Part 2Dying For The Blood She Condemned

The river was a dark, churning throat swallowing two tons of German engineering.

For half a second, the universe paused. My brain fractured into two frantic, opposing thoughts: the transplant center two miles away, the dying patient hooked to an IV pole waiting for my cells, the coordinator's warning that hours matter.

And right here, twenty feet beneath the muddy surface, a human being was drowning.

I tossed my cracked phone into the tall reeds, scooped up a jagged chunk of construction ballast from the gravel path, and threw myself into the water.

The October cold hit me like a physical blow. The Chicago River was filthy and freezing, knocking the air straight out of my lungs until my diaphragm spasmed. I kicked through the murky current, cutting through floating trash and oily residue, until my hands scraped against the roof rack of the sinking G-Wagon.

The vehicle had settled nose-down into the silt. Inside, illuminated by the ghostly green glow of the submerged dashboard, Sloan was slumped sideways against the center console. Blood blossomed like dark silk from a gash across her hairline. She was completely unresponsive, and the water was already licking at her collarbones.

I tread water, hoisted the heavy stone above my shoulder, and hammered it against the driver’s side window.

Once. Twice. The water resisted every swing, robbing the stone of momentum. On the third strike, the tempered glass finally exploded inward.

The backdraft of water sucked me toward the jagged frame. A razor-sharp edge of glass caught my left forearm, slicing deep through flesh and fat. I felt the burn, saw the bright arterial bloom join the river murk, but the adrenaline had shut down my pain receptors.

I reached blindly inside, groping for the seatbelt latch. The buckle was jammed under the weight of her torso, packed with river silt. The cabin was filling fast; water was already pooling into her parted lips.

I wedged my knee against the door frame, wrapped both hands around the nylon webbing near the release housing, and pulled with every ounce of leverage my body possessed until the rusted anchor bracket snapped free with a metallic groan.

I hooked my good arm beneath Sloan’s armpits, kicked against the door frame, and hauled her upward.

An adult body in waterlogged wool and leather is dead weight. My lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen, my soaked clothes dragging me down like lead sinkers. By the time my head broke the surface, my vision was tunneling into gray specks.

"Here! Grab the branch!" someone was shouting from the bank.

A small crowd had gathered along the railing above. I dragged Sloan through the reeds, my fingernails tearing on river rocks, until two pairs of hands reached down and pulled her onto the bank. I hauled myself up after her, collapsing onto my knees on the cold concrete.

My left arm was pouring crimson; my trembling hands couldn't find traction on the slick stones.

"I called 911! They’re on their way!" a man in a cycling jacket yelled.

Sloan lay on her back, her face blue, lips pale as parchment. She had no pulse at the carotid.

I dropped to my knees beside her, locked my elbows, and began CPR.

One, two, three, four.

Mud and river water oozed out from beneath her jaw. My torn arm screamed with every downward compression, blood dripping onto her soaked designer blouse.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

I pinched her nose, tilted her chin, and forced two breaths into her lungs.

On the thirty-fourth compression, Sloan violently convulsed. A thick plume of river water surged from her throat, splashing across my cheek. Her chest heaved, pulling in a ragged, whistling breath of air.

Just then, sirens tore through the street above. Paramedics scrambled down the embankment with a trauma board and cervical collar.

"Step back, miss! We’ve got her!"

They descended on Sloan, stabilizing her neck, cutting away her sodden jacket. I stumbled back toward the reeds, my teeth chattering so hard I bit the inside of my lip. I found my coat, dug my cracked phone out of the weeds, and wiped the screen against my sleeve.

12:40 PM.

"Oh God," I gasped out loud. "The hospital."

I scrambled up the embankment stairs, dripping mud, smelling of stagnant water and copper. I threw myself out into the street, waving down an approaching yellow cab.

The driver slammed on the brakes, looking at me in horror through the glass. "Lady, you're bleeding all over the—"

"Northwestern Memorial! ER entrance!" I screamed, jamming a crumpled twenty-dollar bill against his passenger window. "Step on the gas or someone dies!"

When I burst through the doors of the transplant unit, the intake nurse behind the desk physically recoiled.

"What happened to you? Were you in an accident?"

"I fell into the canal... pulled someone out," I panted, clutching my dripping arm. "I'm Rachel Miller. Donor ID 884-Bravo. Please. Just take the blood before your lab courier leaves."

The on-duty hematologist hurried out, his eyes widening at the sight of me. He didn't ask questions. He guided me straight into an exam room, had a nurse irrigate my laceration and slap sterile gauze and butterfly strips over the torn skin, and drove the vacutainer needle into my right antecubital vein.

Four vials of dark red blood filled the tubes.

The doctor gripped my uninjured shoulder, his eyes brimming with genuine reverence. "Rachel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. The courier is literally idling downstairs. We'll run the high-resolution cross-match immediately. Go home, get dry, see a surgeon about that cut."

"I can't," I breathed, pulling on my damp coat. "I have to get back to the office."

I knew Sloan Montgomery. If I wasn't at my desk, she would find a way to make me pay for every minute I was gone.

It was 2:30 PM when I slipped through the glass doors of Montgomery Financial.

My slacks were damp, my hair had dried into stiff, stringy waves, and a thick white pressure bandage was taped clumsily down my forearm.

Mark, one of the junior portfolio analysts, rolled his chair over immediately, his voice barely a murmur.

"Rachel? Jesus, where have you been? You look like you climbed out of a shipwreck."

"I had an emergency," I mumbled, booting up my monitor.

"You haven't heard?" Mark whispered, his eyes wide. "Sloan was in a massive wreck. Ran her G-Wagon off the parkway into the canal! Executive floor said she’s already awake at the hospital, and she's on her way back here right now with—"

The double doors of the lobby swung open with a resounding bang.

The entire floor went dead silent.

Sloan Montgomery sat in a motorized wheelchair, pushed by a hospital orderly. A white medical dressing was taped across her forehead, her cheeks scraped raw, her arm in a black sling.

She scanned the sea of cubicles with predatory fury. When her gaze landed on my drenched coat hanging over the partition, her pale eyes narrowed into slits of ice.

She raised a trembling, manicured finger, pointing it straight at my face.

"That's her," Sloan’s voice shrieked, slicing through the quiet room. "Security! Call the police! That woman tried to murder me!"