Free Critical Judgment (1996) by Michael Palmer Page B

and does stuff like this all the time. Quinn and the police will know how to handle her.”
    Abby glared at him.
    “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
    “Angela,” Quinn ordered, taking another slight step forward, “you’ve got to stop this right now and put the knife down. We’ll take care of you.”
    “Stay back!” she screamed. “Do you all see now what can happen when you make fun of people just because they’re fat? Always snickering. Always pointing. I can’t stand it anymore!”
    Moaning piteously, she made a series of puncture wounds along the underside of her arm. From one of them Abby saw the scarlet spray from a small artery.
    “Josh, please get the backpack,” Abby said over her shoulder. “My medical bag is in there.”
    “No! You stay out of this. Quinn can handle it. There’s no need for you to rush all over the valley playing hero wherever you go.”
    “Jesus.” Abby turned to a husky man with tattooed deltoids, standing to her right. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Dr. Dolan from the emergency ward. There’s a big gray backpack over there near the picnic table. My medical supplies and bandages are in it. Could you bring it here for me, please?”
    “Sure thing, Doc,” the man said, sprinting off.
    Abby half expected her lover to chase the man down and tackle him. Josh was entering the irrational, nasty phase of whatever was eating away at him. The pressurecooker was boiling and the safety valve was stuck. Sometime between now and late afternoon he would blow. Well, she was near boiling point herself.
    “All right, everyone,” Quinn was saying. “You all know that Angela has this problem. It doesn’t help to stand around gawking at her. Go on. Get your kids out of here and get back to the picnic.”
    Immediately, the crowd dispersed. It was as if the onlookers had wanted to go but had needed someone to break the stranglehold of lurid fascination. In seconds there were only fifteen or so remaining, mostly men, who seemed ready for action.
    Pointedly ignoring Josh, Abby moved next to Quinn.
    “I have first-aid supplies in my backpack,” she said softly. “A man’s bringing it over.”
    “Oh, Angela’s okay,” Quinn replied, clearly annoyed with the woman and frustrated that he could not simply end the matter with a frontal assault. “Just nuts. She’s been doing things like this for months—smashing her head against the wall until she’s a bloody mess, cutting herself. We’re all getting a little sick of it. I just want to make sure no one but her gets hurt.”
    “She’s cut an artery in her arm. I think we should be trying to stop the bleeding soon.”
    “Someone went to call the police and rescue.” Quinn risked another step forward. “She’ll be all right. People get arms and legs cut off and survive.”
    “Not always,” Abby said sharply. Could anyone really be that callous?
    She moved up next to him. They were now about ten feet away.
    “Stop it!” Angela screamed, slashing the air in their direction, cutlass style. “Stop it! Let me die! I deserve to die!”
    Her eyes were wild. Tears washed through the blood smeared across her cheeks. The ground at her feet was becoming sodden.
    “Damn her,” Quinn muttered.
    A woman hurried up to Quinn on the side opposite from where Abby stood. She had short graying hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and a Save the Planet T-shirt.
    “Lyle, I’ve called rescue and the police,” she said breathlessly. “They’re at an accident at Five Corners. It’ll be another ten or fifteen minutes.”
    “Jesus.”
    “Poor Angela. This is worse than I’ve ever seen her. After I spoke to Sergeant Brewster, I called her mother. She’ll be right over, but she lives in Green Gables.”
    “Oh, great, Kelly,” Quinn snapped. “The last thing we need is another hysterical member of the Cristoforo clan.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Look, call Brewster back. Tell him I want a cruiser and two men here in five minutes or