by Randy Alcorn
Darrin Gallagher handed Diane Koos a heavy rosewood plaque. Her name was beautifully inscribed on its twenty-four-karat gold plate.
Diane gave a speech that would make Toastmasters proud—short, pithy, and clever, with the sort of credit-dispensing humility any community pillar could be proud to possess.
When the event concluded after countless photos, fawning hugs and handshakes, and multiple rounds of celebratory cocktails, it was 11:30 p.m. and time for Darrin Gallagher to escort Diane Koos to his car. They took the elevator to the parking garage. Darrin had one arm around Diane and one hand on his remote to open her door.
Out of the shadows stepped two young white men dressed in flights and thick-soled, heavy-laced black boots. One man was short and wiry, the other tall and beefy. Both had crops, and swastika tattoos covered their well-muscled arms.
The big one pushed Gallagher to the ground while the other grabbed Diane’s purse.
“Your wallet, man, and your car key. Quick!”
Gallagher tossed his key at the young man’s feet and pulled out his wallet, which he tossed as well.
Diane Koos wasn’t so cooperative. She pulled back on her purse, and the slim strap broke.
Her wiry assailant shoved her viciously against a concrete pillar. “Gimme the necklace, the bracelet, and the ring.”
“No!” she shouted. “Help! Help!”
The man punched her in the jaw. She staggered backward, but when he came at her again, she swung the heavy gold-plated plaque. Its sharp corner drew instant blood, leaving a gash in his cheek. The plaque fell to the ground. He reached for her necklace. She lashed at his face, digging her fingernails into his flesh.
The man screamed, one eye injured by a razor-sharp nail.
The taller perp ran to aid his injured comrade. Darrin Gallagher sat on the asphalt, stock-still. When it was clear he’d been forgotten, he snuck out to the street, where he pulled out his cell phone and punched 911. Just as someone answered, a patrol car, lights flashing, pulled into the parking garage. He jumped out of the way.
The car screeched to a stop, and a huge but nimble driver jumped out. By this time, one of the men held Diane Koos in a choke hold while the other had yanked off the necklace and bracelet and tried for the ring. She managed to bite his finger, and he drew a knife.
At breakneck speed, the massive officer grabbed the assailant’s shoulders and picked him up a foot off the ground, then smashed his forehead into the smaller man’s. He fell with a violent thud.
The wiry man put his knife to Diane Koos’s throat.
Without hesitation, the officer pulled his big Smith & Wesson and pointed it at the assailant’s forehead. “Drop the knife or you’re dead,” he growled.
The assailant, voice breaking, said, “Throw your gun toward the street, and I’ll let her go. If you don’t, I’ll kill her.”
“No, you won’t. Because you don’t want to give me any more reason to put a bullet in your left eye, followed by a bullet in your right eye and one more in your mouth as you drop to the ground. You want some white power, bucko? I’ll give you more than you can handle!”
“I’ll cut her throat!”
“You draw one drop of blood, you Aryan Nation lowlife, and you’ll be dead and in the fires of hell before you can say, ‘Adolf Hitler’s birthday.’”
The man, hardened in the school of hate, looked into the officer’s eyes and knew without the slightest doubt that the brown-uniformed colossus was ready, if not eager, to kill him on the spot. He looked at his buddy on the ground with the dented skull and dropped his knife.
“Good dog. Now let her go. Down on your face, Nazi boy, and kiss the asphalt like it was Hitler’s feet.”
He quickly obeyed.
“Hands behind your back.” Despite his bulk, the cop swiftly handcuffed the two men and called dispatch.
“693a. I’ve got two wannabe Aryan Nation street punks in custody here in the Civic Center parking garage. And I’ve got an injured woman; she needs an ambulance.”
“I’ll be okay,” Diane Koos said.
“The paramedics will decide that. They beat you up pretty good, lady.” He looked at the guy on the ground with the shredded face. “But obviously he got the worst of it.”
Diane Koos looked at him. “I thought you worked day shift.”
“I do. Frashour was sick and I volunteered since I had to miss my own shift.”
“Why’s that?”
“Got a memo ordering me to attend an all-day sensitivity training session. They told me it was a recommendation from the PIO.”
“Well, it’s lucky for these guys you came fresh from your training.”
Darrin Gallagher came forward out of the shadows. “Diane! Are you all right?”
“I guess so.”
“Man, that was just crazy! Those guys were nuts.”
“You might have stayed and helped the lady,” the officer said.
“They could have been armed!” Gallagher said.
“Right. They could have killed her, armed or not. Looks like they made your makeup run.”
Gallagher touched his cheek unconsciously. “I went to call the cops. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
The cop stared at him. “Someone else called first. You called as I drove in. Or did you call the TV station to get a film crew?”
The officer bent over and picked up the gold plaque, read it, then presented it to Diane Koos. As she reached for it, he saw that four of her fingernails were broken; globs of drying blood stained her fingertips.
Koos asked the officer, “Have you met Darrin Gallagher?”
“No. Seen him on TV, sides of buses, and in a couple of latrines. First time I’ve seen him with his makeup smudged, though. I recall his investigative report on police brutality. In fact, I believe I may have been in it.”
“I thought I recognized you!” Gallagher stepped back.
“Yeah, I’m a little hard to forget. Well, we both did our jobs tonight, Darrin. Yours was to run like a coward. Mine was to come and assist the only one of you two with guts. This is a brave lady; you might want to learn from her so I don’t have to come charging to your rescue if you ever get mugged by a gang of third-grade girls.”
“That’s uncalled for. And abusive!” Gallagher pulled out his smartphone and typed furiously with his thumbs. “You’re digging a big, fat hole for yourself. I’m filing a complaint with your superiors!”
“Take a number,” the cop said.
Koos glared at Gallagher. “You file a complaint, Darrin, and it’ll come to me. And when it does, I’ll tell the sheriff everything that happened tonight. And I’ll spread multiple copies around WOIA.”
The officer stared at the award-winning former news anchor with her torn dress, bruised face and neck, disheveled hair, and totaled fingernails. “Ma’am, is this cupcake your date?”
“No! I mean, well, he brought me here and planned to take me home.”
“The two of you make a good match. One of you could wear the pants in the family, and that same one doesn’t look half-bad in a dress.”
Both Gallagher and Koos stared at the cop with radically different expressions. Gallagher conjured images of features, exposés, firing, a civil lawsuit, and talking sense into his former coanchor.
Diane Koos reached out her bloody right hand and put it on the cop’s arm. “Thank you, Sergeant Bronson.”
He looked at her long and hard.
“Just doin’ my job.” He paused. “And, ma’am, it was my pleasure.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Adam walked to where Tom Lyman waited at the Whispering Pines Retirement Center.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting Victoria and Dylan for a couple of months now. Help me get this coat on, would you?”
As Adam assisted Tom, he asked, “Where’s the guy who always sat in that corner?”
“Andy Worthington? Andy passed away on Saturday.”
“Really?”
“I’m sorry to say
I don’t think he was ready to go. He’d become bitter. Thought his kids didn’t care. Never even met most of his own grandkids.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes. But I told Andy a half-dozen times, you can’t change other people. The only life we have the power to change is ours, and even then we need God’s help. I could never get him to think about Jesus. He refused to seek the one thing that could have brought him joy and hope.”
“I’m glad you cared enough about Andy to share the gospel with him.”
“This is where God has put me. As surely as he’s put missionaries in Africa and you at the sheriff’s department.”
Adam marveled at Tom’s wisdom. What he could glean from Tom, others—Dylan included—could glean from him. Godly men would pass the baton to one another, generation after generation. Adam was determined never to drop his again.
“Acts 17 says that God determined the times and places where each of us would live. It’s no coincidence that I’m here, Adam. God has determined the time set for Tom Lyman and the exact place he should live. And He’s done that so that I and those around me can seek Him and find Him. That’s my life’s calling.”
As Adam rolled him out the front door, Tom asked, “You plan to throw me in the bed of your truck?”
Adam laughed. “I borrowed a friend’s van with a sliding side door. It should be perfect.”
Adam lifted Tom into the backseat, then handed Tom his Bible.
“A couple of visits to a chiropractor and you’ll be fine,” Tom joked. He fell silent for a few moments, framing his words while Adam loaded the wheelchair and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Adam, in your journal notes you dropped off last time, you said part of your grief is never being able to hug your daughter again. I’ve wanted to talk to you about that. Don’t you believe in the resurrection?”
“Well, sure.”
“But the resurrection means that God will raise our bodies and join them with our spirits and that we’ll live forever with Him. I’ll tell you, nothing has been a greater encouragement to me. And once we’re reunited with the people we love, I’m eager to talk with Marianne again, walk with her, dance with her.”
“Dance with her? You think so?” Adam’s voice croaked at the thought. “I guess . . . I haven’t thought of it that way.”
Tom grinned. “Well, why wouldn’t we dance?”
“I do what you suggested—remind myself that while Emily’s body is dead, Emily is alive with Jesus in heaven. That helps a lot.”
“Exactly. And one day Emily’s soul will be reunited with her body. That’s the resurrection. So, Adam, I’m profoundly grateful for the time I had with Marianne here. But I’m also grateful for the eternity we’ll share in God’s presence. Your relationship with Emily hasn’t ended; it’s been interrupted. Take every precious memory you had with her here and remember those are only the beginning.”
Adam wiped his eyes.
“One day the thoughts in your journal will be a treasure for you, Adam. Sometimes I go back and read what I wrote the first year after Marianne died. It’s been fifteen years, and I still miss her, but I see how much God has done in me. I’ve learned to trust Him.”
“I want to trust Him. But I still don’t understand.”
Sometimes, Adam noticed, Tom would sit quietly before responding. He’d mine the caverns of his memory, which held treasures, some of them long hidden. He was old in a culture that valued the young, athletic, and glamorous—those who hadn’t purchased wisdom with decades of selfless living, courage, and compassion. Tom Lyman would never be featured in a magazine, secular or Christian. And yet . . . he was perhaps the closest likeness to Jesus that Adam had met.
Tom touched his Bible affectionately. “In Isaiah 55, God says as high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are God’s ways above our ways. If we could always understand God, it would mean He is as dumb as we are.”
“Well, I’m grateful that’s not the case.”
They both laughed.
In Adam’s driveway, he unfolded the wheelchair and helped Tom into it.
Victoria opened the front door. Adam tipped up the chair and wheeled Tom over the threshold, where Victoria waited, ready to hug him.
“What an honor to meet you, Victoria,” Tom said. “Where’s Dylan?”
Dylan shyly appeared from around the corner.
“So this is the track star! Your father told me about how great you’re doing. He’s so proud of how you took second in the 400!”
Dylan smiled.
Victoria served up a beef stew with corn bread muffins and a leafy salad loaded with cheddar cheese, tomatoes, onions, and homemade croutons. Before Adam prayed, Tom reached out to Victoria and Dylan, who in turn reached out to Adam.
“Father, thank You for Tom. Thanks for all the wisdom he has brought into my life. And thank You for Dylan and for Victoria and the work she has put into this meal. We are so grateful for You, Lord. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
“Amen!” Tom looked at Victoria. “Adam told you I like beef stew?”
“Yes, he did.”
“When he mentioned how good your beef stew is, I dropped a few hints, but he doesn’t always get it; you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Tom smiled broadly. “What a blessed man you are, Adam Mitchell! To have such a beautiful and charming wife and a strong and intelligent son. And how blessed they are to have a man who loves God and loves them. Now, if the rest of this beef stew lives up to the first bite, I’ll have to request deliveries to the retirement center!”
Dylan and Victoria seemed delighted to answer Tom’s many questions, and Adam was stunned at how much he’d learned about both when Tom finished.
“Now, I have a little bit of beef stew left and half a muffin. I understand there is a family member named Maggie. I would like to meet her.”
“Can I let her in, Adam?” Victoria asked.
“Sure, why not?”
Maggie ran in the back door and trotted straight to the stranger who held a bowl for her. She polished it off it in ten seconds as everyone laughed.
The family retired to the living room, where Maggie sat at Tom’s feet; her head rested on one of his knees.
“I know it’s been difficult for you all since Emily died.”
“It has,” Victoria said. “But God is faithful.”
“Yes. He’s not always easy to understand, but always faithful. When I took a bad fall six years ago, I told myself I would never walk again. I was miserable. Then one day I read about Christ’s resurrection, and God turned on a light.”
Adam watched Victoria and Dylan as they listened carefully to Tom’s words.
“I realized, ‘Well, of course I will walk again.’”
He turned to Dylan. “After the resurrection, I’ll race you, young man, and it will take everything you have to keep up with me!”
“Yes, sir!”
Suddenly Tom teared up. “Victoria, I look forward to introducing you to Marianne. She will really like you. And I look forward to meeting Emily too.”
Victoria couldn’t talk, but she smiled. She went to the kitchen and five minutes later brought back warm peach pie with French vanilla ice cream. Tom ceremoniously offered Maggie the remains from his dessert plate.
Victoria looked down at Maggie, head resting on Tom’s ankle. “I’m pretty sure Maggie thinks she’s in heaven right now!”
After Adam and Dylan returned from the retirement center, Adam told Victoria, “Tom was a huge hit tonight. And not just with Maggie. Dylan told me how much he liked him.”
“He’s quite a guy, isn’t he?”
“I told Tom about my tendency to believe the worst about people.”
“Like Frank Tyson.”
“Yeah. For starters. Well, it dawned on me that at the one drug bust when we had that brawl with the big guy and the couch got turned on its side, how hard would it be for a few bags to fall down one of the open air vent
s?”
“It’s possible.”
“On the other hand, I have to be sure I don’t ignore the evidence. One of the guys may be stealing drugs. But this could cost my relationships with other cops.”
“Why?”
“Because cops who snitch on other cops aren’t popular.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“Neither would I.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Adam arrived at Pearly’s fifteen minutes early.
The guys’ preferred table was taken, and while drawing his weapon would have cleared it, he looked for an alternative. He was headed for an empty table when he heard a woman’s throaty voice say, “Corporal Mitchell!”
He turned to see the perfectly made-up face of Diane Koos.
“Ms. Koos. Hello. What brings—?” He stopped in midsentence. His peripheral vision sent a message too bizarre to comprehend. Namely that Diane Koos shared a table—a comparatively small fraction of it—with none other than the human planetoid.
“Mitchell,” the cement mixer rumbled.
“Sergeant,” Adam said weakly. He made contact with Bronson’s bloodshot eyes. “What are you two . . . doing here?”
“That’s our business,” he growled.
Koos laughed and swatted Bronson’s arm. “Oh, Brad. Don’t be a cave troll!” She looked at Adam. “I told Brad breakfast was on me. When I asked where he wanted to go, you know what he said?”
“Pearly’s?”
“He said, ‘When I’m at Pearly’s, I’m happier than a pig in slop.’ Isn’t that hilarious?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“Go ahead, Brad; show him what’s in the bag.”
Bronson reluctantly pulled out a heavy gold-plated plaque. It said, “Albany Award for Courageous Community Service.” Diane Koos’s name was crossed out. Right beneath, in bold engraved lettering, it said, “Brad Bronson.”
“I had that done for him because of what he did for me.”
“See the corner of the plaque, how it’s banged up?” Bronson said with a hangman’s grin. “That’s where Diane whacked the punk in the face.”
