by Tim Downs
“Look, this is important. I’m in a big hurry.”
“And your time’s more important than mine?”
Kemp pulled out his wallet. “I’ll give you ten bucks if you’ll switch places with me.”
She looked at his wallet. “This must be important to you.”
“Very important.”
“Then make it twenty.”
“Twenty! Forget it!”
She turned away. “Have a nice wait. I think I might get two books.”
Kemp pulled out a twenty. “This is blackmail.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
Kemp stepped in front of her and tapped the shoulder of the man next in line. “Hey—ten bucks if you’ll switch places with me.”
The squat-bodied woman leaned out from behind him. “He gave me twenty.”
Kemp stepped to the left and blocked her out. “Ten bucks, buddy—here you go.”
The man frowned. “How come she gets twenty and I only get ten?”
“Because you’re a nice guy and she’s a bloodsucking leech. C’mon, how about it?”
The man narrowed his eyes at Kemp. “Did you just call my wife a bloodsucking leech?”
“How long you been waiting?” Emmet asked the next woman in line.
“About two hours,” she said. “How about you?”
“’Bout the same. How much longer you think it’ll be?”
“Hard to say. It could take another hour.”
Emmet let out a sigh. “Just hope I can wait around that long.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I’m a working man. This is my day off—got a lot of things I need to take care of.”
“Here, go ahead of me.”
“Oh, now, I couldn’t do that.”
“No, please. I insist.”
Another ten positions. Another smile at Kemp.
Kemp was frantic. He looked at his empty wallet and all the people still ahead of him. They sure wouldn’t take credit cards, and even if they would he didn’t have time to fool with them anyway—Emmet was way ahead of him, almost halfway to the front. Kemp jumped out of line and hurried forward until he was a few positions ahead of the old man—then he looked for the friendliest female face he could find and approached.
“Hey!” he said with a big smile. “Nice to see you again!”
She looked at him awkwardly. “Um . . .”
“It’s me—Kemp McAvoy. Don’t you remember?” She tried.
“We met a while back—at the place—with what’s-his-name.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I—”
Kemp felt a tap on his shoulder. The man who was next in line said, “That’s really low.”
Kemp looked at him indignantly. “What is?”
“Hitting on a woman just to move up in line.”
“I happen to know this woman,” Kemp said. “I’m just blanking on her name right now.”
“Teresa,” the woman offered.
“Right, Teresa—I remember now. This is my friend Teresa. How are you, Teresa?”
The woman glared back at him. “My name is Paula. Get out of here, you scumbag.”
Kemp spun around and looked for Emmet—he was only ten people from the front of his line now. Kemp hurried forward again and searched for another sympathetic face—but word about the scumbag who was trying to cheat his way into line had spread like wildfire, and every man, woman, and child had mentally locked arms against him. There was no way he was cutting in line.
He looked at the table and could see Liv Hayden plain as day.
“This is incredible,” Biederman said. “Better than we could have even hoped for.”
“Even Lattes didn’t have a kickoff like this,” Wes said with a grin. “We’re off to a fantastic start. See that camera team over there? That’s CNN, my friend.”
The two men paced back and forth behind the signing table, watching the two lines roll steadily toward them like twin conveyor belts—conveyor belts lined with cash. It’s a money factory, Wes thought, a freaking money factory. Each eager reader stepped to the front of the line and extended a book, grinning from ear to ear as Liv Hayden illegibly scribbled her famous name, some buyers taking the opportunity to snap a quick photo while others tried to somehow touch her fingers as she handed the book back.
“She’s a real trouper,” Biederman said, smiling admiringly at his client’s shapely back. “You know, she hates this kind of thing. Despises it.”
“It wouldn’t have worked without her,” Wes replied. “People don’t line up just to buy a book—they’re here to get a piece of Liv Hayden. I don’t think they—”
He suddenly stopped.
Biederman looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
Wes pointed to the line on the left. There seemed to be some kind of disturbance near the front of the line—people were pushing and arguing. Wes stepped closer to get a better look . . .
He saw Kemp McAvoy trying to force his way into line.
“It’s an emergency!” Kemp shouted, trying to squeeze in front of a pregnant woman.
Two men hurled insults at him while a small boy kicked at his shins.
Biederman and Kalamar grabbed Kemp by the shoulders and dragged him out of line.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Wes whispered angrily in Kemp’s ear.
“I’m just trying to get an autograph,” Kemp whispered back. “What does it look like?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Biederman said. “Get out of here, McAvoy. She can’t see you—you’ll ruin everything!”
“This whole thing was my idea!” Kemp said, raising his voice. “Why am I standing in line with the rest of these morons?”
Biederman grabbed the book from his hand. “Give me the book, you fool—I’ll get it signed for you.”
Kemp snatched the book back. “No! I have to meet her myself—I have to get to her before he does!”
Kemp looked over at Emmet. The old man was next in line now; in a few more seconds it would be too late.
In frantic desperation Kemp twisted out of Biederman’s and Kalamar’s grips and hurtled toward the front of the line. Each of the people ahead of him in line did his or her level best to block Kemp’s path or at least slow his progress, but Kemp plunged ahead through the gauntlet of hands and arms until he finally shoved the last man aside and reached the front of the line—but the table was closer than he had estimated, and he was running with such reckless abandon that he couldn’t stop himself in time.
Liv Hayden looked up just as Kemp crashed into the table and slid across it onto her, sending books flying everywhere and tipping her chair over backward until she slammed against the ground with Kemp on top of her.
Kemp raised himself up and stared down at her face six inches below. He whipped off his sunglasses and flashed his best smile.
Liv Hayden found herself staring up into a strangely familiar face—a face that was silhouetted against the noontime sun.
“I don’t believe in accidents,” Kemp said. “Do you?”
42
Matt Callahan looked through the window of the surgical waiting room and saw Natalie sitting by herself. She looked exhausted; her shoulders were rounded and there were dark circles under her eyes. Matt leaned closer to the glass and looked around the room; she seemed to be all alone. He straightened the flowers in his simple bouquet and opened the door.
Natalie looked up as he entered.
Before she could speak he held up one hand. “I don’t want to interrupt—you’d probably like to be alone. I know Leah has her surgery today, and I just wanted to drop these off.” He set the vase of flowers on a table in front of her and gave her a quick wave good-bye.
“Do you have to go?” Natalie asked.
Matt stopped. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
“I could use some company.” She patted the sofa beside her.
Matt walked over and sat down. “How are you holding up?”
�
�I’ve been better.”
“Any word yet?”
“There never is. Surgeons don’t like to give preliminary reports—it just gets your hopes up when things could still go wrong. That makes the bad news worse.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Matt said. “Leah will be fine.”
“Promise? I work here, don’t forget. I’ve made that promise to families a thousand times—sometimes I was right, sometimes I was wrong.”
They sat together in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie whispered.
He looked at her. “Sorry for what?”
“You were right, Matt—Leah did need an MRI. I didn’t want to hear that. I just wanted to hear that everything was all right. Weird, isn’t it? I wanted my daughter to be all right so much that I almost killed her.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Matt said. “You wanted the best for her, that’s all, and nobody knew what the best thing was. We were all just guessing.”
“Armantrout knew. He suggested the MRI right away. If I hadn’t agreed to that MRI they never would have found her tumor. Who knows how big it would have gotten before we found it some other way? By then it might have been too late. Armantrout was right. You know something, Matt? I think that bothers me more than anything else—he was right. He was arrogant, and rude, and heartless—but he was right. He may have saved Leah’s life.”
“He didn’t save Leah’s life,” Matt said. “An angel did.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, Natalie—I was up most of the night. Armantrout recommended the MRI, but the only reason he recommended an MRI was because Leah thought she was seeing angels. Do you see what I’m getting at? If it wasn’t for what she saw, none of this would have happened.”
“But what if it was all in her head?”
“When I couldn’t sleep last night I looked up temporal lobe epilepsy . . . It’s true, sometimes it makes people see auras or bright lights, but they’re usually just vague sensations. Leah saw a man and a woman, and both of them were doing something very specific—holding out their hands like this, remember?” He held out his hand palm-down. “Does that sound like a ‘vague sensation’ to you? Are we supposed to believe that a tumor pressing against a bunch of neurons would cause her to hallucinate in that kind of detail—twice?”
“But what about the third time—the blinding light?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t explain that. I’m just saying there’s another possibility, that’s all. Maybe Leah actually saw something—something that was really there.”
“An angel?”
“Why not? People have seen them before—at least, they thought so. And aren’t angels supposed to do good deeds? If these really were angels, they started a series of events that helped you find that tumor before it was too late. That sounds like a good deed to me.”
“You really believe Leah saw an angel?”
“I’m not sure if I believe it or not. But you know what? I’m willing to. Maybe Armantrout didn’t save Leah’s life—maybe an angel did.”
Another hour passed—still no word from the surgeon.
“Can I get you anything?” Matt asked.
“No, thanks,” Natalie said. “I don’t want to keep you. Don’t you have school today?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting.”
“It doesn’t matter. If it was a school day I’d be here anyway. Hey, my star pupil is out sick—what’s the point?”
She hooked her arm through his.
“To tell you the truth, Natalie, I was surprised to find you here alone. Where’s your—you know—”
“My boyfriend? My significant other? My domestic partner? There’s no good name for a man who won’t commit to you. His name is Kemp, and he won’t be here. He’s never been there—not when I needed him.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not. I threw him out—I told him to pack his bags and get out and never come back. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what took me so long. That’s why I’m here alone.”
Matt patted her hand. “Who’s alone?”
Natalie looked into his eyes and smiled.
43
Leah opened her eyes and looked up at the recovery room ceiling. It seemed to be spinning a little—the way the sky looked when she jumped off the merry-go-round and lay on her back in the grass. Everything was a little fuzzy; she blinked her eyes and tried to focus better, but it didn’t seem to help. Her head ached terribly, and she could feel the bandages pressing her ears against her head like a winter cap. The worst pain seemed to come from the right side; she lifted her hand to touch the spot, but when she did she heard a voice:
“Now, don’t do that.”
A wrinkled old face smiled down at her.
“Emmet—what are you doing here?”
“Your momma asked me to look in on you. How you doin’, girl?”
“My head hurts.”
“They got it wrapped up real good. You look like a big Q-Tip.”
She smiled and it hurt a little more.
“Brought you somethin’.” He held up a Little Debbie cupcake wrapped in plastic; he jiggled it so that it made a crinkling sound. “You take one of these every day and you’ll be feelin’ up to snuff in no time—doctor’s orders. I know you can’t eat this just yet, so I’ll set it over here.” He set the cupcake beside her on the nightstand.
“I guess I won’t be seeing angels anymore,” Leah said.
“No? Why not?”
“They took out part of my head—the part that sees angels.”
“The part that sees angels—what part is that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Don’t be silly,” Emmet said. “They didn’t take out part of your head, sweetheart—they just took out somethin’ that wasn’t supposed to be there.”
Leah rested her eyes for a moment. “Where’s Mom?”
“You know where she is—where else would she be? Right out there in the waiting room worryin’ her heart out and waitin’ for you to wake up.”
“Is Kemp with her?”
“I have a feelin’ you won’t be seein’ Mr. Kemp for a while.” He paused. “That okay with you?”
“Yeah. That’s okay.”
“Don’t you be worryin’ about your mom now. She’ll be just fine—matter of fact, I saw a very nice man holding her hand when I passed by. Handsome fella too.”
“Who?”
“I’ll let you find that out for yourself. I should go now—I can see you need your rest. Just thought I’d stop by and lift your spirits a bit.”
“Emmet.”
“Yes?”
“You think I’ll still see angels?”
“You never can tell. If you do, I wouldn’t be ashamed to say so.”
“Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell,” Leah said. “The angels told me to shhh.”
“Maybe they were just tryin’ to warn you,” Emmet said. “Life’s not easy for folks who see angels these days—I doubt it ever was.”
“Will you come and see me again?”
“Anytime you want. All you got to do is ask.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, and almost before the word left her lips she fell asleep.
44
Olivia Hayden stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of Wes Kalamar’s office at Vision Press. Behind her, Biederman, Kalamar, and Kemp McAvoy sat three-in-a-row on a sofa with their sorry heads hung low. No one had said anything for a long, long time; none of the men had the courage to speak first.
“Nice office,” Hayden said without turning around. “A little shabby, but it’s got a decent view. I’ve got a house up there in the hills, you know.” She glanced back over her shoulder, daring anyone to reply.
They all stared at the floor.
She turned and planted herself with her fists on her hips like a drill sergeant, staring at the tops of their heads one at a time. �
�Let me see if I understand all this,” she said in a low and even tone. “There never was an angel. No vision—no message from beyond—no ‘chosen one’—no special calling.”
“I think you’re very special,” Biederman said. “I’ve always said so.”
“Shut up, Morty.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
“So my ‘vision’—the three of you just made the whole thing up. You manufactured it out of thin air.”
“We put in some long nights,” Biederman said. “Wes is very good at—”
“Shut up, Morty.”
“Sorry.”
She stepped in front of Kemp. “You—you’re the one who came up with this whole idea. What are you, anyway, some kind of Nazi doctor?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Kemp mumbled. “I’m a nurse.”
“A nurse? What did you think you were doing screwing around with my head?”
Kemp didn’t answer.
She stepped in front of Wes Kalamar next. “And you’re the publisher. No wonder you got the book done so fast. I thought you must be some kind of boy wonder, but you just had a cheat sheet—you got the notes in advance.”
Then it was Biederman’s turn.
“And you, you little parasite. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at you. You’ve been sucking my blood for twenty years—why should you change now? A vulture doesn’t turn vegetarian overnight.”
When she turned away Biederman quietly rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “I’d like to say something, if I may.”
Kemp and Wes stared up at him in disbelief.
“I know you’re upset, sweetheart, and believe me, none of us blame you. You’ve called me a parasite, and a lesser man might be offended at this. But the truth is, that’s precisely what an agent is—a parasite. I live off of you. If you succeed, I succeed; if you starve, I starve. As you so colorfully put it, I suck your blood. If someone cuts me, I bleed—but remember, sweetheart, when I bleed it’s your blood I bleed.”
“Morty, can I interrupt?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind? What are you babbling about?”