Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(90)
He was still pushing at the door, and I moved my hand from his arm to his shoulder to give him a gentle shake. “Listen to me, kid,” I said firmly. “We were in a wreck. Somebody slid on the ice and hit us.”
It finally seemed to penetrate and he sagged under my hand. “An accident?”
I nodded. “Just a dumbass who rear-ended us. That’s all.”
Michael had been so calm and composed since his rescue, even when facing down Jericho in the parking lot where I’d been shot, that I was momentarily surprised by his distress now. But the sudden shock of the collision had shaken me, and it was bound to have disoriented him. Then I saw the trickle of crimson winding its way down his face and it was all the more clear. Swiping my thumb across the welling of blood in his right temple, I revealed an inch and a half laceration. He must have struck his head on the side window when we hit. The new tightening in my chest had nothing to do with the pressure from my seat belt.
Michael blinked at his blood on my hand and exhaled a steadying breath. “Oh.” He rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand, wiping blood away. “It’s okay. I’m a fast healer, remember?”
Who was reassuring whom here?
“You guys okay?” A cold reddened face appeared at our demolished windshield. A thick brown beard bristled around a mouth chapped by the elements and large gloved hands were clapped for warmth. “Goddamn, I’m sorry. The truck got away from me. Frickin’ weather.”
Pulling the sleeve of my shirt over the heel of my hand, I carefully mopped at Michael’s still sluggishly bleeding cut. His pupils were equal. There was no bloody discharge from his nose or ears. Those were all good signs. All those overwrought medical shows on TV said so. “We’re fine,” I said brusquely. “Now go away.”
Suffering patiently under my makeshift first aid efforts, Michael allowed his eyes to meet mine. He knew as well as I that we were in trouble—big trouble.
“Fine? The boy’s bleeding.” The man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and started punching buttons. “I’m calling 911.”
An ambulance and police—that was everything we didn’t need. I was in a stolen rental car with a kid I couldn’t prove was related to me, and I still had no idea of the extent of Jericho’s connections with the government. The scrutiny of the authorities, no matter how casual, was something we couldn’t afford. Grabbing a rumpled and worn shirt from the backseat, I folded it, put it in Michael’s grip, and manipulated his hand to the cut. “Hold pressure there, okay? I’ll be right back.”
I undid my seat belt and opened the door to climb out. My legs felt oddly anesthetized, as if I were walking on unbending lengths of wood. My dismal expectations were fulfilled. The SUV was totaled. It wasn’t moving another inch, much less carrying us away before the police arrived. Big trouble had transmuted into catastrophe.
While I was taking stock, Paul Bunyan had just gotten through to the operator to report the wreck. Instantly I swatted the phone out of his hand and wasted no time in kicking it out of sight into a distant pile of snow. He gaped at me, his breath puffing white clouds in the air between us. “What the hell did you do that for?”
I ignored him and turned to examine his truck. It seemed fine except for a bent grille and a few dents, but then I saw the right tire was deflated. The crumpled fender had punctured it. Things just kept getting better and better. Around us the street was empty. Since we’d left the mall the storm had only gotten worse. Not many people were risking the roads. Swearing, I moved back to the car. I leaned in and said regretfully, “Misha, I’m sorry, but we have to go.” Our transportation was trashed and Bunyan’s truck wasn’t any more mobile.
With the wad of cloth still pressed to his head, he gazed past me out into the curtain of snow and sighed. “Seems about right.” He was pale but had returned to his familiar collected self, the confusion having cleared. Whether it was his accelerated healing or pure force of will, I didn’t know. Knowing Michael, it was a combination of the two, with a heavy emphasis on will.
“Put on your new coat. I’ll get all our bags.” All that I could carry.
“I said, what the hell are you doing?” A meaty hand fastened on my shoulder and spun me around. “That kid is hurt. You’re not taking him anywhere.”
When you needed one, Good Samaritans were nonexistent, a myth. But try to flee a hit-and-run from the victim end and you were tripping all over them. “Look, pal.” I peeled his hand from my shoulder. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing, and that’s great. But this isn’t your business.”
“When you drag a hurt kid off into a blizzard, I make it my business.” The scowl was full of righteous anger and his fists were clenched at his sides. He was a good man trying to do the right thing; it wasn’t his fault it happened to be at the worst possible time.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I offered sincerely. I expected the comment to be in vain, and it was. The guy was nearly four inches taller than I was and had at least sixty pounds on me. He wasn’t threatened by me in the slightest, and it showed.
“Buddy, the hurt that’s going down is going to be all over you. Now get away from the car and the kid, you hear me?” The fists were coming up now, and I didn’t wait to see if he would have second thoughts. A true Good Samaritan rarely did. Truth, justice, and the American way—for them it wasn’t only a comic book code; it was a way of life. It was admirable, courageous, and inconvenient as shit.