Hideaway

Shivers cascaded through him.
    Blood, heated to one hundred degrees, began to move through the clear plastic IV line and into the body through a thigh vein, surging rhythmically to the artificial pulse of the bypass machine.
    Jonas depressed the plungers halfway on each of the three syringes, introducing heavy doses of the free-radical scavengers into the first blood passing through the line. He waited less than a minute, then swiftly depressed the plungers all the way.
    Helga had already prepared three more syringes according to his instructions. He removed the depleted ones from the IV ports and introduced the full syringes without injecting any of their contents.
    Ken had moved the portable defibrillation machine next to the patient. Subsequent to reanimation, if Harrison's heart began to beat erratically or chaotically—fibrillation—it might be coerced into a normal rhythm by the application of an electric shock. That was a last-hope strategy, however, for violent defibrillation could also have a serious adverse effect on a patient who, having been recently brought back from the dead, was in an exceptionally fragile state.
    Consulting the digital thermometer, Kari said, “His body temperature's up to only fifty-six degrees.”
    “Sixty-seven minutes,” Gina said.
    “Too slow,” Jonas said.
    “External heat?”
    Jonas hesitated.
    “Let's go for it,” Ken advised.
    “Fifty-seven degrees,” Kari said.
    “At this rate,” Helga said worriedly, “we're going to be past eighty minutes before he's anywhere near warm enough for the heart to kick in.”
    Heating pads had been placed under the operating-table sheet before the patient had been brought into the room. They extended the length of his spine.
    “Okay,” Jonas said.
    Kari clicked the switch on the heating pads.
    “But easy,” Jonas advised.
    Kari adjusted the temperature controls.
    They needed to warm the body, but potential problems could arise from a too-rapid reheating. Every resuscitation was a tightrope walk.
    Jonas tended to the syringes in the IV ports, administering additional doses of vitamins E and C, tirilazad mesylate, and phenyl tertiary butyl nitrone.
    The patient was motionless, pale. He reminded Jonas of a figure in a life-size tableau in some old cathedral: the supine body of Christ sculpted from white marble, rendered by the artist in the position of entombment as He would have rested just prior to the most successful resurrection of all time.
    Because Kari Dovell had peeled back Harrison's eyelids for the ophthalmoscopic examination, his eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and Gina was putting artificial tears in them with a dropper to insure that the lenses did not dry out. She hummed “Little Surfer Girl” as she worked. She was a Beach Boys fan.
    No shock or fear was visible in the cadaver's eyes, as one might have expected. Instead, they held an expression that was almost peaceful, almost touched by wonder. Harrison looked as if he had seen something, in the moment of death, to lift his heart.
    Finishing with the eyedrops, Gina checked her watch. “Sixty-eight minutes.”
    Jonas had the crazy urge to tell her to shut up, as though time would halt as long as she was not calling it out, minute by minute.
    Blood pumped in and out of the bypass machine.
    “Sixty-two degrees.” Helga spoke so sternly that she might have been chastising the dead man for the laggardly pace of his reheating.
    Flat lines on the EKG.
    Flat lines on the EEG.
    “Come on,” Jonas urged. “Come on, come on.”

4
    He entered the museum of the dead not through one of its upper doors but through the waterless lagoon. In that shallow depression, three gondolas still lay on the cracked concrete. They were ten-passenger models that had long ago been tipped off the heavy chain-drive track along which they'd once carried their happy passengers. Even at night, wearing sunglasses, he could see they did not have the swan-neck prows of real gondolas in Venice, but sported leering gargoyles as figureheads, hand-carved from wood, garishly painted, perhaps fearsome at one time but now cracked, weathered, and peeling. The lagoon doors, which in better days had swung smoothly out of the way at the approach of each gondola, were no longer motorized. One of them was frozen open;
    the other was closed, but it was hanging from only two of its four corroded hinges. He walked through the open door into a passageway that was far blacker than the night