The Source - Michael Cordy [23]
Death had bonded them.
They agreed on little: she was religious and believed passionately in conservation, he was an atheist and had no qualms about working for Big Oil, but each loved the way the other thought. He also loved the nape of her neck and her smell. She loved his strength and the way he listened. Soon they loved each other. They joked that they were going to live for ever or die in the attempt. Nothing would separate them. Ever. If one got lost, the other would go to the ends of the Earth to find them.
Now Ross found himself staring into the darkness, gripped by panic, unable to find his soulmate. Lauren was lost to him.
Death threatened to separate them.
'Ross, Ross, Ross.'
His heart skipped. He could hear her calling to him in the dark. She was trapped and needed his help. He had to find her and do whatever was necessary to rescue her . . .
'Ross.'
A hand on his shoulder shook him gently.
'Ross, wake up.'
Ross opened his eyes, and when he saw her his first emotion was relief: it had been a nightmare. Lauren was fine. She was there.
But it wasn't Lauren. It was her assistant, Zeb Quinn. The sickening sadness flooded back.
'Ross, it's about three o'clock in the afternoon. I let you sleep for a few hours after lunch while I watched over Lauren. I'm off back to Yale now but your dad and Lauren's mum are coming up soon. Mr Greenbloom, the neurosurgeon, said he wants to talk with you all. You okay with that?'
'Yes.' He rubbed his eyes and stood up beside Lauren's bed. He was wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Dazed with sleep, he checked his watch. 'Thanks, Zeb. Thanks for everything.'
'If you need me for anything – anything at all – call me. You got my cell number. Right?'
'Right. Thanks.' Zeb left, and he went to the adjoining bathroom to splash his face with water. Three weeks had passed since the burglary and in that time he had aged visibly. His face was pale, his blue eyes were bloodshot and his hair – partially shaved where they had sutured a gash with twelve stitches – was flecked with new silver. The doctors said the hairline fracture on his skull was healing well and his dislocated shoulder had made a full recovery. But that was only half the story.
Lauren's room in the Sacred Heart Hospital outside Bridgeport, Connecticut, was clean and bright. A large window looked out over Long Island Sound, and if he peered to the right he could just see the distant towers of Manhattan. Flowers and cards adorned the broad windowsill. Friends had showered him with messages, but those who had come to visit had been awkward, unsure how to respond to Lauren's injury. Ross was grateful that few had known of her pregnancy and now preferred to be left on his own; it was difficult enough to handle his own shock and grief without managing theirs. The exception had been Zeb Quinn. Though she and Ross had never been close, she had proved herself a true and practical friend.
The two orchids on the sill were from Lauren's sisters, who lived abroad, one in London, the other in Sydney. They had flown in and stayed for two weeks to help and support their mother. In the last week they had gone home. One of the larger bouquets was from Xplore. After making the right sympathetic noises, Kovacs had told Ross that they wanted him back and were prepared to wait until he was ready to discuss terms. But right now Ross couldn't have given a damn about his career.
Lauren's bed was in the middle of the room. She had been turned to prevent bedsores, and lay partially on her left side. Wires and tubes connected her to a bank of monitors and intravenous drips. A white tube extended from her trachea to a ventilator, whose rhythmic sound dominated