Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [74]
The lights came on, revealing pandemonium. A stream of legs and sneakers passed before my eyes as people charged toward the exit. No one noticed me. I struggled to get my knee back over the edge. The cable was cutting into my palms. I didn’t think I could hold on another moment.
And then Alan appeared. With one smooth motion, he grabbed me by the arms and hoisted me back to safety.
I clung to him. He folded me in his arms and held me tightly while I trembled. The rest of the people behind us streamed past, until the two of us were left alone in the middle of the bridge.
“Are you all right? What happened?” he demanded, tipping his head to peer into my face.
“Someone stole my purse and then tried to push me off the bridge,” I managed. I was trying hard not to burst into tears. “And they hit me,” I added, lip quivering.
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Who did? How many were there?”
I wanted to say five or six. A dozen. All heavyweight wrestlers.
“Just one,” I admitted. “I think. I couldn’t see anything.”
I heard footsteps and turned my head to see Kyla hurrying back down the steps. She looked pale even in the dim light.
“They pushed me right up the stairs,” she said indignantly. “I had to run with them or they would have trampled me.” She scanned the two of us up and down. “Are you all right? One of you is bleeding,” she announced.
Startled, I looked down. Sure enough, there was blood on Alan’s nice white shirt. Had he scraped his hands when he pulled me up? I reached for his hand and then saw my sleeve. Neatly slit from elbow to wrist, it was stained bright red. I pulled the fabric aside and saw a hairline slice across my skin. I hadn’t even felt it, but now it began to hurt at once.
“A knife did that. Or a box cutter,” said Alan grimly, holding my arm and examining the wound. “And razor sharp. They must have tried to cut your purse. Thank God it’s not deep. But we need to get you to a doctor.”
“But my stuff,” I protested. “Look!”
The contents of my purse lay scattered down in the bottom of the well chamber. Alan leaned over the rail and I resisted the urge to pull him back. We could see my bag lying crumpled on the stone below, surrounded by scattered small items. My wallet lay a couple of feet away, unopened. But everything was well beyond our reach from the bridge.
Alan looked grim. “I know it was dark, but did you notice anything at all? Could you tell what he was wearing? Was he tall or short? Did he say anything?”
I thought hard. “He didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t see him. But I don’t think he was very big,” I said at last. “I tried to hit him, and I’m pretty sure I caught his shoulder. He just didn’t seem very solid. But it happened so fast. I’m just really not sure.”
He pulled me close again, his arm wrapped around me protectively. To my dismay, I felt a big tear well up and trickle down my cheek, followed closely by another. I pulled away abruptly, turning so he wouldn’t see. I pulled up the bottom of my shirt so I could wipe my eyes. He pulled me back gently and pressed my head to his chest. He smelled so good. I couldn’t help myself, I started bawling.
The Egyptian authorities arrived at last. Alan took charge, pointing first to my arm, then to my scattered belongings fifteen feet below. He started explaining, first in English, then in broken Arabic. Before long, he and the three Egyptians were talking at the same time, gesticulating wildly.
Kyla tried to lead me away. “Let Alan handle it,” she said. “Let’s go find you a Band-Aid. A big one.”
Alan looked over his shoulder. “Wait just a minute and I’ll go with you.”
“Well, at least let’s go sit down on the steps,” Kyla urged.
I knew she was right, but