Now there was a hilarious thought. Dr. Mitchell Caine seeking counsel from a man of God.
Something about Archer had always confused Mitchell. He never tried to hard-sell God. He was honest about not knowing all the answers about God.
Mitchell had every reason to believe that Archer’s God was a weakling—if He even existed—and yet something about Archer Pierce caused Mitchell to doubt his own conviction.
“Your God never wanted me, Pierce,” Mitchell muttered. “What is it about me that He hates?” That was the burning question. Why did God hate Mitchell Caine?
He put the gear into drive and pressed the accelerator again. The vehicle bucked forward. He glanced down and saw the red light that indicated his emergency brake was still engaged.
Irritated, he released the lever and stomped the gas. The Envoy leaped forward like an eager racehorse and Mitchell slammed the brake. His seat belt held him tightly against the seat and for some reason this made him mad. It made him furious! A stupid inanimate object like this piece of material shouldn’t be able to force his body where it didn’t want to be.
He unsnapped his seat belt and breathed away the anger—one of his most constant companions lately and one he regretted every time it found its mark.
Almost as if an emotional tractor beam drew him from inside that dinky car of Archer’s, Mitchell turned left instead of right and followed in the preacher’s wake, over the hill and into the water-filled dip in the street.
Mitchell had once attended the church where Archer now ministered so faithfully. He had endured months of sermons—Archer’s father, Aaron Pierce, had been the pastor then. Darla and Trisha had grumbled about it every Sunday morning but they had gone. Eventually the effort became too onerous and they stopped going.
Mitchell flexed his slightly numb hands, still aware of himself enough to realize that the typical “Tranquen fog” was settling more heavily over him and that he needed to get home instead of following those beckoning taillights and brooding about some other man’s weakness.
And yet...what if Archer really did have some great cosmic answer to all this?
The car ahead of Mitchell signaled left. He was certain it was Archer’s car, but he had to get home—the fog was increasing. He pressed the brake, intending to make a U-turn to head home, but as if drawn by an invisible hand, he followed the taillights onto the state highway that led out of town—a twisting ribbon of drenched blacktop.
****
Archer pressed the brake and slowed at another dip in the road, where a small stream raced across the blacktop. Headlights streaked to his eyes from the side mirror on the passenger door. He tapped the brake a couple of times, hoping the driver behind him would take the hint and back off. He hated being tailgated at any time but in driving conditions like tonight it was criminally stupid.
The hulking SUV behind him slowed down for a few seconds and Archer increased his speed. The headlights flashed in his eyes again. That driver was far too close. Didn’t he have any common sense? What was it with drivers these days?
As he followed a curve out of town and passed beneath a street lamp, the light fell just right and he saw the outline of the vehicle behind him, even the silhouette of the driver. It was a sizable SUV, about the same shape and bulk of Mitchell’s GMC Envoy, which had been parked in the lot at the hospital. Why would he be coming out this way? He lived in the opposite direction.
The headlights glared again as the driver once more pulled too close. Far too close. For a moment it looked as if he might make impact and Archer tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
When the SUV finally did back off, Archer couldn’t relax. This was Friday night. Was he being stalked by a drunk driver?
***
Mitchell pressed the brake and felt the Envoy slide a few inches before the tires met the surface of the road. It startled him, because this big, heavy 4X4 should be having no trouble. The water must be deeper on this road than it looked. He took a breath and tried to concentrate past the increasingly lethargic synapses of his brain.
The bright red of Archer’s taillights flashed and Mitchell used that to help him focus. Another flash and he gripped the steering wheel more firmly. Archer was obviously a cautious driver. He was probably also a kind driver, one of those guys who stopped to let people turn out onto the street ahead of them—one of those guys who actually left an opening in front of them when traffic was backed up past a side street so the people on those side streets could get out.
The cozy thoughts about the friendly preacher helped Mitchell settle more deeply into his seat. Archer wouldn’t turn him away if he wanted to talk.
Another flash of lights. Once more Mitchell pressed the brake. His arms tingled and he flexed his fingers again. The effects of the Tranquen seemed to coalesce in his body. Instead of working its usual magic it seemed to be drawing on a hot ooze of anger. Animosity found a darker focus than the man driving ahead of him. Instead he felt a surge of black hatred for the man who had haunted his thoughts these past few months. Hatred for his daughter’s seducer.
The car ahead of him fishtailed, spraying water from a low place in the road. Mitchell pressed his brake pedal gently and slid through the same depth of water with ease as his gaze fixated on those taillights ahead of him. Every time they flashed, he braked. Every time they swerved, he allowed his foot to raise from the accelerator long enough to avoid hydroplaning. The world blackened around him except for those twin red lights until they changed into devil’s eyes glaring at him... mocking him... taunting him. Like the pusher’s eyes.
The hatred rushed through him like a living organism.
They flashed again and Mitchell blinked from his stupor. It wasn’t Simon Royce in that car ahead. It was Archer Pierce.
“Bed,” Mitchell whispered to himself. “I need a bed.”
***
“Back off!” Archer shouted the words on a surge of panic at the drunk behind him. He tapped the brakes once more. This time instead of backing off the headlights just grew brighter, as if to force him forward.
“Are you crazy?”
It couldn’t be Mitchell Caine. There had been no alcohol smell on his breath twenty minutes ago and Mitchell would never do anything like this.
Swallowing the raw panic that tried to seize control of his reactions, Archer tapped the brake pedal several times. He saw the marker for County Road 22 up ahead and he flicked his signal. He’d take 22 back to town and double around onto Z after he got this bozo off his tail.
The lights behind him receded. He slowed and took the turn at a safe speed, then followed the curve back along the winding county road. He sat back and took a deep breath.
The relief didn’t last. The beams of those headlights once again attacked him from the rearview mirror.
Even worse, due to the high, narrow shoulders that funneled water onto the asphalt surface instead of away from it, this old road was notorious for accidents during wet weather.
Archer pressed his brake again, enough to flash the lights in the eyes of the driver behind him to relay the message as clearly as possible that he needed to be careful.
What was a drunk driver doing out here?
The headlights glared again, closer still, so close that Archer flinched, bracing for impact.
That didn’t happen. He retained a firm grip on the steering wheel and studied the road he knew so well from a lifetime of living in Dogwood Springs.
A hairpin curve loomed at the edge of the glow from his headlights, and a streak of lightning showed him what he’d expected—that far below the road the Black Oak River had overflowed its banks once again. Another flash revealed how far past the banks the river had spread. The valley looked more like a lake than a river. It hadn’t taken so long this time because the ground was already saturated with water from previous storms.
In his thirty-four years, Archer had never seen so many changing weather patterns—and never had he felt so many storms in his own life. Maybe that was why
he felt so ill at ease tonight with the careless driver hugging his bumper and beaming his headlights straight into the side mirrors.
Archer leaned forward to avoid the glare, unwilling to remove his hands from the steering wheel long enough to adjust the side mirrors—he didn’t want to get caught unprepared. He tapped his brake again to warn the big SUV behind him of his intention to slow down. To his annoyance the other driver flashed his bright lights and didn’t dim them.
Momentarily blinded, Archer pressed the brake harder than he’d intended. The car glided sideways.
He held his breath.
The car came to a stop near the cliff’s edge. He caught a vivid view of the treetops—dogwoods and cedars reaching for him from the roadside.
Lightning flashed again and continued in a startling chain reaction.
It wasn’t lightning. It was the arc of the headlights behind him as the SUV hit the water and hydroplaned straight toward him.
“No!” The reflection in the side mirrors temporarily blinded him. The jolt of bumper against bumper shocked him as his car lurched forward and pivoted in the mud. For one instant his own headlights revealed the face of the driver.
Mitchell.
The SUV slid sideways and rammed him again with the front grill. Archer pumped his brakes with no results. The earth gave way beneath his back tires. For a moment the car teetered on the ledge.
Archer tried to shove his door open with his left hand while releasing his seat belt with his right. The car shifted backward.
He had to get out of this car or he would plunge with it into the flooded river. He grabbed the seat to lever himself from the car but he wasn’t fast enough. The car flipped into an arc over the ledge of the cliff.
His seat belt released as rain drenched and blinded him. He shoved away from the seat and felt himself falling.
The car splashed into the river as Archer felt himself somersaulting into black empty air. He hit something hard, heard his own scream, felt himself tumbling like a lifeless rag into thick, oozing mud.
All went silent and black.
Chapter Fourteen
Jessica arrived home at ten forty-three, still thinking about her conversation with her sister.
Heather was changing, maturing. She still had a lot of issues to resolve and a lot more maturing to do but she was getting there. Jessica was so proud of her.
No lights greeted Jessica in the house and she hadn’t expected them. She turned on the porch light for Archer. Before leaving the restaurant she had listened to the messages on the answering machine and heard about his decision to go to the hospital after he left the church. No surprise there.
Archer usually called about the time he knew she would be home after a show. If she was there and he could get away from a meeting or from the hospital, he did. If she didn’t answer he would often stay in the ER a little longer. She understood that he did this in order to juggle as many commitments as he could without leaving anyone out.
Ironically, that made her feel as if she was just one more obligation to him, though he would be hurt if he knew she felt that way. It had almost become a sort of dark game to her—to be the last one home for the night. It made her feel less like the lonely wife pining after a workaholic husband and more like a lady in control.
She felt a slight nudge of irritation that Archer had won tonight’s round—of a game he didn’t know he was playing. She chafed at the very fact that it mattered to her. This wasn’t a night for resentment and frustration—she already had enough to think about. If Archer’s discussion with the deacons had gone well there might even be reason to celebrate.
She stared out the kitchen window past the scattered droplets of rain, listening to the rhythm of the departing storm. She’d heard no weather report but it had been a dark drive home from the theater and she’d splashed through several low spots on the state highway that had an inch or so of water over them. Dogwood Valley—which surrounded the town on three sides—might well be flooded again. She had taken the route along the ridge to avoid the valley road.
She paced back through the house to the front door, where she peered out the small square pane onto the reflection of the streetlight on the drenched blacktop. She wouldn’t call the hospital like a nagging wife. She wouldn’t try to dial his cell phone just yet, either. She’d done that in January and had caught him in the middle of prayer with a patient. Instead she would relax on the living room sofa and wind down from the day’s activity.
Soon. Archer would be home soon.
***
A rumble of danger intruded at the black edges of Archer’s consciousness. He tried to shift and sit up but a knife jabbed his spine and sliced between ribs on his left side. His head pounded with pain so intense it nauseated him with his movements. His body felt encased in hardening plaster and his memory had, for the moment, abandoned him.
The roar of the river engulfed all other sound. The river. An accident.
Tentatively, he touched the surface where he lay. Mud. The pain in his back most likely came from a rock or a limb beneath him—he hoped it wasn’t more than that. He slid his fingers beneath his back, gritting his teeth, feeling for any object that might be causing his pain.
There was nothing.
Again he tried to shift his body and he cried out in agony as fire shot down his spine.
He caught his breath, panting to control the nausea, his panic.
His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness and he saw the contrast of mist against the blackness of trees above. Moonlight filtered between patches of cloud. Hadn’t it been raining? No drops hit him now.
Archer didn’t know if he could trust what he saw.
One more time, with great caution, he raised his head from its muddy pillow and tried to raise his shoulders. Agony monitored every millimeter and he eased back again. He managed to turn his head toward the rushing water and found he was lying on a mucky ledge that dropped with sharp abruptness into the river, which seemed to be about fifteen feet below.
As he waited for memory to return he recalled tumbling from the road in his car. He remembered the SUV that pushed him and he jerked his head toward the cliff. Another angry stab of pain streaked up his neck with such force his eyes burned with reflexive tears. A beam of headlights sliced through the gloom and the relief made him giddy. It wasn’t moonlight he had seen but rather lights from a vehicle.
“Is someone up there?” he called, then winced. His voice was lost in the roar of the river. “Help me!” he cried again in spite of the pain.
The image of a familiar face flashed through his mind but for the moment he couldn’t put a name to the face. “I’m down...” He grimaced.
He waited, remembering more, strobes of sound and movement, the crash of breaking glass, the powerful puff of the air bag, the scramble to remove the seat belt.
What happened after that? He’d apparently been unconscious for some time. How long?
The pain in his head and the difficulty with memory probably meant a concussion but how bad?
He’d spent enough time in the ER to know his concussion probably wasn’t too bad if he could remember the accident.
Unfortunately, he had other injuries.
“Hello! Is someone there? I’m down here!” Again pain tailed his words and he closed his eyes, blinking away the tears.
“Oh, God, help me,” he whispered.
***
The familiar thrum-thrum-thrum of a nearby engine inserted itself into the flash of Mitchell’s nightmare. Why was it so close?
His uncomfortable position on the bed had put a kink in his neck and he shifted.
The discomfort and the unfamiliar sound jogged him to force his eyes open.
For a moment he thought he was still fighting the dream but the movement of the vehicle, the steady rumble that matched the gentle motion of an idling engine, the stream of headlights that revealed tree limbs ahead of him told him he wasn’t in bed.
What am I doing here? How did I
get here?
A pink dogwood blossom fluttered in the beam of his left headlight. Trees blocked his view as if he’d parked in the middle of a copse of cedars and dogwoods. The console lights glowed the digital numbers of the time—11:20 p.m.
His head ached. He touched his forehead and felt a lump the width of a half dollar. He didn’t have his seat belt on.
He always wore his seat belt.
The airbags hung flaccid, the transmission was still in gear, and those trees had apparently kept him from plunging over the embankment into the river. Or had they? His bumper wasn’t connected to the trees. But the airbags had deployed...
He tried to force his mind to clear but it was as if some giant hand had plucked his truck from the hospital parking lot and slung him here.
Or maybe he was truly still dreaming. Those tiny pills packed a considerable punch and his dreams were often too realistic for comfort, especially when he took more than one.
Right now all he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep this off. Maybe in the morning he could focus more clearly but for now he just needed to be able to concentrate well enough to maneuver his way back onto the road, figure out exactly where he was, and navigate his way home.
He gripped the gearshift and put it into reverse. Concentrate. Have to concentrate.
***
After a shower Jessica fixed herself a cup of tea and finally picked up the phone. Archer still hadn’t made it home. This wasn’t like him. She dialed his cell number. She didn’t care if it did interrupt a conversation or a prayer. He couldn’t have been praying nonstop this long and if he’d had any break at all he should have called her. He would have called. She knew him too well. She couldn’t shake an uncomfortable sensation that something was wrong.
He didn’t answer. After three rings, a voice came on the line, “The wireless customer you are trying to reach is unavailable at this—”
She disconnected. “Great, Archer,” she murmured, “either your phone is turned off or you forgot to charge it again.”
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