Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

“It’s a dark, slimy pit with no way out. It’s a place where only God can rescue you, not yourself.”

  Dalton shook his head and sighed. “I must be there. I feel hopeless and I definitely can’t get out.”

  Mo’s eyes lit up and he smiled, revealing perfectly chiseled teeth. “You’re getting it. He waits for you to cry out.” Mo slapped his knees and his eyes widened. “You will have the fight of your life against the lies you’ve believed since childhood,” he said. “Embrace the truth, brother. Your Father will help you to wage this war. He meets you in your pain,” Mo continued. “Otherwise, He remains a two-dimensional Sunday school picture hanging on a wall.” He looked at Dalton with such a piercing gaze he had to look away.

  Dalton turned to the bar imbedded-window. Sunlight penetrated the cell, casting checkers of white light across his sneakers. The shaft seemed much brighter, as did his spirit. Could God really rescue him after all he had done? For the first time in a long time, hope surged. Maybe Mo was right. Maybe God was smiling at him, despite his blatant failures that had magnified a bruised soul.

  Dalton’s eyes burned and felt heavy. He dragged in a deep breath and yawned. Suddenly he felt very sleepy.

  “Looks like you’re ready for a nap. Can I bless you first?” Mo’s eyes glistened.

  Dalton eyes snapped open and his heart leaped. “Really? Would you?” The last time he’d been blessed was at his ordination.

  With a chunky index finger, Mo touched Dalton’s forehead, made the sign of the cross between his brows. “In the Name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, I bless you.”

  Mo dropped his hand to his lap and smiled. “Your Father waits for you, Dalton. He’s waiting for you to come home. Cling to Him and don’t let go.”

  ***

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Dalton’s eyes snapped open. His body had a tinge of achiness, but nothing like the agonizing pain earlier. T.T. once again bashed the plastic bucket against the bars.

  “Is anyone out there?” Bulldog shouted.

  “Face it. They’re not coming,” T.T. said.

  Dalton lay on the bench under his blanket. He lifted his face and scanned the cell. Mo was gone. “What happened to the other prisoner?” he asked.

  “What other prisoner?” T.T. asked. “Are you trippin’ man? No one’s come to this cell since Charlie brought our food last night.”

  Had the sheriff removed the man while they slept? Or had the encounter been a dream or worse yet, a hallucination? Was he losing his mind?

  “He waits for you, Dalton.” The familiar words flooded his soul.

  Waiting for me? Lord, whether this was a dream or not, please let it be true.

  Moments ticked by. He drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Chaos

  _________________________________________________________

  Wednesday, 2:30 p.m.

  Saguaro Junction, AZ

  Pull into that parking lot, son.” Martin pointed to Foley’s Chicken Plant ahead.

  Gordon blew out a sigh of relief. The trip had taken three times longer than usual. A roadblock on the highway with cops directing traffic to turn around had them scrambling for an alternate route. After a missed turn, they ended up on a muddy track, but it got them here. No telling what that so-called road did to his van’s suspension.

  “Right here.” Martin gestured to empty tarmac, glistening under the afternoon sun, next to a huge commercial building. Overhead, voluminous industrial windows emitted no light.

  Gordon stopped next to a dark blue trash container. He left the van idling. “Where’s the sheriff’s office?” he asked.

  “Nothing looks familiar,” Jeremy said.

  “Let’s follow that rail line.” Martin pointed to a loading dock. ”Train tracks lead to the older parts of the city. The jail was downtown.”

  Gordon throttled the engine, then put the van into first gear.

  Crash!

  Gordon jumped, his heart racing. What happened?.

  A toothless man shouted obscenities from outside the passenger door. He proceeded to bash the van’s window with an empty liquor bottle. Gordon gunned the engine and followed a frontage road near the railroad track. He inspected the rearview mirror. The vagrant gave him a single digit hand sign.

  “That was close,” Gordon said. “People are nuts right now.”

  “Let’s be hyper-vigilant, men. At least until we get back to McCormick,” Martin said.

  Minutes later they reached a major intersection. People scattered in all directions, some carrying what looked like new merchandise from stores. Police appeared to be outnumbered.

  “This isn’t safe. We need to get out of here,” Martin shouted. “Drive on the tracks, Gordy, quick!”

  Gordon wedged the VW between two train gates that must have dropped during the outage. He pressed the gas and straddled the iron rails. The van agitated like an old washing machine. After traveling a mile or so, modern structures surrendered to 1860’s brick and mortar. They’d arrived at the town’s historic district.

  Martin gestured to a water tower ahead. “Hey Jer’, didn’t we see that yesterday?”

  “We sure did.” Jeremy perched on the edge of the back seat, leaning forward between Gordon and Martin. “I think the jail is south of the tower.”

  “Get off the tracks, son,” Martin said, pointing. “Drive to that old bank building.”

  With a jerk of the wheels, the van clattered off the tracks. Gordon drove to a dilapidated three-story building.

  Painted across red brick in white paint, high up on the top floor, were the faded words Colonial Savings Bank. Gordon careened around the bank’s corner into an alley free of looters and potential carjackers. When he’d gone through several passageways, he ended up facing a busy avenue, teeming with people, rushing in all directions. Across the street was an old park.

  “Where do I go now?” he asked.

  “Back up!” Martin ordered. ”I remember that park. We’re close to the jail.”

  Gordon slammed into reverse and hit the gas. When they reached a crossway, he did a turnabout, then followed some side streets until the van ended up in the jail house’s parking lot.

  “We’re too exposed here,” Martin said pointing to another alley. “Park over there.”

  Gordon squeezed the van between towering red brick walls, probably built in the early 1900’s. The tight space had most likely accommodated horse carriages at one-time. He turned off the engine and looked at his companions.

  “I’ll get my tanks. Can you unlock the hatch?” Martin asked. Gordon climbed out and met him at the back window, then twisted his key. Two metal canisters strapped to a dolly had been laid on their side. Martin carefully unloaded the contraption to the ground. “This thing’s a fuel cutter,” he said. “Even your grandmother can use it. Let’s see if the cops will let us in. If not, we'll use this puppy to get your father out the old-fashioned way.”

  Gordon’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about? We’re just here to check on Dad, right? Because of the power outage and his withdrawals.”

  Martin patted his shoulder. “Yes, that’s the plan. This is just in case. If the deputies are off trying to keep order, and your father needs medical attention, we can get to him.”

  “We’d be breaking the law, gentlemen.” Jeremy suddenly appeared, shaking his head.

  “By the looks of things, law enforcement can’t keep up.” Martin handed Jeremy a tool bag. “Like I said, this is for a worst-case scenario, only if we have to. Then later, if the power comes back on, we’ll return Pas … uh … Dalton and face the music.”

  Gordon shrugged. “Okay. No argument from me. I’m a minor.” He forced a chuckle. “I was unduly influenced by my father’s friends.” A judge might believe that.

  Martin led them through the narrow passageway, lugging the equipment while Gordon followed. Jeremy brought up the rear. When they arr
ived at the sidewalk, Martin leaned the dolly against the wall. “Hopefully, we won’t need this.” When he took the tool bag from Jeremy, they followed him around the corner. Under an old awning, they huddled near the building, trying not to draw attention. The sheriff’s office lobby was dark.

  They peered through the double glassed doors, pounding in unison for several moments. Gordon spun around and looked behind. People hurried past but so far, not a cop in sight. “We need to break the glass, Martin,” Gordon said. It was obvious no one was coming. They shouldn’t waste any more time.

  Martin removed his shirt and wadded it up. “Stand back, guys,” he said. He positioned the balled shirt against the glass door, then struck it with a mallet. The glass shattered, expelling shards in all directions. After widening the entry with the hammer, Martin guided Jeremy and Gordon through to the lobby, then returned to the sidewalk. Within moments he reappeared, lugging the dolly.

  Once they carried the dolly across the floor, crunching broken glass as they walked, Jeremy pointed toward an entrance behind the counter. ”They took your father through that door.”

  Gordon heard a noise. He waved the men silent. “What’s that? Someone’s banging.”

  ***

  Another round of bucket bashing woke Dalton. When he sat up, he felt surprisingly better. He’d expected to be suffering for at least a week. It had only been one day. Fresh hunger settled in his stomach.

  Afternoon light penetrated through the cell’s only window. From the shadow’s direction and length, Dalton guessed it must be close to three p.m.

  He scanned the small cell. Mo was definitely gone. Had he been released early?

  “Guard!” Bulldog shouted. “We’re starving back here. Is anyone there?” He cursed. Then cursed again, louder. “What’s wrong with these people?

  Dalton got to his feet and stood on wobbly legs. “We’re probably stuck here, guys. The cops are dealing with civil unrest.”

  Bulldog glared. “What are you sayin’ Preacher Man?’

  “We talked about this earlier, remember?” Dalton asked. “We have no power. A solar flare caused this.”

  T.T. frowned. “What about my wife and kid? I got to get out of here!”

  “We’re in God’s hands,” Dalton told them. Had he really said that? Did he finally believe it?

  “Hey, what’s that?” T.T. pointed to Dalton’s forehead.

  “What?” Dalton asked.

  “You’ve got a black cross on your face,” Bulldog said.

  “Really? You see a cross?” Tears collected in Dalton’s eyes.

  Bulldog stared. “How’d you do that, Preacher Man?”

  Dalton said nothing. He sat down and covered his face with his hands. Sobs wrenched from his chest. “It wasn’t a dream, was it, God?” Had Dalton received a heavenly visitor? Was Mo an angel? He leaned his head back and studied the cinder blocks. But angels were supposed to be fierce and frightening. Mo … Mo comforted him, left him feeling better. Dalton rubbed his eyes. He noticed the wadded lunch sack on the bench. Just where Mo left it.

  “Who you talkin’ to?” T.T. asked.

  Dalton ignored him and continued whispering a prayer. “Thank you, God. For sending Mo. For reminding me I’m not alone. For waiting for me. I’ll do whatever You say. Just help me to change.”

  Instead of the fear that tormented him hours before, he felt … peace. Instead of the aches and nausea, he felt … calm. Instead of anger and betrayal, he felt … acceptance. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he’d be okay. He’d had his Jacob moment and was tired of fighting. He lightly touched his forehead. When he removed his finger, black ash coated its tip. He’d been blessed by God.

  .***

  Someone yelled through the darkness. Dalton sat up straight. The voice sounded familiar. Like Gordon’s? But it couldn’t be.

  “Dad? Are you here?”

  Dalton leapt to his feet. “Gordy? In here!”

  Moments later, three shadowy figures converged in front of the holding cell.

  “Gordy!” Dalton raced to the bars. “How did you get in here?”

  “Mr. Fernández bashed in the front door.”

  “We’ve broken more laws than we can count,” Jeremy said, waving a flashlight. “We’re here to rescue you. If you need it.”

  “Of course, they need it.” Martin shouldered his way to the door. “You saw what’s going on out there. And no deputies around. They left these men to starve. Or get heat stroke.”

  “I never took you for having friends who could spring us outta here, Preacher Man,” Bulldog said. “I might have to go back to church.”

  Martin measured the gap between the bars with his fingers. “This is going to be tricky. Bring your light over here.” Martin directed Jeremy as he crouched in front of a dolly loaded with what looked gas cans. He appeared to be making connections with the tanks, turning on valves.

  Dalton heard the hiss of escaping gas.

  Martin lifted a large welder’s torch. “Let’s hope my readings are correct.” He pulled on thick gloves, then positioned gigantic goggles over his eyes. ”Get back. Sparks will fly.”

  Dalton and his cellmates moved to the cement wall. Gordon and Jeremy retreated to the hallway.

  Martin struck the torch. A yellow flame blazed like midday sun.

  Now for the oxygen,” Martin said. “Say a little prayer.” He twisted a knob. The golden flame transformed to a streak of white light, reminding Dalton of Luke Skywalker’s light saber.

  Martin sliced the first bar of reinforced steel as if it were butter. He cut through six more, creating a two-foot slit at the top. He then severed a cross bar in the middle. All that was left was the bottom row of bars and then the cell’s occupants would be home free.

  “This could get loud,” Martin said. He made a slice three-feet below the first cut. The steel rod toppled, bouncing against the cement with earsplitting clunks. The same thing happened with the remaining bars until all that was left was a large two by three-foot hole, shrouded in smoke.

  Bulldog charged to the opening like a hungry dog, but Martin stopped him. “Wait! You’ll burn yourself. Is there any water in here?” he asked, looking at Dalton.

  “The sink’s not working,” Dalton answered. “We used up what the deputy gave us to flush the toilet.”

  Martin scanned the room. “Grab that blanket.” He pointed to the grey wad on the floor. “Soak it in the toilet.”

  “No way. It’s disgusting,” Bulldog said.

  “It’s either that or you’ll have to wait forty minutes for the metal to cool,” Martin said.

  “I’ll do it,” Dalton said. He went to the commode and stuffed in the fabric. He extended each end of the fabric with both hands. When he reached the cell door, he threw it over the smoky bars. Steam and sizzling sounds rewarded his efforts.

  The men carefully climbed through the opening while Martin packed away his gear.

  Dalton hung back and came through last. Gordy waited at the jail entrance, his expression, unreadable. Once he’d climbed out, Dalton reached for his son and pulled him close. He felt Gordy stiffen and let him go.

  “Sorry about that, son,” Dalton said weakly. “I must really stink.” He wiped his hands against his jumpsuit.

  Dalton could tell Gordy wanted to say something but held back. Maybe now wasn’t the best time. Hopefully they could have a talk on the ride back to McCormick.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Martin said, leading the way through the dark jail house. Dalton picked up one of the flashlights and brought up the rear, lighting their way.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Confessions Are Good For The Soul

  _________________________________________________________

  Wednesday, 4:20 p.m.

  Connor Home

  McCormick, AZ

  Matt found Carla in the kitchen seated next to the granite island. A single candle flickered in the corner. Somet
hing simmered on the camp stove outside the kitchen window.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

  “Laney’s stew. It’s for you. I’m not hungry.”

  “Neither am I.” He touched his wife’s back. “But we have to eat. How are you doing?”

  Outlined in red skin, her brown eyes pooled. Seeing her like this broke his heart. His eyes filled too. He planted his hands on the counter and took a bar stool next to her.

  “I scared you at the funeral home, didn’t I?” she asked. “Everyone must think I'm crazy.” She leaned her head against his chest. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  His throat tightened, a tear escaped. “I keep seeing her run through the house, asking me to take her to the park. Why didn’t I get her that puppy last month?”

  She looked up at him. “We were exhausted, Matt, remember? Housebreaking a dog is a lot of work.”

  He shook his head. “That’s no excuse. My baby wanted a puppy. I should have gotten her a squirmy, fat-bellied, bundle of fur. She would have loved playing with it, laughing, and cuddling. Her last days could’ve been happy.”

  Carla put a hand on his arm. “We didn’t know she had so little time left. It’s not your fault.”

  Her touch seared his flesh. He reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. “I let her down. Then. And Sunday. I should have been there all day. I feel awful about leaving.”

  “You never told me what happened.” Carla raised her head. “Why were you late?”

  He let a silent curse word fly. Why did he say that out loud? Sharing their grief … he’d let down his guard.

  Should he tell her the truth? Would she forgive him?

  He couldn’t take that chance. Not now.

  “It’s not important. I’ll tell you later. We should plan the service.” A service they wouldn’t attend. But Carla didn’t know that.

  “What if Amanda’s right and the power doesn’t come on? How will we conduct a funeral in the dark?” she asked.

  “Let’s wait another day before we jump to that conclusion.” Matt pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I’ll head to the mortuary tomorrow and talk with Mr. Copeland about his plans.” There wouldn’t be time to talk to Copeland, but he’d already told Carla so many lies, one more didn’t matter.