I nodded. “Enough of it. You were right. I’ve always known what happened.”
She tilted her head. “So, tell me dear. What frightened you so much that you needed to lock those memories away?”
More images flooded through the broken wall in my mind. Flashes of staggered moves and swirling dizziness, as I fought for my life. But it wasn’t a fight against Abbi. No. I had fought with Brock while on the stair landing in the garage.
“Oftentimes healing comes with the telling.” Mrs. Wilton said, her voice like a soothing balm.
“I was so afraid. Abbi was dead and I … I knew I would be next. I tried to fight … to yell. Anything to get away.” I blew my nose in her hanky. “I tried my best, but my hands … my feet … they were nearly useless. Brock grabbed me by my shoulder and jerked me around while I struggled to get away from him. And the look on his face…” I gasped as the vision of Brock’s murderous glare returned to my mind.
Mrs. Wilton stroked my hair, patiently silent.
“I tried. I tried.” The words choked in my throat. “I wanted to fight him, but I couldn’t even stand up.”
I blew my nose again, and swallowed my sobs. My eyes felt hot and puffy, but I straightened in the seat, and she handed me a fresh hanky as I drew in a calming breath. “I remember he shoved me down the stairs, and I landed on my hip. That’s how it got bruised. I tried to push up from the floor, but Brock grabbed my arm and dragged me to his car. The pain in my shoulder was so…” Words escaped me. “I think I passed out again.”
“When did you wake?”
“Not until the next morning. Actually, I think it was after noon. I was in my own bed.”
Mrs. Wilton took hold of my trembling hands. “Do you remember what happened that day?”
I took a deep breath. “I didn’t think about the party. Maybe it was because that drug was still in my system, or maybe I’d already pushed the memory away. It’s weird, huh?”
Mrs. Wilton’s steady eyes reached to me like an island shore in the midst of a storm-tossed sea. I latched onto the calm she offered and exhaled slowly. My tremors began to ease.
“I felt like I’d been sick for days. All I could think about was going home to Dad. Cheri came in and saw how ill I was. She suggested I take the bus home so I could rest on the way.”
“Did Cheri see Brock bring you home that night?”
I shook my head. “She’d spent the night with friends at a different party.”
“What about the bus trip? Do you remember that?”
I glanced aside, searching the fuzzy corners of my brain. “There isn’t much to remember before arriving in Dalton. I must have slept a lot on the bus.”
“And what about after you got back on the bus in Barrett?”
“Well…” My forehead wrinkled, as her question slowly registered in my mind. “What do you mean, Mrs. Wilton? I’m on that bus now—with you.”
Her white brows rose. “Are you?”
Am I? Straightening in my seat, I looked around at the sleeping passengers, gently rocking to the lullaby of the bus engines. What could she be talking about? This was the bus, with blowing snow streaking by the dark windows.
But the driver in front appeared as a mere silhouette against the glow of the dash lights, and in the dim light of the bus interior, the sleepers seemed unnaturally serene. I looked back to Mrs. Wilton. “Something isn’t right here. What is it?”
“Have you been experiencing feelings of déjà vu these past few days?”
I dabbed my eyes and sat straight, my spine prickling. “Yes. Several times.”
She tilted her head. “That’s because all these events have already happened, my dear.”
Mrs. Wilton seemed to be talking nonsense again. Just like when I first arrived at her inn.
“What are you talking about?”
“Everything from the time you arrived in Dalton is a memory being relived.” She leaned toward me, looking over her glasses. “God has provided a chance for you to view these days again as if for the first time, so you could deal with the memories you hid away.”
I swallowed, trying to absorb the implications. “But … all of this?”
She nodded, her steady eyes examining my face. “Remember the three words God told me to share with you while you were at the inn?”
Three words? She’d said many things, most of which I’d chalked up to her eccentricity. I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“They were three words starting with ‘R.’”
I flashed to our conversation at breakfast on the first morning after I’d arrived. “Oh yes. The first was ‘Remember.’” The corner of my mouth rose at the realization I’d finally done that, with Mrs. Wilton’s help.
“Good. You remember the things you had once hidden away. And those things which have been concealed from you are being revealed. The second word was—”
“Repent,” I said it in unison with her.
“This opportunity is about to be put before you, and it will open the way for the last word to be accomplished. That word is …” She waited.
“Restore,” I said. “But what do you mean about “repent” being an opportunity put before me?” I felt a prickling of the hair on my arms.
Mrs. Wilton pulled her crocheting bag up from the floor and tucked her handiwork inside. “You have one more memory yet to relive. This one will present your opportunity.”
I clenched the fresh hanky she’d given me. What more could there be? “Are you sure? I recall everything now, except the parts when I was unconscious.”
Mrs. Wilton folded her glasses and placed them in the top of her bag with a sigh. “I’m sorry to say you may find this memory to be the most difficult of all.”
Brock had drugged me, assaulted me and threatened my life. What could she mean about something more difficult?
She put her hand on mine. “So far, you’ve focused on the things done to you.” Her eyes were more piercing than I’d ever seen. “But you must also remember the things you’ve done.”
It all sounded so solemn. And final. “Mrs. Wilton, are you about to leave me? Please don’t.”
“Dear one, you are never alone.”
“But what if this is too difficult for me?”
“When the Lord walks beside you, nothing is too difficult. I believe that is something your mother was fond of saying.”
She was right. I could remember Mom lying on her bed, saying those very words. “Yeah. She did say that. I didn’t believe it, though.”
“And what about the other thing she always told you?”
“I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
Even as I asked, it came back to me. Mom had said it over and over throughout her days with hospice. Even when her cheeks grew hollow. Even when she winced with pain.
All things work together for good. That’s what she said, even when her breaths were too shallow to speak above a whisper.
It had become the phrase I took as firm evidence that faith was a lie that only served to delude its adherents.
The hospital room lights had been dimmed since sunset. Hope had just left to return home to Barrett, and Lance leaned toward a wall-mounted lamp beside Penny’s bed. He held his Bible under the light.
“Here, I found it,” he said gently. “It’s Romans 8:28. ‘And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.’’ He sat back in the chair and stretched a kink from his shoulder. “I remember how angry you were when I read that verse after your mom died, but do you remember it was her favorite verse? She said it over and over while she was battling the cancer and she held firm to it, even though I struggled.”
He reached forward and placed his hand on Penny’s head, gently stroking her brow with his thumb. “I didn’t want to believe God was good anymore. In fact, I was sure He had abandoned us.” The memory of that ache made Lance pause to bite his lip. “Your mom was right, though. I found out I had a lot of growing up
to do and it started during those years when your mom fought her cancer battle. Lately, I’ve realized the troubles between you and me were another opportunity to grow, so I guess I’m still learning today. That’s why I hold onto that verse now.”
Lance leaned forward, his voice soft and low. “Sweetie, I don’t know why the bus went off the road; whether Brock or some other lunatic caused the accident, or if it was just ice on the highway. I don’t know what connection you may have to that murdered girl either, but I do believe your mom was right. God is able to use all things to do His good work. And many times, that good work is what’s being done inside of us.”
If Penny heard anything, she gave no sign of it. Only her steady breathing indicated she was alive.
Lance sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much without my help. I plan to do much better.”
He flipped the pages of the Bible again, but tears blurred his vision. “We have a lot to do, you and me. Lots to make up for.” He set the Bible aside and took her hand. “But we can do it. Come back to me, Penny. Let’s make a fresh start, okay?”
“Mr. Doyle?” It was Hope, breathless at the door.
Surprised, Lance got up from his chair. “You forget something?”
Hope’s eyes were wide. “I just saw Brock. He snuck into a room downstairs.”
“He what?”
“He’s up to something.” Her voice cracked with anxiety. “I don’t know what, but I’m sure it’s not good.”
Lance stood and moved quickly toward her. “What exactly did you see?”
“He had a duffle bag on his shoulder and at first he was facing away from me, studying his phone. Then he put it in his pocket and walked to a door midway down the hall. When he stopped at the door, I got nervous that he might see me, so I turned my back to him for a second, and the next time I looked, he was gone. I’m pretty sure he went into that other room.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
She nodded.
“What floor?”
“Second. Room 211. There’s a keypad beside that door, so maybe it’s an office or a consultation room.”
“He’d have to have the code to get in.”
“Or watch someone else use the code,” she countered.
“Can you stay here with Penny? I need to go find him.”
“Sure.” She raked a nervous hand through her short spiked hair. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but you should be careful.”
She was right. He dashed down the hall and braced himself for the encounter as the elevator carried him down to the second floor.
A young gal was posted at the second floor desk. Lance leaned over the counter to pull her attention away from the monitor. “I’m looking for a young man about my height with dark, wavy hair. He’s carrying a duffle bag and might be acting a little suspicious. Have you seen him?”
She shook her head. “Do I need to call security?”
It was a good idea—and one that reminded him he should notify Sergeant Clemens. “Sure. The cops have already talked to security about keeping an eye out for this guy, so tell them he’s just been seen inside the building and that I’ve followed him to Room 211.”
“And you are...” The girl’s concern was overlaid with confusion.
“Dr. Lance Doyle.”
She scribbled on a notepad, while picking up her phone.
Lance pulled out his own cell phone while moving toward the hallway intersection. A sign indicated Room 211 would be toward the back of the hospital. He punched Clemens’ phone number and gazed down the corridor. He couldn’t read the door numbers, but guessed it might be around the corner at the end of the hall.
The phone clicked as the line was picked up. “Sergeant Clemens.”
“Hey, this is Lance Doyle. I’ve just learned that Brock Harper has returned to the hospital. Looks like he slipped past security somehow. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks. Can you find a way to keep him around until I can get there?”
“I have to find him first, but I’ll try. Sorry to have to call you out so late.”
“Not a problem. Besides, Maricopa County has just issued a warrant for him.”
“A warrant?” His heartrate spiked. Now what?
“Yeah. Abbi Maxwell’s boyfriend has been charged with her murder, and they want Harper brought in as an accessory.”
Lance felt blood drain from his scalp. “You’d best hurry, then.” He punched the phone’s disconnect and went back to the receptionist at the hall desk. “Is security on the way?”
“He’s helping a woman in the parking lot who locked herself out of—”
A surge of adrenaline drowned her voice out as it flooded Lance’s system. He left the receptionist still talking and sprinted down the hall toward Room 211.
The girl called after him. “Doctor Doyle?”
He ignored her and kept moving. Had Brock learned about the warrant? What could Lance do or say to prevent him from leaving? A phlebotomy cart wheeled around the corner and Lance dodged around it before veering left. Room 211 was a few yards down on the right side.
This was it. With a deep breath, he strode to the door, took hold of the knob and tried to turn it. The door was locked. Of course. The keypad. He knocked. No answer. He rapped on it again, harder, then stepped back with a shake of his head. What now? Break the door down?
A voice to his left caught his attention. “What’s going on here?” A matronly nurse with dark, slanted brows, stood several feet down the hall with hands on her ample hips. “I just chased someone out of that room, and now … who are you people anyway?”
“Sorry. I’m looking for a young man with dark, wavy hair who was seen in this area. Is that the person you chased out?”
She ignored the question. “Seriously, who are you? I’ll call security, if I must.”
“He’s already been called. He’s out in the parking lot.”
Undaunted, she stood her ground. “Perhaps that’s the direction you should be going.”
No point debating. He didn’t belong here.
But then again, Brock might have gone out to the parking lot. If Lance hoped to detain him, he would need to move quickly. “Thanks, yes. I think I’ll do that.”
He race-walked back to the stairs and bounded down, two steps at a time. Once outside, he was struck by an icy breeze that swept along the sidewalk. He rubbed his arms and wished for his coat. Stepping out from the lighted portico, he peered across the dark lot. Rows of vehicles, uniformly grayed by slushy road grime, were hunched against the chill.
Not a single person was in sight. No security guy. No Brock. Lance picked his way across the frozen slush, scanning down the rows. He caught sight of an SUV down one row and jogged over for a closer look but it had Colorado plates. Another one caught his eye but turned out to be a different model.
Lance huffed a breath into the cold night air. It looked like Brock had managed to disappear again. Headlights skimmed across the lot as a vehicle behind him turned onto the property. He looked over his shoulder as a dark car straightened onto a different driveway—one that angled toward the back of the hospital. It looked like a dark Toyota, but was it Brock’s? All he knew for certain was that Brock’s car wasn’t in the lot where he stood. He might as well check it out. Rubbing his hands together briskly before shoving them in his pockets, he headed back across the driveway.
Sierra Memorial wasn’t a large complex but it still took a couple minutes to get around to the back of the building. When the walkway ended at a side door, he maneuvered through some shrubbery, piled snow and concrete barriers to access another path that would lead the right direction.
Panting, he stopped after rounding the building’s back corner. The Emergency Department entrance angled from an extension at the back of the building. A few vehicles were parked in a small lot adjacent to its automatic doors. None were Brock’s. Another lane resembling an alley proceeded beyond the ER. He jogged toward it, crossing the
street and bypassing the curbside pull-up in front of the Emergency doors.
Upon reaching the far corner of the building extension, Lance stopped. The alley was clearly a utility access for service vehicles and personnel. Would Brock have gone down this lane? He looked back at the parking area, nearly deserted. There were no other places the vehicle could have gone.
He jogged down the alley to the far end of the ground level extension and stopped short when the alley widened. There was Brock’s car tucked around the corner against the brick wall. Empty.
A utility access ladder was mounted to the wall above the car. Had Brock used the car as a way to reach the ladder? It sure appeared that way, but why would he go up on the roof of the ER? Where could he go from there?
A quick glance around showed no other viable options. Only trash bins and caged utility meters. Brock must have gone up on the roof.
Equally perplexing was the presence of a partial jug of antifreeze that sat on the ground next to the car, as if the guy had stopped to take time to refill his windshield washers before climbing the ladder. Strange.
What on earth was Brock up to? Lance rubbed the chill from his arms. Perhaps he thought he could get back into Room 211 from the roof. That room was accessible from there, though it didn’t explain why he should want to be in that room.
Unfortunately, time was wasting. At a loss for answers, Lance climbed onto the hood of Brock’s car, then scrambled up the windshield to reach the car’s roof. He reached for the ladder and stretched to get his foot on the lowest rung, wishing he had worn shoes with better traction.
Nevertheless, he began the climb.
Whatever Brock was up to, it was time to bring it to an end.
What was going on? I swiveled in my seat and looked around me. Mrs. Wilton said nothing more as I stood slowly and stepped into the aisle. Something felt oddly different about the bus. Could this be merely a memory as Mrs. Wilton had suggested?
Many of the passengers surrounding me were still sleeping, but not all. The man in the back row near the bathroom held a book under his dome light, reading. His head bobbed slightly with the movement of the bus. A teen boy immediately behind me glanced up from a game he played on his phone. I offered a smile, but he returned to the game without reciprocating. The otherworldly sensation I’d felt moments ago had faded, and the atmosphere of the bus seemed natural again. If only I could pinpoint the source of my initial eeriness. Was it something to do with the engine noise? Or the motion created by the bus suspension?
Point Blank Page 14