“Hey!”
“Jus’ razzing you, boy. Nothing like a little laugh to scare away the dark thoughts.”
“Right. I appreciate it.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t working. “I don’t suppose you had the same dream.”
“Nope. I woke up at four and decided to drink massive amounts of coffee. I didn’t want to risk going back to sleep.”
“You are a wise man, Uncle Bart.” I stood and winced.
“What’s wrong? Toe actin’ up?”
“No.” I sat again and turned on the nightstand lamp. I hoisted up a leg and looked at my feet. They were red and a little tender.
“Let me see, son.”
“I think I’m okay.”
“I said, let me see.”
There was no arguing with Uncle Bart.
“I could be wrong, but that looks like the beginning of frostbite.”
“I haven’t been outside.” I thought of the dream. Couldn’t be.
“Let me see your other foot.”
I did as I was told.
“Looks about the same. Just red. No damage that I can see. You wanna see the doctor?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t hurt that much. Just caught me off guard.”
His cell phone rang. “And so it begins.” Uncle Bart answered and listened. “I’m on my way.”
He turned, and for a moment I thought someone had stabbed him in his heart. “That was Wad. It’s Helsa. She’s back in town.”
I didn’t want to believe what I heard. Social services had picked Helsa up yesterday afternoon. I watched them drive away with her. I don’t forget pain like that. We spent the rest of the afternoon getting the team settled in one of the few hotels in Dicksonville, having dinner, and trying to figure out what was happening.
“I’ll get dressed in a flash. I wanna go with you.”
“Tank—”
“I’ll be quick. I’ll get breakfast later.”
“Tank.”
His somber tone frightened me more than the monster in my dream. “What? What’s happened?”
“She’s hurt. She’s been . . . she’s been stabbed. Wad called for an ambulance. We’ll meet him and the girl at the hospital.”
I wish I could tell you what I thought, the worries I had, the anger I felt, but my brain shut down. All I remember of the next few moments was praying, one of those very short prayers repeated over and over: “Dear Jesus, dear Jesus . . .”
Uncle Bart wasted no time getting to the hospital. County Hospital was an extension of a larger facility in Everett, near the coast. It was small by comparison, but it had great facilities and doctors. I think Uncle Bart told me that to comfort me. It’s what people shared to make the worried worry less: “Oh, that’s a great hospital. Your loved one is in good hands.” I could appreciate that, although I admit I was in no mood to be comforted.
A little girl had been stabbed. Stabbed! Who stabs a little girl? Normally, I am balanced. My emotions seldom get out of control. Sure, I know worry. Sure, I know anger, but they have never taken over. I wasn’t sure I could say that five minutes into the future.
The drive took ten minutes longer than eternity. Cars pulled to the side of the road as Uncle Bart, still mindful of the patches of snow and ice, stomped the gas, emergency lights flashing around us.
“You know we won’t be able to do much when we get there, right?”
“I know, Uncle Bart. Maybe.”
“Maybe . . . oh, your gift.” He fell silent. “Shoot straight with your old Uncle Bart. Have you ever healed anyone? I know Andi says you resurrected her dog, but that’s a tad hard to believe. You’re not Jesus.”
“It’s true, Uncle Bart, and what you believe or don’t believe makes no difference.” My conscience gave me a sharp punch in the gut. “I’m sorry. That sounded harsher than I meant it to.”
“I understand, son. I’m scared, too.”
Tears made it hard for me to see. “I don’t have many answers. I don’t know why this gift only works sometimes. I tell myself that it has something to do with God’s will, but I can’t be sure.” I looked out the side window and tried to focus on the passing terrain, illuminated by blasts of lights from the light bar. “I busted the leg of a lineman in a game. That was my first year at the junior college. Shook me up pretty good. I could see one of his leg bones trying to push out of his uniform pants. The guilt ate at me. I dropped to my knees and laid a hand on him. He was screaming. The pain was too much for the guy. I prayed and he stopped screaming. I was afraid he’d died or something, but when I opened my eyes, he was staring at the sky. I couldn’t see any pain in his expression. The trainers arrived moments later and pushed me away. I took a couple steps back, looked at his leg again. The ragged lump where the bone had been trying to bust through was gone. Only a patch of blood remained.”
I took a deep breath. “They cut away his uniform. I guess the blood told him his leg was busted, but the leg looked fine. He walked off the field.”
“Tank . . . that’s too amazing to believe.”
“I know. I don’t talk about it much. It confuses me. Still, have I ever lied to you?”
“No, but you did keep secret the fact that you had been cut from the team.”
“I’ve been feeling like a loser of late. I didn’t want to relive the whole thing over.”
“I guess I can understand that.” He drove for another mile before speaking again. “When you said you wanted to carry Littlefoot the last couple o’ blocks to the station—”
“Yep. I was hoping that God would heal her feet and whatever else might be bothering her. Turns out she didn’t need healing . . . then.”
A quick look at Uncle Bart told me he was thinking a big thought. “When this whole thing began and we were talking to Old Man Weldon—”
“Yes. I prayed for him.”
“I wonder how he’s doing.”
Another mile passed.
“Tank, I’m gonna say something, and I want you to let me get through it before writing me off. This is gonna seem bad timing on my part, but I gotta say it.”
“Okay.”
“When we started this little adventure, I was trying to talk you into becoming a cop. I was trying to help you by giving you a goal after losing your spot on the team. I still think you should be a cop, but now I have a different reason.” He cleared his throat as the next sentence got caught in his throat. “This is tough business and it’s easy to lose perspective, to avoid getting close to those we help. You have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. Cops everywhere could use a reminder of why we do this work. You have relationship skills that can’t be taught. Let’s say you do have the gift to heal—”
“Sometimes. I can’t control it.”
“Okay, you sometimes have the gift of healing, but your real gift is something greater. You see the good in everyone. I can only see the bad. You are a tonic, son. A real shot in the arm.”
“I can’t commit to anything now, Uncle Bart.”
“I know that. I know it. I have one more thing to say. I don’t know what to make of your friends, your team, whatever you consider yourself, but I think you got something waiting for you. Something to do. A mission. Yeah, that’s it, a mission.”
I didn’t know what to say. I sensed he was right, but at that moment I couldn’t think about life missions because Littlefoot was in trouble. Fear had me quaking on the inside. Portions of my brain were shutting down as if my mind wanted to keep things from escaping. Dear God, I was lost.
We rounded a corner and the hospital came into view. It was a two-story structure common in small towns. It looked new and modern, and I did my best to convince myself it was a place of healing and not a great big crypt.
We pulled into a parking place near the emergency room and parked next to another patrol car. I assumed it belonged to Deputy Wad.
The next thing I remember was standing in the waiting room of the ER. Uncle Bart was next to me and Deputy Wad stood in front of us. H
is uniform was covered in blood.
“Deputy Waddle,” I said. “You’re hurt.”
He looked at me, his eyes wet. Something about him was different. “It’s not my blood, Tank.”
I began to shake.
CHAPTER
11
Hospital Rounds
1:10 P.M.
I thought time had passed slowly in the patrol car. Time in the hospital oozed by.
I’m no good at science or math, but I did have to take a couple of science classes in high school. One of my teachers told a story about Albert Einstein. Someone asked what he meant when he said time was relative: “Time spent with a pretty girl seems to go faster than time spent sitting on a hot stove.” That’s all I know about his theories, but at least that part made sense to me. We had been at the hospital over six hours, but it felt like we’d spent a decade in the waiting room. Relative time.
They wouldn’t let me see Littlefoot. I thought about pushing the doctors and nurses aside. Not one of them was big enough to stop me, and I was highly motivated.
But an invisible hand held me in place. At least that’s how it felt to me. Reason came back. God could save her whether I was there or not. I’m not indispensable. I’m just one tool in God’s tool kit. Not every tool is right for the job. So I did the tough work. I waited. And waited.
Deputy Waddle—I couldn’t call him Wad after what he did for Littlefoot—filled us in on what he knew. He had been on graveyard shift. It was his week. He left the station to do another patrol before the day crew came in. He heard a scream. Looked down the street. Saw something a couple blocks away, the same place we first saw Littlefoot, and something blurry. He rushed in her direction. He found her . . .
Sorry, it’s a hard story to tell. I wasn’t there but I could still see it.
Waddle found her lying in the snow, bleeding. He called for backup, found the worst wounds and tried to slow their flow—with his bare hands. Another deputy arrived to help and the ambulance came shortly after that. Then he called Uncle Bart from his cell phone.
To me, Waddle looked like a hero—a pale, blood-splattered, shaky hero.
“Seeing her lying in the middle of the street, in the dirty snow . . .” He swore. Shook. Then wobbled. I took him in my arms, bloody uniform and all, and held him. He cried, not like a child, but like a man who had seen brutality he would never forget.
We tried to get what information we could, but only learned that emergency surgery was needed and the doctors would talk to us later. I knew they weren’t brushing us off, but it sure felt like it. Uncle Bart decided to go back to town and take Waddle with him. The deputy seemed too shaken to drive. “Give Tank the keys to the patrol car in case he needs them. You know, to get a bite to eat or somethin’.”
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Uncle Bart also wanted to check out the scene of the crime. Maybe there was something to be learned. Maybe.
The triage nurse in the ER directed me to a surgical lobby, a place where friends and family did the impossible work of waiting. I found a seat in the middle of a row of padded chairs, closed my eyes, and began to pray. It was the least I could do; it was the most important thing I could do. There weren’t a lot of words, just a wounded soul crying out for help.
Several hours had passed when I heard the shuffling of feet. I couldn’t, didn’t want to open my eyes. Big as I am, some things are too heavy for me to lift, like swollen eyelids over red-rimmed eyes.
A gentle hand reached under my arm at the elbow. It was small. It was warm. It was tender. A moment later I felt the weight of someone’s head on my shoulder. It was Andi. I recognized her scent, a scent I longed for many times. Uncle Bart must have told them where I was.
A larger hand rested on my left shoulder. A slight squeeze. A deep sigh. No words. Again, I realized that the professor must have been a good priest.
The acrid/sweet scent of cigarette smoke flavored the air. Normally I hate the odor, but this time it said Brenda was here. I heard her take a ragged breath.
Only one was missing: Daniel. But if Brenda was here, Daniel had to be here, too.
I opened my eyes and saw his small form in front of me, just out of arm’s reach. I knew so little about Daniel. He saw things no one else did, he almost never spoke, but he had a courage no child should have to have. We stared at each other for a moment. I forced a smile. He burst into tears and ran into my arms.
He cried. I broke into sobs. Sobs loud enough to embarrass me. I was brought up to believe that men didn’t cry in public, especially big guys like me. I wish that were true. It’s not. I melted into the chair, comforted by the touch of four other misfits . . . friends as dear to me as family.
“They’ve been at it all night.” Brenda moved to the seat the professor had vacated a couple of hours before. He and Andi had moved to the corner of the room, each fixated on their iPads. Brenda jerked her head in their direction. “They’re obsessed with figuring out the kid’s scroll.”
“I’m glad they’re working on it,” I said. “I got no idea what it is.”
“Me neither. I’m pretty useless in the intellect department.”
“Don’t say that, Miss Brenda. You’re smart. Better, you’re wise. We would be a much weaker team without you.”
She studied me. “Is that what we are, Cowboy? A team? Really?”
“Yes.”
“I dunno. We barely tolerate each other.”
It was good to be talking again. “Teams fight, Miss Brenda. Don’t let that throw you. My dad thinks football represents life. I think it’s just a game, but he sees more. In some ways I think he’s right.” I shifted my bulk in the seat. “Look, I’ve been playing football since my peewee days, and it has taught me a few things.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not a great player, but I get to play because of my size. I’m not the smartest guy on the field, but I’m not dumb. We need the really smart, the really fast, the really strong, the really determined. There has to be a mix. That means players get on each other’s nerves. They fight during practice; they fight in the locker room. They call each other names and blame one another for just about everything. Come game time, they are a unit. The other team is the enemy, not one another. So they pull together. Or as every coach I’ve had has said, ‘Pull together or pull apart.’ That’s us. We bicker, but I know that when I need you—like right now—you’ll be there for me. And I will always be there for you guys.”
“I dunno, Cowboy.”
“I do. Daniel needs you. Daniel and me are buds . . .” I turned to him. “Ain’t that right, Daniel?” As usual, he didn’t speak, but held up a clenched hand. I gave him a fist bump. “Daniel needs more than a buddy, he needs you. I don’t know what part Daniel plays in all this, but I know he’s part of the team. I know you’re part of the team. You are . . .”
“I’m what?”
“I was going to say that you are the perfect mother for Daniel.”
She pulled back as if I had slapped her. She worked her mouth like she was going to say something but couldn’t get the words to flow. She looked to me like someone with a secret.
She collected herself. “The way you said that makes me think you were going to say something else.”
I hesitated.
“Go ahead, Cowboy. I’m tough. I can take it.”
She had found a way to make me chuckle. “You’re tough all right. Sometimes you’re downright scary. I mean that as a compliment. What I was going to say is that there are days when I think you’re a mother to all of us.”
“Shuddup! No way. I ain’t that old coot’s mother.”
“He’s not an old coot, Miss Brenda. The professor is just sixty.”
“Ancient. A fossil.”
“And you know how to handle him. It takes you and Andi both to keep him on the path.”
Daniel shot to his feet and looked to the far wall. I’m glad Brenda, me, Andi, and the professor were the only ones in the room. I didn’t have to w
orry about what others would think.
“Daniel, what is it, honey?” Brenda slipped from her seat and knelt next to the boy. He continued to stare at the wall. “Is your friend-who’s-not-Harvey back?”
He nodded. The professor and Andi stared at him.
Judging by the tilt of Daniel’s head, his friend had to be seven feet tall. We’re pretty sure Daniel sees angels, and who knows how tall they are.
“Is something wrong?” Brenda asked. Daniel smiled, then the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes widened. He turned sharply, stepped to me, took my hand, and made me rise. I let him lead me to the waiting room door. He stopped.
Ten seconds later, a doctor appeared. “I’m looking for family of the young girl brought in this morning.”
The others were on their feet a moment later. “She doesn’t have family, Doctor. I’m Bjorn Christensen, her friend.”
“That complicates things. There are laws that keep me from revealing patient information—”
Brenda stepped up. “Tank—I mean, Bjorn—is the sheriff’s nephew. He’s working with law enforcement on the little girl’s situation.” She sure knew how to take over a conversation.
The doctor studied Brenda the way a prisoner studied his executioner. “Still—”
“You want us to get Sheriff Christensen on the phone?” Brenda hit the last name hard.
“No. It’s been a long morning.”
He looked at the others, then directed his attention to me. “She came through the surgery, but she still has a long way to go. She lost a lot of blood and we had to keep hanging units. We also did a lot of stitching, but she’s gonna make it.”
“Praise God,” I said.
Brenda was still in control. “So the stab wounds were deep?”
“Those weren’t knife wounds. Those are bite marks.”
It was time for me to sit down again.
The professor found his seat. “I’m starting to hate this job.”
CHAPTER
12
A Spark of an Idea
3:30 P.M.
Invitation: The Call, The Haunted, The Sentinels, The Girl Page 24
