The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(22)

One of them turned to his buddy and said with a foreign accent, “Finish him.” The second man pulled something long and black from the folds of his gray cloak.

“Hey!” I shouted.

They looked over at me. None of us moved for a second; then the guy holding the dagger jammed it into Bennacio’s side, the other one let him go and, as Bennacio slid slowly down the brick wall, they took off east along the railroad tracks.

I ran over to Bennacio. His eyes were open and he was breathing. He was clutching that white handkerchief in both hands. I put my hand on his side and it came away covered in his blood.

“Leave me,” he said.

I hauled him up, pulling his arm over my shoulder, and kind of dragged him back to Central.

“You’re hurt,” I said. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No hospital. No hospital,” he gasped.

I spotted a Yellow Cab parked on the corner. I shoved Bennacio into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Where to?” I asked Bennacio.

“The Marriott . . .” Bennacio gasped.

“Take us to the Marriott,” I told the driver.

Bennacio leaned against me, and I tugged the handkerchief from his hands and pressed it against the badly bleeding wound in his side.

“Oh, boy,” I whispered. “Oh, jeez, you’re bleeding pretty bad, Bennacio.”

“Hey,” the cabbie said, staring at us in his rearview mirror. “Your friend okay, kid?”

“No hospital, no hospital,” Bennacio kept whispering. His face was very pale and his eyes were rolling in his head as he leaned against me. I guessed he was dying.

14

I managed to get Bennacio out of the cab and into the lobby of the hotel, with him leaning against me. The clerk behind the desk gave me a look.

“My uncle,” I told the clerk. “Little too much wine.”

Bennacio told me his room number and somehow I got him into the elevator, up to the sixth floor, and into his room. I laid him on the bed.

His eyes were closed and he was breathing in short, hard gasps. I opened his jacket and unbuttoned his white shirt to expose the wound, a gash just below his ribs on the left side. I got some towels from the bathroom and pressed one into his side, watching the blood soak into it. I threw that towel on the floor and replaced it with another. He wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I told him. “You’re gonna bleed to death if we don’t get you to a doctor.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “The blade was poisoned,” he said. “The bleeding will not stop.” Then he raised his head a little and looked at my hand holding the towel against his side.

He must have seen the scar on my thumb, because he whispered, “You have been wounded by the Sword.”

“Yeah.”

“In the bathroom,” he gasped. “My straight razor. Bring it to me.”

I found it in a little black leather bag on the vanity. The razor had a long retractable blade that slipped into the handle. I didn’t think anybody used a straight razor anymore. How did I know this Bennacio wasn’t lying—that he wasn’t really a goon for Mogart, come to kill me? But even if he was lying, even if he was a bad guy, who was I to let him slowly bleed to death?

I brought the razor back to him. He sat forward a little, groaning with the effort, grabbed my wrist, and held it tight.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”

He grabbed the razor, placing the edge along my scar, and made a shallow cut just shallow enough to draw blood.

“Oh, my God!” I yelped, trying to pull my hand away.

He tossed the towel aside with his other hand, then brought my bleeding thumb to his side and pressed it into the wound.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“The Sword has the power to heal as well as to rend,” he said. After a few minutes he let go of my wrist. I picked up the towel and put it back on the wound, but already the bleeding had slowed.

Bennacio closed his eyes. His breathing became easier, and for a second I thought he had fallen asleep.

“Who were those men, Bennacio?” I asked, clutching my throbbing thumb.

“Servants of the enemy . . . following me since my return to America.”

Which meant he got stabbed because of me. Why had Mr. Samson sent him to me? Like telling Alfred Kropp about it was going to help them get the Sword back.

I sat beside him and felt like crying, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Bennacio. Everybody around me lately was dying. All because I took something I shouldn’t have. I was like some lumbering, awkward, big-headed Angel of Death.

“You want anything, Bennacio?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I’m really scared right now. Why did Mr. Samson send you here? What’s going to happen now that all the knights are dead? I’m not going to live, am I? None of us are. You said our doom was upon us. I’m thirsty. You want a drink of water?”

He didn’t answer. This time he had really fallen asleep.

15

I watched him sleep for a long time, until I started feeling sleepy myself. There was sofa in the outer room, and I lay on that for a while, but it made me nervous because I couldn’t keep an eye on him.