Page 48 of Concrete Evidence
Paramedics poured from two ambulances.
“My friend is hurt,” she whispered. “Take care of him first.”
A bald man bent to Marc and felt his neck for a pulse. A young woman rushed to him with a medical kit.
“We need to move her onto her back,” a third paramedic said, a male.
Strong arms lifted her onto a mat. Avery bit back the torment. Everything hurt.
The paramedic at her side asked her name and took her vitals.
“Please,” Avery said. “Is... is my friend alive?”
Avery waited in the hospital ER for Marc to open his eyes. A piece of metal from the explosion had slammed into his head, requiring seven stitches. Machines hummed and monitored his vitals while an IV dripped healing fluids into his arm. He’d uttered a few unintelligible words, giving her hope he’d recover from the concussion.
Nurses roamed in and out, each one assuring her rest would bring his body back to normal. She’d believe them when Marc opened his eyes and spoke in a language she understood. Having him ask her something she refused to answer sounded good right now—and about three ibuprofens.
Her head pounded like someone was banging war drums, and the stitches in her right arm stung. But she and Marc lived to face whatever today and tomorrow brought.
She’d call a family member or friend of his if she knew who or how. He’d told her about a partner, mother, and sister, but without full names, she could do nothing. The hospital knew Marc worked for the FBI, but no one had shown up to check on him.
Around her everything was steeped in sterile white—the linens, walls, bandages, and cotton balls in clear jars. She’d rather smell the ranch than antiseptic. Barn odors didn’t mean someone hurt or faced death. Hospitals were not a colorful place, and the only time she ever enjoyed a visit was the birth of a baby.
Earlier, a blonde female police officer in the ER had taken her statement while a doctor stitched her arm. That was, what little she remembered.
“No, I didn’t see anyone lurking in the area,” Avery had said. “A man helped me.”
“Do you have his name?” the officer said.
“No. Never saw his face either. At the time, I lay on my stomach and couldn’t move. All I can tell you is he wore Nikes. They were blue and gold with red gel soles.”
The officer squinted. “The man walked away?”
“I think so. When the emergency vehicles arrived, I looked and he was gone.” Avery drew in a deep breath to deal with her head. “Why did the car beside mine explode?”
“That’s under investigation. Miss Elliott, you forgot to give me your phone number.”
“Don’t trust anyone.”
The officer had displayed her ID... “Is my number kept in strict confidence?”
“Yes, of course.”
Avery gave her the hotel number.
The officer closed her notepad and suggested Avery contact the police department if she remembered additional information.
Although the police officer didn’t use the wordbomb, something caused the car to burst into flames. Avery searched for meaning, a reason. Her fuzzy recollection bumped heads with foolishness, and she refused to discount the incident. If only she could talk to Granddad, except her new priority meant finding answers to life’s problems without relying 100percent on him.
Think for yourself.
Guilt burrowed deep. If she’d told Marc the truth about the threats made against her, chances were he’d not be in such bad shape. Trust... a man who’d risked his life for someone else deserved the title of trustworthy. And what she’d witnessed showed he had admirable qualities.
A huge man with shoulders the span of a sequoia stepped into the curtained area. “I’m FBI Special Agent Roden Clement. Marc’s my partner.”
“The hospital called you?”
“FBI notification. And you are?”
