Extreme Measures Read Free

again.
    Marilyn reached over and wiped a bit of pink froth from the corner of her husband’s mouth. His complexion had once again begun to darken, and his fingernails were almost violet. Still, he sat forward gamely, following his notes as, one by one, they passed the landmarks he had noted. Watching him, Marilyn sensed a rebirth of the pride and caring that had long ago vanished from her feelings toward the man.
    “John, will you direct us to the nearest hospital?”she asked, aware of the band once more tightening around her chest.
    “St. Joe,” the Indian replied. “Twenty-five, -six mile due east from where your Jeep will be.”
    “Half a day?”
    “Maybe. Maybe more.”
    Struggling to ignore her own increasing shortness of breath, Marilyn wiped off the sheen of dusty sweat that covered Richard’s forehead.
    “Richard, maybe we should go back to the clinic.”
    “No … I’m okay,” he rasped, coughing between words. “Let’s just get … the Jeep fixed … and get … the hell … out of … here.”
    Marilyn washed another Benadryl down with a swig from their canteen, and then helped him do the same. Minutes later, in spite of herself, she, too, began to cough.
    The nine-mile drive over roadless terrain took most of two hours. The repair of the Jeep took considerably less than one. Richard tried to help, but by the time John had finished, Richard had given up and was slumped in the passenger seat, leaning against the door, bathed in sweat.
    “Okay, Mrs.,” John said. “Start her up.”
    The engine turned over at a touch.
    “Could you follow us for a ways?” she asked, fighting the sensation in her chest with all her strength.
    “Ten, twelve minutes is all. Dr. Barber needs me back. There’s a dirt road nine, ten mile due east. Impossible to miss. Turn south on it. Go ten mile more to Highway Fifty. Then right. I hope your husband feel better soon.”
    Marilyn thanked the man, attempted unsuccessfully to pay him, and then drove off as rapidly as she could manage, trying at once to keep track of the compass, Richard, and ruts in the hard desert floor. Strapped into his seat, Richard had mercifully fallen asleep. After one-half mile by her odometer, Johntooted, gave her a thumbs-up sign, and then swung off to the south.
    She hadn’t driven another half mile when the tightness in her chest intensified.
Relax
, she urged herself.
Don’t panic.… Don’t panic
. An audible gurgling welling up from her chest began to accompany each breath. Fear, unlike any she had ever known, swept away her resolve. She stopped the Jeep.
    “Richard, wake up,” she gasped. “I can’t breathe. I can’t—”
    She reached over and touched his arm. His hand dropped limply to his side.
    “Richard? Richard!”
    The name, though she screamed it, was barely audible. She grabbed her husband by the chin and turned his face around to her. It was puffed and gentian; his eyes were open but lifeless. Thick pink froth oozed from the corners of his mouth.
    Marilyn undid his seat belt. As she staggered around the Jeep to the passenger door, she felt liquid percolate into her throat. She stumbled and fell heavily to her knees at the moment she pulled open the door. Richard’s body toppled from the seat and landed heavily on her, pinning her to the ground. She struggled to push him aside, but her strength was gone. Soon, her will was gone as well. She slipped her arms around him and locked her thumbs in his belt loops.
    Directly above her the sun drifted into view and passed across the sky without hurting her eyes or even causing her to blink. Over what seemed minutes, but might have been hours, she felt a strange peacefulness settle in. With that peacefulness came another feeling—a connection to Richard, a sense of closeness to him more intense than any she had ever known. And she was sure, as she felt the weight of him lessen and then vanish, that he was alive. He was alive, and he knew she was there with