A medic went down on one knee beside me. I didn't know him. I wanted Keisha, who gave me cookies. "Let's see what we have here," he said, but he was reaching for my left arm. He must have thought the bandage was covering a new cut.
"I'm okay," I said. "That's stitches from minor surgery."
"Where's all this blood from?" He was taking my pulse, then flicking a tiny penlight from eye to eye.
"My nose. The air bag gave me a bloody nose."
"Considering what could have happened, God bless air bags," he said. "Were you wearing your seat belt?"
I nodded, so then he checked me for seat-belt injuries, and wrapped a cuff around my right arm to check my blood pressure. Guess what? It was elevated. Since I was structurally all right, he moved on to someone else.
While other medics were working with the woman in the car, stabilizing her, Wyatt came back and squatted beside me. "What happened?" he asked quietly. "I was right behind you, and I didn't see anything unusual, but all of a sudden you started spinning." He still looked pale and grim, but the sun was in my eyes again and I couldn't be sure.
"I put on my brakes for the stop sign, and the pedal went all the way to floor. There was nothing. So I put on the emergency brake, and that's when I started to spin."
He glanced over at my car where it rested in the far lane, the two front wheels up on the curb. I followed his gaze, stared a moment at the wreckage, and shuddered. I'd been hit so hard the frame had wrapped in a U shape, and the passenger side was nonexistent. No wonder the windshield had popped out. If it hadn't been for my seat belt, I probably would have popped out, too.
"Have you had trouble with your brakes lately?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. And I have it serviced regularly."
"The patrolman who drove it to your place didn't report any problems with it. You go on to the hospital and get checked out-"
"I'm okay. Honest. My vitals are steady, and other than getting popped in the face by the air bag, I don't think anything else is wrong."
He rubbed his thumb over my cheekbone, the touch light. "All right. Should I call your mother to come get you? I'd rather you not be alone for the next few hours, at least."
"After the cars are moved. I don't want her to see my car; it'll give her nightmares. I know you need my insurance card and registration," I said woefully, still staring at the tangle of sheet metal. "They're in the glove compartment, if you can find the glove compartment. And my bag is in there, too."
Briefly he touched my shoulder, then stood and walked across the two lanes to my car. He looked in the window, walked around the car to the other side and back, then did something odd: he got down on the pavement, on his back, and slid his head and shoulders under the car just behind the front wheels. I winced, thinking of all the glass that must be on the pavement and hoping he wouldn't get cut. What was he looking for?
He slid out from beneath the car, but didn't come back over to me. Instead he went to one of the uniformed officers and said something to him, and the officer went over to my car and he, too, slid underneath it, just the way Wyatt had. I saw Wyatt talking on his cell phone again.
A small convoy of wreckers began arriving, to tow the damaged vehicles away. An ambulance arrived, and the medics began the process of gently removing the woman from her car. One of them held an IV bag over her. Her face was drenched in blood, and they'd fitted a cervical collar on her. I whispered another prayer.
Sawhorse barricades were put on the street, and officers in both directions were directing traffic in a detour. The wreckers sat there idling, but none of the cars were moved. More police cars arrived, driving down the median to reach the accident scene. These were unmarked cars, and to my surprise I saw my pals MacInnes and Forester. What were detectives doing working an accident scene?
They talked to Wyatt and the officer who had been under my car. MacInnes got down on his back and slid under my car himself. What was up with that? Why was everyone looking under my car? He slid out, said something to Wyatt; Wyatt said something to an officer; and before I knew it, the officer came over and helped me to my feet, then led me to a patrol car.
Good God, I was being arrested.
But he put me in the front seat; the motor was running and the air-conditioning was on, and I turned a vent to blow right on my face. I didn't adjust the rearview mirror to see how I looked. My whole face might be black-and-blue, but I didn't want to know.
At first the blowing air felt good, but within a minute chill bumps were popping out on my skin. I closed the vent, but that didn't help much. I hugged my arms.
I don't know how long I sat there, freezing to death. Normally I would have adjusted the air-conditioning controls, but somehow I didn't have the initiative needed to mess with a cop's car. If it had been Wyatt's car, yeah, but not a patrol officer's. Or maybe I was just too dazed to take action.
After a while Wyatt came over and opened the door. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." Except for a growing stiffness, and a general feeling of having been bludgeoned. "I'm cold, though."
He pulled off his jacket and leaned in, tucking the garment around me. The fabric was warm from his body and felt blissful to my cold skin. I hugged the jacket to me, and stared wide-eyed at him. "Am I under arrest?"
"Of course not," he said, cupping my face and running his thumb over my lips. He kept touching me, as if reassuring himself that I was all in one piece. He hunkered in the V of the open door. "Do you feel up to going to the station, giving us a statement?"
"Are you sure I'm not under arrest?" I said in alarm.