Chapter 14

 

 

When Chris finally regained consciousness he was weak, confused, and frightened.  It was Johnny’s voice that finally calmed Chris and enabled him to focus on the situation. An overwhelming feeling of exhaustion made it difficult for Chris to open his eyes more than halfway.

 

“What...whaz happ’ning? Sounds--bullets?”

 

Johnny bent over Chris so the young paramedic could see his face. 

 

“We’ve got ourselves in kind of a tough situation here, Chris, but we’ll be all right.”

 

“Wha’...wha’ happened?”

 

Chris panicked when he couldn’t move his head.  He raised his arms, his hands reaching for his neck.  Johnny grabbed the young man’s arms and laid them back against Chris’s side.

 

“Hold still, Chris.  Don’t move. You...you were shot, but you’re gonna be okay.”

 

Chris’s question was muffled by the oxygen mask.

 

“Sho-shot?”

 

“Yeah.  There’s some nut in that house with a gun. With a whole lotta guns.”

 

As bullets bounced off the street, Johnny flung himself over Chris once again.  When a reprieve took place, the paramedic cautiously raised to a crouched position.

 

Chris’s eyes flicked to the right and left, though because of the towel Johnny had secured around his neck, he couldn’t get a good view of the area.

 

“Co-cops?”

 

Sirens continued to wail as more police officers arrived.

 

“The cops are here,” Johnny confirmed. “They’ll have us on the way to Rampart in no time.”

 

Johnny continued to talk to Chris while pulling down the blanket and checking the bandage on his chest.  It was soaked with blood, just as Johnny surmised the one on Chris’s back was too.  The paramedic quickly attached another folded square of Chris’s turn-out coat to the bandage already covering his chest, then said, “I’m gonna have to roll you to the right, Chris, so I can take a look at your back. You let me do all the work, okay?”

“ ‘Kay-okay.”

 

Johnny cut the strips of duct tape he’d need and attached them to a bandage square before log rolling Chris. He wanted to make this as quick and painless as possible for the young man.  When Chris drew a ragged gasp of air, Johnny assured, “It’s okay.  You’re okay.  I’ll be done in a second.  Just hang on for me, Chris.  Hang on.”

 

After Johnny got the bandage secured, he rolled Chris to his back and covered him with the blanket again.  The oxygen mask was fogged up by Chris’s strained puffs for air; beads of clammy perspiration clung to his forehead. The paramedic chief’s attention was so narrowly focused now that the gunshots, flashing lights, and sirens didn’t exist for him. Johnny rose just high enough to grab another towel from a compartment, then crouched beside Chris and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.

 

“You’re gonna be okay, Chris. Just hang in there for me. You’re gonna be okay.”

 

Chris blinked heavily three times. “Ba...bad, huh?”

 

“Nah, just a scratch.”

 

Chris gave the man a lopsided half smile. “Doesn’t...doesn’t feel like a-a scratch.”

 

“You’ve lost some blood, but you’ll be okay.  I’m in touch with Rampart.  You’re gonna be fine until I can get ya’ there.”

 

Johnny continued to wipe at the perspiration breaking out on Chris’s face. He knew the young man was in shock, yet Johnny could tell Chris was trying to access his injuries.  Both of Chris’s arms moved beneath the blanket, and then his fingers and thumbs rose a few inches from the pavement. Chris’s brow furrowed next and his shoulders tensed as he tried to raise his upper body.

 

Johnny pressed the young man’s shoulders to the street.

 

“Chris, don’t do that.  Relax.  Just relax. You’re gonna be fine.”

 

Johnny saw nothing but panic when Chris’s eyes opened wide.  Before he had a chance to wonder what was going on, Chris panted, “Johnny...Uncle Johnny, I can’t...I can’t feel my legs.  I can’t...I can’t feel my legs, Uncle Johnny!”

 

That was the only time since Chris DeSoto had started his paramedic training with John Gage, that he’d referred to the man as “Uncle Johnny”.  “Uncle Johnny” had gone by the wayside during recent months, to be replaced by “Chief,” or “Chief Gage,” when Chris was in Johnny’s classroom, or just “Johnny” when they were riding together in a paramedic squad, or when they were away from the fire department and Chris ran across Johnny at his parents’ home, or stopped by Johnny’s ranch to shoot the bull.

 

“I can’t feel my legs, Uncle Johnny! I can’t--”

 

“Okay, okay,” Johnny soothed. “Calm down, Chris.  Calm down and I’ll check it out.”

 

Johnny remained by Chris’s head and shoulders until the young man gained control of his emotions. He patted Chris’s arm.

 

“I’m gonna see what’s goin’ on with you, okay?”

 

“O-okay,” Chris said with trepidation, as though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know why he had no sense that his legs were still attached to his body.

 

Johnny carefully removed Chris’s right boot.

 

“Can you feel me taking this boot off?”

 

“N-no.”

 

Johnny removed the left boot next.

 

“How about this one?”

 

“No…no.  I can’t feel anything.”

 

“Okay.  Don’t get upset.  It’ll be all right. You’re gonna be all right.”

 

Even though a part of Chris was aware Johnny’s words were meant to keep him calm and nothing more, there was also a part of Chris that clung to what the man said.  If Uncle Johnny said he would be all right, then Chris believed him without question.

 

Johnny took Chris’s socks off, then grabbed a pen from the pocket of his turnout coat and ran the dull end over the sole of Chris’s right foot.

 

“Feel that?”

 

“I didn’t...didn’t feel anything.”

 

Johnny turned the pen around, so the pointed end was now running up Chris’s bare foot.

 

“How about this?”

 

“No.”

 

Johnny repeated his actions on Chris’s left foot. Chris’s responses remained the same. 

 

“I can’t...Uncle Johnny, I can’t feel anything!”

 

“Okay, Chris, okay. It’s all right.  Calm down, kiddo. Just calm down.” 

 

Johnny put his pen back in his pocket.  He picked up the sheers and slit the legs of Chris’s bunker pants to his upper thighs, then grabbed a thin sealed packet from the drug box.  He tore it open, and pulled out a sterile needle.

 

“Chris, I’ve got a needle here. Let me know if you feel anything.”

 

“All...all right.”

 

Johnny poked the needle in various places from Chris’s left ankle, all the way to his upper left thigh.  Each time he’d ask, “Can you feel that?” Chris would say, “No.”  By the time Johnny finished with Chris’s right let, Chris’s “No’s” had grown distant and disheartened.

 

Johnny hid his own heartache from Chris.  He put the needle in a disposable container, tossed it into the drug box, then moved to Chris’s head again.  The young man’s eyes sought out his mentor. Johnny had to strain to make out the soft, weak words over the sound of a man’s voice shouting through a bullhorn, and the crackle of radio transmissions coming from the squad cars lining the street.

 

“I-I can’t feel...Uncle Johnny, I can’t feel my legs.”

 

Johnny squeezed Chris’s shoulder.  “I know, Chris, but don’t jump to conclusions. We won’t know anything for certain until after the docs at Rampart have had a chance to look at you.”

“Do you...do you think...do you really think I might...that I might still...still be able to walk?  Still be able to…to be a para-paramedic?”

 

Chris DeSoto respected John Gage more that night because he told him the truth, rather than lying to him and giving him false hope.

 

“I...” Johnny paused and swallowed hard.  “I don’t know, Chris. I can’t make you any promises.”

 

Chris gazed at Johnny through half-open lids, then gave a slight nod.

 

“Than-thanks for bein’ hon-honest.”

 

Johnny’s “You’re welcome,” was soft and strained.

 

“Don-don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Bla-blame yourself.  Not...not your faul-fault.  Bad...bad call.  Juz...just a bad call.” Chris shot Johnny a weak smile. “Guess...guess I shoulda’...shoulda’ listened to Dad when he tole’ me...tole’ me to stay in school, huh?”

 

As the young man drifted off, Johnny closed his eyes and whispered, “Yeah, Chris.  Yeah, I guess you should have. I guess we both should have listened to your dad.”

 

For the remainder of the time Johnny and Chris were pinned behind the squad, Johnny tended to his patient. He let Brackett know that Chris had no sensation in his legs and feet, and provided the doctor with updated vital signs every ten minutes.  When Chris would regain consciousness for brief intervals, Johnny never failed to assure the young man that he was going to be all right, and that he – Johnny - would remain by Chris’s side until this ordeal was over.

 

At one point, Chris ordered,     “If...if they...the cops...if they can-can get you out...go. Go.”

 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere without you.”

 

“Uncle Johnny--”

 

“Chris, don’t argue with me. When I go, you go with me.”

 

“Dad...Dad always...always said you were stub-stubborn as a mule.”

 

“I am. And proud of it, too.”

 

That remark earned Johnny a lopsided smile before Chris lost consciousness again. 

 

Johnny didn’t know what transpired after the S.W.A.T. team arrived, but suddenly the front door of the dark house was rammed in, and men were shouting and running through the neighborhood. It wouldn’t be until Troy Anders interviewed Johnny, that the paramedic chief discovered the man who’d been shooting at him and Chris had somehow eluded the police and fled. Anders promised Johnny they’d catch the guy, but by then, Johnny’s only concern was that Chris survive surgery.

 

When the scene was secured, the paramedics from Squad 22 helped Johnny get Chris ready for transport. Because Chris’s blood pressure was rapidly dropping, it was as close to a “wrap and run” as possible.  Johnny rode in the ambulance with Chris, as did Clem Harding, 22’s senior paramedic.

 

Johnny and Clem worked together to keep Chris alive on that swift ride through city streets. Johnny was thankful the hour was early yet, meaning traffic was light and no one hindered the ambulance’s progress.

 

Chris surfaced to a semi-consciousness state when they were halfway to the hospital.  He was too weak to talk, and that same weak, lethargic feeling made it impossible for the paramedic to figure out where he was or what was happening. The only thing Chris was aware of with any certainty, were Johnny’s assurances that he’d be all right.

 

“You’re doin’ fine, Chris. You’re gonna be okay.  Everything’s gonna be all right. We’re on our way to Rampart now. You’re gonna be all right.”

 

Chris’s eyelids fluttered until he was able to open them far enough to focus on Johnny.  He tried to give the man a smile, but had no idea if his mouth moved at his brain’s distant command. The two things Chris’s foggy brain did absorb, was Johnny’s pasty features, and the fine tremor of his hands.  Chris wanted to say, “I’m okay, Uncle Johnny. I’ll be okay. It’s not your fault,” but talking was too much effort, and in a few seconds, Chris was unconscious once again.

 

Johnny had unloaded patients at Rampart with just as much urgency as he unloaded Chris DeSoto, but this was one of the few times he’d had such close personal ties with a patient. Johnny felt like it was someone else running beside the gurney holding Chris’s IV bags aloft and giving Brackett an update. He was on autopilot now, doing everything by habit, because to acknowledge that the young man on the stretcher was like a son to him was more than Johnny could handle.  So instead, now that Chris was in Brackett’s hands, it was easier to pretend Chris was just another patient.  That game of pretend was why Johnny was able to competently assist the team of doctors and nurses Kelly Brackett had assembled in Treatment Room 2, and why, after Chris was whisked to surgery, Johnny was able to calmly and thoroughly answer all of Troy Anders’ questions.

 

It wasn’t until eight o’clock that morning, when Johnny silently slipped into Rampart’s small chapel, that the facade of professionalism he’d kept in place ever since Chris had been shot began to crumble.

 

Although the room was empty, Johnny sat in the back pew on the right and slid all the way to the far end. During the three hours he remained there, a few people came and went – a gray headed man who knelt in front of the alter, made the sign of the cross, and used a rosary while reciting some prayers, a teenage girl and her mother, and two women in their mid-fifties, who seemed to be wrestling with a medical decision that had to be made regarding an elderly parent – but no one noticed the paramedic. 

 

The room was dimly lit by round, recessed ceiling lights and contained no windows. The majority of light was shining through a six-foot high white cross at the front of the chapel.  The cross was built into the wall a few feet above the small podium that held a lectern. Johnny hadn’t been aware that a minister actually held services here, though he did know Rampart had two volunteer chaplains. Based on what he was seeing, Johnny assumed services of some sort were held on Sundays, and maybe on certain holidays, but overall, it didn’t matter to him, because he wasn’t here to sit through a church service, and if one started, he’d get up and leave.

 

Johnny remained in the dark corner, willing his hands to stop shaking. He finally clasped them together in what some would say was a form of prayer. Johnny; however, had no conscious memory of praying for Chris DeSoto’s life while he sat in that quiet little chapel with his hands folded. Instead, he was assaulted with a jumble of images that ranged from the first day he’d met Roy, to the first time he’d been introduced to Roy’s wife and children. So many years had passed since then. Chris had been in kindergarten, and Jennifer was just three years old. Seven years after that first meeting, another child was added to the DeSoto family. A boy named after John Gage, which was a testament to all Johnny meant to not only Roy, but to Joanne, Chris, and Jennifer as well.

 

It was when Johnny thought of those years of friendship with the entire DeSoto family, that a tear trickled down his face. The last thing he wanted was for Roy and Joanne to have to bury their oldest son, or for Chris never to walk again. When he thought of those alternatives, either of which were strong possibilities, Johnny couldn’t help but feel that he’d let Roy down. That he hadn’t done what Roy asked of him six months earlier right here at Rampart. 

 

Johnny had been recovering from a back injury after having gotten caught under a collapsing circus tent. For several days prior to that incident, Roy was struggling to come to terms with Chris’s decision to drop out of college and join the fire department. Johnny was the person Chris coerced into breaking that news to Roy, which caused a temporary rift in Johnny and Roy’s friendship.

 

On the day Johnny was released from Rampart, Roy picked him up.  The paramedic recalled a portion of their conversation.

 

“And now I want you to make me a promise.”

 

“Anything,” Johnny had said, without inquiring first as to what type of promise Roy was going to extract from him.

 

“You took care of my youngest son for me yesterday, now I’m asking that you take care of my oldest son.  There are a lotta reasons why I’d rather see Chris go into almost any other line of work but ours, and first and foremost is because I don’t want to see him injured in the line of duty.  I worry about that a lot, Johnny. I know you won’t always be the person Chris reports to, but while you are...during the time period he’s training in the field with you, take care of him for me, okay?  Promise you’ll take care of him.”

 

“I promise, Roy. I won’t let anything happen to Chris. I promise I won’t.”

 

Now that promise haunted Johnny. He’d thought of it so many times during the hours since Chris had been shot.  He wished to God he’d never made it.  But how could he have refused to make it?  How could he have refused his best friend something that was a given?  Johnny would have laid down his life for Chris.  If there were any way he could go back and change what happened outside that dark house, he’d do so without giving it a second thought.  If there were any way it could be him on that operating table fighting for his life and his ability to walk again, then Johnny would make that happen.  Chris would still be healthy and whole, and Johnny...well, it didn’t make any difference what happened to him.  He wasn’t young like Chris, with his whole future ahead of him. He wasn’t married.  He had no children.  Why the hell couldn’t it have been him?  Why the hell did God let this happen to Chris?

 

Johnny was alone in the chapel when he clutched the lip of the pew in front of him and laid his forehead on its smoothed polished wood.

 

“Why?” he murmured. “Why Chris? Why damn it? Why couldn’t it have been me instead of him? Just tell me why.”

 

The paramedic’s head shot up when a hand rested on the back on his turnout coat.

 

“Johnny, don’t do this to yourself.” Dixie’s voice was soft and wrought with sympathy. “Don’t blame yourself.”

 

Johnny swiped at the moisture on his cheeks and stared at the floor. 

 

“Who do you want me to blame?”

 

“The man who was hiding in that house with a gun.”

 

“I was the one who told Roy he had to accept the fact that Chris dropped out of college.”

 

Dixie sat down next to the paramedic.  “And what does that have to do with what happened this morning?”

 

“If Chris had been in school, he wouldn’t have--”

 

“Chris is a grown man, Johnny. You had no control over the decisions he made, any more than Roy did.”

 

Johnny didn’t feel like debating with the nurse, because in the end, the facts would remain the same. Had Chris stayed in school, he wouldn’t have been on the call with Johnny, and he wouldn’t have been shot.  Rather than point any of that out to Dixie, Johnny questioned, “Chris?”

 

“He’s still in surgery.”

 

“Roy and Joanne?”

 

“They’re in the surgical floor waiting area. Jennifer and John are with them. Some of the guys who work for Roy are up there too, along with a few other people I don’t know, and a red headed young lady who seems really worried about Chris.”

 

Johnny smiled slightly. “Wendy Adams.”

 

“Chris’s girlfriend?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dixie removed the lid from a large Styrofoam cup and handed the cup to Johnny.  That action forced him to look at her.

 

“Drink this.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Orange juice. And after it’s gone, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Johnny--” 

 

Johnny’s, “I’m not hungry, Dix!” came out louder and sharper than he intended for it to.  He took a deep breath.

 

“I’m sorry. I just...I don’t feel like eating right now.”

 

“Then at least drink the orange juice. I put ice cubes in it.  You look hot.”

 

“I’m okay.”

 

The paramedic saw the woman eyeing him with doubt. He knew his hair was matted to his head with perspiration, and since he hadn’t removed his turnout coat, he understood why Dixie was under the assumption that he was warm.  But he wasn’t warm. In fact, he felt cold despite the heat within his heavy boots, coat, and bunker pants.

 

“Johnny, why don’t you go to Kel’s office, take your coat and boots off, and stretch out on his couch. I know he won’t mind.  I’d like to have Mike take a look at you, then I think you’d better eat something and--”

 

“No.”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“Dix, I’m fine. I just wanna be alone for a while, okay?  I came in here to be alone.”

 

The woman waited. On the rare occasions Johnny had been short with her, he usually apologized within seconds of losing his temper. Today, however, he didn’t.  Today was different. Today Johnny’s soul was weighted with worry for his best friend’s son, which superseded everything else going on around him.

 

Dixie patted the paramedic’s knee. “I understand. I’m sorry I intruded.”

 

As the woman stood, Johnny grasped her hand and looked up at her.

 

“Dix...will you...will you come and tell me if anything changes with Chris? Please?”

 

Dixie nodded. “I will.”

 

“And thanks for the orange juice. And for...for caring.”

 

Dixie leaned forward and kissed the top of the paramedic’s head.  She’d known him for so long, thought of him as a lovable, pesky little brother for so long, that it seemed like a natural thing to do.  The show of affection was part maternal, party sisterly, and that’s the way Johnny accepted it.

 

The man shot Dixie a smile.  “Better not let Brackett find out you did that.”

 

Dixie frowned and tried to look stern.  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

 

“That people aren’t nearly as good at keeping secrets around here as you might think.”

 

“Believe me, I’ve never thought that.”

 

Johnny’s smile faded almost as quickly as it had come. He turned and stared straight ahead at the altar.

 

“Johnny, when you’re ready to go upstairs, I know Roy and Joanne want you to wait with them.”

 

Johnny hesitated a moment, then nodded.  He wasn’t certain if Dixie was correct; however, he also wasn’t going to voice that to the nurse. What happened from here on out was between Johnny and the DeSoto family.  If things...if things went sour with Chris, and Roy and Joanne blamed Johnny for that, then Johnny didn’t want anyone interfering and trying to mend fences on his behalf.  Roy and Joanne had enough to deal with.  They didn’t need further stress as a result of people sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.

 

“I’ll...I’ll be up in a little while.”

 

“All right.”

 

Dixie stood over the man a few seconds longer, waiting to see if he’d drink the orange juice she’d handed him. He didn’t, so Dixie hoped that once she left he would. The paramedic was pale, shaky, and his face was covered with beads of clammy perspiration that he appeared to be oblivious to. Dixie was about to suggest again that Johnny lie down in Brackett’s office, when he requested in a weary voice, “Dix, go...go, please.  I’ll be okay. I just...I just need to be alone for a little while longer.”           

 

Although Dixie thought Johnny needed a friend by his side right then more than he needed to be alone, she respected his wishes and quietly left the chapel. 

 

When Johnny heard the double swinging doors softly plunk against each other, he put the lid back on the Styrofoam cup and set the cup on the floor beside his feet. He rested his head on the pew in front of him again, wondering how he’d face Roy and Joanne if Chris didn’t make it through surgery. 

 

Chapter 15

 

 

Johnny paused after stepping out of the elevator. He had a clear view of the waiting area where Roy’s family and friends were gathered around Kelly Brackett.  Since there were no visible signs of hysterical grief, and since Dixie hadn’t given Johnny any further updates on Chris’s condition after her visit to the chapel two hours earlier, the paramedic assumed Chris was still alive.  However, judging by the expressions Johnny could see on the faces of Wendy and Jennifer, the man knew Brackett was in the process of delivering bad news.

 

Johnny couldn’t think of any other situation that would find him wondering if he was welcome at Roy’s side. Through all their years of friendship, through all the ups and downs, Johnny had never questioned whether Roy would be receptive to his presence, or instead, tell him to go to hell.  In the past, when the going got rough, they’d always been there for one another without hesitation, no matter what disagreement they might have been having five minutes earlier.

 

But this was much larger than a disagreement about the purchase of a hot dog stand, or if they should go into the floor cleaning business together, or if Johnny was hearing things again when he insisted there was a mysterious rattling noise coming from the squad’s engine.  This was about Chris’s life, and what role Johnny had played in altering a promising future. 

 

The paramedic closed his eyes.  An observer might have concluded Johnny was gathering the strength he needed to face Roy DeSoto. On the other hand, when Johnny swayed to the right and threw a hand out for the wall, the observer might have concluded Johnny was gathering the strength he needed to stay on his feet.  In the end, both conclusions would have been correct.

 

Johnny fought to rise above the physical exhaustion that was so heavy his shoulders sagged beneath its weight, and shoved aside the emotional exhaustion that made him long for the oblivion a deep dreamless sleep would give him.

 

The paramedic finally opened his eyes, squared his shoulders, and headed down the corridor that seemed one hundred miles long. 

 

When Johnny was a few feet from the couch Roy and Joanne were seated on, he stopped.  He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, but instead, focused on the white floor tiles. He ignored John DeSoto when the boy shouted, “Come sit by me, Uncle Johnny!”

 

Johnny didn’t want to hurt the child’s feelings, but this wasn’t the time to force himself into the DeSoto family circle. The paramedic refused to take advantage of a six year old’s inability to understand the gravity of the situation, and why his parents might hold John Gage accountable for at least some of what Chris was suffering.           

 

The chief slipped his hands into the pockets of his bunker pants. He was hot now rather than cold; thirsty, and just light headed enough to wish he hadn’t tossed his orange juice into a garbage can without drinking any of it.  With his eyes on the floor, Johnny listened to what Brackett was saying. 

 

“I'm sorry, Roy. Joanne. If I could have done more, I would have. I promise you that.”

Random thoughts raced through Johnny’s mind.  Had Chris died on the operating table? Had the blood loss been too great for the surgeons to combat?  Had a bullet damaged a vital organ?

 

Roy’s voice pulled Johnny from his internal dialogue. Roy wanted to know what Brackett meant. Johnny’s eyes briefly flicked to the physician’s face before returning to the floor. If a person hadn’t known Kelly Brackett for as long as John Gage had, he might not see through the professional veneer to what was beneath the surface.  Sorrow, regret, sympathy, and a look that said Brackett wished it were anyone but himself who had to deliver this news to Roy. 

 

Johnny knew whatever was coming wouldn’t be good. His only hope now was that, when things calmed down, Roy would allow him to help in any way he could.

 

“The bullet damaged Chris's spine. We already know he's suffered paralysis to his lower extremities.”

 

Johnny heard the fear in Roy’s one word question.

           “Permanent?”

 

Then he heard the finality in Brackett’s brief, matter-of-fact answer.

            “Yes, Roy. It's permanent.”

 

Silence hung over the area, brought on by shock and a momentary inability to fully accept what the doctor had said.  The only one who didn’t have trouble accepting it was Johnny. Not that he wanted to accept it.  What he wanted to do was shout, “No! No, goddamn it, no! Not Chris! Not Chris, damn it!  Not Chris!” But shouting wouldn’t change the damage the bullet had done, and ever since Chris told Johnny that he couldn’t feel his legs, Johnny’d suspected that the news Brackett had just given Roy and Joanne would be the end result.

 

Because Johnny’s head remained bowed, he never saw Roy coming at him.  Even if he had seen the man charging him, Johnny wouldn’t have moved.  The paramedic kept his hands in his pockets.  He refused to defend himself, even as Roy shouted, “You bastard!” while grabbing the front of Johnny’s turnout coat with one fist, and landing a hard right against Johnny’s jaw with the other.

 

The beating continued with Roy raging hate-filled words.  Johnny wasn’t nearly as shocked by Roy’s behavior as everyone else seemed to be.  He heard the shouts from various voices for Roy to stop; yet the paramedic on the receiving end of Roy’s fists said nothing.  Roy’s actions and words told Johnny just how deep the father’s pain went.  Just how much blame Roy was putting on himself, too, for Chris’s decision to join the fire department. Despite Roy’s, “You did this to him, you bastard! It’s your fault my son will never live a normal life,” Johnny knew it wasn’t just John Gage whom Roy was blaming.  Roy was remembering the little boy who’d idolized his father, and imitated everything his dad did. Roy was remembering how much Chris loved to visit Station 51 when he was a kid, and how happy Roy always was when Joanne stopped by with Chris and Jennifer.  Roy wasn’t blaming just Johnny for Chris’s decision to leave college, but he was also wondering what more he could have done to keep his son focused on getting a degree, and then choosing a career in any field but firefighting.

 

In a distant, dreamy sort of way, Johnny found it interesting that he knew with so much clarity what Roy was feeling and thinking. No one else had figured it out, not even Joanne.  As blood gushed from Johnny’s nose, Joanne cried, “Roy, stop it! Please stop it!”  Even she didn’t understand the depths of her husband’s pain, or that he was shouldering a good portion of the blame for Chris’s injuries as well.        

 

Hands were pulling at Roy now. Johnny felt like a rag doll that a little kid was refusing to give up as he was jerked forward, then backwards, then forward again. Nonetheless, the only time Johnny wished Roy would stop was when he heard John’s terror filled screams.

 

“Daddy! Daddy, stop it!  Daddy, don’t! Stop! Stop it, Daddy!  You’re hurting Uncle Johnny!  Daddy, stop!”

 

Poor kid. He shouldn’t have to sit there and watch this.

 

Scuffling feet, rubber soles squeaking against tiles, and men’s shouts filled the air. Powerful tugs yanked Johnny forward as Roy was yanked backwards. Everything was growing dim and distant. Even the pain caused by Roy’s fists wasn’t nearly as sharp as it had been just seconds earlier.  As Roy’s hands were finally pulled loose from Johnny’s turnout coat, the paramedic wanted to tell someone that he needed to sit down, and he wanted to ask Dixie to get him another glass of orange juice, and he also wanted to tell her that maybe laying down on Brackett’s couch wasn’t such a bad idea after all, but before he got any of those words out, Johnny’s knees buckled.  As he sank toward the floor with black dots dancing in front of his eyes, Johnny was aware of hands thrusting forward to catch him.

 

Roy’s hands.  

 

That was one of the first memories Johnny had upon regaining consciousness in an ER trauma room twenty minutes later, but he didn’t allow it to give him false hope. Even years after the incident, Johnny wasn’t certain if Roy’s gesture was made from genuine concern for his safety, or simply reflex. 

 

Given the chance, Johnny would have asked Roy, but he wasn’t given the chance. Roy never came to see Johnny during the twenty-four hours he was hospitalized, nor did he attempt to contact the paramedic in the weeks that followed.

 

That gave Johnny a good indication of what the future held for his and Roy’s friendship, because as the old saying went, actions speak louder than words.

 

Chapter 16

 

It was Kelly Brackett who gave Johnny a ride home upon the paramedic chief’s release from Rampart the next afternoon.  At first, Johnny had been hesitant to accept the man’s offer. Although in a sense he’d worked for Brackett during his years as a paramedic in the field, and now worked with the doctor as chief paramedic instructor for the fire department, Johnny still looked upon the man as more of a superior than a peer.  He had an enormous amount of respect for Doctor Brackett, but the friendship they shared was on a professional level and based on their ties to the paramedic program, as opposed to being based on things they had in common.  They didn’t go to ball games together. They didn’t go fishing together. And they didn’t normally have a reason to offer one another a ride home. 

 

Johnny cast about for someone to call while Brackett waited for him to get dressed. There were plenty of men he considered to be friends, but they all worked for the fire department. By now, over twenty-four hours after the shooting, they’d all undoubtedly heard what happened.  Because Johnny had no desire to answer questions about the incident, he decided accepting a ride from Brackett was probably the best alternative.

 

“As long as I’m not putting you out,” Johnny finally said while dressing in the clothes Dixie had brought him before she’d gone on-duty that morning.

 

Dixie had left Rampart the previous afternoon with Johnny’s key ring in her pocket, and with his permission to go to his ranch and get a change of clothes for him so he had something to wear home other than his bloody turnouts and heavy boots. As Johnny dressed, he tried not to dwell on the fact that these types of favors – retrieving clean clothing for him, and then giving him a ride home when he was released from the hospital – were all things he’d been able to count on the DeSotos for over the years.

 

Brackett’s voice interrupted Johnny’s thoughts.

 

“You’re not putting me out.”

 

Johnny didn’t argue with the man, though he was well aware Brackett would have a two hour round trip by the time the doctor drove him to his ranch, then returned to his own home.

 

Johnny finished buttoning the denim shirt Dixie had taken out of his closet, then tucked his shirttails into the waistband of his blue jeans before bending to tie his tennis shoes. He grabbed the sturdy shopping bag Dix brought for his turnout coat, bunker pants, and boots.  Johnny shoved those items into the bag and picked it up by the handles.  He followed Brackett into the corridor.  It wasn’t until they were in the elevator and away from anyone who could overhear them, that Johnny asked quietly, “How’s Chris doin’?”

 

“He’s critical, but he remained stable throughout the night. He’s got youth on his side, Johnny.”

 

Johnny nodded. Life could be such a mocking bitch.  It was Chris’s young age that might help him survive this ordeal and yet, at such a young age, his ability to walk had been taken from him.

 

“Do you want to see him before we leave? He won’t know you’re there, but we can stop in for a minute.”

 

Johnny shot the doctor a sideways glance. Given the bruises on his face from Roy’s fists, Johnny thought that was the most asinine question he’d ever been asked.  He’d be about as welcome in Chris’s room at this moment as a rat carrying the bubonic plague. Though when Johnny took the time to mull the physician’s question over, he realized Brackett probably had no clue that Roy’s anger went far deeper than a brief, crazed moment when an upset father was looking for someone to blame for his son’s injuries.  Because Roy’s friendship with Kelly Brackett was just as much on a professional level as Johnny’s was, Brackett had no insight into how much Chris’s decision to drop out of college had upset Roy, and how ticked off Roy was upon discovering Chris confided in Johnny about it long before Chris discussed it with his dad.

 

“I’ll...I’ll wait a few days.  Let things...calm down some.”

 

Brackett must have decided there was wisdom to those words, or maybe he didn’t want to have to patch Johnny up again should Roy give a repeat performance of the previous day’s beating.

 

“That sounds like a good idea. Besides, you need to get home and rest.”

 

“I’ve been resting.”

 

“No one ever rests in a hospital.”

 

“Then why’d you keep me here overnight?”

 

“Because I’m not in the habit of sending someone home who looks like he’d pass out before he made it through his front door.”

 

Had Johnny been in the mood for humor, he could have bantered with the doctor on this issue all the way to his ranch.  But he wasn’t in the mood for humor, and the hour-long ride was a quiet one.  Brackett made a couple of attempts at small talk that didn’t progress far.  Johnny gave him one-word answers before turning to stare out of the passenger side window again, effectively preventing any further conversation.

 

After Brackett pulled his car into Johnny’s driveway, he said, “I can take you to get your Land Rover tomorrow if you need me to.”

 

Johnny’s truck was parked in Station 36’s lot, as was Chris’s vehicle.

 

“Thanks, but I can get my neighbor to give me a ride there.”

 

“The guy who takes care of your horses when you’re on duty?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Johnny’s Malamute, Joe, had recognized his master in the strange car, and was now barking at the passenger side door. Johnny commanded, “Sit,” through the open window. The dog did as his master instructed, and then quit barking when the next command was, “Quiet, Joe.”

 

The paramedic reached for the door handle.

 

“Thanks for the ride, Doc.”

 

“You’re welcome. Before you get out, I have a message from Jennifer.”

 

“Jennifer?”

 

“She wanted me to tell you that she and Joanne came to see you yesterday afternoon in the ER.”

 

When Johnny didn’t do anything but stare out the windshield, Brackett asked, “Johnny?  Did you hear what I said?  Jennifer wanted--”

 

“Yeah...yeah, I heard you. Thanks for lettin’ me know.”           

“And Joanne wanted me to contact her if you needed a ride home today.”

 

“And Roy?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Did Roy want you to call?”

 

“I...that I don’t know. Roy wasn’t with them.”

 

Brackett’s answer didn’t surprise Johnny. He grabbed the shopping bag he’d set between his feet and opened the car door. Before the paramedic could climb out of the vehicle, the doctor spoke again.

 

“Johnny, give Roy a few days. He’ll come around.  I’ve seen parents react like he did more times than I can count.  You were nothing more than a convenient target.  He doesn’t really blame you, and you can’t blame yourself. You did all you could for Chris. None of this was your fault.”

 

Johnny turned and looked at the man.  “In all the years you’ve been a doctor, have you ever had an angry father blame you for something that wasn’t your fault? Blame you for something that happened to his son, even though you did all you could for the boy?”

 

Brackett gave a slow nod.  “I’ve experienced that a few times.”

 

“It caused you to stop and think, didn’t it.”

 

“Think about what?”

 

“What you would have done differently if you’d only known the outcome.  What you would have done if you had the opportunity to go back and relive the moment when things started to go wrong.”

 

“Yes,” Brackett admitted, “but after I got past the heated emotions an incident like that causes, I always had confidence that I’d done my best. Done all I possibly could for the patient. You have no reason not to have that same level of confidence where this situation is concerned.”

 

The paramedic shrugged.

 

“Maybe I would if it had been any other trainee with me but Chris.”

 

“How does that make it different?”

 

“He’s my best friend’s son.  That’s how it makes it different.”

 

Before Brackett could respond, Johnny said, “Thanks again for the ride,” grabbed the shopping bag, climbed out of the car, and shut the door.

 

Johnny bent to pet his dog, then straightened. “Come on, Joe.”

 

As Johnny headed for the house with the Malamute at his heels, he was aware of Brackett’s car idling in the driveway.  It wasn’t until the paramedic had entered his home that the doctor finally left.

 

Johnny sat the shopping bag by the door.  He shuffled to the kitchen table, finally giving in to his weariness as he pulled out a chair and sagged to its seat.  Johnny hadn’t wanted Brackett to know that he was just as exhausted as he had been when the doctor hospitalized him, and that a feeling of overwhelming depression seemed to have taken all the light from his world.

 

With Joe sitting at his side, Johnny rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.  A part of him knew Brackett was correct. He’d done the best he could for Chris.  He couldn’t have given the young man more in the way of medical care than he had. But the part of him that reminded the paramedic he was Roy DeSoto’s best friend was the part that contained all the doubts and regrets.

 

If I could just turn back the clock. If only I’d let Chris drive, then I would have been the one who got out on the passenger side. 

 

If I could go back to the first time Chris told me he wanted to be a paramedic.  To the first time he made me promise not to share that news with Roy.  If I’d only known what was gonna happen, I never would’ve tried to make Roy accept Chris’s decision to drop out of college.  I never would’ve been so accepting of Chris’s decision myself. I woulda’ told him there was no way he should leave school.  I wouldn’t have been the friend he could confide in. Instead, I woulda’ been the guy kickin’ his butt all the way back to class.

 

Then other doubts crept in.

 

Would Chris have lost the use of his legs if I hadn’t moved him?  Was he paralyzed from the time the first bullet struck, or did I cause the bullet to move when I dragged him around the side of the squad?