I still couldn't see Julia clearly, until it reached the level of the road and the rescue workers swung it around, and unclipped it from the line. She was swollen; her left cheekbone was purple and the forehead above her left eye was purple as well. She must have hit her head pretty hard. She was breathing shallowly. I moved alongside the stretcher. She saw me and said, "Jack…" and tried to smile.
"Just take it easy," I said.
She gave a little cough. "Jack. It was an accident."
The medics were maneuvering around the motorcycle. I had to watch where I was going. "Of course it was."
"It's not what you think, Jack."
I said, "What is, Julia?" She seemed to be delirious. Her voice seemed to drift in and out. "I know what you're thinking." Her hand gripped my arm. "Promise me you won't get involved in this, Jack."
I didn't say anything, I just walked with her.
She squeezed me harder. "Promise me you'll stay out of it."
"I promise," I said.
She relaxed then, dropping my arm. "This doesn't involve our family. The kids will be fine. You'll be fine. Just stay out, okay?"
"Okay," I said, just wanting to mollify her.
"Jack?"
"Yes, honey, I'm here."
By now we were approaching the nearest ambulance. The doors swung open. One of the rescue team said, "You related to her?"
"I'm her husband."
"You want to come?"
"Yes."
"Hop in."
I got into the ambulance first, then they slid the stretcher in, one of the rescue team got in and slammed the doors shut. We started down the road, siren moaning. I was immediately moved aside by the two paramedics, working on her. One was recording notes on a handheld device and the other was starting a second IV in her other arm. They were worried about her blood pressure, which was dropping. That was a great cause for concern. During all this I couldn't really see Julia, but I heard her murmuring. I tried to move forward, but the medics pushed me back. "Let us work, sir. Your wife's got injuries. We have to work."
For the rest of the way, I sat on a little jump seat and gripped a wall handle as the ambulance careened around curves. By now Julia was clearly delirious, babbling nonsense. I heard something about "the black clouds," that were "not black anymore." Then she shifted into a kind of lecture, talking about "adolescent rebellion." She mentioned Amanda by name, and Eric, asking if they were all right. She seemed agitated. The medics kept trying to reassure her. And finally she lapsed into repeating "I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't mean to do anything wrong" as the ambulance sped through the night.
Listening to her, I couldn't help but worry.
The examination suggested Julia's injuries might be more extensive than they first thought. There was a lot to rule out: possible pelvic fracture, possible hematoma, possible fracture of a cervical vertebra, left arm broken in two places and might need to be pinned. The doctors seemed most worried about her pelvis. They were handling her much more gingerly when they put her into intensive care.
But Julia was conscious, catching my eye and smiling at me from time to time, until she fell asleep. The doctors said there was nothing for me to do; they would wake her up every half hour during the night. They said that she would be in the hospital at least three days, probably a week.
They told me to get some rest. I left the hospital a little before midnight. I took a taxi back to the crash site, to pick up my car. It was a cold night. The police cars and rescue ambulances were gone. In their place was a big flatbed tow truck, which was winching Julia's car up the hill. A skinny guy smoking a cigarette was running the winch. "Nothing to see," he said to me. "Everybody's gone to the hospital."
I said it was my wife's car.
"Can't drive it," he said. He asked me for my insurance card. I got it out of my wallet and handed it to him. He said, "I heard your wife's okay."
"So far."
"You're a lucky guy." He jerked his thumb, pointing across the road. "Are they with you?" Across the street a small white van was parked. The sides were bare, with no markings or company logo. But low on the front door I saw a serial number, in black. And underneath it said SSVT unit.
I said, "No, they're not with me."
"Been here an hour," he said. "Just sitting there."
I couldn't see anyone inside the van; the front windows were dark. I started across the street toward them. I heard the faint crackle of a radio. When I was about ten feet away the lights came on, the engine started, and the van roared past me, and drove down the highway. As it passed, I had a glimpse of the driver. He was wearing a shiny suit of some kind, like silvery plastic, and a tight hood of the same material. I thought I saw some funny, silver apparatus hanging around his neck. It looked like a gas mask, except it was silver. But I wasn't sure.
As the car drove away, I noticed the rear bumper had two green stickers, each with a big X. That was the Xymos logo. But it was the license plate that really caught my eye. It was a Nevada plate.
That van had come from the fabrication plant, out in the desert.
I frowned. It was time for me to visit the fab plant, I thought. I pulled out my cell phone, and dialed Tim Bergman. I told him I had reconsidered his offer and I would take the consulting job, after all.
"That's great," Tim said. "Don will be very happy."
"Great," I said. "How soon can I start?"
DESERT
DAY 6
7:12 A.M.
With the vibration of the helicopter, I must have dozed off for a few minutes. I awoke and yawned, hearing voices in my headphones. They were all men speaking:
"Well, what exactly is the problem?" A growling voice.
"Apparently, the plant released some material into the environment. It was an accident. Now, several dead animals have been found out in the desert. In the vicinity of the plant." A reasonable, organized voice.
"Who found them?" Growly.
"Couple of nosy environmentalists. They ignored the keep-out signs, snooped around the plant. They've complained to the company and are demanding to inspect the plant."
"Which we can't allow."
"No, no."
"How do we handle this?" said a timid voice.
"I say we minimize the amount of contamination released, and give data that show no untoward consequence is possible." Organized voice.
"Hell, I wouldn't play it that way," said growling voice. "We're better off flatly denying it. Nothing was released. I mean, what's the evidence anything was released?"
"Well, the dead animals. A coyote, some desert rats. Maybe a few birds."
"Hell, animals die in nature all the time. I mean, remember the business about those slashed cows? It was supposed to be aliens from UFOs that were slashing the cows. Finally turned out the cows were dying of natural causes, and it was decomposing gas in the carcasses that split them open. Remember that?"
"Vaguely."
Timid voice: "I'm not sure we can just deny-"
"Fuck yes, deny."
"Aren't there pictures? I think the environmentalists took pictures."
"Well, who cares? What will the pictures show, a dead coyote? Nobody is going to get worked up about a dead coyote. Trust me. Pilot? Pilot, where the fuck are we?" I opened my eyes. I was sitting in the front of the helicopter, alongside the pilot. The helicopter was flying east, into the glare of low morning sun. Beneath my feet I saw mostly flat terrain, with low clumps of cactus, juniper, and the occasional scraggly Joshua tree. The pilot was flying alongside the power-line towers that marched in single file across the desert, a steel army with outstretched arms. The towers cast long shadows in the morning light. A heavyset man leaned forward from the backseat. He was wearing a suit and tie. "Pilot? Are we there yet?"