RUSH HOUR. MICKI FELL in among the throng of subway commuters, the platform full of passengers heading downtown just like she was. As the train left Ninety-Sixth Street behind, it stayed at a crawl, passing through an abandoned station, work lights casting a sinister glow on the multicolored art unknown kids had left behind. Unlike the graffiti in the subway car itself, which was mostly a chaotic mass of tangled-looking lines in black spray paint or Magic Marker, these designs were pretty, nearly all of them huge. She used to wonder why kids did it—why they had to write all over any empty space they could find. But now she wished she’d left her own name scrawled somewhere. Anywhere.
The train lurched and picked up speed, but she felt no sense of urgency. And when she changed at Times Square, she walked right past several cops—completely relaxed. She was just a kid with a gym bag among a motley crowd of people.
And no one bothered her.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT FELT ODD TO be in her apartment when she’d normally be in school. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t go anyplace looking like this. A quick shower, a pass of the comb through her hair, and then she put on her black jeans and her favorite black T-shirt.
On the floor beside the bed, already waiting, was the tall bottle of whiskey next to a short glass of water, both looking like they thought they should be somewhere else. But when she sat on the mattress with her jacket in her lap, she knew everything was exactly where she wanted it to be.
The jacket’s winter lining zipped out easily and was carelessly tossed aside. Then she grabbed a handful of the silky material underneath and ripped it apart, all the while apologizing in her head. Two Librium and one Quaalude immediately dropped onto the blanket. But she had to search around—even into the arms of the jacket—for the rest. Except for one Valium, she recovered them all.
She flipped on the radio and began turning the dial, but settled on WNEW when the initial scan proved fruitless. She could wait till something good came on; Baker would be sleeping off his hangover. But then she got up and wedged the desk chair underneath the doorknob. Just in case.
With the radio stuck in a commercial break, she took a look about the room: the crappy kitchen that needed cleaning, the wine-splattered wall, the textbooks on her desk with her unfinished homework … She was nothing but a failure. Though she’d tried so hard to be something else, it had all come back to this. Sergeant Kelly would be so disappointed. But then, he probably didn’t even think about her anymore. And no one was going to miss her much, either. Mr. Antonelli and Frankie liked her, and most of her teachers liked her, but their lives wouldn’t change without her. Not the way hers had changed when Tim had died. The corners of her mouth turned down, and her hand reached up to the little silver cross around her neck. She felt Baker’s pendant, too. With one vicious tug, she broke its delicate chain, then got up and hurled it into the street. After slamming the window back down, she returned to sitting on the bed.
And then she finally heard what she was waiting for, a song—a message—sent out over the airwaves: the Youngbloods’ “Get Together.” As if it were radiating light, it was filling the room with a mystical essence, with a magic so real she could almost touch it, could almost feel it glowing as it flowed all around her, taking her someplace far away. Someplace where the world wasn’t ugly.
She could see herself at the top of a hill, looking out across a lush, green meadow that was shimmering in the heat, her skin warm and browning. Skirting the trees, a soft, gentle breeze swept across the land, over the grass and the colorful flowers, which swayed gracefully, their open blossoms alive with the buzz of bees and the sweet scent of summer. And for a moment, she was a part of it all, as eternal as the sun shining down from above, as pure as the drops of liquid that glistened like jewels as they clung to the grass at her feet.
But when she looked off toward the mountains in the distance—their snowy caps a bright, cool blanket—she saw herself for what she really was: just a whisper of breath in the vastness of space; a dull, flickering light against the brilliant blue of the sky …
She looked at the drab, stained walls of her apartment. It was time for her to go.
Using as little water as possible, she swallowed the pills before uncapping the whiskey, first taking little sips, but soon gulping it down.
Her heart hurt and the tears fell silently.
The song had ended.
She shut the radio and continued drinking until she needed to lie down, curling up and clutching the pillow in her arms. The usual noise drifted up from the street, and, somewhere, a bird was chirping. But mostly what she heard was her own breathing.
It wouldn’t be long now. She could finally rest.
♦ ♦ ♦
TRY AS HE MIGHT, Baker couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned until he eventually got up and reheated the remaining coffee. Strong and bitter, the mud-colored sludge refused to improve despite any addition of milk. It should’ve been dumped in the sink. But he sat in the kitchen, chain-smoking, till all of it was gone. He called Warner again.
“I really feel like shit. Do you think you’re going to need me at all today?”
“No,” Warner replied, his voice tight. “Just stay home.”
“What time did the kid get in?”
“Micki?”
“Yeah, Micki!” Baker snapped. “Who the hell else would I be talking about?”
“She didn’t get here yet.”
“What?” Baker pushed his chair back and stood up. “Why didn’t you call to let me know?”
“I figured she was coming in with you. You said you had to go pick her up.”
“Christ! I’m going to kill that fucking kid.”
But instead, Baker froze. For in that moment, he knew what she had done.
♦ ♦ ♦
SIMON & GARFUNKEL’S “HAZY Shade of Winter” kept playing over and over in his head like a movie soundtrack as he raced through the streets, portable red light flashing on the roof of his car while he leaned on the horn since he had no siren. He’d purchased the used Camaro just before the incident with Daryl Cole. Afterward, bitter and disheartened, he’d never bothered to have a siren or two-way radio installed. But now he regretted it. Very much. And he should’ve at least dialed nine-one-one before leaving his apartment; should’ve had the police and paramedics go to Micki’s immediately. Now, without the radio, it was impossible to notify anyone unless he pulled over and stopped—which he couldn’t bring himself to do.
Vision blurry, head still throbbing, he was making his eyes scan back and forth twice as much as they normally would. He practically held his breath while negotiating the intersections. But most cars were clearing a path for him as he tore ahead, horn blaring, light flashing …
Screeching to a halt in front of her building, he left his car double-parked, then flew up the stoop and the stairs, two steps at a time. He jammed his key into the lock, turned it, and was startled when he slammed into the door. Perhaps the key hadn’t turned all the way. He tried again—with the same result. But he’d felt the panel give.
“Micki!” He pounded with the side of his fist. “Micki! You open this door!” When he got no response, he stepped back and kicked it in, crashing into her apartment. Surrounded by broken pieces of the old wooden chair, he was momentarily confused by the sight of his own gym bag on the floor—boxing gloves half out, her jacket all ripped up beside it. Lying on the bed, she looked lifeless. He hurried over and pushed away the pillow, which had fallen partway out of her arms. Freed from underneath, the overturned whiskey bottle went rolling noisily across the hardwood planks.
Her pulse was weak and irregular, her breathing very shallow. He slapped her face several times and called her name, then got up and ran down the hall. There was no sign on the payphone, so he lifted the receiver and dialed nine-one-one. With the handset to his ear, he shut his eyes, and bowed his head. And heard … nothing. He smashed his palm against the heavy metal box. “Fuck!”
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN THE PAIN IN his knees got too much, he stood up and began pacing back and forth between the bed and the window. Where the hell was the damn ambulance? He’d called from the corner phone over ten minutes ago. He stopped and picked up Micki’s jacket to examine the ripped material more closely, then heard a little ping as something fell to the floor. Catching sight of the tiny blue object rolling away, he captured it under his boot. But before he’d even picked it up, he knew it was a Valium—his Valium. Just as it had been his whiskey.
He understood the torn lining.
He closed his eyes and recalled the horrible things he’d said that morning, then knelt down and leaned over the bed again. Soft and faint, her breath was a vanishing trace of warm air against his cheek, her pulse weaker and more uneven, a ghostly beat beneath the pallor of her skin.
And then she stopped breathing.
His eyed widened, the thready pulse still palpable under his fingers. And as if he’d done it a thousand times, he checked that her airway was clear before lifting her neck so her head tilted back. Pinching her nose shut and placing his mouth over hers, he breathed into her lungs, regretting that his own breath reeked of alcohol. And though an ambulance siren was growing louder from far off in the distance, it seemed like hours till the paramedics’ feet were trampling up the stairs.
“She stopped breathing, but she’s still got a pulse,” he said to the two men that ran in, pushing him aside. “And I’m almost positive now,” he added, “that she took some pills with the whiskey.”
The younger man with long, dark hair was applying the mask of a breathing bag while the short man, checking her pulse, asked, “Like?” Then he raised her eyelids and shined a small flashlight into each pupil.
Baker said, “Uh—Valium probably and—uh—I—I don’t know.” Now that someone else was there to take control, a huge, smothering wave was washing over him.
The short paramedic wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around her needle-tracked arm. “What about heroin?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure.”
Using a walkie-talkie, the short man radioed information back to a doctor at the hospital. Snatches of it registered in Baker’s ears: “respiratory arrest … blood pressure sixty over palp … pupils dilated … requesting permission to administer a course of Narcan followed by saline IV …” While the men continued with their work and transferred her to a gurney, Baker heard himself asking, “Is she gonna be all right?”
“Hard to say,” the short one said. They began to move her out of the apartment. “Is that your car out there with the cherry on it?”
“Yeah,” Baker said.
“Then you can follow us to the hospital. We’re taking her to Old Queens County General.”
“Is she gonna be all right?” he heard himself ask again.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE RIDE TO THE hospital was a blur. A zombie on automatic pilot, Baker followed the wailing, flashing ambulance in front of him like a baby duck following its mother, realizing too late he should’ve exercised his option to remain by Micki’s side. What if she died on the way?
But once they reached the emergency room, he felt completely useless. Medical personnel were swarming around, cutting away clothes and yelling instructions to each other while they rolled her into one of the treatment cubicles. A nurse handed him a little paper cup. Inside, he found Micki’s cross. He opened his mouth to ask where the other necklace was, but then shut it without saying anything. And out of nowhere, some woman in a nurse’s uniform was asking him for Micki’s name and address, her most salient concern being the insurance information. He felt a sharp pang: Micki was probably covered under his own insurance as a dependent. His dependent. How could he have been so blind?
In between answers, Baker kept demanding to know about the doctors taking care of her. Were they qualified enough? They weren’t just house staff, were they? Where was an experienced doctor? What were they doing to her?
Overhearing the belligerent onslaught of questions, an attending physician came over and sent the woman away. “Hi, I’m Dr. Mikulewicz,” he said, extending his hand.
“Jim Baker.” And they shook. “I only want to be sure she’s getting the very best care.”
Just shy of six feet tall, Dr. Mikulewicz looked to be in his early forties. He had piercing blue eyes and a full head of thick, black hair. “I understand,” he said, “and I can assure you she’s in good hands.”
“But I don’t want someone learning on her; I want someone who knows what they’re doing.” As Baker continued to watch over the doctor’s shoulder, he saw fresh concern among the medical staff, heard anxious, clipped orders coming from a nurse. He asked, “What are they doing to her now?” He tried to step past the doctor, who deftly blocked his way. “I want to know what’s going on!” Baker demanded. “I have a right to know what’s happening to her!”
With a gentle touch, Mikulewicz put his hand on Baker’s arm. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside in the waiting room.”
Baker’s eyes flashed wide.
“Please,” the doctor said.
Baker attempted to glare the man down—until his entire demeanor changed and he stood very tall. “But I’m a cop.”
Mikulewicz looked surprised, then confused. “I was told you’re her guardian.”
“I am.”
“But—” And then a savvy, yet compassionate, expression came over the doctor’s face. He asked, “Are you here as a cop or as a family member?”
Baker closed his eyes and felt the ER chaos spinning around him. Smaller and smaller, he was getting further and further away … He opened his eyes and struggled with the words: “Family member.”
“Then you’ll have to wait outside.”
Baker swallowed hard.
“I’ll let you know how things are going,” Mikulewicz said. “I promise.” When Baker didn’t move, the doctor added, “Please don’t make me ask those uniformed officers to escort you out.”
Baker’s eyes darted over to the two young patrolmen standing three cubicles down. To pass the time, they were cracking crude jokes while the person in their custody was being treated. Baker took a deep, ragged breath. “That won’t be necessary.” Then he walked in the direction the doctor had pointed, his legs feeling like they belonged to someone else.
♦ ♦ ♦
FOR AN ER WAITING room, it was only moderately crowded. Baker sat down in an aqua-colored chair made of molded plastic. To his left was a young couple, the woman crying into the man’s shoulder while he did his best to comfort her. To his right was a tired-looking woman in a dark wool coat covering what appeared to be pajamas—her three preschoolers running, screeching, and giggling while she tried, unsuccessfully, to get them under control. A sullen-looking teenager in a hooded sweatshirt under a faded denim jacket was directly across from him, smoking, mindlessly tapping a pack of cigarettes on his thigh while eyeing him with suspicion.
Baker lit a cigarette himself. In between tense drags, his jaw worked, clenching and unclenching while his harsh, unwavering stare—though directed at no one—caused the youth to get up and move to a seat across the room. But Baker barely blinked. He shifted his gaze to focus on the little children, now sitting on the floor and coloring, fighting bitterly with each other over the crayons as though the world was going to end if they didn’t get the colors they wanted. Feeling a fresh surge of pain, he turned his eyes toward the windows and the bright light streaming in through the oversized panes of glass. But what he was seeing was Micki washing down the pills with his whiskey, hugging the pillow and waiting—all alone in that crummy, little apartment—to die.
Lit cigarette still between his fingers, he hung his head in his hands.
And cried.
♦ ♦ ♦
EVERY TWO MINUTES, BAKER checked his watch and glanced at the door in anticipation of the doctor’s return. He drank coffee and chain-smoked and periodically paced around the room while reflecting, disapprovingly, on the man he had become. He decided he must’ve been temporarily insane. A profound quiet now possessed him as if Micki’s suicide attempt had shaken him free of some evil spell. No wonder Cynthia hadn’t wanted to marry him. If he were her, he would’ve felt the same way.
Dr. Mikulewicz came through the door, and Baker sprang to his feet.
“She’s stable now, so she’s being transferred to the ICU,” the doctor said.
“Is she awake?”
“It may be a while, yet, till she regains consciousness.”
“But she’s gonna be okay, right?”
“When we pumped her stomach, no pill fragments remained, but we got her blood pressure back up, so things are looking good for now.”
“Can I see her?”
“Just for a moment. Once she’s settled in upstairs, you can visit her there—briefly. She’s still intubated and on a ventilator.”
Baker nodded. Yet when he saw her, the tears welled up again. She looked so small and pale, smudges of charcoal on her face, like a little kid who’d gotten dirty going out to play. The orderlies were moving the gurney. He felt he couldn’t breathe.
“Is there any way this might’ve been an accident?” Dr. Mikulewicz asked. “It’s obvious she has a history of drug abuse.”
Baker shook his head no.
The doctor looked at him steadily. “Okay, then. I’m going to see if I can contact Dr. Lerner in our psych department. Micki will probably have to stay there for at least a couple of weeks. But if you could talk to Dr. Lerner today, it would be a big help. She’ll want to have as much background information as possible before she sees Micki for the first time.”
So Dr. Lerner was a woman. A female shrink. That was probably better for Micki. They started walking in the same direction the orderlies had gone.
The doctor said, “If you have a minute, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you myself.”
If I have a minute? Baker thought. Where the hell would I be going? But knowing the doctor’s cordiality was merely a prelude to something unpleasant, he turned to face Mikulewicz and said, “Shoot.”
“Micki has a lot of scars on her body. I need to know how she got them.”
“All of that happened before I became her guardian.”
“And how long has that been?”
“Since September.”
“And you’re related to her how?”
“I’m not.”
Mikulewicz nodded. “I see. Is there anyone who could verify the presence of those scars prior to September?”
Baker’s expression turned dark. “I don’t have to stand here and—” He caught his breath.
The doctor waited.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Baker said. “I know you’re just doing your job.” And it made him think about not only Dr. Orenstein’s cursory inquiry when he’d examined Micki, but also all the teachers who’d ever seen her bruised face—in those instances, by his own hand—but had never brought it to anyone’s attention.
Baker provided the doctor with a brief sketch of what he knew, pointing out that whatever scars Micki had had before Heyden would’ve been documented in both her post-arrest hospital records and her juvenile police records. The remainder—those inflicted while she’d been incarcerated—would most likely not be documented at all. To protect the guilty. But the only person, besides Micki, who could corroborate his own statement would be Warner, who’d witnessed the incident when Baker had first seen the scars himself. The doctor took Warner’s phone numbers, and they moved on.
When they had arrived at the elevator bank, Mikulewicz said, “Let me page Dr. Lerner now and see what we can arrange today. Meanwhile, the ICU is on the third floor; just follow the signs.” As he turned to go, he added, “I’ll be in touch.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BUT THE PSYCHIATRIST WAS available to talk with Baker immediately. So before he had a chance to see Micki again, he left the ICU and took the elevator up two more floors. One of the nurses unlocked the door to the ward and led him down a short hallway. At first it seemed like any other hospital wing, but as he passed the dayroom, his stomach started to turn. A young woman, sitting stiff as a board, was staring off into space while, in the corner, an old, disheveled man was slapping his face repeatedly. Baker turned his eyes away. He suspected that when he passed by on his way out, they’d both be doing the exact same things. He followed the nurse through another set of doors to a row of offices down a long, empty corridor.
She stopped and pointed. “Second-to-last door on the right.” And then she left.
Walking down the passageway alone, Baker felt a lump growing in his throat. The closer he got to Dr. Lerner’s office, the worse it became. Her door was slightly ajar, and he knocked.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice.
He stepped inside. “I’m Detective Sergeant James Baker—Micki Reilly’s legal guardian. Dr. Mikulewicz sent me to see you.”
“Yes, of course. I’m Dr. Lerner.” Her smile warm, she stood up from behind her desk and extended her hand to shake his. “Won’t you sit down?” She motioned to a pair of old, upholstered chairs while she took her seat in a tall-backed, leather-looking one.
He tried to smile, but the pain in his heart grew worse, so he sat down and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. When Dr. Lerner didn’t say anything, he cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the couch against the wall. “Am I going to have to lie down on that?”
“Not unless you want to,” she said.
She exuded a subdued youthfulness that had caught him off guard. Dressed in a slate-blue tailored suit, the skirt hemmed just above the knee, she was slender, her brown hair framing her face in soft waves. He’d expected a greying, sixty-year-old woman—complete with bun, glasses, and a German accent. Placing his foot back on the floor, he took a pack of Camels from his pocket and removed one. Paused with the cigarette halfway to his lips, he looked at her.
She handed him an ashtray.
He put the thin metal dish—which was more like a shallow, fluted cup of aluminum foil—on the small table between the chairs. He put the cigarette in his mouth. With what appeared to be tremendous concentration, he tore a match from his matchbook and carefully closed the cover. But his chest felt very tight, and he did nothing more than breathe. Until the tears started streaming down his face.
“You’re very sad,” Dr. Lerner said softly.
Eyes clamped shut, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and simply nodded. In a voice strangled to the point of cracking, he whispered, “This is all my fault.”
♦ ♦ ♦
SINCE DR. LERNER HAD squeezed Baker in—in between appointments—they talked for only ten minutes so as not to make her next patient wait. With all there was to tell, it was barely enough time to give her more than a few sketchy details about Micki’s life and the events immediately leading up to the suicide attempt.
Lerner said, “I’d like to have sessions with you and Micki separately as well as together.”
Mouth so dry it was difficult to speak, he said, “You want to talk to me about Micki, though—right?”
“I’d also like to talk about you.”
He looked down at the floor, then nodded.
Standing up to signal their time was over, she said, “I’ll arrange my fees in such a way that this won’t be a financial hardship.” He was putting his cigarettes back in his pocket when she added, “Micki’s an interesting case.”
♦ ♦ ♦
HAVING FOUND HIS WAY back to the ICU, Baker sat by Micki’s bed and smoothed her hair while the unceasing noise—whispered chatter, medical monitors, and ventilators—pushed his stress level up another notch. Technically, he was allowed to visit only ten minutes every hour, but his good looks usually bought at least five more, the nurses pretending not to realize how long he’d been there. Overly cautious, as if she might break, he touched her cheek very lightly, the cool skin fine and soft. Until his fingers traveled over the scars. Tears welled up again, and he closed his eyes.
An interesting case.
♦ ♦ ♦
VISITING HOURS IN THE ICU ended at seven o’clock, but Baker hung around until ten, smoking cigarettes in the now-empty adjacent waiting room. Like mother hens, the young nurses fretted over him, telling him to go home and get some rest. He eventually agreed. But it was Micki’s place he went to since it was closer to the hospital. Once there, he realized his mistake: the payphone still wasn’t working. So he went to the corner and placed a call to his answering service, hoping the hospital might’ve already tried to contact him. When the operator told him he had messages, he snapped to attention, only to crash when she added it was from the day before.
“Yesterday?” he repeated. But then it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked in since having dinner with Cynthia.
“Yes, sir. Actually there were two calls that came in. According to our records, one was at nine forty in the evening, but the caller left no name or number. Then there was another at ten-o-two from a Mickey—no last name—stating he—oh, I’m so sorry: she—was on her way to your apartment. Oh, I guess that message isn’t very useful anymore.”
Baker’s throat constricted, and there was a burning sensation in his chest. When he’d gone to the restaurant, he’d completely forgotten to leave a forwarding number. And Micki had called. Needing him. His voice came out weak. “I’ll be home within the hour. Until I check in again, please pick up any calls immediately.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE WALLS IN MICKI’S apartment closed in around him. It felt like a million eyes were watching. He picked up her jacket, ripped the inner lining out completely, then did the same to her vest, taking them with him for his tailor to fix. Pretty creative, her little hiding place; he’d never suspected a thing. She must’ve lifted the pills from his medicine cabinet the very first day she came to clean, then carried them around for months, never using them. Even when she was going through withdrawal.
He got in his car, turned over the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
He hadn’t given her nearly enough credit.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN HE REACHED HIS apartment, there was still no message from the hospital. Without even taking off his jacket, he headed over to the liquor cabinet. Out of his own brand, he grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels—Martini’s favorite—then paused. He unscrewed the cap, only to close it again. For almost a minute, he simply stood there. Then he put the bottle back and locked it away.
That morning he’d had his very last drink.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL, his dreams surreal versions of the day’s events. In the wakeful periods between nightmares, he found himself dredging up everything that had ever happened with Micki, everything he could’ve seen if he’d only opened his eyes.
He wanted to rip his own heart out.
At 2:00 a.m. he flung back the covers: he needed to return to the hospital. The premonition was so strong that he didn’t shower or shave, and with no traffic on the roads, the drive was short. But once he arrived, he was at the mercy of the nurses, who initially rebuffed his request. Looking unabashedly pitiful, he pled his case, then waited while the women talked amongst themselves: it was a breach of ICU rules to let someone visit outside of official, posted times, but at such a quiet, early-morning hour, who was to know? The teen’s life was still hanging in the balance, and the rugged, handsome cop was so distraught. The nurses granted him ten minutes and no more.
She had yet to take a breath on her own.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE SHIMMERED in the summer heat while the stone wall’s endless loops of barbed wire looked unforgivingly cruel and bleak. Heart straining and weakening with every beat, she ran, gasping for air as if in a scorched and arid desert. Sweat was trickling into her eyes, burning and stinging, further blurring the hazy, heat-ravaged landscape. Yet she felt so terribly cold. And so tired. She longed to lay down and sleep. Forever. And all she had to do was stop. Whatever was chasing her was not far behind, determined to finish what it hadn’t before, determined to destroy the very light that was burning inside her. And for the first time, she understood that what she was running from was death.
The wall appeared in the distance, and the ground ahead of her ripped apart. But this time a mist—thick, black, and foul—rolled in to swirl beneath her feet, long wisps reaching out like greedy fingers to wrap around her legs. Unable to breathe, her limbs too heavy to move, she waited to be engulfed by the twisting, turning vapors—only to be carried upward on a pillow of air and gently delivered to the brink of the precipice. Sleepy, she looked down into the void while shadow fell over the brick wall beyond.
And it was then that the mysterious hand reached out—out of the shadows from across the divide. Palm upward, it began to grow until it was so large it could carry her safely across the chasm. But she was drawn to the infinite darkness that was spreading out below: just one more step and she would disappear. Into nothingness.
Still perched on the edge, her mind soft and lazy, she watched the hand withdraw, returning to normal size while the gap between them widened. But as time ran out, it was the hand’s owner who leaned forward, reaching for her, his face finally entering the light.
Baker.
Filled with rage, she jumped into the ravine, even as he seized her arm and plunged into the darkness after her. She experienced a euphoric sense of triumph at the realization that she was taking him with her into death. But as they hurtled through the pitch-black space, it rotated, becoming a tunnel, causing them to float instead of fall. Arms outstretched, she was weightless, gliding like a bird through the boundless tubular corridor.
Up ahead, dazzling and bright, a tiny light appeared, incredibly small but growing larger. It was throwing off sparks and cutting through the darkness, leaving sprays of glowing embers like little trails of glittering gems. Baker’s hand, holding on tightly, had slipped down to hers, but she no longer cared that she was dragging him along. Her entire being was fixed on that light. It was beckoning her to enter, summoning her to come home. It was the light of Heaven. She’d heard about it once on the radio.
But the brilliance was already fading. And she began to hear odd sounds and voices—authoritative ones, not the angelic ones she’d been expecting. Contorting her body, she tried to pull back, but Baker floated past and pulled her forcibly behind him. Faster and faster, they accelerated toward the light, the noises growing louder and louder—
Micki’s eyes fluttered open, and a strange gurgle escaped her throat. Though disoriented, she knew she was very much alive—and staring at Baker, his hand still tightly gripping hers. She started to thrash around, but Baker pinned her down. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. People in white surrounded her, and Baker disappeared. She closed her eyes.
At least the son of a bitch was gone.