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Since Joe wasn’t answering, I called my friends and my partner, and I know they heard the terror in my voice. They could do nothing but say, “How can I help?”
I said to each, “I’ll call you later.”
And then I was fresh out of lifelines.
For the next hour in that horrible, stinking night I watched as EMTs ran empty stretchers through the museum’s shattered entrance and carried bagged bodies out to the sidewalk. There the dead were lifted into the medical examiner’s van.
As for the living, firefighters helped some of the blast victims walk out of the museum. Others were carried out on stretchers.
I dialed Joe’s number.
Joe, answer your phone.
This time I thought I heard his ring tone, five familiar notes, getting louder as EMTs rolled a stretcher through the gate and out toward the curb. I ran toward that stretcher, feeling hopeful and terrified at what I might find. I heard the ringtone again.
“Joe?”
The face of the man on the stretcher was horribly swollen, bruised, and smeared with blood. His left arm rolled out from under the blanket that covered his body, and I saw the wedding ring I had placed on his finger when we were standing together inside a gazebo facing Half Moon Bay. We’d vowed to love each other in sickness and in health.
I gripped his shoulder and said, “Joe. It’s Lindsay. I’m here.”
He didn’t answer. Was he alive?
I ran alongside his stretcher, stayed with him in the triage area, where he was swiftly assessed and lifted through the open doors of an ambulance.
I fumbled for my badge and said hoarsely, “That’s my husband. I’m his wife.”
An EMT nodded and offered her hand and forearm. I got a good grip and she pulled me inside.
CHAPTER 5
I HELD JOE’S hand as the EMTs gave him oxygen, and I answered their questions about Joe’s age, blood type, and occupation. “Private security contractor.”
Despite the police barricades and traffic jams, it was a short, wild ride to the hospital. Joe was brought directly from the ER into surgery, and I took a seat in the waiting room. It was filled with people who had emergencies unrelated to the blast, and there were also friends and the families of those victims who’d been caught in the explosion.
The overhead TV in the corner was muted, but there was closed-captioning and a crawl at the bottom of the screen.
Bomb blast destroys Sci-Tron.
Death toll rises to 20 dead, 30 injured.
No comment yet from police or Homeland Security, but GAR is suspected as the terrorist organization responsible for this bombing.
No one has claimed responsibility.
There were video clips of the blast, of the crowds, of the traffic, of the EMTs racing toward the disaster. The clips were horrific, and they triggered my own vivid memories of the explosion I had seen a
nd felt, images that were playing on a closed loop inside my mind.
I was watching the TV when another clip came on. A microphone was put up to the incident commander’s face. A reporter shouted a question, and the IC agreed to speak to the press.
He gave his name and spelled it, said that he was the commander in charge of managing and coordinating personnel across the board, across several disciplines.
He said, “Fire, medical, and law enforcement are on the scene. It’s much too early to arrive at any conclusions as to what exactly happened here, to identify the victims. We’ve got great people here. The best. I’ve got to get back to them. The public will get an update as soon as we have something to report.”
Next came a clip of the mayor speaking from outside Pier 15.
He was in shirtsleeves and wearing a hard hat. He said, “This is a terrible day for our city and for the United States. We grieve with the families of the deceased and we pray for the injured. We ask for your patience as we get to the bottom of this savage act of terrorism. Federal agencies have joined with our brave emergency responders and the SFPD. We will get whoever is responsible for this tragedy. You can count on it.”
