by Sharon Sala
The Miracle Man
Sharon Sala
This book is dedicated to the belief in miracles and miracle workers everywhere. To the doctors, nurses, care givers and EMTs. To men and women of the cloth. To all the men in law enforcement who daily put their lives on the line, and to everyone who believes.
And especially to the miracle workers who have impacted upon my life: Dennis Dukes, EMT; Kathy Orr, EMT; RaeAnne Berry, EMT; Dr. Frank Howard, Dr. Robert L. Talley, Dr. Ross Pope, Dr. Michael Goddard and Dr. Don Mace. Also a belated thanks to retired doctors John G. Rollins, M.D., and Jake Jones, M.D., and to the late Dr. Ned Burleson, as well as the late Dr. Kirk T. Mosley, who was always there when I needed him.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Chapter 1
The small, twelve-seater airplane assigned to the United States Marshal’s Office sat on a runway at the Tallahassee airport. As armed guards watched from the runway, a nondescript blue van pulled up and began emptying its deadly cargo.
Three men, marked by prison uniforms, leg irons and shackles, filed out of the van with little fuss. Hog-tied by more than the bonds of the criminal justice system, they had nowhere to go but up the ramp and into the waiting plane where they were placed in seats.
Emmit Rice muttered belligerently as he shifted his six-foot-five-inch, three-hundred-pound bulk toward two of the three seats at the front of the airplane.
Oversize handcuffs circled his massive wrists, and the shackles and leg irons, compliments of the Federal Correctional Institution in Tallahassee, Florida, rattled when he came to an abrupt stop at the seat and landed with a grunt. He glanced up and then glared at the marshal who was waiting patiently for him to settle.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he muttered.
For the past fifteen years, Lane Monday had served as a United States marshal. So a disgruntled prisoner, even one the size of a small tank, was nothing new to him.
Lane grinned, then ducked out of habit to keep from bumping his head as he maneuvered his own six feet six inches into the bulkhead of the plane. His answer, as well as the slow appraisal that he gave Emmit Rice, were telling.
“What am I looking at? Not much,” he said, and stifled another grin when Emmit Rice’s face flushed in anger. It was probably one of the few times in his life, Lane mused, that Emmit Rice had been reduced in size, as well as strength, by little more than a look.
Rice snorted and stretched his massive body into as much space as he possibly could. It was an intimidating gesture that he knew usually netted results. But the cool, assessing stare that the big marshal gave him was proof that intimidation was not going to work. Not on Lane Monday.
Monday was more than a match for him in height. And while he had nowhere near the bulk of Emmit Rice, he had a powerful body to back up the gun that he carried.
And it was Lane Monday’s size alone that had been the reason for his recall from a much-needed vacation. Someone had to escort Emmit Rice from the Federal Correctional Institution in Tallahassee, Flor-ida, to the one in Lexington, Kentucky. Who better than a man who could look Rice in the eye and come away grinning?
The last man to board the plane was the other marshal, Bob Tell. “Buckle up, boys. Better safe than sorry.” Bob laughed at his own joke as he did a last-minute check of the prisoners and their restraints.
One of the prisoners laughed with him. The other two, Rice included, neither smiled nor looked at the man who thought he was a comic. Their eyes were fixed upon the mass of man who stood between them and freedom, wearing a cold blue stare and a gun on his hip.
“Time to check guns,” Bob said, opening the lid of a strongbox and holding it toward Lane, while he kept an eye on the prisoners who were watching the proceedings with entirely too much interest.
Monday slid his weapon out of its holster and dropped it into the lockbox as Bob followed suit, pocketing the key before stowing the box in the cockpit.
It was standard procedure to check guns before taking off. The last thing a lawman wanted was to be overpowered by a prisoner and have his own weapon taken away and used on an innocent bystander—or on himself.
Finally the plane was airborne, and there was nowhere to go but down. It was then that the air within the cabin seemed to settle, and two of the prisoners even dozed while Bob sat watch.
But Rice didn’t sleep. His small, green eyes were firmly fixed upon the marshal who’d had to turn sideways to get his shoulders through the door.
Lane Monday didn’t budge from the position that he’d taken when the plane had lifted off. He knew all too well how desperate the man was he’d been assigned to transport.
Emmit Rice was a lawman’s nightmare. He was a lifer with nothing to lose. Regardless of what else he might do, he’d already lost everything that mattered but his life. And the way he looked at living behind bars, his life was already lost.
And then they flew into the storm and everything changed, including the hand that fate had dealt them.
* * *
Although it was still hours before nightfall, the clouds that had arrived, seemingly from nowhere, were pitch-black. In the space of a heartbeat, the plane appeared to go from day into night as it flew right into the mouth of a storm. Lightning flashed outside the plane, momentarily illuminating the sky.
“Son of a bitch,” one of the prisoners muttered, ducking his head from the brilliant flash of electrical energy.
In seconds, Bob was on his feet and heading for the cockpit while Monday stayed put, bracing himself against the bulkhead with both feet outspread and his arms above his head, riding out the air pockets with grim-lipped determination. He’d been in some bad spots before and gotten through them fine. But something told him that this time might be a different story.
“We're gonna crash! We're gonna crash!”
Prisoner DeVon Randall was losing control. His voice had elevated three octaves as, wild-eyed, he stared around the cabin, trying to free himself from the seat in which he was bound.
Emmit Rice glared at Randall, hating him for verbalizing what they all felt. He would not have admitted his fear under penalty of death, but he was afraid the little man might be right.
“Calm down, Randall,” Monday said.
His order to the prisoner went in one ear and out the other. The man was chained—and in hysterics. The combination could prove lethal for them all. Then Bob burst out of the cockpit and nearly ran Monday down.
“Damn, Monday. This is bad. We've got to prepare the men in case of—”
He never finished what he was saying. Blinding light, followed by a loud crack, sent both lawmen to their knees. The plane bucked and the cabin momentarily went dark. When the lights flickered back on, Bob was scrambling for the keys in his pocket and heading for the three prisoners, pinned in their seats by shackles and leg irons.
“Help me,” Bob shouted. “We're going down, and they'll die for sure if they can’t get out.”
Monday hesitated for a moment. It was instinctive. Letting these three loose, even inside a plane in danger of crashing, was taking chances that he didn’t want to consider. But leaving them as they were was the same as shooting them where they sat.
“I want my gun back,” Monday growled. Bob nodded, hurrying to retrieve their weapons.
When his gun was s
afely back in its holster, Monday headed for Emmit Rice. He was, after all, the reason that he’d come.
Nearly nose to nose with the big marshal, Rice stared up into a cold blue gaze and swallowed. He wanted to be able to threaten him; he needed to reassert himself and his territory. But he was too damned afraid of crashing and burning to give much thought to the hard warning that was evident in Monday’s eyes.
“Don’t even think about it, and assume the position,” Monday warned as he put the flat of his hand squarely in the back of Rice’s head and pushed.
Rice obliged by ducking his head between his knees. Not for the first time, he wished that he didn’t have so much belly to get around. It would have been easier to brace himself for the crash if he could have gotten lower in the seat.
“Tell, buckle up!”
Monday’s warning coincided with the second bolt of lightning that hit the plane. The sound of his voice was lost in the thunder and the second wave of darkness that ensued.
Monday felt the floor of the plane tilt. Oh, hell, not down.
But his plea went unanswered, and his heart followed the angle of the plane as he braced himself for the impact that was bound to come. Once again, lightning flashed, and he had a moment’s impression of Emmit Rice lying unconscious against the bulkhead between the cockpit and the seating area.
“What the...?” Monday muttered as he staggered with the pitch of the plane.
When he’d last checked, Rice had been buckled in his seat. Now that he was out, Monday figured that Rice had been planning to try something. Although the man was obviously unconscious, he frowned at the thought of Rice on the loose and slipped a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. If Rice tried to escape, the prisoner was going to have to take him along when he did it.
Purposefully, Monday fastened one bracelet of the handcuff around his own wrist, then waited for the plane to steady before heading for Rice. When Rice revived, he was going to have more company than he might have wanted. Being cuffed to a lawman was going to put a big kink in his plans for escape.
Bob Tell’s expression, and those of the now-chained prisoners, became grotesquely illuminated from the blue-white flash of lightning, which gave them all a deathly appearance. Monday grimaced and wondered if he looked the same. Then the plane lurched unexpectedly into a sharp downward angle, and everything, including his thoughts, went out like the lights as the plane hit the ground.
* * *
Blinding rain stung Lane’s face and eyelids. It was his first indication that he was still alive. Thunder rumbled overhead, grinding through the air like a runaway train. He flinched at the sound, and then groaned when the small movement caused him pain.
The scent of fuel was strong. Even through the deluge, sparks arced from the wreckage with frightening irregularity. He knew that it was only a matter of time before what was left of the plane exploded.
“Bob? Bob? Where are you, man? Answer me!” Lane shouted, then waited, praying for his partner’s voice to come out of the darkness. When he shouted again and still received no answer, he tried to get up, then cursed when he found himself unable to move.
My God, don’t let me be trapped.
His stomach turned at the thought of surviving the crash, only to burn alive. If he was going to die, he would choose his own method of exit. A bullet was definitely an easier way to go than burning. His hand shook as he reached for his gun and then came away empty.
“Damn.”
The gun was missing from its holster. When his panic had subsided, his training kicked in, and he began to assess where he was by feel alone.
It was with no small amount of relief that he realized he could feel his feet and legs. Even the sharp, burning pain up his thigh was a welcome antidote to his initial fear that he’d been paralyzed. At this point, pain was the lesser of two evils.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to move again, and only then did he realize his predicament as he felt fabric and metal beneath his fingertips. Something large and heavy had him pinned to the ground.
Lightning once again shattered the darkness, streaking across the night sky like a flame running up a fuse.
“Son of a...”
Lane inhaled and tried not to panic at what the momentary burst of light had revealed. At least now he knew why he hadn’t been able to move. He was pinned in the wreckage by a section of seats...and DeVon Randall’s body. Instinctively, he traced the shape of Randall’s face down to his neck, searching for pulse. There was none.
Using his massive upper-body strength, Lane pushed until the seats gave. Randall’s lifeless body followed, and finally Lane was free. He crawled to his feet in blinding pain, then staggered, losing his center of gravity as another streak of lightning flashed across the sky.
But this time, in the swift flash of light, in spite of his nausea and disorientation, he saw the rest of what there was to see. Bob Tell lay sprawled atop the other prisoners. Lane didn’t have to touch them to know that they were all dead. It was a well-known fact that no one lived with their head on backward.
Rain continued to hammer down on Lane’s face and body. Sparks continued to fly. The smell of burning fuel became stronger and stronger. He had to get out. Now! He turned, then staggered, and as he did, metal clanked against metal, and he felt the dangling handcuff at the end of his wrist.
It was then that he remembered Rice. He was the only prisoner as yet unaccounted for. The last time he’d seen him, Rice had been lying unconscious against the bulkhead of the plane.
But Emmit Rice was nowhere in sight, although Lane told himself that the man could easily be under any part of the wreckage. Lane tried to take another step, when a sharp pain rocketed through his leg, sending him to his knees. The plane was a time bomb waiting for the right spark, and he’d just realized that he couldn’t walk. Never one to let a small thing stop him, he began to crawl, searching for a way out.
He was less than twenty yards from the plane when the first explosion came, rocking the ground on which he crawled and sending burning debris straight up into the air, only to shower back down around him like shrapnel. The empty holster around his waist hampered his movements, and he quickly unbuckled it and then continued to drag himself out of harm’s way.
There was no time to worry about missing prisoners or burning bodies. All Lane could do was get as far away from the fire as possible.
Just when he thought he was out of danger, the ground gave way under him. He went headfirst off the ledge and into the flood-swollen waters of the ravine below. For the first time in his life, he wished that he’d been born a runt. Then he would never have been on this godforsaken flight.
A short time later in the fading light of dusk, he surfaced, gasping for air and cursing to keep from passing out from the pain. A log struck him in the back, and he bobbed with the impact, then turned and grasped it as if it were a long-lost lover. He was barely afloat. Barely alive.
* * *
Antonette Hatfield gave the new strand of wire on the north pasture fence a final twist, then cursed beneath her breath when the shiny barb poked her knuckle.
“If I had a man, he would be out here melting in this damned heat and I would be home doing something better. Like tending to a house and raising my babies.”
But her complaint was an old one, said only out of habit and not real dismay.
Antonette had long ago given up expecting Mr. Right to appear on her doorstep. For some reason, she kept scaring the good ones away. It had occurred to her that her size, nearly six feet tall and generously proportioned with womanly curves and valleys, might have had something to do with it. That and the fact that she had no tolerance for fools seemed to send a lot of men packing.
The few who had lingered over those two hurdles had never made it past the knowledge that she had seven brothers who would take great pride in hurting them—badly—should they cross the line of proper behavior. Her brothers considered it their responsibility to see “Toni” suitably wed. Better, they thought,
that she become an old maid, than bring someone into the family who didn’t belong.
At her present age of twenty-nine, she had even given up her dream of marrying Mr. Wrong. What she wanted now—and what she would settle for at the drop of a hat—was a baby. Granted, it took one to get the other, but the way she looked at it, the mister could take himself off to greener pastures any old day, as long as he left her with child before he did it.
While she was daydreaming, a warning rumble of far-off thunder made her look up.
A storm was brewing.
Thankful that she had this job nearly finished, she leaned back against the seat of her all-terrain vehicle and pulled open the top of her water jug. The ice had melted long ago, but the water was wet and fairly cool, and for the time being settled the hungry grumble in her belly as it went down.
The sultry, late-evening air had already molded her clothes to her body. And while she’d started the day with her long hair twisted haphazardly on top of her head like a thick brown nest of curls, heat and work had sent it tumbling down around her face and neck.
Sweat stung her eyes. She absently swiped at it with the back of her forearm, then thought of iced tea and a clean change of clothes, and began gathering up leftover fencing material. Ignoring the impulse to return it as orderly as it had been loaded, she cast one last look at the gathering storm and began tossing the fence posts and wire into the back of the small, low-sided wagon she was pulling behind her ATV.
The thick Tennessee woods in which she lived had few paved roads, and even fewer that were graveled. Raising cows, corn and hay, with eight children thrown in for good measure, were all that Anton and Lissy Hatfield had ever done. But Lissy had been dead for years, and all seven of her sons had married and moved away from home. Four months ago, Anton Hatfield had joined Lissy, leaving their baby alone to care for the family farm.
That “baby,” Antonette, was stronger than most men, and her being nearly six feet tall had little to do with it. She was still the youngest, and she bore, on a daily basis, the constant, unsolicited advice of her neighbor, Justin, who also happened to be her oldest brother.