Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1)

by Pat Patterson

  Jim rubbed his temple and nodded. The goose egg had flattened down into a small sore lump. “It’s okay.”

  “Good, good, you looked mighty rough this morning. So?” Jonas spread his arms and smiled. “Welcome to our revival tent. What do you think?”

  “The tent?” Jim nodded. “It’s cool.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t look like much, but God has been doing some mighty work here. We’ve seen ten people come to Christ in the last two nights. Who knows? Maybe tonight we’ll see ten more.” Jonas winked and glanced at Jim’s hands. “Where’s your Bible?”

  “Jonas, look.” Jim glanced around the tent at the faces of the strangers seated in the makeshift metal pews. He felt out of place. Confused. He wanted out, and there was nothing Jonas could say to change his mind. “I’ve got to tell you the truth. I’m in way over my head here!”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, I just don’t think I’m ready for all this religion stuff. I’m a paramedic, not a preacher! I don’t know anything about the Bible and…well, all this.”

  “Then it’s time you learned.”

  “No, some other time maybe. Not tonight.”

  “Nonsense.” Jonas grabbed Jim by the arm and pulled. “Come with me. There’s no time like the present.” He led him to the corner of the tent and pointed at a group of teenagers walking down Core Street. Jim counted five of them in all, each one dressed in the same familiar, oversized baggy clothing so perfect for concealing weapons and drugs. “Do you see those youngsters?”

  “Yeah, I see them.” Jim’s hands balled into tight fists. “But they’re not youngsters. They’re gangsters.”

  “They’re God’s children, Jim.”

  “They’re Core Street Crew!”

  “They’re lost in sin.”

  “They’re killers. And in case you’ve forgotten, Jonas, they’re the ones that killed Sid!”

  “All the more reason to invite them in. They need to know.”

  “Wait a minute, are you nuts? You’re going to invite them in here!?”

  “Oh no,” Jonas said. His eyes widened. “You are.”

  “What?” Jim stepped back. “No, I’m not!”

  “You have to, Jim. Those boys are lost, and this might be their last chance to ever hear the truth.”

  “They don’t deserve to hear the truth!”

  “Deserve?” Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “Jim, you still don’t get it, do you? None of us deserve what Jesus did for us. Do you think you do? Son, before you accepted Christ as your savior you were just as lost as they are. Jesus died on that cross for you, for me, and for them. This is no game. We don’t do this because it makes us feel good, son, we do it because God told us to.”

  Jim bit his tongue. He sensed that Jonas was speaking the truth, but as he looked out at the gang he felt a deeper hatred than he had ever dreamed possible. He loathed them. Wanted them dead. He wanted nothing more than to run back to his truck for his gun. Jonas seemed to read his mind.

  “Violence is never the answer, Jim.”

  “Then suppose you tell me what is, Jonas.”

  Jonas held out a thin, maroon colored Bible. Jim just looked at it.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the answer.”

  “Those guys are armed, and all you’ve got is a Bible? How do you expect me to protect myself with that?”

  “God’s word is sharper than a two-edged sword.”

  “A sword? You know you’re crazy if you think you’re going to get those guys in here. They’re not looking for the truth, they’re looking for another opportunity to hurt somebody. Why should I risk my life to tell them about Jesus?”

  “Because, Jim, Jesus gave his life for you.”

  There was no smile on Jonas’s face when he said it, no plastic, painted-on expression, just the intense, pained look of an old man who believed with all his heart in what he was doing.

  “Now, Jim, I believe the Holy Spirit is calling you, son, but you’re going to have to decide for yourself. So you do what you have to do.”

  Jonas turned and walked to the podium. Jim turned and stared at the five teenagers hanging out on the corner. They stared back, defiance on their faces. Hatred. Jim hated them back. He knew there was no way he would ever go out and try to coax them inside the stupid tent. They weren’t worth it.

  Let ‘em burn!

  Jim glanced at Jonas, shook his head, and then turned to leave. Jonas called his name. He ignored him. He felt like a total fool for ever showing up. He made his way down the center aisle, pushed past an elderly couple, and started to run out the back of the tent, but something stopped him. The boy couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He sat on the back row by himself, his head held high, his brown eyes wet with tears. Jim felt an instant surge of anger. Dressed in baggy clothes, with gold chains hanging around his neck and a black durag covering his head, he looked to Jim like every other boy he’d seen that night on Core Street. Jim balled up his fists and walked over to him.

  “Man, what are you doin’ here?” Jim shouted.

  He peered down at the boy daring him to make eye contact for more than three seconds. The boy looked up. Jim recognized him. He had seen him before. Was he one of Sid’s killers?

  “Why ain’t you out there with your dawgs? Smoking pot? Pimping around?”

  The young man shook his head without answering.

  “Man, I’m talking to you!”

  “I’m sorry.” The boy hung his head and sobbed. “God, forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” Jim knew how to handle violence, and he could relate to anger, but he wasn’t ready for the look of true repentance he saw in the face of the sturdy young man. Tears streamed down his face. Sobs emanated from deep within his throat. He looked up at Jim and cocked his head quizzically. Jim felt a sudden wave of panic. He looked around as if for help. Saw people staring. Saw Jonas staring. He ducked his head and pulled up a folding chair. He sat down beside the kid and stared at him.

  “What’s wrong with you, man? What are you doing in here?”

  “I’m wrong, man. I came here to ask God to forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? Forgive you for what?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “I think it was my fault.”

  Jim suddenly felt truly sorry for the young man. His lost expression. The look of desperation on his face. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Took a deep breath.

  “Hey, dude, look, man, whatever happened, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

  “But if I’d stayed he never would have followed me and…”

  Jim had no idea where the conversation was headed. He decided on a new tactic. “My name’s Jim, what’s yours?”

  “Zechariah Chambers. My friends—” The boy paused, his diaphragm caught in spasm. “They call me Zee.”

  “Why are you so upset, Zee? What happened?”

  “I should’ve helped him.”

  “Who?”

  “The preacher.”

  “The preacher?” Jim glanced at Jonas. “What preacher? What are you talking about?”

  “He was just trying to find me, man. All he wanted to do was finish telling me about Jesus, but the Jay, man, he just went crazy, man. I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “Jay?”

  Zee began to sob. His shoulders and head jerked uncontrollably.

  “You mean, J-Rock?”

  Zee nodded. Jim felt too stunned to react.

  “He tortured him. Beat him up. The preacher tried to fight back but he just wasn’t strong enough. I wanted to help him, I really did, I wanted to help him, but I was too scared, man, and J-Rock, he shot him, man. He shot him!”

  Jim’s head began to hurt. He pictured Sid lying on the alley floor, bullet holes riddling his body. He could feel his pulse between his ears. The tender tissue on his cheek began to throb. He wanted to explode.

  Zee hung his head and cried. “I didn’t know it woul
d go this far. I’m sorry. I just want out, I just want out.”

  Jim started to stand but Zee’s fingernails dug into the skin of his right arm.

  “Stay with me,” Zee pleaded. “Pray for me.”

  “Pray for you?”

  Jim jerked his arm away. Zee bowed his head and clinched his hands in front of his face, sobbing. Jim stood for a moment not sure what to do. He felt a lump form in his throat. His hands quivered. Zee began to pray out loud.

  “God, forgive me. Please, God, forgive me!”

  Jim had no idea what to do. He found himself wishing that Sid were there. He turned and saw Jonas standing just a few feet away. Jonas nodded as if to say, I’ve got it. Jim backed up to give him room. Jonas introduced himself to Zee and sat down.

  Jim watched, completely fascinated, as Jonas talked to the boy. His face reflected true compassion. Love. Not the judgmental hardness Jim had expected. He shared several scriptures from the thin leather Bible he carried in his pocket and then placed a hand on Zee’s shoulder and led him through a short prayer…for forgiveness…for salvation. He made it look so easy, so polished, it seemed like an act, but the expression on Zee’s face when they’d finished praying removed any doubt in Jim’s mind that what he’d just witnessed was real. The same as when he’d prayed, the same prayer, just a few hours before. And as he watched Zee’s face, he saw his eyes begin to sparkle. His face radiated hope. The Bible verses. Jonas’s prayer. Zee’s response. Every word they’d spoken together—real. Jim felt his anger subside. He realized he had just witnessed a miracle.

  “Now, Zee,” Jonas said, “I want you to understand that this is just the beginning for you. Your problems didn’t just suddenly disappear because you prayed to receive Christ. It’s very important that you get involved with a local church body right away. Learning to be a Christian requires a lot of work.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know of a church?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well I do, and we can talk more about that later, but right now I need to know where you live, young man?” Jonas pointed toward The Terrace. “Up there?”

  “Yes sir, but I can’t go back there. The gang…Michael and Jay, man, they—”

  “Where will you stay tonight? I can find you a place if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” a deep voice resonated from the back of the tent. Jim turned and saw Rico standing behind the last row of chairs. “I’ve already taken care of it.” Rico walked in and introduced himself to Jonas then turned to look at Zee. “I have it all worked out. They’re expecting you at the House of Hope over on Raleigh Road. It’s the halfway house I told you about.” Rico looked at Jonas. “He should be safe there for a couple of days, Reverend.”

  “Very good then.” Jonas held out his hand. “Officer Rivetti, I thank you.” Jonas shook Rico’s hand then took Zee in his arms for a manly hug. “Remember, son. This is just the beginning.”

  “Okay,” Rico said to Zee. “My car’s right over there. Go hop in and wait for me, I’d like to speak with Mr. Stockbridge for a moment.” Jonas followed Zee out to the parking lot. Rico turned to Jim. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Jonas asked me to help. I couldn’t say no. And, Rico, I feel right about this. I really do.”

  “Jim,” Jonas said, hurrying back into the tent and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Do you realize what just happened here?”

  “You did it, Jonas, not me.”

  “No, Jim, you could have walked away, but you didn’t. Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You see, Jim, it’s not about fancy words or memorized prayers, it’s about love, and about caring about what happens to other people, and I can see that you’ve got that. Deep inside, you’ve got it, otherwise you wouldn’t have stayed.”

  Jim glanced at Rico. Rico’s eyes met him momentarily and then turned back to Jonas. Narrowing. Curious. Jim felt it too, a strange curiosity to know more.

  “Jim, I can teach you how to share the gospel, that’s easy, but what I can’t do is convince you that your salvation is real. That’s something only God can do. But I’ll tell you this, once a man knows for certain he has everlasting life, nothing in this world will keep him from telling others.”

  Jim felt oddly convicted. He nodded as if he understood and looked down at the straw covered dirt.

  “Jim, do you understand what I’m saying? God has big plans for you. Big plans. But he can’t use you unless you’re willing. It’s up to you, young man. It’s all up to you.”

  Chapter 23

  It’s up to you…it’s up to you…

  Twenty-four hours had gone by since Jim had heard those words and he still couldn’t get them off his mind. Or the damp, earthy aroma of fresh wheat straw. The carnival sound of recorded organ music echoed off the walls of his mind as clearly as if he were still standing under the bright incandescent lights of the tent. Something real had happened in there, something very real.

  He pulled out his new cell phone and punched in the number he’d written on the back of Jonas Edwards’ business card. It rang four times before a spirited female voice answered, “House of Hope.”

  “Uh, yes,” Jim stammered. “I’m trying to reach Zechariah Chambers. I think he just moved into your home.”

  “Who’s calling please?” Jim gave his name and his reason for calling and received an anxious response from the young lady on the other end. “Sir, hold for a minute please.” Jim heard some muffled talking and then a stern male voice came on the line. “Mr. Stockbridge? This is John Womack, Director of the House of Hope, how may I help you?”

  Jim repeated himself and explained his connection to Zee, Rico, and Jonas. Womack’s voice remained clearly anxious.

  “Mr. Stockbridge, we can’t find Zechariah. He spent the night with us, but we haven’t seen him all day. Would you like to leave a message in case he returns?”

  “No, I was just calling to check on him.”

  “I believe he had a cell phone, have you tried calling him?”

  “All day.”

  “Well I wouldn’t worry. It’s not uncommon for these kids to disappear for a few days. Most of them come back when they get hungry or need a bed.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Mr. Stockbridge, no crime has been committed. Zechariah came to the House of Hope on his own volition, and he’s free to leave any time he wants.”

  “Hmm, I see what you mean.”

  “I’d be happy to leave a message for him if you’d like, but there’s really nothing else I can do for you.”

  “Please just tell him I called then.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  Jim hung up the phone and sat for the next few moments thinking, nervously flipping the phone open and closed and staring at the front of EMS Base. The building looked the same as it always had—a simple, brick, one-story affair with a large bay door and a wide concrete turning pad—but tonight something felt different, as if he were a rookie medic about to go into the station for the first time. It didn’t seem right being there without Sid. They had been partners for such a long time. He glanced at EB-7 sitting in its bay. It was his truck. Their truck. He imagined Sid sitting behind the wheel telling one of his jokes, a huge smile brightening his narrow face. A lump formed in his throat. He opened the glove compartment and removed the pint-sized bottle of Jack. He removed the cap and stared down the throat of the bottle, considered it for a moment, and then screwed the cap back in place and put it away. He got out of the truck and stepped onto the tarmac.

  “God,” he murmured, “please give me the strength.”

  Jim’s first reaction upon seeing the motorcycle parked by the front door of the station was momentary shortness of breath. Images of denim clad bikers with fighting knives and cue sticks made him feel like ducking, but despite the frightful memories he felt compelled to stop and admire the sparkling beas
t. Something drew him to it, something about the way it gleamed. The shiny black Harley-Davidson Low Rider glistened like a mirror, every inch polished to showroom perfection. And the engine? Pure Harley. Eighty-eight cubic inches of black powder-coated steel, topped with chromed head covers and the 100th Anniversary Harley-Davidson engine medallion.

  Jim whistled lightly. “Somebody’s getting paid too much.”

  He stroked the fuel tank. Tested the handlebar grips. He noticed a flat black half-helmet sitting on the seat and picked it up. He rolled it over and glanced at the white stick-on letters indicating the owner’s name. His eyes grew wide in astonishment.

  “Steele?”

  Jim backed up and looked again at the bike trying to imagine Tom Steele actually riding it. He couldn’t. It looked too clean for Steele. Too muscular. Way too cool.

  He set down the helmet and walked into the station. He heard a television and walked toward the sound, down the front hall and into the dayroom. Tom Steele lay on the couch snoring, his feet up, boots off, and the TV blaring. A long shock of greasy black hair lay across his forehead and eyes. His uniform shirt appeared wrinkled and loose. Jim stood and stared at him for a moment trying to decide what he disliked most about the guy, his irreverent personality or his slovenly appearance. He shook his head, undecided, and started across the room towards the back hall. Steele snorted once and opened his eyes.

  “Well, look who’s back. What a thrill.”

  Jim ignored the stab and kept walking.

  “I can’t believe Bagwell’s actually going to let you ride,” Steele said his eyes focused on the TV screen. “You should be in jail.”

  “Steele—” Jim stopped and walked back over. “Do you have to be a jerk all the time?”

  “You do realize that I’m considering pressing charges. My neck’s been hurting ever since you threw me up against that wall.”

  “That’s too bad, Tom. Maybe you should learn to keep your face out of other people’s business. Some guys would’ve broken your neck for what you said about Sid.”

  “Oh, my, my, I’m so scared.”

  “You should be, a scrawny little twerp like you.”

  “No,” Steele said. “You should be. I’d start looking over my shoulder more if I were you.”