Storm of Visions (18 page)

Now he leaned over her as she slept. He brushed her hair off her face, and smiled at the boneless, child-like relaxation that possessed her.

He would always want her.

He thought no one knew of his obsession, but when he’d gone home to gather his clothes and collect something for Jacqueline to wear, his mother had listened to his voice, and something in his tone made her say, “Caleb, I hear what you do not wish to tell me. You love this girl. You have always loved her. And now you fear for her, too. Have a care, my son, for I know you. You are like me. You will love only once in your life, and if you lose her, your life will be desolation.”

Caleb adjusted the white lace at Jacqueline’s neckline.

To celebrate her happiness at her son’s choice, Nic cola D’Angelo had sent her wedding nightgown for Jacqueline to wear.

“W
e’ve come to see Gary White.”

The night nurse stared at Irving and at Martha, her mouth slightly open as she tried to decide what to do about two senior citizens visiting a man in a coma. “Visiting hours are over.”

Irving and Martha exchanged relieved glances.

The nurse’s words were a sign of normalcy for which they were sincerely grateful. Intruders hadn’t forced themselves into the hospital, as Martha feared, and Gary was still alive.

“I know.” Irving folded his hands before him and lowered his head, trying to look as old and feeble as possible. “But dear Martha’s plane was late coming in to La-Guardia, and she’s going back to Omaha first thing in the morning. If she can’t see Gary now, she can’t see him at all, and who knows if he’ll be alive next time she’s here.”

Martha played along, covering her eyes with her hand and sniffling loudly.

“So, Martha, you’re family?” the nurse asked.

Martha gave an indistinguishable murmur of agreement.

The night nurse looked them over again, then stammered, “I . . . well . . . I suppose it’s all right. It’s not as if you’ll disturb him. You do realize he won’t know whether you’re here or not.”

Martha looked up, her eyes remarkably dry. “So there’s been no change in his condition?”

“No. He’s unconscious, as he has been since he arrived here four years ago. Let me show you to his room.” She stood and started down the corridor. Irving and Martha trailed her. “It’s a shame, really. When he arrived, he was a man obviously in the prime of his life. I’ll never forget how handsome he was, and strong-looking, as if he worked out every day. Now his muscles have wasted away; he’s gaunt and . . . Forgive me, but if it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, I thought you should be prepared.” She opened the door of room 106 and walked in.

“Thank you.” Martha followed her. She viewed the emaciated, twisted body beneath the sheets on the hospital bed, and tears rose in her dark brown eyes and trickled down her cheek.

Gary’s face was still. His formerly black hair had thinned. An IV fed him liquids and nutrients, and his chest barely rose and fell under the meager force of his breath.

“This is a tragedy,” she whispered.

But unlike Irving, Martha believed it.

Irving had always kept his opinion of Gary White to himself. Gary had come to the Chosen as a charismatic young man. He had been elected leader of his group right away and they’d willingly followed him into every danger every day. Even as he grew older, all the most challenging missions had been entrusted to him and his team. Until the day so many had died . . .

Except for Gary. Gary hadn’t died. He’d been reduced to this helpless piece of human flesh.

Irving didn’t know what happened that day. He only knew Gary had been the kind of guy who always got Irving’s back up. He had been too brilliant, too compelling, too coordinated, too powerful. The men of the Chosen Ones had rallied behind his leadership. The young women of the Chosen visited his bed with consistent enthusiasm. Even more important, he’d charmed all the influential women over forty.

That was why Martha stood beside the head of the bed now, dabbing her eyes on a tissue.

Irving had been very much aware he might be jealous. But mostly, he thought his years as the director of the Gypsy Travel Agency had made him cynical.

Yet as he wearily sank into a chair, he knew he owed Gary protection. Ugly opinions couldn’t change the fact that Gary had been a Chosen hero.

Today, far too many of those heroes had died.

As he remembered them, conjured their faces from the vault of his mind, brought forth their vanished names, pain clawed its way up from his gut to his heart. With shaking hands, he loosened his tie and opened his starched collar.

He had given his life to the Gypsy Travel Agency and the Chosen Ones whom it supported, and now they were gone.

He’d seen the news reports, but even now, he couldn’t comprehend the loss of so much talent, of so many gifts.

Dully, he watched the nurse change the IV bag. “Has anyone visited recently?” he asked.

“No. You’re the first in months.” Her voice was thick with reproach.

Torn between relief that the Others hadn’t found Gary and killed him, and guilt that Gary had been so neglected, Irving said, “If you don’t mind, Martha and I will sit here for a few minutes and talk to the boy. I imagine he misses hearing a friendly human voice.”

“Whenever we come in, we talk to him.” The nurse’s judgmental tone upped Irving’s guilt. “We play the television, too, in the hopes that will jog his brain to activity. We don’t give up on our patients, sir, until the day they pass over.”

“How much longer do you think he has?” Irving asked.

The nurse looked into Gary’s face, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Not long. I’ve seen it before. His spirit is fading. Unless something happens to bring him back to consciousness, he’ll die. And perhaps . . . that would be best.”

The Chosen Ones didn’t have the resources to care for Gary White, and while Irving had not understood Gary at all, he knew one thing for sure—Gary would hate this helplessness.

Guilt swamped Irving, but . . . he couldn’t help but agree. Gary would be better off dead.

J
acqueline woke and stretched, and smiled. She had slept marvelously well. Not once had Caleb strolled into her dreams to taunt her with pleasure unfinished and promises not kept, and that was just fine with—

Her eyes popped open.

She hadn’t dreamed about him, because she’d been in bed with him.

And he was sitting in a chair, showered and dressed in a blue golf shirt and jeans, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, watching her sleep.

She sat up hard and fast. The covers were kicked back, this silly damned nightgown was hiked up around her thighs, and she’d probably been snoring, or drooling or, God help her, moaning his name. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He said it with a straight face.

So she had been drooling. “Luckily for you, you have great resistance.”

“How do you figure?”

“Two years ago, you taught me to fight, you screwed me, and you left me without a backward glance.” She finger combed her hair and discovered the left side was stuck sideways. She must have slept on one side for hours. “Two days ago, you found me in California, you screwed me, and yet managed to ignore my begging and pleading, and dragged me into the biggest, most horrific mess ever seen by the Chosen Ones.”