Night Journey (35 page)

He ran until he saw a door marked
Exit
. Pushing on the door, he found himself in a stairwell. It wound around and down, but he blundered on. Maybe he’d end up in hell. It couldn’t be any worse.

When the stairs ended in the basement, he collapsed on the floor and let himself go. Weeks of stress, poor nutrition, and sleep deprivation caught up with him and he cried like a baby. He was losing her and there was nothing more he could do. If he couldn’t have Emma, he didn’t want to live.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the Glock. It felt cold and alien in his hand. He and Allen had gone to the gun range from time to time for target practice and he’d enjoyed the sport. But could he use it now in defense of Emma? What other choice did he have? He’d played by the rules and lost. In less than twenty minutes they would unplug Emma’s ventilator and she would die. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Hey, big guy. Don’t take it so hard.”

Zan felt a hand on his shoulder and he gazed up through a haze of tears. He had to think for a moment before he recognized the man. “Dr. Wilson! Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been around.”

Zan hauled himself up, his voice cracking. “We’ve lost the case. They say they’re gonna kill Emma, but they’ll have to kill me first.” He pulled back the firearm’s slide. His resolve strengthened when he heard the click of the chambered round.

“Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve already broken just by bringing that thing into a hospital?”

Zan bristled. “What good are laws to Emma? An inmate on death row has more rights than she does. If I don’t do something soon, it’ll be too late.”

“You’re absolutely correct, but why don’t you let me play the bad guy?”

“I have to do this myself.” Zan straightened his spine. “She’s my wife and I have to be there for her.”

“Exactly my point. You won’t be there for her if you’re sitting in jail. I don’t have anything to lose and I’ve got a score to settle with Rachel Hughes—always wanted to do something like Denzel Washington in
John Q
. Loved that movie.” Dr. Wilson smiled sardonically, took the Glock from Zan’s hand and stuffed it into his waistband. “Come on, let’s go clean up this mess.”
Zan followed Dr. Richard Wilson through the hospital corridors as chaos reigned. He flinched when the fire alarms clanged and flashed and the overhead sprinklers popped out. The cold water drenched him, but Dr. Wilson didn’t seem to even notice. Was the building on fire? Zan’s pulse raced, thinking about his family—and Emma.

They turned the corner and headed for Emma’s room. People were running everywhere, shouting and screaming. The security guard outside Emma’s door looked confused. Dr. Wilson grinned and pulled the gun from his pants.

“Stick ‘em up.”

The guard gasped and held up his hands.

“Okay, you can go.” Dr. Wilson fluttered his hand. “I’m takin’ over security.”

The guard turned and ran. When Dr. Wilson and Zan entered the room, the alarms ceased and the sprinkler heads popped back into place. Emma’s bed was soaked, but her life support machines labored on.

“Zan! Is the building on fire?” Jonathan wiped the water that dripped down his face. “What’ll we do about Emma? We can’t move her without disconnecting her respirator.”

“It’s okay, Dad. There’s no fire,” replied Zan. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tried to pat Emma dry. “Dr. Wilson and I are taking control of the situation.”

“Dr. Wilson?” The nurse froze. Her voice became a frightened squeak and her eyes went wide with shock. Dr. Ballew stood beside her, his face almost as white as his lab coat.

“In the…yeah, it’s me,” he replied. “Nice to see you, too, Mildred—Frank.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?” asked Dr. Ballew. He sweated profusely and the front of his slacks appeared wet.

“Good grief, Frank. Mildred, I believe we’ve got us a
Code Yellow
here.” Dr. Wilson grimaced and held his hand over his nose and mouth. “Uh oh. Now I think it’s a
Code Brown
.”

Dr. Wilson waved the Glock toward the telephone. “I’ve come to take care of unfinished business. Mildred, Call Rachel and tell her I want to talk to her—and call downstairs and tell that cute little reporter to come up here with her camera crew. Go on. Stat!”

Several minutes passed before Zan heard more commotion in the hallway. He peeked out and saw the reporter and cameraman approach. An army of policemen moved to let them pass. Frightened-looking people milled about and gawked, but nobody else came near Emma’s room.

Zan stepped back as Lora and her crew entered the crowded room. Lora wrinkled her nose at the smell. Dr. Wilson leaned nonchalantly against the wall and twirled the handgun. The camera panned across the comatose woman in the bed and paused on the wall clock, which read
eleven fifty-five
. She held the microphone and faced the camera.

“This is Lora Lapinski, reporting live from inside Emma Fuller’s room at Northwest Regional Hospital in Rogers, Arkansas. With only five minutes to go before the scheduled time for removal of Mrs. Fuller’s breathing apparatus, we seem to be in the midst of a hostage situation. Mr. Fuller, can you tell us what’s going on?”

Zan froze when the camera turned toward him. He had no idea what to say. Public speaking had always been one of his greatest fears. He glanced toward Dr. Wilson, who smiled and nodded. He took a deep breath and the words began to flow.

“Uh, yes,” he gestured toward the gunman. “This is Dr. Richard Wilson. He was Emma’s original treating physician. I’m sorry things had to come to this. I’m not usually violent. I’m a law-abiding person, but this just isn’t right…”

“Hey,” Dr. Wilson interrupted. “
I’m
the one with the gun. The violence part is all my idea.”

Zan smiled and continued. “All I’m asking for is a little more time for Emma. Give her a chance to come back. Ever since this all started, there’s been a mad rush to unhook her life support. She’s been caught in the middle of a tug-of-war between legal and moral issues. But everybody seems to have lost sight of what’s really at stake—humanity.”

A murmur of agreement buzzed through the room and Zan’s confidence grew.

“I’m not condemning the concept of Living Wills or organ donation. On the contrary, they’re two of society’s most important tools. Why, I believe that the fact that science allows us to share our organs with each other is nothing short of a miracle. And Living Wills are an ingenius instrument for notifying everyone that we want to share the gift of life—but only when the time is right. If everyone, all over the world, would take the time to use these two incredible tools, properly and thoughtfully, organ shortages would disappear. But Emma’s situation exemplifies the potential for abuse if such tools are taken completely at face value without regard to circumstance.”

Lora spoke into the microphone. “Mr. Fuller, do you think the evidence you used in your motions hurt your cause? You’ve got to admit that legal testimony relying on Ouija boards and ghosts is a little unorthodox.”

“Yes, I know it seems strange,” Zan replied. “A month ago I wouldn’t have believed in anything supernatural either. But just because we don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it’s not true. Science makes new discoveries every day. Who are we to say ghosts and spirits don’t exist?”

Lora turned toward the clock above Emma’s bed. “It’s now twelve noon. Emma Fuller is still alive and we seem to be at a stalemate. Zan, can you tell us what your demands are?”

“Well, we’re basically just asking for time. My brother’s investigator is still gathering information regarding Judge Covington. We’re hoping to get Emma’s case transferred to another judge who will give us a chance to make certain whether she’s going to get well or not. That’s all.”

“What about the revelation that Emma might be Senator Talmedge’s daughter? Do you think the fact that Monica Talmedge has already received a heart transplant from a different donor will make a difference to her case?”

Zan shrugged. “It didn’t make a difference before. I’m not asking Congress to run out and enact a new law. All I want is for her to get a fair hearing and not be rushed out of life.” He gazed at his wife. “Before you got here, we wanted to do a simple pregnancy test on Emma, but the hospital wouldn’t allow it.”

“A pregnancy test?” asked Lora.

“Let me explain,” interjected Dr. Wilson. “It is my professional opinion that, given more time, Emma Fuller will not only make a complete recovery from her injuries, but she’ll also reveal a wonderful surprise. I’d like to conduct a little demonstration here on live TV.” He turned toward the group. “Has anybody got a pocket knife?”

The Chief nodded and pulled out his hunting blade. As if reading his mind, Moonbeam unwrapped a pregnancy test kit and with a quick slice of plastic tubing, she collected the sample and then dropped the end of the tube into a wastebasket. Everyone stared at the test strips and waited.

“Well, while we’re waiting on that, I think I’ll just take a look at the chart.” Dr. Wilson flipped through the records and frowned. “Hm. Just as I suspected. It’s missing.”

The cameraman zeroed in on Dr. Wilson and Lora spoke into the microphone. “What’s missing?”

“About six days after they brought Mrs. Fuller in, I asked her nurse, Bridget, to do a blood test for pregnancy…” Wilson turned and stared at Dr. Ballew. “Yes, Frank. I know. You were officially her doctor by then, but you know me. Can’t keep my nose out of stuff.” He turned back to the camera. “By then, my employment was officially terminated, and I was barred from entering the hospital. Bridget got the test for me anyway and brought me a copy of the results. Mrs. Fuller’s blood had much higher than normal hCG levels, which indicated a positive pregnancy. That’s when I confronted Rachel.” He turned and stared at the cowering nurse. “By the way, where is Bridget?”

“Sh-she doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Dr. Wilson shrugged and gazed at Dr. Ballew, who was clawing at his tie. “Maybe you’d better check him out, nurse. He looks like he’s about to have a coronary.” He shook his head. “I told him over and over he needed to lower his cholesterol.”

Phoebe pointed at the test strips in the urine cup and squealed.

Zan shouted when he saw the lines appear. “Look! It’s positive!” The camera zoomed in on Zan’s grinning face. “I’m gonna be a father!”

Dr. Wilson smiled like the Cheshire cat as he slapped Zan on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big guy. Rachel, are you watching out there in TV land? Guess you didn’t want to meet me face-to-face, huh?” He moved closer to the camera. “How about you, Judge Creep-o? Bet you’re sorry now. Guess you’ll have to rescind your order to kill an innocent woman, won’t you? And then right after you do that, why don’t you let the janitor out of jail? He’s not the one who murdered me. If you want the
real
guilty party, you’d better arrest Rachel Hughes.”

Lora gasped and grabbed the microphone. “What are you talking about?” She shouted as the camera panned the room.

Dr. Ballew’s face was a tortured mask of terror as he pointed at Dr. Wilson and started backing away. The cameraman kept filming. “You’re not real…I went to your funeral two weeks ago…you’re dead!”

The overhead lights suddenly went out. The sound of the ventilator and heart monitor ceased.

A deathly hush settled over the room.

The screech of unstable wheels and a wobbling, swaying movement plucked Emma from the depths of unconsciousness. She felt as if she were being tortured. The stabbing pain in her gut assaulted her and she moaned in agony.

“Won’t you ever die?” Nurse Amiss muttered. She stopped the gurney and jerked the sheet away from Emma’s face. Her eyes were filled with loathing as she punched the elevator button.

Emma gazed up at the nurse, too weak and helpless to move. Her strength was almost gone. All she had left was her misery.

Her eyelids fluttered and then she saw them, clustered at the end of the hallway. Dozens of people stood there, transparent and hazy, silently staring. Emma could see right through them, as if they existed somewhere outside the mortal realm. A pretty girl in a long white dress stood among the group and Emma vaguely recognized her as the ghost who’d jumped from the balcony a lifetime ago.

She felt a rough jerk as the elevator dropped. Through a haze of misery she endured the ride until, with a harsh bounce, the elevator stopped. The doors opened and Miss Amiss pushed the gurney, twisting and turning to its final destination. Emma recognized the narrow stone walls and the dank, gloomy darkness of the basement. She felt the sepulchral coldness and smelled the nauseating odor of formaldehyde.

Emma wasn’t dead, yet somehow she knew where Nurse Amiss was taking her. The morgue.

“No…please,” Emma begged when she saw the freezer and the stainless steel autopsy tables. Her consciousness faded and she fought to stay awake.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble,” Nurse Amiss parked the gurney and glared at Emma. “What were you doing up in Dr. Baker’s room?”

Emma groaned and her mind languished. A sharp slap brought her back.

“I asked you a question.” The nurse’s eyes glowed with madness. “What happened to Ivy? Did she run off with Earl?”

“Don’t…know…what…you’re…talking…about.”

“Dr. Baker was
not
happy when he discovered you tricked him with that stupid radio play. Where did they go, damn you?” Miss Amiss slapped Emma again and she tasted blood.

“Stop that!” someone shouted and Emma watched as Andy stepped forward.

Roberta whirled around, her eyes flashing. “Mind your own business, idiot!”

Andy’s face turned red and his big hands formed fists. “I saw what you did to Miz Hardcastle.” He reached out, grabbed Roberta’s arm and jerked her away from Emma. “You’re
not
gonna put Miss Anna in the ‘cinerator.”

Roberta screamed with rage, lunged at Andy, and then grabbed his gun from its holster. She cackled triumphantly as she raised the weapon, pointed it at his heart, and pulled the trigger. The gun’s report echoed against the stone walls. Andy screamed, and his lifeblood spurted. Like a felled tree, the giant man toppled forward and Emma watched helplessly as his body grew still and his blood seeped slowly down the drain in the floor.

Emma’s mind grew numb. Her hearing and vision began to fade, as she heard Roberta’s maniacal laughter and saw the cushion descend over her face.
The next thing she knew, she was back in the vortex, hurtling upward. This time, however, there was no life review. No Ferris wheel ride. No lovely panorama of the Earth or the solar system. There was nothing but a headlong rush through a dark, frightening tunnel, toward the white light.

A slight movement in Emma’s peripheral vision distracted her and she saw a glowing bulge in the tunnel. It reminded her of the portal she’d slid through before and she wondered if the tunnel and the portal were actually the same conduit between life and death. She felt a tightening sensation from behind, as if she were attached to a bungee cord that had grown taut and was about to snap.

Her silver cord.

If it broke, she could never return to earth. Never return to Zan. Never have his children.

She felt confused. What had been the purpose of this bizarre journey? Yes, she’d helped Ivy and Harry get away together. And she’d even managed to overcome her rigid anxieties and learned to view possibilities she’d never before considered.

But why like this? Her parents had told her it wasn’t her time to die; yet here she was again, heading back to Heaven. What about the children she was supposed to have? And what about Zan? Would she never see him again? A sense of abject failure washed over her.

Panic-stricken, she blindly reached toward the bubble. A hand came out of the bulge, seized hers, and dragged her inside. The tension immediately eased on her lifeline.

She felt encompassed by warmth and love as Theodora’s spirit embraced and comforted her.

And then she woke up.
Emma gagged and tore at the respirator. Panic filled her as she fought the tube lodged in her throat.

“She’s awake!” yelled Zan. He cradled her in his arms. “Calm down, honey. We’ll get you loose in a minute.” He motioned for the nurse.

“Take a deep breath and blow it out,” urged the nurse. “That’s it…good.”

Emma coughed and her throat felt raw. She blinked and focused her eyes. Zan’s bearded face was the first thing she saw and she wept with relief and happiness as he cradled her in his arms.

He held her like a drowning man who’d just found air; like a starving man who’d just found food. Her heart soared as he held her to his heart and rocked her back and forth.

“Oh, God. Emma. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Love you….” Emma’s voice came out in a harsh rasp, but the soreness of her throat was nothing compared to the joy she felt at having returned to him and her own time.

“Don’t try to speak.” Someone handed Zan a cup filled with ice chips and he spooned them into Emma’s mouth. “I have so much to tell you. I didn’t want to live without you, but now everything is perfect. We’re going to have a baby!”

Emma tried to talk, but she was too weak and her vocal chords were too raw. She pointed at her belly and then croaked, “Me?”

Zan nodded and his eyes sparkled. “Moonbeam did a test on you. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Emma batted at the wires that still connected her to the IV and heart monitor. “Pregnant…now?”

Zan nodded and happiness bubbled up until Emma thought she would burst with joy. She tore her gaze away from her husband and saw the others. People she loved—Jonathan, Barbara, Phoebe, Moonbeam, and the Chief suddenly surrounded her. They were laughing and shouting and crying all at once. Allen came rushing in and in the far corner she saw a man with a television camera and a woman with a microphone.

The overhead lights suddenly came on and the machines at her bedside came to life, buzzing and whirring and beeping.

“Where’s the gunman?” The reporter snapped to attention and turned to the cameraman. “Are we back up? Just keep it rolling….ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve just witnessed a miracle. Emma Fuller has awakened!” She approached the bed where Zan held Emma in a tight embrace. She thrust the microphone toward Allen. “Did you see Dr. Wilson leave?”

Allen shook his head. “The police wouldn’t let anybody come upstairs, so I was down in the lobby watching TV. Then when the power went off, there was so much confusion, I slipped past ‘em and ran up the stairs. But I didn’t see anybody else leave.”

“What was all that stuff about Dr. Wilson being dead?” asked Phoebe.

“Oh, honey. You should have seen it on TV.” Allen grabbed Phoebe and hugged her. “Everybody thought it was some kind of trick photography. You could see right through him, like he was smoke.”

The reporter’s cell phone rang. “Yes? Um hm…um hm…I see…okay, thanks.” She straightened and spoke. “We’ve just received breaking news. Moments ago, police arrested hospital administrator Rachel Hughes in connection with the recent murder of Dr. Richard Wilson. She was apparently caught in the act of tampering with the hospital’s electrical system and was allegedly the cause of the power outage a little while ago. She is now considered a suspect in the shooting death of Dr. Wilson. Meanwhile, earlier footage of the man purported to be Dr. Wilson remains a mystery. This is Lora Lapinski, reporting live from Northwest Regional Hospital in Rogers, Arkansas.”

She motioned to cut and the cameraman halted filming. She grinned and said to Emma, “Congratulations on your recovery and—everything else. Welcome back.”