Icarus. (11 page)

"What did you expect? They all sat at the same goddamn time."

"Christ, it's hot in here. What happened to the ventilation?"

"All right, all right, what's the pecking order, people?"

"You have some leeway with table thirty-two. A couple of lovebirds. They're practically fucking at the table – they won't care how long they wait for food."

"Table twelve's the mayor. He's gabbing like he'll never stop and everyone else around him's drinking like a fish so they don't kill themselves. We can hold off on them, too."

"Okay, people, look at the shrimp. It's getting cold! Cover it, cover it! Do you hear me, Fish, cover the fucking shrimp! Jesus!"

8:19 p.m.

Eleven minutes to go.

Four people in and out of the bathroom so far. Not one even noticed there was anyone else already in there.

Still eleven minutes… wait a second! Oh, shit… Christ, goddamnit, the watch, it isn't working! It isn't fucking working!

Oh, no, it's okay… it's okay. It's fine. The second hand's moving. Everything's okay. It was just my imagination. See? That'll show the One. He always says I don't have an imagination. Well, let's see him say that now. Let's see him try to say it.

Why is everything so slow? It's like everything here is all in slow motion. But the second hand is definitely moving. Things are going forward. It's all going to happen just the way I imagined it. All I have to do is keep waiting.

Just keep waiting…

8:28 p.m.

Jack stared over at the table in the far corner of the restaurant. Table 54. He pulled the server from that station over to the side.

"Watch those two guys, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The server turned. He saw two men, both fairly broad. One was quite tall with blond hair, the other shorter and darker. "What's the problem?"

"Probably nothing. They just look angry. They're arguing.

"They've both had a lot to drink. Bourbon and beer."

"I don't want anything to happen so keep your eyes on them."

"Okay."

The kid looked so concerned. Jack patted him on the back. "Relax. I'm sure I'm just oversensitive tonight. They'll calm down."

Jack patted him on the back again. He saw Caroline across the room. She was frowning, staring across the room to the table in the corner. He heard the young server say to the two men there, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Would you mind keeping your voices down, please? You're getting a little loud." He heard one of the men say, "Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry."

Jack smiled at Caroline. He thought about making love to her later that night and waved.

She waved back and he was sure she was thinking about the exact same thing.

8:29 p.m.

Okay. Get ready. Got the stocking? Right, like I'd forget it.

Then get it out. Get it ready.

It felt funny, felt so tight, tighter than in the practice sessions in front of the mirror.

It was a little hard to breathe.

No, no, it was fine. Take a deep breath. Take another. And one more. See, it's fine. Everything's just right.

The second hand is moving.

The waiting's almost over…

8:30 p.m.

"Fuck you!"

"Don't say that to me."

"Why not? Fuck you!"

"I'm not kidding, goddamnit! Say it to me again, I'll break your fucking head!"

The server didn't seem to actually run, but he made it to the table in record time. "Gentlemen, please. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The taller man looked up. "Leave?"

"You're disturbing the other guests."

"Oh, yeah?" That was from the shorter one.

"Please. Otherwise I'll have to call the police."

It was the tall one's turn. "Oh. Well, we wouldn't want you to do that." He started to stand, then turned to the server. "I just have one more thing to say." Now he turned to the other man at the table and screamed, "Fuck you!" And then: "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"

And then all hell broke loose.

8:31 p.m.

Okay, move. Go, go, go!

Out of the stall, no one in the bathroom. Out the door, no one even in the hallway.

The bar: No one's looking. They're all watching the fight. Or moving far away to help. And she's there. Still right by the bar. Right where she's supposed to be. Right where she said she'd be.

It's working. It's working, it's working, it's working!

Quick, show her the gun. Don't wave it. Not too much. Just make sure she sees it.

Oh, yeah. She sees it. And she's cool. Very cool. She's not showing much, is she? She's not showing anything. But those eyes. Look in her eyes. There, you can see it. Oh, is it terror? Please, please, please, let her he terrified.

No. No, it isn't terror. Amazing.

It's anger.

Okay, gotta move. Make her move. Fast!

Yes! She's moving.

No more waiting. Ever again.

Even if she's not terrified, it's working.

Oh, God, it's fucking working.

8:32 p.m.

Customers had been trying not to pay attention to the harsh words. But at the sound of the crash, everyone turned.

When the tall man at table 54 screamed his last "Fuck you!" the smaller man picked up his water glass and threw it. The tall man ducked and the glass exploded against the wall behind him. The woman at the next table screamed as glass shards rebounded and cascaded through the air, one of them imbedding itself in her bare shoulder. By the time Jack was halfway across the room, he could see blood streaming onto her dress and the tablecloth.

People scrambled out of the way as the tall man upended his table, sending the shorter man and the server flying. The tall man then dove onto the floor, swinging his fists. The two men were rolling on the floor now, trying to kill each other. They were spewing obscenities and kicking wildly. Now they were on their feet, stumbling into another table.

Another woman screamed.

Three waiters and three customers were trying to pull them apart.

The anchor was on the phone with the police.

The mayor and governor were heading toward the front door.

The two men were in a brutal rage. Three servers were bleeding, one profusely, his nose clearly broken. Several tables were overturned now. Food and silverware had spilled onto the floor. The violence seemed to have frozen everyone in the restaurant.

Jack was about to reach the fight, about to join the melee and try to break it up, when he turned. An instinct. A protective instinct. And as he turned he saw Caroline, just the back of her dress and her right leg, disappearing up the stairs. Right behind her was someone dressed in black. That person, too, disappeared. But there was something odd about the person's face. What was it? It seemed hidden, strangely faded, like there was something pulled over his head, a kind of gauze. And there was something in his hand. Jack definitely caught a glimpse of something in his hand.

Something metallic.

Jack turned from the fight on the floor and sprinted through the dining room.

He reached the stairs, no one even noticing his mad dash because the fight had escalated, had turned into two raging animals engaged in battle.

Jack ran up the stairs, two at a time. He reached the door to the office, grabbed the doorknob, threw it open…

8:36 p.m.

Yes, yes, it was going to work.

No one had seen them. No one had noticed. And she was scared now. Oh, yes, she was. She'd do anything. Anything at all that needed to be done.

The gun waved and she moved into the corner. Now everything was for the taking.

But what? What to take?

What was that noise? Running. Yes. Someone running upstairs. Don't worry. It won't matter. You're in control. It will be easy. This will be easy.

The other thing will be easy, too. No need to think too hard over what to take. Not really. It was very easy.

There was only one thing to be taken.

8:37 p.m.

Jack threw himself through the door and the first thing he saw was Caroline. She was standing in the corner and she looked shrunken, devastated, as if someone had yanked her entire life away from her. Then he saw the figure at the desk, but only for a second. He saw the gun. And he saw the mask. A stocking, not gauze. A stocking pulled tightly over the face. The features were a blur. And then the whole world was a blur. Before Jack could turn, before he could react, the gun slammed down over his head. The blow was extraordinarily strong and he stumbled back, fell onto the love seat. He tried to get up, to offer some kind of attack, but he was overwhelmed by a spasm of nausea. He tried again to raise himself, knew he had to do something, couldn't just stand there, not again, then the room spun around him, faster and faster now, and the pain made him fall forward onto the floor.

"We don't keep any money up here."

That sounded like Caroline. Yes, it had to be Caroline. But everything was so fuzzy. Even the sound was distorted. The voice sounded like a record played at the wrong, slow speed.

"This kind of restaurant, we don't keep very much cash."

Still Caroline. That should still be Caroline talking. Then a jumble of words, some came fast, some seemed so slow.

"The bar… cash register… only place we have money."

Then he thought he heard, still Caroline: "…get it… two, three thousand… get it for you…"

And then a roar washed over the room. Was this Caroline? No, it was deeper. Angrier, He heard this word: More. And again, deeper and angrier: More. Ruin. Why.

And these words: Bitch. Whore.

Cunt.

Jack tried to get up. He turned his head and the movement was excruciating. More words spewed out now. But they were nonsense. Nonsense from a madman.

Tear down the wool.

What did that mean?

Wooly here… the will is strong… wool candy broken…

What did it mean! Why couldn't he understand?

Wooly… candy… forever…

He saw the person in the mask move toward Caroline. Saw him reach for her. Saw him grab the necklace, the beautiful diamond necklace, rip it from Caroline's neck. Saw his hand flash forward again, heard the noise as his fist cracked against Caroline's face. Heard her scream. And Jack threw himself upward now. He had to move. He had to. The pain sliced through him. It rocked his head back and he saw a flash of light. He knew there was no light like that, not in this room, it had to be pain that was blinding him, but he could fight the pain, he had to fight the pain, so he kept going and his arms found flesh, he knocked the robber back, he was sure he did that. And then there was an explosion. Loud. Right inside his head. And there was more pain. A new pain. It frightened him. Then there was another explosion. This one quieter. And a third, immediately after. Quieter still.

And then his fear was gone because suddenly there was no pain. Just a softness. Like some sort of pleasant dream. And no more blinding light. Instead, a gentle white cloud. He heard Caroline again. Why was she screaming? It was over now, wasn't it? There was nothing to be frightened about. There was no more pain.

He reached for her, to show her that it was all right. To show her that she was safe. But he couldn't seem to grab hold of her. She seemed to melt away from him.

Now he felt something strange. It was as if something was seeping out of him. He couldn't tell what it was. It felt good, though, that's what was so strange. He knew it was bad but it felt so very, very good.

And suddenly he knew what it was that was escaping from inside of him. What it was that was leaving, rushing away in a flood now, never to return.

It was his life itself that was deserting him.

He heard one last thing as he slid limply onto the floor. One final explosion. This one didn't frighten him at all. It was too distant. Too quiet. So he figured he had to be wrong. It wasn't an explosion. It was just a dream.

Just a nice, quiet, painless dream.

In his dream Jack reached again for Caroline. But she was gone. Jack closed his eyes.

And the dream took him into a deep, still, never-ending darkness.

Okay, everybody. It's time to put our Humpty Dumpty back together again. He's lost four liters of blood, mostly in the pelvis and hip. If we're going to keep him alive, first thing we've got to do is keep his fluids replenished. We're going to make the switch from the plasma expanders and saline tubes to the large bore. Now! This mother needs some blood and fast. He's leaking all over the fucking place."

Those were the last words spoken for the next several minutes while the large bore tubes replaced the smaller emergency tubes that had been frantically administered by the guys in the ambulance. Bigger catheters were sutured expertly into the arteries and neck. It was like a circle of serious and flawless quilters doing repair work on a worthless and torn rug. Hands moved nimbly up and down, weaving almost in unison, sealing the lifelines into place. Once the stitching was done, the catheters were hooked up to IV's and soon blood was flowing back into the unmoving body instead of just out.

The room was awash in the blood that had escaped, as were the doctors and nurses flocked around the table. The lead surgeon, Dr. Harold Solomon, shrugged his left shoulder up to wipe a splash of reddish brown from his cheek. He took a long, deep breath, exhaled through his nose as an athlete might, about to expend one last great burst of energy, and spoke quietly, quickly, and emotionlessly to the now still room. He could have been a dock foreman detailing cargo contents and shifts for union members.

"All right. We've got multiple gunshot wounds. One shot took out the right pelvis. Another the right hip. The third got the left knee. In the hip we've got a high-velocity fracture. We're gonna put in a reconstructive plate. Nothing unusual, we've all done it before. The pelvis is potentially life-threatening. We've got a communuted superior rami fracture with extension into the iliac wing. The bullet hit in the midpelvis and, besides shattering the bone, it's screwed up a lot of other things. The most crucial is that the bladder's been ruptured and that's where we've got the massive bleeding. We're going to work there first because, frankly, I don't know if he's gonna survive it, so why waste everything else. For the knee, there's a super condular fracture of the left femur. If he's still around, we'll do a similar type of reconstruction at the hip with plates and screws. All set?"