half a dozen vehicles parked on either side of the road at staggered intervals, leaving a crooked, even narrower path to the flashing blue lights a hundred yards ahead. Hell, a couple of people had plowed down small bushes and driven straight into the woods to park.
“If we’d brought the rescue truck instead,” Mason said as he expertly threaded the engine through the obstacle course, his eyes constantly darting from one outside mirror to the other, “we could have plowed some of them out of our way. For chrissakes, what moron drives a Mercedes into the bushes?” He stopped his darting long enough to shoot Gunnar a grin. “They must be handing out some really good shit at the party.”
“Most of the license plates are from out of state.”
Mason snorted. “About the only Maine plates I’ve seen on any vehicle costing over twenty grand belong to that fancy resort on top of Whisper Mountain. The locals don’t like spending money on anything potholes and road salt are just going to eat. The day after I moved here from Dallas, there was a two-foot snowstorm in freaking April. Where’d you say you’re fro—”
“Slide the engine in that open driveway this side of MacKeage’s truck,” Russo said over the radio. “You buses can have the road but pull beyond our party driveway.” The mike keyed off then back on again. “Remember, unless we see flames coming out of windows or kittens stuck in trees, this is law enforcement’s rodeo. And wait on my go.”
Gunnar unfastened his seat belt when Ike pulled in across from the two police pickups parked on either side of what he assumed was the party driveway—leaving it clear. Mason pulled Engine One into the driveway on the left, then undid his own seat belt and jumped out. Gunnar scrambled out his door and ran to the back of the engine to find the firefighter already standing on the bumper checking out the tree branch damage.
“That’s going to leave a permanent mark,” he muttered, jumping down. He grabbed the backpack he’d set on the bumper—which Gunnar recognized was one of the triage kits all the trucks carried—then walked to the end of the driveway.
“Sure is quiet for a party,” Skip said when Gunnar walked up beside him, both of them looking toward the flashing blue lights and red strobes of their ambulances. Russo was speaking with Niall MacKeage in the driveway as Katy and Gretchen stood beside the rear ambulance with jump bags slung over their shoulders. Both women appeared ready to bolt the moment the captain said go, along with Bean and Higgins, who stood beside them.
Mason glanced over at Gunnar. “You got any medic training or at least up to speed on administering Narcan? ’Cause I’m thinking everyone’s passed out.” He squinted through the trees at Bottomless and chuckled. “Or they heard the sirens and are swimming for it.”
“I’m pretty sure I can jab a needle into someone,” Gunnar said, returning his grin, “as long as they aren’t moving.”
“So long as you’re moving after. I’ve had some guys wake up throwing punches.” Mason shook his head. “It apparently pisses them off when you bring them back from the brink of death.”
“We’re good to go, people!” Russo called out as he walked back to the road, freeing Gunnar and Mason to jog over to him. “Conroy. MacBain. You’ve got an unresponsive man and woman on the far side of the camp. A deputy is giving CPR to the man beside the shed, and the woman is down on the beach!” he hollered to their backs as they hurried down the driveway.
Ike sighed and turned to his firefighters. “We’ve got Chief MacKeage on scene, along with Jake Sheppard and an off-duty cop from Turtleback in plain clothes, and two county deputy sheriffs—one here and the other one out at the main road. Niall said there appears to be a wide variety of drugs; anything from alcohol and good old-fashioned weed to heroin likely cut with fentanyl—which would explain the two possible overdoses. He also said there were maybe fifty partiers here twenty minutes ago, but most of them left either by boat or on foot through the woods when they heard someone had called 911. So our job is to search the grounds and interior of the camp as well as the neighboring yards and any outbuildings for anyone else that may be passed out. If you come across anyone merely high on weed, tell them there’s a blond