What We Find (Sullivan's Crossing, #1)(93)

His other eye opened, looking at her blankly.

She heard the sound of moving trucks, a helicopter in the distance. She dug in the backpack for gauze, alcohol, drill.

She prayed. God, I will trade anything for this kid’s life. Please, this once, make my mind clear and my hand steady.

“Gotta do this,” she said. She poured alcohol over his head on the same side as the affected pupil—that’s where the pressure would be. If she worked that drill bit too hard she could drive it right into his brain.

Trucks were moving, doors were slamming, rotor blades were spinning. She shut down her ears. She could only hear one thing, the inside of her head. She carefully turned him, lifting his shoulder and upper torso and holding him there, immobile. She fit a bit into the drill. The bit was bigger than she liked but she’d had patients in surgery with bullet holes in their head and pulled them through.

Zurrr, the drill said. Zurrr. Zurrr. Three tidy little burr holes. Thank God the current fashion was buzz cuts. She noted the discharge and crossed her fingers. She covered the holes with clean gauze, then a few seconds later, checked it. She was never so happy to see blood. Red blood.

And then his eyes popped open; pressure relieved.

“Jackson, do not move. We’re going to get you out of here but do not move.”

“Maggie?” he whispered, not understanding. He probably didn’t even know where he was.

“It’s me. You fell. Do not move.”

“Stay put, Maggie!” Tom yelled. “Help on the way!”

And exactly where was she going to go?

Jackson moaned and despite instructions, began to try to turn his head. Her duct tape brace held him in place. A swivel on the neck could be disastrous, so she put her palms against his cheeks and held him still with all her might.

“Jackson, listen to me. Jackson, you can’t move. I’m here, I’ve got you. We’re going to get you out of here. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Be still, honey. Still, still, still.”

It was the longest five minutes of her life, waiting. She kept whispering to Jackson, checking his pulse and respirations, watching the bleeding and soaking it up with gauze.

Finally, someone was on that ledge with her, down by Jackson’s feet. “Maggie, what the hell you doing?” Connie Boyle asked. He handed her a neck brace and she actually sighed in relief.

“I think you’re better off hoisting him up with my duct tape brace in place. You can cut it off in the helicopter and replace it, but I think it’s risky to do that here. Do you have airlift support?”

“Fifty yards up the road,” Connie said. “We can’t pull him off this shelf via cable to the helicopter. We’re going to have to take him up this way. First, I have to get rid of you. You go up,” he said, handing her a harness.

“Connie, I can’t get this on,” she said. “We have about a three-foot width here. I’ll never make it. Can’t they pull me up on this rope?” she asked, tugging on the rope.

“I don’t know what you were using for a brain, sliding down on that stupid rope tied around your waist. Stand. Back to the hill. Easy does it. Don’t make me step over Jackson to dress you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. She hugged the wall, carefully attaching the harness. It seemed to take her forever and while her hands had been steady to drill holes in Jackson’s head, they shook as she tried to fasten her harness.

“Take your time,” Connie said.

“Got it,” she said. “I hope.”

He disconnected the rope from his harness and she clipped it on hers. Then he yelled for them to haul her up. And with a jerk, she was lifted upward, her butt dragging along the hillside. The second she got to the top, a paramedic was lowered, along with an emergency basket and another cable.

With shaking hands, she began removing her harness. Cal was instantly beside her, helping her out of it. “If anyone tells you I passed out while you were being lowered to that little ledge, they’re lying,” he said.

“You okay now?” she asked.

“I’m better with you up here. Honey, you have blood on your hands,” he said.

“Damn, I left the backpack down there with Jackson,” she said. “I’ll get a hydrogen peroxide from the paramedics for my hands...”

“Forget it—it’s all over you,” he said.

“Is he all right?” Tom asked.

“He’s alive and has to be taken into surgery right away. I’ll go with him in the helicopter. I’ll make a couple of calls to get a room in the OR ready and call another surgeon, get a CT so we have a better idea of what we’re doing. Time to hope for the best, Tom. His vitals are steady and he’s semiconscious. He was lucid. He’s got a chance. A good chance.”

“I’ll go with,” Tom said.

“We need room to work, Tom. We’ll be busy until you and Cal get to Denver—we’ll have to take him to the hospital there. If anything changes, anything at all, we’ll be in touch by phone.”

Someone handed her a rag, hydrogen peroxide and a bottled water and she rinsed and washed off her hands.

“It’s taking them too long,” Tom complained, watching the edge of the ridge, waiting.

“It’s all right, I think the immediate danger is past,” she said. “I relieved the intracranial pressure. I’d like more information, but we can’t get that until we get him to Denver. There isn’t any place closer.”