Transience (10 page)

Perhaps if he had confided the whole truth, told Jack everything, maybe Jack would have understood the need for circumspection.
 
But the whole truth couldn't be imparted in one sitting; Jack needed a primer to digest all of the information.
 

Better yet, he needed to witness it firsthand.
 
Otherwise, he'd have just labeled him crazy and walked out, angry for wasting his time.
 

CHAPTER 16

Jack sat upright on the cold white examining table.
 
He'd been sitting there over an hour and was starting to wonder if they'd forgotten about him.
 
Before he could finish the thought, Doctor Moss entered the room carrying Jack's medical results.

Jack liked straight talk, no sugar, he didn't need his hand held.
 
Dr. Moss, one of the youngest doctors at the clinic, learned early on that Jack was a model patient if you just omitted the bedside manner.
 
And never ask him to sit down.

"It's spreading faster than we expected," the doctor said.
 
Jack swallowed and maintained eye contact. "It's metastasized through your lymphatic system to the lungs." Jack was no doctor, but he had a thorough understanding of forensics and the human body, especially what made you dead in a hurry.
 
His prognosis had been steadily declining for some time now, so none of this came as a surprise.
 
Still, it's never easy to hear your expiration date has been moved up.

"How long?"

"It's hard to say.
 
Everyone's different-"

"About?"
 

The doctor folded his arms and leaned up against the teal countertop behind him.

"You might want to think about getting your affairs in order."

Jack picked a point on the wall and locked in, his expression blank.
 
The doctor shifted his weight to his rear foot.
 
Jack noticed him leaning back.
 
Is he expecting me to freak out?
 

During Jack's last visit, he'd overheard yelling and screaming in the next room.
 
He learned later the doctor had told a female patient she had just three months left to live.
 
She grew perfectly still (just like he was now), then started shouting, cursing God, throwing tissue boxes, even smashed a glass container of cotton swabs.
 
Jack grimaced.
 
Not to worry, Doc.
 
You saved me a bullet.

"What now?"

"Well, there's still the option of surgery. "

"No."
 

"At this stage there are few alternatives."

Jack looked up at the ceiling, resigned to his fate.
 
He thought about how people often reacted when they learned they were going to die.
 
How they tried to cherish every moment, notice things they never truly appreciated before, the beauty in life.
 
Jack had been immersed in the world's ugliness for so long, he wasn't sure if he could still spot beauty beneath the grime.

For so long he'd dreaded the ticking clock on poor Angelina, how each second was one he could never get back, bringing her closer to certain doom.
 
Now there was a time limit on him.
 

The doctor took out a pad and began scribbling.
 
"I'm going to give you a new prescription at a higher dosage." Jack slid off the exam table and reached for his slacks, folded over a chair.
 
"I can also contact the department, recommend that you be placed on disability."

"No.
 
Don't do that."

"You're entitled."

"I can't leave, not yet."

"Alright." Dr. Moss continued writing the prescription. "Jack, the final stages can be very…difficult.
 
Is there someone at home to help you out?"

"No."

"No family?
 
Sister? …Brother?"

Jack shook his head. "No one."

"I know a very good hospice provider.
 
I can put in a good word for you, they sometimes have a waiting list." Dr. Moss signed the prescription and tore it off, extending it to Jack.
 
Jack folded it into his pocket without looking at it.

"Take some time, think about it?"

Jack nodded and the doctor left.
 
Jack finished buttoning his shirt, staring up at an anatomical poster of a man's insides.

CHAPTER 17

Jack's knee smacked into the coffee table as he jerked up from his favorite recliner, still asleep — disoriented, knocking over a collection of standing beer bottles like bowling pins, sending one rolling loudly across the floor.

He blindly threw out his hand to brace himself along the wall, sliding slowly towards the bathroom door.
 

A familiar voice buzzed on the TV in the corner.
 
As the blood level in his brain stabilized a bit, his eyes started to focus again.
 
He realized what it was that jolted him upright.

It was
his
voice on TV.
 
A reporter was questioning him about Angelina's case in an interview outside the station.
 
Jack was walking fast, and the tiny reporter had to jog to keep up with him.

She asked breathlessly,
"Has there had been any news in the search for Angelina?
 
We're being told that your department has suspended their search?"

Jack snickered.
You've sure learned how to work the system, Carl. Good for you.

"We're using every means at our disposal,"
Jack told the reporter, holding up his hand to block the camera's light.

"Is there anything you can tell us?"

"Nothing at this time."
Jack sat into his car and closed the door on the disappointed reporter.
 
She turned to the camera to say something when the TV clicked off.

Jack tossed the remote on the chair, turned, and a rush of vertigo caused him to stumble a bit.
 
He felt his way inside the bathroom and swatted on the light.
 
His hands found the sides of the sink and he leaned towards the mirror.
 
The fluorescent bulb really amplified his dry, pale complexion.
 
He seemed brittle, far older than his 42 years.
 
He made a pathetic grin, then stuck his tongue out.

"You're defective," he exhaled through his nose, disappointed with the reflection.
 
"You're defective, detective."
 
He laughed morosely.
 

There were two toothbrushes floating in a small metal holder affixed to the white tile.
 
One was his.
 
The other, much older one, was Sarah's.
 
Dormant for over 12 years.
 
He couldn't bring himself to throw it out.
 
He touched it, it was real.
 
Funny, the things we leave behind, he thought.

He needed so much to talk, unload his problems on someone.
 
Tonight the loneliness felt suffocating.
 
Almost unbearable.
 

He returned to his bedroom and opened the closet door.
 
He eyed the navy blue suit with an impending look.
 
He lifted it carefully by the hanger, so as not to crease the sleeve.
 
He stepped back and laid it out on the bed, carefully removing the clear plastic.

He took out a clean white shirt and got dressed piece by piece.
 
The same way he dressed for work every morning.
 
Except this suit felt very different.
 
Scary, even — especially the perfect fit.

He straightened his tie, checked the buttons on his sleeves, and laid down on the bed.
 
He folded his arms on his chest, assumed the eternal position and closed his eyes.
 

He felt his chest rise and fall with each deep breath, the dull pain in his lungs was growing sharp.
 
Another sound replaced his wheezy breaths.
 
The faint voices of paramedics, speaking, shouting:

"Blood pressure's dropping!"
 

"We're losing him."
 

"Pulse rate-"

"We're losing him!"
 

The commotion got louder, scarier, so much so that it no longer sounded like a side effect of too many drinks.
 
It sounded real, in the room right beside him.
 
He shook himself, trying to move, a slow rising panic beginning to take hold.
 
He shook again and his eyes snapped open.

Bright sunlight blinded him, brighter than he'd ever experienced before.
 
He shut his eyes tight, then opened them again, slowly.
 
The bright light was so intense, Jack thought maybe he'd passed on and this was the heavenly glow we're told to expect at the hour of our death.
 
He tilted his head to embrace its warmth.

The intense glare dimmed, allowing him to look around.
 
He found himself in a large open field of bright green grass.
 
There was a slight breeze that felt nice and cool on his skin.
 
He spotted a large oak tree, all alone in the open field.
 
It called to him.
 
Behind it, a string extended up into the sky, attached to a small yellow kite with a red tail.
 
He watched the kite dance and spin in the breeze.
 
Am I dreaming?
 
Everything felt so real.

An overwhelming sense of calm and serenity enveloped him.
 
There was no pain, no anxiety, no loss, nothing but peace.
 
He watched the kite lift and soar on a sudden gust of upward air.
 
He lost sight of it in the warm sunlight.
 

He turned towards the tree.
 
Two people were lying underneath.
 
He took a few energetic steps towards them — needing to know who he was sharing this wonderful oasis of peace and love with.
 
The emotion was so strong, for a moment he thought his feet might leave the ground.
 
Small fragments of pollen floated through the air like tiny dots of stars.
 
He smiled, moving quickly, closer.
 
But the pollen grew thick, clouding his vision.

Up above, the kite spun and dove, twisting helplessly as it came crashing towards the ground with an unnaturally loud smack.
 
The magic serenity he'd felt was abruptly sucked away with a loud ringing noise.
 
The world began to spin and drift away — as helplessly as the kite — disappearing into oblivion, leaving Jack in cold empty nothingness.
 
All that remained was a horrible ringing in his ears.
 
He held them and screamed, "Stop!"

Jack awoke with a jolt, as if shocked back to life by a defibrillator.
 
He slowly sat up and grabbed his cell phone off the side table.
 
It was
ringing
.

He looked out the window.
 
Still dark out.
 
He checked the clock on the wall, 3 A.M.
 
No good news was ever exchanged at 3 A.M.
 
Not in his world.

CHAPTER 18

Jack's eyelids were heavy, closing like attracted magnets.
 
He swerved, struggling to keep his car in the lane.
 
He hadn't fully slept it off, his blood alcohol still unsafely elevated.

His cell phone rang.
 
It was Harrington, surely checking to see what his ETA was.
 
He let it ring and turned his attention back to the road.
 
His Ford Taurus had crossed over the double yellow line again, this time headed straight into the headlights of a blue Dodge Charger.
 
Jack yanked the wheel to the right, just missing the Charger's grill.
 
The Charger swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and rocks with a squeal of rubber.

Jack's car skidded and fishtailed back across the yellow line.
 

"Jesus Christ."
 
He checked his mirror to make sure the other vehicle was okay.

The road curved around a bend, then up a steep incline that caused his engine to jerk and moan, all cylinders grinding to climb the hill.
 
As Jack reached the top and the road leveled out, he could hear the rush of the river.
 
He passed under a train trestle that traveled west, just parallel to the water, criss crossing several times before it turned south towards Illinois.

Jack pulled up onto the shoulder.
 
There were a dozen police vehicles, all with their lights flashing along the entranceway to a wooded area along the busy stretch of road.
 

Harrington was waiting for Jack in the darkness.
 
A rotating light on the car beside him made his face appear and disappear in flashing bursts of red.
 
To Jack's tired, watery eyes, the image was surreal.

"You look like you can use some coffee," Harrington said, conveniently handing him an extra cup he'd been holding onto.
 
"Might be cold by now."

Jack took a sip and winced.
 
"How far in?"

"About 300 yards."
 

Jack took a deep breath and prepared his body for what was sure to be a painful walk over uneven, slippery ground.
 
The pain was always worse at night.
 

"Who found it?" Jack asked, clearing his throat.

"Terry and his people."
 

"The ones with the dogs?"

"Yeah."