"Excuse me?" Sam asked.
"Your daughter. She doesn't have to die." As he spoke, the man slowly turned to look at Sam, revealing two empty sockets where his eyes should have been. The edges of the pits were raw and inflamed, as if their former occupants had just been ripped free from their moorings and tossed casually aside, forgotten. The empty sockets stared at Sam with furious accusation.
The sensation of being seen, being watched, by that ruined face sent chills racing across Sam's body. Staring at the man, he suddenly had a hard time finding his voice. When he did, it came out weak and uneven. "What do you know about my daughter?" he stammered.
The prophet jumped down from his perch and moved forward without hesitation, despite his obvious lack of sight. He crossed the distance between them unerringly, without a single misstep, until they stood just over a yard away from each other. A wave of bitter cold travelled before him, an Arctic wind stolen from the depths of the north, and Sam was suddenly enveloped in its hoary clutches. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed, as if the cold was affecting his thoughts, numbing his capacity to think. As if from a distance, the other's voice reached his ears faintly, hollowly. "I know she's dying. And I know you can stop it, if you've got the courage. If you care enough about her to do what must be done."
Sam took a step back, his nerves jangling. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
"Who I am is unimportant. I want you to save your daughter, and I'm the only one who can give you the knowledge you need to do so."
"You know how to save my daughter?"
Rather than responding verbally, the man reached inside his shirt and withdrew a parcel wrapped in a stained cloth and tied with what appeared to be twine. He offered it to Sam.
Whatever it was, the sight of it made him instantly nauseous, as if his body knew something he intellectually did not. He stumbled back another step and made no move to accept what was offered.
"What's this?" the stranger asked, surprised. "Don't you want to save your little girl?"
Despite a growing sense of fear, Sam croaked out another response. "I don't need your help."
The other laughed. "Of course you do, you just don't know it yet." He slipped the package back out of sight. "When baby Jessica starts screaming in pain as her internal organs slowly rot away, you'll realise the truth. Of course, by then, I might not be so inclined to help."
A grinning leer crept over his features, and the sight of it was enough to jar Sam out of his peculiar daze. This close, the stink of the man's unwashed body filled his nostrils, reminding him whom he was talking to, and the rational part of Sam reacted to the mention of his daughter's fate with anger.
He surged forward, closing the gap between them, and grabbed the man's clothing in both hands. Hauling him close, Sam said, "I don't know who the hell you are, but you'd better leave my daughter alone. If I catch you anywhere near us or the hospital, I'll …"
He never got any further. The world around him seemed to shimmer, as if a giant wave had suddenly washed through reality. The sensation was overwhelming, and he dropped the other man out of reflex as he sought to keep his balance. His vision swam, then stabilised. When he could see again he looked down to find the homeless man on the ground at his feet.
Gone were the empty eye sockets, the leering, demeaning grin. Gone were the mocking voice and the hint of powers beyond the norm. In their place was a simple street bum, cloaked in ragged clothing and weeks of grime. Light blue eyes the colour of a robin's eggs stared at him out of a face streaked with dirt, framed by long locks of hair that hadn't seen soap in months.
"I don't want no trouble, man," he said to Sam, the fear in his eyes obvious. "I don't know who Jessica is, but I won't preach here no more if it upsets you so."
Confused, ashamed, afraid that he might be cracking under the strain, Sam turned away without a word and continued on his way across the park.
He moved quickly, doing what he could to leave the park, and his fear, behind as swiftly as possible.
A few blocks later he found a street he recognised. Turning left, he travelled north until he returned to the hospital.
He'd gone out for breakfast and had come back afraid he might be slowly going crazy.
It didn't seem like a fair trade to him.
He kept his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking, just the same.
***
That afternoon, Jessica took a turn for the worse. Her pain escalated, so much so that the doctors decided to put her out completely for the night to give her body a chance to rest and to try and fight back against the invader. With Jessica unconscious for the next ten to twelve hours, Sam used the opportunity to return home for the first time in several days, where he hoped to get a decent night's rest in order to recharge for the battle he knew lay ahead.
But it was not to be. His thoughts would not shut down, his mind wrapping itself tighter and tighter as he sought some avenue that they could pursue, some as yet untried means of a cure, anything to keep his little girl alive.
Unable to sleep, he rose from the bed and wandered through the darkened house, letting his familiarity and the light of the moon seeping through the windows guide him in his passage. He ran his fingers over the furniture and stared at the many photographs that decorated the walls. Here was the couch on which Jessica had been conceived one passionate summer night six years earlier. Here was the corner of the rug he'd taped down time and time again because she kept tripping over it. Here was the door jamb where they had measured her growth ever since she'd turned two. Everywhere he looked, everything he touched, had some special memory attached to it, something to remind him of the wonders he'd held for such a short time, wonders stolen from him by the capricious hand of fate.
When he reached the mantle over the fireplace in the living room, his hands automatically sought the picture of his late wife, Denise. The picture stood centre stage, in the place of honour. Taken the same day as the accident that had claimed her life, it showed Denise as she had always been; smiling, happy, content with who she was and what she'd gained in life.
Every second of that horrible day was etched indelibly on his memory, from the taste of the French toast he'd had for breakfast that morning to the smell of crushed fruit that had floated around him as he'd screamed for an ambulance with his wife's body lying limp in his arms. The three of them had gone for breakfast at a local restaurant, just a simple family excursion, the kind of thing they did on the weekend. Afterward they'd done a little shopping, picking up fresh bread from the bakery and some fruit from the display stands outside the corner market. He'd been inside with Jessica, paying their bill, when it happened.
He'd seen it all, looking back from the cash register through the open door to where his wife was still searching through the peach display. She'd looked up at him and smiled, one hand rising to give a little wave, her eyes filled with love and hope and joy, only to be swept from view in the next second by a black Mercedes as it moved with the steady surety of a striking snake.
One moment she'd been there, the next … gone.
Not a cry or even a sound to accompany her passage.
Just that one last, love-filled smile, that tender little wave.
Witnesses had later said the car had jumped the curb, struck Denise, and then just as quickly disappeared back into traffic as if nothing had happened. It had never even slowed down. The doctors had assured him she'd died instantly, her skull crushed by the impact, that she probably hadn't even known what was happening. To this day, Sam couldn't figure out how that was supposed to have been reassuring. Dead was dead, and his Denise had died horribly; quickly or slowly didn't make much difference to the end result.
He stared at her picture, his sorrow and regret for what they had lost almost overwhelming in its poignancy. He would give almost anything to have even one more day with her.
His gaze fell upon several of the other pictures standing on the mantle, photos of the three of them together, of the happy times they had shared; and the ho
rror of his present situation reared its head once more.
He'd lost his wife, now he was about to lose his daughter, too.
You should have taken the package.
The thought was unbidden, unexpected, but not altogether surprising. The events of earlier that day had left him shaken and confused. Something extraordinary had happened, he knew that, but its very nature had caused him to look at it with wariness and not a little fear. He couldn't see how something that caused such feelings in him could be good for his girl.
And yet…
What else did he have?
Nothing. That was the cold, stark truth of it. Over the previous month he'd called every expert he could think of, every hospital and government laboratory that might have some knowledge of what they were dealing with, all to no avail. Next he'd turned to private foundations, charities; hell, he'd even tried the CIA, just in case it was some experimental government virus that had gotten out of control. Still nothing. From there, his list had gotten progressively poorer; faith healers, talk show hosts, and quack doctors touting the latest herbal remedies.
The latter group had wanted to help, but none of them had been able to give him any sense of confidence, and he had finally given up.
He'd been hoping the final round of tests would give the staff at the hospital the information they needed to devise a treatment, but he knew now that his hope had been misguided. They were in over their heads, and were no longer being anything but obvious about it.
He'd run out of options.
Soon Jessica would run out of time.
He collapsed into a nearby recliner and stared at the photos in the semi-darkness, wishing for days gone by and for happier times.
Dawn's early light kissed the windows before he wandered off to bed, still seeking the same answers he'd been seeking for weeks.
Sunday Evening
Sam stood with his back to his daughter's bed, staring out of the window into the darkness beyond without really seeing anything. Lightning flashed, momentarily illuminating his features and reflecting in the tears that streaked down his face.
The anger and fury of the storm matched the turmoil in his soul.
This isn't right, he thought, and not for the first time. She's so young, so pure. No-one deserves this, least of all she. His hands clenched into fists, his arms trembling with the strain of holding back his emotions. He wanted to run around the room and smash things; destroy the equipment that so emotionlessly foretold the failure of Jessica's physical body, shatter the bottles of pills that she'd been required to take for what seemed like years now, scream at the top of his lungs to release all the pain and anguish that had built up inside since first hearing of her illness.
But he stood by the window, motionless, so as not to awaken her.
The latest tests had been devastating. The slide that had started Thursday afternoon hadn't stopped. In less than thirty-six hours, the disease had spread at a tremendous rate. Her liver, kidneys, and left lung had all suddenly failed. The medical team had managed to get her stabilised and onto life support, but that was the best they had been able to do. The doctor's words from earlier that afternoon seemed to haunt the darkness around Sam.
I'm sorry, Mr Dalton. The disease has intensified its attack, and it's only a matter of time now. There's nothing more that I can do.
His final statement still hung in the air of the room three hours later, like a leech sustaining itself on Sam's misery, sucking its very essence from the pain and despair in his soul.
Outside, the rain thundered against the glass, phantom fingers rapping at the windows, reaching for his little girl.
He knew that science had run its course. The doctors could do no more for her. So, too, had religion failed; he'd learned that in the months following Denise's death.
No, if he was going to save her, he would have to take the hard road, the dark road.
In that moment, he made his decision.
He refused to give her over to that darkness.
He would fight.
No matter what the cost.
Turning away from the windows, he moved swiftly to her side. They'd doped her up several hours earlier and she lay still in her bed, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling slowly. If her respiration got any worse, a breathing tube was going to be necessary. Despite knowing she couldn't see, hear or feel him over the medication, Sam took her hand and gave it a small squeeze.
"Don't worry, baby, Daddy will fix it. Daddy will fix everything."
***
He took the stairs two at a time, his footfalls echoing in the empty space. He fled through the door at the bottom and emerged into the alley behind the children's wing. Within moments of leaving the sanctuary of the hospital walls, he was soaked through to the skin, the rain pummelling down around him, but he barely noticed, intent as he was on his mission.
The night streets seemed darker, more mysterious than they did during the day, but he didn't care. He strode east, retracing his steps as best he could, not caring who or what he might encounter on the way.
Perhaps it was that very sense of disregard that saved him, for he managed to travel the entire distance without once being accosted by any of the street folk he passed on his way. Predators can sense their own; the weaker always avoid challenging the strong. Tonight, Sam Dalton deserved to be in their midst, for he had become one of them.
No longer a victim.
No longer easy prey.
When a man loses all he lives for, he is no longer afraid of dying. The denizens of the night sensed this and gave Sam a wide berth as he marched past.
It took him fifteen minutes to return to that little park he'd been in on Thursday morning. Once there, he started rousting the sleeping homeless as he found them, dragging them out of their blankets to get a look at their faces, searching for the man who'd spoken to him that day.
He'd been at it for a while, had covered half the park, when a man thrust a knife at his throat in the mistaken belief that Sam was trying to rob him of his meagre possessions. Sam shoved himself backward, away from the glistening blade, and ended up on his ass, defenceless.
Luckily for him, his assailant was more interested in escaping than finishing off his opponent, and he left Sam lying there in the dirt as he rushed off into the darkness.
Sam climbed to his feet and was brushing himself off when a voice spoke from almost directly behind him.
"Looking for me?"
Sam whirled around, his hands raised to protect himself, only to find one of the very men he'd just finished checking a few moments ago standing behind him, this time with empty, bleeding sockets where his eyes had previously been. Sam didn't know how it happened, this sudden assimilation of a person's form, but the wave of frigid cold that rolled off the man let him know this was undoubtedly the same being he'd encountered several days before.
He didn't bother with introductions. "I want to save my daughter."
The other man laughed, a deep, mocking laugh. "The prodigal son returns, I see."
"Cut the bullshit. You said you knew how to save my daughter. I'm willing to do whatever it takes. Just tell me how." Sam paused, then continued, "She doesn't have much time left."
Those eyeless sockets bored into him, prying, hunting, searching his thoughts, invading his mind, reading the Braille engraved on his very soul.
Sam stood his ground, determined to be found worthy under this hideous onslaught.
Apparently he succeeded, for a package was abruptly thrust into his hands; the same square-shaped object wrapped in dark cloth and tied with twine that he'd been offered before. This time, Sam accepted it. It felt like a book or maybe a videotape. Sam moved to open it.
"No!" the other said. "Not here. Once opened, time will become even more precious to you than it is now. Break the seal only when you are ready."
Sam looked up and met the man's gaze. "This is all I need?"
Again the laugh. "That, plus a little more. But you'll discover tha
t soon enough."
A distant cry reached his ears from elsewhere in the park, and Sam looked over in that direction, suddenly afraid of what else might be out there in the darkness. When he turned back, his visitor was gone.
***
Sam returned to the hospital, but went directly to the garage and his car rather than returning to Jessica's room. He knew he'd need some privacy, and home seemed the best place to get it.
The fifteen minute ride seemed to take hours, and more than once he cast an anxious glance at the small package riding on the seat next to him. He wanted to tear it open, to discover just how it could help his daughter, but prudence kept him from doing so; the warning had been quite explicit.
Once home, he parked in the garage and entered directly into the kitchen.
Turning on the overhead light, he moved directly to the table and examined his prize. Very quickly he could see that untying it was going to take some time. Unwilling to try and wrestle with the knot, Sam grabbed a knife from a nearby drawer and simply cut the twine in half. He carefully removed the cloth, to find another parcel inside. This one was smaller, about the size of a thick book, and wrapped in newspaper remnants held together by a thick dollop of red wax. Some kind of seal had been pressed into the wax, writing of some kind, but Sam was unable to decipher the language, never mind the words.
After a moment of trying, he gave up and cut the wax from the paper instead
He unfolded the newspaper to discover his first guess was correct; it was a book.
It was old, that much was immediately obvious. Yellowed pages, the dry, musty smell of old parchment, a weathered cover of some kind of leathery material with more than its fair share of cracks.
He reached out to trace one crack with a finger.
The book shifted beneath his touch, as if trying to escape.
Sam yanked his hand back in surprise.
He stared at it with sick fascination, the way one stared at the victim of a bad accident; disgust and horror combining with a deep seated need to see, to understand, to know just how bad it really was.
More Than Life Itself Page 2
