Mayson’s fever had climbed through the night. She slept one minute, mumbled incoherently the next. Meanwhile, their protective canopy had been reduced to rubble by the choppers’ random machine gun fire that had begun at dawn. But if the shredded canopy no longer took the bite from the icy wind, at least it hid them from the choppers. But for how much longer? The spraying bullets were certain to reach them sooner or later.
Their chilled, cramped quarters had become unbearable, the parapet’s jags digging into his bones. Movement was impossible, except for occasional glimpses at the hovering choppers that were never absent from the sky for very long.
The gray morning had by now fully emerged over the lake. Cradled in his arm, Mayson squirmed again for space that didn’t exist. Her flushed face crumpling with tears, she muttered, “Afraid...”
“Afraid of what, Mayson?” he asked. “What are you afraid of?”
“Please... don’t leave!”
He kissed her damp cheek. “No, I won’t leave.”
His soft singing soon drifted into the desperate silence. “Non dimenticar means don’t forget you are...”As one verse rolled into the next, she began to calm down. Soon the world beyond their rocky parapet vanished, and he drifted into a wordless void, where thoughts were felt more than defined, sensed more than shaped, one blending into the next.
As the silence deepened, he slipped farther into this welcome void, but not so deep that a voice didn’t reach him. Don’t be seduced... the world’s often the most quiet before the storm. If one was promised, its first winds arrived as gentle whispers above the rocks. Were their pursuers about to try a dangerous descent?
As he waited, their muttering was drowned out by the sky’s rising thunder. Quickly, the rocks clattered with gunfire. The first chopper reached them, its thundering breath sweeping away bits of the canopy, its gunfire chewing into the rocks. As it moved on, the second arrived to shred more of the canopy, and splatter hot shells into the parapet.
Mayson’s eyes had yet to flutter in protest against this latest assault. He brushed the debris from her face and hair, wondering when they would react again. He had just seconds to wonder as the next chopper approached. Through slits in the shredded canopy, he watched it splatter the rocks, without logic or mercy, as it glided along the coast. As the next one drew within range, it stopped suddenly and streaked away. The others quickly followed as he watched them vanish into the northern sky. What was going on? Had they run out of ammo?
His eyes lifted to the rustle above, then returned to the lake where the cutters had also begun to retreat. Hang on, he thought as he kissed her burning forehead. Maybe God has a miracle for us, after all. The clouds drifted quietly as he began to believe that the rocks had been assaulted for the last time. Was it possible that Longbridge wasn’t part of the conspiracy? That he had the character, once confronted with the evidence, to admit that the men he’d placed in power were cold-blooded killers? Yet the sky remained quiet. Maybe, just maybe... Then the sky again trembled and, forming a shield over Mayson, Tyler waited for the next assault. But it didn’t come. Peering out, he watched four choppers emerge from the northern clouds. Not black but green ones, forming a gliding procession along the coast. What did this mean? Four green choppers that didn’t spit fire or pummel the rocks? Slowly he realized they were being rescued.
Clawing at the rubble, he lifted himself above the parapet and waved furiously. “Over here!” he shouted. The closest chopper turned and started towards him. Quickly, the others followed.
A harness was lowered as the canopy’s last bits swirled at his feet. Dropping into the basin, he threaded Mayson into the harness, then himself. As the cable was lowered, he attached it to the harness, then offered a thumbs up. Slowly they began rising into the chilled morning sky.
Fatigue-clad Guardsmen swarmed as the chopper touched down on the precipice minutes later. Struggling with the harness, Tyler found himself surrounded by them. “Here sir, let me help,” one said, and quickly took over.
“Move back!” A shout arose, as medics pushed through with a stretcher and lifted a wilted Mayson from the cockpit.
As Tyler climbed out, a small, wiry officer pushed forward. “Welcome home, son. I’m Colonel Morefield.”
A second officer, tall and silver-haired, appeared next. “I’m Dr. Waters,” he introduced himself, then glanced at the medic bent over Mayson. “Sergeant?”
“I’m not getting much of a pulse, sir. And her fever’s off the chart.”
Waters knelt to examine her. “Captain Vincent!” he yelled. His eyes searched for a man in the crowd. “Get your rig ready; we have to move!”
“A chopper?” Morefield asked, puzzled. “The ambulance can have her...”
“There’s no time for that. Sergeant, alert Duluth Memorial that we’re on our way.”
Mayson’s feverish muttering had stopped, her face, stone-like, as the stretcher was lifted. “How long will it take to get to Duluth?” Tyler asked.
“A half hour,” Waters replied. “But you’re not going, I’m afraid. There’s no room on the chopper. I’ll get you a report as soon as possible.”
“Our orders are to take you to Northwood, anyway,” Morefield explained. “The President’s most anxious to see you.”
Tyler watched the medics’ swift, capable motions as they placed Mayson in the chopper. The last thing she needed now was a power struggle to delay her medical treatment. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll catch my own ride.”
He watched the chopper streak west across the gray sky. She’d be frightened to wake and not find him. Then there’d be hell to pay. It wouldn’t be pretty.
The troops buzzed restlessly as Morefield placed a call on his field phone. “I have a most urgent report for the President,” he explained. “Oh... Well, of course, Mr. Garrison, I can tell you just as well. I’m happy to report the fugitives have been rescued. Mr. Waddill, who is with me now, appears in excellent shape. Miss Corelli’s condition, however, is critical. She’s been flown to Duluth for emergency treatment. Because of this, Mr. Waddill wants to skip the Northwood meeting and fly there, too. Naturally this is out of the question since... Yes, of course; immediately. And thank you, Mr. Garrison,” he nodded emphatically. “The moment we hear. You have my word.”
Tyler watched him hang up. “So what’s the verdict?” he asked.
“That was the President’s aide. He said that since your safety has been confirmed, we should skip the Northwood meeting and fly you directly to Duluth.”
“He’s one damn fine President,” Tyler said. “Hell, I might even vote for him next time.”
Minutes later, he strapped himself into the cockpit and watched the snow-glazed earth quickly sink beneath him. Soon, the coastline rushed past as he contemplated the ominous possibilities waiting in Duluth. Turning to the pilot, he shouted, “How much farther?”
The man’s shaded eyes turned from the glass. “Ten minutes, tops. Don’t worry,” he smiled. “I’ll set you on that hospital just like a butterfly.” His fluttering hand simulated the landing.
“Were you part of the rescue effort?” Tyler asked.
“The standby craft. Lannie Benson,” he said as he offered his hand.
“You’re a helluva pilot, Lannie. Captain, I bet?”
“Lieutenant. And you’re a chopper expert?”
“The way I’ve been ducking them lately, I feel like one.”
A large, granite cluster soon rose out the window. Duluth. His stomach knotted. “Hold on to your shorts!” Lannie shouted as the chopper swooped, shimmied, then fluttered onto the hospital roof, where three administrators waited. Crawling out, Tyler shook Lannie’s hand. “Thanks for everything, man,” he said.
“No sweat. And listen; Corelli will be fine. She wouldn’t have made it this far, unless she was tough as nails.” Offering a crisp salute, he streaked back across the sky.
The next minutes were a blur of disjointed voices and endless gray halls. “Miss Corelli’s condition stabilized quickly,” a female administrator named Darcy explained. “Dr. Waters’s IVs are working.”
“There aren’t many infections resistant to those new antibiotics,” Jerry, a tall male administrator added as they turned into the next hall.
“Powerful stuff,” echoed Bruce, a shorter, heavier male.
“The bottom line,” Darcy said, “is that she has responded well to treatment and her fever is under control. Dr. Claiborne wouldn’t have operated, otherwise.”
“Then Mayson’s in surgery?” he asked.
“Correct,” Bruce nodded, as they boarded the elevator.
“What type of infection does she have?”
“Staph... and possibly gangrene,” Bruce replied.
Darcy frowned. “Gangrene wasn’t part of Dr. Claiborne’s diagnosis.”
The very word shivered Tyler’s spine. “What exactly did he say about gangrene?” he asked.
“She,” Darcy corrected. “Aggie’s head of our Orthopedic Surgery Department. And she only said gangrene was a suspicion.”
“Which means very little,” Jerry added as they exited the elevator and started down another hall. “Gangrene is always a suspicion in cases like this.”
“Like what?”
“High fever, swelling, skin discoloration.”
“Wouldn’t gangrene mean an amputation?” Tyler asked.
“Possibly,” Bruce said.
“But not necessarily,” Jerry pointed out.
Darcy was the first to reach the window at the end of the hall. “Oh no!” she cried.
Tyler saw the mob scene below — TV vans, camera crews and a curious crowd that had taken over the hospital parking lot. “How’d they pick up our scent so quickly?”
“Because they’re wolves!” she snapped. “The President’s aide requested that no statements be made until the White House briefing later today. That includes you, obviously.”
“I have no intention of talking to those bastards. How long does Dr. Claiborne expect the surgery to take?”
“She didn’t say. But it’s already been an hour.”
Tyler’s stomach churned. Was Mayson’s leg being amputated at this very moment?
“Miss Corelli’s been assigned this corner room,” Bruce said. “Why not settle in until she returns? We’ll see that Dr. Claiborne speaks with you as soon as possible.”
“Our procedures naturally require some paperwork,” Darcy added. “Does Miss Corelli have any family we should contact?”
“Whatever’s needed, I’ll take care of personally.”
With his guarantee sufficient, they left as he watched the chaos grow below. Then, wearily, he drifted into the empty room, collapsing in the chair. Mayson’s surgery was into its second hour. Would she return minus a leg? How would that affect his feelings? It wouldn’t. He’d welcome her in any condition except one. He couldn’t have her dead.
His dreams soon swept him off to a place with rolling meadows and tall oaks where the James lapped gently to shore and the sky was silky blue, like the robes of heaven. Castlewood, the land of his childhood — happy, beautiful and enduring. Yet how fragile it had proven to be when just one piece was ripped away, and the rest came tumbling down. What remained had been a dark, frightening place, where ghosts haunted the days as much as the nights. And unable to... His eyes flew open when he remembered the call.
Jumping up, Tyler grabbed the phone and quickly dialed. Schuyler answered on the second ring. “Dad, it’s me. We were rescued this morning,” he said.
“Thank God!” Schuyler gasped. “Travis called. And we’ve followed the reports. But not until hearing your voice... Hell, the point is, you’re safe, just like I told your mother and sister you would be. So what’s Mayson’s situation?”
“I expect her back from surgery any minute.”
“Well, let us know the moment you hear. Oh, and two things before I forget: Travis and Matt are stopping by the hospital. Honestly son, we’re at a loss over how to thank them.”
“We’ll find a way, Dad. Good friends always do. Now what’s the other thing?”
“Jock’s preparing the J.R. Eagle for a five p.m. departure. We should arrive in Duluth by eight.”
“Dad...”
“All right, Hunter Leigh... Yes, he’s fine!”
“Dad, please...”
“Listen son, I’ve got a real tug-of-war going here with the phone. Your mother...”
“Dad, wait. Mayson won’t be up to company after the surgery. I appreciate your willingness to come, but it’s just not a good time.”
“I see. All right, then. I’ll explain it to the family.”
“But do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to, I think.”
A lump crept up his throat. “Dad, I’m ready to come home. I think I have been for a while. Just let me do it my way. After the surgery, when Mayson’s well enough to travel.” He remembered something else now. “Dad, can you give me Peter Hamilton’s number?”
Puzzled, Schuyler asked, “You’ve just been rescued and the first thing you want to do is call your broker?”
“I have to repay a small debt.”
“How small?”
“Five-hundred thousand should take care of it.”
Giving him Hamilton’s number, Schuyler added, “Son, I know we’re rich, but half a million dollars isn’t peanuts.”
“No,” he said, envisioning Lauren’s smile. “It’s a horse farm.”
“Sweetheart!” Hunter Leigh shrilled. “Why has it taken you so long to call?” In rapid-fire succession, her questions demanded every detail about Mayson and her relationship with Tyler. She wore down finally with regrets over the postponed reunion.
“Assuming the surgery goes well, Mother, we’ll be home by Christmas,” he promised. “I can’t wait to see Castlewood.” The line deepened with her longest silence of record, until he was forced to ask, “Mother, are you still there?”
“I was just thinking what a switch this is, you wanting to come home.”
“Things have changed.”
“You’ve changed, Sweetheart. I can hear it in your voice. I think I love Mayson already...”
“Tiles, I can’t believe it!” Stafford shrieked. “But did I hear right? We’re not flying to Duluth?”
“Not today. Mayson’s in surgery.”
After Stafford came Parker, then Bo and Anne Randolph. His patience wore thinner with each handoff. When he could finally hang up, his anxious eyes returned to the empty bed. The surgery was now into its third hour. Had something gone wrong? He inquired at the nurses’ station, but received only sympathetic smiles and assurances he’d know as soon as they knew.
Returning to the room, the air seemed thinner, the walls, grayer, than when he’d left. Time crawled as he gazed helplessly at frigid, snow-mantled Duluth outside. Mayson remained in surgery, with one leg or... Turning as the floor squeaked, he found a small woman in green hospital fatigues. Her soft face was delicately featured, dark curls fringing her surgical cap. “Dr. Claiborne?” Tyler asked.
“Mr. Waddill?” she answered. When Tyler nodded, she said, “The surgery went well. Miss Corelli should be out of recovery any minute.”
Relief rushed over him. “Then she... I mean you didn’t have to...”
“No,” she smiled. “We didn’t amputate her leg. A displaced pin was responsible for the staph infection. We simply removed the infected tissue, then inserted a new pin, which I assure you will do just fine. Still, she’ll need to be followed closely to insure a satisfactory healing process. Compound fractures are bad enough, but when complications occur, recovery often becomes a lengthy ordeal that doesn’t end when the cast comes off.”
“I know it’s premature, but I want to get Mayson home for Christmas, if this doesn’t conflict with your experienced medical opinion.”
“That experienced medical opinion will require some details first.”
“Such as?”
“Where home is. When you’ll leave. How you’ll be traveling. Who’ll be treating her. Little things like that.”
“The James River Eagle will fly us to my family’s Virginia home on Saturday.”
“What’s a James River Eagle?”
“My family’s jet.”
“Oh yes, how stupid of me,” she smiled. “Naturally you’d have your own jet. And resident orthopedic surgeon, I suppose.”
“Not resident exactly. Moss lives in Surry.”
“Moss?”
“Dr. Moss Sternfield. He’ll treat Mayson — and quite capably, too, if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Then you find intimidation an effective means for insuring a doctor’s satisfactory performance?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t call possession of an embarrassing childhood secret intimidation, exactly.”
She smiled. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask what this secret is. But I do need to know if Moss is an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Board certified. With his own clinic in Surry.”
She studied him thoughtfully, then nodded. “All right. I’ll release Miss Corelli Saturday morning, if the following conditions are met: First, I’m convinced she’s well enough to travel. Second, I receive confirmation of Dr. Sternfield’s qualifications. Third, he accepts her as a patient. And fourth, she continues to be in your care during treatment. If you’re agreeable, I suppose we have a deal.”
“We do indeed.” He kissed her hand gratefully. “One that leaves me forever in your debt.”
“Don’t be silly,” she mumbled, her cheeks glowing red as she drifted backwards from the room. “You really should be more careful with that smile of yours. Hasn’t anyone told you?”
“What? That it’s dangerous?”
“Lethal,” she said as she whisked off.
A heavily sedated Mayson was soon wheeled in. Transferring her to the bed, the two orderlies left the nurse to hook up the IVs and monitor. Before leaving, she instructed him on use of the emergency call device.
“And the monitor?” he nodded. “What does it measure?”
“Her vital signs. And don’t worry about waking her. She’ll sleep like a baby, at least until the medication wears off. When it does, just buzz me like I showed you.”
“She’ll want a shampoo in the morning,” Tyler said. “L’Oreal. She won’t put anything else in her hair. And a conditioner, too.” He smiled. “Some things you don’t forget after being cooped up with a person for two months.”
And some, because you care so much, she thought. “The L’Oreal won’t be a problem.” She replied. “Can I have a cot brought in for you?”
“The chair’s fine,” he said. “But thanks, Ginny.”
As she left, he pressed his palm to Mayson’s forehead. It was warm, but no longer burning. His eyes then trailed the powerful antibiotic along the snaking IV into her arm. He imagined it flowing through her veins, killing the last vestiges of an infection that hours ago had imprisoned her inside her restless nightmares.
A knock soon came at the door. As Travis and Matt entered, he rose, grinning, to meet them. Tall and rangy, each possessed the Culpeppers’ gray-blue eyes and poker faces, their age difference defined by Travis’s extra baggage and silver hair.
Travis’s concern faded with a quick inspection. Other than the strain around his eyes and a haggard appearance that could be fixed with fresh clothes and a good night’s sleep, the boy seemed as fit as a fiddle. “Damnit, son, don’t ever do anything crazy like that again, unless you want a few strokes on your conscience,” he scolded.
“Thanks for saving my reckless life, sir” Tyler said, embracing him warmly. “I’ll try living it a little safer from now on.”
Travis watched him quickly wrap Matt in a big bear hug. “Have you talked to your parents yet?”
He nodded. “They appreciated your call, as I do.”
Travis smiled. “It was refreshing to hear that sparkle in Hunter Leigh’s voice again.”
“So where’s my reward?” Matt asked. “I assume it’s something big, seeing as I’ve risked my priceless ass to save your worthless one.”
“Free legal work for your real estate agency.”
“You don’t practice in Georgia, bonehead.”
“I said free, dickweed — nothing about who’d be doing it.”
“Well, how about doing something for the human race,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “Like washing off that stench you carried in from the woods?”
“I admit I need a shower,” Tyler nodded. “But don’t pretend I smell half as bad as you did that first summer at Camp Warwick. Christ, Matt, you didn’t change your underwear for two weeks!”
“I have one better,” Travis laughed. “Ask him where he spent last night.”
“Where?” Tyler pounced.
“In some goddamned stinking trash bin,” Matt growled. “Why? To save your ungrateful ass.”
Travis beamed. They’d been going at each other like this forever. Until that dark November morning when the passion had died in Tyler’s eyes. And now it was back, he realized, as his gaze settled on the young woman in the bed. If it wasn’t Kara Randolph, wasn’t Mayson perhaps the only one who could take her place?
Matt now saw her as well. “Damn, she’s beautiful!” he said.
Indeed, Travis studied her closely. Held captive by a web of medical tubes, she nevertheless slept peacefully, her casted leg like a camel’s hump beneath the sheets. Her face was delicate, her skin smooth, the hue of a pink rose, her fluffed hair, a rich brown, and he imagined her eyes just as dark, or darker. More than beautiful, she was breathtaking.
“Who’s that actress?” Matt asked. “Mom would know.”
“Audrey Hepburn,” Travis said. And indeed, the resemblance was amazing.
Matt said, “Mayson’s like...”
“Kara?” Tyler smiled. “Hell, no. They’re as different as night and day.”
Maybe, Matt thought as his eyes connected with Travis’s. But if Tyler’s new glow was any indication, in one way they were identical: each woman possessed the rare potion capable of restoring life to his fragile soul.
From Mayson, their conversation drifted to Christmas, fond reflections, then finally, the morning’s developments. Matt sighed. “Watching Longbridge sort through that chest made me sorry to have been the one to find it. There was such deep pain in his voice as he inventoried the contents, as if each item represented a shovel-full of dirt that wasn’t just burying those judges, but his Presidency, as well.”
Travis checked his watch. “It’s time for Longbridge’s broadcast. Can we?” He nodded at the overhead TV.
“She’s sleeping like a log,” Tyler said. He turned it to GNN as anchorman Lyle Darden and Forest Steinman, a popular political analyst, engaged in last-minute speculation over the Longbridge address. “Lamp shot himself?” he gasped.
“And Harrington died of a heart attack,” Matt added.
“Falkingham’s already pressing for a deal,” Travis explained. “Singing about all he knows might just be enough to keep him out of prison.”
The broadcast shifted to the Oval Office, where a somber Longbridge sat at his desk. Pale and shaken, his eyes were nevertheless clear, his voice resolute, as he began, “My fellow Americans, it is with a heavy heart that I come to you this afternoon. Much of what I have to say you’ve no doubt heard by now. But as your President, it’s my duty to confirm these developments, and explain how they’ll be addressed by your government.”
He reported the astonishing events that had begun early that morning. No details were spared, nor the depth of his indignation and sense of responsibility.
Three Supreme Court appointments — two, now targets of a criminal investigation, the third having taken his own life that morning. Two other appointments — the FBI Director and Attorney General, targets of the same investigation. Five appointments. Five disastrous errors of judgement.
Solemnly, he moved on to the sixth, an unofficial appointment, yet also the most disastrous, for out of it had flowed the others. It was an appointment made years ago when he was an aspiring Texas Governor. Mentor some called it; others, Adviser, Friend. And the man so honored who, had he not died that morning, would’ve become a target of the same investigation as the others? Seth Harrington.
The victims’ names were recited next, the last one most shocking of all. Chief Justice Rogers, not a drowning victim, but a murder victim. Murdered, not to conceal an ancient crime, but to advance the religious fantasies of a madman.
What a black day for the CMA, he lamented. For the victims and their families. For Mayson Corelli and Tyler Waddill, who’d spent the past weeks as fugitives. The innocent hunted by the guilty, not in pursuit of justice, but its shameful cover up. And finally, what a black day for a nation committed to truth, honor, and justice — ideals betrayed by this tragic experience. Indeed, was there a soul anywhere who had escaped the shadows of this abomination? He paused as his eyes began to fill.
Here it comes, Travis thought.
“At six p.m.,” Longbridge resumed, “I will resign my office as President and relinquish my duties to Vice President Bentley, who was notified of my decision just before this broadcast. While expressing both shock and regret, the Vice President has nevertheless pledged his full commitment to the responsibilities I leave behind. I pray that you give him the same unwavering support you’ve given me. I only wish that I’d better met your expectations. I now humbly apologize, and thank you again for the privilege of serving as your President. God bless you.”
In a respectful silence, the camera slipped out of the Oval Office. Matt switched off the TV. “I don’t see anything noble about a good man taking the rap for so many rotten ones,” he observed.
“But they’re his rotten ones,” Travis replied. “They were from the moment he endorsed them to the American people. Unwittingly or not, he staked his Presidency on their character. When they fell, how could he not fall also?
“But that’s just the political explanation. For Longbridge, resignation was more an ethical decision than anything. He’s lost confidence in his ability to lead and, being the man he is, couldn’t ask of the American people something he no longer feels himself.”
“What’ll he do now?” Tyler asked.
“Enjoy life a lot more, I’m sure. His fondest reflections are of life on his Galveston ranch. I expect he’ll return as soon as possible.” Out the window, Duluth’s gray sky had deepened. The afternoon was slipping away. “We should get to the airport. I expect that Guard crew is getting a little impatient. Will you be all right?”
Tyler nodded. “Go home, Travis.”
Matt smiled. “Damn if that isn’t just like you, to drag our asses up to this arctic wonderland, then boot us out after one lousy hour.”
“Then stay, dickweed. Maybe we can arrange a medal ceremony or dedicate a hospital wing in your honor.”
He turned to Travis. “I think the ungrateful bastard actually wants us to leave. What do you think, Dad?”
“That I’d forgotten how annoying you two can be.”
Tyler accompanied them out to the elevator. “Don’t leave York until we return. I want you to meet Mayson. And I want to see Kelly and those two little farts. Is that clear?”
“As the Wisconsin ice,” Matt said as the door closed.
Evening’s shadows slipped into night. Gray Duluth became black Duluth. Sitting by the bed, he took comfort in the quiet darkness and his drifting thoughts, and when the thoughts finally slipped off, so did he.
Then the sheets rustled. Her urgent sigh broke the darkness. Instantly, he was over her, his fingers brushing her neck. “We made it, Mayson. Can you believe it?”
Not immediately. It took another minute of stroking fingers and soothing whispers for the message to sink in. They were safe. But how? “Where... are we?” she asked.
“Duluth Memorial.” He summarized all that she’d missed, including the chest’s recovery, the Guard’s intervention, and Longbridge’s resignation.
Bentley, President? Her head spun. Lamp and Harrington dead? The others, going to prison? Madonna mia, how could so much happen in one day?
He smiled. “You know what the most intriguing thing about all this is?” he asked. “We finally know how Lamp got those scars around his eye.”
She envisioned a young Mary Sandover, clawing at Lamp’s face in a desperate attempt to save her life. How horrible those last seconds must’ve been!
He detailed the chest’s contents, including Lamp’s bloodstained shirt, Falkingham’s Dunhill butts, the financial records and Crenshaw’s letter to his sister. “And me?” she asked. “Why am I here?”
“You’ve had surgery on your leg.”
Surgery, yes. She remembered the terrible pain. Her fear of gangrene. But now she felt... nothing at all. “Tyler, my leg! I can’t feel it!”
“Only because of an ungodly amount of morphine,” he said, holding up the IV. “If you want, we can trade places for a while.”
“That’s not funny.”
“The cast will come off in eight weeks. The time will fly.”
“Oh sure! Just like the last eight weeks!”
“Maybe you’d rather they’d amputated the leg?”
Her petulance faded as the day’s developments sunk in. Their ordeal was over. There’d be no more running, hiding, desperate escapes across the frigid wilderness, thundering choppers and chilling rides in monster trucks. Fear would no longer haunt every minute. But wouldn’t the new hope that brought them together vanish, too? And what about the future? How was it to be shaped? They had to face those questions. But not now — she was much too tired.
As Mayson’s eyes closed, Tyler smiled above her, his thoughts a refrain to the quiet darkness. Sleep, he thought, as long as it takes to recover your beautiful spirit: stubborn, but fragile; impetuous, but gentle; and always passionate.
Why did her soul run deeply with virtue when she’d found so little of it in her world? Where had she found her strong character? Was there no end to her contradictions? They all seemed to merge in him. Because in them, he found symmetry, harmony — a perfection that existed nowhere else. Which made him what? Perhaps the greatest contradiction of all. “Goodnight,” he said, kissing her gently.