(from Chapter 1)
I remember being racked with shudders as the cold worked
its way inside. At some point the shuddering stopped, but by
then I was too far gone to realize what a bad sign that was.
I remember thinking about Zach, but that isn't tied to any
one moment. Thoughts of my son are woven through all the memory
bits, like the rocks. They were everywhere, too.
I remember laying flat-out in the mud with a rock poking my
cheek. There's another bit where I'm trying to get up. I'm
irritated because I can't feel my left hand, which meant I
had to see it to know if it was placed right. I don't know
how those two beads line up, which was before and which came
after. Seems like I kept falling and having to get up, but
maybe I dreamed some of that.
I remember the angel.
That part has a beginning, a middle and an end, beads lined
up neatly in order. It was the warmth that called me back.
It wormed its way deep inside and tugged at me, made me notice
it. And with that noticing came a thought, sluggish but complete:
the warmth was real. I knew that because I started shivering
again, and shivering--any movement--hurt.
I blinked open my eyes.
It wasn't her face that gave me the idea she was an angel.
She was beautiful, but more exotic than angelic with her flat,
wide cheekbones and tilty eyes. Her mouth was downright lush.
But she had to be an angel. She was glowing.
Deeply disappointed, I croaked, "I'm
dead, then."
Those full lips twitched. "No, not at all." She had a smooth
sort of voice, sweet and thick like honey. And a southern accent,
which struck me as odd for an angel. "You're going to be fine."
That seemed unlikely, but even less
likely things were happening right before my eyes. "You're
glowing."
"I have a flashlight."
"No, it's you."
"You're imagining things. In fact, I suspect you imagined
this whole conversation." She touched my forehead. The bracelet
on her wrist brushed my skin, its tiny jewels winking at me. "Now,
don't be wasting all I've spent on you. Go back to sleep."
I wanted to argue, but my eyes obeyed her instead of me and
drifted shut. I floated away on a warm tide.
"Color's bad. Rapid respiration."
Male voices. Hands messing with me. Where was my angel?
"Nail beds are white, but it's damned
cold and he's been here awhile."
"Distal pulse?"
"Can't find it."
I knew that voice. "Pete," I said,
or thought I did. It came out a groan. I made a huge effort
and opened my eyes. Pete Aguilar's face hovered over mine.
Pete used to raise hell with my brother Charlie, but that
was a long time ago. High school stuff. These days he . .
. I blinked, trying to think of why Pete would be holding
my hand.
"You with us?" He squeezed my shoulder--the left one, thank
God. "Hang in there, buddy."
Oh, yeah. "Paramedic."
"That's right. Me and Joe are going
to take care of you. Where do you hurt?"
Everywhere. I felt sick, dizzy, scared. "Where
is she?"
"I need to know where you hurt, Ben."
"Shoulder. Head. I want. . . " I tried
to sit up, but didn't accomplish much.
"Whoa. Stay still, or you'll open
up that shoulder again."
"Dammit, I want to know--"
"I'm right here." That was her voice--close, but not as close
as she had been. "Lie still and let them help you."
It's not as if I had a choice. Pete or the other man tipped
me on my side. I would have belted him if I'd been able to
move. As it was, I barely had the breath to curse them once
they settled me on my back again.
There was something between me and the mud now. A stretcher,
I guess.
"You're a lucky man," Pete told me
cheerfully.
Damned idiot always had been too happy
for good sense. Just like Charlie. "Not lucky . . . fall
off mountain."
"But if you're going to fall off one,
it's nice to do it just before someone with paramedic training
happens along. She did a good job of keeping you going until
we got here."
Not an angel. A paramedic. No, wait--paramedics don't glow.
A thought slipped in amidst my confusion. "Tell
them . . . power line down. Dangerous."
"One of Highpoint's finest is keeping
on eye on things until a crew arrives. Now, we've got to
get you up to the ambulance where we can give you some oxygen,
get a drip going. You'll feel better then."
The other man had been busy with straps.
The one he fastened around my chest pulled on my shoulder.
I was just getting my breath back when Pete said, "Ready?
On the count of three. One--two--"
They lifted. I guess there was no way to do that without
jarring me. I managed to hang onto the ragged edge of consciousness--mainly
out of fear, I'll admit. I wasn't sure I'd wake up again.
I weigh about two twenty. They couldn't just carry me and
the stretcher. They had to let the front end roll where it
could, lifting it only when they had no choice. The downhill
end, though, had to be lifted pretty much all the time. Pete
took that end. He was a husky man, nearly as big as me, but
that slope defeated him. After a few nearly vertical yards
he tripped or slipped and set his end down suddenly. And hard.
I heard myself cry out. It took everything I had to fight
off the black, greasy wave. Then I heard her voice.
She was arguing with them.
She won the argument. While I was busy breathing, she took
over at the head of the stretcher, leaving the downhill end
to the two men. Not that I figured this out at the time. Then,
I was only aware of pain. The need to stay conscious. And that
she was near enough to touch me again, because she did.
"Stubborn man," she whispered. Her
hand was warm on my cheek, so warm. Almost hot. That heat
seemed to push me right out of myself. I lost my grip on
consciousness and tumbled off into the darkness.
