THE DAY BEFORE

 

Orlando, Florida 3:48 P.M.

 

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.

 

 

THE FIRST DAY

 

CHAPTER 1

 

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.