his hands that brother… that the man whose winter morning was, in all likelihood, him.
Suddenly she found herself thinking she had once been in with a diver whose skill and competence. she had misjudged. He ended up wedged in a narrow tunnel with his air supPly all but used up. Luckily, she had sensed trouble and located him just a minute or two from disaster.
She was able to buddy-breathe him up to the surface, but the outcome could easily have gone the other way.
She wondered how her life would have changed, how she would have responded had he not made it out of that tunnel affve. The manager of her club, People diving with her day after day-they had more interest in seeing her as human, as fallible, than she did Eric.
When she finally turned back to him, tears glistened in her eyes.
'i wish you hadn't stopped trying,' she said.
'I know. I wish he could have that morning back. Believe me '
I do. And I know it doesn't help Scott, but I'm determined never to make judgments on the value of anyone's life again.'
'And never to ignore the Possibility that what seems ordinary may not be true. 'That too.' She put her arms around him and touched her lips to his ear.
'Fair enough,' she whispered.
'There it is, pal. Cleveland, Ohio.
Eddie Garcia swigged down the last of a thermos of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was glad to be nearing the end of the run but was anxious about his passenger.
Soon, he would have to drop Bob off, in the econ of the dirty bus terminal, and go about unloading his rig. The man was no more prepared or equipped to strike out on his own than a kindergartener.
For a time during the journey, Eddie had tried to help him remember something, anything. But beyond recurring references to East Boston, a woman named Gideon, and her horse, he got nowhere. He Pressed questions about Bob's limp and about his family, his service record. and he asked about other things minor. Connections to his past. He guided the semi off the interstate an working his way through darkened, successively narrower streets. he would spring-for one last meal, — . and give him directions to the bus terminal. He'd also give him forty bucks to get him to East Boston.
'You feel okay?' Eddie asked.
'Uh-huh.'
Scott squinted as his mind. tried to put together the images swirlin but Nothing connected.
Nothing at all. They turned onto a side street barely wide enough for driving. A man was waving a stop sign at them. He was dressed in work clothes and a plaid hunting overshirt. Garcia brought the semi to a stop and rolled down the window.
'Mornin,' he said. 'what's up?'
The man, husky, with close-cropped hair, walked to the window, pulled a revolver from his waistband, and held it pointed at Eddie's face.
'Open the door,' he growled. 'No sudden moves.'
A second man, brandishing a shotgun, appeared by the passenger door, and a third stepped just in front of them.
'Hey, wait a minute,' Eddie said. 'I'm just hauling beef.
There's nothing of any-'
'We know what you have,' the man said. 'Now just get out or you're dead.'
Eddie turned to his passenger.
'Bob,' he said evenly, 'we're being hijacked. Just open your door and do what these fuckers say. Without this rig and this load, I'm busted, but I don't know what the fuck else we can do, goddam it.'
Slowly, the two of them opened their doors and dropped to the pavement.
The man who had stopped them, clearly the leader of the three, motioned them together and then pointed to an alley between buildings.
'In there,' he ordered. 'Do as I say and neither of you gets hurt.'
'Hey, look,' one of the others said. 'This guy's a gimp. What are you, some kind of war hero?'
Scott merely looked at him.
'Do what the man says, Bob,' Eddie whispered.
'Hey guys, please. This rig's all I have.'
'In the alley,' the man barked.
For Eddie Garcia, the half-minute or so that followed was little more than a blur. It began with Bob bending over, ostensibly to tie his shoe. Suddenly, and with vicious force, he swung his arm backhand, catching one of the hijackers across the throat, and dropping him like a stone. In virtually the same motion, he whipped his good leg around, sweeping the second man to the ground and stunning him with a glancing right, palm up under his chin. The shotgun clattered to the pavement, but the man, not immobilized, lashed out with his feet, knocking Bob over.
The leader of the group, a beat slow to react, was raising his revolver when Eddie kicked him in the groin. The man doubled over as Eddie kicked him again, catching him on the upper arm and sending him sprawling.
To Garcia's left, the first man hit was stumbling to his feet while the second had grabbed Bob by the throat and was beginning to pummel him. In that instant, Eddie saw the look on his passenger's face. It was an expression he would never forget as long as he lived-not one of panic or rage or fear, and certainly not the blank stare he had grown so used to over the miles. Rather, Bob appeared almost serene, removed from what was happening to him, oblivious to the pain. He seemed to be completely ignoring the man on top of him in order to focus in on something else.
Before Eddie realized what was happening, Bob had reached out with his good leg and swept the shotgun several feet in his direction.
Eddie dived for it, rolling over and over again as he fumbled to cock it.
One hijacker had already started to run.
The second, realizing what had happened, shoved Bob aside, kicked him hard in the ribs, and was racing toward the alley as Garcia fired.
The shot seemed to hit him, but after staggering a step, he barreled on.
Moments later, he disappeared into the alley. By the time Eddie brought the shotgun around, the man he had kicked was up and sprinting away. He leveled and fired, but the hijacker was already well out of range.
In seconds, the street was quiet again.
Shaken and gasping for breath, Eddie stumbled to his feet. Bob was on his knees, holding his left side.
'You okay, Bob?' Garcia asked.
Scott coughed and felt the seating Crunch of broken bone in his chest.
He had had fractured ribs before, he knew. But when? And how.
'I'm okay,' he managed.
Garcia helped him to his feet.
'You sure?' he asked. 'You want to go to a hospital?'
The word brought a barrage of images to Scott's mind, none of them pleasant.
'No,' he said hoarsely. 'No hospital.'
Eddie Garcia stopped back a pace and looked at him.
'I've never seen anyone move like that,' he said.
'Who are you?'
Scott looked at him sadly and shook his head.
'I don't know,Eddie. I don't know anything. I didn't even plan on attacking those guys. It just happened.' He coughed again, and had to forget the pain to keep from passing out.
'I'm takin' you to a fuckin' hospital' Garcia insisted.
Scott shook his head. 'I've got to get to East Boston,' he said.
'It's important.'
'For what?'
'I… I don't know.'
'Mrs. Gideon's horse?'
