And God... either He couldn’t do anything to answer Harry’s prayers to protect his mother, or God just didn’t care. Harry was through with Him.
Chapter 19
Ruth jerked upright. The rocking chair lurched and she threw her arms out for balance. She hadn’t meant to nap. She did some gentle stretches to free up her neck muscles.
Harry’s colour was a bit better, his breathing less laboured. It looked like he was out of danger. He’d planned to rendezvous with his boat on Sunday. Wednesday night was the prayer meeting, Thursday the day he’d attacked her—don’t think about it. That made today Friday. Plenty of time for the police to get him back into custody.
“Please, Father, keep him asleep until I can get out of here tonight. And send someone to reach him in prison.”
And help me not to get sick. Her breakfast had settled with no flu symptoms, though. Maybe he had food poisoning or something. Or was it a miracle?
Ruth lifted the bag of frozen peas she’d been using to ice her knee. They’d thawed a fair bit while she dozed. She lifted her foot off the cushion she’d placed on the coffee table. Her knee ached, but not too badly. Could she stand?
She planted the broom handle on the floor and used it to lever herself up onto her good leg, then gently rested the sole of her other foot on the floor. A jolt of pain buzzed through her leg, and she gasped.
Time to swap these peas with the other bag. If they thawed too much, they’d re-freeze solid and not shape to her leg. And she wasn’t about to pound the bag to break them up—and risk waking Harry.
She turned up the reading lamp beside her chair. It was perpetual twilight in here with the heavy drapes closed. She’d rather have natural daylight, not to mention some fresh air in this stuffy room, but not with Denny and his cohorts watching the webcams.
They must have told Harry to keep the place looking unoccupied. She didn’t want to open curtains or do anything to attract attention. If they broke in and found her safe and Harry unconscious...
Harry lay on his side, back against the sofa. Why couldn’t he roll onto his stomach and let her have a shot at getting his phone out of his pocket? The afghan lay in a tumbled heap on the floor. Ruth hobbled over, picked it up and covered him again. As she backed away, she reminded herself to breathe.
She shuffled to the kitchen for the other frozen vegetables and returned to the living room, working the stiffness out of her good leg. Harry’s empty bottle stuck out from under the coffee table, far enough to be a hazard. She took the broom from under her arm and balanced in a one-legged crouch to retrieve the bottle. The sweet-stale smell of beer invaded her nostrils.
Harry’s crumpled sandwich wrappers lay on the floor too. She smoothed the plastic to read the labels, and frowned. Best before Wednesday’s date. The cashier must have been about to dispose of the outdated ones. Could the heat in the car have been enough to spoil them so fast? Enough to give him food poisoning? Much better than a virus she could still catch.
How was the girl from the store handling her narrow escape? She’d probably never work another night shift at the store. How did it feel, knowing Harry took another victim when she was the one he really wanted? Ruth hoped she and Norma were thanking God to be free, not drowning in survivor guilt.
Ruth collected her mug and headed for the kitchen. Ten minutes later, she brought a peanut butter sandwich and some tea into the living room and turned the television on low. It was almost noon.
She eased back into the rocking chair, elevated her leg and draped it with the fresh bag of vegetables, mixed veg this time. The sandwich plate sat on her lap.
Watching for news of the manhunt felt different with the fugitive right here in the room. How near was the search? She’d love to see a police cruiser at the door.
The newscast’s opening music pulled her attention back to the television. She took a bite of sandwich as co-anchors Dennis O’Neill and Moira Simmonds highlighted a few upbeat local items.
Then Moira’s face grew serious. “Regrettably, there is still no word on the search for escaped convict Harry Silver, and his hostage, Ruth Warner. The police are pursuing all leads, but are not ready to issue a statement to the press.
“One of our reporters, Kevin Findlay, spoke with Ms. Warner’s husband, Tony, this morning.”
Ruth’s pulse leaped. The picture changed to Tony, in their living room with the reporter. Her husband sat ramrod-straight on the couch, wearing an open-necked white shirt and casual pants. A glint at his throat made hers tighten. The gold chain she’d given him last Christmas. He didn’t wear it often.
The reporter spread his hands. “Mr. Warner—Tony—our viewers respect your privacy at this time, but what you’re going through has caught their hearts. You and Ruth seem to be such everyday people that many of us are thinking, ‘It could have been me.’”
Tony nodded but didn’t speak.
The reporter glanced at his notepad. “I understand there’s more to this story than first meets the eye. You’ve already suffered loss at this man’s hands?”
“Our niece.” Tony’s eyes filled with tears. “And now my wife...”
“Your wife doesn’t match the description of Harry Silver’s previous victims. The police aren’t sure why he would have abducted her. Has that made the situation harder for you, to think it may have been a mistake?”
Tears poured down Ruth’s cheeks, splashed on her clasped hands. Tony, do you blame me? Do you think I went looking for him?
On screen, Tony cleared his throat. “The odds of this happening are incredible. It’s taken me through a lot of anger. At Silver, Ruth, God. At myself.”
Ruth stretched her fingertips toward the image of her husband’s face. “No, Tony, don’t.”
“It’s driven me to my knees.” Tony locked eyes with the reporter. “Silver may have a change of heart. I have to believe it’s possible. There’s no other chance for Ruth.”
The reporter didn’t let any hint of doubt crack his professionally-concerned expression as he wrapped up the interview. A follow-up story from one of the news anchors gave a brief recap of Harry’s criminal record and the police hunt so far.
Ruth aimed the remote and turned off the television, tears sliding down her cheeks. Tony, trusting God. Praying for her.
A frisson of goose bumps swept her spine. Her biggest fear for Tony—his soul—was gone now, no matter what happened here. Ruth scuffed her good foot in a circle on the hardwood floor.
From what Harry said, God had been with Susan, somehow helping her endure the attack. Even to forgive her attacker. Ruth pulled her little Bible from the pocket of her borrowed skirt and hugged it tight against her chest.
“I know You are working here.” Her words started as a shaky whisper but strengthened as she spoke.
“You’re with me, and You’ve kept me safe. Please get me home to Tony, and please show Yourself real to Harry.”
She set her Bible on the coffee table beside the remains of her sandwich and picked up her tea. If Harry did wake before her knee got strong enough to let her leave, he’d still be weak.
“God, if You want me to tell him about You, give me the courage and the words. And help me get out of here unseen before he gets strong enough to hurt me.”
~~~
Harry flung out his arms as if the memories were tangible enemies. His hand struck the edge of the coffee table and for a second the pain oriented him. He gritted his teeth. Focus, Silver. You can beat this.
He peered through slitted eyes. The light hurt, but it didn’t look very bright. A lamp, maybe. Turning his head was agony. A woman... she’d covered him with a blanket, and he thought he’d heard her speaking softly. Who was she, and where was here?
The heavy green curtains were still shut. He couldn’t see the clock from here, but it wouldn’t help him tell day from night anyway. He needed to know. There was a reason... somewhere he had to be.
He’d arrived in the rain. Was it raining still? It didn’t sound windy out th
ere. Rain... it had rained on that terrible Thursday, so many years ago.
Don’t go there.
Harry lifted his head an inch off the pillow before the vice tightened, and he fell back, blinded by nausea and pain. The room spun around him.
Rain, he’d been thinking about rain. He remembered how it dripped from his hair, trickled down the neck of his coat. October eighteenth... he’d never forget. He was nine years old, living in the fallout from his family’s disastrous summer vacation.
Like any other day, he’d come home from school and walked through the back door into the kitchen. It was damp enough. Mom might have a mug of hot chocolate ready.
“Mom?”
Before he could kick off his rubber boots, his father stomped into the room. Harry jumped. He dropped his books.
Dad glared at him. “A man comes home early from work and finds his family gone. Where are the others?”
“Carol’s staying at Brittany’s for supper...” He bent to pick up his books, eager to escape his father’s scrutiny. Dad never came home early. Why’d he have to pick a Thursday?
Today was Mom’s Bible study day, but she was always home before school ended. What could have kept her?
“Where’s your mother?”
Harry piled his books on the table. “Uh... I don’t know. Didn’t she leave a note? She said Mrs. Sellers isn’t very well. Maybe she went to help her and got talking.” It sounded lame. His father’s frown said he didn’t believe a word.
“I’ve already tried the neighbours.” Matt’s face darkened. “I want to know where she is, and I want to know now.”
Harry whirled and ducked through the door into the rain. He’d seen that look in his father’s eyes before, although never directed at him. His father swore.
“You can’t cover for her—she’s gone to some church thing.”
Harry raced around to the front of the house. He’d be safe if the neighbours could see him. He threw a glance behind. Was his father after him?
He didn’t see the stranger until it was too late. Strong, steadying hands picked him up off the cement walkway.
“Are you all right, son?”
Harry nodded, panting for breath. The gentle inquiry came from the biggest policeman he had ever seen.The officer studied him, than bent to eye level. “Is something wrong?”
Tell him. Let him help. Harry gulped. Plenty was wrong, but he couldn’t rat on his father. That had to come from Mom, and she was keeping it quiet.
“No, sir. I’m sorry I banged into you.” He stared at his muddy boots.
“You sure nothing’s wrong?”
Harry looked up with his best expressionless stare. “Uh-huh.”
The big man smiled. “Okay, son, all’s forgiven. Look where you’re going next time, though. Better get on your way. This rain is too cold to stand around in.”
Harry mumbled an acknowledgement, and turned back to the house.
The man behind him spoke again. “Do you live here?” He caught up with Harry in three quick strides.
“Yes, sir.”
“Which unit?”
“Ground floor.”
“Is your father at home? I need to talk with him for a minute.”
Harry’s footsteps slowed. “He just got home.” He took a deep breath, then plunged on, “But he’s not in trouble or anything, is he, sir?”
Had one of the neighbours complained about the shouting and banging last night? Mom would be ashamed, but Harry felt a guilty hope.
The hand that came down on his shoulder was firm and somehow strengthening. “Son, I need to talk to him about something important. And, no, he’s not in any trouble.”
Then the beatings wouldn’t stop. Harry opened the front door and stepped back to let the officer enter. Following, he called out, “Dad? There’s someone here to see you.”
He knew he should leave, but why had the policeman come? He stood near the door, hoping not to be noticed.
His father came through from the kitchen, holding a beer. The anger left his face as he registered his visitor’s uniform. His shoulders stiffened and he set the can beside the vase of fresh flowers Mom kept on a little table in the hallway.
“Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?”
“Perhaps it would be better if we were alone.”
Dad’s face tightened. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of the boy.”
Harry blinked. He thinks it’s about the beatings, too. But the officer had said ‘no trouble.’
The policeman nodded. “As you wish, Mr. Silver, but this isn’t good news.” He cleared his throat. “Your wife has been involved in a car accident. She’s in the hospital, in critical condition. I can take you to her, if you don’t feel up to driving.”
Dad followed the officer’s gaze to the beer can on the table. “I just opened it. I’m good to drive.”
The officer nodded. “It would be best if you came alone. Is there a neighbour who could watch your son for a while?”
“My wife doesn’t drive.” Dad’s voice was a croak. “I had the car.”
“She was hit crossing the street. It was raining hard, and she must have been hurrying. One witness said she didn’t look before she stepped out onto the road.”
The last spark died in Dad’s eyes. “Harry, go upstairs to Mrs. Ahmad. Tell her what happened, and stay there until I get back. When Carol gets home, tell her to go up too. You guys shouldn’t be alone.”
Harry didn’t move. He glared at his father, who placed both hands on his son’s shoulders and tried to smile. “Do as I say. Mom is hurt. I promise, tomorrow we’ll all go to see her. You can bring the best flowers from the garden. Okay?” His voice was gentler than Harry could remember.
Harry couldn’t answer. He fled into the apartment before they could see his tears. Behind him, he heard his father’s muttered curse. “I’ll talk to the neighbour.”
The front door banged shut, cutting off the sound of the two men’s voices.
A while later, old Mrs. Ahmad’s voice came from the kitchen. “Harry?”
He didn’t answer. He was curled up on his parents’ bed under his grandmother’s quilt, sobbing as if his heart would burst. He tried to cry quieter, but she came into the bedroom, clucking her tongue and scolding him for hiding. Numbly, he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and allowed himself to be led upstairs, still clutching the old quilt.
Harry and Carol spent the evening waiting for their father to come or to phone, but he did neither. When they were sent to bed, they slept fitfully in the Ahmads’ tiny guest room. Harry tried to be strong, but fear and grief lay like boulders on his heart.
When Carol fell asleep, his tears came again. She’s not coming home, I know it…
A broken Matt Silver finally arrived the next morning. Mrs. Ahmad had kept the children home from school, and all three hurried to the door when they heard his car in the driveway.
His face was drawn and white, eyes red-rimmed in grief. “She’s gone.”
Mrs. Ahmad pushed the children into their father’s arms and backed away. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
He held Harry and Carol for a long time and they cried together. Part of Harry died that day, maybe had been dying since the horrid tent meeting that turned their lives inside out.
A lance of pain through Harry’s head brought him back to the present. He must have tried to roll over. He flung one arm across his eyes in case he’d been crying in his sleep. No need for Miss amateur Florence Nightingale to see his weakness.
He might still be fuzzy about the who, where, why of all this, but his antagonism toward her had to come from somewhere. If she’d done something to trigger these memories, what else might she have disturbed?
No more. Please, no more.
Chapter 20
Lorna and Alden arrived at Tony’s door Friday afternoon with suitcases and fluttering anxiety. Alden’s concern showed in his eyes—and his steel handshake—but Lorna darted around like a grounded sparrow on
a caffeine high.
She’d insisted they come the first night, but Tony had refused. He couldn’t face anybody. It was all he could do to carry the pain. When he woke this morning, he knew it was time to stop hiding. He phoned them after breakfast, although he didn’t share what he told John Linton on his second call.
He’d answered his phone every time it rang today and surprised himself by agreeing to an interview. Fear and grief still rode him mercilessly, but he was standing. And praying.
Tony set their cases in the guest room. He poured iced tea for Lorna, grabbed a can of pop each for himself and Alden, and carried the tray into the den. He sank into the recliner that had become Ruth’s prayer place. He’d been spending a lot of time here since her abduction.
Lorna gave him a sad smile. “No news yet?”
“Not about Ruth.” He’d wanted to see the looks on their faces, but now he didn’t know how to deliver his surprise. “But I’m a new Christian.”
They blinked at him. No smiles? No cheers or hugs? Alden took Lorna’s hand. “That’s wonderful, Tony.”
“But?” They’d had him in their conversion sights for years. Why the reticence now?
Lorna sipped her iced tea. “But you can’t trade your soul for Ruth’s life.”
“I know that. Especially if—” He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, it’s legitimate. I spoke with Pastor Linton this morning, and he gave me the same warnings. But now there’s one more person praying for her. And if I have to carry on alone... well I won’t be all alone.”
Lorna set her glass on the coffee table and hurried to hug him. He stood and took her in his arms, then threw one arm around Alden as the taller man joined them.
When they broke apart, Lorna grabbed the tissue box from the end table and passed it around. Tony blew his nose and settled back into Ruth’s chair. His talk with John this morning had helped him understand the commitment he’d made.
“I guess it’s a crisis conversion, and yes I’m desperate, but it’s not a bargaining chip. Before, no matter how bad things got, I always had Ruth. I didn’t have to believe because she did it for me. Without her here to pray, I felt the void.”
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