“It’s a different set of muscles, man. You’re getting it, though. It’ll be easier for you than most of my patients. You should see the ones with scrawny, wimpy arms trying to do it. You’re way ahead of where you could be. Now, let’s see if you can wheel yourself around.”
Dan managed to move the chair around the room, turn it around, come back. By the time he’d done it three or four times, he was exhausted.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Dallas said. “Man, I’m really proud of you. You want to stay in the chair or move back to the bed?”
As much as Dan wanted to stay in the chair, he felt he would pass out right here if he didn’t get into a reclining position. Summoning up all the energy he had left, he managed to get back onto the bed.
He lay there after Dallas left, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling and cursing the day he had responded to the Icon disaster. Why hadn’t he recognized the signs that the building was unstable? Why hadn’t he gotten out before the third bomb went off?
Why hadn’t he just died in the rubble? It would have been easier for everyone.
The door opened, and Clara hurried in. “Dan, Dallas tells me you moved yourself around in the chair. Why didn’t you come out and let me see?”
Dan just kept his eyes on the ceiling. “It’s not something I’m all that proud of.”
“Well, why not? It’s tremendous progress.” She came to the side of his bed and straightened his covers.
“It’s a wheelchair,” he said. “It’s like being proud of going back to training wheels.”
“Dan, for heaven’s sake, you need to look at how far you’ve come since the accident.”
“That is what I’m looking at. I could run five miles before the accident. I could take fifteen stories of a building in minutes, carrying sixty-five pounds of equipment, wearing turnouts, and braving 110-degree heat. Now I’m supposed to celebrate if I can roll the wheels of my chair.”
Clara grew quiet. “Would you like for me to turn on the television?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m missing Jerry Springer. Let’s see, today the subject is ‘My Child Has a Gay Alien Priest for a Father,’ or something equally stimulating.”
Clara didn’t recognize the sarcasm. “You could watch Oprah.”
“Forget it.” He finally looked at her. She was wearing her hair down in a ponytail clasped at the nape of her neck. She looked much more maternal than she had before. He liked the new look.
But he really wanted to be alone.
“Look, Mom, do you think you could give me a few minutes? I need to be alone for a while. I need to think.”
She studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide if thinking was the best thing for him. “All right, dear. I’ll wait out in the waiting room down the hall. When should I come back?”
“Half an hour,” he said. “Or forty-five minutes. I don’t know.”
She looked hurt. “All right then.” She patted him awkwardly. “Buzz the nurse if you want me to come back.”
He waited for her to leave and, gritting his teeth, turned his thoughts to God. He was angry. Angrier than he’d ever been.
“Why didn’t you let me die?” he asked. “It would have been better than this.”
Tears ran onto his pillow, and he realized, for the first time in his life, that he hated. But his hatred shot without a target. It was hatred toward some faceless person or group of people who had destroyed his life in this way.
He hoped that wherever they were, some unseen spiritual knife was twisting in their gut, repaying them according to their deeds. He hoped they would suffer a long and miserable death, then burn in everlasting hell.
But none of that would restore him to the way he was before.
He would probably never walk again. He would never father children.
All of his dreams were dead.
“It’s unacceptable!” he told the Lord. “All of what you’ve done to me is completely unacceptable. I didn’t sign up for a life in a wheelchair. I refuse to accept that!”
But he knew his refusals carried little weight with the Almighty who heard his prayers.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Jill hoped that Dan’s physical therapy had been productive, but when she saw Clara in the hallway, pacing as if she didn’t know what to do with herself, she had a bad feeling.
“Thank goodness you’re back!”
Jill looked at the woman with dread. “What is it, Clara? Has something happened?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that Dan is . . . well, depressed.”
She thought of asking her what was new about that. “His PT didn’t go well?”
“No, it went very well,” Clara said. “That young man who does his therapy said he had moved from the bed to the chair himself and had rolled himself around the room several times. He thought it was amazing progress. He reminded me that a week ago Dan was buried. To be up and around in this amount of time is something to be proud of.”
“But Dan didn’t see it that way?”
“No. Do something, Jill. He’s extremely down. He asked me to give him some time to think. But I’m worried what he’s in there thinking.”
“Me too.” Jill looked at his door. “I’m not sure I know what to do for him, Clara. About all any of us can do is hold his hand and try to encourage him.”
The woman looked helpless—out of her element.
“Well, I guess I’ll go home for a while. I might be back later tonight, after dinner.” She looked up at Jill. “Did you find the girl?”
Clara’s concern surprised her. She supposed she had made a lot of progress in the last week, as well. “No, I don’t know where she could be. I have a cell phone now. I’m just praying she’ll call.”
“I’ll let you know if she shows up,” Clara said.
“Well, I guess I’ll go on in.” She sighed and prayed a silent prayer for strength.
Jill was not able to pull Dan out of his lethargy, and he didn’t want to talk about his condition or his depression. Feeling rejected, but again reminding herself that it wasn’t about her, she slept fitfully that night in the chair next to his bed.
The night was long, and she woke several times. Some of those times he slept; others, she found him awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Want to talk?” she asked him a couple of those times.
“Nope,” was his reply, cutting off any hope of communication between them.
Another time, she asked him if he’d like to pray with her. He told her he saw no point in that, since God had refused to answer his most recent prayers.
Jill lay on that uncomfortable chair and prayed silently that God would change his heart and show him just how many prayers he really had answered.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
I want everybody’s minds off the Icon disaster.” Jim Shoemaker, the Newpointe police chief, paced in front of his men and women for their 7:00 A.M. briefing. His face was sunburned from the hours he’d spent at the Icon site, but now he was ready to get back to business. “The FBI’s handling that investigation, and Stan and Sid are assisting, but the rest of us need to settle down and crack this car theft ring in town. We still have a job to do. The perpetrators seem to be targeting grocery store parking lots . . .”
Stan jotted some obligatory notes on his legal pad, and his mind wandered back to John Trammel. So far, he’d found no connection between the dead man whose identity had been stolen and the Icon CEO. But he wasn’t finished. He had gone himself to interview Merritt’s pilot. The man claimed he had not heard from his boss but indicated that he would turn him in, in two seconds flat if he did.
“That man needs to be locked in a cage if he had anything to do with that bombing,” he said.
Stan didn’t think he would have lied to protect Merritt—not unless a lot of money had changed hands.
The door opened, and a sergeant stuck his head in. “Excuse me, Chief. Stan, you have an urgent call.”
&nbs
p; Stan got up, slipped out of the meeting, and hurried to his desk. “Stan Shepherd.”
“Uh . . . Detective Shepherd . . .” The woman’s voice was halting, soft. “This is Amber Williams. I thought of something about Donald, and I need to report it.”
Stan leaned back hard in his chair. “Amber, why didn’t you call the FBI?”
“Because I didn’t have anything to do with that bombing, yet I felt like they thought I did somehow. And then someone there leaked my statement to the press, and next thing I know I’m considered an adulterous home wrecker who stole his money, and my own parents won’t even speak to me!” Her voice broke off and she sat there a moment, trying to go on. “I know you and trust you, Detective Shepherd. So I decided to call you instead.”
Stan felt sorry for the girl, even though she had brought so much of this on herself. “All right, Amber. What is it?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about where Donald might be if he’s still alive and all. You know, hiding places. And something came to me.”
He sat up straighter. “Yeah? Go ahead.”
“On one of the times we met, he had the key to a cabin. It belonged to one of his coworkers, Ansel James, I think. He said he had a deal with him that he could use this cabin whenever he wanted. We spent several different weekends there. No one knew we were using it, no one but Ansel and me. But Ansel was killed in the explosion.”
Stan grabbed his pen and started writing. “So you think Merritt might be in that cabin?”
“If he still had that key, maybe so.”
Stan grabbed his sport coat from the chair where it hung. “Tell me how I can find the cabin, Amber.”
Amber explained where the cabin was and how to get there. By the time Stan got off the phone, he was ready to burst out of his skin.
He rushed out without explaining to anyone where he was going. The last thing he needed now was for the chief to stop him.
In his car, Stan tried to call Mills from his cell phone, but another agent answered and offered to take a message. “Tell him it’s Stan Shepherd.” He thought of telling him about the possible hiding place, but Mills was the only one he trusted to handle this correctly. The wrong move could alert Merritt that they were onto him.
“Tell Mills to call me on my cellular ASAP. I have some important information for him.”
“Anything I can take down?”
“No,” he said. “But please, express the urgency to him. It’s very important.”
He hung his phone back on his belt and decided he’d go to the cabin himself. If Merritt was there, Stan could make sure that he stayed there until he heard from Mills.
Chapter Eighty
Ashley awoke in her car, shivering with the sudden drop in temperature. It was morning, and a thin layer of dew lay over her windows.
She pulled her denim jacket around her. It wasn’t very heavy, but that was all right. Ashley didn’t plan to be around when the weather got colder.
She started her car, hoping the heater would warm her up. The Subaru was almost out of gas, but she couldn’t waste what money she had left on filling it up.
There was something else she needed to buy.
She thought of Ty, the drug dealer who hung out at the convenience store near Eddie’s house. He was a storehouse of treasures. She knew she could get sleeping pills from him.
She only hoped he hadn’t taken the day off.
She found him leaning against a garbage can, talking trash with some of his patrons. Unintimidated, Ashley pushed through them and made her purchase.
Armed with new purpose, she went back to her mother’s house. She pulled her car into the driveway and looked down at the little bag of pills Ty had given her. There were just enough.
She sat there a moment, wondering if she had the strength to take her own life. Her courage faltered, but then she realized she was too weak to go on. Either way, she lost. It was better just to get it over with.
She got out, grabbed her duffel bag, and went to the door. Jill’s note hung there, stuck between the doorway and the casing. She took it down and read it.
She thought of calling Jill, giving life one more try. But it seemed hopeless and futile.
Wadding the note in her fist, she unlocked the door and pushed inside. The sense that her mother was alive surrounded her again, pulling her into the warmth of the room. It was funny how the thermostat made the heat come on even though no one was in the house to warm.
Life went on, she supposed. It was a cruel fact, but one she could not escape.
Weary and chilled from the night in her car, she went into her mother’s room, pulled back the cover, and slipped inside the bed. She laid her head on the pillow that her mother used to sleep on. Oh, how she missed her. She would give anything to turn time back and do things better. Why had she been so stupid as to think there would always be time for repentance and restoration? For her, time had run out.
Lying in the bed, curled up and warm beneath the covers, she noticed the light blinking on her mother’s answering machine next to the bed. The tape was probably full by now, she thought. She reached over and turned it on, hoping to hear her mother’s outgoing message and pretend just for a moment that she was still here, speaking into her ear, stroking her hair, and kissing her awake.
“Hi, this is Debbie. Ashley and I aren’t home right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, we’ll call you back as soon as we can. God bless you and have a nice day.”
Tears sprang to Ashley’s eyes.
Beep. “Debbie, this is Sara. I heard what happened at the Icon Building. I’m praying you got out okay. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
Beep. “Debbie, this is Anna. Are you okay, honey? I’m desperate to find out if you’re all right. Please call me back.”
Beep. “Debbie, this is Jim. I’m trying to account for everybody in the office. Call me back as soon as you get this message and let me know if you’ve seen anybody else.”
Ashley opened the bag of pills, dumped them out on the pillow next to her.
Beep. “Debbie, I’m hoping against hope that you’re going to hear this message and call me back. Please. This is Sara. I can’t stand much more of this.”
Beep. “Hey, Ash, if you’re there, call me.” It was Chris, probably the night of the explosion, when she hadn’t come home.
Beep. “Ashley, this is Sara.” She could tell her mother’s best friend had been crying. “I heard about your mother and I wanted to tell you that I’m so very sorry. If you get this, please call me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Beep. “Ashley, this is your great-aunt Cecelia from Oklahoma. Please call me. I need to talk to you immediately.”
Beep. “Oh, Debbie, I heard the news today, and I can’t believe it’s true.” There was a sob, then, “I just wanted to hear your voice one more time.”
Ashley couldn’t take any more. She turned off the machine, dropped her head on the pillow and wept until all the black mascara and eyeliner dripped from her eyes and onto the pillowcase, saturating it.
Her mother had a life. She had friends. People were grieving over her. Ashley wasn’t the only one. But she didn’t know how that helped her in any way.
She could take these pills, and the pain would end. It would be so easy.
What choice did she have, anyway? She had no place to go, no anchor to hold her anywhere. She could go back to her friends and dull her pain with drugs and alcohol, but what kind of future would that give her? Before long, most of them would be in jail or dead themselves.
She gathered the pills into her fist and held them as she worked up her courage.
Soon it would all be over.
Chapter Eighty-One
Stan found the cabin exactly where Amber had described, sitting alone in a cluster of pines near a lake. Fog rose from the water as the cold wind crept in. He left his car far back in the trees, for he didn’t want any occupants of the house to hear him coming.
&nb
sp; Using his binoculars, he scanned the windows for a sign of life. Someone was definitely inside. He could see smoke coming from the chimney. Behind the house he could see that some wood had recently been split and stacked.
But for all he knew, someone in Ansel James’s family could be occupying the cabin, nursing their grief over the death of their loved one.
Setting his phone on vibrate, he moved carefully between the trees until he found a window that had no drapes pulled over it. He could see someone standing at a sink washing dishes, but he couldn’t make out who it was. He put the binoculars back to his eyes, tried to zoom in and focus.
Donald Merritt!
It was him, all right, though he’d dyed his gray hair brown, and it looked like he was working on a beard. Still, he was unscathed and looked as healthy as ever, biting into an apple as if he had nothing to do with hundreds of people dying.
Stan looked around and saw a pickup truck tucked away in the bushes.
His phone vibrated. Quickly, Stan answered it. “Shepherd.”
“Stan, this is Mills. What have you got?”
“I’ve found Merritt,” he whispered.
“No kidding?”
“Do me a favor. Run this car tag through.” He read off the truck’s tag number.
He heard Bryan typing the data in. “Reported as stolen last week,” he said.
“Guess who stole it.”
“Where is he, Stan?”
Stan gave him directions to the cabin. The FBI was on its way.
All he had to do was stay out of sight and make sure Merritt didn’t leave until they got there.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Jill waited until Dallas came for Dan’s physical therapy session before she headed out to look for Ashley again. Before leaving, she gave Dan the cell phone she’d bought him. He hooked it onto the waist of his sweatpants and told her to call him directly on that number rather than going through the switchboard. That way, if he happened to be in his wheelchair, he could easily answer.
Jill drove to Ashley’s house to see if the note was still on the door. When she saw the girl’s car in the driveway, she almost yelled for joy. She ran to the door and rang the bell.
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