The siren rounded the corner and died at the same time a glaring flash of blue and white intruded on the darkness of the alley. It was a welcome intrusion.
The next few minutes passed by in a whir for Marni. A second police car joined the first, with four of New York’s finest offering their slightly belated aid, asking question after question, searching the alley for anything Denise’s assailant may have dropped, finally bundling Denise off in one car, Web and Marni in another. Marni wasn’t sure what their plans were for Denise, but she was vocal in her insistence that Web be taken to a hospital before he answered any further questions.
The drive there was a largely silent one. Marni held Web’s good hand tightly, worriedly glancing at him from time to time.
“It’s just a cut,” he murmured when he intercepted one such glance, but his head was lying back against the seat and the night could hide neither his pallor nor the blood seeping through the thickness of his scarf.
“My hero,” was her retort, but it was more gentle than chiding, more admiring than censorious. She suspected that he’d acted on sheer instinct in chasing after the man who’d attacked Denise, and in a city notorious for its avoidance of involvement in such situations she deeply respected what Web had done. Of course, tangling with a switchblade hadn’t been too swift….
The nurse at the emergency room desk immediately took Web to a cubicle, but when she suggested that Marni might want to wait outside, Marni firmly shook her head. She continued to hold Web’s hand tightly, releasing it only to help him out of his coat and to roll up his sleeve. He sat on the examining table with his legs hanging down one side; she sat with her legs hanging down the other, her elbow hooked with his, her eyes over her shoulder focusing past him to his left hand, which a doctor was carefully unwrapping.
She didn’t move from where she sat. Her arm tightened periodically around Web’s as the doctor cleaned the knife wound, then examined it to see the extent of the damage. When Web winced, so did she. When he grunted at a particularly painful probe, she moaned.
“You okay?” he asked her at one point. The doctor had just announced that the tendon in his baby finger had been severed and that it would take a while to heal, what with stitches and all.
“I’m okay,” she told Web. “You’re the one who’s sweating.”
He grinned peakedly. “It hurts like hell.”
Feeling utterly helpless, she turned on the doctor. “He’s in pain. Can’t you help—”
“Marni,” Web interrupted, “it’s only my hand.”
“But the pain’s probably shooting up your arm, and don’t you tell me it isn’t!” She felt it herself, through her hand, her arm, her entire body. Again she accosted the doctor. “Aren’t you going to anesthetize him or something?”
The doctor gave her an understanding smile. “Just his hand. Right now.” He took the needle that the nurse assisting him had suddenly produced, and Marni did look away then, but only until Web rubbed his cheek against her hair.
“You can open your eyes now,” he said softly, a hint of amusement in his tone. “It’s all done.”
What was done was the anesthetizing. The gash, which cut through his baby finger and continued across his palm, was as angry-looking as ever.
“You may think this is funny, Brian Webster,” she scolded in a hoarse whisper, “but I don’t. Who knows what filthy germs were on that knife, or how you’re going to handle a camera with one hand immobilized.”
“Do you think I’m not worried about those same things?” he asked gently.
“No need to worry, Mr. Webster,” the doctor interjected. “I’ll give you a shot to counter whatever may have been on the knife, and as for your work, it’s just your pinkie that will be in a splint. Between your thumb and the first two fingers of that left hand, you should be able to manage your camera. Maybe a little awkwardly at first, but you’ll adapt.”
“See?” Web said to Marni. “I’ll adapt.”
Marni didn’t reply. She felt guilty for having badgered him, but she was worried and upset, and she’d had to let off the tension somehow. Turning her gaze back to his wound, which the doctor was beginning to stitch, she slid her free arm over Web’s shoulder. He reached up, grasped her hand and wove his fingers through hers.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
He, too, was closely following the doctor’s work, but he managed to shake his head. “Don’t feel a thing.”
“I’m glad one of us doesn’t,” she quipped dryly, and he chuckled.
Millimeter by millimeter the doctor closed the gash. Once, riding a wave of momentary fatigue, Marni pressed her face to the crook of Web’s neck. He tipped his head to hold her there, finding intense comfort in the closeness.
When the repair work was done, the doctor splinted the finger and bandaged the hand. He gave Web the shot he’d promised, plus a small envelope with painkillers that he claimed Web might need as soon as the local anesthetic wore off. Marni would have liked nothing more than to take him home at that point, but the police were waiting just beyond the cubicle to take them to the station.
“Can’t this be done tomorrow?” Marni asked softly. “I think he should be resting.”
Web squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. If we go now, we’ll get it over with. The sooner the better, before the numbness wears off. Besides, I’m not sure I want to spend my Saturday poring through mug shots.”
She would have argued further, but she realized he had a point. “You’ll tell me if you start feeling lousy?”
“I think you’ll know,” he returned, arching one dark brow. She hadn’t let go of him for a minute, and he loved it. Barely five minutes had gone by when she hadn’t looked at his face for signs of discomfort or asked how he felt, and he loved it. He’d never been the object of such concern in his life. And he loved it.
