THE GANG IS ALL HERE: FOR JOE MANNIX (continued)

Art Malcolm looked up to see Dan Ives emerging from the writhing jungle of equipment and men.  Joe was rolling onto his side, still coughing up smoke, while Art grappled with him.  Dan sank to his knees beside them, holding a dripping arm, weak with relief.

"Hey, Joe," he said softly, wiping one hand on his pants before placing it on Joe's heaving chest.  He looked worriedly into his face.   "Am I glad to see you!" 

Joe was ghastly pale, too breathless to speak.  He managed a faint crooked smile.

Art nodded at his arm, "What happened?"

Dan dismissed it with a shrug.  "Ran into some kid in the alley.  Told me Joe was in there."  He daubed sweat from his upper lip with the back of a fist.

Flipping the blanket aside a little to examine the wounds, he registered a jolt of shock at the drenched clothing.  Blood spread down one pants' leg told a tale of misery--Joe had been on his feet most of the time since he'd been shot.  Silent, he sat back on his heels, risking a glance at Art.  Disgust and anger were in his expression, but something akin to fear darkened his eyes.  Lt. Malcolm, a fellow veteran of Korea like Joe, could only shake his head at the unspoken questions and try to staunch the flow of blood.

Mannix stopped coughing long enough to ask about the kid, Arlie.  Dan stepped over to the men surrounding him and knelt briefly.  The boy was white-faced and still, moaning weakly.  A blanket was pulled up to his chin.  His pulse could barely be felt.  

Ugly bruises marked his cheek and forehead.  While one of the officers aimed a flashlight, Dan raised each eyelid, glad to see the pupils react, but when he ran a hand over the boy's stomach he could feel it bloated and hard.  "I think he needs another blanket or two," he said quietly.  "Try not to move him."

He returned, carefully shading the truth.  "Joe, he's unconscious but breathing okay.  They're keeping him warm.  Don't worry about him.  He'll be all right."

Art yelled again to Trent, "Call Dispatch…Hell, call Schaefer's back directly and tell them we need TWO ambulances!"  Under his breath to Dan, "What's taking so damn long?"

"Probably the traffic," he replied, turning to note the melee. "Half the cars on the force are showing up.  And the fire's gone to three alarms."

More squalling tires, and another unmarked Dodge nose-dived up to the curb.  Lieutenant Adam Tobias climbed out, wearing a dress suit and camel hair coat.  He had been at the theatre when he got the call, knew about Joe being shot, and yet seemed stunned by the eerie scene.  He hurried over, acknowledging the other men with a nod.

"Joe?  How bad…" He saw all too clearly the desperation in the eyes of Art and Dan.  He crouched down and laid a hand on Joe's forehead.  "What have you gotten yourself into now, buddy?"  He shook out his handkerchief and began swabbing it over Joe's sweating face.

Sirens wailed in aggravating crescendos, and the inferno took on a gassy roar, as if driven by bellows.  Adam knelt behind Joe on the chilly pavement, easing him onto his lap to support his head and shoulders.  Joe made a slight groan of pain.

While Art was exchanging the soaked cloths for dry ones, Adam reluctantly peered closer at the damage done by the bullet.  The rusty sweet smell of old blood was nauseating.  Despite the swelling, blood ran freely from both wounds.  Joe's side and back were bruised deep purple.  And the exit wound in front was a ragged mess.  

His blue eyes misted briefly.  "Shot from the back!" he observed indignantly. "Good Lord, how long has he been like this?"

Art glanced up,  "We're not sure.  Just after dark maybe."

He renewed the pressure and Joe suddenly stiffened and grabbed his hand.  "Take it easy Art," he gasped.  "I think the bullet caught that last rib."

"Sorry, Joe."  Art instantly yielded and felt the cloths grow wet again.

He held out a hand to Trent for more.  "You mean your last unbroken rib?" he kidded gently, hiding his worry behind a moment of brittle amusement.

A flicker of the old familiar grin crossed Joe's face, but his cough worsened to the point of retching.  He shuddered with pain.  Adam braced Joe solidly with an arm across his chest, but he had to look away, blinking hard.  Dan's jaw clenched, and he tucked the blanket tighter around him.  Adam removed his coat and put it over Joe as the coughing eased.

Another siren spiraled louder toward them.  Art groused, "Well, it's about…" The men heard tires losing their grip on the wet street, then an agonizing crash.  Only a block away, the ambulance had lost control and slid sideways around the corner into a ladder truck.  Sparks flew and the windshield crumbled.  The siren was cut off in mid-scream.

The driver was dazed--he put a hand over his nose and mouth to catch the dark spouting blood.  His companion was thrown to the floor in piles of broken bottles and debris.  Officers ran to their aid.

"Oh, hell!" Art exclaimed, but kept bearing down on Joe's side.  Adam and Dan shook their heads in disbelief.  

Joe seemed to know exactly what had happened.  His reddened eyes closed wearily a moment, then fluttered open as he tried to focus on Dan.  He raised his head a little.

"You're bleeding, Dan."  

The detective looked almost embarrassed as blood dribbled down his forearm.   "Little punk had a box cutter."

Concerned, Adam reached for his arm. "That looks deep!"

"I'm okay," he said gruffly.

Joe grumbled, "Well, wrap something around it before you bleed to death, why don't you."

"Yeah?"  Dan forced a grin while making an effort to bend his elbow, "Look who's talking…"

Joe turned his head to cough and suddenly remembered.  He gripped Art's arm with a sticky hand.  "Art, you have to pick up this little old…derelict.  A wino…named Willie.  Uh, gray felt hat.  He was sleeping in the ballroom…."

Art could see Joe couldn't get enough air, "Joe, whatever it is, it can wait…try to lie still and be quiet…."

"No, you don't understand…."  He began wheezing and clutched harder at Art's sleeve.  The others tried to calm him.  He grew more defiant in his urgency.  "Listen!  He was a witness…the night Sergeant Paul was killed…"  His chest rattled thickly as he spoke.

"He saw Red Deetz murder Paul and then plant heroin on him!"  The detectives gaped in astonishment.  "Pick him up before he disappears…."  His grasp on Art faded.  "It's important…."  Joe slowly went limp as he lost consciousness.

Dan snapped to his feet with that taut energy which seemed to drive him night and day, asking for volunteers among the uniformed officers to begin a search of nearby buildings.  He went to the closest black & white and began giving curt orders and a description over the radio.  The ambulance crash had been reported, but he earnestly reminded dispatch they still had two seriously injured people needing a ride to the hospital.

"Can you get us an airlift?" he asked impatiently, thumbing the mike.  He learned that a wreck on the freeway involving a tanker truck and eight other vehicles was straining resources.

"I don't think you read me."  Agitated, he turned his back so the others couldn't hear.  "There's a comatose kid on the ground with internal injuries, and a man with a bullet hole who can barely breathe.  Now if you don't divert somebody down here right now, we're gonna have two DOAs!"

While he was talking, Trent came up with a large roll of gauze and began, clumsily, to bind his wound.  The young officer was shocked to see the razor had laid open the arm from just below the shoulder down to the inner elbow.  He tried to snug the bandage, and Dan sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, grabbing the door for support.

"That's good enough.  Thanks, Al."  Dan had forgotten the Luger in his belt.  He sat beside Joe, watching with a grave expression as he came around.  When his eyes opened he showed him the weapon.

"Does this look familiar?  Is this the gun they shot you with?"

Joe shook his head and coughed.  Dan waited patiently.  "No, it was a Beretta...I think, maybe a Walther.  They had that…and my gun then.  But the one called Bert…"  He dragged in a breath, "He's the one who did it…was carrying that Luger when they ran out of the building."

"You're sure, Joe?"  Ives was suddenly alert.  "The kid who shot you…his name was Bert?  Long sandy hair?"  Joe nodded and drifted out on them again.  Adam blotted his wet face gently with a small towel he'd been handed.  The information was significant.

"That's an old Artillery, isn't it?" Art commented.

"Yeah."  Dan looked at it closer.  "Been refinished.  Little maggot took a shot at me with it; then it jammed on the second try.  Cheap ammo, I bet."  He started to free the toggle, but remembered he had no strength in his left hand, and didn't want them to know.

Adam exclaimed,  "Lucky for you.  How close were you when he missed?"

Dan shrugged. "Four, five feet, maybe?"

Art and Adam exchanged grim looks.  Adam mused aloud, "If they haven't taken the kid in yet, maybe we should have him brought here in the cruiser.  Let Joe go ahead and identify him."

Joe heard and was shaking his head.  "No," he gritted.  "Not…like this…" He shuddered again and grimaced, one eyelid dancing with pain.

Adam gazed down at his friend a long moment, holding him steady.  There was sad comprehension in his eyes.  "Okay, Joe," he said softly.

"Kid's a psycho, Joe,"  Dan reminded.

"Yeah, that'd be Bert," he sighed.

They watched as he slid into unconsciousness once more, relaxing as if in a bath.

More officers were gathering, anxious to lend a hand.  Dan directed one of them to bag and tag the weapon.  "Remind them to pull prints off the shells."

Art asked for more light, and a spot from a squad car parked across the street was aimed indirectly at them.  His voice was deep with concern.  "You know, he's right about that slug smashing a rib.  I can feel something sharp moving around.  Bound to be just cutting him up whenever he coughs."

Dan remarked, "Damned if I know how he stayed on his feet so long."

The air had grown thicker with ash and smoke.  Sooty water swirled past them in the gutter.  Swarms of shouting firemen worked futilely against the fire.  A cool wind blew in from the sea, carrying a promise of more rain.  It kept the fire's heat from them, but also fanned the flames.

"I could sure use some water," Joe rasped.

Art was reluctant.  "Not a good idea, Joe.  We don't know if that bullet might have torn something...in your gut.  I don't think it came out in one piece...."  He looked to Dan for back-up.

"Can you hold out a while longer, Joe?  Could be dangerous, you know."

The injured attendant limped up with an oxygen bottle just then. "Sorry about that, sir."  He placed the mask over Joe's face and began taking his pulse.  "Street was slick.  We just lost it."

Joe pushed away the mask and gestured at the group surrounding Arlie a few yards away.  "The kid, take care of him first.  They messed him up bad."  He began to cough again.  Art felt a freshet of blood on his hands.

"Joe," he growled in exasperation, "Will you just shut up!"

Dan looked at Adam in surprise.  "Yeah Joe, shut up!"

"Get the mask back on him," Art snapped.

"I'll bring another bottle," the attendant said, and started to hobble away.

"Wait a minute, son," Dan stopped him.  "How badly are you hurt?"

The gangly attendant wore a bandage on the side of his head, but merely pointed to his bloody knee, "Just banged up a little, officer...uh, detective.  I'll be right back..."

From the surrounding groups of policemen emerged a familiar one--the officer from Homicide who most often served as Dan's or Art's assistant.  He had worked the scene earlier that day when Joe had been forced to kill Red Deetz in a gun battle.

They were pleased to see him.  The quiet hawk-faced man might have been cast as a B-Western heavy in another age, but he was a gentle willing fellow who was efficient and paid attention to details.

"Hi, Charlie.  Thought you went home.  What are you doing back down here in uniform?"

The officer rested on his heels beside Dan, looking gravely at Joe Mannix, and then at Dan's bloody bandage. "I thought you could use some help.  How is he?"

Joe was inhaling the oxygen with effort, but he nodded a welcome.  

The slack appearance of the detective, normally so fit and strong, the copious blood stains, together with the bleak expressions of his friends, answered that question.  He gestured at Dan's arm, "That looks nasty."

Dan waved off his concern.  "Have you heard anything about an ambulance or helicopter?"

"Just the big pileup on the 405, Lieutenant.  At least eighteen people transported in that."

Art was aggravated.  "Well, this is downright ridiculous.  What about all the new paramedics we've been bragging about?"

"There's a helluva traffic jam all around us, sir.  I think this fire alarm was initially pegged as an unoccupied building.  They even had a false alarm down here earlier.  I had Jimmy let me off a couple of blocks away."

An older black & white squad car eased up to the curb, red light revolving with slow electric clinks.  Its driver had no problem getting around in his home turf.  Sergeant Packer, weariness evident in his large features, came to Joe's side.  He had heard the radio chatter and knew the private detective was in bad shape, still waiting for an ambulance.

He sank to one knee, and tried not to notice the red stain on the pavement there.   "Joe, how goes it?"  He took his hand in a warm careful one.

Joe, biting his lip and blinking at the pain, had no voice to reply, but he returned the grip weakly.  Packer saw in an instant how critical his condition was.  He too had done battle in Korea.  The knowledge hit him like an unexpected blow to the stomach.  Some men weren't meant to die on a filthy street.

Guilt made him pause and brush a hand over his brow.  He could hear Joe fighting for breath even with the mask, but he had a job to do.  As compassionately as he could, he went on, "Can you answer a few questions for me?"

"Not now Les," Art cautioned.

"It's okay, Art."  Joe was able, between gasps and choking, to tell Sgt. Packer about the youths who stole into his office, then stole his gun. 

His partner took notes as Joe pulled aside the mask and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Just some punk kids" who ferried him to their hideout for "a few rounds," as he put it, "with a pool cue," and shot him as he made a break for it.  The object of their game had been to kill him in plain view of a rival gang.  He was angry at himself for not taking their threat more seriously.

Sgt. Packer needed to nail down the identity of the shooter.  Joe repeated his description of the leader of the Nomads: a slight, sandy-haired boy of about seventeen, wearing dirty, faded denims.

The Sergeant looked at his partner.  "That's him all right--likes to call himself 'Bird'."

"Any other details you can remember, Joe?"

Art frowned at Les as Joe swallowed several times, forcing down the nausea.  "Ah, he was wearing an..." Joe made a motion at his throat, "an Ankh around his neck."

The effort to talk cost him.  Joe was seized with another fit of coughing; he curled to one side in horrible pain, his own hands desperately clutching his wounds over Art's.  It was an agony almost as hard to witness as it must have been to bear.  

All four men attempted to steady him, but the coughs deepened into gags.  Adam held his handkerchief to Joe's mouth.  When he was spent and sagged back, Tobias pulled it away and saw it darkly splotched with blood.  Flames cast a fierce orange glow on their faces as they looked at one another in dismay.

His chest labored as he tried to regain his breath.  A vein stood out down the middle of his forehead.  "Fellas, don't look so worried.  I've been hurt worse before.  Right, Art?"

Lt. Malcolm's expression softened a moment, a deluge of grim memories behind the wall of his composure.  "Yeah, Joe.  I remember."

"Where did they hit you, Joe?" Adam asked.

Joe sighed, "Where do they usually hit me?"

Adam probed the back of Joe's head carefully.  He felt a hard swelling at the neck near the base of his skull.  Joe flinched slightly.

"One of these days they're going to find something harder than your head to clobber you with, you know."  Adam said in mock reproach.

"Joe," Sgt. Packer was weighed down with remorse.  "I'm awfully sorry about this.  It's my beat, and these damned feral kids have always been out of control.  We just…"

Mannix held up a hand abruptly.  "Now I don't want to hear this, Les."  He struggled for another breath.  "We all know what you're up against down here."

Packer gave his shoulder a squeeze, then motioned his partner to the car. "There's someone with me I think you've met."  They could see a small figure craning his neck to peep over the seats at them.  Joe lifted his head.

The back door was opened and a little man scuttled out, felt hat clutched to his chest.  He was sniffling and not too steady on his feet.  He tottered hesitantly over to them, the policeman at his elbow.

"Oh, Mister Mannix!  I'm real s…sorry," he stuttered, fumy with alcohol.  "I just forgot…and th…then they said the Stookie was burnin' and…"   Water ran from childlike eyes as he gazed at the raging fire.  He swiped a sleeve across silvery unshaven cheeks.  "And I…I thought you wuz still in there!"

Joe was exhausted and shaking, but looked kindly at him, "Don't worry, Willie.  I know you tried."  He broke off as another grinding pain overcame him.  "Ah, what's important is that you tell the Sergeant here…what you saw the night Sgt. Paul was killed…"

"I done did…just like I told you," he bobbed his head nervously.  He was at once pathetic and comical.  

Packer agreed.  "We're taking him down for formal statements…after he's had a little sleep.  But it clears Jim Paul's name once and for all."

"There's a fourteen-year old kid lying over there who needs to hear that," Joe said.  He looked keenly at Dan.  "Is he still unconscious?"

Dan paused, "I'm not sure."  A frown deepened the creases on Joe's forehead.

Packer asked his partner to escort Willie back to the cruiser.  He mumbled away, looking uncertainly over his shoulder at Joe.  "I really shoulda called that ambliance.  He…he ain't doin' so good…is he?"

Les returned after a check on the boy. "Joe, they say he hasn't come to."  His expression was solemn.  "Kid's one of them, isn't he?"

Joe yanked away the mask Adam was trying to replace, reached for the Sergeant's lapel and pulled him closer, suddenly fierce.  "No!  They just used him for his mother's car!"  A barely audible groan escaped the private detective as he strove to make his point.

"He's just a mixed-up...misguided boy.  Bert tried to get him to pull the trigger, like an... initiation, except really to make him the patsy.  But he…he had a gun on me twice and couldn't do it.  You gotta take my word for this, Les.  He couldn't do it!"

"I believe you, Joe.  Take it easy." Packer said reassuringly.  He left after promising Joe that Bert and some of the others would not escape into juvenile hall this time.  "I'll see you at the hospital."

As his cruiser pulled slowly away, the men could hear the steady thrum of copter blades above the mad roar of flames.  They all gazed at the night sky hopefully.

"Is that one of ours?  Or just the news copter?" Art wondered.

"Can't tell, but it might be a Life-Flight," Adam said, securing the oxygen mask on Joe.

Dan snapped his fingers, motioning for a portable radio, and demanded to be patched through to the chopper pilot.  Art, frustrated, said, "I don't think there's room to land in the street here unless we move some cars."

"There's a vacant lot over there, just behind that pawnshop," Dan reminded.

A rash of frantic yells from men fighting the fire caused them to look up in time to see the roof and front wall collapse in one terrible booming explosion.  The detectives ducked reflexively and shielded Joe as flames and hot gasses belched out.  Showers of sparks raced heavenwards.  Blazing bits of rubble flew in all directions.  Some landed near them and sizzled on the pavement.

They quickly brushed away the glowing cinders alighting on their clothes.  Art quipped, "Well, I always said you could send up a helluva smoke signal, Joe."

Joe winced.  "I just hope they don't send me the bill for all this."

Dan, speaking urgently into the radio, looked up as the helicopter was forced to veer off. "Heat waves are rocking them," he said resignedly, and slid the antenna down.

At that moment another ambulance careened onto their street.  When the litter bearers came straight to him, Joe motioned them with a jerk of his thumb to pick up the kid instead.  They looked in confusion at the officers around him.  Joe was insistent.  

Art tried to protest, but he knew Arlie's condition was critical as well.  He said anxiously, "You have another unit on the way?  He's been coughing up blood."

"Right behind us, sir."

Reluctantly, he nodded his okay.  Joe pulled the mask away, this time to ask again for water, his tongue thickly slurring the words.

"Joe, please, you've seen what can happen…"

"Art, I'm really thirsty, dammit."

Dan said, "Joe, wait a few more minutes?  I think I hear another siren."

"Just a little water."  He gasped and fought a sudden spasm of pain, crumpling up.  Joe seized Art's wrist, and Adam tried gently to break the hold, but he bore down, teeth clenched, the agony merciless.  Tobias struggled to keep his cheek from the gritty pavement.

Art felt helpless.  His face seemed to mirror Joe's pain.  "You can yell all you want, you know.  No one can hear you."  

He leaned closer, "This isn't Korea, Joe!  You're among friends…"

Mannix was suddenly aware of his crushing grip on Art, and relaxed it with an effort.  He bit harder at his lip, feeling razor shards of bone stabbing at his side.  Perspiration glistened on his face and chest and pooled in the hollow of his throat.  His cheek twitched.

When he could draw breath again, his trademark sarcasm surfaced.  He complained, "I thought you wanted me to shut up…make up your mind, Art."

Art raised a brow and looked at Dan, then at Adam, who suppressed a smile.

Adam brushed a damp lock of hair back from Joe's forehead and rested his hand there a moment. "He is burning up."  Joe struggled to rise, weakly pushing up on one arm, his breath coming in shallow pants.

"Hey now, Joe, where are you going?" Adam held him back.

"Going to get …" he tried again to sit up, "some of that water…"

"Joe!" Art pleaded, "You've got to help us here.  Hold still, dammit, or you're gonna bleed to death!"

Adam summoned another officer.  He asked for the thermos in his cruiser.  The others were silent as he held the water to Joe's lips.  There was a danger, but no one had the heart to deny him.  He drank greedily, rivulets running from the corners of his mouth.

Art warned him sharply to slow down before he strangled.  There was emotion on his battered face, born in a Korean battlefield and forged in a heartless POW camp.  Joe slumped, panting, some relief in his eyes.

"Uh, thanks, Adam."  He looked at Art; something unspoken passed between them.

"Did I tell you I'm glad...glad you all showed up tonight?" he said huskily.

Searching the street in both directions, Art said to them, "I don't know about you, but I'm about ready to put him in the back of one of these cars and take him on in."

Joe raised one hand a little and muttered, "Hell, give me the keys and I'll drive myself."

The men chuckled.  Dan tilted his head then patted Joe's leg. "That's our ambulance pulling up."

When the stretcher finally came for Joe, Art moved aside only when he was sure someone was maintaining pressure on Joe's wound.  And he clambered into the ambulance beside him.  It would not have occurred to him, after all they had suffered together at the POW camp Chaing Ju, after all they had shared since, to be elsewhere.

Art shouted for Trent to radio a car to transport Peggy and Helen to Memorial Hospital.  Dan asked Charlie to start the reports and meet them there.  

Adam knew Dan couldn't drive, but he needed to move his car blocking the alley, so they took the Coronet with Adam at the wheel, driving up onto the sidewalk and right over a gulping fire hose.  A geyser erupted behind them.  Adam cast a sidelong glance at Dan.   "I always wanted to do that."

It wasn't the only sidewalk they had to use on their exit.  Dan commented dryly, "Looks like the tourists showed up."

They were racing along a side street in the direction of the hospital when suddenly a large woman ran out in front of them.  Adam stood on the brakes and the car started a long, howling skid.

In the glare of their headlights they had a fleeting impression of a man in heavy makeup and blonde wig--red mouth agape in horror.  He threw up his gloved hands, one holding a big white pocketbook, and then galloped away into the darkness, a brutal vision in pearls and turquoise chiffon.

They didn't fully stop.  Adam wrestled the wheel as the car threatened to swap ends. Regaining control, he stepped on the gas again.  The siren blared.  "Did you see what…"

"Yep," said Dan.

"Was that…?"

"Yep."

"Damn," Adam swore, shaking his head, "What is this--Halloween?"

"Nope." Dan's teeth flashed white in the darkness, half-grin, half-grimace.  "Hell Night, though," he acknowledged ruefully.

Adam had instinctively thrown out an arm to brace his passenger.  His hand felt wet and sticky.  He looked over at Dan, who was unusually off-balance.

"Dan, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"What's with the 'I'm fine' business?!  Look at this…" he twisted on the interior light and glared at the detective beside him.  "For God's sake, why didn't you say something?"

"Adam, just keep your eyes on the road…" Dan dug under the seat and handed him a ragged towel.  

Adam clamped it determinedly on his arm, harder than he intended.  "Hold that!"

"Ow, dammit!"  Dan winced and cradled his shoulder, but managed to point through the windshield.  "There they go."

The powerful black Dodge fishtailed in the wake of the speeding ambulance and stayed there, barely the regulation block behind.  On the dash the red light pulsed a beat too slowly.  Fortunately, most of the traffic was headed in the other direction.  The detectives were amazed to see several black and whites holding motorists back at intersections, some of the officers outside their cruisers at a somber parade rest.

"How did you manage to get this hot engine, anyway?"

Dan deadpanned, "Santa Claus."

Inside the cramped and swaying vehicle the attendant struggled with the blood pressure cuff and applied heavy dressings to the wounds.  Art held the oxygen mask in place and tried to ease Joe, who was fighting wave after wave of pain.

"Can't you give him something?  He's been suffering like this a long time…"

The attendant shook his head sorrowfully, "No, sir.  His blood pressure is too low.  We'll be there in a few minutes."  He leaned forward and said quietly to the driver, "Drake, step on it, buddy."

Adam noted tensely when they speeded up.  "That's not good," Dan agreed.

In the rear-view at least six units trailed them with lights and sirens.  Dan thought how useless the back-up was now.  Still, they made for an impressive motorcade down Wilshire.  And rolled under the Memorial Hospital canopy in record time.  The parking lot was already filling with every possible variety of law-enforcement conveyance.  Unfortunately, they could also spot a few vehicles with Press ID in their windshields.

Joe didn't look very good when they brought him into the glaring lights of the emergency room.  Art was at his side, talking quietly to him.  Dan noted his ashen, waxy color and tired eyes full of pain.  Blood had seeped through the blanket tucked around him.  The attendants hesitated just long enough for Adam and Dan to say a word to him, and then the double doors bounded shut.

The three seasoned Los Angeles homicide detectives stood there--suddenly helpless and without words at all.  Each had known Joe in different circumstances.  Each had a story or two they would one day tell their grandkids.  And each at one time or another could credit Joe Mannix with saving their life.

More than a few times they had managed--with only seconds to spare--to save his.  Joe had always gamely reminded them how short they cut it.

Art was stricken.  He stared numbly down at his hands, which were caked with blood.  A shadow of a tremor ran through him.  Dan and Adam drew closer.

"Come on," Adam said, putting a hand on his arm.  "Let's clean up a little before Peggy sees us."

He hesitated, turning to look at those doors.  Not ready to surrender the battle.  Art squared his shoulders and choked back the grief angrily.

"I wish we had found him sooner," was all he said.

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