Yet she was sitting in a hospital bed, obviously alive, talking normally, rejoicing in the fact that she'd been given orange Jell-O to eat.
That she was alive at all, in any condition, was a miracle. That she had come through the ordeal with no apparent brain damage was a second, even larger, miracle. He didn't believe in miracles. If he'd had any philosophy in life it ran along the lines of the classic "shit happens." Usually it was bad shit, sometimes it was good shit, but it was always random shit. You lived your life, and when the run was ended, that was it. Nothing.
But this...this was something he couldn't explain. This had him by the throat and balls and wouldn't let go, and he had to face it.
Something had brought her back to life.
He opened his eyes and stared at the stained glass, looking but not seeing.
Could there be something between birth and death, something more than an organism reaching the end of its viability? Could there be something with enough power to give life back to a cooling body? If so, that meant...that meant there was something after death, that death here wasn't the end.
If there was life after death, then there had to be another place, another when and where. If death truly was a passing on to that other place, then it followed that how lives were lived really did matter.
Good, bad-the concepts had never meant much to him. He was who he was, and he did what he did. The average person on the street was perfectly safe from him. He meant them no harm, felt no contempt for them; he might even have sometimes felt distantly fond of citizenry in general, because they carried on with their lives no matter what. They worked, they went home, they ate dinner and watched some television, went to sleep, got up and went to work again. Armies of them went through that routine, and the routine was what made the world work.
Those who preyed on these ordinary people were the ones he held in contempt. They thought it was okay to take what these people had worked for, that only fools and idiots worked for a living. For his part, he thought it was okay to kill the scum.
And yet, if he looked at it logically, his life was much worse than theirs-not in a material way, but in the wasteland that was his soul.
The black chasm beneath his dangling feet was what awaited him, what he'd earned, and yet he had this chance to change the course of his life here. Because of Drea, he saw things he'd never seen before, accepted that there was more. Was there truly a God? Was that what this was?
Because of Drea, he saw that Death walked with its arm around him. If he went on as he was, he knew what would be waiting for him. But if he could judge himself, walk away from that life, would the outcome change?
It sounded simple enough, but the concept was a complete sea change.
A huge, choking pain filled him, and his throat closed on a sound like that of a wounded animal, helpless and suffering.
A door off to the side of the small room opened. Simon hadn't realized it was there, a lapse on his part that was unbelievable, and unforgivable, because such a lack of awareness could be deadly.
"I don't want to intrude," a man's quiet voice said, "but I heard-"
He'd heard the muted howl of agony. Simon still didn't turn.
"If you'd like to talk..." the man began again, when Simon didn't respond.
Slowly Simon stood, feeling as weary as if he'd been awake for days on end, as battered as if he'd fallen off a cliff. He turned and looked at the small, middle-aged man who wore a regular suit, no vestments or white collar at his throat. Physically the man was unprepossessing, slight and balding, but there was an energy to him that kept him from being insignificant.
"I'm giving thanks for a miracle," he said simply, and wiped the tears from his face.
Chapter Twenty-two
Seven months later
"ANDIE, ORDER UP!"
Andrea Pearson gave a quick glance over her shoulder at the pass-through to the kitchen, where Glenn was loading the shoulder-high bar with plates piled high with hamburgers and steaming hot french fries, then resumed unloading heavy plates off the tray she carried. Glenn, owner and cook at Glenn's Truck Stop, was shoveling food onto plates as fast as he could. It was Friday night, truckers were headed home, and the place was packed. The work was grueling, but the tips were great and Glenn paid her under the table, which was even better.
"I'll be right back with refills," she said to the three truckers in the booth, then hurried over to get the newly plated orders while the food was still hot. After dispensing them to the proper table, she loaded her tray with the coffeepot and tea pitcher and made the rounds, refilling cups and glasses. All the other waitresses were hustling as fast as she was, swivel-hipping their loaded trays through the tangle of chairs and tables.
"Hey, Andie," a female driver said as she passed by, "tell my fortune for me."
Her name was Cassie, her hair was blond with dark roots, and she wore a lot of makeup, along with tight jeans and high heels. She was very popular with a certain segment of the male drivers; the more settled ones left her alone. Tonight, though, she was with some other female drivers, and they were ignoring the guys for some girl time.
"You don't have one," said Andie, not even slowing down.
The next time she went by, Cassie signaled for her check. The group was laughing and joking, trading stories about their men or their kids or their pets, though Andie was hard put to tell which story was about which group. When she took the check over, Cassie said, "Whaddaya mean, I don't have a fortune? You mean I'm not going to marry some good-looking rich guy and have a life of leisure?"
The other women hooted, because in their world things like that just didn't happen.