Iâll call nine-one-one. Iâll get an ambulance.â
Uttering a low moan, his eyes shut tight from the pain, he obediently held the burned hand under the cold water. âHuh? Where are you going?â he managed to ask.
âTo call an ambulance. Iâll be right back.â
Chelsea ran to the front, picked up the phone on the end of the counter, and reached for the card in her pocket.
Iâll call Agent Martin first, she decided. Then Iâll call 911.
Her hands trembling, Chelsea pushed in the numbers on the card. Pressing the receiver to her ear, she glanced back through the kitchen door.
Sparks was still at the sink, cradling his burned hand in his other hand, his face twisted in agony.
The phone rang once. Twice.
âCome on! Pick up!â Chelsea pleaded aloud, watching Sparks.
âAgent Forrest,â a deep voice on the other end of the line said.
âIsâuhâAgent Martin there?â Chelsea whispered, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece so that Sparks couldnât hear.
âNo, heâs outâ was the brusque reply. âCan I help you?â
âYes. This is Chelsea Richards. At the All-Star Café. Pleaseââ
Holding his hand, Sparks stepped, up behind her.
âOh!â Chelsea cried out, startled.
Had he heard?
âDid you reach them? Are they sending an ambulance?â he asked, his voice weak, his face twisted in pain, sweat pouring down his face.
âSparksâgo back and put cold water on your burn,â Chelsea said, speaking into the phone so the FBI agent could hear Sparksâs name. âIâm getting you an ambulance, Sparks.â
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Agent Forrest said, âWeâll be right there. Keep him there. Weâll bring an ambulance too. Are you in danger?â
âI donât think so,â Chelsea replied uncertainly.
âWeâll be right there.â
The line went dead.
Sparks slumped into the nearest booth. He was moaning softly, resting the burned hand palm up on the table.
Chelsea clicked on all the lights. She stepped around the counter and stood over the booth.
âAre they coming?â he asked.
She nodded. âLet me see the hand.â
She lowered her head to examine it. It was red and swollen. The skin had peeled in several places, and the open wounds were oozing. Pieces of skin were charred black where hot grease had clung.
After a few seconds Chelsea had to look away. She took a deep breath, forcing down a wave of nausea.
âPretty bad,â she managed to say.
To her surprise, he climbed to his feet. âItâs not so bad,â he muttered, avoiding her glance. âMaybe Iâll go.â
âNo!â she cried, louder than she had intended.
He turned his eyes to her, his face filled with suspicion.
âThe ambulance will be here any second,â she told him. âYouâve got to get that treated. Itâs a really bad burn.â
He stumbled toward the door. âNo. Itâll be okay. Iâll go home and put a bandage on it.â
âNoâplease,â Chelsea pleaded.
She had to keep him there. She had to make himstay until the FBI arrived. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. She couldnât let him go free.
âHere,â she said, shoving a glass under the soda dispenser. âDrink this. Sparks, please. Sit down.â
He hesitated, then turned back to her. She held up the glass of Coke. âHere.â
âHey, a free drink. This is my lucky night,â he said bitterly.
Chelsea heard a siren outside.
Hurry. Pleaseâhurry! she thought.
âHere, Sparks.â She held the glass out to him.
âIâve got to go,â he said, raising his good arm and wiping the perspiration off his forehead with his jacket sleeve. âIâm kind of dizzy. Got to lie down.â
âItâs from shock,â she said. âSit down. Come on, Sparks.â
The
Georgette St. Clair
Celeste O. Norfleet
Harlan Ellison
Robert B. Parker
Maureen Reynolds
Ann M. Martin
Emma Craigie, Jonathan Mayo
Michael Hunter
Shelley Noble
Jack Heath