Private Justice

by Terri Blackstock

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Allie was amazed at how quickly Mark had been able to bounce back from his run-in with the killer’s bullet. He had gotten up and walked around the day after they’d moved him into a room, had eaten a full meal that afternoon, and had visited with his father who had come to visit. It was clear that Eddie had been drinking, but Mark was used to it, and didn’t even let that bother him. Though he complained of a headache only when asked, he had insisted repeatedly that he felt well enough to go home.

  The doctor told her that the minimal damage caused by the bullet did indicate a quick recovery, and that, under the circumstances, he thought Mark might actually recover more quickly if he and Allie were in a safer, less public location than a hospital. But he cautioned her not to let Mark get carried away—he had lost a lot of blood and was still in danger of infection. He needed rest, lots of it, and a stress-free environment.

  But he didn’t sleep well that night and seemed tired the next day as she loaded the car with their suitcases and flowers. Allie told herself his fatigue had more to do with his insomnia than with the trauma itself. His head was still bandaged, but the bruising around his eyes was clearing to yellow patches.

  They said good-bye to T.J., who needed to get some rest before his next shift as a cop. They had agreed not to hire a replacement, since they had a good hiding place. Money was a problem—they just couldn’t afford to keep a bodyguard. Still, Allie hoped they were doing the right thing.

  Allie was jumpy as she drove across New Orleans, heading for the French Quarter apartment Aunt Aggie had loaned them. She watched her rearview mirror for some sign that they were being followed.

  When they reached Canal Street, Mark told her to pull over.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Pull over. Right up there, next to that purple sign.”

  “But the apartment is still a few blocks over.”

  “I know. But I need to stop here. There’s something I want to buy.”

  She did as he told her, even as she protested. “Celia stocked the apartment, Mark. We don’t need to buy anything.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  As she pulled over next to the purple sign, she saw that they were parked in front of a pawn shop. She looked at him, confused. “Mark, what do you want here?”

  “I’m buying a gun,” he said, his tone brooking no debate.

  She hated guns, always had, and the thought of having one in their possession frightened her. “Why a pawn shop? This isn’t the best place to buy a gun.”

  “Because there’s a seven-day waiting period in this state, Allie, and I don’t have seven days to wait.”

  “So you’re going to buy one illegally?”

  “Yes. And if they want to lock me up for protecting my wife and myself—especially after I’ve been shot in the head—more power to them.”

  “Mark, are you sure? I don’t like it.”

  “Yes. I’m going to protect you, Allie. And the only way to do it is to be armed, just like he’s armed.”

  She let out a heavy breath. “But I don’t know if I even believe in guns. It doesn’t seem like Christians ought to be pistol packers. Jesus said, ‘He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.”

  “That’s right. But look.” He opened her purse, and pulled out the small Bible he knew she carried there. She waited as he flipped through to Nehemiah. “I was thinking about this yesterday, and praying about it, and I ran across this passage. Look here at chapter 4, verses 13 and 14. Nehemiah knew that the enemies of the Israelites were going to attack them to keep them from rebuilding the wall, and he says, “Therefore I stationed some of the people behind the lowest points of the wall at the exposed places, posting them by families, with their swords, spears and bows. After I looked things over, I stood up and said to the nobles, the officials and the rest of the people, “Don’t be afraid of them. Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons and your daughters, your wives and your homes.”

  Tears came to her eyes as she watched him studying those verses again. Was her husband praying again? Was he searching the Word for his answers? As much as the thought moved her, she found it hard to believe that the Holy Spirit had led him to break a law.

  He brought his soft eyes back up to her. “They can have my home, and my brothers can fend for themselves, and I don’t have sons and daughters. But I plan to fight for my wife, Allie. I plan to fight with all I’ve got.”

  An unbridled warmth gushed through her. She reached across the van and touched his face.

  “We need a gun, Allie. I’m not gonna go off the deep end and start waving it at everything that moves. But I need a defense.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He swallowed and held her eyes for a moment longer. “It’s not that I think we won’t be safe there. We will be safe. He won’t know where we are.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll just sleep better tonight.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.” He opened the door and, weakly, got out. She hurried around the van to help him, but he waved her off.

  “I’m okay.”

  She opened the door for him, and she tried to shove back her doubts as they both went in to buy the gun that they hoped would defend them from any more attempts on their lives.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  If she had custom-ordered a perfect little romantic getaway, Allie could not have found an apartment more pleasing. Located on the outskirts of the French Quarter, away from the sleazy shops and loud bars, the apartment was on the second story. It had a sweet balcony that was covered in blooming jasmine, with antique wrought-iron chairs and a little round table.

  Celia had left a fire in the fireplace—for effect, Allie imagined, since there was only a touch of chill in the air and no need for a fire. But it lit the romantically decorated living room in a yellow glow, and the little lanterns around the room accented that light. Hanging baskets of ferns and schefflera, and pots of vinca and impatiens in every shade of the rainbow colored the small rooms. The place was fragrant with floral scents, much like Allie’s shop.

  “This is perfect,” Mark whispered, sinking down on the overstuffed couch that faced the fire. He pulled off his shoes and socks and let his bare feet slide across the lush carpet. “Absolutely perfect. We owe Aunt Aggie one.”

  Allie crossed the living room to the two doors on the opposite wall. She felt Mark’s eyes watching her as she opened a door and peered in. “The bathroom,” she told him. “It’s lovely. An antique tub with claw feet, and a separate shower.” She went to the next door and opened it.

  It was the one and only bedroom, with a four-poster bed with a canopy, and lacy mosquito curtains hanging to the ground from the canopy and draped back with satin ribbons. The bedspread, too, was made of satin and lace, as were the curtains.

  She stepped into the room, taking in the sight of the scented candles around the room, the bright throw rugs on the floor, the Tiffany lamps.

  “Beautiful.” The voice came from behind her in a whisper, and she turned and saw that Mark had followed her in.

  She swallowed. “It sure is.”

  He went to the bed, sat on the edge, then after a moment, pulled his feet up and lay down. His eyes slowly closed. “This sure beats a hospital bed.”

  She stepped up to the bed and ran her hand along the bedspread. “Yeah, and that couch sure beats that hospital cot. Maybe we’ll both get some sleep tonight.”

  She started to walk away to check out the kitchen, but he reached out and caught her hand. His reflexes were quick for a wounded man, she thought, but she didn’t tell him so. She found that she couldn’t speak at all.

  “You must be tired,” he whispered. “Sleeping in a chair in the waiting room, and then on some vinyl cot.”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “You’re not sleeping on any couch tonight,” he said. “That’s silly.”

  She didn’t k
now what to say. “I don’t mind. That way you can stretch out. You need your rest, Mark.”

  He scooted over on the bed and pulled her on it beside him. She sat on her knees for a moment, looking down at him. “I can’t rest unless you’re beside me. That’s the only way I can be sure you’re safe.”

  That was true. She hadn’t thought of the safety issue, but her heart’s safety was what worried her now.

  “Lie down,” he coaxed in a voice that mesmerized her. “Come on. Just lie here with me for a minute.”

  She felt silly arguing with him about it, especially when she really was so tired, and the bed seemed so inviting. Slowly, she stretched out and lowered her head to the pillow.

  He slid his arm under her neck, and pulled her onto her side until they were facing each other. Their eyes locked in longing, but neither of them could speak of it.

  “I should fix you something to eat,” she whispered. “You must be starving.”

  “No,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’m not. Just stay here. Be still.”

  He scooted closer, until their knees were touching, and their faces were centimeters apart. He wrapped his arms around her.

  She watched him as his eyes drifted shut, as his breathing slowed, as his body slowly relaxed next to her.

  Such love burst through her that she thought she might weep at the very thought of it. As tears came to her eyes, she closed them, and felt the anxiety and stress and tension seep out of her, as well. For the first time in over two months, she felt as if she was truly home.

  Safe in his arms, she let herself fall asleep.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The boys at Midtown Station were glad to see Aunt Aggie when she arrived that afternoon to make dinner. As if she’d been gone a week, they convened in the kitchen to find out where she’d been during the lunch hour that day, when they’d wound up having to order pizza.

  “Was on the Southshore,” she announced as she began to chop celery. “Girl needs culture ever now and then, you know.”

  Craig Barnes sat at the table with a clipboard, studying some paperwork he’d brought from his office. He looked tired, worn; they all did. Nick looked tiredest of all, and she pitied him. Dan Nichols had dark circles under his eyes, and she wondered if he was getting any sleep at all.

  “Did you see Mark while you were there?” Dan asked her, sliding out a chair and sitting in it backwards.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. He had folded his arms over the back of the chair and propped his chin on it. She had long considered him the best-looking firefighter of the bunch, but he was looking a little worn around the edges, if you asked her. “Yep. Just before they let him out.”

  “He’s out?” Craig Barnes asked, looking up. “This soon? How can that be?”

  “You know them hospitals,” she said. “They slap a Band-Aid on you and send you home.”

  “So is he back in Newpointe?” Craig asked.

  “Not home, home. They stayin’ in my apartment there. Me and Celia, we fixed it up, stocked the kitchen. They’ll be fine there.”

  “You have an apartment in New Orleans?” Craig asked. “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot about me you fellas don’t know. I got a life, you know. I like to go to the city ever now and then and take in a show or the opera. Don’t just spend all my time cookin’ for the likes of you, you know.”

  “Where in New Orleans?” Dan asked.

  It wasn’t until then that she realized she had said too much. Should she have told anyone that Mark and Allie were staying in her apartment? Could she really trust everyone here?

  “Never mind. Mark and Allie are hiding, don’t forget. I ain’t gonna go around spoutin’ out where they are to nobody who asks. Not with that killer runnin’ loose shootin’ people at airports and in their mothers’ homes. Just makes your skin crawl to think about it.”

  “How are Allie and Mark getting along?” Craig asked, getting up and flipping with preoccupation through his papers.

  “Nothin’ like a bullet in the head to bond a couple. They might just work things out.” Aggie nodded her head emphatically. “Yep, they just might.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Mark woke at eight P.M. and found the apartment bathed in darkness. Both of them had apparently slept so deeply that they hadn’t even awakened to eat. He opened his eyes and tried to let them adjust to the night. It took a moment for him to orient himself to the big four-poster bed with the white lace mosquito netting—and his wife lying beside him. She was on her side facing him, deep in sleep, and she looked angelic in repose. Though she was still fully dressed, as he was, all of the tense lines seemed to have melted from her face, and she was completely relaxed, her rhythmic breathing making her shoulder rise and fall. He smiled at the way one fingertip touched her lip in sleep. She probably didn’t even know she did that. He had forgotten, but now it brought back such warmth, such personal truth, that his eyes filled with tears.

  He didn’t know how long he lay there watching her sleep, but eventually he realized that he was not going to be able to go back to sleep himself.

  He reached for the gun he’d set on the table beside the bed, slid it into his pocket, and sat up on the edge of the mattress. His head ached, and he felt a little dizzy, but he got up and felt his way to the door. Closing it quietly behind him, he groped in the darkness for a lamp, found one, and clicked it on.

  It bathed the room in a soft yellow hue and calmed the unease stirring in him. He padded across the lush carpet to the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator, and saw all the treasures Celia and Aunt Aggie had put there. He pulled out some cold cuts, lettuce and tomato, found the bread, and made a sandwich. It was the best thing he’d eaten since the killings had begun.

  When he finished, he cleaned up, then went to the window and peered out between the blinds. The street was quiet, and a damp fog hung around the street lanterns, lending an eerie feel to the night. He saw their car parked on the street, and he suddenly wished they had rented a different one in case the killer was out looking for them, searching for their car in parking lots.

  He shivered and abandoned the window.

  He needed to go back to bed and bury himself in sleep, but suddenly he was too tense. He needed a drink. Just one drink would relax him, and then he could lie back down with Allie and sleep until morning.

  He went to the refrigerator, sifted through the contents, and found a bottle of Chablis back in the corner. Good old Aunt Aggie. She’d known just what he needed. He pulled the bottle out and began searching the drawers for a corkscrew.

  He moved quietly, so he wouldn’t wake Allie; he didn’t want her to catch him with the wine. It wouldn’t help the already fragile situation. They had come so far in the past few days, and he never again wanted to see that look in her eyes he’d seen when they’d been at the diner before they’d gone to the airport the other day, when he’d perused the wine list, and she’d acted as if he was ordering up a syringe of heroin.

  Unbidden, from somewhere in left field, thoughts of his childhood came to his mind. He remembered waking up in the night and going to the bathroom. He’d heard his father milling around in the kitchen. Rubbing his eyes, Mark had gone to see what he was doing. Entering the kitchen, Mark had startled his father so badly that he’d dropped the bottle of bourbon he was drinking from, which had shattered all over the floor, along with the bitter-smelling liquid. His father had cursed and sent him back to bed, and then he’d heard his mother getting up to see what had happened, and the fight had begun…

  It had always been the same. His father was always the wounded party, misunderstood, not trusted. And his mother would apologize meekly to keep the peace, and pretend the next day that nothing had ever happened.

  Had his father once been like him, drinking only occasionally, but getting up in the middle of the night and searching the kitchen for something alcoholic?

  His heart sank, and he closed the drawer, abandoning the search for the corkscr
ew, and returned the wine bottle to the refrigerator. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t like his father.

  He sank onto the couch and tried to think. They said that alcoholism was genetic, but he’d never believed it. Weakness could be genetic. Self-pity might even be inherited. And what about cowardice? Wasn’t that what really led his father to drink? A fear of confronting the real issues of life that plagued him and everyone else on the planet?

  He was different than that, he told himself. He knew better. He knew Christ. But maybe Christ had turned his back on him. Wasn’t there a place in Revelation that talked about God spitting us out of his mouth?

  Suddenly, he felt the overpowering urge to find that passage, study it, and determine whether God had already done that with him. Maybe that was why he’d been shot. Maybe he was being punished…or maybe God’s protection had been lifted from him. Maybe the Lord was trying to teach him something.

  He took Allie’s little Bible from her purse. Going back to the lamp next to the couch, he flipped through the book until he came to Revelation. He scanned the letters to the churches and paused at chapter two, at the beginning of the red letters denoting Christ’s words, and read the letter to the church in Ephesus. Praise, commendation, approval. But then he came to the rebuke, and he sat up straight and read the words out loud, realizing they were meant for him, that God had led him to this page tonight.

  “Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken your first love.”

  Sitting out behind the firehouse just a few nights ago with Ray—it seemed a lifetime ago—he had asked his friend what he thought of him now. And Ray had answered Mark with those very words.

  “Maybe, just maybe, you’ve forsaken your first love.”

  And Mark had totally misunderstood. He grimaced, touching his forehead. That just showed how far from God he had truly strayed. He had thought Ray meant only that he had forsaken Allie. But Ray had been commenting on much more than that. It was his relationship with Christ that Mark had forsaken.