A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(24)

Jane raised the two-by-four with both hands, clutching it like a harpoon, but instead of jabbing the man again, she pivoted and aimed her stab at the chest of his partner. The man’s attempt to duck her attack by crouching brought the butt of the two-by-four to the level of his collarbone. It hit the bone hard and slipped upward into his trachea. He grasped his throat with both hands and bent over, trying to protect it and breathe at the same time. Jane swung the two-by-four down hard on his head and he collapsed forward onto the pavement, dazed but conscious.

The three men were badly hurt, and as she swept her eyes to survey them, they began to edge away from her. She took out her lock-blade knife and flicked open the blade with her right thumb. She said, “In ten seconds I start cutting.”

The two men who could walk began to hobble away down the alley they had come from. The man with the broken leg shouted, “Wait! Help me. Please!”

The man bent over holding his trachea kept going, but the one with the injured feet and the broken, bloody nose relented. He stopped and limped back, pulled his friend up so he could stand on his one good leg, and took his arm over his shoulder to help him hop off along the alley.

Jane was left with Jimmy’s prone and unmoving body. She set the two-by-four beside him and knelt to feel his pulse. It was strong and steady. She patted his cheek, and then patted it harder. “Wake up, Jimmy,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here before their friends show up.” She looked closely at the wound where the two-by-four had hit his head. The blood was already beginning to glue his hair in hard tufts, but his skull was not misshapen. The wound had bled a lot at first, but appeared to have nearly stopped. Jane kept raising her eyes to look farther into the alley, then to see if anyone was coming on the street. “Come on, Jimmy,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay. You’ve got to be.” She saw her pack lying on the ground, pulled it to her, and searched for the half bottle of water she’d saved. She took a kerchief, made it wet, and dabbed at his wound. She poured some of the water on it, and he began to stir.

“It’s me, Jimmy,” she said. “Wake up.”

After another try, he opened his eyes. His hand went to his head.

“It’s probably better not to touch it,” she said.

“Wha—wow,” he moaned. “I know somebody hit me.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You could have a concussion. Just lie there for a minute and get your bearings, if you can.”

“What happened?”

“You got knocked on the head.” It sounded worse to her, because that was the way the old Senecas used to refer to death in battle—getting knocked on the head. “Don’t worry, though. They were trying to rob us, but they didn’t.”

Jimmy felt for his wallet, and confirmed that it was still there. The movement seemed to bring him more awareness. “I feel awful.” He sat up.

“Take it slow. Just sit for a few minutes.” She wanted to say exactly the opposite, but moving too soon might be a mistake.

Jimmy stood up and leaned against the wall of the building on that side of the alley. Now that he was standing, he saw the pavement, the two-by-four, the wall on the opposite side. “Lots of blood.” He looked down the alley and saw the three men, still trying to hop or hobble away. One of them turned, and Jimmy could see the blood covering the front of him.

“It’s mostly nosebleeds,” she said. “Let’s try walking.” She helped him out of the alley to the street. He was still wearing his pack, and she reached into it. “Here, let me put this knitted cap on you. It’ll help stop the bleeding, or anyway, hide it.”

They walked on, and before long they reached Erie Street. There were many cars, businesses with lights on, and pedestrians. When they were a block away from the station, she stopped him under a streetlamp. “Look into my eyes.”

He did. “How do I look?”

“Your pupils aren’t dilated. That’s a very good sign.”

“I’ll take anything that’s not a very bad sign.”

“Good policy. Can you just hang around here by yourself for about five minutes? I’ll go see when the next bus leaves, and if we can get tickets, I’ll buy some.”

“Okay.”

In a few minutes she came trotting back, smiling. “We’re in luck. There’s a bus that came in from Albany a few minutes ago, and it leaves for Buffalo in about five minutes.” She held up two tickets. “I also looked everywhere, and there’s not a cop in sight.”

They began to walk toward the station. “I’ve been thinking,” Jimmy said. “What are you, really?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You tell me you’re just this doctor’s wife, but after those guys coldcocked me, you beat the shit out of them. Three men, and they all looked half dead.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jane said. “How could I do that?”

“I don’t know. How?”

“Sh. You’re disoriented and confused. Just keep as quiet as you can, and once we’re on the bus I’ll make you comfortable so you can rest.”





7



Jane took another look at Jimmy’s head wound after the bus was on the thruway moving west. They sat at the back, where they had some privacy. The light was dim, but she could see Jimmy well enough. She had some alcohol-based hand sanitizer in her pack, and she used it to sterilize Jimmy’s wound. In her first aid kit she had Band-Aids and a large gauze pad, which she stuck over the wound. His knitted wool cap was soaked with blood so she put hers over his head to cover the bandages, and then went into the bathroom to wash his with the antibacterial soap in the dispenser over the little sink. She wrung out the cap and hooked it over the window latch so the moving air would dry it.