Brock clamped his mouth shut. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “It’s all Tyler’s fault.”
“I know.” Lance grasped the base of the syringe and carefully pulled it from the line. He stepped back from the bed with his hands still raised. Sympathy might help gain Brock’s confidence. “Look. There’s no need to take this any further, right? Put down the knife, and let us deal with Tyler.”
Brock’s gaze shifted to the floor. He shook his head. Disagreement? Regret? Lance couldn’t tell. “Talk to me, Brock. Tell me what you’re thinking. Together, we can figure this out.”
The guard’s walkie-talkie crackled. A voice emanated from his shoulder comm. “Officers on site.”
The guard clicked the comm with his thumb. “Room 338.”
“Hear that? It’s over, Brock.” Lance extended an open hand. “Let me have the knife.”
Brock worked his jaw in silence.
Movement from the bed, caught Lance’s attention. Penny lifted a limp hand up an inch or two off the blanket. Her fingers slowly straightened and wiggled for a few shaky moments before dropping again to the bed. Then a flutter of eyelash movement. Was she waking up?
Brock’s expression registered alarm. “Both of you,” he barked abruptly, “Over to the window.”
Lance shifted his eyes toward the guard who nodded. They both edged away from the door.
“Over against the window!” Brock’s eyes glared with new intensity. He grasped Hope tight to his chest and maneuvered swiftly around the end of Penny’s bed. With a final hard shove, he flung the young woman toward the men and bolted for the door.
Hope sprawled to the floor with a shriek, and Lance launched himself in Brock’s direction. Leaping over Hope, he stretched forward to grasp Brock’s arm.
The football champ leaned forward to muscle through Lance’s tackle attempt. With a harsh jerk, he wrenched his arm from Lance’s grip.
Lance gritted his teeth. He couldn’t let Brock manage another disappearing act. Not when armed officers were so close. As he fell to the floor, his arm slid against the back of Brock’s leg and, a second later, his hand caught hold of Brock’s heel. Hold on!
The wide receiver twisted out of Lance’s grip, tumbling to the floor in the process. He rolled on his shoulder and hopped back to his feet. Fortunately, the hospital security officer smacked into his side with a grunt that sent them both sliding against the door frame.
Lance pulled himself up on all fours, panting, and joined the security officer who swiftly tugged a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt. Together they secured Brock’s hands behind his back and got him seated on the floor with his back against the door.
With great effort, Lance stood to his feet, panting. Hope had gone to Penny’s bedside and he joined her there, turning his attention to his daughter.
“I thought sure she was waking up,” Hope said.
Carefully, Lance lifted an eyelid and studied Penny’s pupils. They remained unfocused. Though he was glad Penny had managed to move her hand briefly, it appeared she was still locked away inside her mind. “She might be partially aware, at least some of the time.”
Deputies arrived at the door and, together with the security guard, stood Brock to his feet and led him out of the room. One officer stayed to question Hope, who leaned against the wall with a hand on her forehead.
“I was in the bathroom when he arrived,” she said. “I could hear someone was in the room, but I thought it was one of the nurses. I didn’t realize it was Brock until I opened the door.”
Lance studied her from his place beside Penny’s bed. Hope’s features were pale and drawn. He went to her. “I shouldn’t have left you alone here. I had no idea how desperate Brock was.”
Hope slid onto a nearby chair, her lip quivering. “Who could have guessed he would want to kill her?”
The deputy scratched notes on his tablet. “Do either of you have any idea what his motive might have been?”
Lance answered. “No, but he may have been under a lot of pressure from his so-called friend. Sounds like they both stood to lose a great deal if they were implicated in the other girl’s death.”
After the last officer left, Lance returned to Penny’s side and caressed his daughter’s forehead. Her eyes were closed and her hands rested on the blanket, unmoving. He glanced to Hope, who remained in the chair against the wall. “Perhaps Penny knew about their role in the other girl’s death. Maybe that’s why she was trying to get home.”
“If she knew anything, she didn’t tell me about it.” Hope leaned forward to prop her head in her hands. “When I saw that Brock was going to inject something into her IV, all I could do was yell at him.” Her voice cracked. “He turned on me and everything escalated to a blur.”
Lance searched Penny’s arms, hands and face. “It doesn’t appear that he pierced her skin anywhere. He must have believed an injection through the IV would go unnoticed. Did he hurt you, Hope?”
“No. Just a few bruises.”
Lance marveled at the young woman who had saved his daughter’s life. He owed her a debt of gratitude. “You acted bravely. I don’t quite know how to thank you.”
“You just did.”
“Well, take your time and rest. Nice even breaths until your heart slows. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Lance took hold of Penny’s hand and bent to kiss her brow. “I’m back again, Penny, and I know you’re close. Can you hear me?”
Her eyelashes trembled for a moment, but when he lifted the lids, the pupils remained unfocused.
“Don’t worry, Penny. You’re doing great. If you can hear me at all, squeeze my hand.
Nothing.
Lance sighed. “Come back to me, sweetie. I’m right here.”
Sunshine warmed my shoulders as I sauntered up the driveway. I skimmed my hand over the prickly top of Dad’s carefully pruned waist-high boxwood hedge. At the far end, angled beside the corner of the garage, stood Mom’s white-painted arbor covered with purple clematis.
But something wasn’t quite right. A slightly unnatural sensation, like the one I’d felt on the bus, niggled at my brain. I slowed my pace, uncertain. I’d finally made it home, but how did I get here? In spite of everything I’d experienced in the last few days, my memories continued to be fuzzy.
A light breeze made the blooms on the arbor shiver. It teased at the loose ends of my hair. Busy insects and small bird chatter filled my senses. All so real, and yet not quite real at all.
Mrs. Wilton had said God gave me a chance to relive past events in order to remember, repent, and restore. Was I still reliving the past? How could I know for sure? And if this wasn’t part of my past experience, what was it?
In an abrupt flash, the grating screech and grind of the rolling bus crashed through my fragile senses. Clasping hands over my ears, I doubled over while attempting to shut out the horror of it. I remembered the crisp icy cold of waking on the snowy hillside. The warmth of hands ministering to my wounds. Then the sight of the bus driver’s bloodied face that sent a renewed pang deep into my chest.
Gratefully, the vision ended, and I opened my eyes again to the warmth and sunshine of home. How could I have ever pushed those memories aside? People had died, and I was responsible.
Even more perplexing was the fact I had been transported from that horrific scene and brought here, where everything seemed pristine and my injuries healed.
Perhaps I was dreaming. Or in some kind of afterlife. Some in-between limbo designed for people God hadn’t made up His mind about.
A murmuring sound reached my ears. It came from the arbor—or maybe the patio alcove beyond. Voices perhaps?
I crept closer, and the faint sounds continued. Why so muted? Were people conversing inside the house or further off—in a neighboring yard?
When I reached the white painted arch, the sounds stopped. Utter silence. I leaned in to listen. Seeing Mom’s little patio garden after such a long absence warmed me. Beautiful bright flow
ers sprouted from a variety of arranged pots, and the perimeter hedged by the boxwoods sheltered a small seating nook with a café table and chairs.
So lovely, but … still wrong, somehow.
Of course. In the real world, it was January, the holiday break from school. This summery vision couldn’t possibly be real.
I entered the space, and the murmur of voices resumed.
I strained to filter the soft vocal babble, until one voice emerged apart from the rest. It was Dad, his words faintly carried on the wind. “Come back to me, Penny.”
“Dad?”
“I’m right here.”
I twirled in the alcove, eyes raised to study the sky. “Where are you?”
“Come back, sweetie.”
“But I can’t find you.”
A knot choked my throat and I lowered my head. My eyes landed on the front door—the same door I had visualized so many times on this trip. If this were some kind of afterlife, then maybe Mom was here ready to greet me inside. Perhaps … I took a step. Then another.
But one step away from the door, I knew the truth. Mom wasn’t here, and this place, however lovely, wasn’t really my home or any kind of afterlife. Maybe it wasn’t even possible to get home from here.
That thought sunk into my gut like a stone.
I stared at the door, realizing that the thing I really wanted—that I especially needed right now—was my Dad. I had always blamed him for how we grew so far apart, but all along I had been the one continually pushing away.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Can you forgive me?” If only he could, but I had no confidence he could even hear me.
Another phantom of his voice carried in on the warm summer breeze. “Come back to me, Penny.” Though faint, it was filled with emotion. With longing. As if he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
I took the final step and stood before the door. After a moment’s hesitation, I pressed the bell. The familiar chime sounded inside.
I stared at the knob. “Dad? Are you there?” I placed my palm against the door. My voice cracked. “I want to come home.”
Then, without warning, the knob turned and the door swung wide.
Dad stood in the doorway and his face quickly transformed with surprised delight. “Penny!” He rushed to wrap his arms around me, and a sudden wave of intense warmth flowed from my chest out through my entire body. A tingling, energizing warmth that filled every cell, as if suddenly waking from numbness.
I slumped into Dad’s embrace, but he held me up. He squeezed me repeatedly like Mom used to do. “Penny, Penny, Penny.” He said my name over and over.
Then the bright flower-filled alcove, the front door, and the entire house dissolved away.
It didn’t matter. Dad still held me. He still cried my name.
I was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room, gathered up in my father’s embrace.
“Everything is fine now, sweetie. You’re going to be okay.” He heaved a great sigh and lowered my head and shoulders onto the bed. “Sorry. I know how bruised you are, but I’m so glad you’ve come back.”
Water trickled down the face of the canyon wall in rivulets as Dad drove Hope and me over the mountain pass toward Dalton. It dripped from rock ledges and spilled from tiny crevices, each dribble joining with others to create a sparkling, joyous cascade. Five months ago, I had traveled the opposite direction on this road, with Brock at the wheel and an avalanche of emotional conflict and uncertainty ahead. What a major course change my life had taken since.
Dad and Hope’s conversation seemed to mimic the sounds of the trickling stream that followed the road bed. Their voices receded to the background as I considered how that earlier journey had been prompted by some unrecognized inner drive. Would I have come to this place of healing without experiencing all that had led me here? Perhaps every element of joy and pain had been necessary. At the very least, God had found it useful as He gently prodded me back to a more centered life.
The cascade of events that began along this road had resulted in a major thaw, not only in my relationship with Dad, but with God as well.
Without intending to, I spoke my thoughts aloud. “This is where it happened.”
Hope leaned forward from the back seat. “What’s that?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I guess my mind was wandering.”
“No, I’ve been chattering endlessly since you picked me up.” She patted my shoulder. “What happened here?”
I shifted sideways in the seat. “Somewhere along this road is where I realized my relationship with Brock might be ending.”
Hope’s eyes softened. “That was a rough day for you.”
“Yeah, it was.” My thoughts flicked to the bus crash, but the heart-piercing memory of those who perished kept me from lingering there. “I have to try to focus on the good that has come from it.”
Dad glanced toward me. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through so much. I should have tried harder.” He’d repeated this sentiment many times since I first awoke in the hospital.
I patted his arm. “Apparently, it’s what I needed to go through. And it wasn’t all bad.” I shifted toward Hope. “I made a new friend that day.”
She smiled back. “Me too.”
Hope’s friendship had helped speed my recovery, so mere thanks seemed inadequate. My head injury was healing well and with very little residual effect. My broken bones and bruises had also required time and rest, but physical therapy was keeping me on track to a complete recovery. And through it all, my appreciation for Hope had grown. She helped rejuvenate my spirit and encouraged the ongoing emotional healing between Dad and me.
Hope spoke up. “So, is there a decent restaurant in Dalton? I’m going to be hungry.”
“Yeah.” I paused while searching my memory. “Café du Louvre. That’s the place.” I looked over my shoulder to Hope. “You’ll be happy to know they have great pie.”
Hope pressed an index finger into her cheek, with a conspiratorial grin. “Hmmm … really?” As usual, she made me giggle.
Dad looked confused. “What?”
We answered Hope’s favorite mantra in unison. “Pie fixes everything.”
Dad’s expression suggested doubt.
I visualized the quaint little town that lay a few miles ahead. “It’s right across the street from Mrs. Wilton’s inn.”
More than the café, I was especially eager to visit the inn and see Mrs. Wilton again. I’d made a couple attempts to get a contact number for her during my recovery, but without success. It didn’t worry me. She wouldn’t mind us dropping in unannounced. After all, that’s how I’d first met her.
Dad slowed to navigate a switchback. “Maybe we should invite Mrs. Wilton to join us for lunch at the café.”
“That’s a great idea.”
Hope leaned forward between the seats. “I hate to revive the subject of Brock, but have you heard any recent updates about the murder case in Phoenix?”
Dad glanced toward her in the rear-view mirror. “Not much more since we last spoke. They’ve both been charged with multiple counts having to do with the drugs and Abbi’s death. A trial date will probably be set in the next few months.”
Hope shifted her gaze to me. “How do you feel about that?”
“I’m not looking forward to testifying—or facing Brock again. It’s important, though. I have to tell them what I remember.”
Brock had been shifting as much blame as he could on Tyler since his arrest. Was it just a tactic he hoped would work in his favor? I wasn’t certain about much except that they had conspired together to drug each of us on New Year’s Eve and take advantage of the drug’s memory-dampening effects. The plan might have worked, had Abbi not accidently drunk part of my dose. That unanticipated slipup had left me somewhat cognizant of the night’s events and doomed her with a fatal overdose.
Dad shifted to a lower gear. “I suspect you’re more worried about your own court date.”
“I’m tr
ying not to stress about it.” Trying didn’t make it easy though, and glancing toward Dad, I knew he was worried too. We had discussed the bus crash many times during my recovery. God had told me to remember, repent, and restore. The old me would have balked, but I intended to follow through. After facing the memories I’d hidden away, I knew I had to also face my actions and continue the process of restoration. How else could I hope to make things right?
Hope sighed. “I don’t know how you do it, Penny. You’re so much stronger than me.”
Was I strong? Vehicular manslaughter was an ominous charge to face, but I had gone before the judge believing the truth was better than a lie. The facts had been laid on the table, and at the time, it struck me as being akin to putting myself on an ancient sacrificial altar. It hadn’t proved fatal, as it did with Old Testament lambs, but the proverbial hatchet would fall with the strike of a gavel next week. I would have to accept whatever judgment came.
I certainly didn’t feel strong, and jail time seemed likely, though my lawyer believed the extenuating circumstances might help promote leniency.
The imminent prospect of incarceration had prompted my desire to make this trip to Dalton. I hoped Mrs. Wilton would help me find peace with what lay ahead.
I shook my head. “I’m not any stronger than you, or anyone else. I just want to do the right thing.”
Before long, the valley opened ahead of us and we reached Dalton in the early afternoon. Everything was just as I remembered, only fresh and bright with the renewal of spring. We pulled around the corner off the highway, and I saw the sloping embankment Kitty made me climb the first night I arrived. The black rooftop and dormers of the inn were visible beyond its crest.
I pointed. “The driveway entrance is further up the hill.”
“And this?” Hope indicated the storefront on her side of the car.
“Oh, yes. That’s the café.”
She tilted her head. “It’s cute, in a rustic sort of way.”
“Well, I suppose it’s not exactly the Piece de Resistance, but—” We both giggled at the reference to Hope’s employer.
Point Blank Page 16