Christie stared at him. “I don’t know anything about tourniquets.”
“It’s not hard,” Mr. Tindal said. “Open it up. And hurry.”
Looking at it, Christie found the ends and let the rest of the band fall, opening up easily into a circle. She hurried into the isle behind the first wounded man and saw blood all over the second man and on the empty seat that had been cleared so Mr. Tindal could get to him. But Mr. Tindal was only one man and he’d said to hurry.
“Now, put it on his arm. Get as high up as you can get without going up onto his shoulder.”
The wounded man whimpered as Christie awkwardly complied, squatting on her high heels, trying not to cause more pain.
“Now what?”
“You need to cinch it down tight,” Mr. Tindal said. “Watch me.”
Christie paid close attention as Mr. Tindal tightened the strap, doubled it back, and then began twisting a metal rod like a windlass before looping it into a strap of Velcro.
Mr. Tindal looked her in the eyes. “It needs to be as tight as possible. Better to hurt him now than let him bleed to death.”
Christie felt the blood drain from her face. The only way to get enough leverage to turn that tourniquet properly the way Mr. Tindal was doing was to kneel on the bloody seat next to the man who’d been shot and put her weight into it.
Her new dress would be ruined. But she had to do it anyway.
She turned back to the man she was working on, her hands fumbling on their own. This near to the man, the stench of blood made her stomach roils, but she pressed on. She tightened the strap then started twisting the windlass. With each turn, the man’s face screwed up tighter in pain, but she didn’t stop until it was too tight for her to turn, and she strapped it down.
Mr. Tindal watched her appraisingly and nodded his approval.
Good.She exhaled.I must have done it right. I hope this man makes it.
“Both tourniquets are on,” Mr. Tindal said. “ETA on those ambulances?”
“Three more minutes,” the dispatcher said.
Police officers streamed into the theater, alert, armed and ready for trouble.
Mr. Tindal sat back on his heels, having finished with the civilian he’d been treating.
The first officer approached him and said, “Reed Tindal?”
“That’s me.” He nodded at the man he’d treated. “This one is wounded and there’s another.” He pointed to the other man.
The officer nodded. “Are you armed?”
“Yes,” Mr. Tindal stood slowly. “Behind my right hip.”
“Ok. I’m gonna ask you step out of the isle and down the stairs.”
Christie noted that the police officers had arrived with guns drawn. They’d eased off but not holstered their weapons.
Mr. Tindal obeyed, moving out of the isle and down the stairs followed by the first officer.
Was all this really necessary? Couldn’t they see he wasn’t the bad guy? He was the man who’d stopped the bad guy. Everyone in the theater owed their lives to Mr. Tindal.
“Turn and face the wall, please,” the officer said.
Mr. Tindal automatically pressed his palms against the wall and didn’t seem upset.
“This the gun you used tonight?”
“Yes sir,” Mr. Tindal said. “It’s reloaded. Habit.”
