It was nine o’clock on Halloween night and the rain had stopped. It had been a cold, needling rain, the kind that turned the streets black and glossy and made every jack-o’-lantern look as though it were floating in a puddle.
Dorothy Reynolds was on her way home from a gathering at a friend’s house when the pain began. It started as pressure beneath her breastbone. She assumed it was indigestion; too many nachos and too much dip. Then it became a fist. She gripped the steering wheel. Her vision narrowed. The houses along the street, some sporting elaborate Halloween decorations, seemed to morph and slide away from her at an alarming speed. It was as though she were looking through the wrong end of a kaleidoscope.
Her Corolla jumped the curb and hit a black walnut tree. The sound brought people out of their homes. A man in a Klingon costume ran across the lawn toward the car. Two teenage vampires stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Jimi Hendrix called 911.
The ambulance arrived five minutes later, its siren climbing in pitch as it drew nearer. Gary Jones, the senior EMT, jumped out, followed by his partner, Jeff Ladd. Ladd slipped on the wet pavement.
“I’m okay,” he said as Jones helped him back to his feet.
They reached the car. The woman was still behind the wheel, slumped against the seat belt. Her eyes were closed. Surprisingly, the airbag hadn’t deployed.
“Ma’am?” Jones said. There was no response. He checked her pulse. “Got one.”
Ladd leaned in through the now open passenger-side door. “She’s breathing.”
“Ok, let’s get her out.”
They worked quickly enough at first. They carefully maneuvered her onto the damp lawn near the Corolla’s front bumper. They stabilized her neck, made sure her airway was clear, checked her pupils, and examined her for obvious bleeding.
Then Jones stopped. He tapped Ladd on the shoulder and nodded toward the front of the vehicle.
Ladd stood up. “I guess we just keep her comfortable, then, right?”
“It sure looks that way,” Jones affirmed. “We don’t want the same problem we had last year.”
A minute or so later, they were sitting on the rear bumper of the ambulance. Jones took out his phone. Across the street, a woman dressed like a giant pizza slice was trying to herd three little pepperonis into a minivan.
“Hey,” Ladd shouted. “That’s an awesome costume.”
“Hell of a lot better than that guy in the adult diaper we saw last Halloween.” Jones said to his partner. Both men laughed. Neither seemed particularly concerned about the unconscious woman lying next to her car.
Five more minutes passed. A police cruiser pulled up. Officer David Sanchez stepped out. He looked at the car, then at the woman lying on the lawn and, finally, at the two EMTs sitting on the bumper, staring at their phones.
He walked over to examine the woman. He then approached Jones and Ladd.
“What, exactly,” he said slowly, “are you two doing?”
“We’re waiting,” Jones said matter-of-factly.
“Waiting?” Sanchez asked, perplexed. “For what?”
Jones and Ladd shrugged their shoulders. They pointed to the front of the Corolla. “Have a look at the license,” Ladd finally said.
Sanchez walked over, bent down and looked at the car’s plate where it had been pushed violently up halfway onto the hood of the car by the impact with the tree. He keyed the radio clipped to his shoulder and spoke for a few moments.
The policeman returned to the ambulance. “You’re kidding?” he said, hands on hips. This time, he was utterly dumbfounded.
“Hey,” Jones spoke as though he were educating a particularly obtuse child. “It says D-N-R.”
“Either of you two geniuses ever consider that those things are randomly generated?” Sanchez asked as calmly as he could. “Or that, maybe, just maybe, they might be the woman’s initials?”
The two EMTs considered this. They looked at one another and stood up.
“So,” Ladd spoke. “We should probably, like, get her to the hospital?”
“Might be a good idea.”
Meanwhile, John Wick walked by carrying a plastic pumpkin filled with candy.
“Dig that,” Jones said pointing. “I once saw him kill three men in a bar … with a pencil.”
“Move,” Sanchez spoke with as much patience and authority as he could muster.
The two EMTs moved.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Sanchez thought shaking his head. The really scary thing was that this had nothing to do with Halloween.
James C. Clar