Shes heard it said that everyones blood is the same color. An insistent
moral position: we are all as one underneath. But its not trueor perhaps
its that once spilled, the hue varies widely based on whether the day is
humid, balmy, overcast. On whether the blood splatters on concrete, dirt, gravel
She makes lists in her mind. Pastel rose and watery. Vivid as a police
warning light. Eggplant-purple.
The blood that comes from Marcuss head is the color of raspberries, and
"I have to file," Caddie pleads. "Its a story. Even if
anybodys hurt. Especially then."
No, no, dear. The voice comes from a great distance as a lady with pewter
hair and creamy uniform reaches for Caddies arm, mops it with a cottonball.
Caddie feels a sting. "Whats in that syringe?" She puts her head
back against the pillow, overcome by a desire to close her eyes. Then she tries
to sit up, realizing at last that this is a nurse, and a nurse should know
something. Caddie has to interview her. "Can you tell me the precise nature
of the wounds"
The nurses head wobbles. You cant get up yet. Please.
"How" Caddie breaks off for a second. "How exactly are you
listing their conditions?"
Lie still, dear. Try to relax. The doctor will be here soon. The
pewter-and-cream lady, still out of focus, removes the needle and swabs
Caddies arm again.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...