The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(21)

“What does it look like?” he asked.

“Shhh. Keep watch.”

He did. But none of the few people nearby paid them any heed.

Her quick hands went to work, with gauze pads and a cold dark-orange liquid, some antiseptic. He felt stinging but nothing too severe.

“Minor lacerations. Bruises.”

“My side. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“I see it.”

A burst of stinging pain as she probed the lower right, bottom rib.

“Here’s a fragment. Under the skin.” She exhaled, her concern apparent in the sound. “Vim, a doctor. You have to.”

He saw how that scenario would play out. “No.”

“I don’t have any anesthetic.” Medical students were strictly over-the-counter docs, he supposed.

“Just try.”

“Vim, I study physiology and organic chemistry. Books, computers. We don’t even get cadavers for a year.”

“I’d do it myself but I can’t reach it. Please.”

She continued, “And stitches.”

He squeezed her hand. “Not the hospital. Just get it out. And do what you can. Bandages.”

For an instant, emotion returned to her beautiful face and she grimaced. “I’ll butterfly it. But if the bleeding doesn’t stop…”

She dug into her purse and extracted a pair of tweezers. “Here, hold these for me.”

He took them.

“Hand them to me when I ask for them. And hold this.” She handed him her iPhone and switched on the flashlight. “Point it down, at your side.”

“Do you want the tweezers?”

“Not yet.” He felt her hands touching near the throbbing portion of skin. “It’ll be a minute. But I’ll need them fast when I ask.”

She sounded troubled. Was there more of a problem than—

“Ah,” he cried out and reared back as a bolt of pain shot from his side up to his jaw and then vanished to a dull ache.

“Got it,” she said, displaying a bloody shard of kimberlite on a gauze pad. Her strong fingers had squeezed the wound hard to force the splinter out.

“You tricked me,” he whispered, breathing hard.

She took the unused tweezers back. “It’s called mental anesthetic. Distraction, then you move fast.”

“You learn that in school?”

“Discovery Channel, I think. The Civil War surgeons.”

Adeela set the gauze aside, picked up the bottle of disinfectant—it was called Betadine, he noticed—and squirted some of the cold liquid on the wound. She pressed more gauze on the site and held it there for a minute. Vimal felt an absurd urge to ask how her family was doing and how did her physiology test go?

“Light again,” she said, positioning his hand.

She pulled out some butterfly bandages and secured them over the wound. “Pain? On a scale of one to ten?” she asked.

“Three and seven-sixteenths. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Here.” Tight-lipped, she handed him a bottle of Tylenol and a Dannon water. He took two of the pills and drank half the water.

“That’s the only one that made it under the skin. Just bruises and cuts and scrapes, the rest of them.” She then probed his ribs. This too hurt but, again, it wasn’t bad. “Nothing broken.”

Trying to ignore the throbbing pain, Vimal picked up the splinter and examined it. The shard wasn’t big—about a half inch long and very thin. He put it in his pocket.

“Souvenir?”

He said nothing but pulled his two shirts down.

“Here,” Adeela said, handing him the brown Betadine bottle. “It’ll stain but I don’t think that’s your biggest worry. Oh. And the sweatshirt.” She took from her bag an NYU purple pullover. Large. Not hers. Maybe she’d bought it for her father. Vimal had asked her for a change of clothing too. His light-gray Keep Weird one was dotted with dried blood. He could have bought one but he needed to conserve his money.

Silence flowed between them as they watched a woman walking three French bulldogs on three leashes. They danced in excited harmony and the owner continually swapped the leads from hand to hand to keep them from tangling.

At any other time they would have laughed. Now Vimal and Adeela stared numbly.

She took his hand and leaned her head against his.

“You’re not going home, are you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then, what?”

“Stay out of sight for a while.”

She gave a cool laugh. “I was going to say, like a witness in a gangster movie. But that’s not like it. That is it. But where, Vim?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He was, of course, very sure but he didn’t want to talk about that just yet. There would be a time. Now he wanted to get inside somewhere. The temperature was growing colder and he was exhausted.

He released her hand. They rose. He put his arm around her, pulling her close and ignoring the pain from his side. “I’ll call you soon. Look, whatever happens, nothing’s going to affect us.” He smiled. “Hell, you’ve got exams. You won’t have any time for me anyway.”

She wasn’t amused, he could tell, and he regretted the lame banter. Still, she kissed him hard. They hadn’t gotten to the “love” word yet, but he knew it was now about to be uttered. She was leaning close and putting her lips against his ear. She whispered, “Go to the police. They’ll protect you from him.”