by Tim LaHaye
But he couldn’t help it. He’d brought this on himself, and he knew it. There was no way to turn back the clock on what he had done. He wanted to pray, even tried to pray, but he wasn’t sure if God would answer.
With his eyes still shut, the faces returned. This time they rotated in a circle, as if riding a merry-go-round. Although none of their eyes were open, the faces of the babies giggled and pointed at him as they paraded through his brain. One face in particular called out his name.
“Stop it, just stop it,” he said.
“You okay, pal?”
The sound of the man’s voice jarred Stan back to the interior of the elevator. With a blink, his eyes opened. He watched as a janitor, carrying a mop, pushed a metal bucket on wheels into the space. The strong smell of pine-scented Lysol assaulted his nose. Stan, so preoccupied with the faces, was unaware that the elevator had stopped.
“You don’t look too good, man,” the janitor said when Stan hadn’t answered.
“I’m fine, really.” Stan swiped the side of his hand against the edge of his left and then his right eye. “What floor is this?”
“Fourth.” The janitor pushed the button for the sixth floor.
“I’m going to the fifth,” Stan said as the doors closed. He folded his arms and then, hoping to avoid a conversation, decided to retie his Nikes. As Stan fiddled with the laces, the janitor whistled a tuneless melody. Neither spoke again.
With a scraping sound, the elevator heaved to a stop. The doors opened. Stan walked past the janitor, stepped into the hall, started to go to the right but remembered he was to turn left. He walked through the doors and spotted the nurses’ station.
Stan placed his hands on the counter. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but which way is 513?”
“See that door behind you?”
Stan turned and nodded.
“Just go through there, follow the crossover to the next building; you’ll see it halfway down on your right.”
He thanked her, turned, and then made his way through the door. He still had no idea what he’d say once he got to room 513. Everything he thought of seemed so . . . so lame. He wished he could wake up and discover it was all just a bad dream. Fat chance.
This was no dream—it was a nightmare.
For the hundredth time since leaving the safety of his car, he considered running in the opposite direction. But coming today was the right thing to do; at least that much was clear. His sneakers squeaked as he walked along the freshly polished white tile floor.
He jammed his hands into his jean pockets as he ambled down the hallway . . . 508 . . . 509 . . . Each step seemed more difficult to take than the one before it.
About twenty feet ahead, a doctor wearing green scrubs consulted a clipboard. He looked up from his notes and spoke to a man whose back was to Stan. A moment later, the doctor put his hand on the man’s slumped shoulder. With a pat, the doctor walked around him and then moved in Stan’s direction.
Stan swallowed hard as the doctor breezed by. He managed a grunt to the doctor’s “Hello.” Stan took a deep breath and slowed his stride as he approached 513. Maybe it was the squeak of Stan’s shoes. Whatever the reason, the man in the hallway turned around like a guard on duty. The instant he saw Stan’s face, he crossed his arms and moved in front of the doorway. “I really don’t think you’d be welcomed in there.”
Stan froze in place. He recognized the man blocking the doorway, but the unfriendly tone was as frosty as it was unexpected. His icy stare shocked Stan, given what he knew about him. Stan regained his composure, extended his hand, and said, “Maybe there’s been some mistake. I’m Stan Taylor—remember me? I came as soon as I could.”
The man, stiff as a statue, didn’t budge. He wore a powder blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and cocoa brown pants. His tie was loosened at the neck. He stood as tall as Stan’s 6'4" but was much thinner. A pair of reading glasses rested on the edge of his nose. He stared over the top of the glasses, his eyes narrowing.
“Of course I know who you are, young man. Frankly, I’d prefer to forget the fact that we ever met.”
Stan’s eyebrows shot up. “Um, what am I missing here, Pastor Morton? I came to see Faith.”
Stan hadn’t laid eyes on Faith for three months—not since their breakup just before spring break. Faith, in Stan’s opinion, got her attractive looks from her mother, who had died while giving birth to Faith. He wasn’t sure what she got from this man.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Stan Taylor.” Pastor Morton’s face was as pale as skim milk. Two pockets of skin clumped beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his forehead was wrinkled into a maze of twisted flesh. His dark brown eyebrows, like two fuzzy caterpillars, hung low across his brow.
Pastor Morton braced his jaw. “You know perfectly well what’s going on. This is all your fault. And you want to know something? I . . . I should sue you for this.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke.
Stan looked at the floor, unsure how to respond.
“If I were you, Stan,” Pastor Morton said, “I’d turn around and march right out of here—and never come back. Am I clear?”
Stan’s eyes rose and met his glare. He fought to keep his emotions under control. On one hand, he knew he was to blame. He’d never denied that fact. On the other hand, Pastor Morton was a preacher, right? Stan figured somehow that should have made a difference in his tone.
“In case you want to know,” Stan said, his voice on the verge of cracking, “I . . . I’m sorry. I really . . . really am.”
Pastor Morton said, “That’s not good enough. Now, why don’t you crawl back under whatever rock you crawled out from and leave us both alone.”
Stan bristled. “Faith asked me to come. So, if you’ll give me a chance, I’d like to see her—”
“Why?” Pastor Morton said, still peering over the edge of his glasses like an interrogator for the government. “What possible good would that do? You’ll only upset her. She’s lost a lot of blood and needs to rest.”
Stan’s chest heaved. He felt his face f lush. This was already an impossible situation, and Pastor Morton, although justified in being angry, was only making matters worse. Maybe he should leave. What was the point of creating a scene? And yet Stan knew in his heart he just had to see Faith. Stan ran his fingers through his hair. “I thought I might, like, pray for her.”
“You? Of all people,” Pastor Morton said with a laugh. “Come on, Stan. Don’t play games with—”
Stan cut him off. “You don’t have to believe me, but I’ve made some changes—big-time changes. I really would like to pray for her.”
Pastor Morton smirked, evidently unconvinced.
Stan took a step forward. “Now, with all due respect, you can either step aside—or, I . . . I can push my way past you. One way or another,” Stan said, jabbing his right forefinger in the direction of her door, “I’m . . . I’m going in there to see your daughter.”
For a long moment, neither man moved. They stood their ground like prizefighters sizing up an opponent. After what felt like an eternity, Pastor Morton took a step back.
“You’ve got five minutes.”
Chapter 4 Tuesday, 4:42 p.m.
Jodi tapped her knuckles three times lightly on the doorjamb. Joey turned around, phone glued to his ear. His smile broadened. He waved her in. “I’ll be there,” Joey said into the mouthpiece. “Six, Wednesday. Works for me. We’ll talk.” He hung up. “What’s up, Jodi?”
She hooked her hair around her right ear. “You know how you asked me to research health code violations at area hospitals for that story Al’s working on?”
“Sure thing,” Joey said, sitting down in his black leather chair. He clasped his hands together behind his head as he leaned back. “By the look on your face, I’d say you ran into a problem—am I right?”
“Yes and no,” she said. She handed him a report summarizing her findings. It filled less than a single page. He scanned the sheet. Jodi said, “After I sh
owed this to Al, he said I should talk it over with you.”
“This is it?” He laid the page down on the desk in front of him.
Jodi nodded. “Like you said, I made some calls, dug around for complaints from workers, even spoke to the guy in charge of enforcement over in Harrisburg. Seems the state is pretty on top of their regular inspections.”
Joey picked up a pen and twirled it in his hand.
She said, “Plus, they make unannounced visits to the almost two hundred—plus hospitals in the state. Most of what they see are, like, minor violations. Can’t say we’ve got much of an earth-shattering story here—”
“If this is all we have, I agree,” Joey said.
“But I was thinking about another angle—like you said, ‘Follow your nose.’” Jodi tapped her nose with a smile.
He laughed. “I’m impressed, Jodi. You’re a quick study. What’s this new idea?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated. “I thought we might expand the scope of the research to include health violations at women’s centers.” She bit her lip.
“You mean, what, like independent health clinics, walk-in centers?” Joey continued to twirl the pen between two fingers.
“Well, sure, and um, in particular, clinics where pregnancies are terminated,” Jodi said.
Joey’s pen stopped gyrating. “Okay, Jodi, have a seat.” He pointed to a cloth-covered chair facing his desk. She stepped into the room, pushed the chair back several inches, and sat down. “Rule one,” he said, holding up a finger. “No agenda pieces here. We’re journalists, not activists.”
“But, I wasn’t—”
“Hold on,” he said. “As journalists, we report the news; we don’t manufacture the news. We don’t let pet peeves drive our pages. End of story. Plus, I don’t want to make the big mistake that other mid-size newspapers make all the time. You know what that is?”
Jodi shrugged.
“They go after sensational headlines on bogus stories to capture new readers.” Joey leaned forward. “If we go down that road, we compromise our journalistic credibility. The next thing you know, we’re a big joke. We’ll start to look like the National Enquirer. End of story.”
Boy, he sure likes that phrase—“end of story,” Jodi thought. Although she respected his opinion, she wanted to challenge his logic. Last semester during her junior year, Jodi was the state champ in debate and, at the moment, it was clear his logic wasn’t holding up. Why would it be okay to do an investigative piece on hospitals but not women’s clinics? She thought that seemed like a double standard and was about to say so.
Joey’s face softened. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Jody. I appreciate your creative thinking. And, if there were a credible story, I’d say, let’s do it.”
Jodi tilted her head. “Mr. Steph—, um, Joey?” she said, catching herself. “I honestly don’t think this would be a . . . an agenda piece, or whatever. The reason I mentioned the clinic angle was because of some of the things I bumped into while doing my research.”
“Go on.” He started to play with the pen.
“Well, for starters,” Jodi said, “I found that clinics where pregnancies are terminated are, like, rarely—if ever—inspected by the state. Maybe once a year, if that. Don’t you think that lax inspections would invite abuses?”
Joey considered this.
“Another thing,” she said. “I read that, for the most part, veterinary clinics are held to higher standards of sanitation than these women’s clinics are—”
He shook his head side to side. “I find that very hard to believe, Jodi.”
“Well, that’s my whole point,” she said. “Why don’t we do a piece that, like, finds out the truth?” She folded her hands in her lap.
Joey put down the pen. “Let me ask you a personal question. What are your views on the unborn?”
Jodi didn’t hesitate. “I happen to be pro-life—”
“Listen,” Joey said, raising a hand to cut her off. “That’s the position of the church where I sometimes go, too. But as a reporter, we can’t allow our personal feelings to get in the way of our journalistic integrity.”
“I—,” Jodi said. “I’m fairly confident I can walk that line if you’d give me the chance.”
“Really?” Joey said. “Give me an idea how you’d do that.”
Jodi looked down at the stained carpet for a moment and then met his eyes. “If women are going to terminate a pregnancy, which, like I said, I happen to believe is a wrong moral choice, at the very least it seems they should receive adequate care.”
He nodded. His fingers formed a steeple in front of him.
“So, just like we were doing with the hospital story,” she said, “I’d want to find out whether or not these providers are, like, meeting minimum standards for safety and sanitation.”
Joey was about to say something when his intercom buzzed. He picked up the phone, listened, and said, “I’ll be right with him.” He looked at Jodi. “Banker Bob’s on the horn again. I’m telling you, the guy must be lonely—I just talked to him a few hours ago,” he said with a laugh. “Sorry to cut this short. We’ll talk later. If you’ll excuse me.”
She stood to leave.
“Just tell Al to table his story for now,” Joey said. “Oh, I still say your clinic angle is out of the question. End of story. But don’t let that get you down. I appreciate your spunk.” He winked.
Spunk? Jodi knew she was being schmoozed and didn’t like it. She thought she’d made some great points. She thought at the very least he’d be interested in what she had uncovered about the clinics. As she stood to leave, she heard Joey pick up the phone and say, “So, how’s my favorite banker?”
She turned and then walked out of his office into a billowing cloud of smoke. Roxanne stood just outside the door, papers in hand. She placed a freshly lit cigarette between her lips and sucked deeply. Seconds passed before she blew a steady stream of smoke through her nose.
“Hey, Roxanne,” Jodi said, fighting the urge to gag.
“Let me guess,” she said with a nod toward Joey’s office, “Gave you the first-timer’s treatment.”
Jodi tilted her head. “How’s that?”
“Oh, Joey talks a good game—journalistic integrity and such,” Roxanne said between puffs. “Probably told you, ‘We’re journalists, not activists’—and all that.”
Jodi’s eyes widened. “That’s so weird; that’s exactly what he said.”
“I know, kid,” Roxanne said, holding the cigarette in front of her lips. “He’s given the same speech to each of the other interns. But there isn’t such a thing as an unbiased reporter.” She took another drag. “Take it from me, girl. I’ve been around this industry for thirty years. They don’t exist.”
While Jodi appreciated the encouragement, if that’s what this was supposed to be, she was having a difficult time breathing.
“But he’s right about one thing,” Roxanne said.
“What’s that?”
“The really good reporters do follow their nose,” Roxanne said. Her voice dropped a notch. “And, honey, listen to me. If you think you’ve got a story, don’t let anything stop you from tracking it down. Just stick to the facts.”
Jodi nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate—”
“Hey, Rox,” Joey said, calling from his desk. “You poisoning the mind of our intern? Where are those numbers I asked for?”
Roxanne offered a thin smile to Jodi. She puffed again and then walked into his office. “Got ’em right here.”
Jodi sat at her desk and checked her watch. It was almost five o’clock and time to go home. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and purse from the bottom drawer of the desk. As she did so, she remembered the letter from Gus. She looked up and scanned the room. The full timers were buzzing with activity, oblivious to her presence.
She pulled the envelope from her purse and held it for a long moment. Should she give it to Joey? Or maybe give it to Marge, since she handled the letters to the editor. Th
en again, maybe she should look at it first and then determine whether or not it was worth bringing to anybody’s attention.
Jodi snatched up her letter opener, slit the envelope open, and withdrew two pages. Not sure what to expect, she was pleasantly surprised to see that Gus had legible handwriting. She placed the envelope on her desk and then began to read the letter. Within seconds, the room and the sounds around her seemed to disappear as she got lost in the narrative. These were not the words of a drunken homeless man. No way. If Gus had written this letter, he was a very smart man with an unbelievable story.
The more Jodi read, the faster her heart pounded. The pages almost felt hot to the touch. For a quick second, she lowered the letter to her lap just below the surface of her desk. She stole a look around the room before she continued reading.
Another three minutes and she was done.
Now what? She stared at the letter in her lap, too stunned by what she had read to move. Almost in answer to her question, Gus’s words reverberated in the back of her mind. Too many people are the wrong people. . . . Give this to the right people.
“Hey, Jodi, what are you reading?”
With a jerk, Jodi’s head snapped up. Joey, hands resting on the edge of her cubicle, peered into her eyes.
A silent gasp escaped her mouth.
Chapter 5 Tuesday, 4:58 p.m.
Like the wings of a butterfly in f light, Jodi’s eyelashes fluttered as she absorbed the sudden appearance of her boss at her desk. Her face felt hot. It wasn’t that she knew she was guilty of doing something wrong. She fully intended to share the contents of Gus’s letter with Joey. Just not yet. “Excuse me?”
A set of keys jangled in his hand. “I guess my star intern didn’t hear me calling her name—”
“I . . . I—”
“Hey, no problem,” Joey said, a broad smile framing his perfectly white teeth. “I called and said good-bye several times. When I couldn’t get your attention, I had to find out what was so interesting. Call me curious.” Another picture-perfect smile.