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He mumbled a street address. “ ’Cross from marina. Just…”
He angled his chin in the right direction. Thankfully Alex knew the street. It was only blocks away. She could have him there within minutes.
Convincing Dr. Douglas Mann to make a house call was another matter.
Miraculously, she had memorized his home phone number. He answered on the second ring. “Doug, Alex. Thank God I reached you.” She explained the situation as she drove, but omitted telling him that it hadn’t been a random attack.
“Sounds to me like he needs a hospital.”
“Doug. Please. I’m calling in that favor.”
Reluctantly, he asked for the address. She was giving it to him as she pulled onto the street. “We’re here now. Come as soon as you can.” The remote opener for Hammond’s garage was clipped to the sun visor. She opened the garage door, then closed it behind them as soon as she killed the engine.
Getting out, she ran around the hood of the car to the passenger side. Hammond’s eyes were still closed. He was pale. When she tried to rouse him, he groaned. “It’s not going to be easy, but I’ve got to get you inside. Can you swing your legs out?”
He moved as though he weighed a thousand pounds, but he managed. She slipped her hands into his armpits. “Stand up, darling, and lean against me.”
He did so. But the movement hurt his right arm and he yelped in pain. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly.
It was like handling a hundred-eighty-five-pound rag doll. His coordination was shot. But he followed her instructions, and she managed to get him out of the car and on his feet. She supported him as they shuffled toward the back door. “Is the door locked? Will we set off an alarm?”
He shook his head.
She got him into the kitchen. “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”
He pointed with his left hand. The half bath was located in a short hallway between the kitchen and what she could see was the living room. She eased him down onto the commode lid and flipped on the wall switch. For the first time, she got a well-lit look at his wounds.
“Oh, my God.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, no you’re not.”
The skin of his arm had been laid open. It was hard to tell how deep the gash was because it was leaking blood all along the cut. She went straight to work. First she removed his jacket, then ripped the sleeve of his shirt up to the shoulder seam. Yanking towels and washcloths off the decorative bars, she wrapped them around his forearm, pulling them tight to form compresses which would hopefully stanch the bleeding.
Kneeling in front of him, she tried to rip his pants leg, but the fabric was too strong, so she impatiently shoved it over his knee. The cut along his shin wasn’t as deep as the one on his arm, but it was just as bloody. His sock had absorbed a lot of it. She upturned the empty wastebasket and propped his foot on it, then wrapped his shin in towels as she had his arm.
She stood up, pushed back her hair with a bloody hand, and consulted her wristwatch. “Where is he? He should be here by now.”
Hammond reached for her hand. “Alex?”
She stopped fretting and looked down at him.
“He could’ve killed you,” he rasped.
“But he didn’t. I’m here.” She squeezed his hand.
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“That you were with Pettijohn?”
He nodded.
“Because when they first questioned me, I thought you had killed him.”
His face went a shade more pale. “You thought—”
“I can’t explain it all now, Hammond. It’s too involved. In the state you’re in, it’s doubtful you would even remember it later. Suffice it to say that at first I lied in order to protect myself. But when I learned that Pettijohn had died of gunshot, I continued lying to protect…”
