Had I heard a noise? What was . . . ?
“Adam?” I called. “Is that you?”
“Hey, Minnie,” he said. “A real pea-souper, isn’t it?”
His voice was coming from a different direction than whatever it was I thought I’d heard, but fog did funny things to sound. At least that was what I’d gathered from all those scary books I’d read as a kid.
“And I don’t even like pea soup,” I said. My toes hit the main road and I turned right, toward Adam and Irene’s mailbox, where I assumed Adam would be. “That was the only bad thing about my mom baking ham. You knew pea soup was coming along in a few days.”
“Love the stuff,” Adam said. “Irene makes the best ever.”
The disembodied noise of a car came toward us. I stepped off the asphalt onto the outside of the road’s shoulder, just to be safe, and kept walking. An Adam-sized shape materialized. He was facing me, standing in front of a mailbox-shaped object, his back to the approaching car.
“Best pea soup ever?” I asked. “No such thing.”
“Au contraire,” Adam said, and went on to extoll the virtues of what I considered the most unappetizing food in the world, next to all mushrooms. And it was because I wasn’t really paying attention to him that I saw the car coming out of the fog.
Coming in our direction.
Straight toward Adam, who didn’t see it, didn’t hear it, didn’t even know it was there.
There was no time to warn him, no time to do anything except act.
I dropped the books and sprang forward, head tucked, arms outstretched in my best imitation of the football player I’d never been or ever wanted to be. As I thumped into Adam with all my weight, I could have sworn I heard a faint feline howl.
We fell to the ground hard. I twisted my shoulders, trying hard to rotate my momentum, wanting desperately to roll us over and away from the car.
Over and over we went, off the road, off the shoulder, and half into the ditch. Was it far enough? Would the car swerve? Would it still get us? I pushed into the ground with my feet and sent us one roll farther.
The car whooshed past and disappeared into the gloom.
“Are you okay?” Adam’s voice was weak.
“I’m fine. How about you?”
At the end of the last roll, I’d ended on my back. I pushed myself to my knees and looked hard at the fog, making sure the vehicle was really gone. I saw no sign of the not-quite-a-killer car and breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m fine,” Adam said.
His voice, normally full of laughter and bonhomie, sounded thready and old. Guylike, he hadn’t worn a coat on his trip to the mailbox, even though the temperature was only in the mid-forties. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a plain maroon sweatshirt that showed evidence of more than one painting chore. There were spatters of white, brown, and even a color that was exactly three shades darker than the sweatshirt itself.
It wasn’t until he touched that particular shade that I realized it was in a vertical line on his chest and that it wasn’t paint at all.
“Adam,” I said as calmly as possible, “you’re bleeding.”
He looked down and made a move to pull up his shirt and sweatshirt, but I yelped at him, “Stop!”
“But I’m bleeding.” He reached for the bottom of his sweatshirt again and I grabbed at his hand.
“Anything we do now won’t help and could make it worse,” I said firmly. “Your clothes might be sealing the wound, and if we pull it away, it’ll bleed even more.” I wasn’t sure how much of that might be true, but it sounded reasonable. Maybe I’d learned some medical stuff through sheer proximity to Tucker.
Adam looked half convinced. At least he stopped trying to look at his incision.
“Can you get up?” I asked.
“Of course I can.” He put his hands on the ground and moved one foot forward to stand. Halfway up, he swayed.
Adam was almost a foot taller than me and probably a hundred pounds heavier, and if I tried to hold him upright, we’d both fall to the ground again and injure who knew what, so I rushed to his side and leaned into his body, bracing him.
“You are not fine,” I said, panting a little as I helped him stand upright, “so don’t try to tell me so. You’re going to go over to your car and sit in the passenger’s seat. Then you’re not going to move until I make a couple of phone calls.”
“Don’t call 911.” He leaned on my shoulder as we shuffled off. “Our insurance hardly covers ambulance rides.”
“We’ll see,” I said. Fifteen feet later, I opened his car door and waited until he eased himself down into the seat. The dark stain on his sweatshirt looked a little bigger, but not massively bigger. “My cell’s in the bookmobile. I’ll be right back.”
He nodded and I raced off. Inside the bookmobile, Eddie was lying in a meat loaf shape on the console.
“Mrr,” he said.
“Adam’s fine,” I told him as I rustled in my backpack for the phone. “At least I’m pretty sure he is. You going to be okay in here by yourself? It might be a while before I get back.”
My cat closed his eyes and purred.
“For an Eddie, you are okay.” I kissed the top of his furry head and, locking the door behind me, scampered back to Adam, picking up the bag of books on the way. “What’s your wife’s work number?” I asked, stowing the books in the backseat.
“What time is it?” Adam’s face was pale and his eyes were closed.
“Um . . .” I glanced at the phone. “Half past five.”
“Then she’s just starting her night job. She’s waiting tables at the Mitchell Street Pub.”
I entered the popular Petoskey restaurant’s name into a search engine and within seconds a voice on the other end was asking what he could do for me.
“Could I please speak to Irene Deering? There’s been an minor emergency at her home.”
“Sure. Hang on.”
A few moments later, Irene’s breathless voice came on the line. “Adam? Are you okay?”
“This is Minnie, and Adam is fine.” I waited a beat for that message of comfort to sink in. “But there’s been a little accident.”
“Accident?” The word came out shrill. “What’s wrong? I’ll be there right away. I can leave right now and—”
“He’s fine. Really. Here, talk to him.” I handed over the phone.
“Hey, babe,” Adam said casually. “No, I’m fine. I was down at the mailbox to pick up a FedEx delivery the same time Minnie dropped by with another bag of books. Some yahoo was driving down the road, not paying attention, and Minnie pushed me out of the way.” He glanced at me. I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. “I fell down and my incision got knocked a little loose, is all. I told Minnie I’m fine, but—” He listened, rolled his eyes, and handed the phone back to me.
“Minnie,” Irene said, “I hate to ask, but . . .” Her voice tailed off. “No, forget I said anything. I’ll see if I can get the night off. Thanks for calling.”
“I’m happy to take him to the hospital.” I waved down Adam’s protest. “If it’s okay to drive your car, that is, and if your neighbor won’t mind if the bookmobile is parked next door for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, Minnie,” she said raggedly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You’ll think of something.” I laughed. “Just don’t make it a frozen batch of pea soup.”
Forty-five minutes later, Adam was in the Charlevoix Hospital’s emergency room and I was sitting in the waiting room, reading one of the books I’d brought him, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon, and it was compelling enough to make me forget that the last time I’d been in this room I’d been waiting for Tucker to get done with his shift. I’d just started the third chapter when I heard a rustling noise at my left elbow. I kept reading, hoping the noise would go away and leave me alone. At least until the end of the chapter.