Sounds.
The wind and the rain.
His name, screaming.
Men shouting, far away, coming closer.
All vague, all dream-like.
Kilduff teeters on the edge of consciousness, close to falling, soon to fall. He seems to be drifting within himself, an aimless drifting in descending, ever-diminishing circles, as if he has somehow become trapped inside a cone-like helix that will, when he reaches its tiny beckoning bottom, hurl him into a limitless black void. His eyes are closed, and he cannot open them; the rain is cold, pleasant, soothing on his fevered skin. He lies there, waiting for the void, drifting, drifting, and then he senses a weight fall beside him, hears the anguished sounds of near- hysterical weeping. Soft hands, tender hands, familiar hands lift his head from the mud, cradle it momentarily, lower it finally onto a pillowing, familiar softness.
Andrea’s hands.
Andrea’s softness.
Andrea you’re alive, you’re all right.
Oh God, thank you, God . . .
He tries to say the words he is thinking, but his throat refuses to work. The tender hands stroke his cheeks, and he tastes the salt-warmth of falling tears on his lips, Andrea’s tears, and Andrea’s voice is saying his name again, over and over and over, pleading with him not to die . . .
Running feet, pounding across the marsh grasses, through the puddles and through the mud. Panting breaths. A man’s voice: “Jesus Christ!”
Another: “Pat, get back to the car. Radio for an ambulance.”
Another: “They’re both dead, Neal. Look at all the goddamned blood!”
The second: “What happened here? Ma’am, what happened here . . . ?”
He is nearing the bottom now, and the opening into the void has grown larger, grown wide. It waits for him, inviting, and he begins to drift faster and faster, reaching out for it, ready to embrace it. The sounds fade, diminish, until there is only a great, frightening silence.
And then he spins out of the cone-like helix, into blackness, into nothingness, into oblivion . . .
Epilogue Friday
White on white.
White images superimposed on a white background.
Bright white light.
Belly-down on white softness, cheek resting on white softness.
The odor of antiseptic.
Faces—blurred faces, strange faces.
Pain in his back.
Binding constriction of adhesive tape.
Weakness.
Remembering.
“Andrea,” he said.
“His wife,” one of the blurred faces said.
“Andrea ...”
“She’s all right,” another of the faces said. “She’s right outside.”
“. . . see her. . .”
“Not now. Rest, now.”
Faces fading. He tried to keep them in focus, but they faded and faded and finally they were gone, and the whiteness was gone and the softness and the light were gone.
He slept.
He awoke thirsty.
He was still lying on his stomach, still lying on the white softness. His vision was clear. He saw a white wall, white ceiling, whitelinoleumed floor; white nightstand and a white-uniformed nurse sitting on one of three white metal chairs, reading a magazine.
He said, “Water.”
The nurse stood up and looked down at him and felt his pulse. She smiled briefly and brought him a glass of water. He drank it, asked for another. The nurse let him have a little more, and then she left and he heard a door close. After a time, a doctor with black eyes and a cupid’s-bow mouth came in and began to examine him.
“Do you have any pain?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, a little.”
“That’s understandable.”
“How badly am I hurt?”
“You’ll be all right.”
“My wife-?”
“She’s fine.”
“Is she here?”
“Yes.
“Can I see her?”
“Not just now.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“There are . . . some men first ”
“Oh,” he said. “Yes.”
“Do you feel up to talking to them now?”
“Yes, all right.”
“I’ll tell them.”
His tongue felt swollen. “What hospital is this?”
“Novato General.”
“And what day?”
“Friday.”
“Morning?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “A little past nine.”
“Almost twenty-four hours,” he said.
“That’s not unusual,” the doctor said. “You were in surgery for five hours.”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
The doctor left—and came back again.
With Inspectors Commac and Flagg.
And a man named Arnstadt.
And a male stenographer.
The first thing he asked them was: “Who was he?”
“His name was Marik,” Commac said. “Felix Marik.”
“Marik? Marik?”
