The Messenger

3

Harry Williams lay dying, knew it, and although he did not fear it, fought it with every ounce of his dwindling strength. Had he not been so desperate to communicate with his wife, Catherine, just once more, he would have let go, would have given in to the tidal pull on his soul.

For days now he had lain in a dark world, unable to move, unable to speak. Comatose. Trapped in a body that would not obey him, able to hear but not to respond-not with so much as the batting of an eyelid or the lifting of a finger. He had tried. If will alone could have accomplished it, he would have come back to the family that surrounded him.

But Harry couldn’t. He had fallen from the roof of his home while trying to adjust a television satellite dish, an accident he had come to accept in this sea of dark hours for what it was: stupid but unchangeable. He knew he would not recover-his injuries were too severe to allow his life to continue.

He was not destined to remain with his loved ones. He accepted this. But he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.

Catherine and the kids, his parents, his brother and sister were grieving. Already missing him. At his family’s request-God bless them for following his wishes!-the respirator and the feeding tube had been removed. All this he knew. He could no longer feel physical pain. That had been true for some time now. All the same, Harry Williams was in anguish.

He had something to say. It was not, as some might have supposed, “I love you.” Catherine knew he loved her, just as he knew she loved him. If he had harbored any doubts about that, her whispered pleas at his bedside would have reassured him. No-more than spoken words, their love was something down in his bones now, or deeper even than that. The children-he realized there would be no knowing who they would become one day, but against that loss he felt the peace of a man who has done his best to be a good father.

He did not need to ask forgiveness-he had forgiven, and had asked for and received it for himself. This he also knew. No, the urgent message he had for Catherine was utterly mundane, a matter of business: the location of his hidden office safe and its combination.

She might discover it somehow. She might get someone to open it for her. But all that was maybe and would take time. Catherine deserved to have access to the papers and the cash he had stored there. He wanted her to find the diamond bracelet he had planned to give her on Valentine’s Day. The contents of the safe would help her and the kids to survive while she waited for the insurance to pay. He wanted her to have access to it now.

He had been a fool never to tell her about it. When he first realized that he would not recover, he had been angry with himself. He now thought of this failure in a dispassionate way. At this stage of the process of dying, all his passion went into hoping for one last chance to be granted the ability to speak.

Time passed in the darkness. He breathed. His heart beat. It would not last.

Only Catherine was in the room with him when the door opened.

“Oh!” she said. “You’re here! I wasn’t sure you’d come. Thank you!”

Harry heard the newcomer move toward the bed. A man took his hand. A doctor? No, not a doctor.

“I called you because he seems to be fighting so hard,” Catherine said. “The doctors say he won’t recover. But he’s still alive. Were they wrong?”

“No, they weren’t wrong,” said the stranger, but not unkindly.

A moment later, Harry thought the stranger was mistaken. He could see again. He was standing next to Catherine at his bedside. He felt stronger than he ever had before. Then he looked down and saw himself on the bed. He looked awful.

We only have a few minutes-perhaps less than that, the stranger’s voice came to him, although the man had not spoken aloud. Harry realized that he was somehow connected to the man, and hearing his thoughts.

What are you? Who are you? Harry wondered.

Never mind! Hurry! the stranger urged him. What do you need to say?

Suddenly Harry was certain that this was his only chance, and for reasons that he could not have explained to himself, he believed that this man was to be trusted. “Catherine, it’s me-Harry,” he said, and heard the stranger repeat the words aloud, felt them form and move in the stranger’s throat and mouth, felt the breath that moved them. Wonderful thing, speech, he thought, but at the stranger’s urging continued. “Listen carefully. There is a safe hidden in the south wall of my office. You can find it by going to the thermostat on that wall and removing its cover. There’s a keypad under it. Enter this code: one-eight-five-five-eight-nine.”

She was looking at him in shock.

Write it, the stranger commanded. Otherwise she won’t remember.

With his free hand-the stranger’s free hand-Harry searched quickly for the notepad next to his bed, found it, and wrote the number down. He turned back to Catherine. “Enter that and press the pound sign. A hidden panel will slide open. On the safe, enter Jerry’s birthday in this order: the four numbers of the year, then the two numbers of the month, then the two numbers of the day. Everything in the safe is yours, and will help you for a while. The bracelet is your Valentine’s Day present, Cath. Sorry I won’t be there to give it to you.” He paused, seeing Catherine looking into the stranger’s eyes, but seeing that she saw him there. “I love you, Cath. Be strong. See you later.”

He was back in his own shell then, and as cold as it was growing, wondrous things were happening. He heard Catherine crying and saying she loved him, too, her voice indicating that she had noticed that he was back in his body. He felt her clutch his other hand.

Are you an angel? Harry asked the stranger, knowing that only the stranger could hear him.

No, the stranger answered, in Harry’s own thoughts. Tell me-

Oh, now I know who you are, Harry said, as a new awareness began to flow through him. Yes. Things will be changing for you soon.

Harry could feel the man-Tyler Hawthorne-suddenly become alert.

What do you mean?

I’m not sure, I just know I’m supposed to tell you that. Oh-also, you’ll be needed in St. Louis nine days from now. The hospital room of Max Derley. Harry recited an address and a phone number, having no idea how he had learned them. He gave other details about this Missouri hospital he had never previously heard of, and the phone number of a man named Sam Gunning. He did not know how Mr. Derley and Mr. Gunning were connected, but he had a clear sense of the importance of Tyler receiving this information.

Fine, yes, but tell me-

And please stop by the hospice and check on your future guest.

I promise I will. Now, please tell me-

Harry heard the desperation in the man’s thoughts and pitied him for a brief moment. I’m sorry, Harry answered. He had to leave-this was a matter of supreme urgency, both unavoidable and wholly desirable. Still, he managed to add, Thank you. Tyler Hawthorne, and bid good-bye to his last friend on earth.

The dead, thought Tyler, are damned self-centered.

He left the room before the widow could add her thanks to her husband’s.

He was halfway to the van before he realized that he was not at all feverish. Then again, this hadn’t been an especially strenuous assignment, so perhaps this was one of those rare occasions when he’d escape that particular side effect of his work.

Shade was peering out the open window of the van, standing on the passenger seat, tail wagging so hard his whole back end curved with it.

“Happy to see you, too,” Tyler said, settling into the driver’s seat. “How do you manage to remain so enthusiastic?”

Shade briefly nuzzled him, then sat watching him.

Tyler sighed. “I’ll try to improve my attitude. I’m not sure why I find that so difficult lately.” He started the van. “We have another stop, by the way.”

Shade seemed undaunted.

It was just before midnight when he approached the open door of Ron Parker’s hospice room, but the visiting hours here were not restricted. Although Harry Williams had passed along the message saying he should come here-his second visit today-he was uneasy about the thought of waking Ron, who to all appearances was dying from leukemia. After all, the message had been to check on Ron, not to talk to him.

So he walked quietly into Ron’s room. Just past the doorway, he was brought up short by the sight of another visitor.

A slender, dark-haired woman sat in a chair pulled close to the left side of the bed. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, probably Ron’s age or very nearly. Her face was in shadow, her head bent and mostly curtained by her hair as she read a paperback by the light of a small clip-on book lamp. As he watched, she managed to turn a page using only her left hand, the hand that held the book. Her right hand gently held one of Ron’s hands as he slept.

Was she Ron’s girlfriend? He was certain that Ron wasn’t married. Ron’s late grandfather, Derek Parker, whom Tyler had befriended, had not mentioned that his grandson had a fiancée or any other attachments. When Tyler had spoken to Ron on other occasions, including today, they had discussed many things, and there was no word of a girlfriend.

And yet, what he saw here was a picture of solace and faithfulness. Ron was asleep, might well be for the night, and still she stayed with him. Kept hold of his hand so that if he should wake, he would know he was not alone.

She looked up suddenly and, startled by Tyler’s presence, dropped the book and book lamp with it. The little light broke as the book went tumbling beneath the bed. She bent to retrieve it even as Tyler moved closer, ready to offer help. Ron woke up, looked around blearily, and used the control on his bed to bring the room lights up.

Even to Tyler, who had stood next to many deathbeds, Ron bore the appearance of someone in the final stages of leukemia. He was thin, his cheeks hollow. He had lost all his hair after his last round of chemo. His skin was dry and pale, except for the places, here and there, where he had dark splotches of bruising caused by the disease. His eyes, however, revealed a man still part of the world around him, however tenuous his hold on it might be.

“Amanda, are you okay?” Ron asked drowsily.

The young woman quickly straightened, rapping her head on the bottom of the rolling tray near the bed. The tray rattled, but nothing spilled. She winced and rubbed at her crown.

“Fine,” she said, blushing. Tyler could see her face now-lovely brown eyes, made no less so by the small scar near one brow. Her nose was straight and her lips full. Her face was not delicate enough to be called pretty, nor beautiful by current standards, standards Tyler didn’t particularly admire. An attractive woman. And Ron’s, he reminded himself sternly.

“Tyler!” Ron said, noticing him for the first time. “Hey, man-come on in!”

Amanda’s expression changed-Tyler was surprised to see her eyeing him with hostility. Did she blame him for the mishap?

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I’m Tyler Hawthorne.” He extended a hand.

“Amanda Clarke,” she said, going along with the handshake but ending it as quickly as possible.

“Amanda, Tyler’s your new neighbor. I was telling you about him earlier.”

“Yes,” she said. “Umm-an odd hour for a visit, isn’t it?”

“Is it? You tell me.”

Ron looked between them. “Amanda-it’s fine. Hell, one minute you’re complaining that my so-called friends have deserted me, and the next you’re driving them off. Have a seat, Tyler. What brings you out at this hour?”

Tyler gestured for Amanda to be seated before he took the empty chair on the opposite side of the bed. “I’m often awake late at night. I was in the neighborhood, and-well, I thought I’d just look in on you, give you a little company if you were awake, not disturb you if you were asleep.”

“Appreciate it. I never know when I’m going to be asleep or awake lately.”

Tyler turned to Amanda. “Ron said we’re neighbors-”

“Yes. I own the house just below yours.”

“You own…?”

“Yes, I own it. I’ve owned it for about eight years, since my parents died in a car accident. It was in trust until a few years ago, of course.”

“Sorry-I just didn’t realize my neighbor was so young.”

Ron laughed. “Dude, you’re not so old yourself.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s surprised,” Amanda said. “Ron said you bought his house-I guess I should say, his grandfather’s house. I was expecting a friend of Derek’s to be older.”

“Oh, you know how Derek was,” Ron said, giving her a quelling look. “He liked being around people who were younger than he was. He never let me call him Grandfather, Tyler. I suppose he told you that.”

Tyler smiled. “Yes, he did.”

“How did you meet Derek?” Amanda asked.

Tyler looked across the bed at her, saw the suspicion in her eyes. “I was interested in some antiques he was selling. We got to know each other.”

“And you saw a chance to get a bargain on a house being sold by an old man in financial trouble.”

“Amanda!” Ron said sharply. “You’re embarrassing me, you know?”

She blushed again. “Forgive me.”

Ron took her hand. “It’s okay, but you’ve got it all wrong anyway. Tyler, don’t mind Amanda, she’s kind of protective of me. It’s none of your business, Amanda, but Tyler not only paid a generous price for the house, he bought a lot of Derek’s stuff, too. So if it weren’t for him, I’d have inherited a load of debt.” He paused. “I think Derek had his first heart attack because he was so worried about money.”

“And losing you,” she said softly.

Ron shook his head. “No, he never thought I’d live past sixteen, when I first came to live with him. So everything since has been a bonus. He thought he’d outlive me and I’d die never knowing he ended up broke. Tyler, you kept his last weeks of life from being miserable with worry, and for that, I’m grateful.”

“It worked out well for everyone, although I wish Derek could have been with us longer.”

“Me, too. I miss him.”

They fell silent.

Tyler began to feel a familiar combination of weariness and warmth-an unpleasant warmth, the sign of the beginning of the fever. He hadn’t escaped it after all. He would have to excuse himself soon, but he wished he could somehow smooth things over with Amanda, if for no other reason than the fact that they would live next door to each other for the next few years.

Ron yawned. “Sorry, I think I’m headed down for the count again. Thanks for coming by, you two. Amanda, go home and get some sleep, okay?”

She frowned. “I don’t mind staying-”

“I know. But you’re tired. I can tell.” He turned to Tyler. “Make sure she gets to her car safely, okay?”

“Now who’s being protective?” Amanda said. “But I would appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Tyler said. “Good night, Ron.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of Ron’s room, she turned to him and said, “I don’t need an escort to my car. I just wanted a chance to tell you that I think you’re the cruelest son of a bitch I’ve ever met in my life.”