The Runaway Pastor's Wife

by Diane Moody

  She limped on her crutches to the front door, stealing another look through the curtains. She reached for the light switch and turned on the porch light. Still nothing. No movement outside. Only an idling car.

  Wait—the driver’s car door stood wide open. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Annie ducked out of sight, clinging to the rustic log wall beside the door frame. Her heart rate accelerated to match her fear. What should I do!

  God, please don’t be silent any longer. I’m all alone and I’m scared!

  Before she uttered the last words of her hushed prayer, she sensed the warm familiar presence surrounding her again. Her heartbeat slowed. She felt strangely calm, knowing without question God was with her.

  Something drew her outside. Someone out there needed help. She knew it, felt it in her soul. She unlocked the deadbolt and the regular lock before opening the large wooden door. The brisk snap of cold air caught her breath, but she continued, slowly pushing open the screen door with the end of her crutch, and feeling somehow propelled to move out into the darkness.

  The chill of the wind blew right through her as she made small, careful steps with her crutches. Nearing the edge of the porch at the top of the steps, she stopped cold.

  Someone was lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

  Annie dropped her crutches and reached for the banister. Clumsily hopping down the steps as quickly as she dared, she finally reached the body crumpled in a mound of snow. The car lights offered little help, shining off into the dark wintry woods like two misguided eyes. Annie dropped down to sit on the last step. She reached out her hand then pulled it back, uncertain. Gathering her courage, she stretched it out once more to see if this body was still alive.

  He was sprawled face down in the snow. Annie tapped his back. “Hello?” There was a slight movement, a shifting, then a hand attempting to respond. She reached for the hand, trying to gently grasp the wrist. The pulse was barely detectable but it was there. Even in the darkness she could tell it was a large hand, ice cold and lifeless.

  “Mister? Can you hear me?” She leaned closer, firmly tapping his right shoulder. He screamed, recoiling from her touch. He curled into a ball, his head tucked deep into his shoulder so that she couldn’t see his face. His whole body jerked and trembled as he groaned in obvious, horrible pain.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! Please, can you hear me? I need to get help for you—”

  The left arm shot out, searching for her. “Christine—don’t!” his whisper, hoarse. “No help . . .” The stranger shivered in spasms, curling tighter.

  “I’m not—” Annie began, then paused. This must be a friend of Christine’s. Obviously not a criminal, just a friend who’s come looking for help from Christine. “Look, I just want to help you. We’ve got to get you inside. Can you help me get you up the steps?”

  She got up, moving closer to him, hoping for a better angle to help lift him. “C’mon, now—try to crawl your knees up under you so we can stand you up. Take it slow and easy—that’s good. Try to get your feet underneath you.”

  Their progress was slow but sure. Annie put his left arm around her shoulder as she balanced on her good foot. “Okay now, just lean as much of your weight on me as you need to. I’ll try to pull you up. That’s good. Here we go . . . take it slow.

  “Whoa!” His weight overwhelmed her as he gradually stretched to stand beside her. Even doubled over with pain, she could tell he was a big man, tall and muscular. The trip up the steps would not be easy. Her foot protested with every step.

  “That’s it—we’re almost to the first step. We’ll take it slow. Just don’t give up on me, okay?” She grimaced from the sharp pain in her ankle feeling woozy each time she had to put the slightest weight on it. She forced as much of their shared weight onto her other foot as possible.

  The stranger lifted his head, resting it in the crook of Annie’s neck. She still couldn’t see his face. He was struggling to say something.

  “Christine, don’t . . . call . . .” His breath was warm against her ear. “No police, Christine. Promise . . . they’re trying . . . he shot me. ”

  Annie’s eyes flew wide. A shot of adrenaline coursed through her veins, moving both of them up the remaining steps at a much faster pace.

  She tried to keep her voice calm. “Just don’t talk. We’re almost inside. Just a few more steps now, here we are. ” Her mind raced. Should I call the police? Should I even be taking this man inside? Are there people out there even now coming to kill this stranger? They crossed the threshold and Annie reached back to slam the door and bolt it.

  He tried to speak again, his words escaping in short, breathy gasps now. “Please, Christine . . . don’t . . . tell anyone I’m . . . he’ll kill me . . .” And with that he passed out, collapsing onto the floor and throwing Annie off balance. She landed awkwardly, sprawled across him, the wind knocked out of her.

  Carefully lifting herself off him, she realized his clothes were soaked all the way through. She could only see the back of his head, but his hair was drenched as well. Tiny drops of water dripped off the ends of the dark brown tendrils covering his head.

  Annie sat back, panting hard but relieved to be off her injured foot. She peeled the wet sock off her other foot and rubbed her ankle, closing her eyes. I need to wake up. This has to be another bad dream. Has to be. She massaged her neck and shoulders and tried to make some sense of it all.

  She opened her eyes and looked at this lump of a predicament before her. She felt something sticky on her hands and was startled to find his blood on her palms. The sight of it put her back in motion. There was no time to lose. Crawling across the floor to the kitchen, she pulled open a drawer full of wash rags and hand towels. She pulled herself up on the cabinets and threw the linens into the sink under running water. After quickly squeezing out the excess water, she hopped across the floor, grabbing a pillow and quilt off the sofa. She worked quickly trying to pull off his saturated jacket. She gasped, seeing the large patch of blood clinging to his sleeve.

  No wonder he screamed when I tapped his shoulder!Oh God, tell me what to do here!

  She had to get him onto his back. He obviously had another wound that was seeping all over the floor. “Okay, mister—I’m going to roll you over on your back now. Just take it easy.”

  Annie stood beside him, carefully turning him over while lodging the pillow beneath his head. Her eyes locked on the grotesque blood stain covering his entire right side.

  “Oh God! What do I do?” Instinctively, she began peeling the sweat shirt away from his skin to find the wound. She discovered a massive bandage soaked with blood. Easing her fingers gently along its edge, she began to take it off. A hideous black wound festered with infection.

  She scrambled backwards at the sight of it, gagging against the bile filling her mouth.

  Burying her face in her hands, she leaned back against the wall.

  God, what am I going to do? This man needs a doctor or he’s going to die!

  The thought slammed into her mind. Maybe he was already dead.

  Annie sobbed, her hands knotted against her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears cascaded down her face.

  Please, Lord, help me!

  Slowly, she sucked in enough breath to quell the involuntary sobs. Still trembling, she leaned over to take a good look at this stranger. His head was turned away from her. Who are you? Gently pushing the wet hair from the side of his face, she felt a burning fever on his skin. Shaking her head with the helplessness of it all, she reached for a clean rag to wipe his face. Turning his head slightly toward her, she finally got a better look at his face.

  Annie froze.

  It can’t be . . .

  She felt a vacuum suck the air from her lungs. She threw herself back up against the wall, ignoring the pain in her foot, her eyes glued to this face of a thousand memories. And even as she stared at features once so familiar, he uttered an unconscious groan, his head slowly falling in her
direction.

  Her heart stood still. She slid down the wall behind her. A single tear escaped her eyes as his name fell silently from her lips.

  Michael . . .

  CHAPTER 18

  Eagle’s Nest

  Dr. Wilkins?”

  “Yes? Who’s calling?”

  “This is Annie McGregor,” she answered, her voice catching.

  “What’s the matter, Annie? What’s wrong?”

  Annie paused, cupping the end of the receiver in her other hand. She couldn’t control the trembling of her hands, much less her voice. “I . . . he—”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  She couldn’t speak.

  “Annie, are you all right? Has someone come up there? Who’s ‘he’?”

  “It’s . . . he’s hurt. Hurt really bad. I think . . . I think he’s been shot.”

  “Shot!? Who’s been shot?”

  Annie turned around, afraid to look at the still form splayed on the hard wood floor of the entry way. “It’s . . . please, Dr. Wilkins! You have to come quickly! I don’t know if he’ll make it if you don’t.”

  “Annie, are you all right? Are you in any danger, dear? Should I call Sheriff—”

  “No! No, don’t call anyone! I’m okay. It’s someone I know. Just please hurry, Dr. Wilkins!”

  “I’ll be right there, Annie. Now, just calm down. I’ll be right there.”

  Annie limped carefully on one of her crutches, backing up to the wall again. She could hardly breathe, her eyes riveted to the body stretched out before her. Were it not for the uneven rising and falling of his chest, she would have thought he was surely dead.

  “Michael, what happened to you?” she whispered.

  As if in response, he jerked, screaming out in pain. “Don’t tell them! Please!” he cried, coiling once again to cradle his injured side. “He’s trying to kill me . . .”

  Annie was at his side, reaching out to touch his forehead. Finally, she laid her palm against his brow, frightened by the ravaging heat she felt there. “Michael, you’re burning up with fever. Oh God, help me—I don’t know what to do!”

  He wagged his head in delirium, haunted by whatever nightmare he was living. The moaning wore on, staggered only by his effort to breathe. “You’ve got to hide me. Don’t let them . . . ” But he was again incoherent, his lips moving silently.

  His torment broke her heart. Overwhelmed with helplessness, she forced herself to gather the blood-soaked towels and hobble over to the kitchen. She rinsed out the cloths, sickened by the crimson trails of water swirling in the sink. After filling the dishpan with cold water, she headed back to her patient. She wrung out a wash rag and began gently patting his troubled face. She continued, hoping the cool cloth would relieve at least part of his suffering. With her other hand, she carefully pushed his hair back out of his face, her fingers combing through his thick dark hair.

  A strange mix of sadness and fear etched Michael’s face. She paused, pulling back her hand, uneasy with the odd feelings accosting her. This can’t be happening. After all these years . She tried to dismiss the thoughts, rinsing the washcloth again. Folding it lengthwise, she laid it gently across his forehead, then sat back, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  Moments passed until she heard a car pull up outside. She pulled herself up, making her way to the door. Rushed footsteps clomped up the steps followed by a rapid knocking. “Annie! Where are you?”

  She threw open the door. “Oh, Dr. Wilkins, thank God you’re here!”

  He stepped inside then stopped abruptly. “Good heavens, what happened?” He dropped down beside the still figure.

  Annie shook as she cried. “You have to save him, Dr. Wilkins! Please don’t let him die. You can’t let him die— ”

  “Now, listen to me.” He grabbed her arms. “I don’t know who this is, but it’s obvious he’s lost a lot of blood. His color is bad. I need your help. You’ve got to pull yourself together and help me if we’re going to save him. Can you do that?”

  She pulled in a ragged breath and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Yes, yes I’ll help you. I will—just tell me what to do.”

  “Good girl. Now, we must work very quickly. Our first job is to get him up on that kitchen table.”

  “What’s the matter?” Annie asked, disturbed by the troubled sigh of the doctor. He stood over Michael after making a thorough examination. It had been no easy job for them to move him from the floor to the long, pine table in the kitchen. The jostling aroused some weakened moans from Michael, but nothing more.

  “The bullet I can remove. But my concern at this point is his loss of blood. We’ve got to get some fresh blood into him. You wouldn’t happen to know his blood type, would you?” he mused out loud.

  Annie looked up, her eyes widening. “Yes, I do. He’s O-negative. The same as me—O-negative.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? How could you possibly know that?”

  “Michael is—he’s an old friend from college. And I remember once going together to one of those blood drives on campus. We thought it was odd that we were both O-negative. Everyone teased us about being sister and brother instead of—” She paused. “The thing is, Michael and I were engaged. A long time ago.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything more. If you’re absolutely sure he’s the same blood type as you are, we can get this started right now. We don’t have much time.”

  “I’m positive. I mean, negative. Oh, you know what I mean.”

  Doc Wilkins smiled briefly at her unintentional humor. “All right, I want you to have a seat. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

  “I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth, but I’m really not hungry—”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t have you passing out on me. So I want you to drink some orange juice and—” he continued, looking quickly around the kitchen. “Here, eat one of these muffins. Go on now. Don’t argue with me. We don’t have time.” He pointed to her hands. “But give those a good scrub first.”

  She lathered her hands at the sink then rinsed then in hot water. Taking a seat at the table, Annie took an oversized bite of the muffin, trying to eat as fast as she could. She was surprised, watching the swift moves of the elderly doctor as he put together a makeshift system to transfer Annie’s blood directly into Michael. She finished her hasty snack and washed it down with orange juice, just as Doc reached for her arm, thumping it for a vein. Satisfied he found one suitable, he tied a rubber strap above her elbow.

  “Here we go.” He inserted a needle into her vein. “You can relax your fist now.” He monitored the process with extreme efficiency. Annie was relieved at his competency. “You may be a small town doctor, but you work like someone who’s spent his entire career in a big city hospital,” she said quietly. “I’m impressed.”

  “It may be a small town, but trust me, I’ve seen it all. When you’re the only physician around, you see a little bit of everything. Births, automobile accidents, cancer, you name it. Not to mention lots of skiing mishaps. You just never know what a day will bring along.”

  Annie was starting to feel light-headed. “But not too many shooting victims.”

  “No. Not many. Though I remember a freak hunting accident a few years back. Ol’ Jeb Townsend and his son Cooper were out turkey shooting. Along the way they got separated and ended up on opposite sides of a clearing. Ol’ Jeb spotted a great big tom out in the middle of that clearing and fired off a shot, never realizing Cooper was directly in his range. Filled Cooper up with 180 pieces of buckshot.”

  Dr. Wilkins leaned over Michael, checking for a response. He seemed satisfied for the moment.

  “Did he die?”

  “Who?”

  “Hi son, Cooper. Did he die from the buckshot wounds?”

  “No, he pulled through. Quite a miracle. That many pellets and not a single one hit any vital organs or arteries. We took out as many of those pellets as we could. Left in what we had to. Fortunate
ly, Cooper’s stayed around here. Otherwise, he’d probably set off airport security systems from here to eternity.”

  “His father must have felt awful.”

  “Oh my, yes. Ol’ Jeb was a basket case ’til he knew for sure Cooper would be all right. I’ll tell you one thing for sure—that’s one father and son who are mighty, mighty close now. Never saw anything like it. Incredible.”

  “That’s a nice ending to the story.”

  “Annie? Are you getting queasy on me?”

  “A little. I think I’ll rest my head for a moment if that’s okay with you.”

  “No problem,” he answered, looking over his glasses at her. She put her head down on her other arm. After a couple of moments, he asked quietly, “Annie?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did Michael get shot? Any idea?”

  She turned her head sidewise, still resting it on her forearm. Her eyes traveled slowly from Doc to Michael. Even as her gaze took him in, she felt her heart skip a beat. So many memories, so many feelings, and far too many emotions. It all came flooding back into her mind and her heart. She shook off her thoughts to answer Doc.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t talked in years. I can’t even imagine.” She felt a drowsy smile pull at her mouth. “Michael always lived life right on the edge. He could be quite the daredevil at times. But the thing is, he got more breaks than any one human being should be allowed to have. Maybe his luck just finally ran out.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “He kept mumbling about someone trying to kill him. He thought I was Christine. I guess he came here looking for a place to hide . . . though I didn’t know that Michael and Christine were . . .” Her thoughts drifted.

  “Were what?”

  She hesitated, ignoring his question. “Obviously, he’s in some kind of trouble. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen Michael. After we—well, we haven’t spoken to each other since college. Occasionally I’ve seen him on TV, of course. He used to play baseball. First base for the Houston Astros.”