by Sandra Brown
Chapter Eight
Kathleen hurled herself toward the glass door, and when it wouldn’t open, she frantically pounded the glass with her fists, unconscious of the bruising she was giving them. She screamed without ceasing, frantic, her fingernails torn away in futile efforts to open the mechanized door.
Pandemonium had broken out in the terminal. Sirens sounded, people were rushing toward the doors and windows to witness the carnage spread out before them. Ticket counters were deserted. Kathleen fought her way through the onlookers, unaware of the wild, desperate gleam in her eyes. She raced out the front door and around the west side of the building, sliding on the muddy ground. The periphery of the airfield was surrounded by a high cyclone fence that seemingly offered no gates for entrance.
Without any thought to safety, Kathleen began to climb the fence. Her hands were ripped by jagged metal, and her clothes torn by pricking barbs, but still she continued to climb until she gained the top and was able to drop to the ground on the other side. Her palms and knees were scraped by the rough concrete as she landed.
She ran toward the blazing wreckage and its suffocating black column of smoke. It looked like a funeral pyre.
“No. He must be alive,” she insisted, even as she ran.
By now, emergency vehicles were surrounding the aircrafts. The smaller plane was barely recognizable as such. There was no doubt as to the fate of its pilot and passengers. Only the front section of the larger aircraft was burning, and firefighters were valiantly trying to put out the life-taking flames.
“Hey, lady, are you crazy?” Kathleen was tackled from behind and flung to the ground. “How’d you get out here, anyway? Stay the hell out of our way.”
The fireman’s face was smoke-smudged and haggard. He was wearing the yellow slicker and hat associated with his job. What he said was true. She shouldn’t be hindering them if they were trying to save Erik’s life. She refused to believe that he had no life left to save.
Kathleen pushed herself to her feet and moved away, watching while fireman worked to put out the blaze as other survival teams were unloading passengers from the rear emergency exit of the craft.
She watched with growing panic as passengers were gingerly lifted out. Some were able to crawl out under their own strength, others needed support. Most were bleeding, some were unconscious, some were dead. It was from these that Kathleen averted her eyes. Erik wasn’t dead. She knew he wasn’t dead.
Her attention riveted on a passenger being unloaded now. Apparently, he was heavy, for two brawny men were having a hard time hauling him down out of the jet. Kathleen’s heartbeat escalated, though she hadn’t thought that was possible. Then she saw the shining blond hair, blood-streaked but no less brilliant in the gray light.
“Erik!” The name was pushed out of her lungs and she ran toward the men who had strapped him on a stretcher and were whisking him toward a waiting ambulance.
“Wait!” she shouted as they were collapsing the legs of the stretcher to shove it into the vehicle.
She ran up to them, gasping for breath. “He’s… Is he…? I’m…”
“He’s not dead,” the paramedic said gently. “As a matter of fact, all I could see was a bad bump on the head. Now, please, let us get him to the hospital.”
“But the… the…” She pointed toward the portable oxygen mask covering Erik’s nose.
“He’s on oxygen. He’s got a lung full of smoke. Now, please—”
“I’m going with you,” Kathleen said determinedly, even as she gazed down into Erik’s waxen, still—too still—face.
“No way.” The other paramedic spoke for the first time. “We’ve got injured people who need medical attention. Get out of the way.”
Obediently, she stepped back and allowed them to place Erik in the back of the ambulance. One of the men climbed in behind the stretcher and slammed the door, obliterating her view.
What if Erik had internal injuries that weren’t visible? Internal bleeding? Hemorrhages!
The ambulance’s motor started and she ran around to the driver’s side. Beating on the window, she shouted, “Where are you taking him?”
“St. Edward’s” the paramedic shouted as he drove away. “Just follow the sirens.”
* * *
St. Edward’s Mercy Medical Center was only about a five-minute drive from the airport. Kathleen followed the wailing ambulances with their grim cargoes into the emergency entrance of the modern medical complex.
She watched the ambulance Erik was in as it pulled up to the covered porte cochere and unloaded the stretchers it was carrying. She parked his Blazer, automatically locking it securely as he had directed her to, and scrambled up the incline to the automatic doors. Kathleen had just run through them when she saw Erik being wheeled into one of the treatment rooms with a crew of medical personnel following. She was glad to see that the hospital was manned with a disaster team adequate to handle an emergency like this.
Kathleen knew it was useless to attempt to follow Erik, so she nervously sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the colorless, cold waiting room.
And she prayed.
She was certain that St. Edward’s would have a chapel, but for some reason, she didn’t feel the need to seek its solace. She wanted to remain as close to Erik as she could. Her faith had always been deep and abiding and she had called on it frequently in her life. Now was one of those times, and she bargained with God for Erik’s life, promising circumspection, anything, in the way people are wont to pray in times of crisis.
The next few hours passed in a blur of confusion, heartache and fear. Each time someone would come out of or go into the room where Erik was, Kathleen would hasten to them, her eyes pleading for information, but she was either brusquely pushed aside or given a compassionate look which told her nothing. Relatives of the most unfortunate crash victims were summoned into rooms where crying and anguish could be heard in bone-chilling volume.
Telephones rang, patients with minor injuries came and went in an endless parade, elevator doors whished open and whirred closed, doctors and nurses rushed about and Kathleen was oblivious to it all. Her eyes remained glued to the door behind which Erik might be fighting for his life. If only she could see him, maybe her presence would make a difference in his condition. Could she imbue him with enough strength to pull him out of danger?
When she didn’t think she could stand it any longer, she crossed to the crescent-shaped reception desk and cleared her throat loudly to attract the attention of the nurse who was poring over a chart.
“Yes?” The nurse looked up at Kathleen.
“Miss—” Kathleen glanced down at the name tag pinned to the white polyester uniform. She corrected herself. “Mrs. Prather? Could you… would… Mr. Gudjonsen… He was brought in from the airport. Could you tell me something, anything, of his condition? Please.”
“Are you a relative?” Mrs. Prather asked peremptorily.
Kathleen was tempted to lie, but she couldn’t and she didn’t think the worldly-wise Mrs. Prather would believe her anyway. She looked down at the gray tile floor and said quietly, “No. We’re… uh—”
“I think I understand,” Mrs. Prather said. Kathleen jerked her head upward and looked into the gray-blue eyes that had softened slightly. For some reason, this young woman with the emerald eyes, auburn hair and torn clothes had touched a soft spot in Mrs. Prather’s heart. “I’ll see what I can do.” She turned on silent, rubber-soled feet, and then said over her shoulder, “I’ll bring you back some antiseptic for your hands, too.”
Kathleen glanced down at her hands and for the first time saw that they were purple with bruises and bleeding from numerous abrasions. She had no fingernails, only bloody stubs. When had that happened? When she looked up again, Mrs. Prather was gone.
Anxiously, she waited at the desk, counting the number of times the elevator door opened and closed.
“Thank you, I’m fine,” she answered in monosyllabic words when another nurse i
nquired if she could be of assistance.
Finally, Mrs. Prather bustled through a swinging door and came to the front of the desk, handing Kathleen a square of gauze with some smelly, yellow lotion in its center.
“Wipe your hands with this. It’ll burn like hell, but you need to clean those cuts out.”
“Erik?” Kathleen asked in desperation.
“He’s been X-rayed and examined carefully. They see no signs of internal injuries or broken bones.”
“Thank God,” Kathleen whispered, and shut her eyes against the wave of dizziness that swept over her.
“However,” Mrs. Prather qualified, “he hasn’t regained consciousness. He’s still comatose and has a nasty gash on his head. Several stitches were taken on his scalp. The sooner he wakes up, the better.”
Kathleen stifled the cry that almost found its way out of her throat. “Maybe if I could see him, talk to him…”
Mrs. Prather was already shaking her head. “Not now. I’m sorry, but it’s really better for him if you don’t. I’m sure that when he wakes up and his condition stabilizes, the doctor will let you see him for a very few minutes. Until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
Kathleen reached out and touched Mrs. Prather’s sleeve. “Thank you,” she said quietly as she turned away to resume her vigil.
Dusk became darkness, unnoticed by Kathleen. The lights came on automatically in the parking lot outside the emergency room. Traffic on the busy thoroughfare now bore the glare of headlights and winking red taillights, and still she didn’t leave her post.
Mrs. Prather went through the swinging doors frequently, but each time she returned to the desk, she looked toward Kathleen and shook her head sadly. There was no reason for words. She already knew Kathleen’s question.
Mrs. Prather had been gone for some time now, Kathleen mused hopefully as she glanced down at her watch. Maybe she’d be back soon with some news. Just then, the automatic door from the outside swung open and a woman rushed through it.
Kathleen’s eyes were inexplicably drawn toward her. She was small, blonde and extremely attractive. Her perfect features were marred with anxiety as she swept toward the desk. She was wearing a straight cotton skirt that fit her tiny figure to perfection. A soft cotton blouse molded over small, round breasts.
She rested her palms on the high desk and strained toward the nurse who was briefly relieving Mrs. Prather.
Her voice was husky and the words tumbled over each other in their rush to get out as she said, “I’m Mrs. Gudjonsen. I was called by a Dr. Hamilton about Erik Gudjonsen. The doctor knows I’m coming.”
“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Gudjonsen. Go in there.” The efficient nurse pointed the beautiful young woman toward the swinging doors that had held Kathleen’s unwavering attention for the past hours.
Mrs. Gudjonsen whirled away from the desk, and her dainty, swift feet took her inside the treatment room, the door closing behind her.
And just as soundly, just as impregnably, a door closed around Kathleen’s heart.
She sat perfectly still, afraid that if she made the slightest movement, she would shatter into a million brittle shards. Heat washed over her head and throbbed in her earlobes until they felt as if they were on fire. Her lungs constricted, squeezing out her life’s supply of oxygen, and she couldn’t swallow the bile that rose to the back of her throat.
She was lightheaded and feared that she was about to faint. The roaring in her head must surely be heard by everyone around her, though they all seemed to go about their business unperturbed. Didn’t they realize that she, Kathleen Haley, was dying? Now. They could be witnessing the slow, agonizing, torturous death of someone’s soul. And they didn’t see. They didn’t care.
She had to get out, away.
Knowing better than to listen to Edna’s gentle advice, she had followed it nonetheless because it had been what she wanted to do. But again she had loved and lost. She had found the courage to love again, but just as her parents had deserted her, Erik would, too. Only she wouldn’t be around to let him. She’d be gone before that happened.
Carefully, hoping she wouldn’t fly apart and vanish into thin air, Kathleen stood up and crossed to the desk. Taking up a blank prescription form lying on the desk, she wrote Erik’s name on it and, with shaking fingers, pushed the paper through the gold ring that held his car keys. She placed the keys with the identifying paper where she knew Mrs. Prather would be sure to see them.
As Kathleen turned away, she bumped into a tall, husky, blond man who was hurrying up to the desk. She ducked her head, not wanting anyone to see the tears that flooded her eyes and coursed uncharted down her face.
* * *
Minutes later, Mrs. Prather’s quick, light footsteps reflected her lifted spirits. That good-looking Mr. Gudjonsen had awakened, recognized his brother and sister-in-law, and spoke to them. Then he had asked for someone named Kathleen.
There was no doubt in her mind who Kathleen was. With the doctor’s approval, Mrs. Prather spun on her heels and struck off down the hall and through the swinging doors.
But when she pushed them open and scanned the waiting room, the lovely woman with the brimming emerald eyes and the auburn hair, the scratched hands and the anxious, love-filled face, had disappeared.
* * *
“Would you tell me where she was if you knew?” Erik demanded. His eyes pierced the deep hollows into which they had sunk. Fine lines of fatigue, worry and recent illness were etched around his hard mouth and the weary, red-rimmed eyes. “Would you, dammit?” He pounded his fist on the pine table.
“Erik, calm down and quit shouting at us,” B. J. said reasonably. “We’ve told you we don’t know where Kathleen disappeared to, and we don’t. We are as worried about her as you.”
“Oh…” Erik breathed an expletive with all the despair and hopelessness in the world in his voice. He slumped into the easy chair and covered his face with his hands.
This was the second time in the last month he had come to Mountain View and begged the Harrisons for information of Kathleen. And both times they had sworn to him that they didn’t know her whereabouts.
For two weeks, he had lain in that goddam hospital, unable to find out what had happened to her. When he had regained consciousness and started asking for her, a nurse said that a woman matching his description of Kathleen had been there, but had left. He had become frantic with worry. The doctor had ordered a hypodermic to sedate him, lest he worsen his condition.
But when he awakened again, anger at his own uselessness and frustration over the patronizing platitudes of Bob and Sally had made him even more desperate.
“I’m telling you that this was no fly-by-night roll in the hay, Bob!” he had shouted at his brother. “Dammit, she wouldn’t have left like that without a word. Maybe she was mugged or murdered or raped or something. Have you thought of that? Huh?” The veins had stood out from his bandaged temple in a frightening way, and the nurses had been called to forcibly give him another sedative despite his Herculean struggles and vituperative curses to prevent them from doing so.
When he reawakened, Bob and Sally were with him, their nerves frayed, their expressions stricken. “Erik, she left your keys at the desk with a note attached. She couldn’t have been abducted. She left purposefully and calmly.” Bob looked to his wife for support, but Sally’s concern was directed toward her brother-in-law, for whom she felt a good deal of affection.
“Maybe… uh…” Bob stuttered, “maybe you misinterpreted her… uh… feelings.”
“Get out of here. Go home—anywhere. I don’t care,” Erik mumbled. “Just leave me alone.” Then he had turned away from them to stare bleakly out the window with that hard, bitter look on his face that was to characterize his expression for the following weeks.
Despite his indifference toward regaining his health, he recovered. He terrorized the nurses and cursed the doctors, but he recovered. The headache lessened a little each day, and the wound on his scalp hurt, th
en itched, then became unnoticeable as it healed.
Bob and Sally left after the initial danger was over, but returned to accompany him home to St. Louis. They took turns driving the Blazer while he sat in the backseat, brooding.
He had telephoned the desperately worried Harrisons each day while he was in the hospital, asking about Kathleen. They had told him nothing, swearing that they didn’t know anything. They hadn’t seen Kathleen since she had left with him that rainy morning. He told them that as soon as he could, he would return to Mountain View.
He had read the newspaper accounts of the airplane wreck and knew that he was lucky to be alive. Eleven passengers and the pilots weren’t so lucky. Still, sometimes he wondered why he considered himself fortunate. Without Kathleen…
Why had she disappeared without a trace? When she left, she hadn’t even known the extent of his injuries or if he would recover with all his faculties. Something had driven her away, but what?
He began his search for her at Mountain View after spending several frustrating weeks in St. Louis recuperating. The Harrisons swore that they had received no word from Kathleen except one handwritten note that had been mailed from her address in Atlanta.
Erik read it. It told nothing other than that she was well and would contact the couple later. She implored them not to worry about her, apologizing profusely for deserting them in the middle of the summer. That was all.
Now, on his second fruitless trip to Mountain View, where the leaves were beginning to display the paintbrush of autumn, Edna brought him back to the dismal present with a gentle urging.
“Tell us again what you found in Atlanta.”
He sighed and straightened himself slightly in the chair. “She had been there right after the accident. She bought off the lease to her apartment, paid up all her utilities, packed everything and left. With no forwarding address. I went to Mason’s Department Store. Did you know she wasn’t working there any longer?”
“No,” the couple said in shocked unison.
“She quit at the beginning of the summer. Yet every time we talked about her work, she made it sound as if she were going back this fall.”