Clay's caution grew. Though the establishments where they'd conducted interviews had front entrances on a busier street, the murder occurred in the alley. Any information they might get would have to come from there, but like most big-city alleys, it was intersected by even smaller alleyways. And in the shadowy darkness, as they passed the smaller alleys, Clay kept one hand on his revolver.
“We got some good stuff,” Joe whispered. Voices carried, and neither of them wanted to be heard talking about the interviews they'd done that afternoon.
“Yeah.” Clay looked across the alley again, his eyes darting up and down the length of it. “I was hoping for something—”
A form jumped out from a dark doorway, and Clay felt a hand clamp on to his arm and jerk him off his feet before he had time to pull out his gun. Joe had been grabbed as well.
“Shut up!” A voice hissed at them. The smell of alcohol and old tobacco filled the tight space. “I've got a gun! Don't move.”
Next to him, Joe stopped scuffling and grew still. “We're police. Don't do something stupid.”
A different voice laughed at them, and the sound was anything but humorous. Clay blinked and tried to make out their faces. Two Asian-American men, both young and high as kites.
“That's right, Superman; you're finished.”
His partner kicked Clay's leg. “You didn't think you could come snoopin' around without an official welcome, did you?” His snort was half laugh, half nervous energy. “We'll lose business because of you jerks.”
Business? The pieces came rushing together. They were drug dealers; maybe part of a ring. And now they were wanted in a murder.
In a rush of movement, Joe pulled his gun and pushed the guy who claimed to be armed. “Up against the wall!” His voice was loud, stern. He pulled away enough to get his hand on his revolver, but as he did, both men lunged at him.
Clay pulled his own gun free when a gunshot exploded through the small, cramped space. Joe slumped against the door frame and inched down. His eyes found Clay's and his mouth formed the word, “Help!”
“Joe!” Clay grabbed hold of his friend, stopping him from sliding all the way to the ground.
Both men stepped back and stared at Joe. “Now you did it!” one of them snarled. He pushed his buddy aside and ran down the alley, toward the Top Hat.
“I … I didn't mean it. I didn't shoot him; I swear it.” Before the last word was out, the second man turned and followed after his friend.
“Backup!” Clay shouted over his shoulder. Where were the other detectives? God, let them hear me. Please … “I need backup. Officer down!”
His hands were shaking so hard he could barely use them. But he kept one set of fingers firmly around Joe's arm, and with the other he yanked his cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed 911.
“911. What's your emergency?”
Clay gritted his teeth. The other detectives had to be close. Come on, God … please let Joe be okay. “Officer down!” He gave his location. “I need emergency backup.”
Clay heard screeching tires in the distance and then footsteps, lots of them, running hard and growing closer. NYPD detectives ran up, breathless. “We called for help. Four cars have a bead on the suspects.” Clay grabbed a quick breath. “An ambulance will be here any minute.”
“Clay …” Joe's voice was fading. His eyes were open, but they looked frozen, in shock. He gasped for breath and stared hard at Clay. “Tell … tell Wanda I … I love her.”
“Keep him upright.” One of the detectives moved in along the other side of Joe and held that arm. “He's losing a lot of blood.”
Something caught Clay's eyes and he saw it was a red stain on the door frame, a smeary blood trail caused by Joe's body sliding down it. Joe'd been shot clear through the abdomen just beneath his flak jacket. He had blood at the corners of his mouth and near his nose, and his eyes were closing. His breathing was labored and slow.
“Joe!” Clay gave him a shake. It was okay; he was going to be okay. He had to be okay. “Hang in there. Wanda wants you to tell her yourself, man. Come on!”
Sirens drew closer, but would the ambulance even matter? Joe was bleeding to death; he had maybe a few minutes by the looks of it. Clay hung his head. “God … please stop the bleeding. Make it stop, God …” His prayer was loud enough for the other detectives to hear, but even as Clay prayed, Joe closed his eyes and his head fell forward.
“No!” Clay tightened his grip on Joe's shoulder. His heart raced and he wanted to shake something. No, Joe couldn't die. “God, don't let him die, please!”
The ambulance sped up and slammed to a stop a few feet away. Clay stayed beside Joe as he was placed on the stretcher, as the men loaded him into the back. He would go with him, of course. Travel in the back to the hospital and stay with him until they found a way to save his life. “Joe, hang on!” Clay shouted the words, in case Joe could hear him.
One of the other detectives grabbed Clay's shirt and pulled him back from the scene. “You can't go with him.”
“Why? He needs me there.” He jerked away and took a step toward the ambulance.
“Stop!” It was the other officer, the lead detective.
“I'm going with him!” Clay spun, breathless. The paramedics were closing the door; if he waited another few seconds it would be too late.
“You can't, Michaels.” The detective's expression changed. “The medic told me they're doing CPR; they need all the space they can get.”
“CPR?” Clay felt the ground beneath him turn to liquid.
The detective motioned toward the NYPD squad car, fifty yards away. “Come with us; we'll get you there just as fast.”
He was in the squad car, the other detectives driving him to the emergency room, when he figured out what to do next. He grabbed his phone and dialed Jamie's number.
She picked up on the second ring. “Clay … I'm glad you called.”
“Jamie.” He hesitated, not sure how to tell her. “Joe's been shot. I'm … I'm not sure he's going to make it.”
Her gasp was sharp, and he could picture her face. Beautiful, terrified. “What happened?”
“We were doing street interviews.” He didn't want to tell her the other details—not yet. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The detective at the wheel had the siren on, making the best time possible to the hospital. “Pray, Jamie. Please.” He told her what hospital they were headed for. “And call Wanda, okay?”
“Clay … are you all right?”
Her voice was balm for his soul, but he couldn't think about her that way; not now. He opened his eyes and stared at the city street ahead of them. The hospital wasn't far away. “Just pray.”
As he hung up he realized something that ripped him apart inside, something that made him turn and lean his head against the car window. If they were doing CPR on Joe Reynolds, then he wasn't breathing. Which meant there was another reason they hadn't wanted Clay in the ambulance. Not so much because they had to start CPR.
But because they might have to stop it.
TWENTY-FOUR
It took Jamie twenty minutes to board the ferry for Manhattan.
Her first call had been to Wanda, and as she'd expected, her friend was terrified, too scared to speak. She was able to say only that she was on her way to the hospital and that she wanted Jamie to meet her there.
Next she called a neighbor, who was more than willing to take Sierra for the evening. Before she did that, she told Sierra that Clay's friend had been hurt and she needed to be with him. Sierra didn't say much, but her eyes shone. A strange mixture of fear and hope.
Jamie thought she knew why.
She hadn't seen or spoken about Clay in days, and Sierra wasn't happy about the fact. Now, though, if Jamie was going to the hospital to meet him—even for a sad reason—then maybe she would get to see Clay again.
Even so, they didn't talk about Clay. Every second counted, and she wanted to be at the hospital when Wanda arrived. She took
time to do just one thing before she left. She went to her bedroom dresser, where she kept Jake's Bible, and she lifted her left hand.
She'd always believed she would know. That when it was time for her wedding ring to come off, she wouldn't have any doubts. She studied the ring. Jake, her marriage to him, their days of loving and laughing and making a life together, would always be a part of her. But the ring …
It was time.
She worked it off her finger, held it in her hand a moment, then opened the lid on a small blown-glass box. With careful fingers, she set her wedding ring inside the box, and shut the lid.
Her hand seemed empty. She ran her thumb over the bare spot, the pale indented circle at the base of her finger. It would bear for a very long time the proof that Jake's ring had been there. Much as her heart would forever bear proof of Jake himself.
She took a quick step back, then left the room. She ran Sierra over to the neighbor's, then headed toward the ferry. The news was still working its way through her, convincing her that this latest, terrible thing really had happened. That Joe had been shot and critically wounded on the streets of Manhattan.
Jamie parked and made her way to the line for the ferry. Once aboard, she crossed to the opposite side, so she'd be first off when the boat docked. It was dark, the sky providing a cloud cover that kept temperatures from dropping too much. She found a place outside, near the railing, and stared at the skyline.
God … let him live. Guide the doctors and be with Wanda. Please, Father.
Peace wrapped its arms around her and she leaned into it.
Tragedy used to scare her to death. The news of it almost as much as the event itself. That was something else the terrorist attacks had taught her—how to handle bad news. Nothing could be as terrible as coming into the health club lobby that awful Tuesday morning and seeing the World Trade Center in flames on television.
She was anxious, lifting her voice to God every few minutes on Joe's behalf. But she was calm at the core, convinced that survival was possible—even in the face of great loss. And so it wasn't only thoughts of Joe that filled her mind as the boat sliced through the harbor. It was thoughts of Clay and Jake and Sierra and life.
And of her epiphany on the beach.
It wasn't that she'd avoided life all this time. She hadn't chosen death over life, not at first. Working at St. Paul's had been her way of choosing to live. It was that or crawl into bed and never get up again.
But after two years of volunteering, after hearing the stories of loss and praying with grieving relatives and letting strangers cry on her shoulder, Jamie had grown. She no longer needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. God gave her that just by sending the morning, by giving her another day with Him.
Whether she spent that day with Sierra or the people at St. Paul's, she no longer felt like one of the walking dead, the empty-eyed grievers who still colored the Manhattan landscape. Rather she was excited about life, about what God wanted to do with her and through her as long as she drew breath. It only made sense that she'd outgrown her time at Ground Zero. She could find purpose at St. Paul's, but she couldn't move on there.
She looked at the sky and saw Jake's image, his face smiling at her, giving her that knowing look. The one that told her he knew what she needed to do, and she knew it too. Now all she had to do was make the decision.
“Choose life, right, Jake?” Tears blurred her eyes. “Even with someone new. That's what you want me to do, isn't it?”
His eyes were as clear as if he were standing in front of her, clear and blue and filled with a love that she hadn't understood when he was alive. “Jake …”
The image held for a moment longer. Then it faded and blurred and became night sky. Yes, that's exactly what he would want her to do. Him and God Almighty.
See, I set before you now life and prosperity, death and destruction … Choose life!
That was why God brought Clay into her life in the first place. That she might be moved forward in the healing process, past the point of St. Paul's and toward the possibility of new life.
New love.
Just the thought of Clay made her breath catch in her throat. As desperate as the situation was, she felt a little bit like Sierra. Frightened and filled with concern, but with eyes that shone with hope. Because in a very little while she would see Clay again. And at some point, she'd tell him about her day, how she'd figured things out on a cold lonely beach, and how wrong she'd been before.
How much she needed him.
But what about Joe? What if he didn't make it? Clay had sounded desperately worried. She wanted to be with Clay, to pray with him and help him believe everything would work out. She pressed into the railing, urging the boat to move faster.
They needed to sit by Joe and coax him to hold on, because with God Almighty calling the shots, life—with all its painful turns and gut-wrenching losses—still had tremendous hope even in the simplicity of a sunrise.
Jamie had made the choice to choose life. Now, where Joe was concerned, she would pray for it.
The boat pulled up to the dock, and Jamie had a cab in record time. She was still praying for Joe when they arrived at the hospital and she paid the driver. Now that she'd come this far, she couldn't wait to find Clay, and she ran into the lobby and down the hall toward the emergency room.
Clay was the first person she saw.
He had his back to her, his arms crossed, head hung. He wore his uniform, and next to him sat two detectives, talking to a third uniformed officer with a notepad. Their conversation was hushed, relegated to the far corner of the waiting room.
Jamie made her way closer, and when she was halfway there, Clay turned. His eyes found hers, and her heart skipped. How could she have considered leaving this man, losing him, just because his brother was Eric Michaels? The entire situation seemed ludicrous now. After all, if Eric made her uncomfortable, she could keep her distance from him.
But she couldn't keep her distance from Clay. Not a minute longer.
In as much time as it took him to look at her she understood that, understood it to the core of her being. He came to her, and they met in the middle, falling into an embrace that was seeped in sorrow and relief. Sorrow over Joe; relief that despite the strange circumstances, they'd found their way back together.
Clay held her for a long time, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck. Being with him like this was better than she could've dreamed. She closed her eyes and savored it. Life. Bubbling through her and filling her with a sort of joy that left her speechless. God … I don't want him to ever let go. Please, God.
She opened her eyes. The officers had looked away. The waiting room offered little privacy, but at least the others weren't watching. She pressed her face against Clay's, still relishing the feel of his arms around her waist. “How is he?”
“Alive.” Clay drew back. He searched her eyes. “They're operating, but it doesn't look good. The bullet messed up his insides pretty good.” His cheeks were red and blotchy, his expression pained. “They told us to expect the worst.”
Jamie felt her heart sink to her ankles. “No …” She shook her head and tightened her grip on Clay's arms. “We can't give up.”
“I know.” Determination filled his eyes. “I've been praying.”
“Me too.” She paused. This wasn't the time, really. But she had to tell him, had to share what had happened to her that day. “Clay, there's something I want you to know.”
Concern filled his face. Clearly he expected her to say that though she had come, it was only as a show of support because of Joe. Not because she'd changed her mind about Clay or the situation with Eric.
“Relax. It's a good thing.”
He studied her, his brow knit together. “Good?”
“Yes.” She felt the corners of her mouth lift some. She eased her thumb along the fine lines in his forehead. “Sierra and I would like to spend Thanksgiving with you and your family.” Even with the sadness and pain in
her heart because of Joe, she felt her eyes dance a little. “If we're still welcome, that is.”
“What about Eric?” He moved his hands up to her shoulders and studied her. As if she might vanish if he didn't hold on to her. “You're okay with him? Dinner's at his house.”
“God showed me something today.” She looped her hands around the back of his neck. “I lost Jake on September 11; he was never alive after that.” A wave of sorrow came over her, but she rode it out. “Every memory I have from that point on wasn't with Jake; it was with Eric. A stranger who came to our house to learn how to be the kind of father and family man God wanted him to be.”
Clay nodded, studying her, making sure she believed the words she was saying. “You mean it?”
“Yes.” She hugged him for a long while before pulling back and finding his eyes. “Eric was never Jake, and if he wasn't Jake, then what's the problem? He's just a nice guy who looks a lot like my husband.”
For a moment, Clay's mouth hung open. Then he shook his head. “I prayed for this, Jamie. That you'd understand about Eric. But when you didn't take my calls, I—”
“Shhh.” She held her finger up to his lips. “I understand.” They released their hold on each other, and she led him to a pair of seats a few yards away from the other officers. When they sat down, she wove her fingers between his. “We need another miracle tonight. Let's pray for Joe.”
Clay held her eyes a moment, then bowed his head and began to pray. He begged God for the same things Jamie had been asking for. That Joe would live; that he would have no lasting effects from the terrible gunshot wound.
When the prayer was over, they spotted Wanda. She was just entering the emergency room, frantic fear scrawled across her face. Right away she saw them and she started to cry. “Jamie!”
She stood and met her friend, holding her even when her legs buckled. Clay was on his feet, helping ease Wanda into a chair, but she was unstable. Dizzy from the shock. When she was seated between them, she leaned forward, clearly trying to fight what must've been a consuming panic. “How is he? Can I see him?”
The Tuesday Morning Collection Page 62
