Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,4
metal, and blackness.
TWO
WITH A COLD WIND RUSHING THROUGH THE SPANS IN THE General Edwards bridge, Florio Ferrente snatched the jaws of life from the back of his rig. The serrated blades weighed forty-one pounds and could chop through steel, but he wielded them like kitchen scissors in his hulking hands.
Florio kneeled for a moment and offered the fireman’s prayer that came to his lips every time he went to work.
Give me courage.
Give me strength.
Please, Lord, through it all, be at my side.
Then came the blur of action. One thousand—one million—calculations and considerations. All instantaneous. He evaluated the spilled gasoline and the chance of a spark or explosion. He assessed the fastest way into the wreck—through the windshield, hood, or doors? And he did the math on how much time he had for this rescue. Time, precious time.
Florio ran past the jagged skid marks and jackknifed tractor trailer. He didn’t bother to stop for the truck driver leaning against the center divider. The man’s head was in his hands. He reeked of beer and blood. It was one of the rules of rescue: Heaven protects fools and drunks. The guy would be fine.
The instant license-plate check on the white wagon had produced the first bit of information. The Ford belonged to Mrs. Norman Pung of Cloutman’s Lane, Marblehead. Age: 73. Vision-impaired. Perhaps the first clue.
The vehicle was crunched and tossed upside down, like a cockroach, its front end smashed into the railing of the bridge. He could tell from the trail of glass and metal that the car had rolled at least twice. Florio dropped to the pavement and peered through a squashed window.
There was no noise inside. No sound of breathing or moaning. Blood trickled through cracks in the metal.
With swift movements, he jammed a power spreader into the narrow space between the hood and door. A quick flick of his thumb and the hydraulics surged. The car frame groaned as the machine drove the metal apart, clearing a narrow crawl space. Florio pushed his head inside the wreck and saw two boys, upside down, unconscious, tangled in seat belts. Their twisted arms were wrapped around each other in a bloody embrace. No sign of Mrs. Pung.
“Two traumatic arrests up front,” he shouted to his partner, Trish Harrington. “A dog in back. Scoop and run. Priority One.”
He slid out of the wreckage and shoved the Hurst tool into the hinges of the door. Another jab of the thumb, and the blades took two powerful bites. Florio pulled the door right off and threw it across the pavement.
“Gimme two C-spine collars,” he yelled. “And two short backboards.”
He crawled back inside. “Can you hear me?” he said to the smaller boy. “Talk to me.” No response. No movement. The kid’s face and neck were wet with blood, eyes and lips swollen.
It was another rule of rescue: If the child is quiet, be scared.
Florio wrapped a brace around the boy’s neck, strapped on a backboard, then cut the seat belt with his knife. He lowered the patient gently and pulled him out onto the pavement. He was slight, around eighty pounds, and, incredibly, was still wearing a Rawlings baseball glove on one hand.
“Pupils are blown,” Florio said, checking with his flashlight. “He’s posturing. Blood from the ears.” Bad signs, all. Time to go after the other victim. He climbed back inside. The teenager was pinned beneath the steering column. Florio wedged another spreader into the foot space and hit the hydraulics. As the metal separated, he could see one open fracture of the femur. And he smelled the awful brew of radiator fluid and blood.
He collared the boy quickly and tied the back brace into place, then pulled him out and carefully set him down on the pavement.
“Can you hear me?” he said. Not a word.
“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” he said. Nothing.
The two young victims were now lying side by side on backboards. The little dog in the backseat was hopeless, crushed between the rear axle and the trunk. What a waste. “St. Francis,” he whispered, “bless this creature with your grace.”
Florio checked his watch. This was the golden hour: less than sixty minutes to save their lives. If he could stabilize them and get them to the trauma surgeons, they might survive.
He and his partner lifted the first boy into their ambulance. Then the second. Trish ran around to the driver’s seat. Florio climbed in back and leaned out to pull the doors shut. On the horizon, he