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There was no solace to be found--not in religion, meditation, work, exhausting physical exercise, or raging fits. All had been tried as a means of easing the wrenching pain of loss. Yet, it prevailed. Peace was unattainable. Each breath was laden with sorrow. The world had been reduced to a tiny sphere of abject misery. Very little stimuli penetrated the encapsulating grief. To one so steeped in bereavement, the world seemed monochromatic, soundless, flavorless. The grief was so severe, it was paralyzing. The untimely death had been unjust and infuriating. Why had this happened to them? No two people had ever loved as deeply. Their love had been rare and pure and should have endured for years, then extended beyond death. They'd talked about it, pledged everlasting love to each other. Now, the immortality of their love was impossible because the cache where it was stored had been extracted and given to someone else.
    Ghastly, that postmortem vandalism. First robbed of life, then robbed of the core of existence, robbed of the chamber where that sweet spirit had dwelled. Now somewhere, inside a stranger, that beloved heart was still beating. Moans echoed softly in the small room. "I can't bear it another day. I can't." Although the loved one lay dead in a cemetery plot, the heart lived on. The heart lived on. That was a haunting preoccupation, tenacious in its grip, shackling and inescapable. The surgeon's scalpel had been swift and sure. Painful as it was to accept, what had been done was irreversible. The heart continued to live while the spirit was unfairly doomed to eternal incompleteness. The soul would search endlessly and in vain for its home, while the still-beating heart continued to mock the sanctity of death. Unless . . . There was a way! Suddenly the keening ceased. Breathing became agitated and choppy with excitement. The mourner listened to the rioting, fleeting, galvanizing thoughts suddenly unfurling. The idea came alive, took shape, divided, expanded, rapidly, like an ovum just fertilized. Once born, it frolicked inside a brain that for months had been stagnant with despair. There was a way to achieve release from this unbearable torment. Only one way. One solution that swiftly evolved from that single cell of an idea and suddenly was fully formed. It was converted into words that were whispered precisely, with the reverence of a disciple to whom a divine mission has been revealed. "Yes. Of course, of course. I'll find that dearest of hearts. And when I do, mercifully and with love, to reunite our spirits and give us peace, I'll stop it."
    Chapter Seven
    October 10, 1991
    Cat Delaney circulated through the ballroom like a bright butterfly, lighting briefly to chat with one group of party-goers before flitting off to the next. Everyone with whom she spoke was dazzled by her verve and vivacity. "She's incredible." Dr. Dean Spicer, who'd been proudly observing Cat from the sidelines, turned toward the man who had extended the compliment. Dean had been Cat's date to countless social affairs, and he knew many of the people with whom she worked. However, this tall, distinguished gentleman was a stranger to him. "Yes, she is rather incredible," he replied conversationally. "My name's Bill Webster." Dean introduced himself as they shook hands. "Weren't you Ms. Delaney's cardiologist?" "Initially," Dean said, pleased that his name had been recognized. "Before our personal relationship got in the way." Webster smiled with understanding, then returned his gaze to Cat. "She's a charming young woman."
    Dean wondered who Webster was and why he'd been invited to this network-sponsored, black-tie gala to commemorate the one-year anniversary of Cat's transplant. Executives from network affiliate stations were there, along with commercial sponsors, members of the news media, talent agents, actors, and others who had a vested interest in the success of Passages. Curious about Webster, Dean asked, "How'd you recognize my name?"