Ghosts In the Heart. Michael J.D. Keller

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      Cautiously raising his head, he looked around with a sense of wonder and relief. The man with the Russian accent, who moments before had been screaming that Peter had recognized him, lay sprawled on the floor. A dark pool of blood was forming on the floor near his head. The other would-be hold-up man was still crumbled against the wall where he had landed after his accomplice shoved him away. Alex stood a few feet away as the hand holding his gun slowly dipped to his side. He looked at them with that faintly enigmatic grin that he often displayed when frustrating a defense attorney’s efforts to cross examine him at trial. Then he began to tumble forward like a great tree, its roots ripped from the earth by the driving force of an unrelenting hurricane.

      From the moment he made eye contact with Strelkski, Mckenzie had experienced an anachronistic sensation of being in an old fashioned duel-men of jealous honor and prickly pride facing each other across a grassy field as the morning sun arose behind them. The fantasy had quickly faded before reality. They did not wield muzzle loading pistols or swords. His adversary held an automatic pistol with far more bullets than the five in his thirty-eight. In this confrontation they would not fire one shot each, declare honor satisfied, and drink a brandy together. One of them had to die. Perhaps both.

      Mckenzie turned to present his profile rather than a full frontal target. It shouldn’t matter at this point blank range but the Russian was allowing his fury to overcome any knowledge he possessed about firearms. Shooting frantically without bracing his hands meant that his Glock recoiled wildly after each shot. In response, Mckenzie displayed the cold certainty of a trained marksman. Each shot was preceded by a deep breath and an unshakeable concentration on his target. Each shot Mckenzie fired struck Strelkski squarely in the body.

      For the briefest of moments, Strelkski allowed his gun hand to droop as he looked down at the blossoming red splotches spreading across his jacket. He could feel the excruciating pain as it pushed past the barrier of shock. He looked at the policeman, this killing force that had materialized out of the ether, and saw nothing in the man’s face but death, his death. The rage that had driven Pioter Strelkski much of his adult life made one last feverish attempt. He tried to lift the gun and fire again at his relentless tormentor, but the policeman was already shifting his aim toward his forehead. The Russian screamed, a cry that mixed fury, despair, pain,and frustration. He fired one last shot before the bullet from the thirty-eight hit him just above his left eye.

      Once again time altered its rhythmic pace. Every moment, every action took place in an atmosphere where the air itself had become thick and clinging. The tiniest gesture, the briefest spoken word required an interminable period. The universe seemed unwilling to let the events of the last few minutes pass on.

      For Mckenzie, the wait for Peter and then Brenda to look from the floor and demonstrate that they were alive, unhurt was almost unbearable. As they finally raised their heads, Mckenzie felt a burst of relief and intense triumph. He smiled and stepped toward them.

      Actually, he only tried to move in the direction of his young friends. His body resisted, his legs refused his brain’s command. He strained to break free of an invisible grasp that had frozen him in place. He felt a sharp, thrusting pain in his side. His leather jacket was unzipped and he looked down in surprise to see the pool of crimson spreading across his white shirt.

      That doesn’t look good, he thought. It appeared that the third option was speeding its way toward its fatal conclusion. As he tried once more to move, he felt his knees buckle. He reached out with his left hand to grasp a shelf to steady himself, but his strength had deserted him. The swift natural flow of time reasserted itself as he fell to the floor.

      Voices of a man and a woman called out his name. He would have answered - they sounded so sympathetic, but he could not generate an audible reply. His lips moved as he stared up at the ceiling but he could not break his own silence.

      There were hands on his chest now, opening his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. He could sense urgency in the way the hands moved; yet always with a gentle and caring touch. Without looking away from the ceiling, he knew it was Brenda, the experienced nurse, kneeling beside him. Although he felt comforted, he suspected that even her medical expertise would not be enough this time.

      An all pervasive silence briefly descended on him before he was overwhelmed by a cacophony of sound. Voices, some yelling, others giving commands, while cutting through the chaos, he could make out Brenda’s voice, cool and professional. “Peter, get me those towels from the counter.” Moments later he felt other hands pressing against his side. Again, Brenda’s voice was commanding and encouraging. “That’s right, constant, even pressure right there.”

      He should be in pain but to his surprise Mckenzie realized he felt nothing except the pushing sensation that Brenda had ordered. He tried to turn his head to look away from the dabbled oil stained acoustic tile of the ceiling. His vision blurred momentarily before clearing again as he blinked his eyes. Peter Stewart was on his knees on one side of him, both hands pressing against his wounds, an expression of stricken anguish twisting his face. As Alex looked at Stewart, he could hear him growl the question “Where is the God-damned ambulance?” A responsive voice outside Mckenzie’s line of vision responded encouragingly.

      “It’s on its way, just a matter of minutes.”

      A hand softly touched his check and slowing turned his head to the right.

      “Alex, can you hear me?” Brenda was leaning forward, her face just inches from his. She looked calm, focused and completely professional, but Mckenzie could see the tears slowly ebbing from her dark eyes.

      He tried to answer but his voice would not respond. He could only nod, one brief gesture, before even that small physical ability also slipped away.

      “You have to stay with me Alex. Concentrate. Look at me. Stay with me.” There was a note of desperate pleading in Brenda’s voice. She was begging him to stay alive, a task he was not sure he could manage.

      “Come on Mckenzie, don’t give up on us now” Peter’s voice was also pleading but at a greater distance. With each word he seemed to fade away - moving back into a gray oblivion that was enveloping all that lay around him. In seconds that void would take him into its grasp.

      He had a vague sensation at being lifted and placed on something soft. A mask filled covered his nose and mouth as oxygen filled his lungs. Stretcher? Ambulance? The concepts were difficult to grasp. Probably too late for this, he thought.

      “I’m going to the hospital with him.” Once again Brenda’s voice, resonated with professional competence and raw determination. She was still bending over him, but the gray void was gathering around her as well. Mckenzie could feel his hold on consciousness weakening and slowing fading away.

      Then to his surprise, the world abruptly became brighter. A sharp glow pushed back against the void and he could see Brenda Stewart’s features with perfect clarity. As he watched, her face began to change, taking on a new form, a new shape, a new appearance. It began in the eyes. Her shining dark eyes lightened into the color of a cloudless sky on a summer morning. Brenda’s olive complexion was replaced by a pristine porcelain white, as unmarked or unblemished as newly fallen mountain snow. Her hair, moments before, a glistening black, cut into a pixie-like shortness now hung long and luxurious beside her face. The color was a deep auburn, the warm tone of burnished copper. When she smiled at him, now it was with an expression, not of anguish or regret, but of comfort, of compassion, of affection. It was Mireille.

      Mckenzie had never thought of himself as a person of faith. Churches, religion, prayer had never been part of his life. Perhaps he had been wrong. Looking now at this exquisite beauty, the adored image he had carried hidden in his heart for so many years, he wondered if this was what God did. Did God send an angel СКАЧАТЬ