Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Really? Then where is it? Certainly not in front of you.”

  “It’s in my head. It’s all in my head.”

  “Then start getting it out of there and onto something I can read. By the way . . . Roberta’s disappointed you can’t make it tonight. I hope your preacher’s worth missing out on her famous bouillabaisse and her infamous cousin.”

  “Infamous? Since when has Harvey become infamous?”

  “Since he used the wrong overhead rates and messed up the second quarter and caused his company’s stock to go down forty-two cents.”

  Cynthia giggled. “Poor Harvey.”

  “But I didn’t tell Roberta it’s a preacher keeping you from us tonight. She’d never believe it.”

  “It’s not that kind of date. I owe him this courtesy. He was . . . they were all good to me at the mission.” Cynthia looked down at her page of stick men to avoid looking at the smug expression she knew was on Bernie’s face.

  “Oil and vinegar don’t mix. Remember that.”

  Cynthia opened her mouth to say something but the phone rang and she lunged for it. When she recognized the voice, her eyes drifted to her desk clock. He was half an hour late but who was counting?

  “Cynthia, if you still want to meet me, I can make it.”

  “Great. How about seven at the Beef and Brew?”

  “I’ll be there with my appetite.”

  “This is my treat. So no show of force when the bill comes, okay?”

  “In that case I’ll be there with my large appetite.”

  Cynthia left the office early and headed downtown to the South Oberon Hospital. For the last two days she had called to check on Stubby, and each time she was told he was still in ICU . . . still critical. Today, a call wouldn’t do. She needed to see for herself.

  She parked and entered the lobby, then asked a silver-haired receptionist, in a pink-striped uniform, directions to ICU.

  As Cynthia made her way there, her courage began to slip. What would Stubby look like? Full of tubes? Hooked up to all kinds of machines? She stopped and for a second considered turning around.

  You going to send him a note, too, Wells? Maybe a get-well card?

  She shook her head and tried picking up one foot. It felt rooted to the floor.

  “May I help you?”

  Cynthia turned to face a perky nurse with freckles. “I’m looking for Stubby White.”

  “You a relative?”

  Cynthia didn’t answer.

  “This is ICU. Only family members allowed.”

  “Stubby doesn’t have any family. I though I might . . . that is . . . I . . . .”

  “Come to think of it you do look a lot like him. A granddaughter, I bet.”

  Cynthia smiled. “How clever of you to see the resemblance.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  Cynthia nodded. “How is he?”

  The nurse did a thumbs-down as she directed Cynthia to Stubby’s room. That helped prepare her.

  But not quite.

  Tubing, carrying fluids in and out of his body, looked like a maze of miniature translucent tunnels. A respirator, that sounded irritating to Cynthia’s ears, forced air into Stubby’s lungs. Another machine monitored his heart. The room had that nauseating hospital smell and Cynthia thought she was going to gag. She looked down at Stubby’s face. It was gray and rubbery-looking—like a death mask. She thought of her sister, and turned away.

  She stood gazing at the floor, then slowing her eyes lifted. With a shy, awkward movement, she stretched out her hand and touched Stubby’s—all purple and swollen from the IV. She sucked air to keep from crying. Stubby had lived a hard life, and now, just when things seemed like they were coming together for him, just when it seemed like he was turning the corner . . . this had to happen. It was so unfair. She pulled the nearby chair closer to the bed and leaned over until she could whisper in his ear.

  It was now or never. This could be her last chance.

  Her fingers brushed Stubby’s veiny hand. “This is so hard to say. And I’m scared, Stubby. I’m so scared to tell you because I know this time forgiveness is impossible. And it breaks my heart because . . . I . . . love you.”

  Her fingers shook as she placed her hand on his. “You’re my friend. And I don’t have many. Yet all I do is disappoint you. And I’m going to disappoint you again.” Her voice broke as tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto his hospital gown. “But I have to tell you. If I don’t, this thing, this secret, this horrible secret is going to explode inside me. And it’s important for you to know. You need to know it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you who killed Julia. It was me. And all this time I’ve let you take the blame.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to go now. I need to suction him.” It was the cute, freckled-face nurse. “But you can come again another time. I’ll put you on the ‘family’ list. You won’t have any trouble getting in.”

  Cynthia released Stubby’s hand and looked at his gray, rubbery face and wondered if there would be another time.

  Jonathan Holmes had spent every spare moment of the day in prayer. His spirit was troubled and he didn’t know why. Since counseling the suicidal Willie Tanner, Jonathan felt an uneasiness that wouldn’t go away. He had asked the Lord to show him the cause, but all he got was Trust Me.

  Something wasn’t right about Tanner, something Jonathan couldn’t put his finger on. He wished the Lord would just spell it out like He sometimes did. That was easier than trusting. Trusting made his carnal man rise up and balk. No matter how many times Jonathan had tried putting him to death, burying him and living totally by the Spirit, it was these “Trust Me” times that showed Jonathan how very much alive that man still was.

  Even this meeting tonight with Cynthia had Jonathan worried. He had not felt a check in his spirit when he asked the Lord for direction. Still . . . he was concerned. He had the same weaknesses and foibles as any other man. Was he foolish to put himself in this situation? To meet with a woman who didn’t know God? Who showed little interest in knowing Him? To meet with a woman he found incredibly attractive? Who made his stomach queasy and his breath catch?

  He prayed again for direction, then got the familiar command.

  Trust Me.

  Jonathan thought he’d clean his desk before getting ready to meet Cynthia. When the phone rang, he quickly picked it up thinking perhaps she was calling to cancel. The deep voice at the other end told Jonathan he was wrong.

  “Pastor Holmes, Bill Rivers here. Just wanted to check in and see how things were going.”

  Jonathan’s heart sank. Had Charles Angus heard about the trouble at the mission?

  “Pastor Holmes? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No. Sorry. I was in the middle of a pile of papers.”

  “I’ve called several times. I was surprised when I didn’t get a call back.”

  Jonathan groaned. Between the attempt on Cynthia’s life and Stubby in critical condition, he had responded to few of his calls. “Things have been hectic here. I’m afraid I’m a little behind.”

  “Mr. Angus likes to keep abreast of things.”

  He knows. He knows what happened. He knows about Cynthia and Stubby.

  “I appreciate his interest. We’re all grateful for his generosity.”

  “Yes, well . . . Mr. Angus is a generous man. But like I said, he wants to be kept in the loop. And there are a few things that need clearing up.”

  Please God, don’t let him close the mission.

  “He’s troubled that you’ve departed from Reverend Gates’ policy by allowing women to stay at the mission. He sees potential problems.”

  “There are so many more homeless women now I felt I had no choice.”

  “I’m not criticizing. Not at all. Please don’t think that. Mr. Angus just wants to be sure the new arrangements are working. But he also hopes you are sheltering more men in your mission than women.”

  “Yes, twice the number.”

  “Because th
e homeless men are his priority.”

  Jonathan wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t understand. Do I or do I not have full control over this mission and that includes the allocation of beds?”

  “Pastor, there’s nothing to understand. This is just a check-up call. Nothing more. There’ll be others from time to time. I thought that was understood. I believe Mr. Angus spelled it out quite clearly.”

  “Of course and I’ve no problem with it. It’s just that . . . .”

  “I’ll report there’ll be no further cutbacks on men. That you will continue to allow the same number to stay at the facility in the future.”

  “Yes. Two floors of men, one floor of women. I’ve no plans to change that at this time. But should it become necessary in the . . . .”

  “It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”

  When the phone went dead, Jonathan held it and shook his head.

  After leaving the hospital and Stubby, Cynthia wasn’t certain she was up to meeting Jonathan. Maybe she’d cancel and make it for another night. She had entertained that thought the entire ride home. Even after she made her customary juice drink and relaxed on her floral couch for twenty minutes, she still opted for a no-show. It wasn’t until she thought of Miss Emily’s words that she changed her mind.

  After people have opened their hearts to you, you have to give them their proper due.

  Cynthia swirled the remainder of her carrot juice in the glass and watched it coat the sides orange. Okay . . . she’d see this through. She’d meet Jonathan and explain things, make the proper apologies. She’d do the decent thing . . . up close and personal, just how Miss Emily liked it. When she thought of Stubby, when she pictured his gray face and lifeless body, she hesitated.

  Up close and personal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  But neither were letters.

  She drained her juice, then carried her empty glass into the kitchen, rinsed it and placed it in the dishwasher. Then she wiped down the counter, even though it was spotless. Already her mind was on what she would wear—something casual but not flirty, something tasteful but not frumpy. Something that wouldn’t embarrass a preacher.

  A preacher.

  Wouldn’t her co-workers have a good laugh over that one? She was glad Bernie was tightlipped.

  She rummaged through her closet for ten minutes, then settled on a simple broadcloth skirt that fell below her knees, and a hyacinth-colored square-neck tank, over which she’d wear a hyacinth-colored crewneck cardigan with three-quarter sleeves and turn-back cuffs. And her only jewelry would be a pair of pearl earrings. She tried to ignore Steve Bradley’s voice in her head—the comment he’d make every time he saw her wear this. “That getup really shows off your curves!” Well, what was she supposed to do? Wear a muumuu?

  As she stepped into the shower, Cynthia couldn’t help feeling a sense of wonder. It had been a long time since she dressed for a man. And now she was making all this fuss over one she had no interest in whatsoever.

  Or did she?

  As Cynthia walked into the packed dining room of the Beef and Brew, she was glad she had made reservations. She had never seen it so crowded. She glanced back at the man following her and smiled. He seemed comfortable and relaxed.

  Cynthia was glad when the waitress directed them to a corner table, away from the hustle and bustle. It would make talking easier. They each took their seat and a menu.

  “It just struck me, when I was here last it was also a woman who bought me dinner.” Jonathan flashed a cheerful smile. “Guess this must be my restaurant.”

  “Who treated you? Your saintly grandmother?”

  “My saintly aunt.”

  Cynthia laughed. “Tonight it’s compliments of a heathen. I hope the food will taste just as good.”

  They spent a few quiet moments searching the menu, then gave the waitress their order. It wasn’t until she returned with a glass of water with lemon for each of them that Cynthia noticed a change in Jonathan’s face.

  “You’re wondering why I went to this length to make my apology?”

  “No, I’m wondering who you are. After seeing you with Detective Bradley, my guess is an undercover cop.”

  “Cop? Then Miss Emily didn’t tell you.” Cynthia laughed and drew a stick man on her frosted water glass. “No, not a cop; a reporter for the Oberon Tribune. My name is Cynthia Wells.”

  “Wells? As in Nanny Scam Wells?”

  “The one and only.”

  Jonathan took a sip of water. “You sure had me fooled.”

  “I know . . . and I’m sorry. And that’s why I wanted you to come tonight. So I could explain.” Cynthia watched Jonathan put down his glass, watched his hair fall over one eye, watched his jaw clench. “I wish now that I had come to you, in the beginning, and told you the truth. But I didn’t know you then and I couldn’t trust that you’d let me come as an undercover reporter.”

  Jonathan’s cheerful smile reappeared. “You might have been right. In some ways I’m a little green. I might not have seen the wisdom of your disguise.”

  “No one would talk to me as a reporter. I tried. I realized if I didn’t disguise myself I’d never get anywhere. Over the years, I’ve developed good instincts. There’s a story here. I know it.”

  Cynthia squirmed in her chair when she saw the look on Jonathan’s face. His expression was too much like that of a preacher getting ready to deliver a sermon. “I know that sounds callous—me just thinking about getting my story. But there’s more to it. Three people have been killed on Skid Row, all within two months of each other. And the police aren’t motivated to dig into any of them. I figured if I could piece together what happened, then, in a way, justice would be served.”

  “Was that your motive? Justice?”

  “Partly . . . that and sensing a story and wanting to report it.”

  “What part was more important? Justice or your story?”

  Cynthia focused her eyes on her glass and drew another stick man. “My story.” When she looked up, she was shocked by the tender understanding that radiated from Jonathan’s eyes. “But that was before, before I got to know you and Miss Emily, Effie and . . . Stubby. Now I want to write something that will help, that will do some good. Maybe my story will make Skid Row a little safer.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come to care about us, somewhat, anyway. It’s amazing how a place can grip you. When the Lord first directed me there, I was sure I had heard wrong. After I realized I hadn’t, I was devastated.”

  Cynthia’s eyes widened.

  “Now, I’d be devastated if the Lord told me to leave.”

  As the waitress placed their heaping plates of steak and potatoes before them, Cynthia studied Jonathan. “You seem to care so deeply for the people at the mission. I had no idea that it had been a struggle for you.”

  “You think preachers don’t struggle like everyone else?”

  “But you love these people.”

  Jonathan nodded. “Yes. Now. But not at first. God had to soften my heart. I still struggle with one thing, though. I find it hard to accept the fact that some homeless won’t even try to help themselves or won’t work. I guess that was what made me notice you right away. You had a work ethic.” Jonathan laughed. “Now, I know why. Cynthia Wells. How unbelievable is that?”

  Cynthia felt her face flush. “I guess I am a bit of a workaholic. But if God sent you to the mission, won’t He also give you the necessary ability and patience?”

  “I could use more patience for sure.” Jonathan smiled. “You know, for a heathen, you’ve got a lot of Godly insight.”

  Cynthia picked up the wooden-handled steak knife and cut into her prime rib, surprised at how pleased she felt by his compliment.

  Cynthia pulled into a parking space next to her apartment still thinking about her “date” with Jonathan. After her explanation, the rest of the evening was spent in discussing the mission and some of Jonathan’s ideas, in talking about her story angle, and about some of the people
they had come to know, especially Stubby. They had even managed a few jokes, had a few laughs. She was pleased she went. Miss Emily was right. It was more gratifying saying things in person.

  Her dashboard clock told her she had been out a lot longer than planned. She’d head straight to bed. She locked the car, then strolled toward the sidewalk. That’s when she saw him, leering at her from the front seat of a beat-up, blue Ford.

  Skinner.

  What was he doing here? It seemed he had purposely parked under one of the high-mast lights so she could see his face. She hadn’t noticed anyone following her, which meant he knew where she lived and had been waiting. Her hand went to her throat. It was still tender and discolored. Her heart raced as he rolled down the window and stuck out his head.

  “You’ve been causing a lot of trouble. The people I work for don’t appreciate that. The cops are all over the place. Like maggots. They think something’s rotten at the shelter, all on account of you. But they ain’t gonna find anything. They never find anything. And when the dust settles, I’m gonna be paying you a visit. Count on it. From now on, wherever you are, I won’t be far behind. And when I’m finished doing what I plan to do, nobody’s gonna recognize you.” Skinner laughed as he turned on the ignition.

  Cynthia could still hear him laughing as the Ford sped away.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Cynthia sat next to Detective Steve Bradley’s desk watching him turn various shades of purple.

  “Why did you wait ‘til this morning to come in? Suppose he had come back and made good his threat?”

  Cynthia’s hands were folded on her lap. She had taken pains with her hair that fell in soft yellow waves around her face, and in choosing her navy-blue Armani suit—all in an effort to look more composed than she was.

  “You took some chance,” Steve mumbled, his face still crimson.

  “Last night was just meant to scare, and it worked. I hardly slept.”

  “Next time, don’t wait!”

  Cynthia nodded. “What can you do?”