The Hellfire Club(39)
“Medic!” Charlie yelled, as if he were back in France. “Medic!” But no medic appeared.
Somewhere in the distance, a bit bizarrely, Speaker Martin declared the House to be in recess.
All Charlie could see was a blur of panicked faces of politicians and pages. The gunfire had ceased. Street, crouched over Jensen, was attempting to plug the bleeding hole in Jensen’s shoulder as if he were a sinking ship.
A burly redheaded page, maybe eighteen, approached Charlie and asked if he was all right. It was only then that Charlie looked down and saw that his white oxford shirt was soaked with blood. He patted himself down, found no obvious wounds, and continued trying to tend to Jensen with Street. He suddenly wondered what had happened to MacLachlan and turned his head to the spot where the two had been sitting. There he saw MacLachlan on the floor, a dark stain expanding at the small of his back, prone and as still as a stone.
Chapter Twelve
Monday, March 1, 1954—Afternoon
Eastern Dispensary Casualty Hospital, Southeast Washington, DC
Charlie sat in the emergency room examination area, separated from other patients by maroon curtains. A nurse’s brief inspection had ended when she concluded that the blood on his shirt wasn’t his; she told Charlie to relax and wait for a doctor to discharge him. The surrounding cubicles were full of congressmen who were actually wounded; she scurried off to join the other nurses and doctors tending to them. Charlie lay back on the examination table, listening to the conversations swirling around the busy room, sounding as if they were far away.
Where’s the trauma patient?
MacLachlan. OR.
Bad?
One bullet lodged in his spine, between L two and three. Another one shredded his spleen.
How many congressmen were shot?
Six total. Four here. Jensen and Davis at Bethesda.
Let me see. Bentley took one to the chest.
He looked dead when he got here.
He’s critical in the OR. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty. Bullet perforated the right lung, went through the diaphragm, liver, stomach.
Marder is over there; he’s fine. Fallon—bullet through his right thigh. He’s stable. Over there, Roberts, shot in his left leg, bullet entered thigh above knee and went downward. Also stable.
The squeaky wheels of a gurney ripped Charlie out of his dream state; he focused his attention on the examination cubicle to his left, where he could hear Fallon offering faint responses to a doctor’s questions. The hospital intercom blared periodic bulletins: a certain doctor was needed in the OR, a different one was needed in the ER. Background beeps from machines were randomly scattered through the area, like the sounds of birds and bugs around a campsite.
They just caught a fourth Puerto Rican at the bus station.
Suction, please.
I don’t understand. This is about independence?
Something like that.
Doesn’t American Sugar own half the island?
I’m not saying they don’t have a grievance or two. Hemostat. Hold that there. Just like that, right. Good.
They tried to assassinate Truman.
When was that, ’50?
Something like that. Blair House.
Killed a cop.
Yes, I remember because that was the year I got married and we were going to honeymoon in Puerto Rico but we had to cancel because of riots.
Well, you know what they say: One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.
Dr. Klein!
He can’t hear us.
Obviously these are murderous zealots.
I’m just saying they see themselves as minutemen.
Dr. Klein!
Harriet, I didn’t say I see them that way.
Didn’t the Puerto Ricans vote not long ago to remain an American commonwealth? Did I dream that?
There are people around—
Whispers…
Hemostat.
Charlie’s eavesdropping was interrupted by a sharp voice he recognized: “Can you please just tell me where my husband is?”
“Margaret!” He stood and poked his head through the curtains. She ran to him and buried herself in his embrace. She pulled away to look at him and then burst into tears.
“Margaret, Margaret, I’m okay,” he said. “This isn’t my blood.”
She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.
“I’ve never even heard of this hospital,” she said.
“It’s closest to the Capitol.”
She crossed her arms and looked at him sternly. “I was told about your ‘heroics’ today.” And then she punched him with both fists, not hard, but not jokingly either. He grasped her wrists and held them gently, lowered his forehead to meet hers. They stayed there silently, the buzz and hum of the hospital noises surrounding them.
Both Bentley and MacLachlan were still in surgery when Charlie was discharged that evening. In the waiting room he ran into Strongfellow.
“What are you hearing?” he asked Charlie.
“I overheard a doctor saying Bentley is fifty-fifty,” Charlie said. “They’re even less optimistic about Mac.” Margaret tugged him toward the door. He shook Strongfellow’s hand in parting. “I’ll come back in the morning.”
A Capitol Police officer hailed a cab for the two of them. The car radio was broadcasting news about the shooting.