Bart looked over his shoulder, “Do you think the paper guy saw anything?”
Mike looked in the rearview mirror. “No. It’s dark and the body was on the ground. Was he still alive?”
“He’s road kill. But man, we’ve got to get rid of this car.”
“Yeah. First thing this morning.”
Hidden in the ivy that gracefully wrapped itself around the mailbox beside the driveway where Mike turned around, a surveillance camera that started running as soon as Mike pulled into the driveway recorded the car’s movements for fifteen seconds with silent, impersonal passivity. The owners of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Bertram Kingsley, had decided on the spur of the moment to fly to New York and attend a couple of Broadway shows. They would not be back until Monday evening.
A bleary-eyed, tense Sarah Hightower had been sitting in the surgical waiting room of Piedmont Hospital for four hours, not sure if she could endure the loss of another loved one. She stood up when two doctors, dressed in surgical scrubs, came through the door and called her name.
“Mrs. Hightower?” a small gray-haired man asked.
Sarah nodded and her voice shaking said, “Yes. Is he—?”
“He’s alive. I’m Dr. Thurman, a surgeon.”
“How bad is it?” Sarah asked anxiously.
“Your husband had a severe concussion with a subdural hematoma or bruise that is approximately four inches square. He is unconscious and heavily sedated. If the blow to his head had been forward another inch he would have died instantly. The amount of swelling he experiences over the next few hours will be critical.”
“So he’s in a coma?” Sarah put her hand on the back of the chair to steady herself.
“Yes, but I’m more optimistic than when we first saw him. It was touch-and-go for a while. This is Dr. Rankin, an orthopedist.”
A younger doctor, the orthopedist, said, “Your husband also suffered comminuted fractures to his right ankle and left wrist. Comminuted means there were multiple, broken bone fragments. We put the pieces of bone back in place and secured them with screws and pins. It’s impossible to predict exactly, but he should have reasonable function and mobility for everyday purposes.”
“But a new problem has developed,” Dr. Thurman added.
“What?” Sarah asked, not sure how much more she could bear.
“Both of his kidneys were severely damaged, and we cannot save them. They’re gone.”
“That won’t kill him, will it?”
“No. He could survive by using a dialysis machine for the rest of his life, but dialysis causes its own host of problems.”
“Could he receive a transplant?”
“Probably yes. We wanted to ask you about that. Are his parents alive?”
“No.”
“Siblings?”
Sarah paused. “He has a younger brother.”
The Sunday morning sunlight exploded into Mac’s bedroom. Propping up a pillow to shield himself from the intrusion, he rolled over and went back to sleep. When he got up a couple of hours later, his plan for the day was three cups of coffee and the newspaper. As he walked up the driveway with the paper, he thought about Pete, a young man wrongfully deprived of even a short stroll down a country road.
Mac dropped the paper on the kitchen table, walked into the living room, and stared out the large window beside the fireplace. Restless, his lazy agenda didn’t match his mood. He didn’t want to stay home; he wanted to go out. It was Sunday, and the only place to go on Sunday in Dennison Springs was church. Mac checked the clock. It was too late for Sunday school, and the class would be in the doldrums after Georgia’s disappointing loss to Florida the previous day. But he could still make it to the eleven o’clock worship service at church. He went into the bathroom to shave and shower.
The church was more crowded than usual, and Mac had to sit in the second row, so close to the front that he could see a spot where Archie cut himself shaving earlier that morning. The minister read a passage from Isaiah 53 that sounded as obscure to Mac’s ear as “taste and see that the Lord is good” had several weeks before.
“Look at verse six,” the minister said. “‘We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way.’ ‘We all’ is the Bible’s way of saying ‘you all,’ and that means everybody. Most Presbyterians are well-fed, well-clothed, financially secure, and don’t think they’ve wandered from the fold. They feel safe and secure, but worldly security is not the same as spiritual safety. You can be debt-free with enough zero-coupon bonds to keep you comfortable if you live to be a hundred.” Mac winced at the mention of zero-coupon bonds—he had a drawer full. “But there is no abiding safety for a sheep apart from a close relationship with the Good Shepherd.”
Archie swept his hand across the congregation. “We were created to live in close, obedient relationship with a loving God. We go astray when we insist on self-focused control of our lives. We are so used to seeking and maintaining selfish control at home, work, and in relationships with others that it sounds radical to suggest there is another way to live.
“How serious is this problem?” he asked, raising his voice. “Read the rest of the verse, ‘and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.’ That’s serious. Going our own way is not a casual choice of lifestyle that escapes God’s notice. It is a fundamental part of the burden of sin placed upon Jesus Christ as the sacrifice for our sins. Iniquity speaks of the deepest level of sin within us, and for most of us, that means exercising control over our lives to the exclusion of God’s authority and influence.”
Mac was feeling very, very uncomfortable. He looked at his watch and wondered how much longer Archie would keep probing. Mac had never been unfaithful to his wife, misappropriated a client’s funds, or stolen anything since he was twelve. But there was no doubt that he had exercised control over his life. It had never dawned on him that this was wrong. The day before, he had asked God to touch him with healing power; but was there something more?
As if hearing Mac’s silent inquiry, Archie said, “Some of you are wondering how to respond. You’re hesitant or afraid to take a step toward God. Don’t be. Submit your will to God, yield control of your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, and begin the adventure of living as a member of the kingdom of God.”
Mac was wiggling in his seat like a schoolboy waiting for recess on a beautiful spring afternoon. When Archie ended the sermon and said, “Let’s pray,” Mac quickly closed his eyes and bowed his head to shut out the unsettling sensations of the moment. But instead of relieving his inner turmoil, closing his eyes sealed him in with his own thoughts. At the center of his thinking, he saw the truth that he had never, ever yielded control of his life to Jesus Christ. He believed intellectually, but yielding his will was something totally different.
Archie prayed, “Lord, if there is anyone this morning who wants to relinquish control of their life and submit to the loving authority of Jesus, enable them to cross that line. In their own words, in their own way, hear their prayer.” He paused.
For Mac, it was a moment of decision. He waited. Archie waited. God waited. Mac made his choice.
Okay, he prayed.
Mac’s one-word prayer may have been one of the shortest prayers of surrender ever recorded in heaven, but a prayer doesn’t have to be longwinded or theologically precise to satisfy God. It only has to be an honest response of the human heart to the influence of the Holy Spirit. On those counts, Mac scored 100 percent.
After the service, Celeste Jamison came up to him in the foyer.
“Good morning, Mac. Are you recovered from the trial?”
“Partway,” he shrugged. “I saw you at the courthouse but didn’t want to talk to anyone after the verdict.”
“I understand.”
“What did you think of Archie’s sermon?” Mac asked, shaking his head. “I mean, it was the story of my life.”
Celeste opened her eyes wider and nodded. “It’s everyone’s story.”
“I adm
it I was uncomfortable when he talked about giving up con- trol of my life to God, but in the end I saw it was the only real option any of us have . . .”
Celeste waited.
Mac looked at Celeste, and she saw something new in his eyes yet familiar to her heart. “During the prayer at the end, I did what he suggested. Imagine,” he said a bit sheepishly. “A fifty-six-year-old man like me reacting like this to a sermon.”
Tears instantly welled behind Celeste’s eyelids. “No. It makes perfect sense,” she said.
Still focused on what he’d heard and his reaction to it, Mac didn’t notice and moved away through the crowd toward the door.
“See you later,” she said hoarsely as he disappeared.
Celeste went into the prayer room, sat down, and dried her eyes with a tissue. She unlocked the bookcase containing the prayer journals, and after opening several books, found the volume where, many years before, Laura’s prayer for Mac’s salvation had been recorded. In the margin, Celeste wrote the day’s date, followed by the word, “Answered!”
Her husband stuck his head in the door of the prayer room. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go out to lunch. I’d like some soup.”
43
The finger of God.
LUKE 11:20 (KJV)
Early Monday morning, David, sitting in the now-familiar surroundings of Mac’s library, was organizing the exhibits from the trial. Three neat stacks of papers containing lists of names lay on the table: the Lincoln owners, the members of the jury pool, and Dr. Newburn’s patients. Getting up, he went into the reception area.
“Mindy, could you help me for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Is this another plan to make fun of me?” she asked, looking down her nose.
“No, it has nothing to do with any kind of charges.”
Mindy followed him into the library. He handed her the list of Lincoln owners and picked up the sheets of paper containing the names of the people summoned for jury duty.
“Please read the names on your list so I can see if there are any matches with the members of the jury pool.”
Mindy slowly read the sixty-six names while David kept the names of the jurors in front of him.
“That’s it,” she said in a few minutes.
There were no matches.
“Okay. Let’s compare your list of midnight purple Lincoln owners with Dr. Newburn’s patients.”
Because neither the patient list nor the Lincoln owners’ list was in alphabetical order, it was a tedious process. Mindy made another copy of the car owner list, and they each went through the six pages of psychiatric patients, frequently flipping papers back and forth.
There was a Brenda Morgan who bought a Lincoln and a Brandon Morgan treated by Dr. Newburn, but neither found an identical match until Mindy turned over her last sheet of paper.
“This looks familiar,” she said. “Michael Stenson Conan. I think he’s on the Lincoln list, too.”
David quickly ran down the sheet of Lincoln owners. “Here it is. Mike Conan.”
Mindy circled the name with a pen. “It’s close enough for me.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell Mac when he gets here.”
Mac arrived a few minutes later. He’d heard the news about the attack on Alex Hightower on the radio while driving to work and gathered everyone in the library to tell them what had happened.
“He’s in the hospital in Atlanta with multiple broken bones, a concussion, and internal injuries.”
“That’s not all,” David spoke up. “Mindy and I discovered something else this morning.” He pulled out the sheets and showed them the match between Newburn’s patient list and the Lincoln owners. “Should we report this information to the police?”
Mac shook his head. “Not yet. It all makes sense to us, but without the background information in our file, I’m not sure how serious the investigators in Atlanta will consider the connection.”
“Do you think Spencer met Michael Conan through Dr. Newburn’s office?” Vicki asked.
“Probably,” Mac nodded. “And then recruited him to kill his niece, brother, and—” Mac set down his coffee cup. “Sarah Hightower. We’ve got to warn Sarah Hightower.”
Mac called Joe Whetstone and plowed through a receptionist and two secretaries before Joe came on the line. He told him everything that had surfaced since the trial.
“Sarah Hightower needs to be warned,” Mac said.
“I haven’t had much contact with the Hightowers since the trial,” the prosecutor said. “I’ll try to reach her at home in Buckhead or at the hospital and advise her to take steps for her own security.”
“What about forwarding our information to the Atlanta police?”
“I’ll handle that, too. I know several detectives. Thanks for calling.”
“Will he follow through?” David asked.
“He’ll call Sarah. And if he thinks he can get some favorable publicity by helping exonerate Pete, he may help us with the police in Atlanta.”
“I can see the headline,” David said. “Former U.S. Attorney Successfully Prosecutes Man For Murder Then Uncovers Evidence of His Innocence.”
“Too long. And we can’t count on Joe Whetstone to do our job.”
Burton Grable, president of a blue-jean manufacturing company owned by Alex Hightower, was waiting for Spencer when he arrived in Atlanta from London on Monday afternoon.
“What are you doing here?” Spencer asked when he saw the balding businessman waiting at the gate with an anxious look on his face.
“Let’s get a drink. There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Alex.”
They walked into a bar located on the concourse and sat down.
Spencer listened to Burton’s summary of events without changing expressions. “Is he going to make it?”
“He’ll live. He’s still unconscious, but the worst has passed, and the doctors don’t think there will be any permanent brain damage. The broken wrist and ankle will improve with time. But the kidney damage is irreversible.”
“Can they do a transplant from someone who signed an organ donor card?”
Burton took a drink. When Sarah had asked him to meet with Spencer, he couldn’t refuse, and he didn’t want to fail now.
“That’s possible, but the success of a transplant is much greater if the donor is a close relative.”
Spencer jerked back his head. “Don’t look at me! Last week Alex told me to forget I even had a brother. Now he wants to harvest one of my kidneys! They can put him on one of those machines until a corpse with a suitable kidney comes through the system.”
“Don’t make a quick decision,” Burton pleaded. “Sarah would like to talk with you, too.”
Spencer stood. “Forget it.”
“Please think it over, Spencer. What would Alex do if you were lying in the hospital?”
Spencer’s face grew hard. “I know exactly what he’d do.”
When Mac showed Ray and Harry the common name on the two lists, Ray let out a low whistle. “This is getting hot, Mac. The cops need to get involved.”
“I know. That’s why I called Joe Whetstone. He promised to pass along the information to the Atlanta police. But that doesn’t mean anybody is going to do anything to help Pete.”
“Except yours truly,” Ray said.
“Right. Are you willing to go back to Atlanta and try to track down the car and find out everything you can about Michael Stenson Conan?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, but be careful. Very careful.”
“I’ve been shot at more times than I can remember, and I don’t need a new one to add to those I’ve forgotten.”
“More times than you can remember?” Harry asked.
“Not recently,” Ray reassured him. “What about Spencer?”
“You know where he lives. Check him out again. Do you need some money?” Mac asked.
“Harry, do we have grocery money?” Ray turned to his appren
tice.
“You always seem to have enough to feed us both.”
“All right,” Mac said. “But keep track so I can pay you every penny.”
“Be careful with your promises, Mac. We can spend a lot for fried chicken when we get really hungry.”
A few hours later Ray and Harry passed the entrance to the Hightower mansion and turned onto the street where Alex was attacked. They drove up the hill and saw a small area that had been cordoned off with yellow police tape.
“That’s it,” Ray said.
A police car was exiting the Kingsley residence and Mr. Kingsley, a small, birdlike man, stood on the sidewalk in front of his house. Ray pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. Mr. Kingsley walked over to them.
“Are you detectives?” he asked.
“Not with the police,” Ray introduced himself and Harry. “We’re working on the Angela Hightower case, and there may be a link between the assault on Mr. Hightower and the men who killed his daughter.”
“My wife and I were discussing that this morning.”
“Were you home when Mr. Hightower was attacked?” Ray asked.
“No, we were in New York, but when we checked the surveillance tape we called the police.”
“Surveillance tape?”
“Yes. I gave it to the officer who just left. He said the detectives needed to see it. Here, I’ll show you the camera.”
They followed him over to the mailbox. Mr. Kingsley brushed the ivy back with his hand. Ray knelt to get a better view of the camera angle.
“I understand it was still dark when Mr. Hightower came by here,” he said.
“Yes, but the camera compensates for dim light.”
“What could you see on the tape?”
“The camera was not positioned to pick up activity across the street so it doesn’t show anything about the attack. It started running when the car turned into the driveway.”
“What kind of car?”
“Like mine.” Mr. Kingsley pointed to a shiny black Lincoln parked in front of the broad steps leading up to his house.
“Oh boy,” Harry said. “This is hot, Ray.”
“Was the picture in color?” Ray continued.
“No, but it was a dark-colored car.”
The Trial Page 37
