DETOUR

by ardavenport

"So, what did Chet call that stuff?" Sitting in the passenger seat of the squad, Johnny scratched his ear.

"Slumgullion." Roy answered without taking his eyes off the road. He stopped for a red light in the left-hand lane, signaling left.

"Hmmph." He put his hand down in his lap and looked forward, contemplating that day's lunch at the station. "Y'know, I wouldn't have thought it possible with Chet springing something new on us. . . . but that stuff was pretty good."

"Yeah." Roy nodded, his own surprise less obvious but equally felt. The big surprise for lunch had been that Chet Kelly's new dish was not only edible, but tasty. There had been almost no leftovers when they were cleaning up and got their latest call. Man stuck in a tree house. But it was canceled when they had nearly reached the address. They were headed back to the station.

The light changed and Roy turned left.

"What does slumgullion mean anyway?" Gage made a face, as if the name of the dish was the part of it that tasted bad.

"I don't know. Kind of sounds Irish. Maybe."

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

Roy looked at the rear view mirror on his left, but he couldn't see anything beyond the red utility body of the back of the squad. He didn't see any cars in the right rear view mirror on Johnny's right side.

Honk. Honk. Honk. Hoooooooooonk. Honk. Honk.

Roy looked to his partner. "Is there someone back there?"

Johnny stuck his head out the window, squinting behind them.

"Roy," he sat back, "there's a white car back there. I think they want us to stop."

"Okay."

Honk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk.

Turn signal flashing, Roy slid the squad into the right lane and slowed. A white four door Ford drove up alongside. A man in the passenger seat waved and pointed forward. He looked like he was shouting, but his window was rolled up, so Roy couldn't hear what it was. Both paramedics leaned forward as the car accelerated ahead of them.

Johnny looked at Roy. "Guess he wants us to stop."

Roy followed the white Ford as it slowed down and turned onto a side street. They passed the asphalt parking lot of a drab small business. Beyond that, the area was residential with trees, yellowing green lawns and duplexes. Roy stopped right behind the car next to the curb, but he left the engine running. The man they'd seen jumped out and ran to Johnny's window. He was large, middle-aged and muscular with a short brown crew-cut. He wore a loose gray shirt over jeans.

"What seems to be the problem?"

He leaned forward on Johnny's side, practically into the cab of the squad.

"Boy, am I glad I saw you guys. My friend in the back seat is hurt. We were taking him to a hospital, but I'm not sure he's going to make it."

Johnny reached for his door handle. "What kind of injury does he have?"

Roy reached for the squad radio to call in the still alarm.

Click-click.

Roy froze, his hand on the mike, and stared up at the gun now pointed at Johnny's head.

"You don't need to call this one in."

Neither paramedic moved as the man quickly opened the passenger door. Johnny slid over to the middle as the man climbed in and closed the door.

"Turn that radio off."

Roy hesitated. "If we get a call and we don't answer they're going to wonder where we are."

"Then they can just wonder."

"They'll send someone out to look for us - - "

Click. The man put the gun at the base of Johnny's skull, pointing upward.

"Then you better hope they don't find us. Turn it off."

Roy replaced the mike and flipped the power switch off. The static background noise from it went dead. Johnny sat up straight, rigidly still, hands in his lap, eyes forward, not looking at anything.

"Okay, okay. It's off."

"Just follow the car."

The white car started up again. Roy put his foot on the gas. They passed through the neighborhood, Roy staying no less than a car-length behind the other vehicle. They saw no one for the first few blocks, but at the first sight of a couple people on a sidewalk on the next block ahead the man reached behind the seat back and covered Johnny's head with his black fireman's helmet, concealing the gun with the rear rim.

They approached a busy cross street and Roy risked a question. "Where are we going?"

"Just follow the car."

"Y'know," Johnny kept his eyes forward as he talked, "if your buddy in the car is really hurt, he might need medical attention right away. Maybe we should stop - - -"

Gage started forward, mouth open. Roy saw the barrel of the gun pressing into the dark hair at the base of his neck under the helmet. Their passenger's face, unfeeling blue eyes, looked past Johnny to Roy.

"Just follow the car."

Looking back to the road, Roy nodded. "Okay, okay."

The man pulled the gum back far enough to push Johnny back in his seat. His back went rigid again, the press of the gun hard at the base of his skull.

"No talking. Either of you."

The man's large hand squeezed hard on Johnny's upper arm, making it really hurt before he let go. The gun didn't move. If it went off, Johnny knew he'd never feel it. If the bullet went all the way through, the blood and brains would probably splatter forward, all over the dashboard, the windshield. Would Roy have enough time to get out? And if he did, would he survive a fall going forty miles an hour? And would he be hit by a car innocently coming from behind them, not expecting someone to come diving out from the driver's side? Johnny felt a chill in his stomach. Would Captain Stanley have to tell Roy's wife what happened to him?

Johnny's eyes flicked toward Roy's. For a fraction of a second they met. What could they do now?

Roy turned back to the road and kept driving. The white Ford went north on Avalon. It didn't go too fast; it used it's turn signals, slowed down for all the yellow lights. The squad stayed right behind it, never allowing enough space for even the most aggressive L.A. driver to get between them.

It slowed and turned right. The squad followed. They moved past businesses, parking lots, gas stations, lots of signs, wires and blue sky overhead. None of the other traffic passing noticed them.

Roy licked his lips and moved to the turning lane behind the white car. He and Johnny had scissors in their hip pouches. There were two of them. Only one of him. The problem was . . . .

. . . . he couldn't think of anything that was faster than a bullet.

There was something about their unwelcome passenger that told Roy that he knew how to handle a gun. Maybe even kill with one.

They turned onto a narrower two lane street. They were out of there area. Station Sixteen would be called first for any fires or emergencies here. They drove through the winding streets of a lower middle class neighborhood, the houses modest and single story, the lots small. The lawns were more brown than green. There were few trees and hardly any people out on the sidewalks in the warm afternoon. An old man walking a dog. A teenager who should have been in school.

Left turn. Right turn. Right turn. The street sign said Vinatero Way.

The street ended in a cul-de-sac. The white car pulled into the driveway of a white, quasi-Spanish style home with overgrown bushes in front and a brown lawn. Roy stopped the squad in the street. The number on the house was 3723.

A man got out from the driver's side. He wore a white, short sleeve shirt and gray pants. He was tall and thin, but with muscular arms and longish graying brown hair. He was perhaps in his late forties. He hurried to Roy's door.

"Get that car out of the driveway, Chuck!"

"But what about Larry!" The thinner man waved back at the car.

"We'll take care of Larry after we hide this thing. And get your girlfriend to get her car out of that carport."

Chuck looked unhappy, but it was pretty clear who gave the orders in the group. He turned back to the house where a woman wearing a green pantsuit came out. She had tinted blond hair and wore pink lipstick. She exchanged a few hurried and upset words with Chuck before going back into the house. Chuck went back to the white car. He backed it out of the driveway into the street. A moment later a light blue two-door Chevy backed out as well.

"Drive in there."

The man grabbed Johnny's arm again. He took off the fire helmet, so the gun could be clearly seen again.

Roy slowly moved the squad forward, backed it up to turn. Backed it up again before going forward into the driveway. The carport was at the rear side of the house with only a back wall and an overhead cover. No garage door.

He stopped the engine. They heard the woman complaining. Her high heels clicked on the cement and she peered into Roy's window.

"What the hell is this? Where the hell is all the money you're supposed to come back with?"

He did not answer her. "Get out fireman."

Roy opened his door and slid out. Pushed forward, Johnny came next. The man came last, the gun still in place.

"Sally! Get over here!"

Chuck helped another man out of the white Ford, now parked in the driveway, blocking the squad. The injured man wore a plaid shirt, white and navy blue. A black jacket was tied around the thigh of one leg, a dark stain of blood on his jeans under it. He moaned as the two helped him to the back door of the house by a small backyard surrounded by a chain link fence and bushes.

"Get inside."

Roy turned to the gunman. "If we're going to help your friend, we're going to need our equipment. We can't treat him without it."

Those cold blue eyes evaluated him.

"Just get what you need."

Staying out of reach, behind his hostage, the man gripped Johnny's upper arm. He kept the gun at the back of his head. He had a horrible smile on his lips, an evil leer just to let Roy know who was in charge.

Roy went around the back of the squad to the right side. He could only open it part way before it hit a chain link fence on one side of the carport, but it was far enough. The drug box, of course. The trauma box, too? The drug box probably had everything he needed, but It would probably make these people mad if he told them he had to go out and get something else out of the squad.

His eyes fixed on the red biophone box. Of course, he would want to contact the hospital. For a gunshot wound he would almost certainly need to start an IV. A doctor would have to authorize it, but . . . . authorization wouldn't matter to these people. But if he could just call the hospital, then maybe. . . .

Roy grabbed the biophone, tucked the drug box under one arm and took the larger trauma box as well. When he came around the squad again the man hadn't moved. Johnny's eyes glanced up at him and then back down. The man didn't move until Roy passed him, following the woman and other two men into the house.

He walked through a dingy utility area, past the smell of a full trash can on one side and a messy kitchen with a white plastic kitchen chairs and round laminated table. Beyond was a narrow hallway. He followed the voices to a split living and dining room area. The injured man moaned on a worn greenish brown sofa. Roy pushed aside stacks of magazines, set down the medical boxes and sat down on the coffee table next to it.

"I've got to examine the wound. I'll try to be careful."

The injured man almost smiled back at him. "Go ahead. I can take it. I think it's stopped bleeding."

Roy removed the jacket wrapped around the leg. He could only guess at how much blood was on the dark fabric, but there was a large stain on the jeans. He cut a slit up and down from the hole the bullet had made. Then he cut the jeans across the front of the leg, making a huge opening. He checked the back of the leg, but there was no exit wound. The man tensed as he probed the injury, but did not complain. The leg looked swollen but only a little blood oozed the bullet wound.

He took out the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff.

"What the hell are you doing standing around here, Chuck? Get a tarp and cover up that fire truck out there before someone sees it." Roy glanced over his shoulder to see the gunman pushing his partner ahead of him. He pulled out a dining room chair and pushed Johnny into it.

"I don't got a tarp." The woman glared at him, hand on her hip. She had large green triangular earrings that clicked when she moved her head.

"Well, then get a bed sheet or blankets or something to cover it up with before the whole neighborhood sees it!" He pointed at Chuck who hesitated over leaving the injured man, but then got up and left. "And you! Get me some tape to tie this guy up with."

She sneered at the man with the gun and went into the kitchen. She didn't even glance at Johnny. She returned with a fat roll of silver duct tape. Roy had his hand on the victim's wrist, counting his pulse, but he could hear the others talking.

"Tie his arms to the chair."

"Why do I have to do it?"

"Because I'm holding the gun."

Roy wrote down the man's blood pressure along with his respiration and pulse rate. The victim moaned; he looked pale, sweating but coherent and in pain. Behind him, Roy heard the duct tape scritch and squeal. He turned. Sally finished taping Johnny's wrists and forearms to the arms of the chair. The man told her to tape his legs as he stuffed his gun into the waist of his pants.

Roy calmly opened the biophone box, the same way he always did on a run. He picked up the black receiver.

Click. Click.

The gun was out again and pointing at him. Looking up, the woman stopped taping one pant leg to a leg of the chair.

"What are you doing?"

"I - I have to call the hospital. Talk to a doctor. I'm not authorized to treat your friend without a doctor's orders."

The barrel of the gun lowered, changing from Roy's head to his chest, an easier target.

"This is all the authorization you need, fireman."

"What are you talking about?" Chuck stood in a doorway with an armload of blankets and sheets. "If he can get a doctor, Jack, let him! That's my brother lying there with a bullet in his leg!"

"Oh and why don't we just have your girlfriend call the police and tell them where we are while we're at it?" Jack lowered his gun. "Finish that!" Sally glared back, but she yanked out a long stretch of duct tape to wrap around Johnny's other leg.

Chuck threw his bundle to the floor. "Don't you order her around like that! You're only here 'cause of my brother's say-so."

"Chuck."

Everyone looked at the victim on the couch.

"Chuck, just do what Jack tells you." He grimaced and groaned, pushing himself up a little. "He got us both out. He knows what he's doing."

"Oh, and you know what you're doing! If this guy can get a doctor, I say we get one. You're not looking that good, Larry."

Roy still held the receiver. "It's just a radio. It can't be traced."

Jack appeared to think this over. "All right. He can call the doctor."

Roy reached for the biophone switch, but froze when the gun came up again.

"Not yet. Sally, get a rag that I can gag this guy with." She left for the kitchen and he pointed at Chuck with his free hand. The gun stayed on Roy. "And pick that stuff up and cover up that fire truck!"

Grumbling, Chuck gathered up the bundle and left. Sally came back with a white and red dish rag which Jack stuffed into Johnny's mouth and she wound the duct tape several times around his head.

"Now." Jack confidently pulled the gun back, forced the upper body of it forward and back. Then he put the muzzle to Johnny's temple.

Click!

"Mmmmuu-UUUHHHHH!!"

Johnny jumped, eyes wide with terror. The chair tipped, but Jack grabbed his black hair and pulled him back upright. He shifted the upper body of the gun again.

"Now," he pressed the muzzle into Johnny's temple again. "Safety's off. Call the doctor."

Roy could hear Johnny's breathing, exhaling rapidly through his nose. He clicked on the biophone.

"Rampart Base, this is Squad Fifty-One. How do you read?"

- - - End part 1