Prologue I died three days ago. I never saw it coming. It had been a difficult day at the hospital, shocking even--but when was it ever different? St. Benedict's is one complication after another, especially in my line of work. There are too many patients, too many bureaucrats, and too few happy endings. Midday, I took a long stroll through the children's ward just to hear the high-pitched voices raised in song or play. Even when there is great pain, the young always seem capable of mustering optimism and innocence, two qualities I see too infrequently. "Dr. Thomas, you're pretty." "Thank you, Jonathan." "My dad thinks you're pretty, too." "I'm flattered." And I was, genuinely. Compliments are sparse in my line of work. "When I get better, do you think you could come over for dinner? Not for me. But I think my dad gets lonesome sometimes . . . "I'm married, Jonathan." "Oh . . . "But I'd still love to have dinner with you sometime." With innocence can also travel disappointment, but here at the hospital, time travels like quicksilver and long-term consequences are overwhelmed by the need for emotional satisfaction in the here and now. I was so accustomed to thinking of my patients' immediate happiness, I never realized how quickly my own happiness could be curtailed. This was not a day like any other. What I saw in the hot lab disturbed me, perhaps more than I was willing to admit to myself. I didn't know how to respond. I did not perceive it as a tolling of the bell, as a sign that the End of Days was upon me. I climbed into my Land Rover and headed for home. The drive to Skiatook is almost forty minutes even if I don't get caught in a traffic snag, and the drive down Lombard Lane is always dark. Too many curvy country roads with little traffic and no witnesses. Deep ravines on either side. Not the place to be driving after a long hard day's work in the healing arts. A girl had to be careful. All I saw was a flash of light and suddenly I lost control of the Rover. Heat, squealing tires, heart racing, eyes searching desperately for the road. The impact was sudden, shattering. The wheel wrenched out of my grasp, sending slivers of pain racing up my right arm. My Rover lurched off the road into a ravine, fell for what seemed an eternity, and crashed. Did I hit a tree? A house? I still don't know. I only know it hurt. I blacked out. Not from the impact, though that was fantastic, unlike anything I had experienced in my life. I blacked out from the pain. And then I died. I awoke many hours later, unsure of anything. Where was I? What had happened? I had no answers. Answers are for the living, not the dead. I tried to make an inventory of everything I knew, everything about which I could be certain. I could not move. Not an inch. Not so much as to scratch my nose. I was in excruciating agony--I would describe it as unbearable, except that I did bear it, I had to, I had no choice. I still have no choice. There's something sharp and metallic piercing my left leg! Please, God, is there no mercy? I've helped so many others cope with their pain, can no one help me? It's bleeding and infected and I can't move and I can't even see and I just want this torture to be over. I don't care how. It hurts so badly. Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts! I catch my breath, inhale deeply, murmur my mantra, and try to block the agony out of my mind. No help has come. I have no reasonable expectation of rescue. Dennis and I chose to build out in the far reaches of Skiatook for a reason. We were on a spiritual journey, trying to nourish our souls and find a better way of life. We sought seclusion, the peace that comes from knowing that you Excerpted from Capitol Offense by William Bernhardt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.