The blossom of flame and the wave of concussion singed Brock’s eyebrows and lashes and threw him bodily back through the door into the entryway of his home. He was slammed into the far wall. He slid to a sitting position all sound suddenly coming to him through the cotton wads in his ears. He struggled to comprehend what had happened. Then reality broke over him like a crashing wave.

Wobbling to his feet he tried to run back to the door but only succeeded in toppling to the floor again, his equilibrium shot. On hands and knees he continued toward the door. Pulling himself upright he saw a pall of smoke obscuring his drive. He stumbled down the stairs to the edge of the drive peering through the smoke. He pulled up short almost falling into the crater that was once his driveway.

Reason would not come. Where was Jessie? Had she managed to get away? The breeze picked up, moving the smoke in swirls. As in a scene from a bad sci-fi movie he saw the wreckage among the palm trees at the entry to the drive some 100 feet away.

The military part of his mind registered the significance of the amount of explosives required to lift an automobile and throw it 100 feet in the air. But on a different plane he was unable to cope with the destruction that had been wrought on his lover’s car.

Regaining his senses he ran towards the ruined car. It was not a fiery ball of flame but lay upside down smoldering. He rounded the car and in a low crawl moved to the driver’s window. The top of the car had been squashed but he could see Jessie through the opening. Reaching he tried to pull her through. The metal of the car was still searing hot. He ignored the pain. Slowly he scuttled away from the car on his stomach like a crawdad pulling Jessie with him. He knew he might hurt her further but if he left her there she would surely die. Finally, after what seemed to be hours but were only minutes, she was a comparatively safe distance from the car.

Brock knelt at her side placing his fingers on the carotid artery, praying for a sign that she was still alive. Faintly he felt an irregular pressure against the tips of his fingers. Leaping to his feet Brock ran back across the lawn slipping and falling in his haste. Bolting through the door he picked up the phone and dialed 911. As the operator answered and he began his request he heard sirens whining to silence in the front of the house. Dropping the phone in mid sentence he raced back outside to see police, firemen and paramedics already on the scene. He returned to where Jessie lay.

Two men were working frantically on her. One medic knelt beside her, a bottle of glucose in one hand stretched above him like the statue of liberty while he spoke into a hand held radio in the other. The other held an ambu-bag over her mouth and nose trying to give Jessie the oxygen her battered body would not.

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Last modified: 12/13/03