Read Online JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
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hurried over to him. “Are you all right?”
The man, a kid of eighteen or nineteen, looked up at me and nodded mutely, but I saw he wasn’t nearly all right. His face was awash in a mixture of tears and blood. He was bleeding profusely from a deep gash over his left eyebrow.
“I didn’t see him, honest,” the kid whimpered brokenly. “I swear to God, I didn’t see him at all.”
“Was there anyone else in there with you?” I asked.
He stared up at me blankly. “Just me,” he mumbled as if in a daze. “Nobody but me.” Shaking his head, he attempted to mop the blood away from his eye with his shirtsleeve.
“I don’t know where he came from. One second he wasn’t there, and then he was. He just stumbled out in front of me. Stepped right in front of the car. I never had a chance to stop.”
In the background, the woman was still sobbing, with people trying to comfort her. She was saying pretty much the same thing the boy did, that whoever it had been had come flying toward her vehicle out of nowhere.
“Is he dead?” she asked. “Somebody please tell me.”
When he heard those words, the boy closed his eyes and sagged heavily against me. I eased him down onto the sidewalk, resting him on his back. Convulsive shivering indicated he might be going into shock. I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over him, then I handed him my handkerchief.
“Hang on, buddy,” I told him when his eyes blinked open. “Hold this against that cut of yours. Put some pressure on it so it doesn’t bleed so much. I’ll be right back.”
With that, even as I heard the sound of sirens in the distance, I went looking for the pedestrian who’d been hit. He wasn’t hard to find. I’d heard the sound of the impact, and I knew what to expect. At least I thought I did.
The victim lay on the hood of a second vehicle—the woman’s older-model Oldsmobile. One foot and arm had smashed through the shattered windshield. I hurried over to him and felt for a pulse. Finding none in his limp wrist, I thought I’d check his carotid artery just to be sure. As I reached across his chest, however, a sharp pain bit into my own arm. I looked down at my wrist and found, to my surprise, that I was bleeding. Thinking I must have cut myself on a piece of broken glass, I tried moving the man’s sports jacket aside.
That’s when I saw the knife. The blade protruded stiffly from his chest like an evil shark’s fin. The force of his landing on the hood of the Cutlass must have driven the knife handle well into his back and pushed the blade up through his rib cage. From the position in his chest, I was sure the blade had gone directly through his heart, killing him instantly.
“Step aside,” someone was saying urgently. “Coming through. Coming through.”
A young uniformed cop appeared at my elbow and bodily shoved me aside. “Is he dead?” the cop asked as he, too, began searching for a pulse.
“I think so,” I told him. “But be careful of the knife. It’s sharp as hell. I already cut myself on it.”
“What knife?” the young officer demanded shortly. “I thought this was…” And then he saw it, too. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “There is a knife here.”
Gingerly, avoiding the blade, the cop checked the man’s throat and shook his head. “He’s a goner all right,” he said. “Hell of a way to go!” Then he added, more to himself than to me, “But what did it, the knife or the car?”
That was the $64,000 question. I didn’t answer because it wasn’t my place to. After all, I was on vacation. It seemed like a good idea for me to find myself an EMT and see if my wrist needed stitches. I started to walk away, but the young officer stopped me.
“Wait a minute, sir,” he said. “Maybe you’d better tell me exactly how it is that your arm got cut like that.”
Vacation or not, I knew it was the beginning of another long, long night.
CHAPTER
5
N o doubt things would have gone more smoothly
The man, a kid of eighteen or nineteen, looked up at me and nodded mutely, but I saw he wasn’t nearly all right. His face was awash in a mixture of tears and blood. He was bleeding profusely from a deep gash over his left eyebrow.
“I didn’t see him, honest,” the kid whimpered brokenly. “I swear to God, I didn’t see him at all.”
“Was there anyone else in there with you?” I asked.
He stared up at me blankly. “Just me,” he mumbled as if in a daze. “Nobody but me.” Shaking his head, he attempted to mop the blood away from his eye with his shirtsleeve.
“I don’t know where he came from. One second he wasn’t there, and then he was. He just stumbled out in front of me. Stepped right in front of the car. I never had a chance to stop.”
In the background, the woman was still sobbing, with people trying to comfort her. She was saying pretty much the same thing the boy did, that whoever it had been had come flying toward her vehicle out of nowhere.
“Is he dead?” she asked. “Somebody please tell me.”
When he heard those words, the boy closed his eyes and sagged heavily against me. I eased him down onto the sidewalk, resting him on his back. Convulsive shivering indicated he might be going into shock. I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over him, then I handed him my handkerchief.
“Hang on, buddy,” I told him when his eyes blinked open. “Hold this against that cut of yours. Put some pressure on it so it doesn’t bleed so much. I’ll be right back.”
With that, even as I heard the sound of sirens in the distance, I went looking for the pedestrian who’d been hit. He wasn’t hard to find. I’d heard the sound of the impact, and I knew what to expect. At least I thought I did.
The victim lay on the hood of a second vehicle—the woman’s older-model Oldsmobile. One foot and arm had smashed through the shattered windshield. I hurried over to him and felt for a pulse. Finding none in his limp wrist, I thought I’d check his carotid artery just to be sure. As I reached across his chest, however, a sharp pain bit into my own arm. I looked down at my wrist and found, to my surprise, that I was bleeding. Thinking I must have cut myself on a piece of broken glass, I tried moving the man’s sports jacket aside.
That’s when I saw the knife. The blade protruded stiffly from his chest like an evil shark’s fin. The force of his landing on the hood of the Cutlass must have driven the knife handle well into his back and pushed the blade up through his rib cage. From the position in his chest, I was sure the blade had gone directly through his heart, killing him instantly.
“Step aside,” someone was saying urgently. “Coming through. Coming through.”
A young uniformed cop appeared at my elbow and bodily shoved me aside. “Is he dead?” the cop asked as he, too, began searching for a pulse.
“I think so,” I told him. “But be careful of the knife. It’s sharp as hell. I already cut myself on it.”
“What knife?” the young officer demanded shortly. “I thought this was…” And then he saw it, too. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “There is a knife here.”
Gingerly, avoiding the blade, the cop checked the man’s throat and shook his head. “He’s a goner all right,” he said. “Hell of a way to go!” Then he added, more to himself than to me, “But what did it, the knife or the car?”
That was the $64,000 question. I didn’t answer because it wasn’t my place to. After all, I was on vacation. It seemed like a good idea for me to find myself an EMT and see if my wrist needed stitches. I started to walk away, but the young officer stopped me.
“Wait a minute, sir,” he said. “Maybe you’d better tell me exactly how it is that your arm got cut like that.”
Vacation or not, I knew it was the beginning of another long, long night.
CHAPTER
5
N o doubt things would have gone more smoothly
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