Guarding Miranda (3 page)

“Miranda, are you okay?” He called even louder, trembling with fear.

The operator answered just as he got to the Mercedes.

“Emergency services, how may I direct your call?”

He saw her form slumped back, the dark blood oozing from her in a steady menacing rivulet.

“There’ve been two people shot at Tillings Hall.”

“On Lombard Street?”

“Yes.” He announced, speaking as quickly as the words would come out with the adrenaline coursing through him, making his voice waver, his hand shake. When he got to the passenger side of the vehicle and saw Miranda’s body laying across the front seat, he was filled with dread. Illness swept through him, nausea coming instantaneously.  “The man is dead, the woman’s bleeding profusely.” 

“Are you certain-“

“I know First Aid,” he said, commanding the pace of the call. “I’ll work on her until the ambulance gets here.”

He glanced at the unmistakable pool of red that was swelling beneath Miranda on the beige leather upholstery of the driver’s seat. “Tell them to hurry.”

“Is the assailant still in the area?”

“No – he’s gone.”

“Can I get your name-”

“I don’t bloody well have time for this – she’s probably bleeding to death!”

Brian ended the call with an angry flick and focused on the unconscious woman before him.  Images of his First Aid training came flooding back to him, fleeting visions of instruction on how he should proceed.

“Elevation and pressure,” he said to himself. “Elevate the wound and apply pressure...”

Even though he knew that he shouldn’t move her, that she might have sustained a spinal injury, Brian climbed into the car and easily pulled Miranda free.

He cradled her in his strong arms a moment before setting her on the concrete before him. 

A bullet casing lay near her head. 

Brian was careful not to move it, as the police would need it as evidence.

He took a moment to survey the damage done her.

Her left shoulder had an entry hole about the diameter of a pen but the back of her shoulder had a messy exit hole, at least six times the size of that of the entry wound. 

From what he could tell, the bullet had passed right through her. 

It explained the shattered driver’s side window.

“Oh, Miranda, I’m so sorry,” he whispered hastily, rolling her unto her right side, as he had been told to do in First Aid.

“I should have been closer,” he continued, “I should have been watching more carefully…”

Brian tore off his white dress shirt and used it to staunch the bleeding wound. 

His large hands were soon covered in her bright crimson blood. 

He applied direct pressure to the wound, the adrenaline in his body causing him to tremble uncontrollably. 

He checked her ABC’s – her Airway, Breathing and Circulation. 

Well, she was breathing, that much he was certain of.

Slow and shallow breaths but breathing just the same. 

He felt for the pulse in her neck and found that its tempo had become somewhat quicker than what he knew was normal.

He offered the unconscious woman a wry grin.

“That’s a good sign, love – it means you’re in luck, haven’t lost too much blood.  If your heart was beating faster than that or much more slowly, it’d mean a whole lot of bad news.”

A small crowd of spectators, most dressed in formal wear, had gathered about the scene.

He looked back at the milling crowd of high society’s creme de la crème. 

One of them had to be a doctor but no one was stepping forward.

“Is there a doctor amongst you?”

Several heads shook side to side.

Brian swore under his breath. 

It was just his fucking luck. 

The one time and only time he actually needed a doctor from a crowd of wealthy people in suits worth more than he paid himself in a month and he came up empty handed.

“Any nurses?” He tried again.

There was more head shaking, plenty of gawking mouths and several blank stares.

“Then just stand back.” He warned them, remembering the bullet casing. “There’s evidence here the police will need to survey.”

Just his luck indeed.

He was both a witness to the crime and the first on the scene of the incident with no one trained in medicine to help him. 

Brian knew he was going to have to make a statement to the police and Lord knew how much fun that was going to be. 

He could hardly explain why he had been there in the first place. 

What would he say? 

That he was keeping an eye on a millionaire’s niece, to be sure she wasn’t mixed up in her fiancé’s drug dealing and gun running schemes?

Oh yeah, great ice-breaker for the cops.

Not to mention, he was witness to the crime. 

They would want a statement from him but there was no way in Hell he was leaving Miranda’s side! 

That would go over really well with the cops too. 

More questions would follow and more questions after that...

Brian glanced at Richard’s body, saw the small, oozing hole in the front of his head, the splattering of grayish-red gore and fragments of bone, of skull, that adorned the interior of the Mercedes Benz. 

He looked down and felt another wave of nausea at the sight of Richard’s blood on the front of Miranda’s beautiful face.

The palms of his hands were warm with her blood, the backs of his hands, cold with it. 

He put more pressure on the wound and prayed that the ambulance would hurry up. 

It wasn’t long before he heard the sirens, approaching in the night. 

It wasn’t much longer after that, he saw the red and white flicker of the ambulance lights followed closely by the red, white and blue of the San Francisco Police Department.

Brian looked down again at Miranda. 

Her eyes were closed and he knew that it had to be a good thing.  

It was better for her to be in Morpheus’ arms, than for her to be awake to watch her sanguine life pouring out of her. 

Her lovely ivory face, marred by her dead fiancé’s blood, seemed more pale under that bloody mess than usual. 

He knew, looking at her, at the pallor of her skin, that she would have been even closer to death, if not for his First Aid intervention. 

Yet he hadn’t done her any favors by being on the other side of the parking lot doing surveillance when she had needed him as a bodyguard instead...

The ambulance drove a few feet past him and parked. 

He heard doors from the ambulance open and close and before he knew it, there was a tall thin man, at least fifty years old kneeling next to him, with a bag of supplies in hand. 

The female attendant who joined him went immediately to Richard’s side, in what Brian knew was a vain attempt to deduce the obvious.

“He’s dead,” she stated matter-of-factly upon seeing the large exit wound at the back of his head.

“Well obviously!” Brian snapped at her, focused entirely on Miranda. “Pretty hard to live without your brains intact.”

The woman covered Richard’s face with a cloth from her bag. “Time of death – twenty two hundred fourteen.”

Brian didn’t let go of Miranda until the attendant was ready to move in.

The man checked her airway, her breathing and her pulse.

“She’s likely in shock,” the attendant said simply, while his female partner went to the back of the ambulance and pulled out the stretcher.

“Sir, we’ll take over from here.” She announced to Brian, on her return.

“You shouldn’t have hung up on the operator, son.” The male ambulance attendant scolded Brian, as he removed a wad of bandages from his bag. “We could have used more information.”

“She’s been shot!” Brian growled. “What bloody more information did you need?”

“You could have told us her name, at the very least.” The ambulance attendant remained calm, despite having provoked the anger of the man who nearly dwarfed him in size.

“And there are other things, too.” The female attendant told him. “Like if she was walking when she was shot, if she’s suffered any sort of neck trauma-”

“She was sitting in the car.” Brian looked down at Miranda again, knowing that he was in part to blame for what had happened to her. 

He felt nauseous, ill.

He had let her down. 

Her and Russ Gundy both.

He should have been there.

He should have—

“Well, we’d better stabilize her neck, just in case.” The female attendant returned from the ambulance with a collar in her hands and handed it to the male, who busied himself with putting it about Miranda’s throat.

The female attendant set a red back board down on the ground parallel to Miranda, was now kneeling next to them. 

She saw the bullet casing and carefully moved away from it.

“I’ll credit you with one thing.” The female attendant sighed. “You did a good job of elevating and bandaging the wound. First Aid?”

“First Aid,” Brian conceded, with a nod.

The male attendant begrudgingly agreed. “Well you were wise to bandage her.  There’s definitely vessel damage. A lot of blood.” He looked at his partner. “Ready Sherry? On three, we log roll her. One, two, three.”

Brian watched them lift Miranda first, unto the board and then, unto the stretcher and knew that he was no longer needed in the midst of it all. 

Still, he wasn’t ready to be dismissed. 

“I’m coming with you.”

The police hadn’t forgotten him and a second squad car had joined the first.

They were busily surveying the Mercedes and the ground about it.

One of the officers broke away from their inspection and approached him, suspicion in their eyes.

“You were first on the scene?” Asked the youngest cop, aiming his flashlight about the Mercedes.

The beam from the flashlight caught the pool of Miranda’s blood, dark and glistening on the seat and again, Brian felt ill.

“I was.” Brian retrieved his cell phone from the top of Richard’s car, where he had left it. He reached for his wallet, took out his business card and handed it to the young cop. “This is where I can be reached, for questioning and the statement I’ll no doubt have to make.”

“Logan Security and Investigations?” The cop read. “If you’re an investigator then you know I can’t just let you walk away from this without-“

Brian was distracted by the attendants loading Miranda into the back of the ambulance.

He wanted to go with her.

No, he
needed
to go with her.

“Look, there’s one bullet casing there,” he pointed it out. “And likely another nearby – could have rolled under the car.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to ride with Miss Fowler in the back of the ambulance.”

“
Fowler
?” Asked the young cop’s partner, a man with a paunch for a belly. He looked at Miranda and recognition crossed his chubby face. “You’re telling me that’s
Miranda Fowler
on the stretcher?”

“Yes.” Brian found himself wishing that he had not spoken.

“And who’s that?” The young cop asked, of the dead drug dealer.

“Richard Alba.” His next words left a sour taste in his mouth, “Her fiancé.  Well, former fiancé.”

“Miranda Fowler.” The young cop looked at the helpless woman on the stretcher. “That really her?”

Brian fought the urge to swear at the starstruck rookie.