Approximately 10 miles NE of Yekaterinburg
December 4
1817 local
It was gray; completely, totally gray, with nothing to
distinguish the surroundings. She was cold and hot at the same time,
and soaked to the skin. The steady ache of her body, the smooth but
changing vibrations that penetrated to the bone, and the high-pitched
whine, ear-splitting even through layers of material, told her
everything was as it should be. But like a tiny metal sliver embedded
deeply in the skin, doubt and fear stuck in her mind, growing harder
and harder to ignore.
She made the turn on to the main straight, the spotter's voice
telling her all was clear, and pushed the engine as hard as it could
go. She didn't like being out here and blind; but she knew Pedro was
next car ahead of her, and she trusted her teammate to keep a
safe distance and lead.
Not just teammate, she thought with a smile. So, so much
more....
Her spotter began talking rapidly, too fast to understand...then
screaming, the message lost in the static. Then.... Liebe Mutter Gott.
A flash of spinning cars was all she got, just enough to
recognize Pedro and Mika Anders, the rookie from Norway. Even with her
well-honed reflexes, her foot was just touching the brake when her own
car sliced into Anders's at the cockpit. A flash of thought told her
to brake and release the wheel, but her body was no longer hers to
control.
Thrown forward with the force of the impact, her feet slammed
into the cockpit wall as the restraints cut into her body through the
thick Nomex of her suit. The top of her helmet grazed the steering
wheel.
Then it was there, gray and imposing. The cement barrier
deflected their travel, removing some of the speed.
Mercedes felt the crunching and twisting of the car body behind
her, even as she was now flung sideways. The strain on her body and
neck had her quickly fading consciousness, aware only of some
disconnected pain in her legs and feet. As the darkness swept over
her, she faintly registered the warm liquid draining down the back of
her driving suit.
Then consciousness came crashing back as the world erupted into
flames....
********
The screaming cut through the silence enveloping the
small hunting lodge. In seconds, Clay was out of bed, on his feet
and armed, searching for the threat. Just as quickly, he saw there was
no external threat; the banshee's wail was from Mercedes Rabb, caught
in the grip of a nightmare.
Putting down the sidearm, he quickly moved to sit on the bed.
Shaking her arm gently, he spoke firmly. "Mercedes... Mercedes, wake
up. Mercedes. MERCEDES!"
Her eyes flew open as she stopped, taking a great, gasping gulp
of air. "Ah, Gott," she breathed, rolling on to her side away from
him and covering her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered,
choking on a sob.
Clay sat there a moment, confused and stunned. Then, slowly,
gently, he reached out to gently place a hand on her arm. "Mercedes,"
he said quietly, "tell me. Please."
"The crash," was her whispered answer.
"The crash? Were you in a car accident?" he asked carefully.
He hadn't had time to gather much information on her background before
all this, so he was uncharacteristically uninformed.
She sighed, quickly regaining control. "Kind of, yes."
"How can you 'kind of' be in an accident?"
"The usual term is 'racing incident,'" she stated dully, sitting
up in the bed, but looking away.
"Racing?"
She dared a glance at him, and sighed. It was obvious he was
not about to let this go. "You've been hanging around my cousin too
much," she muttered.
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"Never mind," she said somewhat testily, massaging her temple.
"Look. Forensics wasn't my first career, okay?"
"And?"
"And I used to race sportscars, but quit due to a crash," she
snapped, hoping that that would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.
"You used to race sportscars," he echoed flatly.
"Yes."
"And a crash made you quit."
"What are you, a parrot? Yes," she snapped.
Clay ignored her sniping remark. "So you were dreaming about
the crash. What happened?" he asked.
Mercedes's nerves were frayed and ragged, and her rein on her
temper snapped. "None of your goddamn business," she shot back,
throwing the sheets aside and striding over to restart the fire, her
previous self-consciousness largely forgotten in the wake of her
temper.
Unfortunately, her temper set off Clay's. "It's my goddamn
business when the person I'm stuck sharing a bed with starts screaming
like her hair's on fire!" he yelled.
"The hell it is! And for your information," she added snidely,
without thinking, "It was my back that was on fire. My *hair* was safe
inside the helmet."
Clay watched as she went pale, realizing what she had said. She
dropped to the floor, covering her face. "I can't believe I just said
that," she whispered brokenly.
Clay said nothing, instead moving to sit across from her. For
several long moments, he did nothing, said nothing, then slowly, gently
reached out to caress the side of her face. "The burns were bad?" he
asked quietly.
She'd already let it slip; she might as well tell him the
details. "Severe third degree. The doctors were amazed I survived.
The fuel tank was behind the cockpit, and it ruptured from the second
impact. It was an alcohol-based fuel, rather than petroleum, so it
burned hotter and faster than you might expect. The burns were so
severe because the fuel had soaked my driving suit, and since I had
been thrown forward in the car, air could reach it to burn. It was a
full year and a half before they were completely healed, at least as
much as they could be," she finished, her voice a monotone.
He couldn't believe what he had heard. He'd seen men badly
burned before, and knew the pain was excruciating in a way unique to
burns. As his mind swirled with what he'd been told, it occurred to
him that there had likely been quite a few other injuries for her to
deal with as well. To come back from that.... "Wait....Mercedes,
you're not that old."
She smiled weakly. "I'm not quite sure how to take that."
"No, no, I mean...after the crash, you went to school...And that
was sometime around '93, so you've been in forensics for a while....
Mercedes, how old were you when this happened?"
She sighed, looking away. "I started racing professionally at
18. The accident happened in '88... I was twenty-two."
An odd, unexpected pain shot through him. Gently, carefully, he
reached for her, guiding her into his arms. "I'm so sorry," he
whispered, holding her close.
Mercedes gave in, closing her eyes, accepting the unexpected
comfort of his arms.
It was some time before either moved from the embrace. And
then, it was only for Clay to guide an exhausted Mercedes back to the
bed, holding her until she fell into a deep, blessedly dreamless
sleep. It wasn't long before he joined her.
TBC.....
December 4
1817 local
It was gray; completely, totally gray, with nothing to
distinguish the surroundings. She was cold and hot at the same time,
and soaked to the skin. The steady ache of her body, the smooth but
changing vibrations that penetrated to the bone, and the high-pitched
whine, ear-splitting even through layers of material, told her
everything was as it should be. But like a tiny metal sliver embedded
deeply in the skin, doubt and fear stuck in her mind, growing harder
and harder to ignore.
She made the turn on to the main straight, the spotter's voice
telling her all was clear, and pushed the engine as hard as it could
go. She didn't like being out here and blind; but she knew Pedro was
next car ahead of her, and she trusted her teammate to keep a
safe distance and lead.
Not just teammate, she thought with a smile. So, so much
more....
Her spotter began talking rapidly, too fast to understand...then
screaming, the message lost in the static. Then.... Liebe Mutter Gott.
A flash of spinning cars was all she got, just enough to
recognize Pedro and Mika Anders, the rookie from Norway. Even with her
well-honed reflexes, her foot was just touching the brake when her own
car sliced into Anders's at the cockpit. A flash of thought told her
to brake and release the wheel, but her body was no longer hers to
control.
Thrown forward with the force of the impact, her feet slammed
into the cockpit wall as the restraints cut into her body through the
thick Nomex of her suit. The top of her helmet grazed the steering
wheel.
Then it was there, gray and imposing. The cement barrier
deflected their travel, removing some of the speed.
Mercedes felt the crunching and twisting of the car body behind
her, even as she was now flung sideways. The strain on her body and
neck had her quickly fading consciousness, aware only of some
disconnected pain in her legs and feet. As the darkness swept over
her, she faintly registered the warm liquid draining down the back of
her driving suit.
Then consciousness came crashing back as the world erupted into
flames....
********
The screaming cut through the silence enveloping the
small hunting lodge. In seconds, Clay was out of bed, on his feet
and armed, searching for the threat. Just as quickly, he saw there was
no external threat; the banshee's wail was from Mercedes Rabb, caught
in the grip of a nightmare.
Putting down the sidearm, he quickly moved to sit on the bed.
Shaking her arm gently, he spoke firmly. "Mercedes... Mercedes, wake
up. Mercedes. MERCEDES!"
Her eyes flew open as she stopped, taking a great, gasping gulp
of air. "Ah, Gott," she breathed, rolling on to her side away from
him and covering her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered,
choking on a sob.
Clay sat there a moment, confused and stunned. Then, slowly,
gently, he reached out to gently place a hand on her arm. "Mercedes,"
he said quietly, "tell me. Please."
"The crash," was her whispered answer.
"The crash? Were you in a car accident?" he asked carefully.
He hadn't had time to gather much information on her background before
all this, so he was uncharacteristically uninformed.
She sighed, quickly regaining control. "Kind of, yes."
"How can you 'kind of' be in an accident?"
"The usual term is 'racing incident,'" she stated dully, sitting
up in the bed, but looking away.
"Racing?"
She dared a glance at him, and sighed. It was obvious he was
not about to let this go. "You've been hanging around my cousin too
much," she muttered.
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"Never mind," she said somewhat testily, massaging her temple.
"Look. Forensics wasn't my first career, okay?"
"And?"
"And I used to race sportscars, but quit due to a crash," she
snapped, hoping that that would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.
"You used to race sportscars," he echoed flatly.
"Yes."
"And a crash made you quit."
"What are you, a parrot? Yes," she snapped.
Clay ignored her sniping remark. "So you were dreaming about
the crash. What happened?" he asked.
Mercedes's nerves were frayed and ragged, and her rein on her
temper snapped. "None of your goddamn business," she shot back,
throwing the sheets aside and striding over to restart the fire, her
previous self-consciousness largely forgotten in the wake of her
temper.
Unfortunately, her temper set off Clay's. "It's my goddamn
business when the person I'm stuck sharing a bed with starts screaming
like her hair's on fire!" he yelled.
"The hell it is! And for your information," she added snidely,
without thinking, "It was my back that was on fire. My *hair* was safe
inside the helmet."
Clay watched as she went pale, realizing what she had said. She
dropped to the floor, covering her face. "I can't believe I just said
that," she whispered brokenly.
Clay said nothing, instead moving to sit across from her. For
several long moments, he did nothing, said nothing, then slowly, gently
reached out to caress the side of her face. "The burns were bad?" he
asked quietly.
She'd already let it slip; she might as well tell him the
details. "Severe third degree. The doctors were amazed I survived.
The fuel tank was behind the cockpit, and it ruptured from the second
impact. It was an alcohol-based fuel, rather than petroleum, so it
burned hotter and faster than you might expect. The burns were so
severe because the fuel had soaked my driving suit, and since I had
been thrown forward in the car, air could reach it to burn. It was a
full year and a half before they were completely healed, at least as
much as they could be," she finished, her voice a monotone.
He couldn't believe what he had heard. He'd seen men badly
burned before, and knew the pain was excruciating in a way unique to
burns. As his mind swirled with what he'd been told, it occurred to
him that there had likely been quite a few other injuries for her to
deal with as well. To come back from that.... "Wait....Mercedes,
you're not that old."
She smiled weakly. "I'm not quite sure how to take that."
"No, no, I mean...after the crash, you went to school...And that
was sometime around '93, so you've been in forensics for a while....
Mercedes, how old were you when this happened?"
She sighed, looking away. "I started racing professionally at
18. The accident happened in '88... I was twenty-two."
An odd, unexpected pain shot through him. Gently, carefully, he
reached for her, guiding her into his arms. "I'm so sorry," he
whispered, holding her close.
Mercedes gave in, closing her eyes, accepting the unexpected
comfort of his arms.
It was some time before either moved from the embrace. And
then, it was only for Clay to guide an exhausted Mercedes back to the
bed, holding her until she fell into a deep, blessedly dreamless
sleep. It wasn't long before he joined her.
TBC.....