off the road. If he hadn’t, it would have plowed right into the people crossing the road.” He pointed to the headphones girl, who had been led to the sidewalk and was sitting with her head between her knees as someone rubbed her back.
The bystanders began buzzing excitedly with the news—the word “hero” being voiced more than once—and cell phones were pulled out as people began typing messages and making calls. Vincent closed his eyes tiredly and then, as someone tried to take a picture, pulled his sweater’s hood up over his head and asked me to help him up, wincing as he stood.
“Are you going to need me, Officer?” he asked the policeman who was mapping the truck’s path with another witness.
He saw Vincent and said, “You really shouldn’t move, sir, until the paramedics arrive.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” Vincent insisted politely. The way he held his arm carefully across his torso suggested that he was anything but.
The policeman looked conflicted. “We’ll need your testimony,” he said finally.
“Then can we wait in your car?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the man responded, and flagged his partner to come get us. We were led away from the excited crowd and toward the privacy of the squad car. On the way I retrieved Vincent’s coat and draped it around him.
We scooted into the backseat of the squad car, and the cop shut the door behind us. We were finally alone, and I turned to Vincent, who was holding my tissue to his head. “Are you really okay?” I asked him, reaching up to gingerly pull his hand away from the wound. “You might need stitches.”
“Do you have a mirror?”
I handed him a compact from my bag, and he held it up to the light, inspecting his wound. “A butterfly bandage will hold it fine.”
“And besides that?”
“I might have a bruised rib. JB will send for a doctor once we’re home. I’ve got a couple weeks until I’m dormant, and then my body will heal itself. I can wait. I promise, Kate. I’m fine.”
He leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes.
I sat with my head on his shoulder and my arm around his chest and wondered what might have happened had things gone differently.
What if Vincent hadn’t been fast enough and one of those people had been killed? What if in attempting to reach the truck, Vincent had been the one mowed down? Instead of sitting in the back of a squad car, I could be kneeling over his mangled body. He had been just inches away. It had been so close.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on what was instead of what might have been .
SEVEN
WE SPENT OVER AN HOUR WAITING IN AN OFFICE at the police station before giving our depositions. The official investigation had begun by that point, and the officer who eventually turned up explained that they had discovered a medical card in the driver’s wallet saying that he was epileptic. Once they contacted his wife, she admitted that he had recently stopped taking his medication.
“He was unconscious by the time I reached the vehicle,” Vincent confirmed.
“He was unconscious, sitting at the wheel?” the officer asked, scribbling in a notepad.
“No. He had slumped over and was lying down on the seat. His foot was no longer on the accelerator.”
A row of three small butterfly bandages decorated Vincent’s forehead, the result of a paramedic’s ministrations while we sat in the back of the cop car. When the officer looked up from his writing, Vincent tested the wound gingerly with his fingers.
The man saw the gesture and closed his notebook. “I’ve been instructed not to keep you long. And to apologize for the wait before we got to you. It was inexcusable.”
From the way the man had bustled in all of a sudden, stumbling over himself to make us comfortable and offering up restricted information on the investigation, I assumed that Jean-Baptiste had been in touch with one of his police department contacts.
“Even though you have repeatedly refused to be taken to an emergency room,
The bystanders began buzzing excitedly with the news—the word “hero” being voiced more than once—and cell phones were pulled out as people began typing messages and making calls. Vincent closed his eyes tiredly and then, as someone tried to take a picture, pulled his sweater’s hood up over his head and asked me to help him up, wincing as he stood.
“Are you going to need me, Officer?” he asked the policeman who was mapping the truck’s path with another witness.
He saw Vincent and said, “You really shouldn’t move, sir, until the paramedics arrive.”
“I told you, I’m fine,” Vincent insisted politely. The way he held his arm carefully across his torso suggested that he was anything but.
The policeman looked conflicted. “We’ll need your testimony,” he said finally.
“Then can we wait in your car?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the man responded, and flagged his partner to come get us. We were led away from the excited crowd and toward the privacy of the squad car. On the way I retrieved Vincent’s coat and draped it around him.
We scooted into the backseat of the squad car, and the cop shut the door behind us. We were finally alone, and I turned to Vincent, who was holding my tissue to his head. “Are you really okay?” I asked him, reaching up to gingerly pull his hand away from the wound. “You might need stitches.”
“Do you have a mirror?”
I handed him a compact from my bag, and he held it up to the light, inspecting his wound. “A butterfly bandage will hold it fine.”
“And besides that?”
“I might have a bruised rib. JB will send for a doctor once we’re home. I’ve got a couple weeks until I’m dormant, and then my body will heal itself. I can wait. I promise, Kate. I’m fine.”
He leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes.
I sat with my head on his shoulder and my arm around his chest and wondered what might have happened had things gone differently.
What if Vincent hadn’t been fast enough and one of those people had been killed? What if in attempting to reach the truck, Vincent had been the one mowed down? Instead of sitting in the back of a squad car, I could be kneeling over his mangled body. He had been just inches away. It had been so close.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on what was instead of what might have been .
SEVEN
WE SPENT OVER AN HOUR WAITING IN AN OFFICE at the police station before giving our depositions. The official investigation had begun by that point, and the officer who eventually turned up explained that they had discovered a medical card in the driver’s wallet saying that he was epileptic. Once they contacted his wife, she admitted that he had recently stopped taking his medication.
“He was unconscious by the time I reached the vehicle,” Vincent confirmed.
“He was unconscious, sitting at the wheel?” the officer asked, scribbling in a notepad.
“No. He had slumped over and was lying down on the seat. His foot was no longer on the accelerator.”
A row of three small butterfly bandages decorated Vincent’s forehead, the result of a paramedic’s ministrations while we sat in the back of the cop car. When the officer looked up from his writing, Vincent tested the wound gingerly with his fingers.
The man saw the gesture and closed his notebook. “I’ve been instructed not to keep you long. And to apologize for the wait before we got to you. It was inexcusable.”
From the way the man had bustled in all of a sudden, stumbling over himself to make us comfortable and offering up restricted information on the investigation, I assumed that Jean-Baptiste had been in touch with one of his police department contacts.
“Even though you have repeatedly refused to be taken to an emergency room,
Similar Books
