flexed slightly and his head turned to the left. The emergency crew went to work, and I had sense enough to stay out of the way. I had to watch, though. I tried to will their efforts to success. At one point, the EMT officer who accompanied the aircraft slid forward past me.
    To the pilot, he said clearly and loudly, “Straight in, Tom. We got a cardiac arrest.”
    We were in a gradual descent, and by the high pitch of the engines, it was apparent that the flight crew was taking every advantage of power and gravity, booting that airplane through the sky for all it was worth. In back, I saw those awful electric paddles that come out as a last resort in all the movies and jolt the patient back to life. Chatman vetoed their use this time, though, with a quick shake of the head. At the same time that I saw the doctor plunge an enormous hypodermic into Art Hewitt’s chest, I heard the pilot, just a couple of feet behind my head, say, “Albuquerque approach, Air Ambulance Niner-one-niner is forty south, request change to priority straight on three.”
    “Double Alpha niner-one-niner, plan straight in on three. Are you declaring a medical emergency?” The voice of the controller was as calm as ice.
    “Niner-one-niner, affirmative.”
    “And niner-one-niner, where do you want the ambulance? He’s parked by the Aero Club now.”
    “Albuquerque, have him right at the intersection with eight. Can you do that? It’ll save us taxi time.”
    “Roger, niner-one-niner. We will hold traffic commencing in five minutes until you’re down.”
    “Roger, Albuquerque. Thanks for the expedite.”
    “Niner-one-niner, you’re cleared straight in. Report twenty south and then proceed at your discretion. Tower has you.”
    I have no idea how fast that Piper Navajo was traveling on the final approach, but any lineup with the runway was done at a dead run. Working at his own dead run was the doctor in back. He had given up the needles and my stomach tightened and churned as I saw him shifting position, face intent and scalpel in hand. With a single, decisive slash, the doctor cut into Art Hewitt’s rib cage. Blood welled up along the eight-inch incision that started just below the left nipple and curved down his side in line with the ribs. The EMT was at Hewitt’s head, working the masks and tubes there, and faintly, over the steady bellow of the plane’s engines, I could hear the click and hiss of the medical machinery. The nurse was hovering beside the physician, and the doctor, sweat now running down his cheeks, had his hand inside Art Hewitt’s chest, rhythmically massaging the young man’s crippled heart. I think, at that point, that the only person breathing in the airplane was Art Hewitt, and that was only by dint of mechanical assistance.
    Suddenly the doctor’s face cracked in a grin. “All right!” he cried jubilantly, sounding like a high school football coach after a touchdown. As if in answer, the engines dropped in RPM. I closed my eyes and rested the back of my head against the bulkhead. Alan Perrone had said something about the Albuquerque surgeon’s being the best he’d seen. I wondered how often Dennis