Tunnel Vision Read Online Free PDF

Bridge, which carried Mass. Avenue across the Charles River into Boston, whose glorious skyline burned like jewelry boxes stacked up from the river’s edge to the top of Beacon Hill. Tonight a full moon had risen over the eastern horizon, leaving a rippled disk riding the river’s surface.
    What arrested her attention were two men walking on the western side of the bridge from Boston. They stopped a few times to look down at the water, then proceeded until they were about three-quarters across, no more than fifty yards from her window. One man wore a hooded jacket. The other was bareheaded and leaning with his back against the rail. The hooded man gesticulated with his free hand, as if trying to convince the other of something. Then the hooded man helped his companion get up on the rail, where he found his balance. Jenna’s first thought was that the hooded man was going to take pictures of his friend with the river and skyline as backdrop. But they continued talking, the hooded man appearing to hold something in his far hand while pleading with the other, who rocked back and forth on the rail like a primate in a too small cage.
    Suddenly the men embraced each other for a long moment. The sitting man then braced himself on the rail with his hands. When the hooded man was certain that no cars or strollers approached, he raised a baseball bat and smashed the other on the head.
    Even through the closed window, the blow made a sickening crack that sent the victim over the rail and into the black water.
    Jenna cried out in horror and disbelief. But what sickened her was the hideous realization that the victim had waited for his companion to bash his head in. That it was on purpose—that they had walked together to just the right spot and waited for the traffic to clear so one could put the other out of his misery.
    Before the hooded man walked away, he flung the bat into the water, then looked down to where his friend had fallen and made the sign of the cross.

7
     
    On the evening of the twenty-second day, Damian and Anthony stopped by the hospital. They had been back a few more times since the prayer incident, for which Maggie had apologized. And being the gentleman that he was, Damian said he had no hard feelings. He had even brought her a bouquet of flowers.
    Zack was still breathing on his own, with his vital signs holding normal. But he was still at level two.
    They chatted for a while. Maggie asked how they were doing in school, then told them how physical therapists came in daily to exercise Zack’s arms, legs, and feet and how she helped. Anthony was in the middle of a funny story about something that happened at the local mall when Zack suddenly rolled his head and made a strange cawing sound.
    “Omigod!” Maggie cried out. Instantly she was on her feet and gripping his hand. “Zack! Wake up. Wake up.”
    “He’s saying something!” Anthony said.
    “He’s breaking through,” Damian said.
    “Zack! Zack, wake up!” Maggie cried. “It’s Mom. Please, honey. Open your eyes.”
    Zack’s mouth moved as guttural sounds rose from his throat—the first sounds he had made in three weeks. “Get the nurse,” Maggie said to Anthony, who bolted from the room. She rubbed Zack’s hand. “Zack, it’s Mom. Wake up!”
    “His eyes are moving,” Damian said. “I think he’s trying to open them.”
    “Zack! Open your eyes. You can do it. Open your eyes.”
    While she continued coaxing him, Zack’s eyes rolled under his lids as if he were having an intense dream. But he didn’t open them, just kept muttering nonsense syllables.
    A few moments later, Anthony returned with a nurse and an aide. The nurse began to rub Zack’s cheek. “Zack, it’s Beth Howard, your nurse. Talk to me, Zack. Talk to me. Open your eyes.”
    Zack winced as if registering her voice. He continued muttering unintelligible sounds, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Zack, it’s Mom. Wake up. Please.”
    “What’s he saying?” Anthony