Gathering String Page 6

  With Sam leaning over the seat, trying his best to pull, and Tess pushing from the side, they shoved the semi-conscious man out the door. Sam saw him thump onto the ground below and roll out of sight. Then Sam was over the seat, grabbing at Tess’s arm screaming, “Come on! Come on!”

  He was aware that she had something in her hand as he tumbled backward out the door, pulling her with him. Landing on his back, he cried out in pain, then rolled with her, splashing through the standing water, the mud underneath sucking and heavy. Coming to her feet first, Tess pulled at his hand, shouting against the wind, “Where’s Opie?”

  Squinting, Sam could see a figure staggering a few yards ahead of them. “There!”

  Together they started running as best they could, Tess pulling his arm desperately as they struggled toward the open, higher ground of a field beyond. They’d gone only about 20 feet when the plane behind them blew up, flinging them face down into the mud. Pulling her under him, Sam felt bits of shrapnel slice into his back and shoulder, the heat washing over them. Rolling onto her back, she raised her camera, even as she pushed at him.

  “Down!” he shouted. “Just stay down.”

  “Get off!” she yelled. “Let me see! Let me get it!” Her fist hit him square in the chest, and he fell back with a groan. The whine of her motor drive was almost lost in the roar of flames. Then she rolled up on all fours, crawled a few feet away and threw up.

  Watching her as the rain pounded his back, Sam pulled back onto his knees, then struggled to his feet. Slipping through the slick mud, he grabbed her around the waist, and helped her up, holding his side against the pain. Together they made it up hill and caught up with Opie, who seemed to be wandering in circles. Arm still around her, Sam moved to intercept him, but lost his footing, and they slid down again. As Opie stumbled closer, Sam reached out and grabbed his pant leg, pulling him down beside them. Seeing the shattered face for the first time, Sam muttered, “Oh Jesus.” The young man groaned as Sam turned him up on his side, blood and a couple teeth rolling from his mouth. Then he slipped into unconsciousness. For Sam and Tess, there was no such mercy. Shivering with shock and cold, Sam drew her close and they huddled together in the downpour, silently watching the flames devour what was left of the plane and waiting for the sound of sirens.

  Chapter 5

  The Rapid City hospital kept them both overnight for observation. Opie wasn’t so lucky. Of the three, Tess was in the best shape. Besides being bruised all over, she had a large contusion on the left side of her face and she’d chipped a bone in her foot kicking open the hatch, but it didn’t need to be set or cast.

  Sam also had a gang of bruises and a couple broken ribs. The doctor dug shrapnel out of two places on his back and one on his shoulder, and those stitches were deep. But they left his lip alone. It was swollen, tender and raw but, he was told, it would heal quickly.

  Opie, whose real name they found was Wally Pinser, was taken right into surgery. Broken cheekbone, broken nose, broken upper jaw, broken teeth; he faced a painful recovery and reconstructive work.

  Sam’s cell phone had been in his jacket and his wallet in his pocket. Other than that, everything went up with the plane. Neither had a change of clothes, and all the Trib’s equipment they’d carried was toast, except for the camera Tess held onto.

  It was late when they used Sam’s phone to call their families. Tess spoke to a brother, unwilling to wake her father in Florida with upsetting news. Sam found Judith still at her law office. She was shocked by the accident, and he was surprised at her concern. Usually loath to have her jammed schedule upended, she’d even offered to fly out to help him home. But he’d told her to stay in D.C., insisting he’d be fine, that he still planned to work on the story. He could think of nothing less comforting than Judith marching around asking questions and threatening lawsuits.

  After their release, they threw away the bags with the wet, bloody clothing of the day before, and wore hospital scrubs and muddy shoes to rent a car and shop at Wal-Mart. It was an odd experience, shuffling through the aisles, finding clothes and personal items and a couple duffle bags. Sam’s beefy lip was bad enough, but Tess’s face was a swollen mess, the purplish-red bruise spreading from above her eye all the way to her chin. With her slight limp and his careful, stiff movements, people turned to stare.

  When they arrived at the Sheraton with their Wal-Mart sacks, the young woman at the front desk gave them a quick, guarded look and explained, “Yes, Mr. Waterman, the Tribune did make a reservation. But check-in isn’t until 3 p.m.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Obviously we need an early check-in.” Sam’s mouth pulled down sternly, opening his lip.

  She stared intently into the computer screen as he dabbed at the gash with a stained tissue. “The young lady who called mentioned something about an accident. But you must understand that we’ve been booked solid with so many people displaced by the flooding. A lot of homes are without electricity and we’ve allowed a huge number of late check-outs …”

  Sam scooted his company American Express a little closer to her hand. “Do you really want two people who look like we do sitting in your lobby? We don’t have any place else to go.” She finally looked at him, and Sam added softly, “Come on, you’ve got a couple of rooms ready, right?”

  She sighed. “Honestly, all we have are two executive suites. Our corporate rate doesn’t apply to them.”

  “My company will pay. Just give us the pass cards.”

  Sam helped Tess carry the bags to her suite. As he was separating out his own things, his cell phone rang, and he frowned against the pain as he pulled it from the pocket in his scrubs. “Waterman.”

  A gruff voice came over the line, “Keith Benedict here. Put my daughter on the phone, please.”

  He turned to Tess, his grin awkward to keep from straining his lip. “It’s your dad.”

  She took it from him, and wandered toward the windows, talking softly. Sam would have left to let her talk in privacy, but he needed the phone back, still planning to do what he could about the story he’d come for. He heard her ask him to FedEx her birth certificate, explaining she had no ID and needed something to show airport security. The old man must have suggested using her passport, but she said it was in her apartment. It wasn’t lost on Sam when she told her father that no one else had a key. But he kept his eyes on the table, appearing to be busy with gathering his things.

  When she clicked the disconnect, he looked up to see her turn slowly. He started toward her, and she put her hands to her face to hide her tears, her cheeks flushing. “It’s so stupid to start this now, when it’s all over.”

  He shook his head, putting an arm around her, drawing her against his good side. “It’s OK. Hell, if my old man was alive I’d call him and bawl like a baby.” He looked down into her battered face. “Toughie, you’re exhausted.” The name brought a tiny, embarrassed smile to her face. “Get some sleep, and I’ll take care of getting you a phone.” She nodded her thanks and handed his back.

  Grabbing a sack with his things, he started for his room across the hall, but she stopped him, saying, “Sam?” With a wry smile she tossed him a package of men’s cotton boxer shorts from her jumble on the table.

  He caught them with a wince and a soft laugh, “Looks like we’re not meant to have any secrets.” He pulled open the door. “Get some rest.”

  In his room, he googled an AT&T store, called, and put Tess’s new phone, and a charger for his own, on the American Express. Then he rang the front desk and asked to have someone sent to pick them up, putting that fee on the room charge.

  He’d showered at the hospital, but took a longer, hotter one now, trying to stretch out the aches. Then he changed into the cheap Wal-Mart jeans and t-shirt. He spent the next couple hours making calls on the story. With a Twitter search for the hashtag #RemingtonSD, he found a Remington exile who was waiting to hear if her house was still standing. Boats were just making it back into the town, but the going was slow a
nd treacherous with debris. It wasn’t until they were wrapping up that he remembered he had no laptop to write on, so he called Johnson and dictated what he had, amused at the nostalgic feeling it gave him. When Sam hung up the AT&T delivery came, so he plugged in his dying phone and the new one to let them charge. Finally he went to the ATM in the lobby and got some cash.

  Back in the suite, he wandered aimlessly, unable to think of a single thing to do. He wondered if Tess was sleeping. He knew it would probably be good if he could get some shut-eye too, but he dreaded lying down. Uneasy, uncomfortable, he knew all his activity was just another way of still outrunning the blast.

  Pain medication had let him sleep at the hospital. He pulled out the bottle from the pharmacy and read to take two capsules every four to six hours. They looked awfully small. He swallowed three. Then he meandered back into the sitting room. He’d just flipped on ESPN when he heard the door to Tess’s room open and then a soft tapping.

  When he swung the door wide, she smiled in relief. “Good, you weren’t asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” She was wearing one of the thick, white Turkish cotton robes that came with the suite, and her hair was damp. A bellhop with a covered tray of food stood behind her, and she lowered her voice. “Could I bum a few bucks for a tip?”

  “Sure.” He stepped into the hall, fishing a ten from his wallet. The young man handed the tray to Tess, gave them a curious glance, and hurried off. Taking the swipe card from her hand, Sam opened her door and held it for her, asking, “Did you sleep?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not much. Mostly I’ve just been knocking around, trying not to think too much, you know?”

  He nodded, “Yeah, I even resorted to turning on the TV.” And then it hit him, looking suddenly back at his own closed door. “Ah, damn it, I’m locked out. I left my card on the table.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll just go down and get another one.”

  She held up the tray in her hands. “Do it later. Want to share? It’s a burger and fries.” He started to shake his head, but she added, “I’m not all that hungry. Ordering it was just something to do. I didn’t want to show off this shiner in the dining room.” He hesitated, and she admitted, “I could use the company.”

  “I could eat.” Sam followed her into the room. It was bigger and nicer than his, with a large table, giant widescreen TV, and a white chaise lounge in the sitting room, the bedroom and bathroom beyond French doors.

  She split the hamburger down the middle sloppily with a butter knife, then poured half the bottle of beer into a water glass and handed it to him.

  “I hit the ATM,” he said, pulling his wallet back out, and handing her some bills.

  She took them with a funny little laugh. “You know, this just gets more and more surreal. Here I am, in a hotel suite, wearing an expensive robe, with a man handing me $200.” She shook her head.

  “And I put it on the company card no less,” Sam laughed too, softly. Carefully, avoiding his gashed lower lip, he took a small bite of sandwich.

  “What were you watching?”

  He spoke around the food. “The Red Sox/Yankees game. Opening day.”

  “Great. You with the Sox or the Yankees?” She grabbed the remote, and started flipping through channels.

  He made a face. “It's a genuine accent, hon. You?”

  “Love the Yanks. I was born in upstate New York.”

  “Aw, they’re all juiced. How else do you explain Bucky-Fucking-Dent?”

  She shook her head. “Before my time.”

  Sam frowned at that and said, “There’s the channel.” He shifted carefully, trying to maneuver to see better and relieve the ache.

  Watching him, she said, “You’re uncomfortable. Move over there.” She indicated the chaise in front of the TV. “I’ll bring the fries.” She took the plate and sat down on the floor next to it. He felt a little silly, but it did feel better to stretch out, taking the pressure off his ribs.

  They came in on the top of the eighth, Boston up by two. Together they watched with rapt attention, sharing fries and trash talking. By the bottom of the ninth the game was tied. She cheered wildly, he swore bitterly, when the Yankee shortstop homered with a man on and two out. “Christ, every year they buy themselves a team. Well, fuck those fucking prima donnas.”

  “Oh, but they’re such good prima donnas,” she laughed at his scowl, but then her smile faded. “You look really tired, Sam. Why don’t I go down and get your card? You need to sleep.”

  For the last half hour Sam had been aware of a drifting feeling, the pain medication and beer working together, taking the edge off. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s such good idea. I’m OK. You were right. It’s better with some company. Want to go see Mount Rushmore? It’s supposed to be pretty at night.” The streetlights had just come on outside.

  “I don’t know.” She stood up, putting the plate on the table, and glanced at the window, not bothering to remind him that it was raining. “My face is such a mess. And my hair is wild.”

  He liked the way she wore it, a short mass of curls framing her face, and he said, “The swelling’s down some.” Then he asked, randomly, “Do you look like your mother?”

  She looked up from brushing crumbs off the front of the robe. “My dad says I do. We have the same coloring. I don’t remember her. When I was two, she was pregnant again and her blood pressure whacked out. She died of a stroke. The baby went with her.”

  “That’s tough. Guess that’s why you’re close to your dad.” She nodded. “You really got two brothers who are Navy fliers?”

  She nodded again. “They went to Annapolis. So did my father. He never remarried.”

  “He taught his boys to fly, but not you?”

  She shrugged. “He wanted to when I turned 16, but we were living in Hawaii then, and I was really into surfing. I …” she paused. His vacant look told her he wasn’t following.

  “Did you always wear it short?” His voice was a little slurred, and her brow knitted in confusion. “Your hair? No mom to fuss with it? Put it in barrettes for you when you were little?”

  She ran her hand through the curls self-consciously. “I suppose.”

  Looking at her, standing by his side, he was absently surprised when he heard himself actually murmur what he was thinking. “You are so pretty.”

  Staring hard into his dilated eyes, Tess suddenly smiled. “Have you been taking some of those pain pills, Sam?”

  The eyes drooped closed. “Right before you knocked.”

  “OK. Well, I’m going to go down and get your keycard so you can get back into your room and sleep.”

  “They won’t give it to you. And you’re wearing a robe,” he muttered, but couldn’t force his eyes open as she replied softly, “They don’t know which room I took. I’ll keep my head down, and people will just think I’ve been in the pool.” He heard her mute the TV. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Sam didn’t want her to leave, but his eyelids were too heavy, and he couldn’t find the words to stop her. Faintly he heard the door click shut as he slid away.

  For an unknown time, he drifted in dark oblivion. But then, suddenly, he was choking on thick black smoke; orange, yellow and red flames rose to trap him amid the shrieking of breaking metal and blazing silhouettes. A wave of heat washed over him and he fought, thrashing in horror, as a spear of fire ran through his chest. He was burning, burning alive, and his eyes flew open at the sound of his own terrified cry.

  “Sam? Sam, you’re dreaming,” Her arms were around him, her voice sane and soft. “You’re OK, it’s all OK.” With each gasp, her clean, warm scent brought him back from hell. Struggling against the pain to sit up, he felt her arms tighten trying to help him, and he reached out, choking on sobs, and grabbed her close, burying his face against her shoulder.

  “Jesus!” His tongue felt thick, and he was drenched in clammy perspiration. “I knew I didn’t want to sleep. Fuck!�
�� The only light came from the muted TV.

  Pulling back a little, she went to her knees, stretching over the lounge to push his hair back from his wet forehead, her voice low. “I know, I know. It happened to me too, every time I fell asleep this afternoon. I think we’re going to be frightened dreamers for a while.” Gently she tried to move out of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Tess,” his voice shook, and he was ashamed but couldn’t stop the words, the dream’s adrenaline flooding the medicated haze. “I wouldn’t have made it out of that plane without you.”

  “No, you would have …”

  He shook his head. “Opie and I were dead. You got us out.” His hands clutched her waist, so tight she winced, but he couldn’t loosen his grasp.

  “Don’t worry about that now. Sam, you’re OK, just exhausted. Let’s get you back to your room.” She would have stood, but he pulled her closer.

  “Can’t we ... Ah, Tess, just stay here, close to me?” His face was all sharp angles in the flickering light. “I’m in no shape to try anything, I swear to God. Can’t we just hold on here for a little while?” She hesitated. “Please,” it was a hoarse whisper from deep in his aching chest.

  With a sigh, she slid onto the chaise next to him, against his good side, the top of her head tucked just below his cheek. He brushed his face against the softness of her curls. After a long silence, he murmured, “Thank God.”

  “Sam?”

  “Um?”

  “Where’s your wife? Why didn’t she come when you called?”

  She couldn’t see him frown. “I told her not to.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want her here.”

  She shifted a little, to look up at him, and he knew she’d ask why again. Not wanting to admit he didn’t want Judith to see him like this, he reached out and touched one finger to the fine, white-gold chain at her neck, whispering, “What is this?” With an inward shiver, he remembered her pulling it from her collar as the plane started to fall.

  “My dad gave it to me when I graduated from Brown. I majored in art, but always planned to start out in photojournalism. It’s a St. Francis De Sales medal.” There was self-consciousness in her voice, and he waited until she added softly, “He’s the patron saint of journalists.”