Chance took another bite of his omelet, chewing slowly as he gazed out the kitchen window. Going fishing with Pop was the chief reason he’d come back here. Chance knew, like all children instinctively know as their parents get older, that the time he had left with his father should be valued and cherished. Pop’s health was getting worse, though the old man refused to see a doctor. And because Chance didn’t know the specific nature of his pop’s ailments, he could only pray a prayer of general health over him. He longed to lay hands on Pop and command every organ, cell, and tissue in the old man’s body to line up with the Word of God, but he knew Pop didn’t believe in that. He’d been against Chance taking Nina to see Floyd Waters, too.
“Chance?”
Chance blinked and came back to the present. “Huh?”
“I asked if we going out on the river today.”
Chance nodded. “You bet.”
THE SPORT OF FISHING, according to Pop, was all about mastering the art of patience.
“Them fish got all day under the water to watch that bait,” Pop had always said when Chance was a little boy. “And if you keep jerkin’ that bait in and out of the water, they gon’ know that ain’t natural. Them fish is smart critters. So me and you—we gotta be smarter than them. We gotta wait them out. And when they can’t wait any longer, bam! When you see that lure bobbing like crazy, that’s when you got ’em.”
Chance had never really liked fishing, even though he’d always respected what Pop had been talking about concerning patience. What he had always liked was being outdoors, surrounded by nothing but trees, the sky, and water. And since Pop had gone fishing on his boat nearly every weekend, Chance would tag along, as the perfect opportunity to get lost in nature anytime he wanted.
And he was now back to that place he’d been so many times growing up—tagging along behind Pop. He watched now as Pop baited the hooks of three fishing poles, a delicate procedure given the hooks’ sharp edges, but something that Pop could’ve probably done in his sleep. Pop noticed his son watching and smiled—a big grin that seemed to spread over his whole face.
“Jus’ like old times, eh? You, me, fishin’ and the great outdoors.”
“Yeah,” Chance answered, struggling to spear the squirming earthworm in his hand around his own hook without pricking his finger in the process. “Just like old times.”
Except it wasn’t just as it had been years before. Two of the most important women in his life—his mother, Jacqueline, and his wife, Nina—were gone. In Chance’s mind, they had been taken from this world much too soon. Complicating matters even more, he was now a veritable outcast in his hometown and alcohol had reduced his pop to just a shell of the man he’d once been. Nothing would ever be the same as it had once been.
But you have to try to make things right, he thought, finally getting the earthworm onto the hook. Seconds later, he cast the line out into the lake. You have to try. For Pop.
EITHER TRAVIS WAS BECOMING more skilled as a reporter or the people of Ruston were simply too talkative, because getting Chance Howard’s address turned out to be easier than downing a half-gallon container of ice cream during the first quarter of a football game.
He had started by going to the local post office, inquiring about obtaining the address of his long-lost friend Chance Howard.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” the kind, white-haired old lady at the desk responded. “I’d love to help you out, but I’m not allowed to give out addresses. Perhaps you have a phone number?”
Travis shook his head, thinking he would have to find another way to get Chance’s address. Just then, though, a man filling out a green certified-mail slip for an envelope looked up at him.
“Asking about Chance Howard get you in trouble round these parts,” the man said.
Travis pounced at the bait. “You know Chance Howard?” he asked, walking closer.
“Sorry to say I do.” The man narrowed his eyes. “He a friend of yours?”
Travis noted the man’s sudden hostility and decided to drop the “long-lost friend” bit.
“I’m actually a reporter, trying to get more information on Chance Howard for a story.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of story? He ain’t leadin’ more gullible people on with that crazy healing talk, is he?”
Bingo! Travis thought. He had to hand it to the small-town mentality of people talking too much. “Well, he may be. I’m from Columbia, South Carolina, and he may have done some . . . things up there that are causing people to ask questions.”
“Oh, yeah? Did somebody else have to die, like that poor young girl?”
Have to die? “Um, I’m trying to do what I can to prevent that, sir. Do you know where Chance Howard lives?”
“Yeah, I know where he stays. But he ain’t been back here for a couple of years. And he won’t be back here, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Travis nodded his head, as if he understood. “Okay, but I still need to know where he stays. Can you tell me that?”
The man shrugged and proceeded to give directions. Travis almost physically patted himself on the back. There wasn’t anything to this detective business after all.
THE MAN’S DIRECTIONS TOOK Travis to a dirt road just off Interstate 20. Here the homes’ yards were more like pastures, as cows and horses grazed on the grass or lounged in the sun. A bull stared menacingly at Travis as he drove along, making him uneasy in his rental truck. The old Ford pickup was the cheapest vehicle available for rental, and the way it had been driving, it wouldn’t stand a chance on this dirt road against this bull.
The road wound and twisted its way for a half mile through thick shrubbery and foliage. In some places, it was only wide enough for one car to pass at a time. After a few minutes of tedious navigating, Travis came to a clearing. A two-story brick house sat nestled between a large barn and a structure that looked like an oversized greenhouse. This had to be the place, although Travis couldn’t help but feel confused. A house like this—on so many acres of land—had to cost a fortune. Which of course prompted the question: how could someone like Chance afford this?
Has to be that moneymaking scheme, he thought, now feeling even more resolve to get the scoop on this story. He thought about parking underneath a large pine tree at the edge of the clearing and then walking up to the house on foot (which seemed like the detective thing to do), but that meant at least seventy to eighty yards of walking.
Ain’t no way . . . Never one for exercise anyway, he instead drove to within a few yards of the front door before killing the sputtering engine. He looped his camera around his neck, got out, and walked to the front door. The place looked deserted, but well-kept. Travis rang the doorbell, not really expecting Chance to open the door and give him that easy a photo opportunity. After he’d rung the bell a few times more and after several minutes of waiting, he figured he’d just sit in the back of his truck and wait Chance out. All signs indicated that Chance had taken the train back here, so sooner or later he would have to show. And when he did, Travis would be right here, ready to add to the story that was going to launch his career.
Chapter Thirty-four
THE 2:45 P.M. FLIGHT TO MONROE, Louisiana, had taken just under four hours, but by the time Lynn had retrieved her luggage, sorted out which rental car service best fit her needs, and driven the thirty miles west to Ruston, dusk was approaching. She had been talking to herself on the plane and in the car—repeatedly telling herself how foolish and impulsive her actions were. Buying a train ticket for a two-hour trip to Savannah was one thing, since people took trips like that all the time for shopping or for an afternoon getaway. But flying almost halfway across the country for no apparent reason? She tried convincing herself she just wanted to warn Chance, but couldn’t she have made a phone call and done that?
No, the truth of the matter was that the whole situation had become too personal. Chance Howard was not just a mystery man whose picture should be displayed on a newspaper’s front page like a wanted fugitive.
He had been the special person, like an angel, that God had used to lay hands on her blinded eyes and heal her. And while anyone with the faith to believe God like that could’ve theoretically done the same, it had been Chance. Why had he happened to be outside Hope Springs Church at the exact moment Lynn found herself locked out of the restroom? And why had she happened to be just two pay phones away from him at a train station she never frequented? If it hadn’t been for Evangelist Barbara needing a ride and Sister Mattie unable to provide one, Lynn would’ve never even been there. Mere coincidence? Lynn didn’t think so, and apparently neither did Pastor Gentry.
Once she entered the Ruston town limits, Lynn pulled into a convenience store parking lot and pulled out the slip of paper on which Chance had written his phone number.
I’m probably too late, she thought dejectedly. If Travis had caught a flight before she had, chances were good that he had already located Chance. Still, she hadn’t come all this way just to let her fears get the best of her. She took out her cell phone and dialed the number. Thinking she would probably just get voice mail, she wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, least of all Chance. So when he did answer, his voice jolted her, just like it had at the train station.
“Hello?”
“Chance? Oh, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t think anyone would pick up.”
“Is that what you normally assume when you make a phone call?”
“Well, no. It’s just that people think you’re so hard to get a hold of.”
“People think what they want, Lynn. You asked for a number to call me at, and I provided one. Doesn’t get much simpler than that.”
“I guess you’re right. I was calling to warn you about a potential problem . . . well, it’s more like a nuisance, that’s headed your way. Some of this might be my fault, so I apologize in advance, but you know that reporter who’s writing those articles about you in the State?”
“Remember? How could I forget? Those articles were the main reason I left.”
Lynn winced. “Uh . . . right. Well then, you should know that he’s headed your way.”
“What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“That reporter—Travis Everett—is headed to Ruston, probably to take another picture of you and get some more material for his story.”
“He’s headed to Ruston?”
“Yeah. He’s probably already here.”
“What? I can’t believe that a—” His voice broke off as Lynn winced some more, feeling even more guilty about putting him through this added pain. For a man as guarded about both his privacy and past as Chance was, his defensive walls were surely now crumbling down around him like the collapse of the Berlin Wall.
“Wait a minute,” Chance finally said. “You said he’s probably already here? Why do you say ‘here’? You’re in Columbia, right?”
Surprise again . . . “Uh, well . . . no. Actually, I’m in Ruston, too.”
Chance was silent for a few seconds. “You’re making a habit out of following me, Miss Harper.”
“I know. Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know. That’s what has me worried.”
JUCINDA HARRIS HAD WORKED at Louisiana Tech in various roles over the past twenty-five years, primarily in the College of Liberal Arts. The past two years she had been on a type of administrative leave, directly attributed to the painful loss of her only daughter, Nina. People had always said Nina was the spitting image of Jucinda—tall, long black hair, curvaceous physique, and free-spirited. Jucinda had moved here with Nina from Trinidad because of the chance to provide her daughter with a better education. Nina had certainly been on her way, too. The scholarship to Southern had been a fantastic start, and Jucinda envisioned Nina attending graduate school somewhere back East. The plan had been working perfectly until that boy . . . Chance ruined everything.
In retrospect, Jucinda knew she should’ve taken a more active role in her daughter’s relationships, but in truth, there were none until Nina and Chance were selected to go to Washington, D.C., in the spring of their senior year.
Nina hadn’t really dated anyone all throughout her junior high and high school years, which, of course, had made Mama proud. As beautiful as Nina was, there were many would-be suitors, but Jucinda had always stressed to her daughter the importance of an education above all else.
“What you have in between those ears is the only thing that matters,” she constantly reminded Nina. But something happened between her daughter and Chance during that Spring Break trip that Jucinda could never understand.
“What on earth do you see in that boy?” she’d asked Nina.
“I don’t know, Mama. He’s so sweet . . . and he carries on the most interesting conversations. I never knew he was like that.”
Jucinda had nothing against the boy being nice and carrying on interesting conversations. What she didn’t like, however, was that Chance was a country boy who would always live in the country. Jucinda had learned Chance had inherited a large tract of land just north of town from his late mother, meaning he would be settling here . . . forever. Jucinda couldn’t bear the thought of her educated, independent, free-spirited daughter living on a farm with cows and chickens.
Adding insult to injury, not only had Nina gotten involved with Chance, but she’d also gotten involved with some charismatic church while she was in college—a church that believed in speaking in tongues, prophesying, and casting out demons. She’d come back from college pronouncing herself born-again and Spirit-filled.
“Mama, they got the Holy Ghost,” Nina had argued to her mother one night. “And I wanted what they had. So I went down to the front of the church to receive salvation and the baptism of the Holy Ghost. Mama, it was so wonderful! God just filled me up and—”
“Stop that nonsense!” Jucinda had cried out, unable to take any more. “I will have none of that crazy talk in my house, you hear me? The nice Catholic church we attend is all the religion we need.”
Of course, this rift in their relationship had pushed Nina further away, infuriating Jucinda. All that she’d worked for and planned for her daughter was going down the drain in the name of misguided affection and spiritual emotionalism.
Years later, Nina’s discovery that she had liver cancer had initially devastated Jucinda, but she soon thought of it as something that might bring them back closer together. She had gone online and researched all the facts—how the success rate for beating cancer was much higher when it was detected early, and how the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in nearby Houston housed the country’s foremost cancer research hospitals.
But Nina, to Jucinda’s horror, would hear none of her mother’s careful research.
“I have faith, Mama. God is going to supernaturally heal me.”
“God’s going to do what? Honey, have you lost your mind? This is not the time to bring up your prophecies or Holy Ghost language or whatever it is you’re always talking about! Cancer is real, honey. But we’re going to be fine, because I’m going to make sure you’re seen by the best doctors in the country.”
“But Mama, one of the ladies at my church was diagnosed with cancer until this awesome man of God named Floyd Waters laid hands on her and declared her healed in the name of Jesus! She went back to the hospital, and the doctors couldn’t find the tumor! And you know what? Floyd Waters is coming to Lake Charles next month. It’s a divine setup! I’m going to be supernaturally healed, and then you’ll see how great God is!”
Jucinda didn’t doubt the greatness of God, but her daughter was clearly delusional. Unfortunately, she was also as stubborn as her mother and couldn’t be talked out of going to that healing meeting.
And then Jucinda’s worst nightmare came true—her only daughter, her pride and joy . . . died.
After Nina’s passing, with the autopsy clearly showing that the cancer cells had spread all throughout her body, Jucinda didn’t care about who’d been right or wrong. What good was there in saying, “I told you so,” if her baby girl was go
ne forever? The only person she could direct her anger and frustration on was Chance Howard—the one person Jucinda felt directly responsible for this mess. If Nina had never met Chance, then she would’ve been in grad school somewhere back East, away from all this foolish talk about supernatural healings and the Holy Ghost.
The two years since she’d run Chance out of this town had done nothing to ease Jucinda’s pain, and today, as she walked into the post office to mail a care package back to her aunt in Trinidad, that old wound reared its ugly head once more.
“Jucinda, there was a reporter in here today asking about Chance Howard,” Betty, the old postmistress, said as Jucinda set her box on the counter.
“What!”
“Yep. Came right up here and asked me if I knew where Chance lived. I didn’t tell him, but ol’ Walter DuBose did. That reporter got up out of here quick after that. I wonder what that was all about—do you think Chance is coming back?”
Jucinda was still speechless, in shock. If she as much as saw the man responsible for her daughter’s death, she swore she’d put her hands around his countrified, chicken-chasin’ neck and strangle him to death.
“You know, his old man’s not doing so well,” Betty continued. “Flora says Bennett’s bound to croak any day now. Chance probably came back to—”
“That’s enough, Betty! Not another word of this, you hear me?”
Betty nodded and finished metering Jucinda’s care package.
“If that boy is dumb enough to show his face here after how he treated Nina,” Jucinda continued, “then I’ll make sure the next time he leaves this town, he’ll only be headed one place—six feet under.”
Betty’s eyes went wide with shock. No doubt this was good gossip to start spreading around town.
Chapter Thirty-five
CHANCE HAD INSTRUCTED LYNN to meet him before dawn at a docking point on the banks of Caddo Lake, a popular fishing and recreational spot seventeen miles north of Shreveport. Lynn wasn’t thrilled about boarding a boat and getting out on the water, though she wasn’t going to let that fear be known to Chance. The fifty-foot sport fishing boat with the word Jacqueline painted on the bow, however, was quite different from what she had expected.
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