FIRST, STOP THE BLEEDING. And the best of British luck to you, I added grimly—and silently—to myself. A good portion of the left side of her face had simply been torn away. The scalp was lacerated, one eye had been gouged from its socket, the orbit and cheekbone splintered, and the white bone of the broken jaw exposed, seeping blood welling up around the remaining scarlet-stained teeth and dribbling down the side of her neck.
She lay oddly, crookedly, and I realized that her left shoulder had been crushed; her dark-green bodice and sleeve were black, sodden with blood. I whipped a tourniquet around the upper arm, feeling the broken ends of bone grate as I moved it. Pressed a towel as gently as I could to the shattered side of her face and saw the cloth darken at once, soaked through. And with a sense of utter futility, I pressed my thumb against the tiny spurting artery in her temple. It stopped.
I looked up and saw Mandy, dead white and shocked into silence, clinging fiercely to little Rob, who was whimpering and struggling, trying to get to his mother.
She was still alive; I could feel the tremor of her flesh under my hands. But so much was lost—so much blood, so much trauma, so much shock—that I knew she’d lose her grip soon. And with that realization, I made the shift. I couldn’t heal her. All I could do now was stay with her and try to ease her.
She was making a soft coughing noise, and bubbles of blood appeared at the visible corner of her mouth. One hand rose in the air, searching vainly for something to hold on to. Roger ran across the grass, fell to his knees on the other side of her body, and grasped the drifting hand.
“Amy,” he said, short of breath. “Amy. Bobby’s coming; I hear him, he’s almost here.”
Her eyelid lifted, shivered shut against the light, opened cautiously, just a crack.
“Mammaidh!” “Mama! Mam!” The shrieks of her children came thin and piercing and her ruined mouth twitched and fell open, struggling to answer them.
“Stay with me, Orrie. Aidan—Aidan, no!” Bree was kneeling on the grass, clutching Aidan by the wrist as he fought to go to his mother, little Orrie terrified, clinging to Bree’s hunting shirt.
The blood wasn’t spurting anymore; it was spreading, fast and silent, soaking the ground. My hands were red to the wrist.
“Amy! Amy!”
Bobby, wild-eyed, charging up the slope, Jamie behind him. He stumbled and half-fell to his knees, chest heaving for air. Roger grabbed his hand and put Amy’s in it.
“No,” Bobby said, fighting for breath. “No. Amy, don’t, please don’t go, please!” I saw her fingers twitch, move, tighten on his for an instant, no more.
“Jesus,” Roger said. “Oh, God.” He looked at me for a moment and read everything in my face. He lifted his head and looked across to Bree and the children, and I saw his face change in sudden decision.
“Bring them,” he said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the crying and shouting. “Quick.”
Brianna shook her head briefly, her eyes fixed on the ruin of Amy’s face. Should the boys remember their mother like that?
“Bring them,” Roger said, louder. “Now.”
She gave a small jerky nod and let go of Aidan, who dashed to his mother and fell on the ground beside Bobby, clinging to him and sobbing. Bree came after him, holding Orrie and Rob by their hands, tears sheeting all their faces.
Roger took the little boys, held them in his arms, close to their mother.
“Amy,” he said, through the sobbing. “Your sons are with you. And Bobby.” He hesitated, looking at me, but at my nod let go of Orrie and laid his hand gently on her chest. “Lord God, be merciful unto us,” he whispered. “Be merciful. Hold her in the palm of Thy hand. Keep her always in the hearts of her children.”
Amy moved. Her head turned a little, toward the boys, and she opened her one eye, slowly, so slowly, as though it was an effort equal to lifting the world. Her mouth twitched once and then she died.
27
Cover Her Face
THERE WAS NO TIME for delicacy. The men had brought Amy’s body down to the house and at my direction laid her on the table in my surgery. The day was hot and she was still very warm to the touch, but her body had a disconcerting inert heaviness, like a burlap bag filled with wet sand. Rigor would soon be separating her from the soft elasticity of life; I’d have to undress her before she got too stiff.
But first, I covered her face with a linen towel. There was time for that much delicacy, I thought. I was glad I’d taken the time, too, when I turned at the sound of a step on the threshold and saw Bree, still in her bloodstained hunting shirt, her face much whiter than the old sheet folded over her arm. I nodded at the counter behind me.