A small crowd had begun to gather. They stood around, helplessly watching.
Adam looked at the blood covering his and the girl's hands and the ground, then up at the gallery of blank faces.
"Call 911," he said to the group.
No one moved.
"Call 911!" Adam repeated. "Get an ambulance, or the paramedics, or something!" He tried not to show his panic, knowing the girl needed all the reassurance he could give.
Finally, a half-frightened teenager held up his hand as if he were in school, asking permission to leave. "I'll go," the kid volunteered.
"Hurry up!" Adam turned back to the girl. "Don't worry. It's going to be okay."
"Jesus," she cried in pain. "Get this fucker off of me!"
"Yeah, sure." Adam patted her bloody, fluttering hands back down into her lap. "I'll take care of it."
Carefully, he surveyed the situation. Blood dripped thickly onto the sand-strewn cement. Adam couldn't tell how badly the girl had been injured, but he knew the wound had to be deep to cause so much blood. He could also tell that as long as her leg remained lodged in the spokes of the wheel, she would continue to aggravate the injury and lose a lot more blood.
"Okay," Adam said more calmly than he felt, "I'm going to bend the spokes apart, and when I do, you pull your leg out. Pull it straight out. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just hurry the fuck up. It's killing me."
Adam got up into a crouch so that he could steady the wheel while he spread the spokes apart. He could feel the thin wires branding his hands as he curled his fingers around the slender rods. They bent easily enough, but their tight spacing didn't provide much room to maneuver the girl's leg out of further danger.
"Okay, pull your leg out. Straight back. Good! Yeah! That's it," Adam encouraged. He kept bending the spokes apart as the girl slid backwards on the cement, extracting her injured limb.
"It's out." The girl sighed, a fresh blossom of tears welled up in her eyes.
Adam glanced over, giving a moment of attention to the bike rider who was now up and assessing his own personal damage.
His attention was called back to the girl as she moaned, "Jesus Christ! I'm bleeding to death!"
Adam didn't think she was in any danger of bleeding to death, but blood continued to well up alarmingly and obscure the wound. He needed to do something to stem the flow, but he couldn't find anything to use as a compress. He would have used his shirt, but it was sweat-soaked and filthy. Somehow, he didn't think it was an appropriate or hygienic first-aid tool.
"I'll take care of it," Adam continued to reassure with more confidence than he felt. "It's going to be okay. Just fine. Don't worry. You'll see; it'll be okay. Help is on the way." He realized he was rambling in his effort to console the wounded girl.
"Where the fuck's the ambulance? Look what the shithead did to my leg." The girl glared at the bicycle rider, now brushing sand from his backside.
"Come on," Adam said. "Let's get you a little more comfortable." He slipped an arm around the small of the girl's back, and clasping a hand over the bloody gash in her leg, he lifted her from the cold, sandy sidewalk and carried her over to a nearby bench. She was heavier than he'd expected. He was glad the bench was close.
Gently, he set her down lengthwise. Crouching in the sand by her side, he continued to compress the wound with his hand.
As blood dripped down his arm and off his elbow into the sand, Adam talked softly to the upset, weeping girl. "You're going to be just fine. It'll all be okay. I'm going to make sure you're okay. A couple of stitches and you'll be as good as new. No permanent damage. Just wait and see. A few days from now and you'll never know it happened."
To himself, Adam was saying: Christ! I wish she'd stop bleeding. Please stop bleeding! Or at least get some professional help here NOW!
In the distance, he could finally hear the sound of an ambulance. As it came closer its siren bounced between the shorefront buildings and spun itself out onto the open beach. Adam was never so relieved to hear anything in his life.
He continued squeezing the girl's calf, thankful that the flow of blood had finally seemed to slow. He was thankful that medical help was close by; his hand and arm were beginning to shake from the constant strain of the pressure he had to apply to keep the wound closed. His entire body was vibrating from the unaccustomed stress of crouching in an awkward position by the bench.
"Here they come now." Adam could see the yellow fire department paramedic truck turn onto the cement path from an alley access. There could be no doubt as to where they were heading; the crowd defined the problem.
With relief, Adam relinquished his hold on the girl to a blue-uniformed fire department paramedic, who had grabbed a large cloth compress as soon as he'd assessed the situation.
"Good job, buddy," the medic complemented when he saw the amount of blood on the girl, Adam and the bench. "I've got it now."
Adam watched as the paramedic replaced his hand with the compress, slipping it quickly over the girl's leg. He was shaking now more than before. His body felt consumed by an undulating wave of fever. The stress and strain of the past minutes, along with the adrenalin rush, had thrown his whole system out of kilter. He glanced over at another paramedic, treating the bike rider for a small cut on his forehead.
Thankful that his responsibility in the unexpected emergency was finally over, Adam got shakily to his feet. Right now his only priorities were getting home and showering off the sweat, sticky blood, and gritty sand that covered his body.
As he turned to leave, Adam heard the paramedic exclaim, "Well, goddamn, will you look at that!"
He looked over. The young man was standing beside the girl, staring down at the swatch of cloth in his hand and the calf of her shapely, tanned leg.
There was almost no blood on the compress and just a long, deep scratch on the girl's leg.
"Where the hell did all the blood come from?" The medic had forgotten his professional detachment for a moment.
He gave the girl a cursory examination as Adam stood by, watching in bewilderment. Although he hadn't directly examined the wound, Adam had assumed that it was quite long, deep, and serious. He could have sworn he'd seen one of the bike spokes deeply imbedded in her flesh. He, the girl, and the surroundings were covered with enough blood to attest to that fact.
"I don't know how you could have gotten so much blood out of that!" the medic said, surprised. He stared down at what he'd expected to be a severely damaged leg.
"I guess," the girl sniffled, "it wasn't as bad as we thought." She smiled wanly up at Adam, who was as startled as the other two.
"Got lucky," Adam said, still puzzled.
As he turned to leave, Adam gave a short shout of pain and almost fell.
Concerned, the paramedic started toward him. But Adam waved the young man off.
"It's nothing. I think I gotta charley horse. Just a cramp in my leg. Probably from squatting too long without cooling down after my run. Nothing a little walking around and a hot shower won't cure."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. No problem. I'll be fine."
"Hey mister!" It was the girl, her face, dirt and tear-streaked, eyes rimmed red. "Thanks."
"Glad I could help. Hey, I told you it would be okay. Right?"
"Yeah." She looked down at her leg, shaking her head in amazement. "You sure got that right."
"You take care now." Adam waved and limped painfully toward home.
Yvonne was up and had filled the house with the smell of fresh coffee and hot rolls. Adam had complained before about the counter-productive effects of sweets after a morning run, but it hadn't fazed Yvonne, who continued to ply him with homemade goodies.
Yvonne, like Adam, was one of the lucky individuals who could eat anything and everything without wearing it on her hips for the next six months.
Adam had chided her continually about her eating habi
ts, which consisted almost entirely of sweets, junk food, pasta and red meat. If it was a fruit or a vegetable it wouldn't pass her lips unless sprinkled with sugar or drenched in cheese sauce.
When Yvonne saw him disheveled and covered with blood, she dropped the pan of hot rolls on the kitchen floor with a clatter.
"Oh my God!" she gasped.
"Don't worry, I'm okay." Adam looked down at the crimson stains covering the front of his shirt and shorts as well as his hands and arms. "It's not my blood," he reassured her. "There was an accident."
Massaging his aching leg muscle and wishing he were already in a nice hot shower, he explained to Yvonne what had happened.
"...And you know, the funny thing is," he said, limping toward the bedroom stairs as he began to take off his smeared shirt, "when all was said and done, she only had a scratch."
"Maybe the blood came from the guy riding the bicycle."
"Nah. He was thrown seven or eight feet away from the girl and the bike. Probably went head first over the handlebars and out into the soft sand. That's what kept him from getting any more hurt than he was. From what I could see he only had a small cut on his head."
"Head cuts bleed a lot."
"This one didn't bleed enough to even dribble down the side of his face. And he was nowhere near the girl. No," Adam mused, "either the girl was hurt somewhere else that the paramedic didn't find, or she's a real bleeder."
"That could be possible. Maybe she's a hemophiliac."
"I don't know much about medicine," Adam said, "but I do remember that movie, Nicholas and Alexandra. Their son was a hemophiliac. According to the film, the female carries the gene, but it affects only male offspring."
"Maybe she's some kind of exception."
"I guess. Who knows? After all, I'm getting my medical expertise from Hollywood." Adam shrugged that he didn't have an answer. "Why don't you whip up another batch of the rolls you've used to decorate our kitchen floor, while I take a shower and become human again."
"You've got it, Mister Rescuer! Coming right up. After all, we don't want you to lose all of your strength with the day barely begun."
Adam started up the stairs with a smile.
"Hey! You're limping!" Yvonne called.
Adam paused to rub his leg. "Yeah, gotta cramp or something in all the excitement. Just gonna have to work it out."
Yvonne leered. "Maybe I should come up and take a shower with you. I can take your mind off that cramp."
Adam laughed. I'll bet you could!"
THE LUXEMBOURG AMENDMENT
In this fast-paced thriller, young lovers and broken vows stand between a Pope's terrible secret and the destruction of the Catholic Church. The most terrible secret of WWII has been found in the Vatican Archives and whoever has possession of The Luxembourg Amendment could wield incredible and devastating power.
THE LUXEMBOURG AMENDMENT (CHAPTER ONE)
LAST NIGHT
Martin Donohue was drowning.
He knew he was going to die. His mouth was filling with water and he couldn't move his head. Pain engulfed his skull like a blinding vice that kept him from moving.
In an incomprehensible flash of agony that seemed to cause bright bolts of lightning to shatter the darkness, Martin knew that he was going to die, drowned in a goddamn Roman gutter from a mouthful of rain and mud. No matter how he hard he struggled against the fear and throbbing pain, he couldn't move from the wave of filthy water that swept against him.
With the sudden, sickening realization that he would never fullfil his vows or even see the blessing of another sunrise, Martin succumbed to darkness just before the hands of a passing policeman pulled him onto the sidewalk and cleared the debris from his airway so that he could breathe.
Hours later, when he awoke, he was surprised to note that he was dry now. His mouth and nose weren't full of water. But his head still hurt like hell, and whenever he tried to open his eyes, the light was as painfully incandescent as the lightning flashes in the storm outside.
"Per piacere, Signore... Signore! Can you hear me, Signore?"
"Hmmm," Martin Donohue managed through clenched teeth. Even that small vibration caused the pain in his head to swell.
"Signore, guardi!" A cold finger pushed up Martin's eyelid and, as if the lights in the room weren't enough to destroy what was left of his brain, the beam from a small flashlight pierced his retinas like a knife.
"Ah, bravo, Signore!"
Martin heard a jumble of incomprehensible Italian in which he had no interest. His only desire was peace and quiet and the eventual relief of death.
"Ecco, Signore! Can you speak?"
"Hmmm."
"Ah, do you know what you are called? Your name, Signore?"
"Hmmm." God, the pain was incredible.
"Signore, can you tell me your name?"
"Mugged," Martin barely mumbled.
"Signore Mugged? Are you sure that is your nome: Signore Mugged?"
There was another rapid exchange of Italian just beyond his closed eyelids, and Martin was relieved to hear someone explain on his behalf: "No, that's not his name; he's saying that he was mugged, attacked; someone accosted him.
"I know his name, dottore; I want to see if he knows his name."
"Gotcha."
Martin wanted to nod in agreement, but he had no energy, nor inclination to rile any further the demons pounding rocks inside of his skull.
"I need to know your name, young man," a voice without an Italian accent asked in a comfortable southern twang.
"Mar--tin."
"Martin! And your last name, Martin?"
"Donohue."
"Excellent! That's exactly what your driver’s license says. Can you open your eyes for a few moments, Mr. Martin Donohue?"
Slowly Martin opened his eyes to slits, squinting against the brightness of the hospital room. When he discovered that the glare probably wouldn't kill him, he allowed his eyes to open all the way.
White. Everything was a blinding shade of white, except a small blotch of light green moving across his peripheral vision. He expected more fireworks from the pulsating pain inside his head as he followed the movement, but it was no worse--or better--than before. The blob of green evolved into a pretty nurse passing by, while white shadows separated themselves from the overhead lights and
turned out to be two doctors, one extremely tall and the other just as short.
Medical Mutt and Jeff, Martin thought.
The older and tallest of the two spoke with a Texas drawl: "Hello, there youngster; Doctor Willie Dean Douglas, Dallas Texas," he introduced himself.
At twenty-five, Martin didn't consider himself a "youngster," but was willing to accept the diminutive instead of chancing a painful protest.
The Texan held up four fat sausage fingers. "How many?"
"Four," Martin muttered.
"And now?"
"Two."
"Blurry?"
"Uh-uh."
"Follow my finger with your eyes. Don't move your head."
"Not about to." Martin forced his aching eyeballs to track back and forth with the movement of the tall doctor's hand.
"You'll live, Martin Donohue," the American proclaimed after penetrating his patient's brain again with the small penlight.
The short, and much younger, Italian doctor with a thin mustache--either that, or he had three lips, Martin thought--nodded his head in rapid agreement.
The only one to disagree with this prognosis was Martin himself. "That's debatable. Where am I?"
"The Rome-American Hospital--Via Emilio Longoni," the Texan replied. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I was mugged on the way home;" Martin repeated what the doctor already knew. He looked toward the Italian doctor, who evidently took this glance for the young American's criticism of Roman hospitality.
"Ah, Signore, it's a very great shame. So many homeless. Too many ladroni--how do you say? --Crooks!"
>
"Yeah," Martin confirmed," a real Bonny and Clyde got me: musta been a twelve year old girl--begging in the rain; and when I reached for a few lire--" he winced at the persistent rhythms beneath his scalp "--another kid popped me on the head. The next thing I knew I was drowning in the street."
"That's quite a gully-washer we got goin' for ourselves out there," the Texan confirmed.
"I am so sorry, Signore." The Italian doctor appeared genuinely apologetic.
"Coulda been worse," his American counterpart chirped with what Martin thought was too much good humor. "You got off easy with just a concussion and a little five-finger discount, son."
"Easy! Ouch! Damn, that hurts!" Martin complained as
Dr. Douglas prodded his scalp.
"Stay still and let it run its course," the Texan advised.
"Can I have a painkiller?"
"You can have a couple of Tylenol in a few minutes."
"I need something stronger than that."
"Not until we make sure there's nothing worse than a mild concussion."
"This is mild?"
"Listen, buddy, I've been workin' trauma centers all over the world for the last fifteen years. Yeah, it coulda been worse. Like I said, just a little bang and burgle."
"Oh shit! My briefcase." The realization brought Martin up off the pillow and the pain put him right back down again.
"Sorry, pal. No briefcase. Only an empty wallet with your Massachusetts drivers license, emergency notification, and organ-donor card." The doctor leaned forward and spoke softly with a huge smile and a larger wink. "You don't know how you disappointed these Eye-ties here. They had the organ harvest team on standby until they discovered you were an American. Useless. They figure Americans got no heart and no balls." He laughed at his own joke.
Martin ignored the man's attempt at humor. "Damn! My computer was in my briefcase, so was my passport. But it's the computer--."
"Hey," the Texan looked pointedly at his watch, "that was over three hours ago. Your computer's probably been sold three times already."
Knowing what he had foolishly left on the hard drive of the small laptop, Martin felt sick to his stomach.
LET US DO EVIL
Jeremiah looks up to 16-year-old "Beans", a natural leader and master manipulator, who points out to his younger friends that they are all helpless, at the mercy of a system which releases rapists and criminals from jail to prey again, a society that doesn't effectively protect its children from abuse. Beans reminds them that adults have all the power, which they repeatedly abuse. The group begins a series of "vigilances" to avenge their society's wrongs. Understanding the need for ritual and mystery, Beans requires them to meet in a strange forest glade and provide primitive offerings to insure their success. Their covert actions continue to spiral beyond harmless mischief. Although hesitant at times, Jeremiah and his new-found love, Timothea, feel compelled to follow Beans' dictum that "the punishment should fit the crime" as their merciless retributions escalate from innocuous pranks to violence and mayhem. [Explicit material]