The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [75]
Afterward he ran a quick brush through his hair, then walked through the house, turning everything off before slipping into bed.
He turned out the lights almost reluctantly. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but despite his exhaustion he suddenly knew that sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, immediately upon closing his eyes, the images of the past several hours began to replay in his mind. Almost like a movie, some moved in fast-forward, others in reverse, but in each case they were different from what had actually happened. His were not the images of success—his were more like nightmares.
In one sequence after another, he watched helplessly as everything went wrong.
He saw himself reaching for the victim, he heard the crack and felt a sickening shudder as the ladder snapped in two, sending both of them to their death—
Or . . .
He watched in horror as the victim reached for his outstretched hand, his face contorting in terror, just as the car tipped over the bridge, Taylor unable to do anything to stop it—
Or . . .
He felt his sweaty hand suddenly slipping from the cable as he plunged downward, toward the bridge supports, toward his death—
Or . . .
While hooking the harness, he heard a strange ticking immediately before the truck engine exploded, his skin tearing and burning, the sound of his own screams as his life was taken from him—
Or . . .
The nightmare he’d been living with since childhood—
His eyes snapped open. His hands were trembling again, his throat dry. Breathing rapidly, he could feel another adrenaline surge, though this time the surges made his body ache.
Turning his head, he checked the clock. The red glowing digital lights showed that it was nearly eleven-thirty.
Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, he turned on the lamp by his bedside and began to dress.
He didn’t understand his decision, not really. All he knew was that he needed to talk.
Not to Mitch, not to Melissa. Not even to his mother.
He needed to talk to Denise.
The parking lot at Eights was mostly empty when he arrived. One car was parked off to the side. Taylor pulled his truck into the space nearest the door and checked his watch. The diner would be closing in ten minutes.
He pushed open the wooden door and heard a small bell jingle, signaling his entrance. The place was the same as always. A counter ran along the far wall; it was here that most truckers sat during the early morning hours. There were a dozen square tables in the center of the room beneath a circulating ceiling fan. On either side of the door beneath the windows were three booths, the seats covered in red vinyl, small tears in every one of them. The air smelled of bacon despite the lateness of the hour.
Beyond the far counter, he saw Ray cleaning up in the back. Ray turned at the sound of the door and recognized Taylor as he stepped in. He waved, a greasy dishtowel in his hand.
“Hey, Taylor,” he said. “Long time no see. You comin’ in to eat?”
“Oh, hey, Ray.” He looked from side to side. “Not really.”
Ray shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Somehow, I didn’t think so,” he said almost mischievously. “Denise’ll be out in a minute. She’s putting some stuff in the walk-in. You here to ask if you can drive her home?”
When Taylor didn’t answer right away, Ray’s eyes gleamed. “Did you think you were the first one to come in here, that lost puppy-dog look on your face? There’s one or two a week comin’ in here, looking just like you do now, hoping for the same thing. Truckers, bikers, even married guys.” He grinned. “She’s somethin’, that’s for sure, ain’t she? Pretty as a flower. But don’t worry, she ain’t said yes to one of ’em yet.”
“I wasn’t . . .