She fell back slowly, like a rag doll, hitting the back of her head on the dashboard. Martin screamed her name and slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed to a stop, the rear window fell out of the frame and spread square pieces on the backseat like parade confetti.

The whole front of her shirt was soaked red. The bullet hole looked very small, the size of a button, only in the wrong place, just below her right breast. He gathered her up in his arms and got her in the seat, tilted the back down so she was lying nearly flat.

Her eyes fluttered open and found his.

“Marty?” she said, her voice was shockingly soft, a little girl’s voice. “Don’t put me on the machines. Please don’t do that.”

He remembered the other car and looked back. Nothing. Nothing he could see.

As he ran red lights and broke speed limits, he dialed her cell phone one-handed and told Parkland Hospital that he was bringing her in.

They were waiting by the ER doors, two tired residents, three nurses. Martin held Carling’s hand as they wheeled her in. She opened her eyes again, but didn’t seem to see him at all, like the day he’d found Sally and she’d opened her eyes, but they’d just rolled like marbles, hadn’t seen him, had never seen him again.

They left him at the double doors with Carling’s blood on his hands. He wasn’t even aware that he was crying until a passing nurse handed him a tissue.

Chapter Thirty-two

Robby

Mark had a broken nose and two broken fingers, courtesy of the rush for the exits. Robby waited with him while the paramedics fixed him up. Jim was no-where to be seen. She had no way of asking Mark with all the inquiring ears around, but she thought Jim had probably collected the take and taken advantage of the confusion to get home safely.

Mark tilted his head back and snuffled loudly. The cotton plugs in his nostrils were thick with blood. He gave her a puppy-dog look as the paramedic taped his fingers.

“My dose,” he said. “How’s it look?”

“Swollen,” she told him, and patted him lightly on the knee. “It’ll give you that sinister look.”

“Wodderful. I gad’t breathe.” He stared morosely down at his fingers, as the medic finished with them. “This sugs.”

“At least you’re alive, pal,” the paramedic said. He had the war-weary look of a career man. “Got at least one guy ain’t so lucky.”

“The man who burned?” Robby asked. The paramedic met her eyes, but his face was as blank and impersonal as looking in a mirror. “Was it murder?”