Foul-tasting acid started percolating into his throat and up the back of his nose. How much, exactly, had he had to drink?
Concentrate, he begged himself Use your adrenaline, your experience, and focus in… The handholds became more slippery, smaller, and more difficult to find. He was traversing more as he searched for safe leverage, ascending less. His fingers were beginning to stiffen up.
Behind him, nestled in the gloom, was his house-so tantalizingly close, so incredibly far. Without lines, descent in the dark and the rain was simply out of the question. Then, without warning, he slipped. His foot went first, skidding off the edge of a niche he thought was safe.
Instantly, his grips gave way as well. He slid ten or fifteen feet, slamming his elbow against a small outcropping and skinning his knee and his chin. He reacted instinctively, using technique and years of practice to stem the fall. Clawing and kicking at a shallow crevice, he was able to bring himself to a stop. Then, gasping, he clung to the rock until, inch by inch, he was able to work himself to a more secure spot.
His elbow and his knee were throbbing, but not broken. His lungs were on fire. Waves of cramping pain had begun to shoot from his stomach through to his back. I He looked below him. The rock face, what little of it he could discern, seemed almost smooth. It was ascend or find some way to Strap himself in where he was, and remain there until morning. Then he remembered the flashlight. How could he have forgotten it?
He loosened his grip and gingerly reached down and patted his windbreaker pocket. The light was gone-probably lost during the fall. At that moment, searing pain knifed through his gut and he vomited, retching again and again. Foul, whiskey acid poured through his mouth and out his nose, spattering onto his clothes and shoes and cascading down the rock. For five minutes, ten, he could only hang on and struggle for breath. He was in trouble. He had broken the rules, and he was in more trouble, more danger, than he had ever been in his life. Gradually, his head began to clear, and his gasping respiration slowed. He was at least a hundred fifty feet up, he guessed, maybe more. Certainly, he was more than halfway. He could use his jacket or his belt to secure himself against the rock, but in the dark, there was no real spot he could count on. His only option was to climb, and to pray. Once again, hold by hold, inch by inch, he started upward. The rain and the wind were real factors now, making every grip more treacherous, every ledge less dependable.
The taste in his mouth and throat was abominable, the stiffness in his fingers, elbow, and knees worsening every second. Still, he climbed. It was all so stupid. He had taken on the cliff to… to what? He couldn't even remember. All that was clear was that he had taken a bad situation and made it much, much worse. He glanced behind himself. His house was a toy, a shadow, vaguely discernible against the glow of a nearby streetlight. Peering up the rock face, through the rain overhead, he could almost swear he saw the edge of the plateau. The pitch seemed steeper, the handholds even smaller. Zack scanned the rock face to his right, looking for a traverse that would set up the last segment of his climb. Damn, but he needed that light.
It had been stupid, arrogant, and careless not to have tied it on.
Stupid, arrogant, careless… That thought brought the wisp of a smile.
Before his great decision to break free of his personal constraints, he had been none of the three. One limb at a time, he worked his way across the rock, searching with his fingertips for the changes that would, once again, guide him upward. Almost there, he urged himself on… Almost there… Almost… Before he could adjust or even react, his right foot missed its plant and skimmed off the rock. His arms snapped taut.
His hands, both with reasonable grips, held, but they were already stiffened and weak. Straining his head back and to one side, he looked down. His feet were dangling a foot or so below the nearest purchase. Oh God, was all he could think of at that moment. Oh God… Oh God…
Reluctant to put any additional pressure on his fingers by struggling, he lifted one foot, gingerly scraping it along the rock, searching for a ledge or a crevice. Below him, at a pitch that was almost sheer, the granite face disappeared into blackness. Oh God, please… Oh God…
His foot caught the edge of a minuscule ledge. On a dry day, the tiny space would have been a virtual platform for him-more than enough. But now, there was no way to tell. Desperate to take some of the pressure off his fingers, Zack planted the toe of his shoe on the ledge and carefully shifted his weight to the foot. Hold, damn you… Please hofor a moment, the foot felt solid. Then, as he added more of his weight, it slipped off the edge, tearing his right hand free of the rock. For five seconds, ten, his left hand held. Then, with a painful snap, his fingers gave way and he was falling, tumbling like a rag doll, over and over again down the sheer rock, screaming as he hurtled against granite outcroppings, shattering one bone after another… "Nooooo!"
His final scream, the howl of an animal, echoed in his mind, and then blended with another sound… a voice… Suzanne's voice. "Zack? For God's sake, Zack, can you hear me?"
He felt a cool, wet towel sweep across his face. Slowly, he opened his eyes. A cannon was exploding in his head. He was on the living room floor, soaked in fetid vomit. The lights were on. Suzanne was kneeling over him, concern darkening her eyes. Nearby, resting on its side, was an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. Across the room, watching intently, sat Cheap dog. "NEVER AGAIN. I swear it. Not a drop. Not ever."
Over the span of two and a half hours, with Suzanne as guide, Zack had wandered from the terror of his alcohol-induced hallucination, through a valley of tearful self-deprecation, across a brief stretch of cheery self-deprecation, and finally into an abysmal hangover. "Never again?" she asked. "Do you want me to put that in writing? You can sign it and hang it on the wall."
Zack pressed against his temples. "Write whatever you want, " he said,
"as long as the pen doesn't scratch too loudly on the paper. I just hope you can tell that I'm a total amateur at abusing my body like this."
"Oh, I can tell." He did not clearly remember the shower, or the shampoo, or the first sips of tea, but he knew that Suzanne had taken him through each. Now, although his head still transposed each heartbeat into mortar fire, his thoughts had cleared enough at least to carry on a workable conversation. He risked a deeper swallow of tea, and nearly wept with the realization that it was going to stay down. "You've done an amazing job of putting me back together again, " he said. "Thanks."
She smiled sadly. "No big deal. Unfortunately, my ex-husband gave me a lot of practice."
"Great. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was bad, but like everything else, it came to pass…"
"Have you been up all night?"
"Uh-huh. Helene's with Jen." She handed him a cool washcloth. "Here, wipe your face off with this. You want some aspirin?"
"Soon. How are things at the hospital?"
"No real change-at least as of half an hour ago. Toby's still in coma.
His temp's around 102. Walsh thinks he'll have a bed for him at either Hitchcock or Children's by noon."
"And my father?"
"No change either, as far as I know. I think that neurosurgeon from Concord-what's his name?"
"Burris. John Burris."
"Yes, well, I think John Burris is planning to have him transferred later today as well."