One Step Too Far(Frankie Elkin #2)(71)

I fumble with the plastic first aid kit. There are some kind of fancy red tabs I can’t make sense of in my frazzled state. The more I tell myself to hurry up, the less coordinated I become.

“Frankie, slide them back!”

I manage that, but the clear lid remains glued to the blue base. I feel like I’m wrestling with the Tupperware container from hell.

“Tape. On the sides. It’s brand-new.”

Sure enough, the kit is still taped shut. Martin is going to die because I’m an idiot.

While I fight with inanimate objects, Bob dumps water across Martin’s shoulder. The blood bubbles out of a wound higher up than I originally thought. More muscle and sinew, less heart. But it’s still bleeding profusely.

I finally have the kit open, pawing through with my shaking hands. Antiseptic wipes, blue surgical gloves, got them.

Bob eases Martin back down, the man’s shirt balled under his shoulder to keep it out of the dust. I don’t detect a single tremor in Bob’s fingers as he rips open the wipes, quickly scrubs both hands, then pulls on the surgical gloves.

“All right, this is going to hurt.” He’s speaking to Martin, not me, but I still take the words to heart. “Frankie, the alcohol prep pads.”

Oh shit, this is going to hurt.

“Count of three. One, two—” Bob forgoes three and slaps the saturated isopropyl alcohol pads simultaneously to the front and back of the bubbling wound, gripping tight with both hands. Martin screams, back arching, toes curling, as outside, more thunder booms.

“Pad,” Bob barks at me. I belatedly free the maxi pad, being careful not to touch the surface with my own filthy hands. Bob rolls Martin roughly to the side. “Good news, man. It’s a through and through. You’re lucky.”

I’m pretty sure that’s an ironic statement, but I don’t argue.

With Marty half folded to the side, Bob lets the alcohol pad on the back of the man’s shoulder fall to the dirt, replacing it with the maxi pad. Once more, he eases Marty onto the folded ball of his shirt, holding the absorbent pad in place.

“Tampon,” Bob clips out.

I don’t want to watch what’s going to happen next but can’t seem to look away as I hand over the product and watch Bob drive the tight cotton roll straight into the bullet hole. Marty howls again while the sky roars its answer.

I lean over and gag.

“Do not vomit here,” Bob states so coldly and commandingly it slices through my light-headedness. Gone is the amiable, puppy-eyed Bigfoot enthusiast. This is a man who can leap mountains in a single bound and thank God, because I need one of us to know what the hell he’s doing.

I force down the rest of my bile, wiping my mouth with the back of my forearm.

“I’m okay,” I manage.

“Yes, you are. Now, scrub in.”

“What?”

“Antiseptic wipes. Hands. Start cleaning.”

I do as instructed, but with a growing sense of trepidation. I’m a naturally squeamish person. It’s not like working missing persons cold cases is a front-line sort of gig. There’s a big difference between interviewing people and . . . this.

But Bob is waiting, and Martin, his jaw clenched in pain, his eyes narrow slits of watchfulness. I scrub the dirt and blood from my hands as best I can, then look at Bob for my next orders.”

“Grab the compression wrap and unwind the first quarter of the roll.”

“Okay.”

“Now set it all down in the lid of the kit and come here. I need both your hands.”

I’m still not sure I want to know, but I scoot closer. Bob once again twists Martin’s torso to the side, the man gasping out a string of curses, but complying.

I understand the issue almost at once, grabbing at the absorbent pad at the back of Martin’s shoulder to hold it in place while simultaneously slapping at the tampon plugging the front of the bullet wound as Bob untangles his own fingers. With my hands now pinning the bandages in place, Bob grabs the wrap.

“Hold the pads steady while I secure them in place.”

I will not be sick, I will not be sick, I will not be sick.

More forked lightning. More rolling thunder. I can hear the rain, sounding hard and smelling fresh just outside the cave opening. While inside, my senses are coated with the sticky feel and rusty odor of blood.

Martin’s lips are moving, but I can’t make out his words. A final prayer? A call to his wife, a promise to his son?

Bob is both beside me and over me. He moves fast and efficiently, not speaking as he weaves the first aid wrap over, under, and around Martin’s shoulder. I keep my fingertips in place till the final second, then release my grip on the rear pad, then the front tampon as Bob snugs them into place. Within a matter of seconds, Martin’s shoulder is bandaged and we are all sitting back, breathing heavily.

I feel covered in blood, but then so is Bob, with streaks across the backs of his arms, down the front of shirt, even dripped into his beard. Ironically enough, Martin is the cleanest of the three of us, his wound now contained in a sea of tape.

Bob pours water onto his hands, scrubs them clean as best he can. Then he’s back to the first aid kit, digging around for a foil packet of painkillers. He rips it open and dumps two into Martin’s hand. The man takes them without protest.

“Drink more,” Bob orders, after Martin’s first swig. “Nope, more than that. Okay, to quote Frankie, we need to get the fuck out of here. Because the moment that storm passes, we’re sitting ducks.”