Roth snorted. "Not likely He's not that badly hurt. This is an act for your benefit."
Kerry moved to get to her feet, but the laundry owner put his hands down heavily on her shoulders, and Sidowski swept open his New York Giants jacket to reveal a gun nestled in a holster under his arm, a blatant reminder that they were men to be taken seriously.
"I just"—her voice was trembling as though she were talking through the spinning blades of an electric fan—"I wanted to get some of the paper towels from the desk. To try to stop the bleeding."
"He'll survive," Sidowski said. "Vampires are stronger than normal people."
The owner released the pressure on her shoulders. "Let her feel she's doing something useful," he told them. "Maybe it'll keep her from doing something stupid."
"Thank you," Kerry said meekly.
But Sidowski didn't move out of her way, which was probably meant to show her he disapproved, and she had to walk around him. Still, the advantage was that when she reached the desk, all he could see was her back.
She hadn't been planning anything in the nature of what any of the three of them could possibly call "something stupid," but as soon as she got to the desk she saw the ashtray into which she'd dropped the razor blade she'd found on the floor under the counter. Without any clear thought of what she would do with the blade but realizing that she'd probably never have a better chance to get it—knowing that if she hesitated, if she glanced to see if anybody was watching, she'd be caught—she reached for the roll of paper towels, sweeping her fingers through the ashtray on the way.
Though the blade sliced her fingertips, she worked at keeping her face blank. They would hurt worse later, she knew, but for the moment she kept moving till she had the towels. She pressed her fingers as tightly as she could into the roll of paper, trying to hide and at the same time stop the bleeding.
Turning, she found herself face-to-face with the laundry owner.
Now you've done it,
she thought and braced herself for ... she wasn't sure what, but she figured it would hurt a great deal.
He stepped out of her way, however, going around her.
The desk,
she realized with a sigh that she quickly tried to disguise as a sniffle. He had been heading for the desk—and not her—all along. He righted the chair that had tipped when Roth pulled her out from under there, and he sat down, opening a drawer.
Kerry hesitated, still standing closer to the desk than to Ethan.
Sitting down is good,
she told herself.
Sitting down is more relaxed and means he's less likely to hurt us.
Unless, of course, he had a gun in the drawer.
Instead of a gun, the owner pulled out his Bible. Either his place was well marked or he just opened to a random page and started reading.
Maybe he was trying to find guidance, Kerry thought. She hoped he had opened to the part that said "Thou shalt not kill."
Or maybe he was trying to look up justification for what they were planning. Not likely he could find that, she thought. But who knew how he could twist things? And besides, the Old Testament laws were strict and, in some cases, strange. Unbidden the thought came to her:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
If they thought Ethan was a murderous vampire, they would certainly take that as justification for killing him. Kerry fervently hoped the laundry owner would stick to the New Testament, which she remembered as being more lenient.
Mercifully, neither of the others tried to stop or delay her as she marched purposefully to Ethan and knelt before him. She ripped off a sheet of toweling and immediately and none too gently dabbed at the wound at his temple, eager to have blood on the towel, on her hand, before anybody noticed she, too, was bleeding and wondered why.
Ethan flinched from her rough ministrations.
"Sorry," she muttered, catching her first good look at his nasty cut. The area around it was already swelling and turning purple.
Easy,
she warned her stomach. It wouldn't do her Florence Nightingale routine any good if she passed out or upchucked now.
I hate this,
she thought frantically.
If there was anybody else here that could take charge, anybody...
"It's all right," Ethan told her, sounding calmer than he had any right to.
Kerry's eyes shifted to his for a second.
This was no time to get herself distracted just because he was good looking and trying to put on a brave front for her.
The towel was sloppy with blood already, his and hers, and she let the razor blade fall into it before she lightly crumpled it and shoved it into her jacket pocket, as though to get it out of the way. She hastily mopped up some more blood and put that sheet into her pocket, too. With the third, she was able to catch a glimpse of her fingers. The razor blade had cut two of them, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing down. She pressed the fourth sheet against his head with the two injured fingers—not daring to press against the actual wound, which would hurt, only near it. Every time she glanced at Ethan, he was watching her with those wary eyes. Which might mean that he could tell she was up to something and was afraid that she was going to get them both killed in the very near future, or it might mean that the blows to his head and the loss of blood had him confused enough to worry she was working with his captors. Or, more likely, the whole side of his head throbbed, and she was just making it worse.
Hold on,
she wished at him.
I don't know exactly what I'm doing, but I'm trying to help.
Out loud she asked him, "Are you all right? Can you make it till dawn?"
He nodded, still looking—Kerry feared—awfully wobbly.
In a disgusted tone of voice, Sidowski swore and said, "This is the most ridiculous—"
—at the same moment Ethan shifted position.
Kerry knew exactly what he was doing. He'd been in the same kneeling position all along. His legs had to be cramping up, even not counting that one of them was injured And he was tied to the laundry tub, which should be clear indication to all that he wasn't going far.
But Sidowski took the slight movement as a sign of intent to escape. Or he just used it as an excuse. He kicked Ethan in the chest and Kerry heard his head crack yet again against the laundry tub.
Ethan clenched his jaw—against an outcry of pain or just trying to maintain consciousness, Kerry couldn't tell. His head bowed submissively, he took a couple deep breaths before getting out the barest whisper: "I just need to move my leg Please."
"Poor thing," Sidowski said, not even sneering or sounding angry Just cold hatred in that voice.
Ethan glanced at Sidowski with a look that cut through the hazy befuddlement, a look that all but shouted,
If I
were
a vampire, I'd rip out your throat.
Or maybe it was just Kerry's interpretation of what he
should
be feeling.
In the next instant he closed his eyes and he asked, not quite begging but with a desperate edge, "May I—please—move my legs?"
Kerry looked over her shoulder to the laundry owner, who was still sitting at the desk, still holding his Bible, though the commotion had caused him to look up. "It's not like he can get away," she pointed out.
Nobody said anything.
Which, eventually, Ethan took as permission. Wincing, he leaned back and simultaneously raised himself the inch or so that the rope permitted, then gingerly managed to get his right leg out from under him and swing it around to the front.
That was the injured one. Very obviously the injured one. The whole side of his jeans was torn and bloody, from the knee down.
Ethan took a few seconds to catch his breath before moving, with a singular lack of grace, to get his other leg out from under.
Kerry felt a dizzy sympathetic reaction. "I'm going to get up now," she announced, not wanting to take Sidowski by surprise. She indicated the fistful of towels in her hand. "I just want to wet these down."
The laundry owner had resumed reading his Bible, which made Kerry so furious she wanted to knock it out of his hands and rip it up in front of his face, though she'd never had these violent inclinations toward the Bible before. Roth had moved to the main entrance, peeking out into the street from between the slats of the blinds. So she got up with only Sidowski to worry about and went to the drinking fountain, where she figured the water would be coldest and most likely to numb pain.
There was a wastepaper basket next to the fountain, where she emptied her jacket pocket of all but the towel with the razor. With these guys having vampires on the mind, she didn't want them speculating why she'd want to hold on to bloody towels.
She wet the fresh towels using her left hand, so as not to get the fingers of her right hand bleeding again. By the time she made it back to Ethan, he had gotten himself resettled. He had his left knee up and was resting his head against it. The injured right leg was stretched out in front of him.
"This is probably going to hurt," she warned.
Like he wouldn't have guessed already.
Sidowski swore again. "You think he's just some poor kid we took it in our heads to beat up on?" he demanded. "You think he's on the verge of dying because we pulled him off his bike and he got a couple cuts and bruises?"
"I don't know," Kerry said, not wanting to argue.
"He broke Ken's neck!" Sidowski shouted—Kerry jumped at the violence of his accompanying gesture. "Just like that."
Ethan's half-bewildered gaze went from Kerry to Sidowski back to Kerry. "No," he whispered. "There were only the three of them—"
Sidowski gave him another vicious kick.
"Three," Ethan gasped again.
Sidowski kicked him again.
Ethan began coughing, great wracking coughs that brought up blood.
"Stop it!" Kerry grabbed instinctively at Sidowski's arm.
Though Kerry had always thought of herself as strong and able to take care of herself, Sidowski effortlessly swept her back and hurled her to the floor.
Momentarily stunned, she knew she should roll herself into a protective ball but couldn't collect herself enough to do it. She was wide open if Sidowski chose to kick her. But he chose to kick Ethan yet again.
"Stop it!" the owner urged in a frantic whisper. But he didn't really mean it, or he would have put the book down, he'd have gotten to his feet. Instead, he just said, "Sidowski, stop it!"
That isn't going to stop him,
Kerry thought. Sidowski was the kind of person who was proud in the conviction that nobody could give him orders. Clearly, he was tired of the others telling him to wait till morning, and he was going to beat Ethan until he died. There was nothing the owner would do to stop it, there was certainly nothing she could do; and Roth—
But it was Roth who
did
stop it. Roth, standing by the door, peeking through the blinds, hissed, "Somebody's coming."
The owner finally closed his Bible. "Marcia?" he asked.
Even before he shook, his head, Kerry knew that Roth wouldn't have said "Somebody" if it was one of their own.
Sidowski knew it, too—probably even the owner knew it—but Sidowski said, "No time. Not even if she found the damn batteries at home." He pulled his gun from under his arm and placed it directly against the side of Ethan's head. "Vampire or not," he said, "it'll make an awful mess."
Ethan closed his eyes and didn't make a sound, doubled over in pain as he was.
Somebody pulled on the locked door, twice, then rapped knuckles on the glass.
"Police?" the owner asked Roth in a hushed voice, frozen where he was.
Kerry thought of her slipshod parking job and fervently hoped it
was
the police.
But Roth answered, whispering also, "Customers. They're carrying laundry."
Not the police, and not Dad, either.
But Dad isn't someone to wish for,
she told herself. She fought away a mental picture of him bursting into the place ready to yell at her and finding Sidowski instead.
The owner was asking, "Do you think they heard—"
The customers knocked again.
Roth shook his head. "They probably saw me looking out, though."
"Hey," a voice called.
College girl,
Kerry thought. And even though just the one word had been spoken, she could tell: one who'd been drinking.
There was some giggling from outside. Two girls. The second one said, "Let us in. This is an emergency."
The owner raised his voice. "We're closed."
"It's an emergency," the first girl echoed her companion. "Tonya barfed on my bed, and I don't have any extra blankets."
"We're closed," the owner repeated.
"'Twenty-four-hour laundry,'" the second girl said. "Says it right here on the door. And on the sign. And on the window. What the hell is this? You on a twenty-five-hour day?"
"The machines are broken," the owner called out. "The pipes are frozen. No water. We're closed."
One of the girls kicked the door. "Says twenty-four hours right on the goddamn door," she muttered.
But Kerry could hear them moving away, heard the car doors open and slam shut. Several times. The engine roared to life and the girls took off, squealing the car's tires to show their disdain.
Slowly, reluctantly, Sidowski lowered his gun. He didn't put it away. He looked as though he was considering taking up again where he'd left off. Like he was evaluating pistol-whipping versus kicking.
Roth said, "Why don't you just leave him alone? You're making the girl crazy; you're making everybody jumpy. He isn't going to say anything worth hearing till we put the fear of dawn in him."
"But he keeps—"
"Put the gag back on him, then," Roth snapped.
"No," Kerry said. "He'll choke." Ethan had managed to hold back his coughing while the girls were at the door, but he'd started again. For the moment he wasn't bringing up blood, but that could change, especially if Sidowski resumed kicking him.
"I think we should keep the two of them apart," the owner suggested.
"I think we should keep the two of them real close by," Sidowski countered.