Sentz considered for a moment. "I don't know. Perhaps…" As Dennis watched, Sentz's eyes traveled across the room.
Dennis turned and saw a tall man in the corner on the opposite side of the room standing in shadows, staring at them. How long had he been there? His head was bowed and Dennis couldn't make out his face, but it was obvious he was listening.
The man's head moved, only slightly, barely perceptibly, but it moved. From left to right. No.
Dennis turned back toward Torres. The sergeant didn't appear to have even noticed the man. But Sentz had.
"I'm sorry," Sentz continued, barely missing a beat, "but that would be against regulations. I can't authorize it."
Dennis's eyes ballooned. "What happened? Why can't you do anything? Who is that man?"
"Just a friend reminding me that I need to go by the book if I want to make it to retirement with my pension intact."
"Who's pulling your strings?" Dennis turned around again, ready to charge the tall man and throw him to the ground-but he had disappeared. "I don't care about your pension!"
"I do. Look, go home, and if she still isn't-"
"Why don't you want me to find my wife?"
Torres laid his hand on Dennis's shoulder. "Sir, the police department has rules, and for the most part they're good ones."
"What he's saying," Sentz interjected, "in a nice way, is, get lost."
Dennis flew forward. He grabbed Sentz by the collar and shook him, his face contorted by rage. "You've got to do something! Find my wife!"
Sentz shoved him back hard, knocking him to the floor. He breathed heavily, in and out. He looked furious. "You lousy-"
"Sentz!" Torres shouted. "Don't say anything you'll regret later."
Sentz's lips were pressed together so tightly they turned white. "Get him away from me. Now. If he's still here in thirty seconds, I'm filing charges."
Torres helped Dennis back to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir. I think you should go."
"But Joslyn is in trouble and-"
"And you can't help her if you're behind bars. Go!"
Barely suppressing his rage, Dennis grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He had never felt so helpless. They had worked so hard to put their lives together. Slaving away at the university, saving every penny, getting Joslyn through medical school, building their dream house. They had a good life, damn it. What right did these people have to act so cavalierly? What right did anyone have? How could they stand idly by while he lost everything he loved?
He threw himself behind the wheel and slammed his car door shut. He would drive all night. He would search every road, then search it again. He would hire a detective. He would never rest.
Until this moment, he had not fully realized how much he cared for his wife. She was everything to him. Everything that mattered.
Hang on, Joslyn! Please hang on! I will find you. I will!
2
I 've been trapped here for seven days now. How can I still be in my body? How can I still be trapped in this metal cauldron of eternal torment?
I know so much about the human body's ability to handle pain. I knew there would come a time when the sensory neurons could no longer process so much negative stimulation, when they would shut down and I would feel some alleviation, however artificial. Somehow I would find some measure of release.
That release has not come. The agonizing aching has changed, mutated from the sharp splitting pulse to a hollowness, a sense that something has been lost. It still hurts, but it is a different hurt, perhaps more tolerable physically, perhaps more unbearable spiritually. It is as if I were swimming in the ocean, struggling against a sudden overpowering wave that carries my body away and slowly crushes the life out of it. I have swum too far from the shore. My hands are numb, aching, bloody. I can no longer swim, not even tread water, and I know I will never see land again…
I no longer deceive myself into thinking it will all work out. I don't seek miracles. It would be good to see Dennis again, to tell him what he needs to know, but I realize that is unlikely. Death has consumed my body, my brain, my very blood. It is what I have become. It is omnipotent. It is Krishna. It is God.
I don't seek the miracle of rescue. I seek the relief of oblivion.
Four hours ago I realized I still had my cell phone in my jeans pocket. How much charge could it have after so much time? And what difference did it make when I was so powerless to get it out? Aren't I?
I thought about it for hours before I even attempted movement. The mere act of concentration made my head hurt, my brow sweat. It was too hard, too impossible…
I moved a finger.
Only the index finger of my left hand. But it moved. Twitched, perhaps more accurately. Could I possibly do more?
Two fingers this time. My hand was pinned down, pressed against my side. My fingertips lay perhaps six inches from my pocket. Surely this is a distance they can traverse. Surely I can make this so.
I moved my whole arm, but oh God how it hurt. Something had happened to that arm. The shoulder above was dislocated and the clavicle was broken and all movement sent lightning bolts of pain radiating through my arm and the rest of my body. This is so hard. Why is this happening to me?
Is this perfect? My spiritual teacher in Malibu tried to convince me that everything was perfect. The Universe does not make mistakes. That's why the Universe has lasted so long and will continue to do so. Everything happens for a reason. Don't greet misfortune with despair; try to discern what you will learn, how you will grow from the experience.
Like most all-encompassing worldviews, it is too easy to poke holes through. The Universe continues to exist because there's a natural scientific progression from creation to extinction, perfect or imperfect. How can this cheesy philosophy encompass huge tragedies such as starvation in Africa or the Holocaust? Did millions die so the world could learn a lesson? Can we seriously believe that's perfect? But my teacher was not moved by my protestations. When I stop objecting and accept, he said, I will see the truth. Because bad things will happen to all people. Do you let them destroy you? Or do you choose to let them make you better?
This is not perfect! It hurts! Dear God, how it hurts!
I think my wrist may be broken, too, but somehow I managed to ease it sideways, pivoting it around until the fingertips touched the mouth of the pocket. Baby steps, that's all I needed. An inch at a time, a micron even. Slowly my fingers oozed into the portal. Gently, tenderly they slipped inside until they touched the cold, hard shell. Naturally I opted for the sleek Razr, so damn hard to get a grip on…
My whole arm trembled, throbbing, and my forehead bled as I closed my fingers around the phone and tried to ease it out of the pocket. My leg was pierced, possibly severed, just a few inches below the phone. Every movement was torture. The slightest twitch was excruciating, unbearable, but somehow, I tensed enough hand and wrist muscles to close those fingers around the phone and slowly draw it out. My hand was slick with sweat and my arm shook violently, but still I continued to pull the phone out of that damnable pocket.
Until it was free. Inserting my index finger under the phone, I flipped the lid upward and turned it on. I heard the beeping sound that told me it still had power, however slight. Even though I could not turn my head enough to see it, I sensed the flickering illumination provided by the screen. Hand trembling, I groped for the button that would alert the police…
Noooooo! Dear God, no!
The cell phone glittered on the floor mat, shining, twinkling, beckoning, impossibly far out of my reach.
"She didn't make this charge. I did."