She knew she would never forget watching Richard Kraven die, nor ever get over the terrible feeling she had experienced as his final glare of pure hatred had burned through her.
Then she thought of Glen, and was instantly consumed by a desire to be held by him, to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers, his strength pulling her close to him.
She would be all right. In a few hours she would be with Glen again; in a few days, a few weeks, she would begin to forget the clinical precision of what she’d just seen.
But would she ever be able to forget the terrible hatred that had poured forth from Richard Kraven even as he’d died?
CHAPTER 6
The wailing siren built to a deafening crescendo that was abruptly silenced as the ambulance braked to a stop in front of the construction site. Both doors flew open and two white-clad men leapt from the cab, one of them racing around to the back of the vehicle to pull out a stretcher, the other, carrying a small tank of oxygen and a face mask, breaking into a run toward the area where Glen Jeffers lay.
“Let me through,” the paramedic commanded as he pushed his way through the crowd gathered around the fallen man. “Who’s in charge here?” Without waiting for a reply, he knelt beside Glen’s body, quickly felt for a pulse, then put the mask on Glen’s face and turned the oxygen to high flow.
“We think he had a heart attack,” Jim Dover said. “We were all up on top. All of a sudden Glen started looking weird. We thought it was just fear of heights, but—”
His words were cut off as the second paramedic pushed through the crowd, unrolled the portable stretcher and lay it next to the unconscious body. “Myocardial infarction?”
“Looks like it,” the first medic said. “Let’s get him on the stretcher and into the truck.” Working together like a well-oiled machine, the two paramedics moved Glen onto the stretcher, then started back toward the ambulance. The construction crew fanned out ahead of the stretcher, clearing the way, while Alan Cline, together with George Simmons and Jim Dover, kept pace next to Glen.
“He’s a member of Group Health,” Alan Cline said, his voice trembling as he saw the bluish cast his partner’s face had taken on. “If you can take him up there—”
The paramedics slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, one of them climbing in to attach Glen to the waiting IV and heart monitor. “You can go with him,” the driver told Alan Cline. “There’s plenty of room, and if he wakes up—”
Alan Cline didn’t wait to hear the medic finish what he was saying, but scrambled into the back of the ambulance. The driver slammed the door shut, then dashed around to the driver’s seat. The ambulance started up the street, turned right up the steep slope of the hill, and then the siren came on.
Muffled by the walls of the ambulance, its wail took on a mournful, keening note, and as Alan Cline gazed at his partner, he wondered if it would be possible for Glen to survive at all.
It was like slowly coming awake in a pitch-dark room. Except the first thing that met him as he came into consciousness was pain.
Pain such as he’d never experienced before.
Pain that consumed him.
Pain that threatened to tear his mind apart.
Away!
He had to get away from the pain before it destroyed him.
Where?
Where was he?
His mind struggled against the blackness, and slowly it began to recede.
Now he could hear sound.
It seemed to be coming from somewhere far in the distance, but in a moment Glen was able to identify it.
A siren, like a police car, or an ambulance.
The dark receded further, and he was able to see. But it was odd — he seemed to be floating in some dimension he didn’t quite understand. Far below him, he could see two men crouching near a figure on a stretcher. They were confined by walls, as if perhaps they were in—
An ambulance!
But why?
Even as the question came into his mind, he knew the answer, and looked down once more at the figure on the stretcher.
He was looking at himself.
His shirt was open, his chest bare, and his face looked as pale as death.
Death.
The word hung in his mind.
Was that what was happening to him? Was he dying?
But if he was dying, why didn’t he feel anything?
Then he knew.
He was no longer in his body. Somehow, during that last terrible flash of blinding pain, he’d managed to escape, slipping away from the agony before it could break his mind.
Now, gazing back down at his body, he could see that the pain was still there, for his face was contorted into an anguished grimace.
He heard Alan Cline’s voice drifting up:
“Jesus, what’s happening? Can’t you do something for him?”
Another voice, this one shouting, but somehow no louder than Alan’s had been:
“We’re losing him! I’m gonna need some help back here!”
As Glen floated far above, the scene continued to unfold. Though he felt nothing, he knew the ambulance had stopped, for now the driver had joined the man who crouched over him. As the first medic began pressing rhythmically on his chest, the second one removed a plastic object from a cabinet fastened to the ambulance’s wall.
Almost disinterestedly, Glen Jeffers watched as his own mouth was opened and a plastic airway was thrust down his throat.
“Let’s get some lidocaine into him,” he heard the other medic order. As if no time at all had passed, he saw the other medic slide a needle into the IV tube and press the plunger. But even as the drug was going into Glen’s system he heard the paramedic who was crouched over his body speak again.
“We’re getting PVCs! Get the defibrillator ready!”
“What’s happening?” he heard Alan Cline ask. “What’s PVC mean?”
“Premature ventricular contractions,” the paramedic snapped. But when he spoke again, his tone had changed, now sounding almost pleading. “Come on,” he crooned. “Come back to me!”
The words hovered in the space around Glen, but held little meaning for him. Darkness began closing around him until he seemed to be in the depths of a tunnel, with only a single speck of light visible in the distance. As the voice of the medic spoke again, Glen began moving toward the light, and now the light itself seemed to be beckoning to him.
He moved faster and faster through the landscape of his own life, watching himself as a baby in his crib, at home, and now his mother was picking him up, holding him, cuddling him. Then he was at school, and everyone he had ever known — everyone he thought he had long ago forgotten — was there.
On and on it went, his life spread out before him, and as he experienced it all, he grew ever closer to the welcoming beacon of brilliant white light at the end of the tunnel.
Now he could see figures in the lights.
His grandparents were there, and someone else, someone he recognized in an instant.
The baby.
The baby they’d lost twelve years ago, when Anne had gone into premature labor with their second child.
Alex, his name would have been.
And now here the baby was, waiting for him, his arms held out eagerly.
Glen moved faster now, racing toward the light, leaving even the memory of the pain far behind.
Then, from behind him, he heard a voice, pleading with him not to leave.
Not a single voice, but a plaintive chorus, a blend of tones in which he could hear not just Anne, but Heather and Kevin, too.
Calling out to him, pleading with him.
He paused, slowing his rush toward the light, and looked back.
All was darkness, a vast and forbidding expanse of black, which he knew was filled with pain.
Ahead, bathed in the sweet light, his grandparents and the child he’d never met awaited, reaching out to welcome him.