The police officer approached her. “Excuse me, I need to take a statement. Is this your vehicle?”
For the first time, Marielle looked at the size of the dent in the roof of her car. “Yes, it is.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even see anything myself. I was at a dead stop…” Marielle’s voice trailed off and she shuddered inwardly at her own use of the word dead. She didn’t want to entertain the possibility. “I pulled out of traffic to answer my cell phone, and that was it. There was this bang and then he rolled off the roof and landed on the hood.”
“Did anyone come forward? We need to identify him.”
She pointed to a group of people standing beside her car. “Those people came running out of the building. One of them called out the name Russ, but the ambulance got here at the same time.” She paused. “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”
“I can’t say, ma’am. Do you know where he came from?”
Marielle looked up at the three-story building. “I didn’t see anything until I heard the bang, and by then it was too late. That’s all I know.”
The officer tucked the notepad into his pocket and scribbled a number on a card. “Thank you for your time. Here’s the file number—you’ll have to report this to your insurance agent. Please call me if you remember anything more.”
The second the police officer walked toward the onlookers, a reporter shoved a microphone in her face. “I’m Claudia Firth from the Daily News. Do you know if he jumped or if he was pushed?”
“I don’t know anything. Just suddenly there was this big bang, and there he was.” Marielle trembled at the memory. “If you’ll excuse me, I have someplace to be, and I’m late. I think those people know something.” She pointed to the bystanders who were now speaking with the officer.
Before the reporter had even lowered the microphone, Marielle turned and hurried to her car.
She gritted her teeth, held her breath, grabbed the handle and pulled, hoping that it could still be opened from the outside, even though she hadn’t been able to open it from the inside.
With a pop and a groan of stressed metal, the latch gave way. Marielle braced herself to regain her balance after the sudden release of tension, then scrambled in behind the steering wheel. She slammed the door shut, gave it a small push to make sure it would stay closed, and drove away.
Just before she turned out of the parking lot, she glanced in the rearview mirror to where both the police officer and the reporter were speaking to the shrinking crowd.
She wasn’t sure what had happened, but she sure wanted to know….
“Hello, Mr. Branson. Just checking up on you again. Are you awake?”
Russ opened one eye and tried to move as little as possible. “Unfortunately, yes,” he replied quietly.
“How are you feeling?”
He’d definitely felt better, although right now, he was simply glad to be alive. “I’d feel much better if you could give me something for this headache.”
“You know I can’t do that yet. We have to get you sitting up so we can go through the routine again. It’s time.”
“Already?” Russ winced as the nurse helped pull him to a sitting position, taking care not to aggravate his cracked ribs. As she raised the back of the bed, every minute felt like an hour. Finally Russ could lean back again.
“We only have to do this once more in another hour, and then, if everything stays the same, I can leave you alone.”
“Good. Don’t take it personally, but it’s been a long night.”
The nurse smiled. “I’m sure it has. Look up. How many fingers this time?”
“Three.”
“Good. Now watch my pen.”
The nurse shone the flashlight in his eyes while he watched the pen moving around. The beam of light seared into his brain, but he didn’t know if that was normal. If it wasn’t, he feared they would make him stay.
“You’re going pale again. How are you feeling?”
Russ exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. “Like I’ve been run over by a truck. Tell me the truth. Are there tire-tread marks on my forehead?”
The nurse cleared her throat and pointed the pen at him. “Mr. Branson…”
He almost started to smile, but the movement in his face caused another wave of pain to shoot through his cheeks and up into his broken nose. “I don’t want to complain,” he said, “but I’ve still got that splitting headache that just won’t go away. And it really hurts when I laugh.” Not that he’d actually laughed. Nothing was very funny since he’d regained consciousness. They wouldn’t give him any painkillers until he passed the safety time zone that would signify there were no complications to his concussion.
“What time is it?”
Russ sighed, then gasped at the stabbing sensation in his ribs. He cringed and wrapped his arms around himself to support his cracked ribs, but it didn’t help. Pushing on the bruises and sore ribs made him see stars.
“The clock is right there behind you on the wall if you want to know,” he said.
The nurse tapped the pen on the top of the clipboard. “Quit trying to be funny. We have to do this.”
“Okay. It’s 5:33 a.m., which means it’s almost time that I should be waking up and starting to get ready for work. So if you’ll just give me that prescription for the headache, I’ll be on my way.”
“You know I can’t do that. You can leave after forty-eight hours, provided that the doctor okays your release.”
“Then how about if you tell me what you’ve done with my clothes? You won’t be back for another hour, right?” He gritted his teeth, trying to block out the pain. If he left now, no one would ever know. Thankfully, because he had no identification with him, they hadn’t called his mother or sister. Soon, he could be back to work like nothing ever happened.
The nurse made a tick mark on the chart, not taking his hint. Then she lowered the clipboard and looked him in the eyes. “We’ve increased the sarcasm factor. That’s good, it means you’re alert. Do you know where you are?”
“Let me guess. I’m not in Kansas anymore?”
Her answering scowl almost made Russ laugh, but he knew the pain wouldn’t be worth it. “I’m in Wake-ville, Washington, at Memorial Hospital, and unless you moved me when I wasn’t watching, I’m in the South Wing, room 347, bed C.”
“More sarcasm.” She made another tick mark on his chart and smiled sweetly at him. “You’re doing fine. I’ll be back in an hour and we’ll do this again for the last time. Then the doctor will see you. If there are no changes, he’ll give you that prescription, and you can rest until tomorrow night when we can let you go home. I’ll lower the bed again now, and you can try to get some sleep.”
“Oh, sure,” he grumbled. The pain of the headache and the jabbing ache in his lungs every time he inhaled didn’t allow him to relax, never mind actually sleep. Besides, it was morning. He’d never been able to sleep in daylight no matter how tired he was. His current level of discomfort and noise of the hospital as it woke up would make sleep an impossibility. The only way he would fall asleep would be in the familiarity of his own bed—and heavily medicated.
“Then would you like to read the morning newspaper? I can hear the cart coming down the hall.”
Russ opened his mouth, about to ask