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Prologue
1947
AT DUSK the young scoutmaster joined his group of
campers gathered on a rise at the edge of the wash. They watched an
ominous bank of inky clouds build over the distant hills. Remote
thunder grumbled a warning, and the boys marveled over the flashes of
lightning that strobed across the low-slung belly of the storm.
"We’re gonna have a rough night if it
blows this way," one of the younger kids said.
"Aw, I went through a twister on a
campout in Texas," a lanky fourteen-year-old replied. "It
couldn’t be as bad here in New Mexico."
The scoutmaster shook his head but chose not
to respond to the remark. Instead he said, "Go check your tent
stakes, in case we catch it. And stow that loose gear," he added
as the boys filed back to camp. He stopped with his hands on his hips,
warily eyeing the storm. Something about it didn’t seem right.
As the troop ate a cold supper of pork and
beans straight from the can, the wind picked up. Sand pelted the boys
as it blew across the barren flats, and they ran for their shelters.
Fat drops of rain spattered small circles in the dust as they ducked
under the canvas flaps. A minute later the downpour broke. Sheets of
driving rain drummed on the ground and the lightning displays flashed
so intensely even the more experienced outdoorsmen in the group
winced.
The scoutmaster attempted to move from one
tent to another, but was finally forced to settle in with the younger
boys. Squatting by the doorway, he called out reassurances to the
others through the blast of the storm.
Just then a particularly hard gust of wind
slapped the tent. He peeked out between the flaps. "Stay in your
tents," he yelled across to the two other shelters. "It’ll
be all right. This is gonna pass."
Something in the distant sky caught his eye.
He stared, perplexed. A dozen bolts of lightning licked across the
clouds like neon snakes striking at prey. The long tongues of
electricity seemed drawn to a common spot. The scoutmaster watched
spellbound. The light show moved across the desert, horizon to
horizon.
Suddenly, a combustive burst lit the clouds.
The deafening explosion that followed made the boys huddled behind him
shriek. He turned to quiet them.
Another gust hit the tent. Abruptly, the
clatter of the rain on the canvas walls stopped. Everyone froze in the
eerie stillness. The scoutmaster opened the flaps again and peered
into the darkness. A low vibration disturbed the air. At first he felt
it more than heard it, but in seconds the thrumming grew in volume
until the tent trembled as if an earthquake shook it.
The scoutmaster turned his face upward. His
mouth fell open. A shape, blacker than the darkened sky, was moving
overhead. Its bulk blotted out the clouds and lightning bolts as it
advanced over the campsite. The reverberation crescendoed, vibrating
the bones of his skull as he stared, his head tilted up.
"What is it?" The youngsters piled
against the scoutmaster’s back, trying to see out. The boys in the
other tents pressed their heads through the openings, their faces
whitish blurs against the dark canvas. The scoutmaster paid them no
attention. Mesmerized by the object passing over his head, he was too
afraid to move.
The object hovered above for a second; then,
with a whoosh that could be heard over the thunder, it whisked
away from the campsite with a sudden burst of speed. The sky over the
tent lightened to normal darkness, and the staccato peppering of
raindrops resumed. Through eyelids squinted against the rain, the
scoutmaster watched the fiery red and white tail the object emitted.
He marveled at its speed.
As he watched, the tail flared. The
scoutmaster winced as an explosion rocked the craft. A brilliant crack
ran up its side, throwing a shower of sparks into the air. The craft
lost altitude as it streaked through the sky, growing smaller in the
distance until it dropped over the horizon. Light flashed from the
spot where it disappeared. The ground beneath the scoutmaster shook
with a rolling tremor.
The whole event lasted only a minute, but it
would play in slow motion in the scoutmaster’s memory for the next
fifty years.
Chapter 1
Present
"MY NAME is Robert Clark..."
"We’ll be right with you." The
receptionist snapped the frosted glass window shut before he could
finish his sentence. The door of the suite opened, and a nurse in
surgical greens called him inside. Surprised, Clark followed her down
the narrow hallway. The knot he had carried in the pit of his stomach
all morning tightened as she led him into a pine-paneled office at the
end of the hall.
"Have a seat, Mr. Clark." She
smiled and motioned toward a chair.
The nurse left the room as the doctor, also
in greens, bustled in. He was of medium height and build, but his
robust air made him appear larger. He sported a tan and his weathered,
outdoorsy features gave him a casual look, more like an athlete than a
doctor. But when he shook Clark’s hand and introduced himself as
Nicholas Sanders, he was all business.
Sliding into the leather chair behind his
desk, the doctor opened a manila folder and scanned the top sheet.
Clark waited, tensely pressing his palms together like a student in
the principal’s office.
The doctor looked up. "Dr. Dominguez
asked me to see your wife. He was on duty when your wife came into the
emergency room last night, correct?"
Clark nodded. "He said he might refer
her to someone."
"He sent me a report faxed to him by a
Dr. Warren in Houston. Is that your wife’s doctor?"
"Yes. He’s the primary physician on
her case."
"I see." Dr. Sanders fell silent as
he perused the page before him again, then returned the sheet to the
folder and leaned back in his chair, idly tapping a paper clip on the
wooden arm. "Dr. Dominguez tells me that you are planning an
extensive trip in this area."
Clark pushed his glasses up on his nose.
Something in the doctor’s tone increased his discomfort. "Yes.
I’m a teacher. I’m on summer break now. My wife and I planned to
spend six or eight weeks traveling in New Mexico."
"Mr. Clark, normally I speak directly to
the patient, but since you’re new to the area, and I’m not
acquainted with your wife’s full history, I thought in this case it
would be wiser for me to speak with you first."
Clark didn’t like the tone the conversation
was taking. "I’m not sure what you need to know. Molly finished
her last round of chemotherapy a few weeks ago. She was doing pretty
well, so we decided to take the vacation we had delayed last year when
she first got sick. We’re on our way to Santa Fe. She’s a painter
and wants to see some of the art colonies there. You know, paint the
mountains and desert. We don’t get much of a chance for that in
Houston."
"I understand," the doctor said. A
smile passed over his lips, but it didn’t linger. He looked
thoughtful as he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his unruly
hair. He tossed the paper clip onto his desk and rocked forward in his
chair, looking Clark in the eye. "There’s something you should
know before you go ahead with your plans. I think your wife’s
malignancy has metastasized."
The words hit Clark like a sucker punch. He
drew in a sharp breath and dropped his head.
The doctor paused, giving Clark time to
absorb the shock before he continued. "It’s just a suspicion
based on what I saw on the CT scan, but I’m sorry to say, it’s a
strong suspicion. We’ll need more tests to verify it."
Clark sat frozen in his chair, his eyes cast
downward. Feeling helpless and angry, he was surprised at the depth of
his own reaction. He realized how heavily he had pinned his hopes on
the success of the last procedure.
Dr. Sanders said, "I thought you might
prefer to go back to Houston when your wife is feeling a little
better. I think we can get her in shape for the trip—"
Clark shook his head emphatically. "I
know this may seem strange, but Molly has said she would like to stay
here," Clark said. "She’s gone through extensive treatment
since her diagnosis last fall. It’s been quite an ordeal, for both
of us. Her last treatment was a marrow transplant."
Dr. Sanders raised his eyebrows and nodded.
"That’s an unusual procedure with this type of
malignancy."
"That’s what they said. It was tough,
but after the treatment she seemed to improve. I thought this would be
a good time to bring her out here for a rest. I realize the marrow
replacement was a long shot, but we had such hopes. Now, I think
it’s more important for her just to be happy..." Clark’s
voice trailed off.
"I know this news is difficult,"
Dr. Sanders said. "But I would hate to see you make a hasty
decision that you might regret later. We have a fine facility here in
Sage Wells, especially for this size town, but our resources are
limited. We usually send our patients to places like Houston, not the
other way around. Your wife is accustomed to some of the most
progressive treatment available—"
"—and apparently it hasn’t done a
damn bit of good!" Clark couldn’t stop himself. "Dr.
Sanders, my wife has been given a terminal diagnosis with a few months
to live. She’s had every kind of treatment they’ve got, but we
haven’t seen any real change. The doctors in Houston have as much as
said they’ve done all they can. Hell, I don’t know what to do,
except to let her live her final days as comfortably as possible. I
haven’t seen any miracles coming out of Houston. Have you?"
The two men stared at each other; the doctor
dropped his gaze first. His chair creaked as he leaned back, pinching
the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was so
quiet that Clark began to think he was angry.
"All right," Dr. Sanders said
finally. "I haven’t either." He swivelled his chair and
resumed tapping with the paper clip. "If your wife were to stay
here, she would receive the best care and treatment we have, of
course. Beyond that I can’t promise—wait a minute." Dr.
Sanders shuffled through the paperwork on his desk. "Something
has just occurred to me. There is one program I can recommend. Not as
a cure, you understand. In fact, it may do nothing for her, but if it
works at all, it could rejuvenate her body somewhat, make her a little
stronger."
He dug a pamphlet from a pile of papers on
the corner of the desk and handed it to Clark. "This involves a
protocol based on holistic principles. It incorporates a regimen of
mineral and vitamin supplements combined with naturally produced
foods. The goal is to cleanse the body and bring its systems into
balance so desirable cells can better combat the undesirable
ones." Sanders leaned back again. "It also utilizes pain and
stress management techniques— something you might find helpful
yourself."
Clark smiled weakly. The atmosphere in the
room lightened a degree.
"Understand, Mr. Clark, the program
I’m telling you about is different. It’s not a cure for cancer or
anything else, but it has helped some patients cope with their
illnesses and improve the quality of their lives, not necessarily the
length. It’s not much, but it’s all I have."
"We could discuss it," Clark said,
staring blankly at the pamphlet. He was drained and past the point of
grasping at straws. He felt himself succumbing to a numbing acceptance
of Molly’s fate, a state of mind he had been resisting for months.
"May I ask how much your wife knows
about her condition?"
"Pretty much everything, except time.
She’s indicated to me that she doesn’t want to know that. The
doctors in Houston are aware of her wishes. That was one of the
reasons this trip seemed like a good idea. You know, life getting back
to normal."
Dr. Sanders nodded. "Before you decide
to stay here, I’d prefer that both of you speak to her physicians in
Houston once again, just to be sure this is what you want. I’ll talk
to your wife, respecting her wishes, of course."
"Thank you."
"I’ll be honest with you. I can’t
see any reason why you would want to stay in a small town in the
middle of a New Mexico desert in the summer."
Clark glanced out the window at the arid
expanse of rolling plain stretching away from the city limits behind
the hospital complex. Yucca and scrub brush, parching in the yellow
sun, dotted it all the way to the shadow of foothills that rimmed the
horizon. "The beautiful scenery and the temperate climate."
The doctor burst out with a laugh. "Mr.
Clark, I’ve got to admire your tenacity. I’ll tell you what, after
you’ve spoken to Houston, if you and your wife still want to stay,
you’ve got yourself a doctor. I’ll see your wife at Diagnostic
Center this afternoon and write some orders for her. My nurse can help
you with the admission arrangements. Mrs. Clark will be in the
hospital for a few days for some tests. We’ll see from there."
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