Pietro and Roberto carried Luisa between them while the doctor looked me over. “Not even back in town a month and already getting yourself hurt. Let me take a look."
I bent my head, and he dabbed at the cut on my forehead with an alcohol wipe. “It looks like you might have a little more character to that baby face of yours," the doctor, who had always been irascible with me in a sort of grumpy geezer sort of way, said. “Whatever hit you, it went all the way to the bone. It’s deep, but just a bandage will do."
"I got lucky," I said, wincing when the doctor applied a liquid onto the cut. It smelled bad, and not in the alcohol sense either—it was something else. "What the hell is that?”
"Surgical adhesive. Stings like hell, but it'll keep the wound closed. I think you can put your own Band-Aid on the cut. Now let me see how the young lady is doing.”
I watched the doctor hurry inside, and I saw Dad come out. His face was written with concern, and I shook my head. "I'm fine."
He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder. "And the ear?"
"Doc can check that out later. Come on, let’s see what he says about Luisa."
He shook his head and pointed to his office. "Right now, we’re going to try to find out who’s responsible with for this. Miss Mendosa is being looked after—there’s nothing we can do but get in the way.”
I swallowed my reply, knowing he was right. "Okay."
The first thing I did when we got to Dad's office was start telling him the story of walking back to the convention center from the coffee shop, stopping and repeating myself carefully when I started to ramble around the time of the explosion itself. "So this man—you didn’t get a good look at him?" He asked.
"I didn't, but Luisa probably did," I replied. "They were practically nose to nose there for a few moments. I tumbled when he hit me, so by the time I was back up, he was already running away. I didn't chase him because she was still down. Then the bomb went off, and things got a little crazy.”
He nodded knowingly, then went over to his liquor cabinet and poured me a finger of scotch whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Here. Sip slowly. I know the doctor won’t approve, but sometimes, men of science and men of reality have different points of view."
I took it thankfully, sipping slowly. As the scotch burned its way down my throat, I focused on not coughing, letting my nerves settle down. "When I could think again, I checked on Luisa and decided I had to get us both out of there. Bertolis and explosions aren’t the sort of thing that we need to have in the same sentence."
Dad nodded and poured his own, taking a seat behind his desk. "I agree. You did well. It was the smart thing to do."
"I should have done more," I said disapprovingly. "I'm not just one of your men. I'm also your son."
"You’re not Superman, despite trying to look the part by spending so much time in the gym,” Dad said with a chuckle.
He turned on the small television he kept in his office, turning it to the local CBS affiliate. A special news report was already showing, with fire trucks and police gathered outside the convention center. We watched as the reporter, a guy who'd been with the station since I was in high school, described the scene. "The reports are preliminary, but from what I can gather, the bomb was placed in a trash can near the north entrance of the building, where attendees were coming back after a lunch break. Interior security cameras show this man placing a package in the garbage can closest to the entry hallway before running out. Unfortunately, the only camera footage released so far shows no details about his identity, although a group has come forward to claim responsibility for the attack."
The camera shot cut back to a prepackaged video, supposedly uploaded to the station soon after the attack. The screen showed a hooded figure wearing a black mask, with a giant Earth emblazoned on a backdrop behind him. "The Gaea Defense Force takes full responsibility for this defense of our planet and mother. Those who were injured today were nothing more than viruses, bacteria who are polluting and raping our mother. Like any good child, we defend our mother. Stop the slaughter of cattle, stop the pollution of our Earth. This is the GDF. We will not back down. We will not let up."
The video continued, but the reporter's voice took over. Dad and I watched it for a few more minutes, but there was nothing more that came out. He reached up and shut off the television. “I’ve had dealings with those types before at the restaurant," Dad said, sighing as he leaned back. "They're relatively new in town—an offshoot of the environmental movement."
I sighed, finishing my scotch. “Why are they so violent?"
"They've gotten some new people involved, it seems," Dad said. “They’re probably just trying to get noticed. I think they know enough to not screw with our family, though. As for Miss Mendosa, I can’t say for certain."