He became aware of a voice; it sounded a lot like Rachel’s. His vision swirled and blurred. Not matter how hard he tried, he could not focus on any one thing. Cool dampness against his spine told him that he was sprawled across the floor. He did not remember falling, but reasoned dimly that he must have. Rachel seemed to be shouting . . . touching him. He wanted to respond, but nothing seemed to work. He might have managed to say something to her; he did not know.
His next memories were of blurs of motion and bright lights. There seemed to be several around him, clothed in a variety of bright and drab hues. He was being lifted, moved . . . or thought he was. He could not be certain. His mind seemed detached from his body.
I’m not dead, he thought, for he seemed to still dwell within it.
He felt distant stabs of pain throughout his body: his arm, his belly, his head, his spine . . .
Gray fog encroached on his awareness, masking the churning mass of the other muted colors. It enveloped them all in a swirling opaque haze. At the edges of his vision, the fog thickened, darkening to the color of angry storm clouds. He expected to hear rain. It became darker still. Joel felt his awareness slipping away.
Isn’t there supposed to be a light?
But there was only darkness.
And then nothing.
#
John heard the response to the 911 call and stopped the car. Checking the map on his GPS, he confirmed that the address was on the other side of the complex where he had just completed his schedule patrol.
That explains the sirens . . .
They had sounded, he had thought, as if they were coming from somewhere very nearby. Glancing up at the apartment buildings, he thought that perhaps he could see the reflections from the strobing red and blue lights. It could also be his overactive imagination, he realized.
He called Dispatch to let them know that he was going to check out the situation and would be delayed in reaching his next scheduled patrol schedule location. John thought he heard a hint of bemusement in the dispatcher’s tone as she acknowledged his report.
Turning the car around, he cut through the central parking lot instead of the taking his usual route along the perimeter. By the time he had completed the full diameter of the rough curve, there was no mistaking the source of the brightly flashing series of lights.
He pulled to a stop adjacent to one of the enormous garbage bins. There was a sign posted there that prohibited any parking there, but he doubted that there would be any garbage pickups at the hour. Even if there were, the truck would have a tough time making its way past the emergency vehicles that crowded the narrow roadway.
Grabbing his notebook from the passenger, he climbed out of the car and approached the collection of vehicles. There was probably little that he could do, he knew, except perhaps assist the police officers in keeping other residents of the apartment complex away from the scene. Still, it was likely to be more interesting than driving slowly through yet another dimly lit apartment complex.
The fire engine immediately caught his attention, chiefly due to its size. Also present was a police patrol sedan and a paramedic van. Just pulling up was dark blue ambulance.
Must have been a general 9-1-1 . . .
With the limited number of available units, the area dispatchers tried to send only the services that were required for a particular call, John knew. If the details were unknown or unclear, then a general dispatch call was made.
John approached the scene, receiving a quick, curious glance from one of the two police officers. She was a young woman, not much older than he was. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung down between the shoulders of her uniform. She regarded him for a moment and John felt himself blush in the chill of the autumn night.
Two EMTs from the ambulance made their way noisily up the stairs with a stretcher. Everyone else present pretty much ignored them. The crew from the fire engine climbed back on board it, preparing to leave the scene.
No fire then, John concluded, watching as its driver expertly backed the enormous vehicle out of the parking lot and back onto the street.
He continued to move in closer until he stood a few yards away from the patrol car. From there, he could peer up the stairway toward the apartment into which the EMTs had disappeared. In the windows of many of the surrounding apartments, shadows watched the events outside them unfold.
John glanced at the two police officers, and then took a closer look. The one standing with the female officer looked familiar. At first, John thought it was a trick of the light. Then, he saw that it was, in fact, the sergeant from the parking garage. He did not seem to recognize John, although John attributed that as much to the mildly flurry of activity and the inconsistent lighting. John considered walking over and reintroducing himself, but thought better of it.
Although . . . , he considered thoughtfully. I might get her name and badge number out of it . . .
His musings on the dark-haired female officer were interrupted by a loud bustle and shouts from the apartment above. The EMTs appeared again, carrying the stretcher quickly down the stairs. John breathed an unexpected sigh of relief when they reached the bottom, in admiration of their expert maneuvering of the awkward contraption down the narrow stairway. He could only imagine how many hours of practice and experience that required.
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