The Messenger: A Novel Read Free Page B

accident he had come to accept in this sea of dark hours for what it was: stupid but unchangeable. He knew he would not recover—his injuries were too severe to allow his life to continue.
    He was not destined to remain with his loved ones. He accepted this. But he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.
    Catherine and the kids, his parents, his brother and sister were grieving. Already missing him. At his family’s request—God bless them for following his wishes!—the respirator and the feeding tube had been removed. All this he knew. He could no longer feel physical pain. Thathad been true for some time now. All the same, Harry Williams was in anguish.
    He had something to say. It was not, as some might have supposed, “I love you.” Catherine knew he loved her, just as he knew she loved him. If he had harbored any doubts about that, her whispered pleas at his bedside would have reassured him. No—more than spoken words, their love was something down in his bones now, or deeper even than that. The children—he realized there would be no knowing who they would become one day, but against that loss he felt the peace of a man who has done his best to be a good father.
    He did not need to ask forgiveness—he had forgiven, and had asked for and received it for himself. This he also knew. No, the urgent message he had for Catherine was utterly mundane, a matter of business: the location of his hidden office safe and its combination.
    She might discover it somehow. She might get someone to open it for her. But all that was maybe and would take time. Catherine deserved to have access to the papers and the cash he had stored there. He wanted her to find the diamond bracelet he had planned to give her on Valentine’s Day. The contents of the safe would help her and the kids to survive while she waited for the insurance to pay. He wanted her to have access to it now.
    He had been a fool never to tell her about it. When he first realized that he would not recover, he had been angry with himself. He now thought of this failure in a dispassionate way. At this stage of the process of dying, all his passion went into hoping for one last chance to be granted the ability to speak.
    Time passed in the darkness. He breathed. His heart beat. It would not last.
    Only Catherine was in the room with him when the door opened.
    “Oh!” she said. “You’re here! I wasn’t sure you’d come. Thank you!”
    Harry heard the newcomer move toward the bed. A man took his hand. A doctor? No, not a doctor.
    “I called you because he seems to be fighting so hard,” Catherine said. “The doctors say he won’t recover. But he’s still alive. Were they wrong?”
    “No, they weren’t wrong,” said the stranger, but not unkindly.
    A moment later, Harry thought the stranger was mistaken. He could see again. He was standing next to Catherine at his bedside. He felt stronger than he ever had before. Then he looked down and saw himself on the bed. He looked awful.
    We only have a few minutes—perhaps less than that, the stranger’s voice came to him, although the man had not spoken aloud. Harry realized that he was somehow connected to the man, and hearing his thoughts.
    What are you? Who are you? Harry wondered.
    Never mind! Hurry! the stranger urged him. What do you need to say?
    Suddenly Harry was certain that this was his only chance, and for reasons that he could not have explained to himself, he believed that this man was to be trusted. “Catherine, it’s me—Harry,” he said, and heard the stranger repeat the words aloud, felt them form and move in the stranger’s throat and mouth, felt the breath that moved them. Wonderful thing, speech, he thought, but at the stranger’s urging continued. “Listen carefully. There is a safe hidden in the south wall of my office. You can find it by going to the thermostat on that wall and removing its cover. There’s a keypad under it. Enter this code: one-eight-five-five-eight-nine.”
    She was looking