He heard the moan again, and though the passenger shifted, it was obvious that he was semiconscious at best.
The flames beneath the truck suddenly flared and intensified.
Gritting his teeth, Taylor shifted his grip on the rope to the lowest spot he could, then stretched for the passenger again. Closer this time--he could reach past the dash--but the passenger was still out of reach.
Taylor heard the others calling from the bridge.
"Can you get him out of there?" Joe shouted.
Taylor evaluated the scene. The front of the car seemed to be undamaged, and the man was unbuckled, lying half on the seat, half on the floor beneath the steering wheel, wedged in but looking as if he could be pulled out through the sheared opening of the roof. Taylor cupped his free hand around his mouth, shouting so that his voice could be heard:
"I think so. The windshield's completely blown out, and the roof is wide open. There's enough room for him to come up, and I can't see anything holding him."
"Can you reach him?"
"Not yet," he called back. "I'm close, but I can't get the harness around him. He's incoherent."
"Hurry up and do what you can," came Joe's anxious voice. "From here it looks like the engine fire's getting worse."
But Taylor already knew that. The truck was radiating extreme heat now, and he heard strange popping noises coming from within. Sweat began to drip down his face.
Bracing himself, Taylor once again grasped the rope and stretched himself, his fingertips this time grazing the unconscious man's arm through the shattered windshield. The ladder was bouncing, and he tried to extend his reach with every bounce. Still inches away.
Suddenly, as if in a nightmare, he heard a loud whooshing sound, and flames suddenly exploded from the engine of the truck, leaping toward Taylor. He pulled up, covering his face instinctively as the flames receded toward the truck again.
"You okay?" Joe shouted.
"I'm fine!"
No time for any plans, no time to debate. . . .
Taylor reached for the cable and pulled it toward him. Stretching his toes, he worked the hook that held the safety harness until it was centered beneath his boot. Then, supporting his weight with his foot, he lifted himself slightly and unhooked his own harness from his support rope.
Holding on for dear life, with only one small point in the center of his boot supporting him, he slid his hands down the cable until he was almost crouching. Now low enough to reach the passenger, he let go of the cable with one hand and reached for the safety harness. He had to work it around the passenger's chest, beneath his arms.
The ladder was bouncing hard now. Flames began to sear the roof of the Honda, only inches from his head. Rivulets of sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision. Adrenaline surged through his limbs. . . .
"Wake up!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with panic and frustration. "You've got to help me here!"
The passenger moaned again, his eyes flickering open. It wasn't enough.
With flames spitting toward him, Taylor grabbed for the man, yanking hard on his arm.
"Help me, damnit!" Taylor screamed.
The man, finally awakened by some flicker of self-preservation, raised his head slightly.
"Put the harness under your arm!"
He didn't seem to understand, but the new angle of his body presented an opportunity. Taylor immediately worked one end of the harness toward the man's arm--the one lying across the seat--then slipped it underneath.
One down.
All the while, he kept on screaming, his cries growing even more desperate.
"Help me! Wake up! We're almost out of time here!"
The flames were gaining strength, and the ladder was bouncing dangerously.
Again the man moved his head--not much, not nearly enough. The man's other arm, wedged between his body and the steering wheel, looked stuck. Without worrying what might happen now, Taylor shoved the body, the force making him sway. The ladder dipped precariously, as did the car. The nose began pointing toward the river.
Somehow, however, the shove was enough. This time the man opened his eyes and began to struggle out from between the steering wheel and the seat. The car was rocking heavily now. Weakly the passenger freed his other arm, then raised it slightly as he tried to crawl onto the seat. Taylor worked the safety harness around him. His hand sweaty on the cable, he attached the free end of the harness, completing the circle, then cinched it tight.
"We're gonna pull you out now. We're almost out of time."
The man simply rolled his head, suddenly drifting into unconsciousness again, but Taylor could see that the path was finally clear.
"Bring him up!" he screamed. "Passenger is secure!"
Taylor worked his hands up the cable until he was in a standing position. The firefighters slowly began to unwind the cable, careful not to jerk it for fear of the stress it would put on the ladder.
The cable tightened, and the ladder began to groan and shudder. But instead of the passenger coming up, the ladder seemed to be lowering.
Lowering . . .
Oh, crap . . .
Taylor could feel it on the verge of buckling, then they both began to rise.
Up an inch. Then another.
Then, with nightmarish deliberateness, the cable stopped recoiling. Instead the ladder began to descend again. Taylor knew instantly that the ladder couldn't support both of them.
"Stop!" he shouted. "The ladder's gonna go!"
He had to get off the cable, and he had to get off the ladder. After making sure once more that the man wouldn't get snagged, he reached for the ladder rungs above him. Then he carefully removed his foot from the hook, letting his legs dangle free, praying that the additional jostling wouldn't break the ladder in two.
He decided to go hand over hand across the ladder, like a kid crossing the monkey bars. One rung . . . two . . . three . . . four. The car was no longer beneath him, yet he could still feel the ladder creeping lower.
It was while he was crossing the rungs that the flames ripped into a frenzy, straining with deadly intensity at the gas tanks. He'd seen engine fires numerous times--and this one was seconds away from blowing.
He looked toward the bridge. As if in slow motion, he saw the firemen, his friends, motioning frantically with their arms, screaming at him to hurry, to get off the ladder, to get to safety before the truck exploded. But he knew that there was no way he could make it back to the truck in time and still get the passenger out.
"Pull him out!" Taylor shouted hoarsely. "He's got to come up now!"
Dangling high above the water, he loosened his grip, then let go completely. In an instant he was swallowed by the evening air.
The river was eighty feet below.
"That was the dumbest, most moronic thing I've ever seen you do," Mitch said matter-of-factly. It was fifteen minutes later, and they were sitting on the banks of the Chowan River. "I mean, I've seen some stupid stunts in my life, but that one takes the cake."
"We got him out, didn't we?" Taylor said. He was drenched and had lost one boot while kicking for safety. In the aftermath, after the adrenaline drained away, he felt his body retreating into a kind of exhausted lull. He felt as if he hadn't slept for days, his muscles seemed rubbery, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Thankfully the accident on the bridge was being tended to by the others--he wouldn't have had the strength to help. Though the engine had blown, the seals around the main tanks had held and they were able to control the fire relatively easily.
"You didn't have to let go. You could have made it back."
Even as he said it, Mitch wasn't quite sure it was true. Right after Taylor let go, the firemen shook off their shock and began to rewind the cable in earnest. Without Taylor's weight, the ladder had enough tensile strength to allow the passenger to be lifted through the windshield. As Taylor predicted, he was pulled out without a snag. Once he was free, the ladder swung out, away from the accident, rotating back toward the b
ridge. Just as the ladder reached the bridge, the engine of the truck blew, churning white-and-yellow flames spewing violently in every direction. The car was tossed free and followed Taylor into the water below. Taylor had had enough sense after hitting the water to make his way beneath the bridge, foreseeing just such an occurrence. As it was, the car had come down close, too close.
After he hit the water, the pressure sucked him under and held him for several seconds, then several more. Taylor was spun and twisted like a rag in a washing machine, but he was finally able to fight his way to the surface, where he drew a gasping breath.
When Taylor had come to the surface the first time, he'd shouted that he was okay. After the car hit the water and he'd narrowly avoided being crushed by the hulking wreckage, he'd shouted it again. But by the time he'd swum to the bank, he was nauseated and dizzy, the events of the past hour finally hitting home. That was when his hands had begun to tremble.
Joe didn't know whether to be livid because of the jump or relieved that the whole thing had worked out. The passenger, it seemed, was going to be fine, and Joe had sent Mitch down to talk to Taylor.
Mitch had found him sitting in the mud, legs drawn up, hands and head resting on his knees. He hadn't moved at all since Mitch had sat beside him.
"You shouldn't have jumped," Mitch finally said after Taylor hadn't responded.
Taylor raised his head sluggishly, wiping the water from his face. "It just looked dangerous," he said flatly.
"That's because it was dangerous. But I was thinking more about the car that followed you into the water. You could have been crushed."
I know....
"That's why I swam under the bridge," he answered.
"But what if it had fallen sooner? What if the engine had blown twenty seconds earlier? What if you'd hit something submerged in the water, for God's sake?"
What if?
Then I'd be dead.
Taylor shook his head, numb. He knew he'd have to answer these questions again, when Joe grilled him in earnest. "I didn't know what else to do," he said.
Mitch studied him with concern, hearing the flat discomfort in his voice. He'd seen this look before, the shell-shocked appearance of someone who knew he was fortunate to be alive. He noticed Taylor's shaking hands and reached over, patting him on the back. "I'm just glad you're all right."
Taylor nodded, too tired to speak.
Chapter 17
Later that evening, once the situation on the bridge was fully under control, Taylor got in his car to head home. As he'd suspected, Joe had asked every question Mitch had and more, walking him through every decision and the reasons for it, covering everything two or three times. Though he was still as angry as Taylor had ever seen him, Taylor did his best to convince him that he hadn't acted recklessly. "Look," he said, "I didn't want to jump. But if I hadn't, neither of us would have made it."
To that, Joe had no reply.
His hands had stopped shaking, and his nervous system had gradually returned to normal, though he still felt drained. He was still shivering as he made his way down the quiet rural roads.
A few minutes later Taylor walked up the cracked cement steps to the small place he called home. He'd left the lights on in his haste to leave, and the house was almost welcoming when he entered. The paperwork from his business was still spread on the table, the calculator had been left on. The ice in his water glass had melted.
In the living room he could hear the television playing in the background; a ball game he'd been listening to had given way to the local news.
He set his keys on the counter and pulled off his shirt as he walked through the kitchen to the small room where he kept the washer and dryer. Holding open the lid, he dropped the shirt in the washer. He slipped off his shoes, then kicked them against the wall. Pants, socks, and underwear went in with the shirt, followed by detergent. After starting the washer, he grabbed a folded towel from the top of the dryer, made his way to the bathroom, and took a quick hot shower, rinsing the brackish water from his body.
Afterward he ran a quick brush through his hair, then walked through the house, turning everything off before slipping into bed.
He turned out the lights almost reluctantly. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but despite his exhaustion he suddenly knew that sleep wouldn't come. Instead, immediately upon closing his eyes, the images of the past several hours began to replay in his mind. Almost like a movie, some moved in fast-forward, others in reverse, but in each case they were different from what had actually happened. His were not the images of success--his were more like nightmares.
In one sequence after another, he watched helplessly as everything went wrong.
He saw himself reaching for the victim, he heard the crack and felt a sickening shudder as the ladder snapped in two, sending both of them to their death--
Or . . .
He watched in horror as the victim reached for his outstretched hand, his face contorting in terror, just as the car tipped over the bridge, Taylor unable to do anything to stop it--
Or . . .
He felt his sweaty hand suddenly slipping from the cable as he plunged downward, toward the bridge supports, toward his death--
Or . . .
While hooking the harness, he heard a strange ticking immediately before the truck engine exploded, his skin tearing and burning, the sound of his own screams as his life was taken from him--
Or . . .
The nightmare he'd been living with since childhood--
His eyes snapped open. His hands were trembling again, his throat dry. Breathing rapidly, he could feel another adrenaline surge, though this time the surges made his body ache.
Turning his head, he checked the clock. The red glowing digital lights showed that it was nearly eleven-thirty.
Knowing he wouldn't sleep, he turned on the lamp by his bedside and began to dress.
He didn't understand his decision, not really. All he knew was that he needed to talk.
Not to Mitch, not to Melissa. Not even to his mother.
He needed to talk to Denise.
The parking lot at Eights was mostly empty when he arrived. One car was parked off to the side. Taylor pulled his truck into the space nearest the door and checked his watch. The diner would be closing in ten minutes.
He pushed open the wooden door and heard a small bell jingle, signaling his entrance. The place was the same as always. A counter ran along the far wall; it was here that most truckers sat during the early morning hours. There were a dozen square tables in the center of the room beneath a circulating ceiling fan. On either side of the door beneath the windows were three booths, the seats covered in red vinyl, small tears in every one of them. The air smelled of bacon despite the lateness of the hour.
Beyond the far counter, he saw Ray cleaning up in the back. Ray turned at the sound of the door and recognized Taylor as he stepped in. He waved, a greasy dishtowel in his hand.
"Hey, Taylor," he said. "Long time no see. You comin' in to eat?"
"Oh, hey, Ray." He looked from side to side. "Not really."
Ray shook his head, chuckling to himself. "Somehow, I didn't think so," he said almost mischievously. "Denise'll be out in a minute. She's putting some stuff in the walk-in. You here to ask if you can drive her home?"
When Taylor didn't answer right away, Ray's eyes gleamed. "Did you think you were the first one to come in here, that lost puppy-dog look on your face? There's one or two a week comin' in here, looking just like you do now, hoping for the same thing. Truckers, bikers, even married guys." He grinned. "She's somethin', that's for sure, ain't she? Pretty as a flower. But don't worry, she ain't said yes to one of 'em yet."
"I wasn't . . ." Taylor stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.
"Of course you were." He winked, letting it sink in, then lowered his tone. "But like I said, don't worry. I've got a funny feeling she just might say yes to you. I'll tell her you're here."
All Taylor could do was star
e as Ray vanished from sight. Almost immediately Denise came out from the kitchen area, pushing through a swinging door.
"Taylor?" she said, clearly surprised.
"Hi," he said sheepishly.
"What are you doing here?" She started toward him, smiling curiously.
"I wanted to see you," he said quietly, not knowing what else to say.
As she walked toward him he took in her image. She wore a white, work-stained apron over her marigold yellow dress. The dress, short-sleeved and V-necked, was buttoned as high as it would go; the skirt reached just past her knees. She wore white sneakers, something her feet would be comfortable in, even after standing for hours. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her face was shiny from her own perspiration and the grease in the air.
She was beautiful.
She was aware of his appraisal, but as she neared, she saw something else in his eyes, something she'd never seen before.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I don't know," he muttered, almost to himself.
She stared up at him, concerned, then looked over her shoulder.
"Hey, Ray? Can I take a quick break here for a second?"
Ray acted as if he hadn't even noticed that Taylor had come in. He continued to clean the grill as he spoke.
"Take your time, sweetheart. I'm just about done here, anyway."
She faced Taylor again. "Do you want to sit down?"
It was exactly the reason he'd come, but Ray's comments had thrown him off. All he could think about were the men who came to the diner looking for her.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come," he said.
But Denise, as if knowing exactly what to do, smiled sympathetically.
"I'm glad you did," she said softly. "What happened?"
He stood silently before her, everything rushing at him at once. The faint smell of her shampoo, his desire to put his arms around her and tell her everything about the evening, the waking nightmares, how he longed for her to listen . . .
The men who came to the diner looking for her . . .
Despite everything, that thought erased those of the night's drama. Not that he had any reason to be jealous. Ray had said she'd always turned the others down, and he hadn't established a serious relationship with her. Yet the feeling gripped him anyway. What men? Who wanted to take her home? He wanted to ask her but knew it wasn't his place.