Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [52]
It was broad daylight when he saw the outline of the ambulance, dark in the fine rain, a shadow against the trunks of trees. One of the doors was blown off the back and it sat at an angle. He ran forward, a sudden surge of panic inside him, floundering in the mud. The driver in the front seemed to be unconscious, slumped over the wheel. It was not until he was level with the cab, his feet slithering, that he even realized it was a woman.
“Judith!” he shouted, his heart pounding. It was ridiculous; it could be anyone.
She sat motionless, head bowed over the wheel, resting on her arms. He was sick with the thought that she was dead, although there was no wound visible, but it was hard to see when her clothes were stained dark with rain. She must be wet to the skin, and frozen. Perhaps she had died of exposure.
He gulped air, gagging, and put out his hand to touch her arm. The muscles tensed to resist him, and the vitality poured back into him, with overwhelming relief.
“Go away,” she said expressionlessly. “There’s nothing to do.”
“Judith?” She sounded so different now he was uncertain it was her after all. With her profile hidden she did not look the same. He could not see the planes of her cheek or the line of her nose.
She ignored him. Did she not recognize his voice either?
“Judith!” He felt the panic back again, high in his throat. What if she were seriously injured? He did not know enough first aid to save her, not when it mattered so savagely! Not when it was her! “Judith!” The cry was high-pitched, strangled.
She raised her head very slowly and looked at him. Her wide blue-gray eyes held only slight expression, a mild uninterested surprise. She did not bother to speak to him.
“Judith . . .” he gulped. “Are you hurt?”
“Not particularly,” she answered. “There’s nobody here. They took them. There’s nothing more to do.”
“You must be freezing,” he exclaimed. “Does the engine work?”
“No.” She offered no explanation. The anger was burned out of her, and the hunger, and the hope. For an instant he felt robbed; the light he had come to find was not here. Then he saw her pale face, empty-eyed, and the sad, wounded line of her mouth, and all he could think of was how to heal her, not for himself, but for her, even if he never saw her again.
“Judith,” he said softly. “You must get out and we’ll go and find something to eat, something warm. The ambulance is no good. Someone else will come and take it away. Come on. . . .” He held out his hand.
She did not bother to argue. She simply remained there, motionless.
The guns were firing only sporadically now. In between there was something almost like silence.
He hated being abrupt, but he had seen shell shock before, that terrible, thousand-yard stare of those who carry the horror within themselves, for whom the gunfire is in the brain.
“Judith! Do as you’re told! Give me your hand—now! You are in the way and you have to get out.”
She obeyed—probably out of habit. She moved slowly, stiff with cold, but he was relieved to see that she bore only a few bruises and one blood-stained bandage on her lower arm.
“Come on,” he insisted. “Walk.”
She hesitated, looking over her shoulder at the ambulance.
“Someone will come for it,” he told her. “You’ve got to report in.”
“What for? Because you say so, Mason? What in God’s name do you know about it? If we aren’t dead today, we will be tomorrow, or the day after.”
“It’s bad,” he agreed. “So is Verdun. But we’re not finished. And even if we are,