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  Before answering, Emma lowers Nicky onto the floor. He’s too busy gnawing on his grilled cheese sandwich to notice that he’s no longer on his mother’s lap. “Despite asking for money, the NSA is getting the vibe that it may be a cover for the latter.”

  Jack leans in. “Why is that?”

  “During the same time period, a couple of U.S. defense contractors were also hit. A day after, they noted hacking activity on some governmental installations. NASA, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s Cyber Command, a couple of federal maximum security prisons, even the White House’s servers were affected.”

  Maximum security prisons…

  Eric.

  Breaking out. Varick’s words float into my consciousness.

  So, that’s what Varick was trying to tell me!

  I have to let Jack and the others know about it.

  The conversation shifts to the digital platforms breached—firewalls, antivirus programs, and other state-of-the-art security protections. The hackers deleted data files and destroyed hundreds of computers.

  Even as I listen, I float next to Nicky. Now sated by his mozzarella and cheddar feast, he busies himself with alphabet blocks that topple from his toddler gear bag.

  He sees me too. I know, because he reaches out for me. Excitedly, he squeaks, “Don-Dah!”

  I murmur, “Yes, Nicky! I see you too! And I want to play with you.”

  I point to the block stamped with the letter E.

  “E,” I say. “Can you say it too? E!”

  “Eeeee!” he shouts. He picks it up.

  “Good!” I say. “Put it on the chair by your Mom, okay?”

  Emma is too caught up in Arnie’s analysis to notice, but that’s okay—for now.

  I now point to the letter R. “Are!” I say. “Like a tiger! Arrrrrrrr!”

  “RRRR!” he copies.

  “Perfect! Now, pick it up and put it next to your mommy, again, in the chair.”

  He grabs the block and toddles over to the chair, dropping it next to the other one before scurrying back to the blocks.

  “Now this one.” I point to the block stamped I. “Eye! Can you say it?” I point to my eye as well. “Eye!”

  “Eye!” he shouts, and then he picks up the right block and puts it by the others on the chair before plopping back down on the floor with me.

  “Okay, now, C! See!” I place my hand on the C block.

  When he picks it up, he shivers and squeaks.

  He feels me.

  If only I could feel him, too: warm, soft, oh so gentle.

  He takes the block to complete the name we’re building: ERIC.

  I say it out loud. “Eric. You see that, Nicky? You spelled Eric! Can you say Eric?”

  “EEE-Wick!” he shouts. “Ear-Wick!”

  “Yes! Yes! You win!” I shout back.

  Emma is in the middle of saying, “I can understand going after the utilities, and certainly Cyber Command. But the federal pens? That’s certainly—”

  Nicky giggles hysterically and runs to his mother. “Earwick! Earwick!” he shouts, pointing to the blocks beside her.

  She picks him up to shush him again, but he’s not having it. He takes her hand points with it! “Earwick!”

  “Nicky, please… What?” Instinctively, she glances down.

  But a second later all the lights in the room go out.

  No lights anywhere. The whole hospital is dropped into darkness.

  My monitors suddenly go wild.

  “What the… Nurse!” Jack jumps up. “Please! Nurse!”

  A light goes on near Ryan: it’s the flashlight app on his iPhone.

  A moment later, the hospital lights go on again. My monitor calms down, thank goodness.

  But when Jack went to get the nurse, he knocked over the chair with the blocks. They are now spread all over the floor.

  Nicky staggers over to Jack. Hitting him hard on the thigh, he shouts, “Bad!” He points to the fallen blocks. “Bad Jack! Earwick!”

  Yes, Nicky! Yes! Thank you!

  Surprised and amused, Jack picks up the toddler. “What does he mean—‘Earwick’?”

  Ryan’s cell phone buzzes. “It’s a text from DOI Branham! There was a cyber attack at Magic Mountain. It allowed for a jail break.” He reads more, then sighs. “Eric Weber has escaped.”

  “EARWICK!” Nicky shouts triumphantly.

  “I think he just said ‘Eric,’” Arnie mutters uncertainly.

  “He did,” Emma confirms. “And he spelled it, too. At least, I think he did. It was on the chair…” Her eyes shift to the upturned chair. “Was that what you meant, Nicky?”

  He nods. “Dondah! Dondah!” And then he points to me.

  Not the Me lying on the bed, but the Me who stands beside Jack with my arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing him in the hope that he’ll feel me too.

  Like Nicky, I’m frustrated that he sees me but they can’t.

  Ryan is staring at my face—or at least the face of the Me in the bed. “Hey, is that a tear on Donna’s cheek?”

  He notices my tear of joy.

  It isn’t anymore because it’s too late. Despite my team now at least open to the concept that Nicky had intel for them, it’s too late.

  Eric is already on the outside.

  I float over Jack as he sleeps in the chair beside my bed. When I kiss his lips, he smiles.

  And when I nuzzle his neck, he mumbles my name.

  His dreams are made sweeter still when my hands roam over his chest.

  I lay my hand on his chest to feel his heart beating.

  His arm moves up so that he can place his hand over mine.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  He murmurs something, but I can’t understand him.

  “He says he loves you too,” Death tells me.

  I sigh. “What are you doing here?”

  He pulls an hourglass from a pocket in his cape. The sand is almost gone. “Time for your second trial.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?” I plead.

  “The sooner you get it over with… Nah, I shouldn’t say that since it can go either way.” He stares down at Jack. “Hey, do you know what percentage of people die in their sleep? Just twelve or so. Why do you think that is?”

  “Heck, I don’t know. But just leave Jack out of it, okay?”

  Death shrugs. “For now, I will. You know, it's not such a bad way to go.”

  Still…

  He points to a door in my hospital room that I’ve never seen before. “After you.”

  “So happy to see you again!” Satan, dressed in white tails (better to show off his red one?) waves gaily at me from the front row of this Victorian-era theatre.

  I’d wave back except for the fact that my hands are tied—literally, both over my head and on opposite sides of a wooden wheel. My legs are also shackled so that I’m spread-eagled.

  “Let me guess. I’m the entertainment,” I retort.

  “The primo spot,” he assures me. “Third on tonight’s bill!”

  “Oh, yeah? What did I miss?”

  “In the first act, the Fat Lady sang.” He rolls his eyes. “Wagner’s Brünnhilda—my guest of honor’s favorite.” He points to the man beside him: Hitler, sporting his signature ’stache as well as a bullet hole in his temple. What is left of his skin is in crispy red tatters.

  Germany’s infamously disgraced dictator attempts a salute, to no avail. Someone has cut his right hand off at the wrist. Since his body was incinerated by the time the Red Army got to the Füherbunker, I presume it happened here in Hell. An apt punishment.

  The Devil continues, “Unfortunately, our soprano’s high notes were so offensive to the second act—prancing dogs—that they tore her apart.”

  “That is truly a hard act to follow,” I mutter.

  “No need to worry about an encore of that one”—Satan hesitates, but then adds—“albeit, I have promised the audience that whoever loses this act will meet the same fate.” He points t
o the sinners in the millions of rows behind him.

  “Well, now, that ought to keep them in their seats and up popcorn sales!” I retort.

  To that end, he realizes it’s time to introduce me to my next challenger. “Mrs. Craig, I’m sure you remember Ratko Zoran?”

  Ratko appears stage right. He’s also in a tux and sporting a tall hat.

  I guess I’m to be his magic trick. Does that mean his attempt on my death will be an illusion? Hardly! He’ll consider it payback for when I choked him. The car he was driving skidded off a bridge. Miraculously, I survived. Otherwise, I’d have been fodder for the swine in his pig farm.

  I bat my eyes at Satan since my head is the only part of me that can move. “Certainly, I know the appropriately named Ratko! As a henchman in Yugoslavian dictator Slobodan Miloševich’s ethnic cleansing war, he was responsible for the deaths of millions of people. Unfortunately, he escaped and became a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles—”

  “We’re not here for a history lesson,” Ratko growls.

  “Indeed, we’re not,” Satan nods. “And since Ratko is a crack surgeon, a little surgical knife throwing should be right up his alley, eh?” He winks at Ratko.

  “Precisely.” Ratko smiles confidently. “A wonderful pastime, and I had lots of practice.”

  “Wünderbar!” The Devil beams supremely. “Now, listen up, lady and gent! The rules are as follows. The wheel turns. Ratko is allowed no more than four knives. If he misses, you switch positions.”

  “I won’t,” Ratko declares firmly.

  “Superb!” Satan claps his hands gleefully. “Then around and around we go! Where she stops, nobody knows—if she survives!”

  Magically, the wheel spins. It is moving so fast that I can’t see anything at first—

  But I can certainly feel the first surgical knife whiz by. It lodges itself just inches from my right hand.

  By now, Ratko has figured out he moved much too quickly. He waits for the wheel to slow down to a crawl for another throw—

  Which whizzes by my cheek before hitting the board. Yikes!

  The wheel speeds up for a second dizzying spin. All the while, I work to loosen the rope around my left hand. At the same time, I inch my right hand toward the knife—

  And grab it. By scooting my wrist above the restraint, I’m able to grasp it. I nudge it looser, but I’m not able to dislodge it.

  However, I am able to slip my left hand out of its restraint. My left arm crosses over to reach for the knife—

  Just in time, too. The wheel is slowing down and everyone can guess my game plan, including Ratko, since my body is twisted into something akin to an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

  By the time he aims his third knife, I’ve yanked out the one above my head with both hands—

  And duck just as his throw finds the perfect bulls-eye: where my heart used to be.

  I’m upside down, and I’ve got only one shot. I’ve got to make it before the wheel speeds up.

  I aim and let the knife fly—

  And watch as my hit pierces his chest.

  Ratko looks down. As the blood seeps slowly from his body, the hounds from Act Two bound onto the stage and tear into him.

  The grisly sounds of canines attacking fresh meat are no worse than his pained screams. But just in case they view him as the appetizer, I jerk another knife from the board and brandish it at any hound headed my way. They get the hint pretty quickly, and keep their distance, allowing me to cut the bindings on my feet and fall to the floor.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” Satan exclaims admiringly.

  A puff of smoke envelops me. When it dissipates, there is someone standing in front of me:

  Edwina Doyle.

  She was the illegitimate daughter of one of the evilest men I’d ever met: the international industrialist, Jonah Breck. He was also one of the twelve original members of the Quorum. Without knowing Edwina’s true parentage, Jonah hired the shy, mousy woman as his personal assistant. It allowed her to get close enough to him to try to kill him to avenge her mother, whom he sold into slavery.

  He killed Edwina first. I tried to stop it. Instead he blamed her death on me and escaped to his private island, where the United States could not extradite him.

  Ironically, Babette Chiffray was Jonah’s widow before meeting and marrying Lee. Had he never purchased Breck Industries, his life path would have taken a different journey. I doubt mine would have ever crossed it—but who’s to say? I’ll be more inclined to believe in Divine intervention if I ever get out of this coma.

  “Edwina,” I whisper, “I have to know: what is Eric Weber’s plan?”

  Out of thin air, a football appears in her hands. As she runs away from me, she throws it my way, shouting, “Donna please—don’t drop the ball!”

  But I do.

  It explodes and I’m blown high into the smoke and fury.

  When I open my eyes, I’m back in my hospital bed.

  Jack is gone, damn it.

  If I could, I’d cry.

  6

  Only in my Dreams

  Written and performed by Debbie Gibson. Released on her 1986 album by the same name, the song reached #4 on Billboard’s “Top 100 Hits.” It was also voted #95 in VH1’s “100 Greatest Songs of the 1980s.”

  How do you know when you’re dreaming?

  Here are three telltale signs. By heeding them, you can give yourself a much-needed wakeup call when your subconscious is working overtime:

  Sign #1: You can’t see yourself. And if you do, it was you at your very best. (In other words, it ain’t you now.)

  Sign #2: As in Tevya’s dream in Fiddler on the Roof, everyone you know is there. Make that, everyone you knew. And since This is Your Life is off the air and you’re not renowned enough to have your very own celebrity roast, either you're in a wonderful dream, or you're in one awful nightmare. (Look down: are you naked? Then totally the latter…)

  Sign #3: People talk, talk, talk, but they say nothing, nothing, nothing. You do a lot of activities, but nothing gets done. It seems as if you’re running in place—

  Oh, wait—it’s exactly the same as when you’re awake.

  Go back to sleep.

  “Your mom looks dead,” Cheever murmurs.

  Trisha’s punch has him doubled over and groaning.

  That’s my girl.

  Jeff high-fives her above his so-called friend’s head.

  “Why are you here, again?” Trisha asks.

  “To…pay…my…respects,” Cheever explains during gasps.

  “No,” Mary corrects him. “You’re only here because it was Mom’s day to carpool. But because junior varsity basketball practice ran so late, we couldn’t take you home first. Otherwise, we’d have gotten to the hospital after visiting hours were over.”

  “We should have made him walk home,” Trisha growls.

  Evan rolls his eyes. “The idiot doesn’t have his house key and his parents are duking it out in divorce court today.”

  Jeff nods at Cheever. “Which unlucky parent gets custody of you?”

  Cheever shoves him. “They both want me, doofus! I’m worth my weight in dough.”

  Trisha’s eyes open wide. “One of them is going to be very, very rich!”

  Cheever glowers at her.

  “Are you talking about child support?” Mary asks. “Wow! Talk about an undue burden.”

  “You mean, to the parent who has to pay out?” Evan asks.

  Mary snickers. “No! For the one who has to live with this Neanderthal.” She pokes a thumb in Cheever’s direction.

  “Why are we talking about Cheever in front of Mommy?” Trisha asks. “She probably hates it!”

  Actually, I enjoy watching the rest of you beat up on Cheever, Little One, so no worries. I’ve taught you well, grasshoppers…

  “She’s right,” Jeff acknowledges. “Let’s each tell Mom at least one good thing that happened today.”

  Trisha nods fervently to that suggestion. “Okay! I�
��ll start!” Her brow furrows as she contemplates her offering. “Oh, I know!” She takes hold of my hand. “Mommy, guess what?”

  “She can’t, you moron. She’s in a coma,” Cheever mutters.

  This time, both Mary and Jeff pummel him.

  Trisha crosses her arms at her chest until they stop. Good for her! She refuses to be upstaged by the little jerk. When he’s finally and deservedly chastised, she continues: “Mommy, I got an A on my Geography test! AND I tried out to be Clara in my ballet school’s Nutcracker—and I got the role! AND Daddy took me to sign up for soccer!”

  I would love to hug my youngest child for her great grade; watching Trisha try out for the Nutcracker would have been wonderful! I feel like shedding a tear because I couldn’t be the one to sign her up for her very first sport.

  Thank God they have Jack. He’s always been great at tag-teaming our family duties, but…

  Should I fail at the rest of my trials, can he handle them alone?

  My heartbeat monitor pings a tick faster, reflecting my dread.

  I will win because I must win.

  One of the nurses, Nancy Carr, comes in to check the monitor. After making an adjustment, she turns to the children in the room. “Did any of you touch this?”

  Collectively, they shake their heads.

  “Good—don’t,” she warns them.

  This time they nod adamantly in agreement.

  She leaves the room.

  A tear rolls down Trisha’s cheek. “I guess Mommy wasn’t happy about my news.”

  Mary put her arm around her. “No, Trisha! I think Mom was very happy! Those were good beeps, not bad.”

  Evan nudges Mary. “Your turn. But, watch what you say.”

  Mary nods as she takes hold of my other hand. “Hi, Mom. Hey, I just wanted you to know that I got accepted to the debate team. And I got a B+ in Trig.”

  Again, my heart swells with my oldest child’s great news.

  “And Mom,” says Jeff, “The coach says I can start on Saturday—”

  “—and me too, Mrs. Craig,” Cheever butts in.

  Jeff shoves him aside. “Hey! She’s my mom, not yours!”