The breath left James’ body. “Give it here. I’m putting it back.” He snatched the wallet from Branson.
“Wait!” Branson said, grabbing James by the arm. At that moment, Officer Anthony Rodriguez and several Harmony police officers rounded the corner of the building.
James waved them over and handed Officer Rodriguez the wallet. “We found this on the body. It’s Pastor Griffin.”
Officer Rodriguez grabbed the wallet from James with a gloved hand and placed it into an evidence bag. Visibly upset, the officer asked, “You disturbed the body?”
“We were just trying to help,” James said.
“Reverend, your intentions may have been good, but as a result, you’ve inadvertently contaminated the crime scene. You’ve left behind fingerprints, footprints, and possibly even DNA evidence. Now, I need to account for that evidence.”
“We found this too,” Branson said, handing Officer Rodriguez the S’Wellness business card he had been holding. “We think it may have something to do with his death.”
“Leave the detective work to the professionals, Reverend. Barnes, get them out of my crime scene.”
After a brief interview with Officer Barnes, James and Branson were led outside of the yellow tape that surrounded the church, where they lingered in silence.
The garden bustled with activity as the authorities started the delicate work of documenting the scene and exhuming the body.
The eerie silence was interrupted by a frantic voice. “Reverend Buchman! Reverend Buchman!”
It was Georgette Newman.
“Georgette, what is it? Is everything okay?”
“Tried calling you,” she said, attempting to catch her breath.
James glanced at his phone. No signal.
“James, it’s Amy . . . She got worse . . . much worse. Had to call 9-1-1 . . . They took her to the hospital!”
A panic that James had only experienced once before flooded his body. He looked at Branson.
“Go!” his friend said. “I’ll have my guy look into S’Wellness and meet up with you later.”
Seconds later James was in his car and speeding back to the same hospital he’d just been released from a couple hours earlier.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JAMES RUSHED OUT OF the hospital elevator onto the third floor and into the Intensive Care Unit. The sounds of suffering—people crying, coughing, and whispering in low tones, reverberated through the halls.
He passed a small chapel on his way to the nurse’s station. The chapel, at least, looked like a welcoming and warm space. He made a mental note to remember it in case he needed a quiet place to talk with God.
There were two women working at the ICU nurse’s station. The larger of the two, who wore a colorful smock that had little ducks carrying umbrellas printed all over it, looked up at him with tired brown eyes and a slight scowl. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“My name is Pastor James Buchman. I’m here to see Amy Sheridan.”
“Are you family?”
“No. I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“Her pastor?” the other nurse finished for him.
“Yes.”
“It’s all right, Carla, I’ve got this.” She turned to James. “I’m Briella.”
The petite nurse waved for him to follow her. He nodded at Carla, who was still scowling at him like she had caught him cheating on a test.
“She doesn’t like to be interrupted, does she?” James asked as he followed along behind his guide, whose ashy blonde hair was coming loose from her haphazard bun.
Briella shrugged. “She’s been working double shifts. We all have.” She stopped in front of room 307 and poked her head in the door before turning to look back at James. “I’m glad you came to sit with Amy, Reverend. The only thing we can do for her now is to make her comfortable. She needs someone to be with her. You need anything, you give me a call, you hear?”
A voice sounded from the intercom, summoning anyone who was available to come to the Emergency Room. She did her best to smile warmly at him before she walked away, but James could see the fatigue etched into her face.
“Bless you, Briella,” he called after her.
The door to the room was open and James went in to find Amy, hooked up to two different IV bags. Lead wires from a monitoring machine were attached to her chest and arms. She opened her eyes and saw James as he sat down in a chair next to the bed. “James?”
“I’m here Amy. I’m right here,” he said, trying not to wince at the obvious pain in her voice. “You okay?”
Amy nodded her head, though the effort appeared to pain her. Her usual porcelain complexion had gone gray and her lips were cracked and dry from breathing through her mouth. “Why do you smell like gasoline?” she asked, a thin smile stretching her lips.
If she knew why he smelled like gas, she wouldn’t be smiling. He forced himself to smile back at her and tried to think of a witty reply. Whenever he was around Amy, even now when she was so sick, he found himself fumbling for words.
“Your hands!” Amy’s eyes grew wider as she took in his appearance, including the stiff bandages on his forearms.
James was grateful that she couldn’t see the bandages below his shirt, and his stab wound throbbed in response to his thoughts. He grimaced. “I’ll be okay. Maybe a few scars.” He didn’t want to worry her, not when she was so weak.
“Did Rick—?” she said, with a wheeze. “I’m so sorry James.” She coughed softly and her eyes squinted closed for a moment.
James shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“He’s . . . damaged,” she admitted. “I knew that before I started going out with him. I thought I could help. But once I was with him, I found out he didn’t really want any help.”
James nodded. What could he say? Rick had been trouble before Amy started dating him. But that wasn’t the only factor at play. Simon had preyed on that cracked psyche to achieve his own ends.
“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.” Her voice cracked, and James worried she might begin to cry.
“No, you did the right thing Amy. Rick could have hurt you very badly. I never would have forgiven myself had I allowed that to happen.”
She looked up at him from the pale blue bed with sparkling eyes full of tears and admiration. “You’re a good man James Buchman.”
James put his hand over Amy’s own. Her hand was thin, and her skin dry.
A single fat tear rolled down her pale cheek. “I don’t want to die James.”
He wouldn’t allow himself to think that she wasn’t going to make it. “Amy, I’m sure that God has a lot more that He wants you to do here before you join Him.” He met her gaze. She closed her eyes and a few more slow tears slipped free. James looked away. He didn’t want her to see the look on his face. He was sure it was full of panic and sorrow despite his best efforts to stay cheerful and calm.
Amy didn’t speak again for a while. He wasn’t sure if she had fallen asleep or was just resting. Or . . .
“Can I get you some water, Amy?” James asked. His heart ached.
“Hmm . . .” She cleared her throat. She looked as if she was in a lot of pain, but she was still alive. It seemed so unfair that they had just started getting to know one another and now he might be losing her. He tried to shake the feeling of dread that had haunted him since she became so ill.
Amy smacked her lips and said, “No. No water, thanks. Hurts to swallow. I wish I weren’t . . . weren’t sick. I wish we could spend more time together. But if now is my time, then I guess I’m ready.”
Was it really Amy’s time? If this sickness that plagued Harmony was unnatural—if it was something that Satan himself had actually brought here to infect people, then was it really Amy’s time? She was so young and had a long life ahead of her. Could Simon’s evildoing be God’s plan for the smart, beautiful young woman? Could it be His plan for the entire town of people, James’ people? Even though he had not been in Harmony long, th
ey were just that—his people.
God’s will or not, it was obvious that Amy wasn’t getting any better, nor were the countless other citizens he could hear suffering in the packed hospital. Nurses and doctors were being paged over the intercom. He could hear them running past Amy’s open door. He had to do something to help, but what could he do?
Emotion thickened his voice as he asked, “Amy, would it be all right if I prayed with you?”
Amy smiled that same weak smile. “I’d like that.”
He clasped Amy’s hand within both of his own, and then James bowed his head and closed his eyes.
“O heavenly Father, we humbly beseech You, look upon Amy, Your sick servant, and relieve her pain. Grant her the sweet sense of Your presence. Let her not doubt Your goodness or love in her illness, but wait in patience until Your correction has produced in her, Your perfect work. Bless all that is done for her recovery that will be according to Your wisdom. Comfort her by the loving ministration of those who care for her, and in Your good time, restore her again to her usual health, humbled and taught by this affliction. And this we ask for Jesus’ sake. Amen”
When James looked up again, Amy’s eyes were closed and she was breathing peacefully. Her chest moved up and down beneath the drab blue hospital sheets. James wiped the tears from his own eyes and glanced at the heart monitor’s display. Amy’s heartbeat was weak but steady. If Amy was going to die, it wasn’t going to be right now.
And then an alarm sounded.
There was a flurry of activity out in the hallway as both nurses ran from their station past his door. A voice came from the loudspeaker, “Code blue, room three-oh-four. Code blue, room three-oh-four.” Although James was a man of God and not a doctor, even he knew that code blue was hospital-speak for when someone’s heart had stopped and they needed immediate resuscitation.
He stepped out into the hallway. A doctor with a grim look on his face rushed down the hall and another worker in scrubs wheeled a cart with several drawers through the door of room 304. Shouting and hurried orders spilled from inside the room. The snap and hiss of defibrillator paddles being applied to the patient’s chest echoed in the hallway. The rest of the floor had grown eerily quiet. It was as if the whole world was waiting for the outcome of the heroic efforts of the hospital staff.
The results of their efforts became apparent as the nurse who had led him to Amy’s room, Briella, came out and leaned against the wall wiping tears from her eyes. She looked up and met James’ eyes.
“Oh. Sorry, Reverend. I didn’t realize you were . . .” She trailed off, looking back into that room. “That’s the third one we’ve lost today. This . . . sickness . . . Whatever it is, is killing people.” Briella wiped at her eyes as she walked quickly past him to answer a ringing phone. How many hours she had been working without a break, with people dying all around her?
Suddenly, James had a strong urge to find out who had died in room 304. Without thinking he walked lightly to the room, his shoes making no sound on the tile floor. At the door, he peered in and saw a small crowd still gathered around the hospital bed. One person stood out. He wasn’t wearing scrubs or a mask. It was Philip Falcone, leaning over the bed rail, sobbing.
James glanced past Philip. The woman in the bed was Philip’s wife, Melissa. James backed out of the doorway and into the hall. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was squatting. He covered his eyes with his hands but the tears just didn’t come. He was in shock and couldn’t move as if his feet were frozen in place.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A WAVE OF HOPELESSNESS overcame James, and something in him woke up. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He wasn’t going to let Simon take the lives of these innocent people, not while he was still breathing. Adrenaline surged through his blood and he put one foot in front of the other. Nothing would be resolved if he didn’t get moving down the busy hallway.
James looked at the various rooms and curtained-off sections that the staff had set up when they’d run out of rooms. A strong force pulled him toward the doors of rooms that housed patients he had never even met. His heart told him to go to each of the sick and sit with them and pray. He didn’t know where it came from, this assurance of what he needed to do, but it was right.
The first room he ducked into was dim, but the patient seemed to be awake and aware of his surroundings. James showed the middle-aged man the book he carried. The man saw it, nodded, and held out his calloused hand. James took it firmly in his own and the man let out a wheezing sigh. James was both honored and relieved that he was allowed to share this man’s life with him when he was suffering so badly.
“What is your name?” he asked the ailing patient.
“Willie, Willie Bowlish,” he whispered, with some effort. His eyes closed, and James took that for his cue to get started.
James flipped through his prayer book until he found the words he needed to ease the man’s suffering. He found a suitable passage that somehow felt right.
“O Lord and heavenly Father, we come before You with humble thanks for all your mercies, more especially for the means of grace which You have afforded Willie, in this interruption to his usual course of health. We thank You for reminding him that his enjoyment of the blessings of this world will not last forever—that things in which he commonly takes delight will one day come to cease to please him. Lord, deliver Willie from all impatience and all fear from his body, and fill him at the same time with spiritual fear—let him not be afraid of pain or sickness, but let him be afraid of You, and not waste the opportunity which You are affording him. Restore him in Your good time to his usual health, and grant that this interruption may purify his soul’s health, making it not an evil to him, but an infinite blessing, for the sake of Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.”
The dim room appeared to have brightened when James looked up, and Willie was smiling up at him from the bed.
“Amen. Thank you. Thank you,” the man managed to mutter before drifting off into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep. His breathing had evened out as they were praying, and now he was hardly wheezing at all.
James held his hand in silence for a few more minutes. Reality seemed richer now, and he wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline or the fog of Simon’s treachery lifting from his soul. Either way, he had a plan now. He had found at least one way to fight back against him, devil or not. James had the weapons of faith and prayer to fight with.
He gently rested Willie’s hand at his side, careful not to wake him. The monitors beeped reassuringly as James left the room.
Even the hallway seemed less desperate now that James was driven by purpose, and he strode into the next room, and the next, repeating his prayers and pleas for salvation. Each time, he was sure that he saw the patients improving when he opened his eyes after saying Amen.
The staff got to go home as another shift began, and new nurses and doctors started showing up to check on the stricken patients. James smiled broadly at them, trying to impart some grace and reassurance. The hospital seemed quieter, and less dark, even though evening was well upon them by now.
Chapter Forty
JAMES HAD LOST TRACK of time hours ago, but he had visited and prayed with more than ten patients. Some were strangers to him, like Willie had been, while others he knew from his congregation. Mindy Ellison and Emily Watson were both resting calmly now after his visit to their respective rooms. George Alvarez was also ailing in one of the makeshift, curtained-off areas. James had prayed with him and left him in better spirits.
George had lifted James’ spirit as well. Just before James left his room, George called out to him. “Pastor! I think just being near a person that is so close to God has shown me that my time on this earth is not up yet. Thank you for sharing your gift with me.” The tears in his eyes had been of the happy variety.
Other patients said similar things to him after they prayed together, and each time James gave thanks to God that His plan seemed to be working. He was
easing the suffering of the stricken, even of a few patients who were in the hospital for other ailments. James hoped the power of prayer could help prevent Simon’s wickedness from touching them in the first place.
More than once, he had poked his head into Amy’s room. She was sleeping, and it looked like a restful sleep, so he didn’t wake her. She looked so peaceful that it strengthened him to see her suffering so vastly reduced. He hoped her dreams were kind to her.
A few patients had refused to pray with him, and one had even shrunk away from his touch. He wasn’t sure if it was him or his religion they objected to, or if they were just delusional and frightened. He did his best to respect their wishes, praying silently by their doors even though he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be enough.
And sure enough, it wasn’t. One of the patients who had refused his offer of prayer died shortly after turning him down, as the medical team had been unable to resuscitate him.
The loss was a painful blow to James, but he had to keep working until he had touched the hands and souls of every patient in the hospital. He tried not to let the death affect his energy, and strode purposefully into the next room.
Inside, Officer John Colmenero stood over his wife, Nancy. He wore his police uniform, as though he had been called away from his shift to be at his wife’s side. She wasn’t moving, and her skin was pale and damp. James extended a hand to John, whose handshake was firm despite his desperate situation.
“She’s dying,” John said mournfully. “She hasn’t woken for hours, and her breathing . . .”
“We mustn’t give up hope, John,” James said, with what he hoped was a good mixture of calmness and confidence. He fingered the well-worn pages of his prayer journal, looking for a particular passage. He knew it by heart, but he liked to see the words on the page, written in his father’s bold hand. He placed the open book on the bed so that, in a way, his father could be present, at least in James’ heart.
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