by Dana Mentink
Dan knew he had to get to Angela and Donna. They might be lying unprotected from the bullets flying around them. He was not sure if Angela would have the ability to take proper cover, or if the shots would bring her PTSD roaring to life. He’d been so sure, sending her up those stairs with Marco and Donna.
One foot at a time, right into the range of a shooter. His gut clamped down tight.
“Go on three,” Marco shouted. “I’ll draw his fire.”
Dan did a slow count to three and then beelined it for the truck as Marco leaped from his position. Dan’s feet pounded over the rubble. Marco ran out into the open toward the trees for several yards before he dove behind a pile of rotting wood.
Get to Angela. The thought throbbed relentlessly through his mind as he sprinted, ignoring the fact that a bullet might punch through his skull at any moment. Slipping and sliding, he tried desperately to keep his balance. Three yards left. He could see no movement from inside the vehicle. Were Angela and Donna underneath? Had they piled into the cab to seek protection?
Dan was inches from the truck when the engine throbbed to life. How was that possible since he had the keys in his pocket? As he struggled to catch up, the truck jerked forward. Dan sprinted closer, got a hand around the back bumper. It jerked forward out of his grasp, careened around the ambulance and up the slope to the main road. Dan pursued for a few minutes until he stumbled and fell.
The truck must have distracted the shooter, who fired once in the direction of the vanishing vehicle.
One more bullet, probably intended to hit the truck, slammed into the side of the lighthouse, so close to Dan’s head that he heard it whistle by, felt the flying chips of wood on his cheek. Once again he hit the ground.
Gasping for breath, heart slamming into his ribs, he peered through the curtains of falling rain. No more shots. To his right, the medics still crouched in their vehicle. In the distance, the sound of police sirens. Past the lighthouse, Marco cautiously peered around his shelter, checking to see if the shooter was finished.
His mind took in all the details simultaneously, but his gut flared with an unbearable question.
What had happened to Angela and her sister?
“Angela,” he called out, voice low.
No answer. No shots. Silence.
“Angela,” he said, voice rising until it rang out in a shout. “Answer me.”
FIFTEEN
Angela’s fear choked off her breath as she looked up from the ditch behind the lighthouse into which she and her sister had dived. She kept her eyes pressed tightly shut. What would she find when she opened them? Not death, surely not that. Her sister, lying next to her, lifeless and silent. Like Julio. Horror kept her eyes shut, her body paralyzed.
“Donna,” she whispered. “Donna.”
And then in an answer to a prayer she had not been able to utter, she felt Donna’s hand squeeze hers.
“Here.”
They sat up, amid the rock and debris. Angela clutched her sister, crying.
“I thought...”
Donna shook her head, fingers laced tightly in Angela’s. “I’m okay. You, too?”
She nodded.
Dan’s voice cut through the night, shouting now.
“Angela? Donna?” he roared.
“Here,” Donna called, when Angela could not manage a response.
Marco and Dan made it to their location in seconds. Dan’s face was stricken as he wrapped Angela in a hug. “I couldn’t find you. Are you both okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“Not hurt.” Angela continued to work on getting her breathing under control. “We took cover here. What about you?”
“We’re okay,” Marco said.
Dan nodded. “Fortunately, we’re faster than we look.”
She could not see much in the dark but the feel of Dan’s arms was strong and sure, heart beating steadily in his chest as he pressed her to him.
“Is the shooter gone?” Donna said.
Marco nodded. “Saw him take off up the trail. Tank hot-wired the truck. Might be able to catch them in the rental. I’ll go.”
“No you won’t,” Donna said, pointing to the police car that was careening down the trail. It screeched to a stop, and Torrey and another office leaped out. Torrey approached them while his partner spoke to the paramedics, who were just venturing out of their vehicle. Dan let her go, somewhat reluctantly she thought.
“Talk to me,” Torrey said.
They gave him a quick rundown. Torrey scowled. “Where did Tank take your truck?”
“I don’t know,” Dan said with a shrug. “We were too busy dodging bullets to ask him. Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the shooter?”
“I’ll ask Tank about that myself when I get my hands on him.”
“You can’t blame this on Tank” Angela said. “We were shot at, all of us.”
Fury shone on Torrey’s face clearly through the rain. “I don’t believe one single word out of Tank’s mouth. If he was honest, he’d talk to us. I’m tired of this game. I’m going to find him and he’s going to come clean.”
“Someone is shooting at him and his wife. He’s scared.”
Torrey’s eyes gleamed cold in the moonlight. “He should be.”
A shiver ran up Angela’s spine.
* * *
Dan noticed Angela shudder. He wiped his eyes. “We need to get these ladies out of this storm. We’re going now. You know where to find us.”
Torrey did not argue. He moved away, training his flashlight over the ground where the truck had left deep grooves as Tank made his escape.
They loaded up into Marco’s car. Angela looked dangerously weary. He wanted to wrap her up in another tight hug, press away the cold and reassure her. They were safe. She was safe. He sat in the passenger seat and cranked the heater. Angela had her arm around her sister’s shoulders, and the two were huddled together. The sight was comforting to him. Find your way back to the people who love you, Angela.
Love you? Something about the word made his heart skip. Not love. Not from him. Love was something that he could not imagine for himself anymore, since AnnaLisa left him. He did not have space for it inside, or perhaps he did not want to make space for it. Love was too flimsy, too fragile, too easily lost, like the patients he’d tended. Fragile, fleeting, gone.
“Down there,” Marco said, stopping the car abruptly and jerking Dan from his thoughts.
Dan would have missed it, but a trail of broken branches pointed the way to his truck. It stood, doors open, lights off, windshield wipers slapping.
They approached warily, Marco edging up the driver’s side. “All clear,” he said after a moment.
The truck was abandoned. A bullet hole had punched through the side window, sending cracks splintering through the glass. Dan checked for blood and found none.
“Why’d he stop here?” Donna said. “Why not drive the truck to the airport if that’s where they were headed?”
“He’s scared,” Marco said. “Shooter knows his plans, knows he’s in Dan’s truck. Gonna run on foot. Get out of town as quick as he can.”
They got back in the car, and Marco phoned Torrey to report the truck’s location.
Angela had scooted over to the far side of the seat, staring out the window, hands clenched tightly in her lap. “What is happening here?” she whispered after they took off again.
“What, Angie?” Donna said.
Dan didn’t like the strained quality to her voice.
“This is supposed to be safe.”
“What is?” her sister pressed.
“Being back in the States, in California. We’re not in a war zone here.” Her voice was tense, high pitched. “But we’ve been shot at, attacked. Tank is running for his life. How is that safety? Is
this what we’re meant to come home to?”
Donna reached for her hand, but Angela snatched it away.
Marco’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes on the road. “It isn’t,” he said. “Time to go home to Coronado. Forget this case. Forget Tank.”
“How can I forget him?” Angela said. “How can I leave him to die like his brother?”
“He’s gotten himself into trouble by his own choices. None of that has anything to do with you.” Marco darted a quick look in the rearview mirror.
Angela exhaled heavily. “Who will tell his mother she’s lost both her sons?”
“It might not come to that. Anyway, you don’t have to be involved,” Dan said. “We can find someone else to work the case.”
Marco nodded. “I’ll stay. You go home with Donna. He’s right. Doesn’t have to be you.”
“Yes,” she said, pinning him with a gaze so anguished it cut at him. “It does have to be me. I asked God a long time ago to send me to do His will.”
“Maybe this isn’t—” Donna said.
“Yes, it is,” she hissed. “He linked me with the Guzman family for some reason. I watched Julio die, and God let me live.”
“He didn’t spare you so you could sacrifice yourself for Tank,” Dan said sharply.
“I don’t know why He spared me,” she cried. “So I could continue to minister? Well, I can’t. I’m not able to be a chaplain, not anymore.” Angela’s voice dropped. “I need to try and save Tank. That’s all I can do.”
“But what if you can’t?” Donna said, jaw taut. “What if this is too much for you?”
“It’s not,” she said.
“Angie—”
“I said, it’s not.” As if struck by a sudden thought, she patted her pocket and pulled out a film canister. “Here. Look at this. He told me this will help.”
“What is it?”
She opened the canister and unfurled a piece of paper, mercifully spared from the rain.
“It’s names. Three names. Betty Hernandez, Ralph Pickford, Oliver Clark.” She read it again, fingers tracing the tiny print.
Dan let the names ring through his memory. Something dark and colder than the storm-washed air sank down on him.
“You know them, Dan?” Angela was saying.
“Just one of them. Ralph Pickford. He’s a drifter. I’ve treated him at the clinic, and so has Lila. We did a veterans event where we provided free physicals and dental exams, haircuts, the whole nine yards. It was about six months ago.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Yes,” he said, heart thudding loud in his ears. “That’s the funny thing.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital, the day Lila bolted. I saw him in an exam room waiting for the doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“Patricia Lane.”
The wipers continued to thwack, struggling to keep up with the torrents of rain.
“I’ll go talk to her tomorrow,” Dan said.
Marco made the final turn into town and dropped Dan off at his house. He shot another look at Angela before he got out. He offered a smile, which she returned halfheartedly.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” he said.
“There’s another place we should go.” Her face was haunted. “Another lead we should follow.”
He had a feeling he knew what she was about to say. “Marco and Donna can do it.”
“No. Tank might have told his mother where he was headed. We... I have to talk to Mrs. Guzman.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said softly.
Her eyes blazed, reflecting metallic moonlight back at him. “Stop telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
“Someone has to rein you in,” he snapped.
“You’re not my doctor, and I don’t have to take advice from you.”
His blood pulsed hot. “Maybe it’s about time you did take some advice. We’re not exactly in a safe situation here.”
“I know that. I heard the shots, too.” She set her mouth in a thin line.
“Then quit being so stubborn.”
“Is that an order?” she shot back.
Marco shifted on the seat. “It’s late. Leave the topic open for now. Donna and I will chase down the other two names on Tank’s list—see if we can tie them to the Grubers. Keep the channels open. Everybody knows what everybody’s doing. No one heads out alone—understood?”
Though Dan bridled at being given orders on top of being told off by Angela, he knew Marco was right.
He agreed, stepping away from the car and watching it head back toward the hotel.
Patricia Lane was a competent doctor.
Lila Brown worked at Gruber’s clinic.
Ralph Pickford was a patient at both the hospital and the clinic. Could he be the link that might shed some light on who wanted Tank dead and was willing to stage a shoot-up to keep them from finding him?
Standing in the rain was getting him nowhere but on his way to freezing, so he headed inside. From underneath the shelter he’d built for Babs, the cat meowed pitifully.
“I don’t want a pet,” he said. “You’re safe and dry in there.”
The cat mewed again, piteously.
“It’s not like you belong to me—you just sort of showed up here.”
He could see Bab’s whiskers trembling in the wind, drops of rain quivering there like crystal notes on a music staff.
With a sigh he opened the door. “All right. Get inside, why don’t you?” He waited until the cat shot past him, streaking under the sofa.
Another crack of thunder rumbled through the sky. It made him think of rifle fire. He hoped it did not awaken any flashbacks for Angela.
“Might as well make yourself at home, Babs.”
At least one female had the good sense to follow the doctor’s orders.
* * *
Donna insisted Angela take the first shower. It was bliss to feel the hot water chasing the cold from her body, but Angela could not shake the chill of fear from her insides. Tank had been petrified; Cora, too. Her own emotions had run the gamut from terror for her own life to anger at Dan for doing nothing more than trying to keep her safe. She felt like a pinball, shooting haphazardly from one emotion to the next.
She climbed under the covers and clasped her hands tight. She wanted to pour her prayers out to God, to entreat Him to let her find Tank and bring him to safety, to ground her back in His love and peace. But when she closed her eyes she could not stop the images pouring through her mind. Julio’s smiling face, his rich laughter, the pop of gunfire, her own screams, the beginning of the darkness.
She felt Donna lie on the bed next to her and slowly reached out a hand to touch her sister.
“Praying?” Donna murmured.
“Every time I try...” Her throat choked off the words. She wished her sister would move away, leave her to the misery that would not let go, but Donna did not. Instead she curled up next to Angela and began to trace circles onto her back, the way they had when they were children.
Something is wrong with me, she wanted to blurt out. I’m lost. But nothing came out, nothing at all.
Her sister murmured, soft and low, “When I messed up my life, Angie, I didn’t think God was listening anymore.”
Angela knew. Donna had taken up with the wrong man who had nearly gotten her killed. She’d walked away from the Gallaghers, especially their father, whose advice Donna could not abide.
“After Nate, all I felt was a massive void, separation from Him and my family, everybody,” Donna said. “I didn’t want to be around Him or any of you, remember?”
“Yes.”
“I was horrible, lashing out, trying to punish you all for my own
failures. And do you remember what you said to me in the hospital when I woke up with a broken back and I thought I’d never walk again?”
She shook her head.
“You came to pray with me, and I screamed at you to get out and take your prayers and petitions with you.”
It had been just before Angela deployed to Afghanistan. She remembered the rage in Donna’s eyes, rage that did not quite cover up the intense fear.
Donna sighed. “You waited until I stopped yelling and you looked at me with love and compassion and you said, ‘Donna, God hasn’t left you. You’re still connected to Him. And if you can’t pray right now, that’s okay. I’m going to do it for you.’”
Angela closed her eyes. How sure she’d been, how convinced of her own ability to counsel, to help people find peace. “That seems like a lifetime ago,” she whispered.
Donna traced more circles of comfort onto Angela’s back. “So now I’m returning the favor. I’m going to pray for you, Angie, because you can’t do it for yourself right now and someday soon you’re going to feel that connection again. Until then, God packed your life full of people who will hold you up when you can’t do it yourself.”
Packed with people. Her mother, Donna, Candace, Sarah.
Dan? All precious comforts, but there was only one relationship that would restore her fully. She could not speak. If only she could again feel the Father’s love, His grace moving through her. She stayed silent as her sister prayed over her, pouring out all the entreaties that she could not utter for herself. When Donna finished, she gave her sister a kiss, pulled up the covers and climbed into her own bed.
Thank you, Angela wanted to say. The prayer had not blasted away the darkness, but one tiny corner of the gloom lightened a fraction, as if there could be a chance, the slimmest hope, that morning might come.
Her phone buzzed with a text. She read the screen.
I’m sorry for being bossy. Wanted to say I’m praying for you. D
Praying for you. Her sister. And Dan, the branches that might just hold her up until she could rediscover that precious connection to the vine.
She pressed her hands together again, held on to that fragile feeling and drifted off to sleep.