We have liftoff'
His grip tightened. His legs were kicking. The limbs were at war: The feet wanted back to earth, but the hands wouldn't release the rope.
The noose was working perfectly. Arterial flow continued in the head and neck, bringing more blood from the heart. The veins, however, were completely compressed, leaving the blood no escape, building pressure on the brain. His head pounded with congestion, like the worst sinus headache imaginable. The eyes bulged. His face flushed red. He could taste blood in his mouth as small bleeding sites erupted in the moist, soft mucosa of the lips and mouth.
Then he felt it--the bizarre physiological result of muscle sphincters that spasm and relax uncontrollably. It was one of three known ways to achieve erection, even climax. Sleep. Sex. And hangings.
His eyes closed. All went black. The death grip was broken. The pulley squealed as the loosened rope raced around its wheel. His limp body plummeted to the floor, toppling the ladder.
Instinctively, he rose to his knees and untied the noose. He coughed twice, gasping for air. His chest swelled and his skinny shoulders heaved involuntarily. Gradually, the blackness improved to fuzzy vision. He regained his focus.
"Hey! What the hell is goin' on out there?"
It was his father yelling from inside the house. He always yelled. It seemed like the last time they'd actually had a normal conversation in the same room together was sometime before his mother died, before her teenage son found her limp body twirling from the rafters in the attic of their old house.
"Nothing." His voice squeaked; it wasn't from puberty.
"Break something and you'll get your ass beat!"
His old man was spoiling the revelry, so he blocked him out of his mind as he rose to a hunched-over position with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. The feeling was better than any runner's high, any rush of endorphins. Had he been with a buddy he would have skinned a high-five. But his friends would never have understood. Better to let them believe the bruises on his neck really were hickeys. For the time being, this was an experience unto himself.
He gathered up the rope and untied the knot. He had used it before. He would use it again. Practice makes perfect, his mother used to say. He was definitely approaching perfection. Someday, he would be the one to show others the way. Because he had been there. Many times.
And he knew the way back.
Part One
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
Chapter One.
The rain was a sign of good luck and happiness.
Andrea Henning had heard that old wives' tale at least thirty times today. She wondered if Mr. Gallup had ever conducted a poll to find out if couples who married on sunny days actually had higher divorce rates than those who waded through puddles on their way to the altar. Not that it really mattered. Rain on this wedding had been a virtual certainty. It was, after all, late winter in Seattle.
Andie--no one called her "Andrea"--wasn't bothered by the weather or any of the things a bride typically worried about. Maybe it was her training as an FBI agent, or maybe it was her innate common sense. Whenever something couldn't be controlled, Andie just dealt with it, and it usually worked out. Her crash diet had been a disaster, but the dress still fit perfectly. The best man was an idiot, yet he'd somehow remembered the marriage license. And the old candlelit church had never looked better. Bouquets of white roses with lace and pink ribbons adorned each pew. A long white runner stretched down the center aisle from the vestibule to the altar. The crowd was spread evenly, left side and right, soothed by a gentle harp as the last of four bridesmaids walked down the aisle. Rain or not, it was the wedding her mother had always told her to dream of.
Andie moved into the open double doorway in the rear of the church. The wedding consultant helped with the satin train behind her.
In front, the silver-haired minister waited at the altar, flanked on his right by bridesmaids dressed in red velvet dresses. To his left stood three young groomsmen and Andie's handsome husband-to-be. Rick looked nervous, even from a distance. His steely blue eyesglistened. They were almost glazed--probably from all the drinking his friends had inflicted on him last night. The rented tuxedo seemed a little tight for his chest and shoulders, but maybe he was just taking deep breaths. He would have been far more at ease in blue jeans. So would have Andie.
The sound of the harp faded away. The guests fell silent. All heads swiveled toward the back of the church.
Andie took her father's arm. Though a half foot shorter than her, he was a pillar of strength--normally. At the moment she could feel his hands trembling.
"Ready?" he asked.
She didn't reply. The time had come.
The pipe organ blared. Andie cringed. She had explicitly instructed the organist not to play the traditional "Here Comes the Bride." Her meddlesome mother had struck again.