Read Online The Breakthrough by Jerry B. Jenkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry B. Jenkins
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back in and deposited the gloves in a contaminated-waste receptacle.
“I’ll pull out when I hear these doors shut,” he said, heading for the cab.
“Whoever’s going, let’s go now,” the woman said, and Boone and Margaret clambered aboard. The EMT pointed to a narrow bench on one side of the gurney. Boone sat near Haeley’s head and Margaret slipped in behind him and draped an arm across his shoulders. “I’m praying,” she said.
“Can I hold her hand?” Boone said as the woman reached to slam the doors.
“As lightly as you can,” she said, deftly attaching monitors, an IV, and an oxygen mask. “If we sway or jostle, let her move naturally.”
Boone took Haeley’s hand and lightly enfolded it in both of his. If not for the beeps from the monitor, he would have been hard pressed to believe she was still with him. “Is she going to make it?”
Boone’s heart sank when the young woman hesitated and wouldn’t meet his eye. Finally the EMT sighed. “If you’re a cop, you don’t want any bull. Truth is, I don’t know, but we’re going to get her to where she’ll have every chance.”
Margaret whispered urgently into her cell phone. When she was finished, she asked Boone for the number of Max’s sitter. “Better see if she can keep him a few days. I can pick up some things from your house and get them to her.”
Boone showed her Florence’s number from his phone and turned back to Haeley.
“I’m not getting an answer, Boone. What was the name of her building? I’ll leave a message with the desk.”
It wasn’t like Boone to have to rack his brain for such details. He closed his eyes. “Something Arms. Bethune, that’s it. Bethune Arms.”
As Margaret punched in 411, Boone couldn’t keep himself from wondering what the odds were of a man losing two wives within years of each other.
Life had been too good.
He hadn’t deserved it.
The other shoe had dropped.
Florence was on meds for blood pressure and sugar, and as she stood shaking her head at the idea of Max’s uncle taking him for a ride around the block, she couldn’t remember whether she had taken her pills that morning. Her breath came in short puffs, and her heart raced. “Gettin’ the dehydration, I bet,” she muttered. “Got to get me a drink.”
Though she knew it was dangerous to wait and that water was more important than getting off her feet, she was about to drop where she stood. Florence looked for another bench. If she could only take a few minutes to slow her heart and get her breath, she’d find the energy to get back to her apartment.
The closest bench was the cement one at the bus stop outside her building. That became her goal. It wasn’t a bad spot, either, for seeing when Alfonso got back with Max. She knew his uncle would take good care of him, but Florence was also prepared to scold that boy—veteran or not— for usurpin’ my authority.
Suddenly the rotund old woman found herself sweating profusely. Perspiration dripped from her hair into her eyes and down her cheeks. Her arms sent rivulets into her hands. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? At least she wasn’t clammy and shaking like when her sugar was low. And if she was dehydrated, her body’s cooling system would have shut down; she knew that much.
Still, Florence had to get off her feet and regroup, then get back to her lobby. If she was in trouble, Willie could help. But that bus bench, like Max and his uncle had done, seemed to get farther away the more she moved toward it. Florence wiped her eyes and her mouth with both hands, then stopped and rested her fists at her sides, arms akimbo. Breathe, she told herself. Just slow yourself down and breathe.
“You okay, Big Mama?” A slender man in sagging pants with a bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand leaned close to stare into her face.
He was one of the local alkies. “Hey, Scooter,” she said. “No, I don’t feel so good. Jes’ trying to get to the bus bench.”
“Don’t you
“I’ll pull out when I hear these doors shut,” he said, heading for the cab.
“Whoever’s going, let’s go now,” the woman said, and Boone and Margaret clambered aboard. The EMT pointed to a narrow bench on one side of the gurney. Boone sat near Haeley’s head and Margaret slipped in behind him and draped an arm across his shoulders. “I’m praying,” she said.
“Can I hold her hand?” Boone said as the woman reached to slam the doors.
“As lightly as you can,” she said, deftly attaching monitors, an IV, and an oxygen mask. “If we sway or jostle, let her move naturally.”
Boone took Haeley’s hand and lightly enfolded it in both of his. If not for the beeps from the monitor, he would have been hard pressed to believe she was still with him. “Is she going to make it?”
Boone’s heart sank when the young woman hesitated and wouldn’t meet his eye. Finally the EMT sighed. “If you’re a cop, you don’t want any bull. Truth is, I don’t know, but we’re going to get her to where she’ll have every chance.”
Margaret whispered urgently into her cell phone. When she was finished, she asked Boone for the number of Max’s sitter. “Better see if she can keep him a few days. I can pick up some things from your house and get them to her.”
Boone showed her Florence’s number from his phone and turned back to Haeley.
“I’m not getting an answer, Boone. What was the name of her building? I’ll leave a message with the desk.”
It wasn’t like Boone to have to rack his brain for such details. He closed his eyes. “Something Arms. Bethune, that’s it. Bethune Arms.”
As Margaret punched in 411, Boone couldn’t keep himself from wondering what the odds were of a man losing two wives within years of each other.
Life had been too good.
He hadn’t deserved it.
The other shoe had dropped.
Florence was on meds for blood pressure and sugar, and as she stood shaking her head at the idea of Max’s uncle taking him for a ride around the block, she couldn’t remember whether she had taken her pills that morning. Her breath came in short puffs, and her heart raced. “Gettin’ the dehydration, I bet,” she muttered. “Got to get me a drink.”
Though she knew it was dangerous to wait and that water was more important than getting off her feet, she was about to drop where she stood. Florence looked for another bench. If she could only take a few minutes to slow her heart and get her breath, she’d find the energy to get back to her apartment.
The closest bench was the cement one at the bus stop outside her building. That became her goal. It wasn’t a bad spot, either, for seeing when Alfonso got back with Max. She knew his uncle would take good care of him, but Florence was also prepared to scold that boy—veteran or not— for usurpin’ my authority.
Suddenly the rotund old woman found herself sweating profusely. Perspiration dripped from her hair into her eyes and down her cheeks. Her arms sent rivulets into her hands. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? At least she wasn’t clammy and shaking like when her sugar was low. And if she was dehydrated, her body’s cooling system would have shut down; she knew that much.
Still, Florence had to get off her feet and regroup, then get back to her lobby. If she was in trouble, Willie could help. But that bus bench, like Max and his uncle had done, seemed to get farther away the more she moved toward it. Florence wiped her eyes and her mouth with both hands, then stopped and rested her fists at her sides, arms akimbo. Breathe, she told herself. Just slow yourself down and breathe.
“You okay, Big Mama?” A slender man in sagging pants with a bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand leaned close to stare into her face.
He was one of the local alkies. “Hey, Scooter,” she said. “No, I don’t feel so good. Jes’ trying to get to the bus bench.”
“Don’t you
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