The Walk by Richard Paul Evans Read Free Book Online

not yet. Several large receivables had come in, and we had about twelve thousand dollars in the bank—enough to cover our payables. Around two o’clock, Falene came into my office.
    “I’m headed down for a salad. Want something?”
    “Thanks, but I need to go home and check on McKale. How are the calls going?”
    “Okay. Wathen says he’s very sorry, but they’re just too far along to change course. But he’ll keep us in mind for future projects.”
    I shook my head. “It’s only been four weeks.”
    “I know. He sounded kind of dodgey. I’m sure Kyle’s been working him over. But Coiffeur, iTex, and DynaTech are willing to meet next week.”
    “It’s a start. Good job, Falene.”
    “Thanks. And how is McKale?”
    I smiled. “Her leg was moving this morning.”
    “That’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
    “It makes everything else seem manageable.” I stood and began gathering a few files to take with me.
    “Will you be coming back today?”
    “Tomorrow,” I said.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow then. And don’t worry, Al. We’ll make it. We’ll make Madgic bigger than it was before.”
    I looked up and smiled at her. “By the way, I’m promoting you to Vice President.”
    A broad smile crossed her face. “Thank you.” She hugged me. “See? Things are looking up already.”

CHAPTER
Fourteen
    This evening I rushed McKale back to the hospital. More trouble. I feel as if the jaws of Hell have gaped after us. Where is God?
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
    McKale was sitting in her wheelchair in the den when I got home. She had a book in her lap, but she wasn’t reading. She was just staring ahead at the wall. “Hey, girl,” I said. “I’m home.”
    She slowly turned to look at me. Her leg was still moving, but her smile was gone. “I wish the fall had killed me.”
    “McKale . . .”
    Her eyes watered. “This is my new life, pushing around the house, chained to this chair.”
    I put my arms around her. “Give it some time.”
    She looked down. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well,” she said softly. “I think I have a fever.”
    I kissed her forehead then felt it with my cheek. Her skin was moist and very hot. “You’re burning. Why didn’t you call me?”
    “You have so much work. I didn’t want to bother you.”
    “Come on, Mickey, you know better than that. I better check your temperature. Where do we keep the thermometer?”
    “It’s downstairs in the guest room medicine cabinet.”
    I retrieved the thermometer and held it under her tongue. She was running a temperature of 104°. “You’re hot. I better call the doctor,” I said.
    I couldn’t get hold of Dr. Hardman, but the doctoron call told me to bring her in. Forty-five minutes later, I checked McKale back into the Overland emergency room. The staff checked her vitals, blood pressure, and temperature, then took blood and urine samples. Her fever had risen to 105°.
    Within a half hour, Dr. Probst, a compact red-head in his late fifties, had her moved from the ER to the ICU where they put tubes back into her arms and a PIC line directly into her jugular vein, to fill her with antibiotics. The staff moved in a quiet, urgent manner, and the more I watched, the more concerned I became. I stayed by McKale’s side the whole time, holding her hand. She said very little through it all, though she moaned occasionally. When the motion had settled a little, the doctor asked to speak to me outside the room.
    “You’re her partner?” he asked.
    “I’m her husband. What’s happening?”
    “It appears your wife has developed a urinary tract infection from her catheter. Unfortunately it’s gotten into her bloodstream, and she’s septic.” He looked at me as if waiting for the gravity of his words to settle.
    “What does that mean? You give her more antibiotics?”
    He looked at me solemnly. “This is extremely serious. We could lose her.”
    “Lose her? It’s just an infection.”
    “Infections are never that simple,