Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  But hard as he looked, he couldn’t locate a jury anywhere. Only the Judge.

  There was one Book beside these other books. It was written in a strange language, but somehow he could read it. The Lamb’s Book of Life. It contained the names of people who were as guilty as all the others, but who would be pardoned because they had bowed their knees to One who had been slain for their crimes. Doc could see many names in that book, names of people from every nation. A few he recognized. There was Finney’s, and each member of his family. Why were some names there and others not? This was intolerable discrimination.

  His name was not there. He had made sure it would not be. Why would he want it to be? He was glad he had not seen Jake’s name either, though he knew he’d seen but a tiny fraction of the names there. At least Jake and I will be together, he thought, he hoped. As soon as he thought it he realized it was not true. Even if they were together in hell, it would be in utter misery. But misery loves company, and there was love of nothing in hell. Even if Jake were here they would not be together. He was alone. All alone. For eternity. Grief and rage warred with each other for control of his mind. Hell was not just confinement, but a growing cancer, gnawing at him, eating away at him, devouring him.

  The most frightening thing in the scene that ran through his mind was people bowing their knees before the One who sat on the throne. The sheer power and magnitude of the Judge seemed to fall upon them, and every knee bowed, not out of repentance or loving submission, but out of inability to bear the weight of judgment laid upon them. Doc shuddered at the thought of his knee touching the ground before such a tyrant. No. He would not allow it. And yet … many once mighty men further up in the line were falling to their knees in terror.

  The future scene vanished from his mind as inexplicably as it had come. He turned his memory to his days on earth, but panicked as he found it increasingly hard to remember what had happened there. He wanted to, for memories of what he had accomplished, things he had done, awards he had won, were at least a distraction, something to occupy his mind, a sort of solace. But everything was closing out on him, leaving nothing but the desperate reality of the moment.

  He wanted to think of something else, anything else. But all he could think of was timeless unending aloneness. An eternal fire fueled by hate and bitterness and … yes, and bigotry toward those he had loved to call bigots, hate toward those he had called hatemongers. He rejected all that was not himself. And all that was left was himself, a shrinking shriveled version of himself that could not thrive without the presence of the Other he so despised. Now, finally, the self he had loved he began to despise.

  Words from the past haunted him. “But the fact is, there is a God and you will stand before him.” No! The thought of suicide came to him. Physician-assisted suicide, he mused, still thinking of himself as a doctor, though there was no one here to heal, neither was there the power to heal.

  Yes, I’ll end this. I’ll just go to sleep. I’ll cheat death and hell.

  He had no tool with which to inflict harm on himself, nor did this body, though capable of great suffering, seem capable of being harmed. His body was like a bush that burned but was not consumed. The pain that could neither end nor be relieved seared his mind, now in a fearful craze.

  Thirst without water to quench it. Hunger without food to satisfy it. Loneliness without company to assuage it. There was no God here. He’d gotten his wish. On earth he’d managed to reject God while still getting in on so many of the blessings and provisions of God. But it was now clear, excruciatingly clear, the absence of God meant the absence of all God gives. No one could have good without the God who is the source of all good. No God, no good. Forever.

  Doc was overwhelmed with the horror of it all. Doctor Gregory Lowell had wanted a world where no one else was in charge, where no order was forced upon him. He had finally gotten it.

  He missed the sound of laughter. There was no laughter here. There could be no laughter where there was no hope. The awful realization descended on him that there was no storyline here. No opening scene, no developing plot, no climax, no resolution. No character development. No travel, no movement. Only constant nothingness, going nowhere. This was Doc’s first day in hell. And he knew, despite every protestation erupting from within him, that every day would be the same, and of his days here there could be no end. Excruciating eternal boredom. It was all so terribly unfair.

  For a moment he longed to be in heaven, to be in the very presence of God. But he could not allow this God-hunger to continue. He could not face God’s existence, much less his goodness and justice, and the commentary it made on all the inexorable choices that had shaped his life in the other world, and determined his destiny here.

  A wave of something came across him. He sensed it was some extension of the presence of an omnipotent God, like a wind blowing through the deserts of hell. It was the same presence that in heaven caused men to be filled with joy and awe and love. But here even God’s love felt like wrath and his joy like torture. The consuming fire of God that was purity and goodness and comfort to those who loved the light was blinding searing punishment to those who loved the darkness. The same fire of God that was life-giving warmth in heaven, drawing all to huddle around it rejoicing, here was a destructive life-consuming inferno compelling all to flee in terror.

  “Get away from me! Get away!”

  In horror and revulsion Doc tried to escape the One who had finally consented to withdraw from him, but even then could not finally be escaped. God’s very existence was a mortal insult, an eternal slap in his face. It was not enough for God to withdraw. He must cease to exist. If only God were no longer God, this misery would be endurable.

  Hell was merely heaven refused. Denial had always been Doc’s solace, and now that he could not deny the reality of the Other, his only solace was gone. Once you left earth there was no spin or twist on the truth, no angle on it, only the truth itself. As Finney’s heaven had started on earth, so Doc’s hell had started there. Now he was experiencing its final fruition.

  No end. No sleep. No escape. Questions pointed their mocking bony fingers at him. Why had he been so sure about what he did not know? Why had he been so stubborn, insisting on being his own god, living by his own rules? He’d been a fool, and would remain a fool, for all eternity.

  No, no, no! I am not a fool. Finney was the fool. It was Finney. Not me. Not me! Not me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jake left the Trib at 3:30, December 23, not at all in the holiday spirit. He was bone weary of putting out fires, making explanations, and second-guessing everyone’s looks and glances. How could he focus on turning out decent columns when his mind was torn between the controversies springing up around him and the perplexing mystery of his friends’ murder? He decided to drive home the long way, the way that took him by Lifeline Medical Center.

  He passed by the clinic where he’d talked with Marsdon, then drove in the hospital entrance about three hundred feet further, parking in the same row as when he came to meet with Mary Ann. Part of him wanted to drop by Doc’s old office and see her, to be with her, maybe ask her to dinner and then … who knows? He decided instead to go back to ICU, where his friends had spent their last moments on earth and where his life had taken such a wild turn from which it now threatened never to regain control. Maybe he’d bump into Simpson or one of two or three doctors on his list neither he nor Ollie had found time to talk with yet. Maybe fate would connect him with somebody, anybody, who could fill in the blanks, link him with just the right piece of information about Doc and who might have taken him out.

  Jake wandered into the ICU waiting room, reliving in vivid detail all that happened there the day after the accident. He sat staring at the security door he’d sneaked through eight weeks ago, as if it might magically open and yield the missing pieces to the puzzle.

  Suddenly two nurses burst out the door. Both seemed upset, one puffy eyed, as if she’d been crying. He thought he recognized her. J
ake followed them out to the hallway. They turned a corner into a recessed area, where they stopped, thinking they were outside anyone’s hearing.

  “I’m so tired of it, Laura! Wheeling in bodies right and left, pressured to make room for more. It’s starting to feel more like warehouse inventory than health care.”

  “I know, I know. But that’s the way it is. It’s nobody’s fault. There’s nothing we can do about it, Robin.”

  Robin. Of course. It was Doc’s ICU nurse, the one Dr. Simpson bawled out after Jake infiltrated the hallowed halls of ICU.

  “The shift’s almost over. Call it a day, all right? I’ve got to get back in there.”

  Robin said thanks, and the other nurse marched back to ICU, past Jake. He walked up to Robin as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping. The moment she recognized Jake, Nurse Robin froze.

  “Why are you here? You came to talk?”

  Jake looked at her, puzzled. She was nervous, suspicious, uptight. The stress of being an ICU nurse was taking its toll. “Uh, just taking a stroll, but if you’ve got a minute, maybe we could chat. Want to sit down somewhere?”

  Just then two doctors rounded the corner, startling Robin. She’s a basket case. Jake recognized one of the doctors. Simpson. That’s who I need to talk to. What a stroke of luck.

  “Dr. Simpson?”

  Simpson and the other doctor stopped and turned around, both busy, weary and in no mood to be waylaid in the hall. Simpson stared at Jake just a moment before the light of recognition turned on.

  “Woods? Jake Woods. How are you, Jake?” The initial ice melted into warmth as Simpson seemed to take pride in introducing the well-known columnist to his colleague, making it sound as though he and Jake were old buddies. It helped that the other doctor lit up on hearing Jake’s name.

  After the three chatted a minute, Jake remembered Robin. He turned to tell her he’d catch her some other time, but she’d already left. It was no surprise. Anyone that nervous wouldn’t want to hang around two doctors and a journalist.

  “Dr. Simpson, any chance I could talk to you for just five minutes?”

  Simpson said, “Okay. Sure.”

  The other doctor (Jake had already forgotten his name) said it was good to meet him and headed off down the hallway. Simpson directed Jake around the corner to a reasonably private bench in the hallway. Once they were seated, Jake cut right to the heart.

  “There’s an investigation into Greg Lowell’s death. It wasn’t an accident.”

  Simpson turned pale. “What? What are you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you somebody murdered Greg.”

  “Murdered him?” Unnerved, Simpson stared at Jake, making him reconsider his tactics. Maybe he had been too blunt.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “But … how do you know?”

  “Somebody cut the tie-rods on his car. The police are certain it was deliberate.”

  Simpson caught his breath, and finally started to relax. “That’s terrible. But what can I do for you?”

  “This isn’t for a story. I’m helping out a police detective, who’s a friend of mine. I’ve talked with a few other doctors. Can you tell me about anyone who didn’t get along with Doc?”

  “Well, I got along with him as well as anyone. He was strong willed, for sure, but we all are. You had to let some things slide and focus on his positive side, which far outweighed the negatives. His skills were incredible. He was maybe the finest surgeon I ever worked with. We did a few transplants together, and when something would start to go wrong, you could hear panic in other doctors’ voices, but never his. The guy was unflappable. People who didn’t get along with him? Sure, I can toss out some names, for what it’s worth. Not that anyone who works at this hospital would sabotage somebody’s car!”

  Simpson came up with now familiar names, with similar assessments to those he’d gotten from Mary Ann and the others.

  “Then there was Dr. Marsdon.”

  “What about Marsdon?”

  “There’s a guy who hated Greg’s guts. Major conflict. All the time. Marsdon’s a bureaucrat at heart. Greg was the type to do what was necessary. Get the job done. He was my kind of doctor.” He looked at Jake. “You come up with some other leads outside the hospital?”

  When Jake mentioned abortion, fetal tissue research, and RU-486, Simpson really lit up.

  “Now I think you’re on to something! Those people couldn’t stand Greg. You just look at those picket signs. You think they’re not happy he’s dead? It’s hard to believe anybody would kill him, but if anybody would, it would be them. Listen, Jake, I’ve got to run. Hope you find the guy that messed with Greg’s car.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Simpson.”

  “It’s Barry. Glad you’ve recovered so well, Jake. You look a lot better than when I last saw you sneaking around ICU!”

  “Don’t remind me. And thanks again.”

  Jake caught a whiff of morning coffee, saw the light peeking through his bedroom miniblinds, and took his first blurry-eyed look at the big red digits of the clock. 8:42 A.M. About two hours later than he expected. It was December 24.

  Every year with the Trib, Jake had worked on Christmas Eve day. But this year he said no. He recycled an old holiday column and left it at that. His thoughts had returned to childhood and how special this day had been. And how special it had been for three women in his life, none of whom he shared the holidays with any longer—Mom, Janet, and Carly.

  In his childhood, this had been the big day of the year for the Woods family, with turkey and stuffing and potatoes cooking all day, and the big dinner about four or five o’clock. Aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas were joined by single people with no family around, who were adopted for the day. Presents were opened at six, because they couldn’t fend off the begging children any longer. It was a day of conversation, laughter, and game playing, especially Parcheesi and Monopoly, and for the adults, Pinochle.

  Jake recalled his brother Bryce throwing a handful of snack mix in his face after Jake had put a hotel on Park Place and Bryce landed on it and went broke. Jake reached for the nearest thing to retaliate with, grabbing his glass of Byerly’s orange soda. Jake’s initial thrill in watching Bryce’s white T-shirt turn orange turned to horror when the rest of the splash soaked into Mom’s white and red Christmas tablecloth.

  Jake and Bryce were not close, as brothers go, but having been in the trenches together, having killed and rescued each other in war games in the ten acres of wheat behind the house, there would always be a bond. Jake thought about Bryce and his wife Carol, and kids Jennifer, Brian, and … what was the youngest one’s name? Jake was embarrassed he couldn’t remember, and it nailed home how much he’d lost touch with family.

  Ever since Mom’s Alzheimer’s had flared up, family contact had become rare and perfunctory. Bryce called occasionally. He’d ask, “How’s Mom?” Jake would say, “Not much change,” not volunteering he hadn’t visited her for two months. Of course, Bryce hadn’t seen her for a year. A thousand miles away, sure, but he flew on business trips all the time. He could come see Mom if he wanted to. Living in the same city, though, Jake knew his excuses were lamer than Bryce’s.

  Mom was the glue of the family. Not Dad, who could take or leave Christmas, never remembered a birthday, didn’t even know which presents were from him since Mom had picked them out. Not Jake or Bryce, whose lives revolved around friends and sports and school activities, then later military and college and getting started in business and having their own families. Even after Dad had died, Mom always got them together for Christmas and made phone calls on birthdays. But as her health failed, especially her mind, the glue lost its adhesive, and the Woods family gradually broke out of Mom’s orbit.

  Mom was Christmas. Dad’s only job was to bring home the tree. Even that Mom picked out because Dad didn’t have the taste or the patience to make a good choice.

  I’ll never forget that pathetic noble fir he brought home one year. A smile came to h
is lips as he remembered Mom trying to find a few branches that would hold up the ornaments.

  She had no help in the kitchen. No help with the dishes. Dad sat all day reading the paper and swapping stories with the old folks, Jake and Bryce coming in and out with their muddy tennis shoes and playing games and tossing snacks and orange soda.

  Mom was always cheerful on the holidays. She hummed “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and a few sacred songs as well, but Jake couldn’t remember which ones. Except “Silent Night.” Jake was surprised he could remember as many of the words as he did. They’d sung it in grade school choir, and it stuck with him, though church had never been part of his Christmas.

  Still lying in bed, Jake realized he’d been singing. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright, round yon virgin, mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.”

  There was something calming and reassuring about these words. But something profoundly disturbing as well. Who was this “holy infant” to offer heavenly peace? To promise calm in a world full of turmoil, abuse, and death? How could he expect anyone to believe him? Yet there were those who did believe, with all their hearts. People such as Finney and Sue. Finney.

  Where are you now, old friend?

  Jake had no plans for the day. Mom was in no condition to make plans, hadn’t been for three Christmases now, and without her none would be made. Sue had invited him to join her and Little Finn and Angela and the extended family later that night, but his day was free. He’d been looking forward to sitting around, doing nothing, catching up on his reading, maybe watching a movie or two on tape. He’d looked forward to not shaving, getting dressed, or leaving the house.