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The man nodded. Coughed, then winced, but held out his hand, the one not holding onto his wound. Hudson helped him up. Then Slicker pulled his hood back up.
“I need something to stop the bleeding. Or at least slow it. The rain will wash the blood trail away.”
Right. Hudson had nothing except— “How about my sock?”
“Gross, but yes.”
He pulled off his shoes—they were soaked anyway—and peeled off his socks. Black with white stripes. Slicker opened his coat, made a ball of one of the socks, and shoved it with a grunt into his wound. The other sock he shoved into the gash across his chest. Then he closed his coat. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
A tremulous breath. “How far is your hotel?”
“Not far. It’s near the stadium. Two train stops.”
Slicker ventured out, and Hudson wasn’t sure if he was supposed to help the guy, or maybe that seemed too conspicuous. But when he nearly tripped, Hudson grabbed his upper arm. “You okay?”
“I will be.” More grunts. Hudson couldn’t tell if he was still bleeding.
“What happened?”
“When I walked by the woman with the umbrella, she cut me.”
So, itwasa woman.
“I was still reeling, trying to identify the pain, when I fell. Just dizzy, but I was still trying to dissect what I saw when she came back at me.”
“Stabbed you with her umbrella. I saw it all. Did you know it was a woman before you hit her?”
“No. But I got a good look at her then.”
Hudson tried to think if he’d gotten a good look. Probably not. “Black hair?”
“Maybe brown. Brown eyes, lean face and nose. She was, what—maybe five-nine?”
Hudson did remember her as being tall. “You think you can take the train?”
“Probably not a great idea.”
But the man was still grunting, shuffling along now, slower, as they reached the end of the bridge.
“Let me see the wound.”
The man opened the coat, and Hudson inspected the socks. The chest wound had slowed, and so had the puncture wound. And the man was right about the rain washing everything away.
“It’s a short ride. I think you can make it.”
Hudson pulled him away from the bridge, down to the street where he’d gotten off the train car. Waited at the stop.
The train pulled up, a long one with three cars. He got on the front. A couple more people got on the middle, another in the back, but he kept his eyes on his contact. The man slid into a seat and sat very still.
“How far is the hotel?”
“Two stops.”
The man drew in a breath. Here in the light, he seemed in his mid to late thirties, and when he closed his eyes, he wore lines on his face.
“You think you’re burned?”
