The man grabbed a handful of her hair and put his face inches from hers. "Walk." He squeezed the word through clenched teeth. "Walk or I'll kill you right here."
As he dragged her along the empty sidewalk, all Mary could think was that she'd waited too long. Her grandmother was up by now, getting dressed and celebrating her phone call. She tried to pull herself from her captor, but every time he held on tighter.
"You don't mess with Billings, lady," he hissed near her ear. "You must've made him crazy mad. He wanted to finish you off himself."
At the next alley, the man pulled her into the deep darkness. "But he asked me to do it instead. Billings likes to keep his hands clean." He swore at her. "Did you really think you could get away from him?" He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against a brick wall.
Dark spots danced before her eyes. No, God, this isn't happening. She had to catch a flight, had to get to her grandma's flat. God . . . please! She struggled to keep her eyelids from closing.
"Too bad." He spat at the ground and grabbed a handful of her hair again. "I could of had a lot of fun with you." He held her hair tight. "Besides . . . Billings told me to make it quick."
Even half conscious, Mary felt something change inside her. An overwhelming sense of victory. Whatever happened from here on, she had Jesus and she had her freedom. And something else. She'd spared Nigel this nightmare. She lifted her chin. He was going to kill her, wasn't he? God... what about my grandma?
I know the plans I have for you, precious daughter.
Peace washed over her. Thank You, Jesus. No matter what happened she believed the words: God had plans for her, and they were good plans. Here or in heaven. Whatever took place in this dark alley, it would all end well because God was good. She met the eyes of her assailant, forcing herself to stay conscious another moment longer. "It doesn't matter . . . what you do to—"
Before she could finish her sentence, the man aimed a gun at her middle and fired. The shot made almost no sound. Before she could move or scream or fully register what had happened, the bullet sliced through her. She could feel it ripping its way through her body, tearing into her flesh and bones and leaving a trail of fiery heat in its wake. The man was gone, and she felt herself slipping, melting down the side of the wall. With all her being she found the strength for one last word . . .
"God!"
The sound of His name echoed loudly in the alley, and suddenly Mary could see something taking shape just above her.
The scene was brilliant and bright and warm and welcoming. As the lines came into focus, she realized what she was seeing. Jesus ... at the right hand of the Father. He was smiling at her, holding out His arms. Welcoming her. The most wonderful feeling washed over her, filling her with a peace and love that made everything she'd ever felt pale in comparison.
And in that moment, she knew that her grandma would be okay and that one day very soon they'd be together again. In the greatest place of all.
Mary drew a final breath and then smiled back at Jesus. He was beckoning her, and she could feel herself moving toward Him. That's when she noticed the most wonderful part. Jesus wasn't sitting at the right hand of the Father. In this, her most dire hour, her most glorious hour, He was doing what He'd done for Stephen.
Jesus was standing.
* * *
Chapter 25
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Emma looked like she might jump to her feet. "But . . . you lived."
Mary felt exhilarated, the way she always felt at this part of the story. She shouldn't have lived,- the doctors and nurses—everyone—told her that. She was alive because of God's miraculous power to save—from the horrors of abuse and lifelong sin and even the piercing of a bullet. Mary smiled. "God wasn't finished with me yet."
"Did . . . did someone find you in the alley?" Emma was breathless, completely wrapped up in the story.
"A husband and wife found me and took me to the hospital. I never got their names. They came at just the right time."
Emma gasped. Fresh understanding seemed to brighten her eyes. "The way . . . you did for me. This morning."
"Exactly like that." Mary was touched deep inside. The awe of it all, the way the Lord continued to show Himself to be all-knowing, all-powerful. Every day she found a new reason to marvel at His power in her life.
Emma pulled the blanket up to her chin. Mary's office had cooled, and it was nearly nine o'clock. "What happened at the hospital? When they took you there?"
"The police contacted Nigel. They figured I might've come from the New Life Center since I was only half a block away." Mary settled back against the sofa. It was never easy, picturing Nigel getting the news. He had cared so much for her. "He was the first person I saw when I woke up at the hospital."
Mary closed her eyes for a moment, and as she began telling this final part of her story, the memory came back in vivid color.
***
She had been dead, right? Jesus had been beckoning her home. But somehow—without explanation—Mary came to in a strange bed. Tubes were in her nose and arms, and the room was filled with unfamiliar noises—soft whooshings and clicks and beeps. She struggled to open her eyes, and there, surrounding her, were half a dozen machines. And close to her bed, sitting in a chair, was Nigel.
As soon as she opened her eyes, he slid closer. "Mary . . ." "You're here." She searched his face. "I thought... I was dead."
His expression was tense, serious. "It was close." He reached out and covered her hand with his. "We almost lost you."
"What about. . . Grandma Peggy?"
"I called her." Nigel held her gaze, worry tugging at the corners of his eyes. "She's praying for you. Every minute."
Mary found a weak smile. Of course she was praying. Her grandma was always praying for her. She put her fingers to her neck. Her throat was dry, and her words didn't come easily. "The shooter ... he was one of Clayton's men. . . ." She still couldn't believe she was having this conversation. How could she be alive? And how kind Nigel was to be here sitting with her. Showing her that same strange and amazing love he'd shown her since the first day she walked through the doors of the New Life Center.
'The police have a lead." Nigel clenched his jaw. "Clayton Billings will go to prison for this." He touched her cheek where it was still swollen from the attack she'd gone through the day before. "He'll go to prison for everything he's done to you."
Mary tried to move, but the pain in her middle was too strong. "I saw Jesus . . . standing, coming to take me ... to heaven."
"No, Mary." His eyes shone. "He was coming to save you."
Nigel stayed with her most of that day and into the night. With every passing hour, he grew more animated, his expression lighter. He talked to Mary about new people at the mission and how God had been showing him more of what he was supposed to spend his life doing. Where he was supposed to go.
Mary listened and secretly hoped that maybe—now that she believed in Jesus the way Nigel did—his future plans might somehow include her. She could go to New York for a little while, but then maybe Nigel could take her with him. Whatever he did next, wherever he went.
As he talked she felt dreamy inside. What would it be like to spend every day with someone so wonderfully unique, someone who glowed with goodness and loved God more than life?
Night came, and finally Nigel left. But the next morning he was back, full of more talk about God.
Mary drank in every word, full of joy despite the pain in her body. She could've spent forever this way, near Nigel, listening to him talk about God's ways and His plans, His wisdom.
Finally, just before lunch, she propped an extra pillow beneath her head and smiled at him. "Nigel ... I'm keeping you. They need you back at the center, so go. I'll be fine."
He opened his mouth, but before he could protest, there was a knock at the door. Nigel looked at her, and his eyes danced. He went to the door and opened it. Standing in the hallway just outside her door, with tears in her eyes, wa
s the kind old woman Mary had searched for and thought of and dreamed about for almost a decade.
"Grandma!" Mary tried to sit up, but she couldn't. Instead she held out a trembling hand. She had come! After all the years of not knowing and not talking, not seeing each other, after all the times when her grandma's last words to her in the small red purse were all that kept her going, she was here. She was actually here.
Nigel was beaming. He stepped aside, and her grandmother came through the door. She was older, certainly. Her hair had more gray and her body was thinner. But she walked easily to Mary's bed, with the mobility and energy of a woman half her age. "Mary . . ." Her voice was a whisper. "Thank God you're alive."
In that moment, Mary saw that something else hadn't changed. Her grandmother still had the same eyes, the eyes full of gentle love and undying faith. Eyes that had been different enough from her mama's that Mary remembered them every day since the last time they'd been together.
Jesus eyes.
Her grandma reached her and took her hand. "I've missed you so much." She leaned close and gently hugged her. Her expression changed as she studied Mary's face—the bruises and swelling. "I'm so sorry." Her voice broke. "If I could've, I would've kept you safe from all of this."
Dampness clouded Mary's eyes. She tried to find her voice, but she couldn't. Instead, with Nigel watching them from several feet away, Mary let her emotions go, let the tears come. There were no words for how much she'd missed her grandmother. She squeezed her eyes shut and brought her grandma's hand to her cheek. "Don't ever leave me." She held on tighter. "Please, Grandma."
"I never will, child." Her grandma came closer, and their cheeks brushed against each other. "As soon as you're well, you're coming home with me."
***
Tears blurred Mary's eyes as she looked at Emma. "Since the day I moved in with my grandma, I haven't gone a day without talking to her, seeing her." She sniffed. "Sorry. It's just. . . she's very frail now. I don't have much time left with her."
Emma sat cross-legged on the cot and let the blanket fall to her waist. "So . . . you went back to New York with her?"
"When I was discharged from the hospital, I spent a day with Nigel at the center. Then, yes, I flew to New York. I enrolled in college that fall, majoring in psychology. And with my grandma's help and encouragement I went on to earn my masters and then my doctorate degree in family counseling." She took a long breath. "After that, Nigel put me in touch with one of the senators here, and, because of my background, I was invited to speak at a hearing about the importance of women's shelters."
"God really did have plans for you." Emma's voice held a level of awe.
"Yes. It was all His design." Mary hesitated, remembering. "After I testified for the senate, the media got ahold of my story—all of it—and ran it on the front page of the New York Times." She made an invisible headline in the air. "'Former Victim Takes Education to the White House.' That sort of thing." Mary smiled. "The outpouring from people was amazing. My grandma and I started a charity, and the donations poured in. At the end of that year I opened my first shelter here in DC." Her voice dropped a notch. "The next winter we found out about Grandma's heart."
"She's sick?"
"Congestive heart failure." Mary raised one shoulder. "There's nothing we can do for her. She's tired, out of energy."
Emma touched her casted arm and frowned. "Mary?"
"Hmmm?" She was tired, drained from the events of the day and the telling of her story.
"Whatever happened with Nigel?" Emma bit her lip. "You said you'd tell me when you reached the end."
Mary felt a gentle whisper of sadness against the edges of her heart. "On the last day we spent together he told me what God had been pressing on his heart."
After so much reminiscing, the memories of that day came vividly to life one last time. . . .
***
It was clothing day at the center, the day needy people from the streets of DC could line up and take a bag of shirts and jeans and sweaters from the donation room.
Mary arrived early and worked alongside Nigel until well after lunch.
Then he motioned her toward his office down the hall. "I need to talk to you."
Suddenly her shoulders felt like someone had flung a load of bricks across them. Her flight to New York was set to leave that night. There was no way around the inevitable. For her and Nigel, this would most likely be good-bye.
When they reached the privacy of his office, he nodded for her to take the chair near the door. He sat on the edge of his desk. For a long time he only stared at her. Then he rested his hands on his knees, and for a moment his gaze dropped. When he looked up again, she knew whatever his plans were, they didn't include her.
"Go ahead." She refused to cry. God had brought her to Nigel; He would show her a way to live without him.
"I'll be leaving the mission at the end of the month. Someone from Chicago is coming to run it after I'm gone."
For a few beats, Mary held her breath. Maybe he was taking over at a mission in New York City. She waited for him to explain.
"My parents are older, my brothers are married and have children." He rubbed the back of his neck. "They are all in Portugal." His tone became the passionate one she was familiar with when he talked about mission work. "So many people there in my hometown need to know about Jesus. And now— " his eyes lit up some—"there is a position for a mission director there. Five miles from my parents' house."
The pain was sure and swift, slicing into Mary's heart and making her grip the edge of the chair. He was leaving the country. For an instant she still wanted to cry out to him, beg him to take her with him. But clearly that wasn't part of his plan, and she wouldn't make the moment awkward. Her heart dropped. Almost certainly this would be the last time she'd see him this side of heaven.
She found the saddest hint of a smile. "Good, Nigel." She would be happy for him, no matter how much the news hurt. "That's perfect for you."
Nigel studied her. Twice he opened his mouth and both times he seemed to change his mind about speaking. Then he exhaled hard and shook his head. "If I were a different man . . ." His eyes held a longing she hadn't seen before. "I decided years ago that my life would be God's completely. That He would be enough for me. But you . . ." He stood and held his hand out to her.
She came, but with measured steps, the realization of what he was saying dawning slowly like morning in her soul. "You love me, don't you, Nigel?"
He took both her hands in his, and his eyes shone light on the darkest places in her heart. "I do." He worked the muscles in his jaw, clearly battling a struggle she knew nothing of. "But not the way I sometimes want to." He rubbed his thumbs over the tops of her hands. "I love you the way Jesus loves you . . . and I always will." His voice grew thick. "When I move back to Portugal, I will think of you every day, Mary Madison."
Her eyes grew teary, but she didn't blink, didn't dare move. This was the good-bye she'd been dreading and then some. Because he cared for her more than even he knew. She swallowed hard. "And I . . . will think of you, Nigel."
"Still—" he clenched his teeth, struggling more than before—"I cling to the promises of Christ. That He alone is enough, that He is all I need." He squeezed her hands. "All you need too. That serving Him is all the life, all the love I could ever want, all by itself."
Mary nodded, and a resolve built inside her. This was why Jesus had saved her, so she could live a life like Nigel's— wholly devoted to Christ in ministry. So she could show Jesus to battered and hurting women, giving them the chance at freedom her mama never knew.
She reached up and brushed her fingers against Nigel's cheek. "I understand."
"I won't write often. It would be too easy to become confused, distracted. To start thinking my love for you is something . . . something more than the love Jesus has for you."
She nodded.
Then Nigel pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her for a long time. He held
her the way he'd held her that first night, when he had explained the love of Jesus better than anyone ever had before.
She stayed at the center through dinner, working with Nigel and his staff. That evening she sat in on Nigel's class. This time it was about the apostle Peter and his determination to follow Jesus—even when his faith was shaky.
"The problem," Nigel told the class, "was that once in a while Peter had a tendency to take his eyes off Jesus. For Peter, that was when he'd start to sink." He looked at Mary in the back of the room. "We must . . . must keep our eyes on Jesus. No matter what our flesh tells us."
Mary nodded, and even with the ache in her heart, she smiled and mouthed the words / will.
Their good-bye was a quick hug after class, with a cab waiting a few feet outside the center's front door to take Mary to the airport.
Nigel took her hand. "When 1 first prayed for you, I could hear God telling me that you—Mary Madison—were the reason I came to Washington, DC." He took a step back and released her hand. "Go change the world for Christ, Mary."
Her heart soared and broke through the clouds of sorrow. He believed in her! It was his final gift to her. Before she stepped into the cab, she took a final look at him. "I won't forget you."
"Nor I, you."
***
Mary hugged herself. Their good-bye hurt still, the way it always would. She let the memory fade as she looked at Emma. "That's how things ended with Nigel." She sat a little straighter, ordering her heart to get back in line. "Once a year he writes to me, tells me about the lives of people changed by Christ at his mission in Portugal. I do the same, telling him about the abuse shelters and how many women—" she smiled at Emma—"like you. God keeps bringing into my life."
Emma looked at the dark window for a long time. Her chin trembled. "Your story is amazing."
"Jesus rescued me from everything that trapped me. My fear and deception, my pain and my addiction. My faithlessness and promiscuity." She took a breath. "Even my desire to end my life. It's all in the past now."
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