THE DAY
BEFORE
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Orlando, Florida 3:48 P.M.
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His temples throbbing, Sergeant Roger Amos
squeezed
out of the police cruiser and screwed his service cap onto his large, square head.
The
intersection was a mess.
Glass shards scattered over six lanes of highway twinkled like precious gems in the glare
of the afternoon sun. Jagged pieces of metal were strewn
a hundred yards from the collision. This was going to be ugly if traffic
wasn’t detoured. Rush hour
had started nearly an hour earlier.
The
stench of gas fumes and peeled rubber hung heavily in the air. Paramedics hauled the semiconscious
driver from the twisted metal husk that had once been a shiny red Toyota Supra.
Farther
down, traffic had already bottlenecked. With glass
covering one lane the only vehicles chancing through were a mean-sounding Hog and an ancient pickup
chugging away on four bald tires.
“Drunk’s
gonna be just fine.” Rivera trotted over, his knife-blade-thin frame easily
dodging the slow-passing ambulance. “Couple scratches and a bloody nose, maybe a cracked
rib or two. His alcohol
level’s gotta be sky high. We’ll take good care of him till it’s time
to get him to trial.”
Amos
was having trouble holding down the rage. At his last physical his doctor
clucked over him like a mother hen. That same old lecture about high blood
pressure being the silent killer and that he wouldn’t
see retirement in the next five years if he didn’t learn to mellow.
But
this was too much. Some poor Joe coming home from work and getting in the way
of someone who shouldn’t be anywhere near a steering wheel. Amos had lost several
friends and a brother-in-law under similar circumstances.
“What
tears me up,” he told Rivera, “is the poor slob who got in the way when that
drunk tore through the red light. Guy was just trying to make it home in one
piece after a hard day at the office. Too damn much to hope for these days.”
Rivera
shook his head. “I just hope they’ll be able to cut him out of the Mustang.”
The
squealing ambulance from Orlando Regional rocked to a halt, flashers lighting
the littered roadway. Its paramedics jumped out to join the first group.
Removing the driver from the smashed green Mustang was going to be a chore.
“I
gotta see this.” His nightstick tapping his thigh, Amos jogged over to the
wreckage.
The
car was mashed into a grotesque horseshoe. The trunk
lid, slammed open at impact, dangled at an odd angle, scraping the macadam. Two
paramedics huddled near the driver’s side. Two broad-shouldered men working the
Jaws of Life forced the passenger’s door open. A slender Latina woman, her
black hair tied in a thick ponytail, hopped down from the rear of the ambulance and pushed a gurney over to the group.
Amos
reached them as they laid the driver carefully onto the gurney.
Glass
and metal debris covered the man’s shirt, tie, and trousers. Metal flecks
glistened in his blood-matted dark-brown hair. His head and neck were immobilized in a yellow neck brace strapped to the
gurney. Once his left arm and leg were stabilized, a
young male paramedic tended to the bleeding while his older partner flushed the
glass carefully from the victim’s closed eyes and fitted an oxygen mask over
his face.
“Any
chance?” Amos asked.
The
older paramedic gently swabbed away the
last of the tiny fragments. “Never know. He could pull out of it. He seems to be in pretty good
shape.”
“What’s
the scenario?”
The
paramedics pushed the gurney toward the ambulance. “Massive internal damage,”
the older one said. “Some arteries were severed but we
got them clamped for the time being. I’m worried about
his head injuries. Hit it pretty hard when the Toyota
slammed into him. Can’t tell for sure
but looks like his neck snapped.
There’s a pulse…” He shook his head.
From
the other side of the road the drunk driver yelled something incoherent while the paramedics
raised his gurney before shoving it into the ambulance. Amos wanted to
shut him up permanently with his billy club. One of these days the
courts would stop messing around with these idiots and put them away for good.
The
victim opened one eye.
Amos
bent over, leaning close. It was best to sound hopeful. A little optimism might
help. “Hey, fella. You
with us?”
The
victim managed a faint smile under the mask.
Amos
tapped the younger paramedic’s arm. “He’s smilin’…”
The
rear doors were pulled open wider.
Amos
stayed close. “Say something, fella.”
The
man’s lips parted. Beneath the collective roar of idling traffic, sirens, cops, angry drivers, and harried paramedics, the only word
Amos could distinguish was something that sounded like “Philadelphia.”
“What was that?” Amos reached for the mask.
“He’s tryin’ to talk.”
“Leave
that alone.” The paramedic grabbed his wrist. “It’s helping him breathe.”
“But
I can’t hear what—”
“Doesn’t
matter.”
Amos
ignored the comment. “Hey,
fella. They’re gonna take real good care of you. They’ll be taking you to ORMC. They’ll
know exactly what to do. Got doctors all over the place, specialists—the works.
You’ll be there in just a few minutes. You’ll get everything you need. Understand?”
No
response.
“C’mon.”
The paramedic rapped him on the beefy shoulder. “We gotta go.”
Amos
clasped the man’s wrist, searching for a pulse.
It
was very weak. “Can you hear me, fella?”
The
man’s eyes closed.
Amos
could feel the heat gathering in his neck. The poor guy was slipping away.
Goddamn
drunks. “You’ll…be okay.” His heart pounded. He kept talking even as the
ambulance doors slammed in his face. “They’ll take
real good care of you. You’ll be…just fine. They’ll know what to do. You hear me?”
***
“Rand?”
A
shimmering white shape. “Can you hear me?”
Smoke
whirled around the approaching form. Pieces of shadows sputtered before his
eyes.
A
difficult day at the office—computer glitches, angry customers, unnecessary meetings,
conference calls. Sitting in
the conference room, his reps duking it out while he zoned out and watched the
clear-blue Orlando skyline. Isolated in his own little sphere, wondering why he
didn’t sell the company and find a quiet place where
he could sit out his days on his back porch, listening to his CD collection. He’d been in the work force most of his life and had been
burned out for as long as he could remember. The company had been doing well
the last five years but he knew there had to be more to life than a healthy
stock portfolio, a substantial checking account and a Money Market fund.
Shouldn’t
he be enjoying life?
The faces
of the reps meshed into one, clouding
over and turning into the road ahead as he drove back to his
apartment.
The
heavy Orlando traffic—a sprawling mass of restlessness—roared and growled
around him. The drivers were anonymous and anxious in their fast-moving, heavily
tinted sanctuaries.
Vehicles
pulled up alongside him, eased back, cut in behind and in front, zigzagged, and
roared away. License plates from every state blended into a collage of irritation.
A
deafening, growing roar erupted on his left. A loud, sickening crunch forced
his head against the driver’s window. A large red blur pushed against him,
screaming before plunging into the Mustang. A colossal burst of intense heat
exploded down his limbs. A scorching rupture of blinding pain turned everything
dark and gooey.
The
blackness gradually lifted, leaving only the
heat and the pain.
Blurry
shadows. Banging noises. Whisperings.
A
cornucopia of smells.
A bulky
blue shape bent over him. A shiny
black plastic nametag—Amos—glinted before his eyes. Large,
big-knuckled hands opened and closed nervously. A strong mix of sweat, exhaust
fumes, and stale coffee floated lazily past.
Clouds
appeared, dimming the shadows. The pain ebbed. A glittering rainbow
dazzled the sky, smearing it with neon.
The bulky figure lightened, then dimmed, the smells
around it growing faint. More whisperings. The scents changed, grew sweeter,
the clouds thicker, warmer. Where Amos was standing, a slender vision in a
flowing white robe appeared in the whirling clouds.
The
smoke cleared.
A
beautiful woman with long white hair the same texture as down, smooth alabaster
skin, and bright blue eyes came into view. As
the vision neared, warmth filled his
being. The intense pain disappeared.
He wanted to know where the pain had
gone—what sort of healing powers this strange creature possessed.
“Can
you hear me, Rand?”
He
found his voice. “You …know my name?”
“I
know all about you.” The creature’s bright blue eyes glistened. They stayed on
him, showing both fear and concern. For a moment he wondered if he’d seen her before.
A
restless white mist surrounded them. There was nothing to be
seen beyond it.
“Come
with me,” the beautiful creature said softly. “Where?”
“You’ll
see.”
The
prospect of entering the eerie whiteness frightened him. Fear of the unknown. He’d dreaded
the dark as a child and would not enter the basement of his parents’ home at
night. All sorts of creatures lurked down there. Creepy little things hiding behind the hot
water heater or behind the cabinets. Monsters. Rats. Vampire bats. Hordes of scary
things craving the tender flesh of a small boy.
But
this was different. Darkness was nowhere to be seen.
Light abounded. Yet he feared it.
“You must come with me.” Her mouth formed a grim line;
a crescent-shaped dimple appeared on either side of her full lips.
Where
was he? What place was this?
“Why?”
he asked.
“It’ll
be explained.”
“When?”
Her
long white hair swished quietly across her robe. “They told me you’d be
difficult.”
“Who?”
“Let’s
just say I know all about you.”
“You
know I’m difficult?”
“Among
other things.”
“My
mother must be spreading rumors again.”
“They’re
obviously not rumors…”
“Dad
must be around somewhere, too.”
“Perhaps…”
Something
just occurred to him. “Mom and Dad are dead…”
“Really?”
He
could tell by her tone that she was playing with him. “If …you know them, then you
must—”
“C’mon.
Your questions will be answered later.”
“Who
are you?”
“My
name is Harriet.”
“You
look like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Not the one with Alistair Sim—the version with Reginald Owen. The one with
Sim had a nasty-looking old man in a really tacky
dress. But in the older version, that ghost was a sexy babe—“
“That’s right. You’re a movie buff.
Lucky me…”
“She
was a fox. Her hair was probably dyed. Yours isn’t, is it?”
“Hardly.
Listen to me…”
“You’re
not gonna say ‘take my hand,’ are you? That’s what
they usually said in those old fantasy flicks.”
“Will you please listen to
me?”
“She
was also in that Danny Kaye movie. The one about Walter Mitty? She was a real bitch
in that one. Had this ratty little dog that wanted to eat Danny Kaye. But her
hair was darker, and she wasn’t nearly as sexy or—”
“Enough strolling down Trivia Avenue.
Take my hand.”
“Couldn’t
see that one coming.”
“I’m
serious.”
“Now
is it time for me to say I’m a mortal? And that I’m liable to fall?”
“Not
really…”
“Too
tacky?”
“No…”
“Why,
then?”
“It
doesn’t pertain to us.”
“Lovely.
So where are you taking me?”
“Later.”
“I
don’t know if I should trust you.”
“Why
shouldn’t you?”
“Women
have been getting me in trouble since I was a kid.”
Her
milky features tightened.
The blue sapphires flared. Despite her tension, the trace of a
dimple remained at each corner of her mouth. He wondered if they ever
disappeared completely.
“I
really don’t think you have much choice here.”
“Where’s
a cop when you need one?” Then he remembered. “That’s
right. The last one I saw was trying to pull off my mask. That idiot. Doesn’t
the Police Department hire people with brain cells anymore?”
“Shut
up and take my hand.”
“You
sure are pushy.” He did as she said. A flurry of heat traveled up his arm.
Everything
grew fuzzy.
Â
Â
THE FIRST DAY
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CHAPTER 1
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Leaning
against the chipped counter in her light-blue smock, the faces streaming past
the front window of the Five’n Dime, Nadine Connelly couldn’t
help wondering if anyone was as depressed as she was.
She
saw worry in some, impatience in others, still others
deep in thought. She realized how deceptive and unreliable facial expressions
could be. Some people just didn’t want their battles
to show. But no matter what she saw, she suspected everyone had something going
on that was far from pleasant.
Ralph,
his grin big and bright, burst into the store. He was wearing his best suit and smelling like he’d taken a bath in Stetson—which
told her he had some important wheeling and dealing lined up for the afternoon.
“Hey, babe.” He gave her
his usual peck on the cheek. A thick wave of Stetson, Colgate, and Aramis Hair Malt brushed her face. The mixture was
even stronger than usual. It told her that whatever he’d
lined up probably involved a woman. Ralph preferred dealing with women; he said he always felt more
relaxed around them. “Got any spare change?”
It
had been three days since she’d received the results of her tests. Ralph had been back
home for five days but had been too busy to spend much
time with her. He was gone most of the day and came home long after she’d gone to bed. It
made her think he’d only come back because he needed a
place to crash.
“Ralph,
we need to talk.”
“Can’t now, babe. Got an appointment near the Country Club.”
His grin flashed even brighter. “You know what that means?”
“It
means you’re too busy to talk,” she said flatly.
“This
is important. If I can flip that townhouse, we’ll make
a fortune.”
“Did
you forget that we’re about to lose our own
home?”
He
shook his head the way he usually did when he didn’t
want her changing the subject. “When I make this one, we’ll
have two hundred K in our bank account. I figure six weeks, tops. I even have
the crew picked out. An outfit that works out of St. Clairsville. A real class
bunch of guys. We can toss some pocket change at old
Abner. That ought to cool his heels with the foreclosure.”
She
wanted Ralph to know that he was an idiot if he thought he could make that kind
of money that fast. But it wouldn’t accomplish
anything. She’d tried reasoning with him before. When
he was all worked up about something, he was like a little
kid with his first bicycle.
“You
haven’t even asked about my tests.”
He
patted her arm. “You’re as healthy as a horse, babe. You’re also beautiful, with a smile that could bring a dead
man back to life.” He reached behind her, where she kept her purse on the shelf
beneath the register. “I could use a
couple of twenties if you’ve got ‘em. Just in case I’ve
got to wine and dine Ms. Hayworth.”
“Who?”
“The
realtor I told you about?” His brows mashed together. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten
already?”
“Other
stuff on my mind, I guess.” She pulled her purse from his grasp and opened it.
She found two twenties, two tens, a five and some
ones. The money was supposed to be for groceries, but she knew how that would
go over. You didn’t argue with Ralph, you just let him
go. Besides, the store was filling up and she didn’t
want anyone to know their business.
He
beat her to the draw, his hand moving like lightning, the twenties trapped
between thumb and index finger, then stuck into a trouser pocket even before
she could focus. “Thanks, babe. You won’t be sorry. I’ll wrap this up in an hour and you’ll be bragging about me
all over town.” He planted another quick kiss on her cheek, spun around and was
gone in seconds.
His
departure no longer caused the same heavy throbbing of emptiness she’d experienced years earlier.
It
was no wonder. In their five years together, Ralph had left four times. The
reasons were always the same: Barnes cramped his style. The big cities were
where his future patiently awaited his grand arrival. There was nothing in
Barnes but small-town businesses and small-minded people.
However,
his reasons for coming back were always different. He hadn’t
been able to raise enough investment capital. It was the wrong time of year.
The Stock Market had made things tight. Politicians. The Economy.
The price of gas.
Nadine
took him back every time. She never once thought otherwise. Her parents were
always together when she was growing
up, even through
the bad times, when Daddy lost his job and the
money stopped coming in. Families stuck together, as Momma always said. That’s the way things were. You married your man for better
or for worse. That’s what was wrong with the world
now. Not enough ladies sticking by their men. Everyone was too concerned with
having fun and unaware that life wasn’t just fun, it was a lot of other things, too.
All
men have things wrong with them, Momma told her. If they’re
pretty, they want to spread it around for everyone to appreciate. If they’re not, they’re resentful about it and take it out on
everyone. They sometimes need a helping hand, sometimes a nurse, and sometimes
a shoulder to cry on. There are times when they need common sense pounded into
them. You can’t do that if you don’t take them back.
She
did what Momma suggested. She took Ralph back. Momma would be pleased if she
was still alive. Daddy would be, too. In
fact, everyone would be pleased.
Everyone
but Nadine, who knew that even though she kept taking Ralph back, the love she
once had for him would never come back.
The clock on the wall said it was an hour before
lunchtime. Good. Pretty soon she could enjoy her first
break. She lived for breaks these days. The downside
was that they gave her too much time to think.
And she didn’t want to think too much because
it depressed her.
When
she was depressed, it was hard to be pleasant, to smile at the customers.
She needed to present a
positive image. To give everyone
the illusion everything was right with the world. Which was stupid because
everything was not right. You knew it
and they knew it.
“Hi, Nadie.” Gertie Williamson pulled her
items out of the small blue cart and piled them on
the counter. “And how’re we
doing this sunny day?”
“Just fine, thanks.” Nadine switched
her smile back on—more as a convenience than anything else.
She didn’t want anyone to
know that at this
very moment, the young woman
behind it was not doing very well at all
and didn’t care if the sun
was up there or not.
“I saw your hubby.” Mrs. Williamson
winked. “Nice-looking, and boy, does that man know how to dress…”
“It’s
one of his favorite things.” She hoped she hadn’t
sounded too bitter.
“Wish my
hubby could look nice occasionally. I’m lucky he pulls on a shirt on weekends when he’s
glued to the armchair
in front of the boob tube, watching that stupid Sports Channel.”
Nadine gathered up Mrs. Williamson’s
purchases. Two black wire brassieres—both obviously much
too small for the husky lady. Two pairs of oversized
black slacks. A
small box of chocolate-covered cherries and two Diet Cokes.
“I’m confused about the bras.”
A tight frown settled in between Mrs. Williamson’s chubby cheeks. “They were
in the Bargain Bin, but I’m not sure if the
tags are right. One didn’t have its yellow sticker, but since they’re both the same, I figured they’d be the same
price.”
Nadine glanced at the sales
flyer taped to the side of the register. Usually, she
didn’t have to double-check.
She’d always been able to keep such unimportant
things in her head. Which was even more proof that her life reeked.
“They’re still on sale.
One of the clerks forgot to switch the tags or
it came off when someone was going
through the pile.”
“So
they’re ten percent off, then?”
“Absolutely.” She keyed them in
manually and put
them in a
bag. “In fact, Artie said something about adding another five to
it tomorrow, but he got sidetracked. I’ll ring up
the extra. He won’t mind.”
“You
sure? Don’t
wanna get you in trouble.”
“Artie’s always too swamped to take care of everything. Besides,
he doesn’t like it
when we can’t move the stock fast enough.”
“That’s sweet of you, Nadie. Thank you.”
“No
prob.” She rang everything up and pulled more plastic bags from a drawer.
Mrs. Williamson’s
frown drifted back. “Been getting
enough sleep?”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t mind me saying so, you’ve been looking tired the last few days.”
“I’m
fine, thanks.”
“Heard
you went to the hospital last week. Anything wrong?”
Actually, everything in
the world was wrong, but she was determined not to tell
anyone. It wouldn’t help,
and it sure wouldn’t make her feel any better.
And if Ralph wasn’t concerned, why
should anyone else care?
“Just a
checkup.” She made sure her smile stayed
right where it was.
“Well,
some of us have noticed you haven’t been your normal
happy self. Hope you’re not coming down with
something.”
It was obviously going to take more of an effort to keep her smile turned on. Otherwise,
she’d have to
do a lot more lying.
“No, really. I’m fine.”
“I dunno.” Mrs. Williamson
sounded skeptical. “You can’t be
too sure—especially when you deal
with the public all day long. I was
at the bank two weeks ago, just for a small withdrawal—you know, spending
money, groceries, that sort of thing—and
I start gettin’ sick
soon as I get home—coughing,
hacking away, sweats. I was only
in that bank five minutes and
there were three, maybe four folks
there, but there I was, sick before
I knew it.”
“You’re
okay now, I hope.” The last thing she needed was a cold.
Mrs. Williamson
grinned broadly. “No need to worry. I wouldn’t expose you if I was still contagious. I was taught better than that.” She
waved, then snatched
up her bags and waddled
out of the store.
The clock said 11:11.