He surprised himself by knowing many of the words. 'This, thi-is is Christ the Ki-ing, whom shepherds gua- and and angels sing…'
It was the Christmas carol, he suddenly realized. That was it. As a i child in Ireland it had been one of his favorites. How strange to hear it in the middle of summer. He paused to let a semi roar past. The noise of the truck was muted — almost as if it made no sound at all. Andy shrugged. As wonderful as it felt to be back on the road again, it also felt a little odd.'… Haste, ha-aste to bring him lau-all-aud, the Ba-abe, the so-on of Mary…'
He closed the windows, turned on the air conditioner, and swung out of the drive onto route 110. The green of the mountainside seemed uncomfortably bright. He squinted, then rubbed at his eyes and wondered if perhaps he should stop someplace to pick up a pair of sunglasses. No, he decided. No stops. At least not until after Colson's. Settle down, old boy, he said to himself. Just settle down. He adjusted the signal on the radio and settled back in his seat, humming once again. Route 110 was two lanes wide, with a narrow breakdown space on either side. It twisted and turned, rose and dropped like an amusement park ride, from Groveton on the Vermont border, along the ridge of the Ammonoosuc River Valley, to Sterling and Route 16. A scarred, low, white guardrail paralleled the road to Andy's right, and beyond the rail was the gorge, at places seven hundred feet deep. Andy's restless, ill-at-ease sensation was intensifying, and he knew he was having difficulty concentrating. He adjusted his seatback and checked his safety harness.
The guardrail had become something of a blur, and the solid center line kept working its way beneath his left front tire. He tightened his grip on the wheel and checked the speedometer. Forty-five. Why did it feel like he was speeding?
Subtly, he noticed, the trees on the mountainside had begun to darken-to develop a reddish tone. He rubbed at his eyes and, once again, forced the sedan back to the right-hand lane. Twenty-five years on the road without an accident. He was damned if he was going to have one now. Ahead of him, the scenery dimmed. A tractor trailor approached, sunlight sparking brilliantly off its windshield. Suddenly, Andy was aware of a voice echoing in his mind-a deep, slow, resonant, reassuring voice, at first too soft to understand, then louder… and louder still. 'Okay, Andy, ' it said, 'now all I want you to do is count back from one hundred… count back from one hundred… count back from one hundred…'
Out loud, Andy began to count. 'One hundred… ninety-nine… ninety-eight…'
A blue drape drifted above him, then floated down over his abdomen.
'Ninety-seven… ninety-six…' e Hands, covered by rubber gloves, appeared in the space where the drape had been. 'Ninety-five… ninety-four… Why aren't I asleep?' his mind asked. 'Ninety-three… ninety-two.'
'Bove electrode, please, ' the low voice said. 'Set it for cut and cauterize.'
Another pair of gloved hands appeared, one of them holding a gauze sponge, and the other, a small rod with a metal tip. Slowly, they lowered the metal tip toward his belly. 'Ninety-one… ninety-'
Suddenly, a loud humming filled his mind. The metal tip of the rod touched his skin just below his navel, sending a searing, electric pain through to his back and down his legs. 'Jesus Christ, stop! ' Andy screamed. 'I'm not asleep! I'm not asleep!'
The wall of his lower abdomen parted beneath the electric blade, exposing a bright yellow layer of fat. 'Eighty-nine!.. Eighty-eight! … For God's sake, stop! It's not working! I'm awake! I can feel that!
I can feel everything! '
'Metzenbaums and pick-ups, please.'
'No! Please, no!'
The Metzenbaum scissors sheared across Andy's peritoneum, parting the shiny membrane like tissue paper and exposing the glistening pink rolls of his bowel. Again, he screamed. But this time, the sound came from his voice, as well as from within his mind. His vision cleared at the moment the right headlight of his automobile made contact with the guardrail.
The Chevy, now traveling at nearly ninety miles an hour, tore through the protective steel as if it were cardboard, crossed a narrow stretch of grass and gravel, and then hurtled over the edge of the gorge.
Strapped to his seat, Andy O'Meara watched the emerald trees flash past.
In the fourth second of his fall, he realized what was happening. In the fifth, the Chevy shattered on the jagged rocks below and exploded. ill THE CAFETERIA OF Ultramed-Davis, like most of the facility, had been renovated in an airy and modern, though quite predictable, style. The interior featured a large, well-provisioned salad bar, and a wall of sliding glass doors opened onto a neat flagstone terrace with a half-dozen cement tables and benches. Pleasantly exhausted from his three-hour cervical disc case, Zack sat at the only table partially shaded by an overhanging tree and watched as Guy Beaulieu maneuvered toward him through the lunchtime crowd. During the summer Zack had spent as an extern at the then Davis Regional Hospital, Beaulieu had been extremely busy with his practice and with his duties as president of the medical staff. Still, the man always seemed to have enough time to stop and teach, or to reassure a frightened patient, or to console a bereaved family. And from that summer on, the surgeon's blend of skill and compassion had remained something of a role model for Zack. 'So,'
Beaulieu said as he set down his tray and slid onto the stone bench opposite Zack, 'thank you for agreeing to dine with me.'
'Nonsense, ' Zack replied. 'I've been looking forward to seeing you ever since I got back to town. How is your wife doing? And Marie? '
'Clothilde, bless her heart, is as good as can be expected, considering the filthy stories she has had to contend with these past two years. And as for Marie, as you may have heard, she grew weary waiting for you to propose and went ahead and married a writer-a poet of all things-from Quebec.'
Zack smiled. He and Marie Beaulieu had been friends from their earliest days in grammar school, but had never been sweethearts in any sense of the word. 'Knowing Marie, I'm sure he's very special,' he said. 'You are correct. If she could not have you, then this man, Luc, is one I would have chosen for her. In an age when most young people seem to care for nothing but themselves, he is quite unique-consumed by the need to make a difference. He works for a village newss'der and crusades against all manner of social injustice while he waits for the world to discover his poems.'
'Kids?'
'They have two children, and I don't know how on earth they manage to feed them. But manage they do.'
'And they're happy, ' Zack said. 'Yes. Poor and crusading, but happy, and as in love-more so, perhaps-than on the day they were married.'
Zack held his hands apart. 'C'est tout ce que conte, n'est ce pas?'
Beaulieu's smile was bittersweet. 'Yes, ' he said. 'That is all that matters.' He paused a beat for transition. 'So, your old friend Guy Beaulieu is a little short of allies in this place.'
'So it sounds, ' Zack said, picking absently at his salad. Beaulieu leaned forward, his eyes and his voice conspiratorial. 'There is much going on here that is not right, Zachary, ' he whispered. 'Some of what is happening is simply wrong. Some of it is evil.'
Zack glanced about at the newly constructed west wing, at the helipad, at the clusters of nurses and doctors enjoying their noontime breaks on the terrace and inside the cafeteria. 'You'll understand, I hope, if I say that I see little evidence of that around me. Could you be more specific?'
'Your father spoke to you, yes?'
'Briefly.'
'So you know about the lies.'
'I know something of the rumors, if that's what you mean.'
Beaulieu leaned even closer. 'Zachary, I beg your confidence in this matter.'
'That goes without asking, ' Zack said. 'But I have to warn you of something. The Judge on Sunday, and you again this morning, suggested that at least some of your quarrel might be with Frank. You should know that I have absolutely no desire to take sides in that disagreement.
Your friendship means a great deal to me. I don't know if I'd even be a surgeon today if it weren't for your influence. But Frank's my brother.
I can't imagine lining up against him.'
'Even if he was in the wrong?'
'In my experience, Guy, right and wrong are far more often shades of gray than black and white. Besides, I tried my hand at crusading during my years at Boston Muni. All it got me was a tension headache the size of
