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  But he stood there for another minute without saying anything more. For some reason he kept remembering how she'd looked when she'd poured out her fears about her son: her defiant expression, the intense emotion as the words had flooded out. His mother had worried about him, too, but had it ever approached what Denise went through every day?

  He knew it hadn't been the same.

  It moved him to see that her fears had only made her love grow stronger for her son. And to witness such unconditional love, so pure in the face of difficulties--it was natural to find beauty in that. Who wouldn't? But there was more to it, wasn't there? Something deeper, a commonality he'd never found in someone else.

  Even now, not a day goes by when I don't wish I could turn back the clock and change what happened.

  How had she known?

  Her ebony hair, made even darker by the evening, seemed to shroud her in mystery.

  Taylor finally pushed back from the railing.

  "You're a good mother, Denise." He was loath to release her delicate hand. "Even though it's hard, even though it's not what you expected, I can't help but believe that everything happens for a reason. Kyle needed someone like you."

  She nodded.

  With great reluctance he turned away from the railing, turned from the pines and oaks, turned from the feelings inside him. The floor of the porch creaked as Taylor moved to the steps, Denise beside him.

  She looked up at him.

  He almost kissed her then. In the soft yellow light of the porch her eyes seemed to glow with hidden intensity. Even so, he couldn't tell if she really wanted that from him, and at the last second he held back. The evening had already been more memorable than any evening he'd spent in a long time; he didn't want to spoil that.

  Instead he took a small step backward, as if to give her more space.

  "I had a wonderful time tonight," he said.

  "So did I," she said.

  He finally let go of her hand, felt longing as it slipped away from him. He wanted to tell her that she had something inside her, something impossibly rare, something he'd looked for in the past but had never hoped to find. He wanted to say all these things but found that he couldn't.

  He smiled again, faintly, then turned away, making his way down the steps in the slanting moonlight, toward the darkness of his truck.

  Standing on the porch, she waved one last time as Taylor headed down the drive, his headlights shining in the distance. She heard him stop at the road and wait as a solitary car approached, then passed. Taylor's truck turned in the direction of town.

  After he left, Denise walked to the bedroom and sat on the bed. On her bedstand was a small reading lamp, a photo of Kyle as a toddler, a half-empty glass of water she'd neglected to bring to the kitchen that morning. Sighing, she opened her drawer. In the past it might have held magazines and books, but now it was empty except for a small bottle of perfume she'd received from her mother a few months before she'd died. A birthday gift, it had come wrapped in gold foil and ribbon. Denise had used half of it in the first few weeks after it had been given to her; since her mother's death she'd never used it again. She'd kept it as a reminder of her mother, and now it reminded her of how long it had been since she'd worn any perfume at all. Even tonight she'd forgotten to put it on.

  She was a mother. Above everything else, that was how she defined herself now. Yet as much as she wanted to deny it, she knew she was also a woman, and after years of keeping it buried, she felt its presence. Sitting in the bedroom, gazing at the perfume, she was overcome with a sense of restlessness. There was something inside her that longed to be desired, to be cared for and protected, to be listened to and accepted without judgment. To be loved.

  Her arms crossed, she turned out the light in her bedroom and went across the hall. Kyle was sleeping soundly. In the warmth of his room, he'd pushed his blankets aside and he slept uncovered. On his bureau, music from a plastic, glowing teddy bear continued to play softly through the room, the same melody repeated over and over. It had been his night-light since he was an infant. She turned it off, then went to his bed, working the sheet until it wasn't tangled with the blankets. Kyle rolled over as she covered him. She kissed him on the cheek, his skin soft and unblemished, and slipped from the room.

  The kitchen was quiet. Outside, she could hear the crickets chirping, riding the song of summer. She looked out the window. In the moonlight the trees were glowing silver, the leaves steady and unmoving. The sky was full of stars, stretching to eternity, and she stared at them, smiling, thinking about Taylor McAden.

  Chapter 16

  Taylor was sitting in his kitchen two evenings later, doing paperwork, when he got the call.

  An accident on the bridge between a gasoline tanker truck and an auto.

  After grabbing his keys, he was out the door less than a minute later; within five minutes he was one of the first on scene. He could hear the sirens from the fire truck wailing in the distance.

  Stopping his truck, Taylor wondered if they'd make it in time. He scrambled out without shutting the door and looked around. Cars were backed up in either direction on both sides of the bridge, and people were out of their cars, gawking at the horrific sight.

  The cab of the tanker had rolled up onto the back of the Honda, completely crushing the rear, before smashing through the wire barrier that lined the bridge. In the midst of the accident, the driver had locked the wheel as he'd slammed on the brakes, and the truck had whipsawed across both lanes of the road, completely blocking both directions. The car, pinned beneath the front of the cab, hung off the bridge like a diving board from its flattened rear tires, balanced precariously in a downward position. Its roof had been torn open, like a partially opened can, as it ripped through the cable along the side of the bridge. The only thing that kept the Honda from falling into the river some eighty feet below was the weight of the tanker's cab, and the cab itself looked far from stable.

  Its engine was smoking badly, and fluid was leaking steadily onto the Honda beneath, spreading a shiny veneer over the hood.

  When Mitch saw Taylor, he came rushing forward to fill Taylor in, getting straight to business.

  "The driver of the truck's all right, but there's still someone in the car. Man or woman, we can't tell yet--whoever it is is slumped over."

  "What about the tanks on that truck?"

  "Three-quarters full."

  Smoking engine . . . leaking over the car . . .

  "If that cab explodes, will the tanks go with it?"

  "The driver says that it shouldn't if the lining wasn't damaged in the accident. I didn't see a leak, but I can't be sure."

  Taylor looked around, adrenaline coursing through his system. "We gotta get these people out of here."

  "I know, but they're bumper to bumper right now, and I just got here a couple of minutes ago myself. I haven't had a chance."

  Two fire trucks arrived--the pumper and the hook and ladder, their red lights circling the area, and seven men jumped out before they'd come to a complete stop. Already in their fire-retardant suits, they took one look at the situation, started barking orders, and went for the hoses. Having come to the scene without going by the firehouse first, Mitch and Taylor scrambled for the suits that had been brought for them. They slipped them over their clothing with practiced ease.

  Carl Huddle had arrived; so did an additional two police officers from the town of Edenton. After a quick consultation they turned their attention to the cars on the bridge. A bullhorn was retrieved from the trunk; gawkers were ordered to get back behind the wheel to vacate the area. The two other officers--in Edenton it was one officer per car--went in opposite directions, toward the end of the lines of the cars backed up on the highway. The final car in the line got the first order:

  "You've got to back up or turn around now. We've got a serious situation on the bridge."

  "How far?"

  "Half a mile."

  The first driver spoken to hesitated, as if trying to dec
ide if it really was necessary.

  "Now!" the officer barked.

  Taylor speculated that half a mile was just about enough distance to create a zone of safety, but even so, it would take a while for every car to move far enough away.

  Meanwhile the truck was smoking more heavily.

  Ordinarily the fire department would hook up hoses to the nearest fire hydrant in order to draw all the water they need. On the bridge, however, there were no hydrants. Thus the pumper truck would provide the only water available. It was plenty for the cab of the truck, but nowhere near enough to control the fire if the tanker exploded.

  Controlling the fire would be critical; helping the trapped passenger, however, was foremost in people's minds.

  But how to reach the passenger? Ideas were shouted as everyone prepared for the inevitable.

  Climb out over the cab to reach the person? Use a ladder and crawl out? Run a cable somehow and swing in?

  No matter what course of action they chose, the problem remained the same--all were fearful of putting any extra weight on the car itself. It was a wonder that it was still there at all, and jostling the car or adding weight might be enough to cause it to tip. When a blast of water from the hose was aimed toward the cab, their fears--everyone suddenly realized--were justified.

  The water gushed violently toward the engine in the cab of the truck, then cascaded inside the shattered back windshield of the Honda at the rate of five hundred gallons per minute, partially filling the car's interior. It then flowed with gravity toward the engine, out of the passenger area. Within moments water began to rush out from the front grill. The nose of the car dipped slightly, raising the cab of the truck--then rose again. The firemen manning the hose saw the ravaged car teetering in the balance and without a second to spare turned the hose away, toward the open air, before shutting it down.

  To a man, their faces had gone white.

  Water was still pouring from the front of the car. There had been no movement from the passenger within.

  "Let's use the ladder on the truck," Taylor urged. "We'll extend it out over the car and use the cable to haul the person out."

  The car continued to rock, seemingly of its own accord.

  "It might not support the two of you," Joe said quickly. As the chief, he was the only full-time employee of the fire department; it was his job to drive one of the trucks, and he was always the calming influence in a crisis like this.

  It was obvious he had a point. Because of the angle of the wreck and the relatively narrow width of the bridge, the hook and ladder couldn't approach to within an ideal distance. From where it could be parked, the ladder would have to extend out over the car to the side the passenger was on, an extension of at least an additional twenty feet. Not much if the ladder was at an angle--but because it would have to be positioned nearly horizontally out over the river, it would test the limits of what was safe.

  Had it been a new-model fire truck, it probably wouldn't have been a problem. Edenton's hook and ladder was one of the oldest operating models in the state, however, and it had originally been purchased with the knowledge that the tallest building in town was only three stories. The ladder wasn't designed to be used in a situation like this.

  "What other choice do we have? I'll be out and back before you know it," Taylor said.

  Joe had almost expected him to volunteer. Twelve years ago, during Taylor's second year with the crew, Joe had asked him why he was always the first to volunteer for the riskiest assignments. Though risks were part of the job, unnecessary risks were something else, and Taylor had struck him as a man with something to prove. Joe didn't want someone like that behind him--not because he didn't trust Taylor to get him out of trouble, but because he didn't want to risk his own life saving someone who tested fate unnecessarily.

  But Taylor offered a simple explanation:

  "My dad died when I was nine, and I know what it's like for a kid to grow up alone. I don't want that to happen to anyone else."

  Not that the others didn't risk their lives, of course. Everyone involved with the fire department accepted the risks with open eyes. They knew what might happen, and there had been dozens of occasions where Taylor's offer had been declined.

  But this time . . .

  "All right," Joe said with finality. "You're on the point, Taylor. Now let's get to it."

  Because the hook and ladder was facing forward, it had to be backed off the bridge, then onto the grass median to reach the best possible position. Once the truck was off the bridge, the driver of the fire truck moved the truck back and forth three times before he was able to reverse toward the wreck again. By the time the truck was in position, seven minutes had elapsed.

  In that seven minutes the engine in the truck continued to smoke heavily. Small flames were now visible in the area beneath it, licking out, scorching the rear of the Honda. The flames looked awfully close to the gas tanks, but spraying the hose wasn't an option anymore, and they couldn't get close enough with the fire extinguishers to make a difference.

  Time was running out, and all anyone could do was watch.

  While the truck was moving into position, Taylor collected the rope he needed and attached it to his own harness with a clip. When the truck was in place, Taylor climbed up and secured the other end of the rope to the ladder a few rungs from the end. A cable, much longer, was also run from the rear of the hook and ladder up to the ladder itself. Attached to the hook at the far end of the cable was a soft, well-padded safety harness. Once the safety harness was secured around the passenger, the cable would slowly be rewound, lifting the passenger out.

  As the ladder began to extend, Taylor lay on his belly, his mind clicking. Keep balanced . . . stay as far back on the ladder as possible . . . when the time comes, lower quickly but carefully . . . don't touch the car . . .

  But the passenger occupied most of his thoughts. Was the person trapped? Could he be moved without risking further injury? Would it be possible to get him out without the car tipping over?

  The ladder continued to snake outward, close to the car now. There were still ten or twelve feet to go, and Taylor felt the ladder growing a little unsteady, creaking beneath him, like an old barn in a windstorm.

  Eight feet. He was close enough now to reach out and touch the front of the truck.

  Six feet.

  Taylor could feel the heat from the small flames, could see them lapping at the mangled roof of the car. As the ladder extended, it began to rock slightly.

  Four feet. He was over the car now . . . getting close to the front windshield.

  Then the ladder came to a rattling halt. Still lying on his belly, Taylor looked back over his shoulder when it stopped, to see if some glitch had occurred. But by the expressions on the other firemen's faces, he knew that the ladder was extended as far as it would go and that he was going to have to make do.

  The ladder wobbled precariously as he untied the rope that held his own harness. Grabbing the other harness for the passenger, he began inching forward, toward the edge of the ladder, taking advantage of the last three rungs. He needed them now to position himself over the windshield and lower himself in order to reach the passenger.

  Despite the chaos surrounding him, as he crawled forward he was struck by the improbable beauty of the evening. Like a dream, the night sky had opened before him. The stars, the moon, the wispy clouds . . . over there, a firefly in the evening sky. Eighty feet below, the water was the color of coal, as black as time yet somehow trapping the light of the stars. He could hear himself breathing as he moved forward; he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. Beneath him, the ladder bounced and shuddered with every movement.

  He slid forward like a soldier in the grass, clinging to the cold metal rungs. Behind him, the last of the cars were backing off the bridge. In the deathly silence Taylor could hear the flames licking beneath the truck, and without warning the car beneath him started to rock.

  The nose of the car dipped slightly a
nd straightened, then dipped again before righting itself. There was no wind at all. In the split second he noticed it, he heard a low moan, the sound muffled and almost impossible to decipher.

  "Don't move!" Taylor shouted instinctively.

  The moan grew louder, and the Honda started to rock in earnest.

  "Don't move!" Taylor shouted again, his voice full of desperation, the only sound in the darkness. All else was still. A bat brushed by in the night air.

  He heard the moan again, and the car tilted forward, its nose dipping toward the river before righting itself once more.

  Taylor moved quickly. He secured his rope on the final rung, tying the knot as deftly as any sailor. Pulling his legs forward, he squeezed through the rungs, doing his best to move as fluidly and slowly as possible while staying in the harness. The ladder rocked like a teeter-totter, groaning and creaking, bouncing as if it would break in two. He settled himself as firmly as he could, almost as if he were on a swing. This was as good a position as he would get. Holding on to the rope with one hand, he reached downward toward the passenger with the other, gradually testing the ladder's strength. Pushing through the windshield to the dashboard, he saw that he was too high, but he caught sight of the person he was trying to save.

  A male in his twenties or thirties, about the same size he was. Seemingly incoherent, he was struggling in the wreckage, causing the car to rock violently. The passenger's movement was a double-edged sword, Taylor realized. It meant that he could probably be removed from the car without risk of spinal injury; it also meant that his movement might tip the car.

  His mind racing, Taylor reached above him to the ladder and grabbed the safety harness, then pulled it toward him. With the sudden movement, the ladder bounced up and down like marbles on the pavement. The cable grew tight.

  "More cable!" he shouted, and a moment later he felt it pick up slack and he began to lower it. Once it was in position, he shouted for them to stop. He unhooked one end of the safety harness so that he could try to work it around the man's body and reattach it.

  He bent down again but saw with frustration that he still couldn't reach the man. He needed another couple of feet.

  "Can you hear me?" Taylor called into the car. "If you can understand what I'm saying, answer me."