by John Saul
She had no idea what time it was when she woke up, but she sensed immediately that something was wrong.
The air in her room was heavy, and acrid with smoke.
She came fully awake, and then she could hear it.
A crackling sound, as if someone were crumpling paper.
She ran to the window and looked out, half expecting to see a brush fire burning in the desert.
But the bright yellow glow that filled the yard was not coming from the desert beyond her property. It was coming from the house itself.
Rita gasped, instinctively slammed the window shut, then snatched her robe from the foot of the bed, shoving her arms into its sleeves as she hurried to the bedroom door.
The hall was choked with smoke. As she pulled the door open, it rolled into the room, filling her nostrils and making her gasp for air. She slammed the door closed again, then ran once more to the window.
No way down.
If she jumped, she would surely break her legs, if not her back.
She thought quickly. If she took a deep breath, she could make it down the stairs and out the front door before she had to take another.
What if she tripped and fell on the stairs?
She put the thought out of her mind.
She returned to the door once more, then steeled herself as she took three deep breaths, holding the last one.
Throwing the door open, she hurled herself toward the top of the stairs twenty-odd feet away.
She could hear the fire roaring now, and almost turned back, but then she was at the top of the staircase. The walls of the foyer were blazing, their ancient hand-carved wood panels crackling and curling as the fire consumed them.
Now it was too late to turn back. She drew the robe tighter around her as she hurried down the marble stairs. Then she was in the foyer itself. The front door was only a few yards away.
She ran to it, twisting at the knob, her aching lungs releasing her breath as they anticipated the fresh air on the other side of the door.
The door refused to open. Rita’s fingers fumbled with the lock mechanism, struggling to turn it.
Her lungs expanded and she choked as smoke was sucked into her throat.
Coughing, she twisted at the lock again, then jerked hard on the door.
It gave way slightly, then stuck again.
The chain!
Panic was overwhelming her now, and as she tried to breathe again, smoke gorged her lungs and she felt her legs weaken beneath her. She hurled herself against the door, then tried to reach the chain, but it was too late.
Her legs betrayed her, and she slid to the floor, overwhelmed by the smoke that was trapped in the room.
The fire seemed to close in on her, reaching out to take her in its arms, its flames whispering to her, calling to her.
As her lungs filled once more with the bitter, stinging miasma, she gave in to the beckoning arms, gave herself up to the fire.
And as she passed into the blackness that now surrounded her, she thought she saw Max, coming toward her, his hand held out to her.
That was how they found her when the fire finally died: her hand stretched out as if reaching for help. They thought she was reaching for the door, trying to make good her escape from the flames.
In truth, though no one would ever know it, she had not been reaching for the door at all in those last fleeting seconds of her life.
She had been reaching for Max, and she had found him.
Chapter 21
Night fell in Borrego. High above the town, at the rim of the canyon, there was a low hum of well-oiled machinery.
The huge antenna came slowly to life.
Midnight.
Gina Alvarez was lying in her bed, her eyes closed, a book propped on her knees. She’d fallen asleep earlier that evening, but then awakened when the fire trucks screamed by the little house she shared with her mother and younger sister. She’d gotten up and looked out the window. At first she’d seen nothing, but then, off in the distance somewhere near the mesa, an orange glare had flared up. She’d thought about going outside and trying to get a better look, but then decided against it and gone back to bed. But by then she was wide awake again, so she’d decided to do some reading for her American literature class. The book was The Deerslayer, and though she found the story interesting enough, the style seemed kind of old-fashioned to her, and she’d found her eyes growing heavy.
Now she wasn’t quite asleep, but neither was she quite awake. She was in that half state somewhere in between, where she was vaguely aware of what was going on around her, but the images of dreams to come were already beginning to sneak up from her subconscious like night creatures emerging from their holes.
A haze of color played around her vision, and she idly wondered if it could be morning already. But she knew it was impossible—her reading light was still on, and she could feel the weight of her book resting on her legs. She toyed abstractly with the idea of moving the book to her night table and switching off the light, but knew the movement itself would banish the sleep that had almost overcome her. Then she would be lying in the darkness, fully awake again, and her mind would start working overtime, going over her schedule for tomorrow, worrying about a quiz in history, trying to think of things she might be able to do to help Jed.
Suddenly, despite herself, she was wide awake again.
Sighing, she picked up her book, stared at its open pages for a moment, then closed it and set it aside.
She snapped off the light, rolled over, and tried to will herself to fall instantly asleep.
Seconds ticked by.
She smelled something.
She frowned slightly and sniffed at the air, then sat up. Something smelled terrible. Like burning rubber. Or garbage rotting.
Gina’s frown deepened, but when she drew another breath in through her nose, the strange odor seemed to be gone. She hesitated a moment, then lay down again. She concentrated on making each of the muscles in her body relax, starting with her toes, then working her way up her legs, through her torso, then down her arms to her fingertips. Usually, by the time she was finished, she was almost asleep.
A few minutes later she was almost done. She felt totally relaxed, almost as if she were floating in space. Soft tendrils of sleep stroked at the edges of her mind, and she began reaching out toward them, welcoming them.
Dreams began to form, shapeless images of swirling colors, spinning out of the blackness, dancing in front of her eyes. Then, as she watched, they began to take shape, but just as she was about to recognize what they might be, they would disappear.
And then, quite suddenly, her whole body went into a spasm, every muscle in her jerking in unison.
And she was awake again.
She was sure she knew what had happened. The spasms came over her every now and then, just when she was on the verge of falling asleep. They always seemed to come jumping out at her, taking her by surprise, just when she was most comfortable, just when she had curled in the most perfect position, feeling neither too hot nor too cold. Then she would lie awake for another half hour, having to start all over again with her complicated program of relaxing.
Except that tonight was different.
Tonight, after the spasm hit her, she felt really relaxed. She stretched languidly in the bed for a moment, then yawned.
She had no urge to turn the light back on and read some more, nor did she even feel her usual impatience at the prospect of losing another half hour or so to nothing more productive than trying to go to sleep.
Within the space of a minute she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Jeff Hankins rolled over in bed, kicking out at the covers, then jerking awake.
The dream had been vivid.
He’d been on the football field, and he’d just caught the kickoff in the second half. The ball had come into his arms solidly, and he was already on the run.
In the stands he could hear all his friends cheering wildly as he sprin
ted down the field.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted one of the opposing players, bearing down on him from the left. He’d feinted, then darted right across the other player’s path, feeling the boy’s fingers try to grasp his ankle as he went by.
The field seemed to be clear then, and he could see the end zone, only twenty more yards away.
The crowd was going crazy, and the band was already playing a series of fanfares, urging him on as he charged down the field.
Ten yards to go, then five.
And then, out of nowhere, they appeared.
Three of them. Big boys, each of them towering over him, barreling down on him. He tried to turn away, but suddenly there were two more of them, even bigger than the first three, blocking his way.
And then they hit him.
He felt the shock of their weight as they slammed down on him, felt his lungs collapse as the wind was knocked out of him.
He woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. He gasped for breath, struggling to recapture his wind. Then he realized where he was, and that it had been nothing more than a dream.
Christ, he wasn’t even on the football team. In fact, his interest in football went no further than in taking a six-pack to the games and getting drunk under the grandstand with a couple of his friends. Then, after the game, they’d go out and raise a little hell around town until they got bored or the cops sent them home.
And yet, from the way he felt, it sure seemed like he’d been playing just now. The whole thing was clear in his mind, and his head even hurt, just as though someone had kicked him.
He lay back down and his breathing slowly returned to normal. He thought about the dream, even imagined he heard the crowd cheering him on again.
Fat chance of that ever happening. He’d never been any good at team sports—he’d always thought they were stupid. If you couldn’t do something your own way, he’d decided long ago, it probably wasn’t worth doing.
But now, as he remembered the dream once more and imagined what it would feel like to actually hear a crowd of people rooting for you, he wondered if maybe he’d been wrong.
He snickered softly as he thought about what his friends would say if tomorrow, instead of going down to the A&W to hang out after school, he tried out for the football team.
Maybe, he decided, he’d just do it.
A few minutes later, half hoping the dream would come back so he could try the play again, Jeff drifted back to sleep.
Susan Paynter stood up and stretched. It had been a quiet night. The hospital was almost empty, and most of the patients were sleeping, except for old Mrs. Bosworth, who was lying in her bed staring up at the television on the wall of her room. Mrs. Bosworth barely slept at all, but it didn’t seem to bother her, and as long as Susan left the TV on, she didn’t complain about anything.
She wandered down the hall, glancing into each of the rooms as she went, then turned into the staff lounge at the end of the hall. The night orderly was sitting at the table leafing through a magazine. He glanced up, then went back to the magazine as Susan poured herself a cup of coffee. Wincing as she sipped at the stale and bitter brew, she reached for the sugar. But before she could pick it up, a scream shattered the quiet of the little hospital. Instantly, the orderly was on his feet.
“It’s Frank,” Susan said as they ran out of the lounge and headed down the hall. “Find Dr. Banning.”
But from the other end of the hall, Bob Banning was already racing toward them.
Susan reached the room first, flinging the door open and snapping on the lights. When she’d stopped in no more than five minutes before, Frank had been lying peacefully in the bed, his breathing slow and regular, all his vital signs strong. Indeed, except for the abnormal patterns of his brain waves, he would have appeared merely to be asleep.
But now his eyes were wide open and he was once more struggling violently against the straps that held him to the bed. The veins on his neck and arms were standing out starkly against his flesh, and strangled sounds were bubbling from his throat.
“Jesus,” the orderly whispered, his eyes widening as he stared at Frank. “Is he awake again?”
Bob Banning quickly surveyed the monitors on the wall. Frank’s brain waves were going crazy now, forming a jagged line that bore no pattern at all. It was as if a storm were raging in his brain, sending stimuli to every muscle in his body at the same time.
Other monitors showed that his breathing and heartbeat had gone wild as well.
And then, as they watched, it stopped.
Frank went limp, his arms and legs dropping onto the bed, his head lolling on the pillow.
His eyes, staring up at the ceiling, remained open, but held a glassy, sightless look.
Susan Paynter gasped, her own heart pounding. She’d never seen anybody actually die before. Her eyes went to the monitors that tracked Frank’s vital signs, and she saw that although the man’s heartbeat had evened out, his breathing had all but stopped.
Though Frank Arnold wasn’t dead yet, in a few more minutes he would be.
Without waiting to be told, Susan raced to get a respirator. In less than a minute she was back, wheeling the machine through the door and into the space that had been cleared for it next to the bed.
Almost silently, each of them knowing his job so well that few words were necessary, the three of them set to work.
Fifteen minutes later, Frank’s condition had stabilized, and Bob Banning sighed heavily. “Get him into X ray,” he told Susan. “Whatever happened in there must have been massive, and I want to see how bad it is.”
Susan nodded. “Shall I call Jed?” she asked.
Banning hesitated. By rights, he supposed, Frank’s son should be notified immediately of what had happened. But what good would it do, really? At the moment he could tell Jed nothing more than that his father had apparently suffered yet another stroke.
And what could he tell the boy when he asked about his father’s condition?
Only that although his body was still alive, his brain was now, to all intents and purposes, dead.
“Let him sleep,” he said. “There’s nothing he can do for Frank, and tomorrow he’s going to have to make the hardest decision of his life.” His eyes drifted to the inert form in the bed. “He’s going to have to decide whether to keep his father this way, or let his body die too.”
A few minutes later, as he prepared to take Frank, still in his bed, down to the X ray room, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been kinder for him to have ignored the respirator when Susan had brought it in, and simply let Frank go.
But that wasn’t his decision.
That was a decision only Jed Arnold could make.
Then again, Jed might not have to make it at all. For it was quite possible that Frank Arnold would have yet another stroke before the morning came, and his suffering would be over.
But it was not to be: midnight had come, and now was gone.
Chapter 22
Jed stirred restlessly in his bed, then came abruptly awake. It wasn’t a lingering waking, the kind of quiet emergence from sleep he usually enjoyed, reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed. Instead it was a sudden sharpening of all his senses, a tensing of his body, as if some unseen danger lurked nearby. He sat up, pushing aside the single blanket he had slept under, then rubbed at the ache in his right shoulder where his muscles had knotted from lying too long in one position.
He hadn’t slept well. He’d gone to bed early, his mind confused with everything that had happened the day before. But as he’d lain awake, he’d remembered the strange sense of peace that had come over him the night he’d sat in the kiva with his grandfather. He’d begun to picture himself there, visualizing the glowing fire and the low roof, summoning from the depths of his memory every sensation he’d seen and heard and felt.
Slowly, as he lay in his bed, that strange trancelike state had come over him once more.
He still wasn’t certain if he’d a
ctually slept at all, for last night, in the end, had been another night spent with the spirits, and the memories of the things they had shown him were still fresh in his mind.
He had flown with Rakantoh again, soaring over the desert, seeing the world once more through the eyes of the spirit.
Everywhere, there had been evil. The earth below was scarred with the ravages of the white men, and from the sky he had been able to see them creeping through the darkness, feel the malevolence radiating from them.
For a time his vision had been filled with the brilliant yellow of flames, but after flaring up into a blinding radiance, they had quickly died away.
A little later—he had no idea how long, for time itself seemed to warp as he flew with the spirit—he had felt a strange vibration in the air and become disoriented. He’d felt himself tumbling through the sky, falling toward the earth, certain he was about to die. He had called out to Rakantoh, but the spirit was rolling and yawing in the air too, his enormous wings flapping uselessly. And then the curious vibrations suddenly stopped and he regained his bearings.
But from the earth below he felt a new sensation, a perception of pain such as he had never felt before. Rakantoh, screaming with rage, had wheeled on the wind, and they had soared away above the canyon, as the spirit searched in vain for his lost refuge beneath the lake.
Now, in the growing light of dawn, Jed lay motionless, his mind examining what he had seen in the visions of the night, trying to fathom the meaning of his strange fantasies.
* * *
It was nearly six-thirty when Judith emerged from Frank’s bedroom. Though Jed had insisted he didn’t need her to spend the night in the house with him, she’d stayed anyway, knowing that if she’d be able to sleep at all that night, it would be easier in Frank’s bed, where at least she would feel his presence. It had worked, for she had slept soundly, and when she awoke, felt herself oddly comforted by the faint smell of him that still clung to the sheet in which she was wrapped. Now she paused outside Jed’s room, his door ajar. She tapped lightly, then pushed it farther open. He was lying on the bed, and though he seemed to be looking right at her, he didn’t acknowledge her presence at all. “Jed?” she said. “Jed, are you all right?”