The Finish Line

By Donald A. Dery

Ashley Webb suffered two devastating losses: the death in combat of her fiancé, and later the death of her husband from the Boston Marathon bombing. Her sole comfort was her young son, but depression prohibited her from embracing the romantic overtures of a third man. She could not bring herself to open up, convinced she was not entitled to the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go To Publish
• Release date: Jun 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950073726

Donald A. Dery

Donald A. Dery is a former journalist and senior executive in marketing and corporate communications, with extensive experience in the U.S., Europe and Canada. He currently is a consultant in both disciplines. He is the author of a three-volume history of the sugar industry and slavery in Antigua, West Indies. The Finish Line is his third novel. He lives in Portsmouth, R.I. and Antigua with his wife, Rowena.

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The Finish Line

Copyright © 2020 by Donald A. Dery

ISBN-13: 978-1-950073-72-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

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Jo-Ann, Bobby, David, Mike & Robin:

you are so very special; I love you tons.

Rowena, your support is awesome.

Thank you for putting up with me.

Also by Donald A. Dery

Fiction

Smooth Talking Bastard

It’s Not Easy

Non-fiction

Plantations of Antigua:

The Sweet Success of Sugar

Volume I: St. John’s Parish

Volume II: St. George’s Parish & St. Peter’s Parish

Volume III: St. Paul’s Parish, St. Philip’s Parish

& St. Mary’s Parish.

Chapter 1

April 15, 2013

The bomb detonated at 2:29.

It was an ear-splitting THUMP followed immediately by screams of agony as thousands of small nails flew at warp speed in all directions. They ripped through skin, penetrated deeply to sever arteries and veins, mangle organs, tear muscles and nerves, shatter bones, rip off arms, legs, feet, and scatter bodies of spectators and competitors like garbage.

Ashley was knocked unconscious. She and her fiancé, Chris Dwyer, had been curb sitting. She was tucked between his legs, both of them loudly cheering a few runners approaching the marathon finish line less than 100 yards from where they crouched.

Her vision was fuzzy as she slowly began to recover. She could not understand where she was, why her shoulders, arms and head ached so severely. She wanted to brush her auburn hair away from her face, but moving an arm was too painful.

She was surrounded by lots of loud noise, people yelling, hollering, screaming, agonizing calls for help. She heard dozens, hundreds of feet pounding the pavement around her, people yelling Help! or Move, damn it, move!

Her eyes slowly focused, she was lying face down in the street, the blacktop red with her blood. She could sense people pushing, shoving, fleeing the area. Screams of agony, Oh God, help me!, penetrated the thunder of pounding feet.

Ashley turned her head slightly and saw Chris lying face down in the gutter. The back of his shirt and head were bright red with blood. She wanted to reach for him but it was too painful to move. She caught a glimpse of the sidewalk behind him, herds of panicked people. A woman stepped on Chris, stumbled, fell, rolled to her feet and scrambled away.

A second bomb detonated minutes later and hundreds more people panicked and stormed down the sidewalks and street seeking safety.

It was Patriot’s Day, the Massachusetts holiday which commemorates Lexington and Concord, the early battles of the Revolutionary War. In recent decades it featured the annual running of the Boston Marathon which, on this day, was collapsing into another kind of war.

EMTs rushed against the tidal wave of the swarming crowds, yelling Move! Move! Move! as they struggled to fight their way up through the retreating throngs to reach the hundreds of injured spectators and fallen runners, squirming, crying, shrieking in misery.

Ashley couldn’t yell or speak, the hysterical screaming and noise of thousands of feet pounding around her, the constant yelling for help. She began to cry, banged her forehead on the pavement, frustrated that she could not reach Chris, frightened that he might be mortally wounded.

She suddenly felt someone gently roll her over, cradle her head and upper torso. A man. Her vision was still cloudy. She heard his voice, soft, calm, no indication of panic.

You’re going to be okay, Miss. We’ll get you into an ambulance very quickly. Stay with me. Look at me, he commanded. "Don’t close your eyes.

My name is Jack. I’m a doctor. Her eyes closed involuntarily and he gently shook her. No! Keep looking at me! Don’t close your eyes! Stay with me!"

Ashley was barely aware of being lifted onto a stretcher and slid into an ambulance. Someone stuck a needle in her forearm, someone else wiped her forehead where it hit the road.

She passed out.

Chapter 2

First Aid

Ashley woke, dimly aware of a woman dressed in white adjusting an intravenous needle stuck in her right arm. She blinked several times, eyes focused a little more clearly, tried to speak, only a hoarse whisper escaped her throat.

Where . . . am I?

The nurse smiled. You’re in the hospital, Ashley. The Boston Trauma Center.

Why?

You were watching the Boston Marathon. Do you remember that? There was a bomb, and lots of people were injured, including you. Your injuries are not too severe, Ashley. The doctor says you should feel a lot better in a few days.

How long . . . here?

The Marathon was Monday afternoon. This is Tuesday morning, nine o’clock. You had surgery yesterday. Are you comfortable? Would you like some water?

Chris? Ashley choked. Chris? she whispered.

I’m sorry, I have no idea who that is or where he might be. There was a large number of injured, and the victims were taken to six different hospitals.

Fiancé . . . married soon.

I’m sure we’ll locate him. Just give us time. What’s his last name?

Dwyer . . . sat on curb together.

Okay. You rest now. I’ll speak with the doctor, and we’ll put out a search for Chris Dwyer. He’s either here or at one of the other hospitals if he was injured.

Blood . . . lots of blood. Ashley’s eyes began to water.

A doctor suddenly appeared at her bedside.

Good morning, young lady. I’m Doctor Jennings. How are you feeling?

Chris . . . where . . . is he?

We’re going to keep you medicated for a while. You had surgery yesterday to remove a lot of nails embedded in both shoulders, the back of your upper arms and neck. Some of them were quite deep. Your arms are bound in slings to keep you from moving them until you’ve healed. You have a lot of stitches.

I’m okay?

Yes! Uncomfortable for a while, but you’ll be fine. You’re very lucky, given your proximity to the bomb blast.

My name?

Your driver’s license. It was in your purse, slung over your arm. Also, your parents were here last evening, and they will be returning later today.

Doctor . . . helped me in street.

Yes! The EMTs said he helped several injured people. His name is Doctor Jack Richards. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Children’s Hospital. You and others are very lucky he was on the scene and so quick to respond.

Richards . . . Doctor Richards, Ashley repeated.

The nurse interrupted.

Doctor, Ashley is engaged to a man named Chris Dwyer, who was with her yesterday. She was asking if we know where he is.

We don’t yet, Ashley. But we’ll find him. He’s either here or in one of the other hospitals if he was injured. I want you to rest now. Your folks will be here in a few hours.

Ashley tried to nod, could not move her head, closed her eyes.

The nurse reached up and touched a switch on a plastic line, and Ashley began to get drowsy. She was worried about Chris. Where? How is he? When can I see him?

She drifted off to sleep.

Dr. Jennings motioned to the nurse and they stepped out of the room.

Her fiancé is in critical condition, in ICU. We’re not sure he’ll make it, but let’s not tell her that for now. Stall, tell her we’re looking for him.

Okay, Doctor, thank you.

Chapter 3

Where Is He?

Ashley’s health improved considerably over the next three days, but emotionally she was a wreck. No one knew, or would tell her if they did know, where Chris was and what condition he was in. She was worried sick about him, his whereabouts, his condition.

Why won’t they tell me? Is he dead? Maybe that’s why. She was panicked, distraught, borderline depressed. The sun had gone out of her life.

For god’s sake, tell me about my fiancé!

She remembered being nestled between his legs as he sat on the curb. Her arms rested on his knees as they watched the early runners approach the finish line of the Marathon. A dozen or so runners had been approaching them, pushing their aching legs toward the white stripe after twenty-six miles pounding the pavement, exhausted, drained, willing themselves to finish.

Ashley and Chris had been screaming to loudly cheer them on. And then nothing . . . Her world went blank.

Where is he? I know he was hurt? Why can’t they find him? Blood, so much blood. Did he survive?

She was worried, angry.

Her concern for Chris reopened all the horrible memories associated with the Dick episode, as she chose to call it.

Chapter 4

Three Years Earlier

Lt. Richard Manning was excited to be going to his cousin Rachael’s surprise birthday party. They had been very close growing up, lived in the same neighborhood, hung out with the same crowd. But he had not seen her in more than two years because of his military deployments to Afghanistan.

His kid brother Carl was driving the car (he knew where Rachael’s parents lived). Dick kept pressing his foot to the passenger-side floor as if to make the car go faster. That wasn’t likely in Carl’s jalopy.

They pulled onto the residential street lined on both sides by parked vehicles. The party obviously was already in full swing. Carl squeezed his two-door junkie between a pickup truck and a fairly new BMW. They both laughed as they exited Carl’s car: the truck had a sign on its tailgate which blared Sperm Donor.

They walked up the front steps and through the open front door into a mass of humanity laughing, drinking, dancing, clearly having a terrific time. Carl headed for the dining room and food; Dick headed for the kitchen, where he assumed he would find the bar. He was right. He grabbed a cold beer out of a cooler and turned to look for Rachael, but he never got beyond three feet into the living room. He was cornered by two cute twenty-somethings eager to know the handsome Lieutenant in his crisp Army uniform with the row of medals.

Dick stayed with them chatting and laughing for several minutes, then his eye caught a knockout gal dancing. Her body moved like it was oiled, her auburn hair swept left and right, and her eyes, her lips, her smile . . . she was stunning. Dick hadn’t seen anything so gorgeous in months. He was accustomed to Afghan women draped head-to-toe in black burqas. They resembled closed umbrellas.

He managed to gracefully slip away from the female trap, but Miss Knockout had moved on to lord knows where. Dick roamed from living room to dining room to kitchen and back again, completing the revolution several times. He saw her often, but she was always engaged with other people and he could never seem to catch her eye.

He desperately wanted to meet her before she left the party, decided to make a frontal attack and stepped between the knockout and the fella she was speaking with. Dick took her hand, smiled, and dropped to one knee.

I’m Rachael’s cousin, Dick Manning, and I’d kill to know you.

They both laughed, and the other fella walked away in defeat.

The knockout said: We’re already holding hands and you’re down on one knee. That’s a great beginning! She was still laughing.

Her name was Ashley Webb. They stood together chatting for several minutes, danced several times to big band music. Dick was able to hold her close, gave her a Happy Birthday kiss, and before the party was over they had agreed to have dinner the following evening.

They began dating regularly, got engaged several weeks later during dinner at Top of the Hub, just before Dick’s third deployment to Afghanistan. He gave Ashley an Army ring so large she wore it on a gold neck chain, the ring nestled between her breasts. She gave Dick an earring he pinned to his underwear.

He assured her he would not be in a combat zone in Afghanistan, but an enemy sniper’s bullet ended his life.

His loss struck Ashley extremely hard.

Dick was the very first man she truly loved.

Chapter 5

Goodbye

Dick hailed from northern California, the Napa Valley area, where his parents owned a small but successful vineyard. He had shared with Ashley a litany of funny stories about he and his brother racing up and down the long rows of grape plants. The fun disappeared when they became old enough to assist in the harvesting, hot back-breaking work.

In high school, and again in college, Dick’s chase switched from his brother to cute coeds, which he found far more interesting and fun. He joined ROTC in college, went active after graduation, and ultimately became an Army Ranger. He had served two deployments in Afghanistan, and was three months into his third when tragedy struck.

His parents insisted that he be buried close to home rather than in Arlington National Cemetery in Washington. It would