Everything Pales in Comparision Read online

  “Ah, shit, SHIT!” Fear and alarm coursed through her.

  “Kirby!”

  “She’s crashed, man, I have to get her out of here!” Emma yelled. She slashed once, twice, with her puny little blade. “Pull us out on my signal!” Muttering “Come on, fuck, come on!” she slashed a third time and the sleeve was free. “Now!” she yelled, and Daina was whisked from her side. A second later, Emma was likewise pulled unceremoniously from beneath the wreckage. As she emerged, she rolled and twisted, righting herself and almost appearing to pounce on the unconscious Daina.

  “Where’re the medics?” she snapped, even as she was ensuring she had a clear airway before beginning CPR.

  Someone shouted assurance the paramedics were on their way. Barely aware of anyone else’s presence, Emma could see, with the better lighting, that Daina was critically injured. A nasty-looking laceration extended from the left side of her forehead past her temple to the midpoint of her ear. Another laceration ran down the left side of her ribcage to her waist, and her jeans were torn the length of the left leg from hip to heel. Emma could just see the edges of another wound and the black jeans were sodden from the bleeding. There was a frightening amount of blood covering her face and neck, and her shirt was soaked from blood pooling while she had lain unattended. But her airway was clear and apparently none of the injuries would inhibit CPR.

  She had no clear perception of the passage of time or of her surroundings. Her focus was Daina Buchanan, her goal to bring life back into the still form. On the extreme edges of her awareness she sensed activity, a scuffle somewhere beyond her, and her ears registered a keening wail which her mind instantly shut out. Suddenly, right across from her, a woman dropped to her knees at Daina’s head. Emma spared a second to glance at her; it was the woman she had seen stumbling around earlier, the one who had been repeating the same person’s name over and over again.

  The woman, tearful, distraught, made a move toward Daina, as if to gather her up and cradle her.

  “Jesus Christ, get her out of here!” Emma snapped.

  A pair of uniformed arms appeared to drag the woman away before she could interfere, and then the EMTs arrived. Emma, sweat pouring off her in rivers, moved aside to allow them access. An oxygen bag was placed. After ripping open Daina’s shirt in preparation for the defib paddles, Emma continued her ministrations. The medic called “Clear!” and she flung her arms back. A moment or two of tense waiting, and then she was back at it, the first shock having no effect. Again the call, again the paddles were applied. Again, no response.

  Emma looked up, eyes blazing. “Do it again!”

  The medic actually flinched. Emma felt a hand on her shoulder, as if to restrain her. She shrugged it off with a violent gesture. She resumed CPR, even though her arms were leaden and her shoulders ached.

  “She’s in there,” she said, and glanced up to see that the medic was priming the paddles even as she spoke. “Do it once more, she’s in there, I know she is.”

  For the third and possibly last time, the paddles were applied and Daina’s body arched with the charge. Emma, watching the monitor, was rewarded with a renewed sinus rhythm pattern. Her eyes went back to Daina, and she saw her chest heave as she inhaled breath on her own. Emma released her own breath. With shaking hands, she reached to pull Daina’s shirt closed, to afford her a measure of decency. Trembling, her muscles burning with fatigue, she sank back onto her heels. In the aftermath of her intense concentration, she could feel herself disassociating. It was almost blissful. She heard words spoken, but paid no heed; she felt hands applied, proffered assistance perhaps, but she pulled away. She watched, blankly, as Daina was transferred to a stretcher and borne away, accompanied by the distraught woman. There was obviously some connection there, but she couldn’t be bothered to think about it.

  Lowering her head, shoulders sagging, Emma stared at her hands. She turned them over; they were covered with blood, Daina’s blood. As she watched, sweat dripped from her face to her upturned palms. It mixed with the blood, creating thin rivulets that ran off between her fingers. She felt a mild alarm at the thought that her self-control was seeping from her in the same way. And that she was helpless to prevent it. For one awful moment, she thought she might either faint, throw up or burst into tears.

  “Kirby?”

  The voice was familiar and it startled her back into awareness. A warm burly body crouched beside her. She raised her head. Constable Perry Ames, her partner, met her look with eyes filled with concern. He was off-duty and wore jeans, a dusky blue T-shirt with some obscure printing on it, and running shoes. Solid and well-built, he had boyish features complete with sparkling blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile.

  “Hey, you,” he said softly, moving to drape an arm over her bowed shoulders.

  “Hey, yourself,” she returned, managing a tired smile. She blinked, glanced around. “Did you just get here?”

  “More or less. I heard the radio report, wanted to see if I could help.”

  “Well, it’s too bad you missed the show,” she said, in an attempt at levity. A shudder passed through her. She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head again; a second, stronger tremor shook her all over.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Perry said, tightening his hold around her shoulders.

  “No, no, I can’t,” she protested, trying to shrug away from him. “There’s too much to do, I have to help—”

  “Emma, Emma, it’s done,” he soothed her, “it’s taken care of, you did your part.”

  Confused, disbelieving, she let her gaze travel around the concert hall. He was right. Order had been more or less restored; there were uniformed officers and EMTs everywhere, and most of the injured had been removed.

  “It looked a lot worse than it actually was,” he pointed out quietly. “No deaths, no life-threatening injuries. I mean, other than that girl you were working on. You saved her life, you should be proud.”

  Emma didn’t respond. Her eyes fell again on her bloodstained hands.

  “You weren’t hurt, were you?” Perry asked gently.

  She shook her head, curling her hands into fists. She wondered at the ache in her heart and the burning behind her eyes, and felt a sort of half-hearted anger with herself and her current state of emotions. For the moment, though, she was unable to reassert herself.

  “Come on,” Perry said, “let’s go.”

  As he rose to his feet, Emma rose with him, unresisting. She briefly leaned against his tall frame, grateful for his solidity, his warmth and his compassion. But her dependence only extended so far. As they made their way out to the lobby, she did so without any assistance from him. They had been partners for almost four years; the level of understanding between them was deep. Her need had been met, there was no offense taken at her attempt to regain her equilibrium.

  The lobby was a beehive of activity, with uniformed officers busy gathering statements, mingling with firefighters and various business-suited individuals, all speaking earnestly amongst themselves and looking quite harried. Emma could relate and felt a detached sympathy for them. They had a long night ahead of them. She, on the other hand, had only to attend a debriefing before she was allowed to depart. Her eyes picked out the sergeant on duty to whom she was to report, but she wasn’t quite ready to do that.

  Placing a restraining hand on Perry’s arm, she said, “I’m going to head to the washroom, clean up a bit.”

  He looked down at her, brow furrowed. “You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to stick around? I can.”

  Her smile was small, but grateful. “No, I’ll be all right, thanks. You go on.” And in truth, she was feeling stronger, more herself. “I’m glad you were here, though,” she added.

  He gave her a last searching look and seemed to be satisfied with what he saw. He nodded. “I’m glad I could be here. You take care, okay? I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  She nodded as she remembered, watching him turn away, that she had four days off coming to
her. Thank God for that.

  She headed for the women’s washroom, where she proceeded to scrub the blood from her hands and splash cold water on her face. Drying herself with paper towels, she studied her reflection in the mirror, searching for something, but not really knowing what it was she was looking for. She felt affected, almost wounded, and the sudden sense of her own vulnerability shocked her. Outwardly, she appeared unchanged, at least to her own eyes, but deep within she felt altered somehow. And it scared her.

  An image rose to her mind, unbidden, of Daina Buchanan flashing that grin at her, and the memory of her own ridiculous reaction caused a wave of irritation to surge through her. Give it up, Kirby. She impatiently pushed wet strands of hair off her face. Get a grip, it’s over, she’s alive, you did a good job. She balled up the paper towels, slammed them into the refuse container and left the washroom.

  An hour later, letting herself into her apartment, she headed directly to the bathroom, dumping her service belt and holster on the dining room table and shedding her uniform as she went. Her earlier exhaustion had been replaced with a tension, a tightness in her body and mind she hoped to alleviate with a long, hot shower.

  But the shower did nothing for her. Her muscles ached and her mind burned. She considered going for a run, but she was unwilling to inflict any further punishment on her already tortured physique.

  Heading for the kitchen, clad in a burgundy, terry cloth bathrobe, she uncharacteristically fixed herself a stiff shot of Southern Comfort in a glass half-filled with ice. Drink in hand, she strode into the living room, not bothering to turn on any lights, and dropped into her favorite armchair. She sat in the darkness, her only illumination that of the streetlights shining palely through the patio doors. Attempting to sort through the myriad images and thoughts racing through her mind, she absently took a deep swallow from her drink. Sweet liquid fire burned its way down her throat to pool in her belly. She grimaced. Oh, yeah, she thought sarcastically, that feels real good.

  And then, bowing her head, she burst into tears.

  She had no idea how long she cried. The drink was placed off to one side, forgotten, as her unnamed sorrow possessed her and drained her. Sobs wracked her body, tears drenched her skin; it seemed they would be never-ending, that she could not stop crying, that she had been crying her whole life. And when she finally did wind down, when the tears ceased flowing, and the sobs no longer tore through her, she felt neither grateful nor that she had reached any level of understanding. All she felt was an overwhelming exhaustion and emptiness. And an overpowering need to sleep. In sleep, she could find escape.

  Shakily, she got to her feet and sought her escape.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “She left? What do you mean, she left?”

  Daina stared blankly at her mother, puzzled, not quite sure she had heard right.

  Marlene Buchanan, standing to Daina’s right at her bedside in the ICU of Winnipeg Memorial Hospital, shrugged slightly. She was of average height, with a slightly rotund build. Her brunette hair was silvered lightly, and her pale blue eyes fairly sparkled in a face etched with smile lines. She was often in good humor, rarely uncomfortable in any situation, but she was uncomfortable now, eyes flicking momentarily away before alighting once again on her daughter’s face.

  “She just—left,” she said, and shrugged again. “She said…well, she told us that she just couldn’t be here, that waiting around to see whether or not you came out of the coma was something she just couldn’t do, she couldn’t stand it.”

  Daina gave a mild start as she realized just exactly what it was her mother was saying. “You mean Kendra’s gone? She left town?”

  Marlene nodded.

  Daina’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit,” she muttered. The expletive seemed rather inadequate, but for the moment nothing else came to mind. She sank back onto the pillow, staring blankly at the curtain which encircled her bed to provide a semblance of privacy. The surprises are just never-ending today.

  She had just been told, for the second time in a few short hours, first by her attending physician and a neurologist, and then by her mother, that she had been in a coma for approximately fifty-six hours. That had been twelve hours ago; it was going on six P.M. now, Monday, the fifteenth of July. She had lost almost two and a half days, which actually bothered her less than she expected.

  She had been told how she ended up in the coma in the first place, that she had basically been standing almost right on top of a home-made bomb, which detonated during her performance on Friday night, and for which no one yet had claimed responsibility; also, that she had been thrown back several feet, only to be buried beneath a pile of rubble consisting of various parts of the very stage she had been performing on. She had grinned wryly at that, a half-formed thought occurring to her, something about living and dying on stage. Until she had been gravely informed that she had almost died. She’d sobered immediately when told that she had, in fact, arrested and subsequently been revived through the efforts of the paramedic team and one Constable Emma Kirby. In fact, her informers continued, it was this very same Constable Kirby who had found her, facilitated her rescue and then commenced CPR efforts after her heart and breathing stopped. And who had insisted on those efforts continuing, even when the chances for revival seemed nonexistent.

  Daina wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the fact that, in essence, she owed this Constable Kirby her life. Considering her injuries, the rescue had obviously been timely. The lacerations running almost the complete length of her left side were thought to have been inflicted by a sheared-off stage strut. No doubt she had come into contact with it while she’d been flying through the air with the greatest of ease, she thought ruefully. She also boasted a dislocated left shoulder, a concussion, and a ruptured spleen; she’d needed surgery to remove the latter. Thank God nothing had been broken, though her ribs were badly bruised; when she’d landed, she’d landed hard. She had lost a great deal of blood in a short amount of time, had, in fact, almost bled to death, and it was not known for certain how long she had been without oxygen.

  Still, it did not appear that she had suffered any permanent damage. Her body was functioning, her faculties intact. She was stitched, bandaged and her arm was in a sling. Her throat hurt from the endotracheal tube and her lungs felt tight and painful as a result of inhaling the acrid fumes which had resulted from the bombing. She was bruised and battered, but she was whole and she was alive. And she owed it all to this Constable Kirby. The thought made her distinctly uncomfortable. She didn’t like owing anybody anything, let alone her life. How do you return that favor? she wondered.

  Hastily, she shied away from the whole concept, and instead latched onto the latest tidbit of news, that her lover and manager had, without ceremony, apparently jumped ship. She coughed and cleared her throat.

  “When did she leave?” she asked her mother levelly.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” was her mother’s immediate reply. “All plans were canceled initially because none of them wanted to leave. I mean, nobody in your band or crew wanted to leave until they knew for sure that you were okay.”

  Daina smiled at this, inordinately touched. Her band members and her road and stage crew were, for the most part, a very warm, fun and caring bunch, but such a show of loyalty was unexpected and deeply affecting.

  “Kendra came to us and said it was ridiculous,” her mother continued, “she couldn’t afford to have umpteen number of people moping around the city of Winnipeg, waiting for God only knows how long until you came out of the coma. So she packed them all off and then came to us again, and said that she would be leaving as well, that she just couldn’t handle it.”

  Daina shook her head slightly, mindful of strained muscles. She was pissed off, she realized, very pissed off. Not hurt, not devastated, not even disappointed. Just very pissed off. The woman who had professed her love for her had deked out of the picture when her own lover’s life lay in the balance. Now didn’t that speak volumes? Could
n’t handle it, my ass, she thought snidely.

  “Daina, are you okay?” her mother asked, breaking into her reverie.

  “Huh?” Daina looked up and gave her mother a poorly attempted smile of reassurance. “Oh, yeah, Ma, just thinking.”

  Nodding, Marlene eyed her carefully for a moment, then said, “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  After a brief hesitation, her mother said, “I realize that this is none of my business but…do you have…a good relationship with this woman?”

  Daina blinked, drawing back ever so slightly with mild surprise. Before she could even form a response, her mother hurried on, saying, “I mean, do you trust her, honey? If she’s in charge of your career, Daina, it seems odd that she would just walk out on you like this.”

  And the issue that Daina had been avoiding for some time now was, very neatly, dropped into her lap by her own mother. She quirked up one corner of her mouth in a rueful grin and sighed heavily.

  “Well, Ma,” she said, “I guess that’s what this is all about.” She took a deep breath, coughed again. “Kendra is, to all intents and purposes, my manager, and as such she manages my career. She takes care of all the little things that I just don’t have time for. What she wants is to take care of everything, to be in full control. And I won’t let her. And she doesn’t like that, not one little bit.”

  “I see,” was all her mother said.

  “Do I have a good relationship with her?” Daina continued thoughtfully. “Well, I didn’t think it was…bad. Now, well, I really don’t know.” She paused as she contemplated that thought. She realized that she really didn’t know how to quantify her relationship with Kendra, and that startled her and brought her up short.

  She had met Kendra Morrow three years ago, shortly after she had first arrived in Nashville. Prior to that she had nurtured her budding career as a country singer/songwriter for almost ten years while living in Winnipeg. She had left her hometown under less than favorable circumstances, having to do with a married woman, an absent husband and a lack of information. Once in Nashville, intent on furthering her career in the epicenter of country music, she had known she would need a manager, and an acquaintance had recommended Kendra Morrow. Kendra, she discovered, was a fair-haired Southern beauty of average height and weight, who sported green ice picks for eyes, and brooked no bullshit from anyone when it came to business.