Part 189 (1/2)

She pushed open the adjoining door.

Blood. And sickness. And urine. The stench had her stumbling back,

gagging. She felt the bile rush up her throat, stared at the red and

gray spots that danced in front of her eyes. She fell against the

stereo, sending the needle raking across the vinyl. The sudden silence

hit her like a slap. On a cry of alarm, she rushed forward to bend over

the body sprawled on the floor.

He was naked, and so cold. Terrified, she heaved until she turned him

onto his back. She saw the syringe, and the revolver.

”No. Oh G.o.d, no.” Panicked, she searched for a wound, then for a pulse.

She found the first, but it was only the tragic marks of the needle. The

sob burst out of her when she found the second, faint and delicate, at

his throat.

”Stevie, oh G.o.d, Stevie, what have you done?”

She raced to the doorway, to the top of the stairs. ”Call an

ambulance!” she screamed. ”Call a b.l.o.o.d.y ambulance, and hurry!”

As she ran back, she tore the quilt from the bed to cover him. His face

was the color of paste made from water and ashes. The sight of it, of

his skin still smeared with blood from the needle, terrified her more

than his deathlike stillness. On his forehead, just above his eyebrows,

was a nasty gash. s.n.a.t.c.hing a washcloth, she pressed it against the

wound.

When he was covered, she began to slap her open palm over his face.

”Wake up, G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Stevie. Wake up. I'm not going to let you die

this way.” She shook him, slapped him, then broke down and wept against

his chest. Her stomach pitched and she bit down furiously on nausea.