Over the straining rotors, they couldn’t hear if the gunfire had stopped, but by now they were almost seventy metres high above the lake. “Jesus Christ,” muttered Quinn. “I didn’t know we were expecting visitors.”
Hazel had scrambled to her feet and was radioing Port Dundas. “I need backup on the north shore road of Pickamore Lake, shots fired, we have three men in the water and a damaged aircraft -”
“I have to go back down,” said Quinn in the earphones.
“Copy,” said Hazel’s radio, “cars dispatched. Injuries?”
Hazel looked at Wingate’s bleeding cheek. “One… so far. Stand by.”
Quinn was descending rapidly, trying to outpace any bead the shooter might have on them. “We’re going to have to do this seagull-style, folks, hold on.”
Childress caught Hazel’s eye. “The gunshots came from the shoreline,” she shouted. “You want me up front?”
“No,” called Hazel, heading for the cockpit. “This is between him and me now.” She came up beside Quinn and kneeled in the cold space behind the destroyed windshield, and brought her gun up in front of her face. “I want you to face the shoreline,” she said to Quinn.
“You want to be a target?”
“No,” she said, “I want to end this.”
Quinn fell away on the diagonal, pointing the nose of the huge steel machine toward the forest while trying to get as close to the water as possible. Hazel kept her eyes on the shoreline and stole glances to the surface below to keep track of the rescue. Tate and Calberson were still swimming toward Eldwin with powerful strokes; from the helicopter, she could see now that the basket had righted itself in the water and Eldwin was still strapped in. Behind her, Childress had braced herself behind the bench and was leaning over, gripping Wingate’s ankles. She was holding him tightly as he slid forward on his belly toward the open door.
Then there was a flash of white in the distance, from within tree-cover, and a half-second later, the empty seat behind Hazel’s head spat a tuft of cloth and foam and Quinn bent the craft away from Goodman’s sightline. “Hold her!” she shouted to him, and stood in the open space, firing as he ignored her and turned the side of the helicopter to the line of fire. Hazel gripped the edge of the broken window frame and twisted herself partway out into the lashing rain and kept firing at the flares from the treeline. The vast emptiness around them swallowed up the reports and it sounded to Hazel as if someone were setting off harmless fireworks all around them. Quinn was trying to make himself smaller as he leaned out his window to gauge the distance to the surface. More bullets tore at the body of the helicopter and Hazel returned fire for as long as she could and then yelled “Clip! Clip!” and Childress quickly freed her firearm from her holster, keeping hold of Wingate with one hand, and kicked it toward the cockpit.
Quinn was tilting dangerously now, the blades sending shockwaves over the surface in semi-circular surges; Hazel hoped all the soft, human forms below them were out of the way, but she knew, and dreaded, that Quinn had only a minimal amount of control over the bird. She took cover behind the passenger-side door and looked behind herself to see Tate pulling himself up along Wingate’s arms and heaving himself into the cabin, drenched and breathless. He turned and braced his thigh against the open doorway and the two of them brought up Calberson and then the three men reached down out of the lurching craft and grabbed a hold of the slack rope, and pulled it and Eldwin in hand over hand. “ALL IN!” shouted Childress and Quinn pulled the helicopter up again, the whole body rising as if shaking itself free of a monstrous grip. The ding of bullets rang against the metal behind her and then she felt the passenger door shatter, and suddenly there was nothing holding her up. She sensed the space below her opening, and as she was falling into it, Quinn reached out and grabbed her by her belt and she spun around wildly and gripped the now-naked steel bar that separated the windshield from the door and fired wildly on the white reports bursting in the distance against the rain. She heard a voice shouting FUCK YOU FUCK YOU and didn’t realize it was her own until she saw the white star of Goodman’s muzzle flare suddenly rise against the wall of trunks and within it was a small bloom of red mist. She’d hit him. She’d hit him and he was down.
“Let’s get out of here!” she called, and Quinn pulled away from the site in a wide turn, rising and twisting, until they were once again clear. Hazel looked around anxiously, but everyone was accounted for, and Wingate was standing in the middle of the helicopter, looking at Hazel with shining eyes.
“Turn around,” he shouted, rotating his index finger in the air, and Hazel did and he ran his hand up the back of her jacket and under her shirt, feeling for the wound he was sure he’d find. But there was nothing. “He shot the glass in the door out – you were standing right there,” he said, but Hazel shook her head at him.
“It was my turn,” she said. “Not his. I hit him. Call dispatch, I want any way in or out of this side of the lake blocked and I want teams working on a grid in those woods until they find him or his body.”
He called it in, and then Hazel leaned down to Eldwin’s motionless form, and pulled the drenched layers of cloth away from his throat. She felt along below his chin for a pulse. “I want to know how hard we should be trying to save this man’s life,” she shouted to Childress. “Call your people now!” The constable backed away and turned to face the rear of the cabin. “I don’t feel a pulse,” Hazel said.
“He was alive in the water,” yelled Calberson. He leapt to the back of the cabin and dragged his emergency kit out from under one of the benches. “Move aside.” Someone finally closed the door and the howl of the wind moved to the front of the helicopter, where the windshield had been shot out. Calberson cut the soaked cloth off Eldwin. “There’s a survival blanket in the kit -”
Childress shook the reflective blanket out and passed it to Calberson. Eldwin was naked beneath his windings; it was a pathetic sight, and Calberson put the thin survival blanket on top of him. He held one edge of it up. “You,” he yelled to Childress, “get in.”
“What?”
“You’re the smallest one here, so you’ll put the least strain on his chest. But we got to warm him up or he’ll die for sure.” She hesitated and he reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I’m not asking.” Childress lay down on top of Eldwin, face to face with the unconscious man.
Hazel leaned down to her. “Did you get through?”
“I’m on hold.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said, “give me that phone.”
She took off her helmet and put the phone to her ear. Calberson picked up the helmet and spoke into the mic. “Mr. Quinn? – where’s the nearest hospital?”
“The only ER that can handle this is in Mayfair,” Quinn said.
“Go.” He had Eldwin’s left wrist and was feeling the pulse. “He’s twenty beats a minute. He’s lucky it got cold or he’d be a corpse by now. As it is…”
“Hello?” said Hazel into the phone. “Who is this?” The man on the other end gave his name as Fredricks. She pressed the phone into her shoulder. “Childress? Fredricks is your guy?”
She nodded. She was looking ill – Hazel imagined Eldwin was somewhat ripe. Her radio buzzed and she passed it to Wingate.
She put the phone back to her ear. “Fredricks? I’m Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef, from the Port Dundas detachment of the OPS. I’m sorry, I’m in a helicopter – we’re waiting on some forensic results.” She listened for a moment. Wingate was saying 984, but we’re going direct to Mayfair, call ahead 951 and Hazel put a finger in her other ear. “We know that already, but I sent the superintendent some… evidence yesterday afternoon. That’s right. Okay,” she said, squinting to hear better, “say that again.”