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The barkeep hands me the new beer right as I hear Birdie over the radio again. “Ow!” followed by a whispered, “Excuse me.”
With me standing next to Mercan, I can’t ask what happened or see Birdie from here. Thankfully, Jackson doesn’t fail me. He makes eye contact with me from the snack bar and asks, “What’s happened?”
“Oh. Nothing,” Birdie answers. “Somebody wasn’t watching where he was going.”
Satisfied that Birdie is ok, I focus on Mercan once again. That is until Birdie speaks again a few seconds later. Her voice is somewhat slurred. “Hot... Water.”
I hear gasps and shrieks through the radio, and then an unfamiliar voice says, “She’s just had a little too much to drink. I’ll take care of her.”
Jackson’s eyes search mine again, thinking the same thing I am. That was a little too close to her mike. Breaking character, I say, “Bennet.”
He jumps out of line and rushes toward Birdie’s location. “I’m on it.”
“What was that?” Mercan asks me.
I hold position and my breath to keep from blowing my cover, but that all goes to hell when I hear Jackson swearing.
I’m pounding pavement on my way to them in the next heartbeat. A small crowd surrounds the area where Birdie and Jackson set up. Mercilessly shoving people out of the way, I break through the crowd to see Jackson laying Birdie on the turf.
“What’s wrong with her?!”
One of the nosy onlookers volunteers, “It’ll be ok. Her boyfriend went to get her medicine.”
“He did not,” my immediate denial.
“Yeah,” the woman insists. “He said she had too much to drink, and when she called for help, he said she needed her medicine and took off to get it.”
Facing off with the woman, I yell, “No, he did not! I’m her fucking boyfriend.”
I drop to the ground by Birdie’s side, checking her pulse and eyes. “I need a bus, Jackson!”
Jackson points to the woman who spoke up about the fake boyfriend. “You! Call 911!” Then, into his own phone, he says, “Commander, I need you to put in a call to Dillan Knot. It’s an emergency.”
Ignoring them both, I bend down close. “Birdie, can you hear me?”
She moans and opens her eyes but can’t focus or even recognize that I’ve spoken to her. My phone rings in my pocket, but I ignore the call. The ringing stops as I check Birdie for excessive sweating or clammy skin. When it rings again, I pull the device from my pocket and toss it to Jackson.
Sirens sound in the distance as he answers, but I ignore the harried conversation in favor of the EMTs rushing through the crowd of onlookers. “What have we got?” one of them asks as he snaps on a pair of gloves. “I went to get drinks. Some guy ran into her, and a short time later, she collapsed. The guy that hit her claimed to be her boyfriend before running off.”
“Who are you?”
“The real boyfriend. The other guy claimed she was drunk and needed some medication before he split. I’m guessing our friend scared him away.”
The other medic, who’d begun checking Birdie’s vitals, calls them out. “BP’s low. Respiratory depression,” he reports. “Pulse below normal.”
“What kind of drugs does she take,” I’m asked.
“I can’t give you a medical history, but I guarantee she’s clean. I know this because of where she works.”
“Well, she’s definitely under the influence of something. She’s exhibiting signs of overdose.”
I bend down once again, brushing her hair off her forehead. “Dammit, Birdie. What happened?”
The medics shove me out of the way to load her onto a gurney, and I look around to seek out Jackson. “I’m going with her. You deal with the police. Tell them to get in touch with a Detective Cooper. He’s local.”
Grabbing Birdie’s bag, I keep pace with the medical crew on their way out of the park. “Where are you taking her?”
“Princess Anne,” the driver answers.