Even as another spray of bullets ripped through his car, Clay heard the sirens getting louder. His heart pounded. He listened, but he couldn't hear the man coming closer. Had he shot him? Had he actually killed a man? The sirens were right behind him now, and he heard two cars pull onto the shoulder, then the sound of doors slamming. A voice yelled, “Police, don't move!”
Someone was running up from behind, along the passenger side of Clay's car. It could be the suspect, but not likely. Still, Clay aimed his revolver at the opposite door just as Detective Joe Reynolds flung it open and looked inside. “Michaels, you okay?”
“The suspect?”
“He's dead.” The officer was a black man, a former attorney who'd grown tired of the corporate world and took up police work. He was a detective now, one of the best. He worked the west end and had an office down the hall from the lunchroom. Clay considered him his closest friend in the department.
“I … I killed him?”
“You did everyone a favor.”
Clay's body shook as relief worked its way through him. “A few more seconds and …”
“What'd he do, pull over and come after you?”
“Yeah.” Clay set his gun on the seat and pushed himself up. “The guy … he was crazy.”
“Must've been flying over a hundred.”
“He was.”
Reynolds was still out of breath. “We got here fast as we could. He was dying on the ground, still reaching for his weapon when we pulled up.” He ran his fingers over the bullet holes scattered across the front seat. “Someone must be looking out for you, Michaels. AK-47s don't usually miss.”
It was true. Even though he'd ducked into the floorboard, he should've been hit. Weapons like the assault rifle spray their bullets, and one easily could have ripped through the dash and killed him. “I was praying the whole time.”
Reynolds cocked his head. “I'd say the Big Guy heard you.”
Clay glanced around and saw another officer, one he didn't know as well, in his patrol car on the radio. Probably calling for someone to come get the body.
Clay looked at the covered figure lying a few yards from his car. Nausea rushed up in his belly. “First time I ever shot a suspect.”
“They'll want you to take some time, a paid leave.” Reynolds studied him. “Part of the investigation.”
“Right.” He'd had no choice, of course. The man would have killed him if he hadn't shot. In a situation like that—with a crazed suspect running at you, firing a gun—Clay had been taught there was just one way to do it: shoot to kill.
“You okay?” Reynolds brushed the glass off the passenger seat and sat down beside Clay, his feet hanging out of the car.
“Yeah, I guess.” He couldn't take his eyes off the covered body. “I don't like how I feel.”
“Look, Michaels—” Reynolds stared straight ahead, as though remembering something far away—“I've been on the other side of this game.” He looked at Clay. “Let's say you miss. Let's say ol' crazy man takes you down instead of the other way around. He could be out on the streets shooting again in twenty, fifteen if the circumstances were right.”
“Fifteen years?”
“I saw it all the time when I wore a suit and tie. All the time.” Reynolds glared at the place where the body lay. “No cop likes to shoot his gun. But in this case it was your life or his and, well, let's just say things worked out right today. You handled him better than the courts could've.” He gave Clay a halfhearted shove in the shoulder. “Of course, you didn't hear me say that.”
Reynolds climbed out of the car and shut the door. Clay wasn't shaking anymore, but the ache in his stomach hadn't gone away. A man was dead because he'd fired his gun. The thought sank in. He'd killed a man on the job; the possibility that always exists for an officer had actually happened.
Clay looked down. He still had shattered glass on his pants. He climbed out of the car, dusted off the crumbly pieces, and leaned against his door. Reynolds was right. It was his life or the suspect's. And if he was honest with himself, in a small way it felt good to fire the gun at a man who'd already killed someone, who'd put every driver they'd passed on the freeway at risk. Yes, things had worked out for the best, and if he were faced with the situation again, he'd respond the same way.
But a man lay dead on the ground because of him. No matter how good and right his actions were, he still felt sick.
It took an hour for investigators to arrive and collect data, and for the body to be removed and taken to the morgue where an autopsy would be performed. During that time, Clay learned more information about the man. He'd crossed the border south of San Diego two days earlier, killing two border patrolmen in the process. Witnesses said they saw him heading south, and when police dogs lost his trail, the search was called off.
No one knew how he'd gotten from San Diego to the San Fernando Valley, but he stayed beneath police radar until the carjacking.
An investigating officer took a statement from Clay and assured him the process was routine. “Your car's shattered with bullets, Michaels. Don't sweat this for a minute.”
When Clay got back to the office, Reynolds spotted him and nodded. “They want to see you in the office.” He paused, his eyes full of concern. “After that, come see me. I have an idea.”
The meeting with the brass was what Clay expected. He was being placed on paid leave until an investigation could be completed. Probably two to three weeks. He was already heading out of the office when his boss stopped him.
“Michaels.”
“Yes, sir.” Clay felt better than before, but he still didn't have an appetite.
The man tapped a pencil on his desk. “We all hate when this type of thing happens.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But in this case, I'm glad your aim was on.” He leaned forward, eyes intense. “It would've killed me to lose you, Michaels. You're one of the best. Take the break and when you get back, if I have anything to do with it, you'll get a promotion.”
A promotion? He'd wanted that since he started with the department. He should be celebrating with a victory fist or a shout. Something. But in light of the day's events, Clay managed only a sad smile. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”
The man's eyes clouded. “Don't beat yourself up, Michaels. You did the right thing.”
“Okay.” Clay held the man's gaze a few seconds more and then turned and headed through the door to Reynolds's office. He shut the door behind him.
“Paid leave?”
“Two or three weeks.” Clay shrugged. “When I get back my office might be across from yours.”
A grin played out across his friend's face. “I knew it. They asked me last week who I thought was ready.”
“You told 'em me?” Clay sat down and planted his elbows on his knees.
“Nope, I told 'em Hardy down the hall.” Reynolds chuckled. “Of course I told 'em you.”
Clay stared out the window behind Reynolds and wondered. On a day like today, what would it be like to have someone to go home to? Someone to share the details of the chase and the gun battle, someone to hug him and hold him and spend three weeks' paid leave with. Someone to congratulate him for getting promoted.
Someone to comfort him for what he'd had to do.
“Michaels, you daydreaming again?” His friend raised one eyebrow and slid back from his desk. He kicked his feet up. “I asked you a question, and you just stare out the window like you're daffy or something.”
“Sorry.” Clay understood. Reynolds was trying to keep things light, helping take the focus off the shooting. “Ask again.”
“I was saying I think I know where we can go for a vacation.”
“Vacation?”
Reynolds pushed a file across the desk. “Take a look.”
Clay opened it and read the flyer inside: Detective Training Offered by New York's Finest. Starting in late October and running through the second week of November, the NYPD was offering a series of workshops
and on-the-job training for officers from anywhere in the United States.
“You can't take three weeks, can you?”
Reynolds smiled. “I can when it's part of my ongoing training.”
“Hmmm.” There was no one waiting at home for Reynolds, same as Clay. It wasn't something the man ever talked about, and Clay didn't ask. But on the man's desk was a small photograph of a pretty brown-skinned woman and a little boy with eyes like Reynolds's. Clay had the feeling the man had some hidden pain, a story he shared with no one.
“I already talked to the chief. He says he could count three weeks for your leave. Three weeks in the Big Apple, Michaels. Whaddaya say?”
The idea sounded better with every passing second. He'd wanted to get back to New York ever since the terrorist attacks—same as every police officer and firefighter he knew. But he hadn't had time. Besides, he knew it would be hard—looking at the crater, imagining the lives lost in a single morning. When he had time off, he usually went hunting with guys from the department or boating up at one of the northern California lakes. A trip to New York hadn't figured into his plans.
“Well?” Reynolds crossed his arms, looking proud of himself. “Can I call and sign us up?”
Clay stared at the flyer again. The department had a block of rooms in a hotel on Staten Island. An effort at saving money, no doubt. If the department picked up his bill, it would be a fantastic opportunity. He would come back ready to step into his new role, the sickening memories from earlier that day at least a little dimmer.
He looked at Reynolds. “The two of us, huh?”
“That's right.” Reynolds dropped his feet to the floor. “Showing the New York boys how to get it done.”
Clay closed the folder and tossed it back on the desk. “Let's do it.”
That night when he was back home Clay didn't turn on the television, didn't take a swim in the community pool down the street, didn't do anything except run a mental tape of what happened that day. Every time guilt tried to say something, he stopped it with the truths others spoke to him all day long.
Reynolds telling him he'd done everyone a favor; his captain assuring him he was glad the outcome hadn't been different. The news that the suspect had killed two border patrol officers.
It was his life or the suspect's. Plain and simple.
By the time he turned in for the night, God had replaced his nausea with a certainty that he'd done the right thing. The only thing he could've done. He should be at peace with the situation and how it had played out.
But he wasn't.
Three weeks away would do him good—less because of his gun battle than because he needed a change of scenery. His last thoughts before he fell asleep were proof of that because they were even more wrong than the earlier ones involving the shooting. They were thoughts of his brother's wife. Wrong thoughts. Thoughts that had him wondering what would've happened if Eric had never come home, if he'd never found his way back.
And whether Laura ever wondered the same thing.
THREE
Jamie was back at St. Paul's, her second time that week.
Aaron worked the night shift, and on the days she was at the chapel, he wound up there too. It was just a few blocks from the station, so he would go home and catch some sleep when their shift ended after lunch.
It was still early. Aaron hadn't arrived yet, but a young woman sat in the center of the pews, crying. Jamie drew a deep breath. God … give me the strength. She kept her eyes on the woman and took soft, respectful steps toward her.
“Hello, I'm Jamie Bryan, a volunteer here.” The woman was actually a teenage girl. In her hands was a picture of a middle-aged man in a suit and tie. The girl's father, no doubt. “Would you like to talk?”
The girl looked up, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. “It's his birthday.” She held up the photo. “My father.”
A pang of guilt stabbed at Jamie. At least this girl had somewhere to go, a place where her father's memory was honored. Sierra had the right to come here too. If the timing was right, if God gave her the words, she would tell her daughter soon. Maybe before Christmas.
Jamie sat beside the girl. She'd been trained to keep her questions minimal. That way the visitor would steer the conversation the direction they wanted to go. Her heart ached for the girl, who looked a little like Sierra might look in ten years. Long blonde hair, pretty face—and a hole in her heart where her daddy had been.
The girl sniffed and looked at the picture. “He wasn't supposed to go in that day. He was on vacation, but someone called and said they needed him.” Her eyes lifted to Jamie's. “I told him I needed him more, but he …” She hung her head. “He thought I was teasing him. ‘You have school,’ he told me. He kissed … me on the forehead and said he'd see me that afternoon. After I got home from school. Our family was supposed to go away the next morning for a family reunion.” She shook her head. “But it never …”
Jamie slipped her arm around the girl. “I'm sorry.” So much pain, so many wounded and battered hearts still wandering the streets of New York, searching for hope. Sometimes she wasn't sure she could take another day at St. Paul's, and yet moments like this, she knew. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, no matter how much it hurt. If she came to St. Paul's, she would never forget what Jake had done that awful Tuesday.
He might have been helping this girl's father, for all she knew.
Jamie gave the girl a light squeeze, a half hug that told her she wasn't alone, that anyone who stayed long at St. Paul's could understand the hurt she was feeling. Then she took her arm from the girl's shoulders and faced her. “Are you … I guess I didn't get your name.”
The girl looked at Jamie again. “Sami. Sami Taylor.”
“Hi, Sami.” Jamie's tone was soft. “Do you believe in Jesus, Sami?”
“I used to.”
Jamie could almost hear herself telling Jake the same thing, back when he'd wanted nothing more than to share a Sunday morning church service with her. If she could have anything in the world it would be to tell him yes, just once. To go with him to church and sit beside him and pray to the God he'd always believed in. Her only comfort was that somehow, up in heaven, he had to know the truth, had to see that his prayers for her had been answered. She held her breath for a moment.God … she's just like I used to be. Give me the words.
The girl spoke before Jamie had a chance. “When my dad was alive, we'd go to church every Sunday. My mom too. He was a rock, I guess. Sort of the anchor for our family.”
She could've been describing Jake. “My husband was that way too.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes.” Jamie swallowed back the lump in her throat. “He was a firefighter.” The past tense still got to her. Her eyes felt the sting of tears, but she blinked them away. “He was in the South Tower helping people when it collapsed.”
“That's awful!” The girl's mouth hung open. “Were you … were you married for very long?”
“Not long enough.” Jamie tried to smile, tried to keep the conversation from going to the deep places where she would break down and cry. Not that it hadn't happened before, but it couldn't happen every day. And she didn't want it to happen now. “We have a daughter. She's seven now—in second grade.”
“How can you … how can you be here?” Sami waved her hand toward the memorabilia lining the walls. “I would never stop crying.”
This time Jamie's smile was sad but easy. “I come because God gives me the strength.”
“God let the towers fall.” Her answer was quick, sharp.
“No, Sami.” Jamie took the girl's hands in her own. “God is good. He has nothing to do with evil.”
Fresh tears filled the girl's eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She looked at the picture of her father again. “But He could've stopped it.”
“There are some things we won't ever fully understand this side of heaven.” Jamie squeezed the girl's hands. “What happened September 11 is one of them. But I know this
…” Jamie's voice lowered. She waited until Sami was looking at her. “I couldn't have survived it without faith in God. Faith that I found after my husband died, even though he prayed for me to find it every day while he was alive.”
Sami's eyes widened. “So you didn't always believe?”
“No.” Jamie released the girl's hands and leaned her shoulder against the hard back of the pew. “My parents died in a car accident when I was about your age. I stopped believing in God that day and didn't talk to Him again until three years ago.”
The girl shifted and set the photo on her knee. She ran her fingers beneath her eyes. “We were very close.” She looked at Jamie and stifled another sob. “My mom's a wonderful person, but my daddy knew me best.” Her gaze fell to the picture again. “I miss him so much.”
“Tell me something, Sami.”
She looked up. “What?”
“Would your dad want you angry at God?” It was more than she would usually say, but that didn't matter. It was what Jake would've said. And since she did this in his honor, she would gently prod and push people back toward God as often as she had a chance.
The girl picked up the photo and held it tight against her chest. She hung her head and uttered a gut-wrenching whisper. “No.”
“If your father loved God, then he's in heaven now. Probably grateful that you wound up here today.”
Sami nodded. “I think I've missed God almost as much as I missed my dad. I had to … had to work at being mad at Him.”
“I know.” And she did. Jamie remembered a conversation she'd had with Jake not long before he died. He'd found out that she'd been asking Sierra about Sunday school. He wanted to know if maybe she'd changed her mind, if maybe she wanted to come one Sunday just to see what it was like. Just to find out if she still wanted to hold a grudge against God.
At the time she'd had to work to tell him no. It was her pride, really. The fact that she didn't want to need God, didn't want to love Him. But it wasn't that she didn't believe. No matter what she told herself about God not existing and about the Bible being made up of fine-sounding fairy tales, she always knew the truth. God was alive and waiting for her. Hounding her relentlessly until finally He used Jake's Bible and journal to catch her, to break down the walls and allow her the chance to run to His arms.
The Tuesday Morning Collection Page 42
