“C’mon! He’s about to pass out!” Zig added as Roddy started to run, sliding next to him, down on his knees, eyes wide with concern, specks of blood on his face.
Andy’s eyes were glazed, his skin starting to turn gray. He was losing too much blood, his breathing barely audible.
“Roddy, I need you t—” Zig didn’t have to finish.
Zig let go of Andy’s throat, and Roddy clamped his hands in place. Basic triage. Cover the windpipe, but don’t crush it. Most important, stop the bleeding.
The problem was, the blood was still flowing, seeping between Roddy’s fingers. “Mr. Zig, if she nicked his trachea—”
“Don’t say it! You don’t know that!” Zig shouted, reaching to his left and grabbing a pew cushion from the front row. Something absorbent. Frantically tearing open the cushion, he pulled out its foam stuffing, tossing it to Roddy.
Roddy stuffed the foam into place, but the blood was still coming. Andy’s eyes rolled sideways. Red air bubbles seeped from the wound. Blood was in his airway.
On his phone, Zig dialed 911.
“His wound—it looks terrible,” Roddy said in his usual flat tone. “They won’t make it in time.”
“Use the foam!”
“You’re not listening. Blood is filling his lungs—”
“Use the damn foam!” Zig yelled, darting to the front of the sanctuary, toward the open door in the corner. As he ran, he told the 911 operator to send an ambulance to Calta’s Funeral Home. But Roddy was right—they wouldn’t make it in time.
Zig picked up his pace, ramming the door with his shoulder and plowing down a narrow hallway to a room at the back of the building.
Danger—Hazardous Materials
The smell was proof of that. As Zig burst inside, on his left, up on a dolly, was a Rubbermaid trash can filled with powdered formaldehyde. He could taste it on his tongue—the pungent ammonia scent that reminded him of his mother’s cancer.
On his right, a medical cabinet with extra scalpel blades, autopsy saws, and a handheld bone-dust vacuum stood next to a garment rack filled with mothballed suits and sequined dresses—clothes he stored for his elderly customers who already knew what they wanted to be buried in.
Zig beelined for the back wall, to an old oak desk covered nearly to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. Overflow storage for cremation urns that came in every size and shape, including football urns, Harley-Davidson motorcycle engine urns, and even old leather book urns, complete with an engravable spine for your loved one’s name.
“C’mon, where the hell are you?” Zig muttered, feverishly pulling open all the drawers of the desk, until . . .
Gotcha. From the top right drawer, Zig pulled out what looked like a clear straw with a miniature spoon at the end of it—the mortician tool for transferring a loved one’s ashes into small containers, like jewelry or lockets. The tube was made of industrial plastic, but since it functioned as a funnel . . .
“Roddy, pull the gauze!” Zig shouted, grabbing one more item from the drawer and racing back to the sanctuary.
Turning the corner, Zig scanned the room. The redheads . . . Seabass and the woman . . . in the chaos . . . both were gone. In the back of the sanctuary, there was a thick trail of blood across the carpet. She must’ve dragged Seabass out of here. Roddy had done a number on him, and he was too big to carry. Zig was relieved. One less disaster to deal with.
At the front of the sanctuary, Roddy was hunched over Andy. In the back of Roddy’s waistband, his pistol peeked out under his shirt—the .45 with the silencer. Zig barely noticed. He was too busy staring at Andy, who wasn’t moving.
“Mr. Zig, it’s bad. He’s not—”