02_The Hero Next Door

by Irene Hannon

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Officer Clay?” Heather teased.

  “Yeah. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

  She chuckled. “Yeah. I’d say it’s about time.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was too early in the morning for the phone to be ringing.

  With a groan, J.C. lifted his wrist and squinted at the numbers on his watch.

  Ten-fifteen.

  Okay, so it wasn’t too early for phone calls. For most people. But after working a full shift yesterday and half a shift last night, he’d been in bed for less than sixty minutes.

  The temptation to let the call roll to his voice mail was strong. But he wasn’t wired that way.

  Shifting onto his side, he groped on the nightstand for his phone and peered at the caller ID. The area code told him the call was from Illinois, but the number was unfamiliar.

  Stifling a yawn, he put the phone to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Detective Clay?”

  Few people outside work addressed him by his Chicago PD title. Caution colored his response. “Yes.”

  “This is Eric Coplin, the warden at Pontiac Correctional Center. You’re listed as the primary contact for your brother, Nathan. I wanted to inform you that we have your brother on suicide watch after he attempted to take his life last night.”

  Shock reverberated through J.C. “Is he all right?”

  “Physically, yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “He tried to strangle himself with the drawstring from his pants.”

  A wave of nausea swept over J.C., and he bunched the sheet in his hand as he took a long, slow breath. “Does anyone have any idea what prompted this?”

  “No. And your brother isn’t communicating. I’ve spoken with our mental health people, and they think having family close by could be helpful.”

  Swinging his legs out of bed, J.C. retrieved his duffel bag from the closet. “Did he ask you to call me?”

  “No. He hasn’t spoken more than a few words since this happened.”

  “Okay. I’m working on Nantucket for the summer. I’ll book the first possible flight out, but I doubt I can get there in less than ten or twelve hours.”

  “Is there anyone closer who could come sooner?”

  He thought of Marci. But she and Nathan hadn’t spoken in years. There was no way she’d make the two-hour drive to Pontiac.

  “No. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Look…keep him safe, okay?” His voice rasped on the last word.

  “We video monitor the suicide-watch cells twenty-four hours a day. Nothing will happen to him there. Shall we tell him you’re coming?”

  “No. I’d rather just show up.”

  “All right. We’ll see you soon.”

  When the call ended, J.C. went into action. Within minutes he’d booked a flight that would leave Nantucket for Boston in an hour and a half. Factoring in a two-hour layover there, he’d arrive in Chicago about five. Thanks to rush-hour traffic in the Windy City on a Friday afternoon, the usual two-hour drive to Pontiac would take longer. Plus, he needed to pick up a rental car. Best-case scenario, he estimated arrival at Pontiac around eight.

  Next, he called Burke. He knew cutting out on short notice was going to put everyone in a bind, but he had no option. Fortunately, the chief was familiar with his family situation. Or as much of it as J.C. had ever shared with anyone. Burke simply told him to do what he had to do and come back when he could.

  Ending that call, J.C. tossed his duffel bag onto the bed and punched in Marci’s number. She might not want any part of this mess, but he figured she should know what had happened.

  She answered as he began opening the drawers in his dresser and tossing clothes into the bag.

  “Marci, I just had a call from Pontiac.” His tone was clipped, his mind racing ahead to the logistics of the trip. “I know there’s no love lost between you and Nathan, but I thought you should know. He tried to kill himself last night.”

  He heard her draw a harsh breath. “Oh, God!” The agonized whisper was torn from the depths of her soul.

  Surprised at her reaction, J.C. stopped packing. She hadn’t expressed one iota of sympathy for Nathan in years. Nor had she ever asked about him. The anguish in her inflection didn’t fit.

  “Marci? Are you okay?”

  A choked sob came over the line. The words that followed were barely audible. “I was afraid this would happen.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “After you told me the news about the drug bust, I—I wrote him. It wasn’t a nice letter. I beat him up pretty bad for almost getting you killed. And I told him about the two cops who died.”

  “What!” The word exploded from J.C.’s lips, and the churning in his gut intensified.

  “I—I’m sorry, J.C.” Marci’s whispered apology caught on a sob. “I was just so mad about the way he’s treated you, after all you’ve done to try to help him. But as soon as I m-mailed the letter, I had a feeling it was a mistake.”

  Raking his fingers through his hair, J.C. tried to regroup. What was done was done, he reminded himself. It was clear Marci regretted her rash action, and berating her wasn’t going to change the situation. It would only strain a relationship he’d worked hard to solidify.

  And one good thing had come out of this, he suddenly realized. If Marci’s letter had driven Nathan to take this drastic measure, it must mean his brother hadn’t purposely set him up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have felt any guilt or remorse.

  “Okay.” J.C. swallowed. “We can’t rewind. We have what we have. I’m heading back in about an hour and a half. I’ll let you know how everything goes.”

  “Are you…How are you getting to Pontiac?”

  “I’ll get a rental at O’Hare.” He resumed packing.

  “Why don’t I pick you up? We could drive down together.” J.C.’s hand froze as he tucked a pair of socks into the duffel. “You want to go with me?”

  “No.” Her breath hitched. “But I have to. This is my fault, J.C. I can’t just walk away from that responsibility.”

  He didn’t try to reassure her or absolve her of blame. They both knew her letter had been the catalyst for this crisis.

  “Okay.” He gave her his flight information, tossed his shaving kit into the duffel and zipped the bag closed. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Checking his watch as he ended the call, J.C. picked up his Bible. He needed five minutes with the twenty-third Psalm. Then he’d order a cab, run over and talk to Heather, and try to prepare for the difficult hours ahead.

  As a knock sounded on her back door, Heather slid the tray of lemon tarts she was holding on to a cooling rack and turned. To her surprise, J.C. stood in the shadows of the porch. She’d expected him to sleep late today.

  “Come on in.” Smiling, she walked toward him as he pulled open the door and stepped through.

  When the bright kitchen light illuminated his face, however, her step faltered. He looked as if someone had died.

  Picking up her pace again, she covered the distance between them in a few long strides and reached for his hands. “What’s wrong?”

  His grip was fierce. “Nathan tried to commit suicide last night.”

  Shock wiped the expression from her face. “Oh, J.C.! Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yeah. But I’m heading back there to be with him.”

  “Of course. What happened?”

  “Marci sent him a letter. I told her about Nathan’s role in the drug bust ambush, and she decided to let him have it. Listen…I’m sorry about canceling our date tonight.”

  “I’ll give you a rain check.” Heather loosened her hand and reached up to touch his cheek. “Do you…Would you like some company on your trip?”

  She saw surprise flare in his eyes—followed by a flame of love shining strong and bright in their depths. Just as she knew it was shining in hers.

  “You’ll never know how much that offer means to me.” His voi
ce hoarsened, and he cleared his throat. “But your life has been thrown into chaos enough lately. And you have a business to run.”

  “This is more important.”

  He touched her face, stroked her hair, let his hand drift down to cup her neck. “I’ll be okay. As long as I know you’re waiting when I return.”

  She took a step closer and put her arms around his neck. “Count on it.”

  He rested his hands on her waist and searched her eyes. “There’s a lot I want to talk about when I get back.”

  “I’ll be here. What time is your flight?”

  “In just over an hour. I need to go.”

  “Let me drive you.”

  “A cab’s already on the way.” She started to protest, but he lifted a hand. “I’d rather say goodbye here.”

  With that, he bent his head and gave her a lingering kiss.

  When at last he drew back, he stroked her cheek with a fingertip. “Say a few prayers, okay?”

  “I’ll say more than a few.”

  He gave her one more hug, then stepped out the door.

  And as he disappeared around the house, she knew he would need every prayer he could get to make it through the traumatic hours to come.

  By the time Marci and J.C. pulled up ten hours later in front of the dreary stone structure Nathan called home, his eyes felt gritty with fatigue. And the harsh lights in the sterile conference room they were shown to didn’t help.

  Two people were waiting for them. He knew Steve Taylor, the chaplain. They’d often spoken during his visits. The thirtysomething woman with gold-rimmed glasses and short brown hair, who introduced herself as Jo Sherman, chief of psychology services at the facility, was a stranger.

  After providing them with cups of strong coffee, the psychologist took the lead. “Before you see Nathan, we wanted you to know we think we’ve found the trigger for his actions.”

  She opened a folder and withdrew a letter. J.C. recognized Marci’s handwriting at once. Beside him, coffee sloshed on the table as his sister’s grip tightened on her disposable cup.

  “We came to the same conclusion.” J.C. used his napkin to mop up the spilled liquid.

  The psychologist folded her hands on the table and leaned forward intently. “As bad as everything seems right now, there is a plus side. Nathan’s despondency over this letter and his subsequent suicide attempt indicate a well-formed conscience. He cares about the repercussions of his actions. That has positive implications for rehabilitation.”

  “Only if we can get him to care about living again.” J.C. compressed his lips into a grim line.

  “I think you’re the one who can do that,” the psychologist said.

  J.C. shook his head, a pang of regret echoing in his heart. “He has no use for me.”

  The psychologist gave him a long look, then pulled a small plastic bin toward her. “We found this when his cell was inspected after the suicide attempt.” Opening the lid, she withdrew several notebooks and set them on the table. Underneath, lined up in neat rows, were letters.

  His letters, J.C. realized.

  Dozens and dozens of them.

  He stared at them, stunned, as she silently pushed the bin toward him.

  With fingers that weren’t quite steady, he riffled through them. They’d been filed in chronological order, the older ones yellowed a bit, he noted. Pulling out the first one, he checked the date. Sucked in a sharp breath. Closed his eyes.

  Nathan had kept every single letter he’d written.

  And based on their dog-eared appearance, each had been read numerous times.

  “We also found these in the bin.” The psychologist gestured toward the notebooks. Selecting the one on top, she opened it to the first page and handed it to J.C.

  Another shock rippled through him. The pencil portrait took several years off his age, but it had been rendered in exquisite, loving detail by a masterful hand.

  Paging through the rest of the notebook, he found more portraits—including one of Marci, which elicited a soft gasp from his sister—plus still-life scenes and a few landscapes. All were beautifully executed.

  “There are five more notebooks like that,” the psychologist told him.

  J.C. shook his head, overwhelmed. “I had no idea.”

  “Nathan has a remarkable talent—and a lot to offer,” the chaplain said. “Our challenge is to convince him of that.”

  Wiping a hand down his face, J.C. sighed. “How do we do that?” He felt no closer to answering that troubling question now than he had when Nathan had first been incarcerated.

  “I wish I had the magic words that would reach into his heart and convince him he’s loved and valued not only by his family but by the Lord,” the chaplain said. “I’ve tried, but he’s never been receptive to that message. Perhaps he will be now. Why don’t we ask God to give you the words that will help him turn his life around?”

  J.C. knew Marci would be uncomfortable with prayer, but he needed the strength it would offer. “That’s a good idea.”

  With a nod, the chaplain bowed his head. “Lord, please be with J.C. and Marci as they talk to Nathan. Help him hear their message with his heart as well as his ears. Let him believe in their enduring love. And let him feel Your healing grace so that in time he may be open to Your words. Amen.”

  When the prayer ended, J.C. looked at Marci. “Do you want to go in together?”

  She shook her head. “You go first. Two of us at once might overwhelm him.”

  “I arranged for you to see Nathan in one of the private interview rooms,” the psychologist told him. “There will be guards present, but the atmosphere will be more conducive to interpersonal interaction.”

  That was a deviation from the usual rigid security protocol, J.C. knew. Perhaps his law enforcement credentials had bought them a few concessions. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. “Thank you.”

  Five minutes later, when he entered the small room, Nathan was already there, two guards standing nearby. In place of the usual orange prison garb, he wore a blue, sleeveless isolation jumpsuit. The one-piece kind with Velcro fasteners, often used for prisoners on suicide watch. J.C.’s stomach clenched.

  As he moved toward the table, his first thought was that the past five years hadn’t been kind to his kid brother. Though he was only thirty-two, fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. A smattering of gray peppered his brown hair, and above his drooping shoulders, his cheeks were gaunt. Rather than looking up when J.C. entered, he continued to stare dully at his shackled hands, folded on the table in front of him.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, J.C. spoke. “Hello, Nathan.”

  His brother’s head snapped up.

  For one brief second, surprise added a touch of life to his flat eyes. Then the emptiness returned. Without a word, he dropped his gaze to his hands again.

  A wave of panic crashed over J.C. While the anger in his brother’s eyes had often frightened him, this beaten look scared him more.

  Taking a seat across the table from Nathan, he sent one final, silent prayer heavenward. Please, Lord, give me the words!

  “I saw the letters, Nathan. And the notebooks.”

  His brother didn’t look up.

  “I never knew you could draw.”

  No response.

  Following his instincts—and praying they wouldn’t fail him—J.C. changed tacks. “But I did think you were too smart to pull a dumb stunt like suicide.” He let that sink in, noting the slight stiffening in Nathan’s shoulders. “Do you have any idea how long it took to get here from Nantucket? Ten hours. And let me tell you, flying these days is no picnic. To make matters worse, I’ve had less than six hours of sleep in the past thirty-six hours. I’m tired, hungry and stressed. Trust me. I didn’t come all this way to be ignored.”

  Nathan still didn’t look up. Didn’t move a muscle. But J.C. saw his Adam’s apple bob. And when his brother spoke, the tremor in his muted words suggested he was barely holding on to his c
ontrol.

  “I didn’t ask you to come.” J.C. suspected the psychologist would disapprove of his approach. Would tell him it was a bad idea to upset Nathan. But to J.C.’s way of thinking, some emotion was better than no emotion. It meant a person was still capable of feeling. And once feelings were awakened, you had a chance of turning them from negative to positive. His next task.

  Leaning close, he laid his hand over his brother’s. The guards edged in. He ignored them.

  When Nathan tried to pull away, J.C. tightened his grip. And kept tightening it until Nathan looked up at him. Locking on to his brother’s eyes, J.C. didn’t let go. “Here’s the bottom line, Nathan. I don’t care how much effort it took to get here. Because you’re worth it.”

  Disgust and self-recrimination twisted the younger man’s features. He lowered his head and tried to pull away, but J.C. held fast. “No, I’m not. You should have given up on me years ago.”

  “I never give up on people I love.”

  Sudden moisture dampened the edges of Nathan’s distraught eyes, and his chest began to heave. “Why don’t you just let this go? I’m no good. I never have been. Everything I touch turns to trouble. My life is one big failure. I couldn’t even kill myself right.” His voice broke.

  “I think God’s hand was in that,” J.C. said quietly. “He must have something better in store for you before He calls you home.”

  Cynicism twisted Nathan’s lips. “Right. An ex-con has so much to look forward to.”

  “You have an extraordinary talent. When you get out of here in two years, you can choose to turn your life around. And you don’t have to do it alone. You have me and Marci. As well as the Lord, if you’ll give Him a chance.”

  There was bitterness in his brother’s brief, mirthless laugh. “I have about as much chance of connecting with the Lord as I do with Marci.”

  “Then the odds aren’t too bad.”

  Nathan narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s here.”

  Shock echoed on Nathan’s face. “Marci came?”

  “Yes. She wants to talk to you after I’m finished.”