hammering him mercilessly. He fumbled for his seat belt, struggling to unhook it as the Chrysler sank like a brick in a well.
A final tug and the latch clicked open. Freeing himself from the harness, he kicked back against the seat, then shot forward through the window frame and swam, his legs and arms pumping furiously toward the surface.
But his lungs could only hold so much air and they were on fire.
Hold on, Jack, hold on. You can make it.
But could he? Not with this current tugging at him. Not with this freezing water slicing deep into his bones, numbing his arms and legs to the point of uselessness.
Not with his lungs about to burst.
He fought with every bit of strength he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
He’d once read that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to hold his breath underwater for a full five minutes. But Donovan was no Houdini, and he’d be doing pretty good just to hold his breath for one minute, let alone five.
Sixty-three seconds after the river crashed through his windshield, a final, searing jab of pain claimed Donovan’s lungs, feeling much like Willy Sanchez’s knife to the kidney…
Then everything went black.
Part Three
29
If you had asked him before this moment what he thought about life after death, he would’ve told you it doesn’t exist.
Death, he would have said, is a dark vacuum where all memories cease and all senses are cut off as cleanly and abruptly as the power company switches off electricity to your home.
He had never held the illusion that there was something waiting for him in the great beyond. Heaven and hell were fairy tales, a promise and a warning, created by superstitious men. Religion was nothing more than politics dressed up with symbols and sacraments-and too often used as justification to conquer and control.
He lived in a world where evidence was king, and the promise of life after death had not lived up to scrutiny.
Faith was a sucker’s bet. A fool’s game.
And while he certainly wasn’t perfect, by any means, he’d never been a fool.
Or had he?
When he opened his eyes, he was standing on the bridge. The container truck was gone, as were the cars. And the people driving them. The sky was dark and restless, but the road was dry, no sign of the rain that had washed him away.
The only sound was a distant, howling wind.
In front of him stood a mangled mass of steel that had once been a guardrail, sporting a huge gap where the Chrysler had crashed through.
But if the Chrysler was down there…
… how did he get up here?
Had someone pulled him out?
Moving closer to the gap, he stared at the black river and watched as a body crested the surface of the water like a fishing bobber. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn gave off three short blasts. A distress signal.
Jesus, he thought, that guy looks dead. I hope they get to him soon.
Then, just as he began to realize, with growing anxiety, that it wasn’t just any body floating in the water-but was, in fact, him — a sudden rush of wind enveloped him and a black, turbulent wormhole opened up overhead.
Something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him upward. In a few short seconds, both bridge and river were little more than pinpricks below as he was sucked into an endless, swirling corridor of light and sound.
Fear blossomed in the pit of his stomach as a surreal barrage of images hurtled toward him at lightning speed, much too fast to decipher. He sensed that he was seeing his life play out before him, some sort of high- speed chronicle of where he’d been and who he’d known in his thirty-nine years. His parents, his sister, his marriage, Jessie Gunderson…
Above him, at the far end of the corridor, a bright circle of light flickered.
Was it a star of some kind?
All he knew was that there was something compelling about it. And soothing. His fear and apprehension suddenly sifted away as an odd sense of warmth vibrated through his body — a warmth like nothing he’d ever felt before.
There was no pain, no pleasure, just-and this seemed strange, considering the frenzied activity swirling around him-just calm.
Then, the faint murmur of voices filled his head, calling his name, beckoning to him.
Were they coming from the light?
He couldn’t be sure.
Before he had a chance to find out, invisible hands took hold of him again and yanked him toward a shadowy fold in the corridor wall.
He found himself lying on a small patch of earth, staring into darkness.
Pulling himself upright, he looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After only a moment, he could make out the vague shapes of other human beings, their faces gradually becoming clear, full of shell-shocked confusion-a look he was certain reflected his own.
They were surrounded by rocky terrain. The distant mountains looked as sharp and impenetrable as razor wire, and the sky was not simply restless, but somehow threatening. Hungry.
Yet the others seemed oblivious to it all.
Oblivious to him.
He watched as those around him began to rise and migrate, shuffling off toward a narrow pathway in the distance as if herded to the spot by a phantom wrangler.
He didn’t hear the call, didn’t feel compelled to follow, but he stood up anyway.
What, he wondered, was drawing them?
Had the Roman Catholics gotten it right? Had the penitent come here to be purged of their sins before ascending to… wherever?
The gathering crowd began to shift and change shape, forming a ragged line that funneled deeper into the darkness toward an unknown destination.
He remembered, with sudden clarity, what Gunderson had said back at the train car, about the ancient Egyptians and the Fields of Yaru. Were these the newly dead, lining up to be tested? Did that narrow pathway lead to a world of boiling swamps and venomous serpents?
The answers were beyond his grasp. He had no idea what any of it meant.
For him, or for Jessie.
His presence here seemed like some kind of sick, cosmic joke-a metaphysical monkey wrench-and he wondered if he was to be forever anchored to this strange place while his daughter slowly suffocated in a crude wooden coffin.
