Slow Dance in Purgatory(71)

The crowds had all gone, along with the two ambulances carrying Gus Jasper, his grandson, and Maggie O’Bannon, who was miraculously still alive, though no one knew how she had managed to walk out of the school in her condition. She had a few minor burns and scrapes from the falling debris and ash, but it was the smoke inhalation that should have killed her. All three of the casualties had been taken to a regional hospital, Maggie in critical condition.

There was a great deal more work to be done, but for the time being everyone needed to head home and get a few hours of sleep. Decisions would need to be made. The other half of the school year remained, and about 600 high school students were now without a school. Principal Jillian Bailey spoke quietly with Mayor Parley Pratt about several possibilities as firemen pulled off their blackened helmets, stored their gear, and wound the long hoses. A large back hoe had been put to work through the firefight, dumping loads of cool black earth onto the still smoldering debris. They watched it as it trundled around in front of the building, not far from where they huddled, commiserating and observing. It was then that the weary operator made his stunning discovery.

He had been working primarily on the east side, but the heat of the smoldering rubble made it almost impossible to do any more. For the last hour, he had begun clearing the loose debris from the front of the school where the fire had not spread. The beams had fallen like dominoes, coming to rest in a peculiar circular pattern, each beam supported by the one next to it. The high ceiling and glass walls had been flung outward, as if an inner explosion had forced everything back from the center of the rotunda. It was this debris that had prevented him from moving in close enough to see what he now observed. From his high perch in the cab of the backhoe, the operator noted that some of the large ceramic tiles that had graced the entrance were visible through the toppled beams and debris. He paused, peering down through the rubble at something that didn’t make any sense.

“Sweet Mary mother of….! “ The driver of the backhoe stopped the tractor and jumped down from his perch, scrambling over fallen beams and then disappearing from view. It was mere seconds before he was back, waving his arms frantically and calling for help.

“Help me! Hurry! There’s someone down here! I got a pulse, but I don’t know how long he’s been here or if we can even get him out.”

Officers and firemen came running, the two EMTs from the lone remaining ambulance grabbing a gurney and a medical kit and following close behind.

The first man to reach the back hoe operator was a young police officer, unburdened by heavy coveralls or gear. What he saw was beyond belief. Lying on the exposed tiles of the destroyed rotunda, surrounded by blackened debris and fallen beams, was a young man. He was clearly unconscious, and his once white t-shirt was soaked in blood. The officer maneuvered himself as close as he could, trying to gauge the man’s injuries.

“That’s a gunshot wound!” He felt for a pulse just as the driver of the back hoe had done minutes before. The pulse was weak and thready, and from the looks of it, the kid had lost a lot of blood.

“We gotta get this beam out of the way so that we can get the gurney down here and keep him as flat as possible.” One EMT scrabbled down beside the victim and pulled an oxygen mask over his head and then immediately began an investigation of his wound. The rest of the men tugged and heaved the largest beams out of the way, clearing a path for the gurney to be dropped down. Within seconds, the firemen and emergency medical workers had the gravely injured young man loaded up and were racing toward the ambulance praying that they had found him in time to save his life.

“Principal Bailey!” The young policeman gestured to her wildly. She came at a run, followed by the mayor, who at 75 years old was still insatiably curious and quite spry. It had been all he could do to remain back as the emergency workers had pulled the wounded man from the rubble.

“None of us recognize this kid – is he one of yours?” The policeman indicated the young man on the gurney, wondering if the principal could identify him as a Honeyville High student. One of the EMTs pulled the mask from the young man’s face, giving her a better look before he snapped it back into place.

Jillian Bailey felt the blood drain from her head and the world spin around her as if she were caught in a vortex that defied time and space. Yes, he was hers. But not in the way the EMT meant. She knew him. She knew him intimately. How could she not? She had seen his picture every day of her life. He had haunted her mother’s dreams and darkened her every waking moment with the never-ending questions – Where is my son? What happened to my son? Jillian Bailey shook her head, and managed to choke out a response, the only response she could give.

“No, he isn’t a student.”

Mayor Parley Pratt, his face pursed in concentration, watched as they loaded the gunshot victim into the ambulance and pulled away, sirens blaring.

“That kid sure looked familiar. I know I’ve seen his face. He almost looked like that kid that disappeared all those years ago when I was just a young police officer. What was his name?”

“Johnny Kinross,” Principal Bailey whispered.

“That’s right…Johnny. Your daddy never stopped looking for him, did he? Strange, huh? This kid found in the very place Johnny Kinross was last seen.”

***

Maggie should have woken up by now. The doctors scratched their heads, and the nurses clucked their tongues and pursed their lips. But Maggie stayed locked in a coma, unmoving and unresponsive. Tubes ran in and out of her, machines beeped, Irene pled, but still she slept.