Beyond Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  February 26, 2006, 3:11 p.m.

  Petra Hotel

  Grikos, Patmos

  * * *

  Jaime returned to the rocky shore to find Yani unconscious. The wind, which might have felt pleasant were she wearing a sweater and sitting in the sun, was blasting through her soaked clothes. She was cold to the bone and risked going into shock.

  She didn’t know if Yani was unconscious due to shock from the icy sea, from blood loss, or in response to an internal wound. He was still gasping for breath, his chest heaving.

  What to do first?

  Get him inside, obviously. Then what? Fight his hypothermia first, then her own? Then proceed to get medical help?

  He could die of his wound before she got him warm. Or he could die from hypothermia while she treated his wound.

  But they would certainly both die if she didn’t get them inside and at least ensure that she’d remain conscious herself.

  Jaime knelt down next to him and ran a hand from his cold forehead over his thick black hair, slightly curling because of their swim. “Yani,” she said urgently, “can you hear me?” He roused slightly, the faintest acknowledgment.

  “I know you’re cold. I know you can’t breathe. But there’s a hotel just around the corner here. I can’t carry you. Can you help me make it? If we can get there, there’s an unoccupied room, just waiting for us. If we can get there, I’ve got you; you’ll be fine.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Please. Do this for me. I’ll help you. Can you walk? Just a few steps.” In spite of the circumstances, Jaime smiled to herself. Now she was using the tone—that voice of liquid reassurance that felt to her like condescension whenever Yani used it on her.

  I’ll try. It was more a mouthing than an utterance.

  He was able to sit up, and she helped him to his feet with great difficulty. She stayed on his right side, away from the gunshot wound, and helped him—all six feet of him—to his feet.

  She could tell it took all his energy to stay upright, and she ached for him.

  Step-by-step, foot-by-foot, they progressed over the rocks. Several times he stumbled, but they didn’t have time for her to let him go down, so she caught him, always caught him, and pushed ahead.

  “Look!” she said when they reached the bend. “Look. See that terrace? That’s where we’re going. We can make it. We’re only a few feet.”

  The terrace itself hung out over the water, and it was much easier to wade the last few feet than it was to clamber over the rocks. But then, another problem: how to get over the terrace wall?

  She didn’t know what internal injuries he had. She didn’t know which way she could successfully move him and which way moving him could finish him off. She did know there was no way she could ever hoist him up herself. He had to weigh two hundred pounds, which was way more than she could lift.

  “Jaime,” he said.

  “What?” She was almost in tears but didn’t want to let him see it.

  “Get a chair.”

  Of course. She climbed as high as she could on the ground, put her hands to the top of the terrace wall, and flung herself over. She let herself lie there for a few seconds, only because her body was trembling so hard from the cold, she was afraid she couldn’t get her balance.

  Geri had obviously been on her terrace that morning, because her Bible was still on the small table next to a coffee cup and a half-drunk glass of orange juice. The doors behind were unlocked.

  Jaime opened them and hurried into the suite’s sitting area. There she grabbed a brown wooden chair with a carved back, brought it out, and practically threw it down over the terrace wall. Then she jumped down and planted it as firmly as possible. She climbed up onto it and made a stirrup of her hands to help Yani up. He did his best to hoist his arms, torso, and legs up onto the terrace. The guttural sound from his chest was spooking her, but she pretended not to notice.

  He climbed onto the chair himself—she helped push him up and over at the end—and then he lay down on his back on the wall.

  He passed out cold.

  During her two years of specialized agent training, Jaime had done intensive emergency medical studies. Now her mission was a given: triage, prioritize, stabilize, get to help.

  Jaime knew she had two great advantages. First, she had a small medical kit in her bag, which was in her room right in this hotel. Second, through her handheld she had immediate live access to a physician.

  The situation was complicated by the fact that Jaime was so cold. She couldn’t stop shaking. And if she passed out, she would be of no help to anyone.

  First… what first?

  First she had to get Yani out of those cold, wet clothes and into some warmth. She knew there was no way she could possibly get him back to her room. The hotel wasn’t laid out in traditional fashion, with doors opening off a hallway. Each room was an apartment on its own, separated by walkways and steps in the side of the hill. Even if she could drag him, unconscious, up all those stairs and across the entrance driveway, they’d undoubtedly attract a lot of unwanted attention.

  No. She’d have to warm him here and then go to her room, get the kit, start the core reading on Yani, and during the time it took to work, she would take a shower and warm herself.

  Jaime grabbed Yani under both his arms and dragged him into the room. It was no use asking him for assistance anymore; he was out.

  Jaime bent down and used the strength of her legs to put her arms under his. She barely made it inside. She was running out of energy herself. There were two low white couches in the sitting room, forming an L against the walls and around the corner, but they weren’t wide enough to be helpful. Inside the door, there was a beige rug.

  Thank God. She laid him carefully on the rug, then was able to more easily drag the rug, with him on it, through the open arched doorway into the bedroom. She felt only momentarily guilty as she perused the buffed sand-colored walls and completely white bedclothes. Not that blood exactly matched any color sheets, but this wasn’t going to be pretty. She threw back the blanket. It was another production to get his torso up and onto the low queen-sized bed.

  She swung Yani’s legs up onto the mattress. From there it was easy to sit on the bed herself and try to get the dripping, frigid clothing off his body.

  The easiest part was unzipping and pulling off his windbreaker. It was stuck to his side where the bullet had pierced him, but she pulled it away. For once, thankfully, he was wearing a buttoned shirt, and she unbuttoned and removed it from his uninjured side, then carefully peeled it from the bloody wound on his front and slowly removed it from his back.

  There was an exit wound.

  Again, thank God.

  She laid Yani down and quickly went down to remove his shoes and socks. His black jeans were harder, because they were so wet and fit so closely. But she unbuttoned and unzipped them and carefully pulled one leg off, then the other. The skin on his legs was so cold! She gently rolled him toward her, pulled back the blanket and top sheet a little farther on the bed, and rolled him back onto the dry inner sheet.

  Then she peeled off his navy blue briefs.

  She shouldn’t look, she shouldn’t care, she had no time to care, and yet—he was gorgeous. The proportions of his naked body were so… right, and the potential of the rest of him was apparent even pulled from freezing water. Michelangelo could have done worse if he’d needed a model on which to base his sculpture.

  Yani… Yani… Yani, damn you! Why didn’t you trust that I had it handled?

  She intentionally retreated to righteous anger. She wrapped the sheets and blankets around him as tightly as possible and made a mad dash for her own room.

  February 26, 2006, 3:21 p.m.

  Petra Hotel, Grikos, Patmos

  * * *

  Jaime’s room was up an outdoor flight of stairs, across the hotel drive, and up another flight. It was a single room plus a bath. All Jaime took time to do was scoop up her overnight bag, whic
h held a change of clothes, and grab the small supply bag she’d stashed separately behind the floor mirror.

  Then she turned and ran back toward the Petra Suite. Of course the Allendes would have the finest in the hotel. And thankfully, Geri was away.

  She’d left the door to their suite unlocked. Jaime hurried inside and threw the bolt behind her. She rushed to the bed to make sure Yani was still breathing and found his gasps had gotten much worse. She touched his forehead, which was still icy cold.

  Dear God.

  She pulled out her handheld, pressed the button to open it, and said a short prayer of gratitude that among other things, it was waterproof.

  Jaime was still shivering herself, and as she tried to handle the device her fingers prickled as if hundreds of pins were jutting into them. She was also grateful for the voice recognition technology!

  “Operative wounded,” she said, and her words were instantly translated into text. “Gunshot wound to side. Breathing extremely labored. Also danger of going into hypothermic shock from escape through February seas. Please respond.”

  She pressed “send” and a small red light indicated the message had gone out.

  Jaime darted into the bathroom to start the shower water toward warm; then she sat down on the foot of the bed next to Yani and opened her supply kit, taking out the smaller medical case.

  There were circles of blood on the sheets over Yani’s wounds, but at least the ice-cold water had slowed his heart and helped stop the bleeding. There was a rasping in his labored breathing now.

  As she opened the medical case, her handheld beeped a response.

  Is patient bleeding copiously? it asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  Where is entrance/exit wound?

  “Entrance wound, mid left back, slightly higher exit through lower left chest.”

  Core reading will give me the info I need and will attend to the hypothermia, came the response. Do you have access to device?

  “I’m on it,” she answered.

  The core reader was a device that, through a combination of heat sensitivity, magnetic imaging, and pulsing, could read a subject’s temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure, and could also image body organs and find current defects. If she was ever caught with it, it would stymie the current Terris-based medical community. The information it gathered could be transmitted instantly through Jaime’s handheld to the medical personnel on the other end. It made a long-distance diagnosis possible. The imaging waves emitted also had the side effect of sending pulses of heat through the patient’s body, temporarily raising his or her core temperature by several degrees.

  That alone might save Yani’s life.

  She dug the ends of the sheets out from where she’d tucked them together underneath him and unwrapped them, carefully turning him on his uninjured side. She stuffed pillows in front of him so he wouldn’t fall onto his stomach, which might further hamper breathing.

  The core reader was disguised inside what looked like a large, fat laundry marker. Jaime bet it would write on a shirt if she tried it. She unlocked it with the code and took out the device, relieved when she turned it on and the electronic output panel sprung to life, the codes and numbers flashing ready.

  The reading was taken rectally. Such poetic justice after Yani’s now-famous insertion of her locator device. Wouldn’t you know he’d be unconscious. She prepped the device, accomplished the insertion, watched just long enough to see the numbers begin to change. The process would take four minutes.

  Then she ran for the shower, peeling off her own soggy clothing as she went.

  Jaime was still shivering as she emerged, but at least her skin was losing its blue hue. She didn’t have time for shampoo, so her hair wasn’t completely free of that lovely briny fish smell, but oh, well. She toweled off and pulled on dry clothing from her bag. Best of all were the thick socks she’d packed. Her feet still hurt, but the socks helped enough that she knew she’d be OK.

  No matter how cheerful her interior banter, fear gripped her like a vise in the instant before she opened the bathroom door. Every time she left Yani’s sight she was terrified he’d be dead when she returned—which was, unfortunately, a rational fear. She was terrified that the bullet had punctured a lung and he’d be gone before she could get him help.

  But the moment she pulled the door open, she heard the loud, rasping, sucking sound that came from him attempting to breathe.

  He was still alive.

  Not only that, his skin had a much healthier coppery tone. The crusty white/blue had not suited him at all. She expelled her own breath, breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  As she approached the bed, she made another surprising discovery—he was awake. His eyes were open and even able to follow her progress.

  “Don’t die,” was what she wanted to say.

  “Don’t roll over,” was what came out instead.

  “I’m… being… good,” he answered, each word hard-won.

  “Don’t try to talk!” she said. This was torture.

  She sat down beside him within 15 seconds of when the reader beeped. She withdrew it and plugged the small wire into her handheld.

  “Jaime,” Yani said.

  She looked up and his eyes met hers.

  Without meaning to, she blurted, “Just tell me why! Why did you come to the cave? I had it handled! I got the information. I know where Britta Sunmark is! I was on my way out! Why didn’t you trust me?”

  A single tear escaped her eye, and she repeated, “Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “It’s… not… didn’t… trust… you. Can’t… trust… myself… when… you’re… in… danger.… It’s… bad. Wrong… I… know. Not… you.”

  With great effort, he reached his hand up and touched her face.

  Her handheld flashed that she had a response.

  “We’ll discuss this later, OK? Let’s get you fixed and out of here.”

  She was staring at the words on the handheld. It wasn’t good news.

  February 26, 2006, 3:27 p.m.

  Petra Hotel

  Grikos, Patmos

  * * *

  As I suspected, it’s a pneumothorax, it read. That means the bullet has punctured the pleural space around the lung. The pleural space is like a big vacuum that surrounds the lungs. When it’s punctured, the vacuum seal is broken and the lung cannot inflate or deflate to allow breathing to occur. And apparently, after puncturing the pleural space, the bullet has grazed the lung itself.

  The doctor’s text continued, This is good news, bad news, and good news.

  Good news is that it did not severely puncture the lung. It grazed the lung. There’s a small tear. The bad news is, without intervention, he’s going to suffocate, and soon. The good news: We’ve got someone on the scene to make a stabilizing repair. You.

  “Tell me what to do,” Jaime responded.

  The reply on her handheld was instantaneous.

  From your medical kit, you’ll need rubbing alcohol, gauze, four-inch square bandages, adhesive tape, the scalpel. From elsewhere, you’ll need a bowl of water; tap water is fine. Also some kind of tube, anything, a couple of straws will do. And if for any reason there’s not a scalpel in your kit, find something pointed, about that size. A ballpoint pen. Anything like that. Find those things and switch to your earpiece. Call me back using the following security code: 17999746, and I’ll talk you through it.

  Jaime left the list visible in the communication box and started with her medical kit. She found the required gauze, tape, bandages, alcohol, adhesive tape, and the small scalpel. Then she stood and scanned the suite for a bowl, any bowl. She found one with oranges in it, dumped the oranges onto the floor, and raced back into the bathroom to wash the bowl and fill it with tap water. She put the bowl on the floor by the bed and began looking for a tube of any kind.

  Any kind.

  Nothing.

  She hurried back out onto the terrace, looked at the remains of G
eri’s early-morning snack, and was thrilled to find a bent straw still in the orange juice glass. Jaime grabbed it, ran it into the bathroom, cleaned it out with running water, then ran some rubbing alcohol through it. It would have to do.

  Jaime rifled through the outer supply bag and found her earpiece, which had an attached microphone. With shaking fingers, she dialed the code the doctor had given her. She knew this time she was shaking in response to the phrase: He’s going to suffocate, and soon.

  Yani seemed barely conscious. His chest was rising and falling now, it seemed, with monumental effort. He was pulling in air through his mouth as quickly and deeply as he could, but it was not helping.

  “OK,” she said when the connection was made. “Operative here, as requested. Are you the physician?”

  “I’m Anna,” responded the doctor.

  “Jaime,” she said, relieved that it was a secure line and they could therefore talk freely rather than just text.

  “Jaime, do you have the items requested?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You’re using your earpiece, and you can hear me clearly?”

  “Affirmative again.”

  “All right. This is what’s going to happen. First, you’re going to securely bandage the entrance and exit wounds. But within moments of doing that, you’re going to have to insert a chest tube, because stopping up those holes will stop his breathing completely. You can’t hesitate. You’ll have to be ready to go right to it. Do you understand?” asked Anna.

  “Yes,” replied Jaime. “You’ll tell me where?”

  “I’ll tell you everything. It’s like I’m there, only using your hands. All right. Here we go. Let’s do the exit wound first.”

  Anna’s directions were clear, and the procedure was simple. Yani was still on his right side. Jaime cleansed the wound in his chest, gauzed it, and put on a tight bandage.

  When she was done, suddenly his breathing became frantic.

  “I’ve made it harder for him to breathe,” Jaime told Anna.