Page 75 of Slow Burn

Martin became aware that his chest hurt. He let his breath out and gasped in a fresh sweet lungful of air, and looked over at Carling.

She was still facing backward, one hand clutching the headrest, the one with the gun hanging at her side. She still looked chalk-white, hair wild around her face.

“Are you okay?” he asked. She didn’t seem to hear him. “Carling, are you—”

She fell back slowly, like a rag doll, hitting the back of her head on the dashboard. Martin screamed her name and slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed to a stop, the rear window fell out of the frame and spread square pieces on the backseat like parade confetti.

The whole front of her shirt was soaked red. The bullet hole looked very small, the size of a button, only in the wrong place, just below her right breast. He gathered her up in his arms and got her in the seat, tilted the back down so she was lying nearly flat.

Her eyes fluttered open and found his.

“Marty?” she said, her voice was shockingly soft, a little girl’s voice. “Don’t put me on the machines. Please don’t do that.”

He remembered the other car and looked back. Nothing. Nothing he could see.

As he ran red lights and broke speed limits, he dialed her cell phone one-handed and told Parkland Hospital that he was bringing her in.

They were waiting by the ER doors, two tired residents, three nurses. Martin held Carling’s hand as they wheeled her in. She opened her eyes again, but didn’t seem to see him at all, like the day he’d found Sally and she’d opened her eyes, but they’d just rolled like marbles, hadn’t seen him, had never seen him again.

They left him at the double doors with Carling’s blood on his hands. He wasn’t even aware that he was crying until a passing nurse handed him a tissue.

Chapter Thirty-two

Robby

Mark had a broken nose and two broken fingers, courtesy of the rush for the exits. Robby waited with him while the paramedics fixed him up. Jim was no-where to be seen. She had no way of asking Mark with all the inquiring ears around, but she thought Jim had probably collected the take and taken advantage of the confusion to get home safely.

Mark tilted his head back and snuffled loudly. The cotton plugs in his nostrils were thick with blood. He gave her a puppy-dog look as the paramedic taped his fingers.

“My dose,” he said. “How’s it look?”

“Swollen,” she told him, and patted him lightly on the knee. “It’ll give you that sinister look.”

“Wodderful. I gad’t breathe.” He stared morosely down at his fingers, as the medic finished with them. “This sugs.”

“At least you’re alive, pal,” the paramedic said. He had the war-weary look of a career man. “Got at least one guy ain’t so lucky.”

“The man who burned?” Robby asked. The paramedic met her eyes, but his face was as blank and impersonal as looking in a mirror. “Was it murder?”

“Tell you what, I worked a lot of burn cases, and I never seen nobody just burst into flames, I don’t care what they tell you at the wacko conventions. Always something chemical involved, if you ask me. Murder, accident …” He made a seesaw motion with his hand. “Who the hell knows? Whatever it was, he was one messed-up guy, I can say that.”

“Did he smell of anything? Gasoline? Anything like that?”

This time he really looked at her, but it wasn’t much of an improvement; now it was suspicion, not weariness.

“Playing detective?” he asked, and gave her a cool smile. “No, nothing like that. Smelled like any other burned body. Okay, pal, you’re fixed up. Make sure you get those breaks X-rayed.”

“Danks,” Mark mumbled, and stood up. He had a large waffled shoeprint on the front of his shirt, and a smear of blood along his collar. “Gan I go home dow?” The paramedic had already closed up shop, snapping his red box together like a fisherman who’d caught his limit. He nodded toward a harassed-looking black patrolman a few feet away.

“See that guy.”

Mark actually started walking toward the policeman. Robby caught his elbow and pulled him gently aside to stand next to an overweight woman wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt. The woman was arguing loudly with her son, a pale young man with brittle eyes.

“I wadt to go home,” Mark said again. “Robby—”

“You don’t go through him. I’ve had about enough trouble for one day. Go to the bathroom and go out the other exit. It’s around the corner, he won’t be able to see you leave. I’ll talk to him and meet you outside.”

He walked toward the bathroom like a condemned man going to the chair. She waited until she was sure he’d got it right before approaching the patrolman.

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