by Amanda Tru
“Thank you,” Caroline managed to croak, hoping to avoid another trip to the bathroom to cry behind locked doors.
Mrs. Cho straightened the pillows on the coach. “Well, now, let’s see what we have in the pantry for dinner.”
Sirens.
Wailing. Deafening.
Screaming to be heard.
“Out of my way!” Drisklay was shouting, just like in his dream, except this time it felt different. Less like a haunting memory. More like the real event. The original stuff from which his nightmare had been made so many years ago.
The trick-or-treaters scrambled to get out of the road. “Hang in there,” he told the boy.
And then the collision.
He saw the young woman a fraction of a second before his car slammed into her body. She’d been laughing. Why couldn’t he remember that detail until now? She’d been laughing. Bending over to look into her little girl’s plastic pumpkin, and she’d laughed.
Next, the collision.
Slamming on the brakes, the squealing tires, the smell of burnt rubber. It flooded his senses now more pointedly than any dream from the past.
Jumping out of the car. Racing to where she lay on the pavement, shouting at a passerby to get her little girl out of the road.
This was a sight no child should see.
A sight doomed to haunt Drisklay’s dreams until the day he died. His curse would be to carry the memory of this exact moment for as long as his body drew breath.
Watching the blood leaving the young mother’s body pulse by pulse until there was nothing left.
Nothing left at all.
Then the dream changed, and he was the one in the ambulance. He was the one stretched out on a gurney as bodies scrambled around, trying in vain to restore him to the world of the living.
“Let me go,” he wanted to tell them. “I’m not worth it.”
The words refused to escape his lips.
“I’m not worth it,” he repeated, this time to himself. Almost like a prayer. But not quite.
“Just let me go,” he wanted to croak. And then there was the pain.
Everywhere.
His shoulder. His back. His side. His face. A fiery, aching turmoil.
Oh, his face.
Was this hell? No, the men around him were still scrambling to keep him alive. He wasn’t dead yet.
Suspended, maybe.
There had been a fight. Images leaked in between the dark veil of confusion. A knife. The echo of a memory, the shadow of what happened. A gunshot. Fire in his jaw.
Ice in his soul.
Drisklay had always known he would die on the job. It was a certainty he carried around with him every day, just like he carried his Sig Sauer in its holster on his hip.
But he hadn’t expected it to happen yet.
He’d hoped to solve at least a few more cases…
The case. Rebekah Harrison’s murder. Her father. The pastor…
“I know who did it.”
A man leaned over him. “Try not to talk. Save your energy.”
“It was the father. And someone else too…”
“… Anyone we should call?” someone was asking.
My wife. This time Drisklay could only think the words as his vision faded again to black and his mind went completely blank.
Dinner was ready a full forty-five minutes before it was time for the children to eat, and Caroline didn’t argue when Mrs. Cho suggested she run upstairs and lie down. The jetlag hadn’t been quite as bad as Caroline expected, but she was still thankful for the chance to rest her eyes. When did Mrs. Cho sleep? she wondered as she spread out on the small mattress on the floor.
Outside her bedroom, she heard the children playing. The older kids were home now from school, and the sound of their happy conversations and laughter was comforting.
Familiar.
Caroline had been surprised by her emotional outburst earlier and was thankful for the chance to spend a few minutes alone. She didn’t like to admit it even to herself, but she was also thankful for the chance to take a break from Mrs. Cho’s ever-watchful, ever-perceptive presence.
Caroline shut her eyes and let out her breath, her brain heavy with exhaustion. Maybe it was the jet lag after all. Or the fact that her mind was constantly trying to decipher a new language.
Or maybe it was that she was exerting all her mental energy trying not to think of Mrs. Cho’s convicting words.
Caroline still couldn’t decide if the old woman had been trying to lecture her, encourage her, or preach at her. Maybe it was a combination of all three, but instead of feeling inspired or understood, Caroline came away from their one-way conversation with a sense of total isolation. That was probably the single worst factor about being married to an unbeliever, how alone she felt. The scant times she did make it to one of her church’s women’s Bible studies, the ladies would share prayer requests like, “Please pray for Max and me because he’s been offered a big promotion at work but it would mean less time with the family, and we’re really trying to seek God’s wisdom.” What did women like that know of Caroline’s struggles, of the fact that she couldn’t even tell her husband she’d sneaked out to join a Bible study without him ranting for a full thirty minutes about how she’d been brainwashed?
“I thought you were smarter.” How many times had Calvin yelled something like that to her? Did he think that would win her back over to his side? Did he think it would be constructive at all?
“You’ve got Jesus now. Guess you don’t need me, do you?” He’d spoken those words to her the day he moved out. Secretly, there had been a part of her that wanted to agree with him at the time. To be able to look into the eyes of the man she had once loved and admit, No, I don’t need you. I’ve lived with you for over thirty years, and you’ve never been there for me. So, I learned to live and survive and thrive without you.
The irony was for so many years the biggest problem in their marriage was that Calvin never cared what she did.
Then she became a Christian, and all of a sudden, he cared way too much.
God, I don’t know what to do, she admitted as she lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. I wish there was something I could do to change him, but I can’t.
Why don’t you leave the changing up to Me? The voice that spoke to her was neither audible nor in any other way remarkable. She wasn’t overwhelmed with God’s presence like she’d been that first Easter Sunday at Pastor Carl and Sandy’s church. Yet she knew it was God who was speaking to her.
At first, she wanted to argue. God, if I’m supposed to leave the changing up to you, why haven’t you done anything in Calvin’s heart yet?
But she was silent. Thankful. It was enough to know that God understood her pain, that he sensed her isolation. That he was with her even when it felt like nobody else understood what she was going through.
I trust you, God, she whispered to him in the quietness of her soul.
A knock shattered the illusion of peace and solitude. Mrs. Cho cracked open the door. Her voice was rushed. Almost breathless.
“Your phone… kept ringing… wanted you to get your rest… answered it myself.” She stepped into the room, looking diminutive and apologetic.
She knelt by Caroline’s mattress. “There’s been an accident,” she said, gripping Caroline’s hand in hers. “A terrible, tragic accident.”
Thirty hours later
Drisklay blinked when Carl opened his eyes, and the pastor said “Amen” in his booming voice. This visit was a welcome reprieve from staring at the hospital ceiling. Still, Drisklay wasn’t sure the closing prayer was necessary.
Carl clasped Drisklay on his uninjured shoulder. “So, you’re gonna be all right? Gonna make a full recovery?”
Drisklay nodded through a drug-induced fog. He felt both heavy and also as if he were floating above himself.
Curious.
“Well, I’m just glad Sandy came by when she did,” Carl remarked. “Paramedics said if you’
d been on that floor another ten minutes, you would have died. Too much blood loss. I guess that’s what happens when you get stabbed multiple times and then shot in the face.” He chuckled. “Hey, didn’t you ever hear the joke about bringing a knife to a gunfight?”
Very funny, Drisklay wanted to reply, but the bullet wound in his jaw made it all but impossible to speak. Right now, he should probably be thankful to be alive.
Drisklay always knew he’d die on the job. Die serving the people of Boston. After getting shot in his own home, he’d thought his time was up. But he’d been given another chance.
More time.
Some men in his situation would get all poetic, would start musing over the purpose of life, the reality of death. But Drisklay had more pressing matters to worry about right now.
“Rebekah.” He had to repeat the name several times before Carl understood.
“You’re asking about the case?” Carl let out another chuckle, and Drisklay wondered how it was that this man could always be so cheerful.
He sat down on the stool by Drisklay’s hospital bed. “Well, when I came by yesterday, I wasn’t sure I was supposed to talk to you about the details, but it’s been all over this morning’s paper. Harrison confessed everything. Apparently, he didn’t want his daughter on that dating website because he had his eye on some man named Taft. I’m afraid you had the honor of meeting him at your residence. It was Taft that Harrison wanted for a future son-in-law, but his daughter had signed up for this Christian dating service, so between the father and the hopeful suitor they hatched up what sounded to them like a great plan.
“Taft was going to create a fake account, talking about all the things he knew Rebekah loved. So of course, by the time he asked her out, she was ecstatic. Now, her dad was into this whole courtship thing. Thought that dating was too modern. So, he decided to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, and give his daughter a good scare for trying to find a match online and throw her into the arms of Taft, the one he wanted her to end up with in the first place.
“Taft used his fake account to set up a date with Rebekah, then he was going to wear a mask, pretend to kidnap her, and throw her in the trunk of a rental car. After letting her sweat it out for a few minutes, he was going to take off the mask, become his real self, play the hero who saw the whole thing, scared off the bad guy, and saved the girl. And then, boom. They were going to fall in love and live happily ever after.
“Sadly, and this is the part where my heart breaks for everyone involved, he thought it would be a good idea to cover Rebekah’s mouth with duct tape before throwing her into the trunk, and somehow she ended up suffocating. Could have been the fear. She hyperventilated and with her mouth covered couldn’t get enough air, plus her mom said she’d had a little bit of a stuffy nose too. They’re still figuring out the details, but according to Taft’s confession, all he did was drive a few miles, and when he opened the trunk, she was dead.
“Well, this is where Daddy gets involved, because Taft wanted to rush to the hospital, but at this point, Harrison knew what a mess they’d both get into, so he made Taft dump her body, swore him to secrecy, and turned a tragic accident into a terrible cover up. What Harrison didn’t realize was that this man Taft actually had half a conscience. He went over to Harrison’s the night you got shot and tried to urge him again to confess. Harrison wouldn’t hear of that, convinced Taft to keep it quiet, and that might have been the end of it. Neither of them realized that Mrs. Harrison overheard enough of their conversation to put two and two together. She called my wife—she knew Sandy and your wife were close. So that’s why my Sandy was on her way to your place with Mrs. Harrison so they could tell you everything. Unfortunately, Harrison and Taft realized the cat was about to leap right out of its bag, and they got to you first.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want Sandy to go out so late, but she insisted, and you know how stubborn a woman can be when she puts her mind to something.”
Drisklay didn’t respond.
Carl let out a loud sigh. “Well, I’m just glad you’re all right. I mean, I’m sorry you had to get as beat up as you did, but at least you’re going to be back on the streets fighting crime before too long, right?”
Maybe it was the drugs, but Drisklay felt magnanimous enough to try to smile. Based on Carl’s confused reaction, however, he wasn’t sure how well he’d pulled it off.
“I better go,” Carl said. “I’m taking Woong to a Red Sox game tonight. I just wanted to stop by and let you know we’re all praying for you. No need to get up for me,” he joked. “I can let myself out.”
Drisklay watched him leave. He’d interacted with Carl long enough to suspect his compassion wasn’t just an act, but that flew in the face of everything Drisklay believed about pastors being manipulative con men who only wanted to brainwash their victims and take all their hard-earned money.
Carl was an enigma. A mystery.
Drisklay had always found himself drawn toward a good mystery.
Caroline should have been exhausted. It was hard to calculate exactly how long she’d been awake because of the time zone changes, but she knew it must have been at least thirty hours ago when the cab took her from Mrs. Cho’s orphanage to the airport, where she jumped onto the first flight the agent could book for her.
Still, she didn’t feel tired. Maybe it was the adrenaline. The same adrenaline that had kept her from resting for even a few minutes on the multiple flights back to the States.
God, you can’t let him die. She’d lost track of how many times she’d begged God to spare her husband’s life. Sandy’s initial phone call had been grim. Shot through the jaw. Over half a dozen stab wounds, one straight to the kidney. Calvin was in shock when the paramedics got there, and even then, it took them quite a while to get him stable enough to transport.
Thank God Sandy had stopped by, or her husband would be dead.
Her husband would be dead…
Caroline had never spent any more time than necessary thinking about the reality of hell. She’d much prefer to focus on God’s love and forgiveness and grace, but the stark reality of her husband’s situation stared her in the eyes from the moment of that first phone call and refused to back down.
Her husband couldn’t die. God would never let that happen.
Would he?
No, he couldn’t. Thankfully, each of the updates from the hospital staff was progressively more encouraging. By the time her plane landed in Boston, doctors expected Calvin to make a full recovery.
Eventually.
The word hung in the air like fog over the city skyline. As she hailed a cab, wondering why she’d bothered packing such a big and awkward suitcase, she thought about the rest of the summer.
Another week at the hospital for certain. The doctor had pretty much guaranteed at least that much. Even after the kidney removal and initial jaw reconstruction, there were still a few surgeries to go. Still, several months before Calvin would be ready to return to work. He would be antsy. He would be anxious.
And he would need her.
It wasn’t ministering to orphans in Seoul. It wasn’t traveling the world for the sake of the gospel. Apparently, God’s plans involved nursing her sick and cranky husband back to health.
And she was ready.
“Looks like your kidney is starting to work again.” The nurse held up the bag attached to Drisklay’s catheter as if the small amount of yellow liquid sloshing around inside it was supposed to make him feel proud.
He scowled. The nurse had no idea how lucky she was that his jaw still made it too painful to talk.
He still couldn’t believe what the doctor told him. An entire week? Not just a week before he could be back to work, either. He’d be lucky to be wearing his badge again by the time autumn decided to roll around. No, a week here at the hospital, getting fed through his veins, peeing through a catheter.
Alexi would take over the Rebekah Harrison murder, even though Drisklay had done literally ever
y piece of the investigation and paid for it with his blood, sweat, and one kidney. In addition to losing his organ, Drisklay would have to undergo another surgery to reconstruct his jaw. Even once he was off the IV, he’d be drinking through a straw, maybe for months. What kind of life was that, anyway?
Then again, at least it was life.
That had to count for something.
Caroline was on her way. The nurse had held up the phone for him while his wife cried into the receiver. “I know we’ve had our troubles,” she’d sniffed, “but I just want to put all that behind us and focus on getting you well.”
It was a nice gesture, and probably a necessary one seeing as how there was no way he’d be able to take care of himself once he was discharged. But the truth remained. After his recovery, their problems would be there waiting.
Her faith.
His unbelief.
“It was God who kept you alive,” she’d sobbed into the phone. Since his jaw had been shattered by a bullet not twelve hours earlier, he couldn’t even argue with her.
It was going to be a long recovery.
The door to his room opened, and the nurse who’d been fidgeting with all his wires and monitors gave a smile. “You must be the missus.”
Drisklay wished that he could turn to face his wife, but he had to wait until she stepped into his field of vision. Even over the sound of his annoying monitors, he could hear her tentative steps.
She reached for his hand. “How you doing?” Her voice was soft. Uncertain. He wished he could jump out of his broken body for a moment, just long enough to tell her he was glad she was here.
Yes, she was a nuisance. Yes, the next few weeks would be a bear with him being unable to talk and her keeping him as a captive audience. She’d probably try to shove Bible verses and prayer times down his throat like medicine in his IV.
Even so, he couldn’t deny one simple fact.
He was glad to see her.