Bloody Point (24 page)

He waited another half hour, then crept down the stairs, avoiding
steps five and three, the creaky ones. He stopped in the kitchen, got some ice
from the refrigerator, and put it in a zippered plastic bag. The doctor had
told him not to ice the burn but it hurt so much, he had to do something. He
poured a glass of water, then went out into the sunroom, unsure of how he was
going to get through the night between the pain in his arm and the pain in his
heart.

He didn’t want to leave Trudy’s. There was something about
her home and something about her that was like an oasis. When he thought about
leaving, loneliness swept over him like a wave. The idea of going to live in a
hotel room or an apartment made him feel sick. He didn’t want to leave.

Still he had to do it. He wasn’t being fair to Trudy.
Dropping his problems on her was stifling her very life and hurting her. Her
sadness told him that.

He had to call Craig. He had to do it now.

There was a cordless phone in the kitchen. He retrieved it,
and left a message on Craig’s voice mail at work, forgetting that the next day
was Sunday. Craig always checked it first thing in the morning. “Find me a
place, Craig,” he said. “I need to leave.”

Now if he could just get through the night.

The windows in the sunroom were open. The air had become
oppressive. The humidity had been building all day, and the promised
thunderstorms, sure to bring some relief, had not materialized. He stood at the
window, staring into the dark, inhaling the thick air. Off in the distance he
could hear thunder. The gathering storm mimicked the one inside him.

Counting his losses, he stared at his right hand. Recently
he’d begun to have more feeling in it, and that was good, but it was still
useless. With no grip, it was almost worse than not having a hand at all. A
hook would be an improvement.

And now his left arm. The burn was deep. The pain was still
nearly unbearable. It would heal, but he would have a scar. Not a big deal. But
burns were prone to infection and if he got one …

The blackouts, now they were the biggest problem. Brain
surgery was risky, but if he didn’t have it, he could look forward to spending
the rest of his life as a useless drain on people, unable to work, unable to
drive, unable to walk around in public, unable to burn a pile of wood, for
crying out loud.

And that, he couldn’t take.

Jake sucked in a deep breath. He felt like there was a
mountain inside his chest, something that was as heavy and oppressive as the
air. Restless, he moved to the other side of the room. Unfortunately, the
mountain moved with him, as it always did. He couldn’t shake it. It was there
as usual, weighing down his chest and stifling him.

He wished he knew who had assaulted him. He wished he had a
name and a face to match up with the pain and the injury of it. The frustration
of not knowing who had hit him, coupled with his inability to search for the
perpetrator himself was like a threshing machine in his soul, constantly
churning. And Mike … had Mike been murdered? By the same guy?

Jazz looked at him expectantly. She dropped a ball at his
feet. Jake patted her on the head. “It’s the middle of the night,” he
whispered. “Not time to play ball.”

The house was so quiet. Outside the sunroom, the night
insects were chirping and from somewhere a lone dog barked. The sweet smell of
the rose bushes right outside the window triggered bittersweet memories: his
mother’s funeral, his own wedding, a bouquet he’d bought for Tam in better
days.

Jake turned away. His head was pounding and his jaw ached. He
wanted something, but he didn’t know what it was, some relief, some hope, some
reason to keep living. If he couldn’t work, and couldn’t see his kids …

Sensing the Pit opening behind him, he looked around for a
distraction. His problems, his pain, his past, and the unknown future were
overwhelming.

Jake sat down on the couch, and a groan escaped him. There
was a book on the corner table, a book Trudy had left open. She must have been
reading it before she went to bed. Of course it was a Bible. Desperate for
distraction, Jake picked it up.

He began to read:

When they came to the other disciples, they saw a large
crowd around them and the teachers of the law arguing with them. As soon as all
the people saw Jesus, they were overwhelmed with wonder and ran to greet him.

“What are you arguing with them about?” he asked.

A man in the crowd answered, “Teacher, I brought you my
son, who is possessed by a spirit that has robbed him of speech. Whenever it
seizes him, it throws him to the ground. He foams at the mouth, gnashes his
teeth, and becomes rigid. I asked your disciples to drive out the spirit, but
they could not.”

“O unbelieving generation,” Jesus replied, “how long shall
I stay with you? How long shall I put up with you? Bring the boy to me.”

Jake stopped. His eyes were burning. The heaviness in his
chest seemed to increase and he opened his mouth and took a deep breath. What
was this? Whenever it “seized him”? Seizures? Back then?

Outside, lightning flashed, momentarily brightening the room.
He continued reading.

So they brought him. When the spirit saw Jesus, it
immediately threw the boy into a convulsion. He fell to the ground, and rolled
around, foaming at the mouth.

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like
this?”

“From childhood,” he answered. “It has often thrown him
into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and
help us.”

Jake slammed the Bible shut and stood up. He walked over to
the windows. He realized he was sweating. He wiped his brow with his right arm
and touched his chest. His heart felt like it was being squeezed. Lightning
flashed again, briefly penetrating the darkness. Everything was illuminated for
a moment: the trees, the yard, flowers, bushes … then the darkness fell again.

The story was like a magnet, drawing him back across the
room, but he resisted. He tried looking around for something else to do,
started to leave the room. …

But he couldn’t. He paced back over to where the book was and
picked it up. A ribbon marker took him back to the right spot. His heart was
racing. Why? He wanted to see, but he didn’t want to see. He wanted to know,
but something within him still resisted.

Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like
this?”

“From childhood,” he answered. “It has often thrown him
into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and
help us.”

“‘If you can?’” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for
him who believes.”

“Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe;
help me overcome my unbelief.”

A bead of sweat dripped off Jake’s brow and onto the thin
pages.
Help my unbelief. That’s where I am
, he thought,
I want
something, I need something bigger than this life and its problems. Something
that makes sense. But I just don’t believe.
He read on.

When Jesus saw that a crowd was running to the scene, he
rebuked the evil spirit. “You deaf and mute spirit,” he said, “I command you,
come out of him and never enter him again.”

The spirit shrieked, convulsed him violently, and came
out. The boy looked so much like a corpse that many said, “He’s dead.” But
Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him to his feet, and he stood up.

An involuntary cry escaped Jake’s lips. He jumped to his
feet. “Oh, Jesus! I wish I knew if this were true! Is this really true?” He
took a deep breath. So many people believed. Mike. Trudy. Craig. Cassie, at
least at one time. “If you’re real,” he whispered, “please help me. Please show
me! Please. Oh, God!”

And then something collapsed within him and he fell face
forward on the floor. Tears began to flow, and all of the frustration, all of
the anger, all of the despair, all of the grief boiled up and spilled over.

“Jesus!” he cried out. The cover of the Bible was wet with
his tears. “Jesus, if you could heal this kid then, you can heal me now! Oh,
God, I can’t live like this! I can’t do it! Please, for my sake and the sake of
my children, please, Jesus, oh, please, please take these seizures away.”

Jake lay on the floor, his tears flowing freely. He felt weak
and incompetent, like a little child, at the end of his rope, broken. And then
something happened. It began as a heat that started in his feet, and progressed
up his legs, and then saturated his torso, and ran out through his arms, and
then filled his head. And it was heat and light all at the same time, a warmth
that he had never known before. His tears stopped, and he lay perfectly still.

And he knew in his heart, he was in the presence of God. No
one had ever described to him what it felt like, but he knew God was there. He
couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to. He felt incredibly calm, at peace. And there
was something else … pleasure, or joy … he wasn’t sure what to call it.

Jake just lay there, welcoming the heat, and he felt like he
was being washed all the way through, inside out, from beginning to end. And
after a while the sensation faded, yet he still lay there, wishing he could
stay there forever, longing for more.

Finally, he raised his head. Jazz was lying on the floor six
feet away, watching him intently, her head on her paws, her stub of a tail
wagging madly, two tennis balls four inches from her nose.

And Jake Tucker laughed out loud.

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 24

W
HEN Trudy walked into
the sunroom at half past seven, a bowl of cereal in her hand, she was surprised
to see Jake stretched out on the couch, sound asleep, Jazz lying next to him on
the floor.

She started to back out quietly, to avoid waking him up, but
Jake opened his eyes. When he saw her, he smiled. “You are not going to believe
this,” he said, sitting up.

But she did.

† † †

Rick invited Cassie to go sailing again on Sunday, and she
accepted, volunteering to bring lunch. They sailed north, toward Sandy Point,
and then up toward the Sassafras River. Cassie toyed with the idea of talking
to Rick about Schneider’s murder, but she held back. Why ruin a beautiful day?

Maybe that was the same reason she ignored her cell phone
message, and her answering machine messages at her apartment. Maybe she just
didn’t want to ruin a beautiful day with whatever hassles those messages were
bringing. Selfish? Maybe.

The cat slid cleanly through the water, picking up the sullen
breeze more readily than a monohull would have. With as many dog days as the
Chesapeake had in the summer, Cassie could understand why people might like the
swifter, lighter catamarans.

It felt so good to be out in the sun and the air, so much
better than being stuck in an office. Even when she was an agent, she’d gotten
out as much as she could. There were many other boats out on the Bay, white
sails, red sails, gold Mylar sails reaching for the wind. An old joke asked,
“What do you call two sailboats going the same direction?” The answer: “A
race.” And that was certainly true today. Cassie had to laugh. As the wind picked
up, Rick’s catamaran outran every sailboat that took them on, and she could
tell, he liked that.

Around lunchtime, they anchored in a cove and she pulled out
the sandwiches and fruit she’d brought. They ate and talked and when they were
done, they went for a swim. The water was so refreshing. When they had cooled
off, they climbed aboard the cat again, and Rick raised the anchor and started
the engine, eased out into the Bay and then raised the sail again. Soon they
were skimming over the water with the wind in their faces.

At the end of the day, Rick suggested dinner, at a local
seafood place only the natives knew about, and Cassie agreed. They pulled up to
the dock and tied off. Crabby’s crabcakes were the best, the perfect ending to
a day on the Bay.

On Monday, Cassie worked on her Oxford story, anxious to get
it down while her impressions were still fresh. When the story was done she’d
be free to call Craig and tell him what she’d learned about Scrub. So she
worked hard and by the time she got around to listening to her messages and
calling Trudy back, it was Monday evening. Cassie’s heart dropped when she
heard about Jake’s burn. It struck her as curious that Trudy wasn’t more
concerned. Surely Jake was furious. Surely he needed some encouragement. Cassie
told Aunt Trudy she’d be over the next afternoon, and Trudy said that was fine,
Craig Campbell would be coming then, too.

When Cassie pulled up in Aunt Trudy’s driveway, Craig’s
Bureau car was already there. It was half past four. It had taken her longer to
fine-tune her Oxford story than she’d thought it would, and traffic was slow
coming over the bridge.

Cassie walked in and yelled, “Hello!” and followed the sound
of voices back to the kitchen.

The moment Cassie saw Jake she sensed something was different.
She was expecting depression, pain, and more discouragement. But he was
energized, like somebody had turned a switch on.

“Hey, girl!” he cried out, and he grabbed her in a bear hug.
Over his shoulder, Cassie saw Aunt Trudy smiling and even Craig had a satisfied
look on his face.

Cassie frowned slightly. “What’s gotten into you?”

Jake just grinned. “Nothing.”

“C’mon, what’s going on?” Cassie looked from Jake to Trudy to
Craig. Everyone was smiling. “Let me see that burn. For crying out loud, Jake,”
she said holding out his arm, “that’s horrible.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Jake withdrew his arm and glanced
at Trudy.

Cassie’s heart was thumping. Something was up.

Then, standing in the kitchen, Jake told his story … the
anger, the doubt, the guilt, the Bible story, the despair, the crying out to
God, and the response, everything that had happened to him. “It was
unbelievable,” he said. “Absolutely unreal.”

There was silence in the room when he finished. Cassie’s
heart was beating loudly, like a war drum. Her head felt tight. She felt hot,
then cold. “So you think that was God?” she asked abruptly.

“Something happened … I don’t know what. But yes, I think it
was God. In fact, I know it was God. And here’s the best part. I haven’t had a
seizure since. And I’m wondering if maybe I’ve been healed.”

Cassie’s heart twisted. “It’s only been since …”

“Saturday night. Three days.”

“So why would you think you’d been healed?” she demanded.

Jake shrugged. “I’m not sure, it’s just … no seizures. And I
feel totally different.”

“What about your hand?” She grabbed his arm. “Let me see your
hand, Jake.”

He pulled away. “Not the hand,” he said softly. “The
seizures, Cass. That’s what I asked for.”

Cassie opened her mouth to challenge him again but choked on
her own rage. She started to turn away, then she turned back and, her anger
exploding, she shoved Jake, hard, and cried out, “Why you?”

Shocked, he took a step back.

“Why you?” she screamed, and she burst into tears. “Do you
have any idea how much we prayed for Mike?” Her voice grew louder, filling the
kitchen and bouncing off the walls. There was no containing her rage. “Do you
know how many hours people spent on their knees begging God to save Mike?
Laying hands on him? Anointing him with oil? We trusted God! We believed God!
But Mike died! He died! And you think you’re healed? Why you? Oh, God, why you?
What’s so special about you?” And Cassie began sobbing.

“I’m sorry … ” Jake tried to touch her to comfort her but she
shoved him away. Trudy and Craig looked at each other.

“I can’t believe this!” she yelled. “Oh, God, it’s so unfair!
And stupid! It’s unfair and stupid!”

Trudy moved to her niece and wrapped her arms around Cassie.
“Cassie, honey, come with me. Stop it now, come with me.”

Cass pulled away and challenged Jake. “What makes you think
you’re healed? What?”

He looked at her, pained and puzzled.

“Oh, God!” Cassie yelled.

“Cass, come on,” and Aunt Trudy put her arm around Cassie’s
waist and led her into the sunroom.

Jake, stunned, watched them go. He felt Craig’s hand on his
shoulder. “I never expected that,” Jake said.

• • •

Cassie had to get away. Despite Trudy’s protests, and Jake
and Craig’s attempts to talk to her, Cassie left. She could not bear to be
there any longer. She drove home, tears streaming down her face, and she lay
awake most of the night, just staring at the ceiling.

• • •

Jake sat on Trudy’s back steps, scratching Jazz’s head,
thinking about Cassie. He heard the door open, and Trudy came out and sat
beside him. Craig had left, and the house seemed very quiet.

The night air was chilly. “I didn’t expect that reaction,”
Jake said, glancing at Trudy.

“She still has a lot to work through, Jake.”

“What she said, ‘Why you?’ I realized that’s something I have
no answer for. Why me? Why not Mike?”

Trudy rubbed her hands, carefully formulating her answer.
“Jake, God is God. He does things for reasons we can’t fathom. He doesn’t
always do things the way we want Him to. Jesus healed a blind man named
Bartimaeus, but when Paul asked God to remove some ‘thorn in the flesh,’ God
said, ‘No, my grace is sufficient for you.’ He has different purposes at
different times for different people. Who can understand it? No one. So we
accept what he gives us, and learn to trust Him … just trust Him. We can’t make
God do things. He’s God.”

“How do I know if what happened to me was for real?”

“You mean, if it wasn’t just your imagination?”

He nodded.

“How are you different now than you were before Saturday
night?”

Jake hesitated. That was a tough question. Everything seemed
different, but how could he characterize it? “I know God is there,” he began,
“and Jesus is real to me now. And I really want to know more about Him. It’s
like a whole new world has opened up to me. Everything seems different. And
when I was lying there, on the floor of the sunroom, feeling what I sensed was
God’s presence … suddenly, my problems didn’t seem so important.”

Trudy smiled and put her arm around his shoulders and gave
him a quick hug. “Jesus changes people’s lives, Jake. That’s one way you know.
And we can talk about the rest later. Cassie’s got to deal with God on her own.
God touched you in a very unusual way, Jake. You just be grateful for that and
enjoy it. He loves you very much.”

† † †

Rockfish were probably the Chesapeake Bay’s most important
sport fish. Delicious to eat and challenging to catch, the rockfish was
Maryland’s state fish.

Oh my gosh, who cares?
Cassie looked away from her
computer screen as tears welled in her eyes. Mike. He’d never come back. She’d
never feel his arms around her again, never lay her head on his chest.

Cassie got up from her desk and rushed out of the newsroom as
tears began running down her cheeks. She was aware of the stares of others:
James Lee, Brett, Shonika … she hurried into the ladies’ room.

Shonika followed her. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“It’s nothing,” Cassie protested, mopping her face with a
rough paper towel.

“It’s got to be something, honey.” Shonika hugged her.

Cassie wouldn’t answer.

“Tell me. Is it about some man?” There was no answer. Shonika
lowered her voice. “Is it about your husband?”

Cassie looked at her, surprised.

“Len told me. He said your husband died. That’s so sad.”

The tears flowed again.

“Did he know the Lord?” Shonika asked.

Cassie nodded.

“Then he’s in heaven. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Now do you think he’d want to look down here and see you
crying like this?”

Cassie didn’t answer.

“Of course he would, honey! A little anyway! That’s what
happens when we love people … we’re sad when they die. You just go ahead and
cry, baby. You deserve a few tears.”

“No, no,” Cassie said, and she blotted her face and walked
away.

Cassie lasted until noon, and then she told her editor she
was taking the rest of the day off. She got in her car and turned left out of
the parking lot, toward Glen Lane.

Glen Lane. The place Mike was run off the road. Jake had
offered to bring her here six months ago, but Cassie was afraid to leave Mike
alone in the hospital, and after he died, she lost all interest. Why would she
want to visit a death scene?

And now she couldn’t stay away. Mike was dead. God let him
die. She had to see for herself where the murder took place.

Murder. How strange that that word would be associated with
her husband! Murder was something they dealt with professionally, of course.
Murder was a frequent topic of classes on death-scene investigations and
forensics and evidence collection.

But now, murder was personal.

Cassie wove her way through the streets of suburban Annapolis
to the winding road leading south, toward the old beaches. A tear fell onto her
map. She found Glen Lane, turned onto it, and followed its twists and turns,
past small Cape Cod houses and larger colonials, past parks and business
clusters, ball fields and schools. Her stomach grew tighter.

It had happened in the 3200 block. She’d read the police
report; Craig had gotten it for her. Seeing Mike’s death reduced to a form
report seemed ludicrous, like describing the effects of an atom bomb using only
mathematics. As Cassie approached the scene, her mouth went dry.

She pulled off at the spot where there was a break in the
trees and the edge of the road dropped off sharply. There was no guardrail
there. Cassie got out and began walking along the shoulder, searching for scuff
marks, gravel displacement, anything that might be a remnant of Mike’s
accident. She felt like she was walking in a shrine.

Leaving the road, she inched her way down the steep slope,
sliding in spots, grabbing roots and rocks to steady herself. The car had
flipped over and over, the report said, down this very hill. At the bottom, the
woods angled over, and an old oak stood at the edge.

That was the tree. Cassie approached it cautiously, like it
was a holy place, and she touched its scarred trunk. It had been six months but
the marks were still there. They always would be. As her fingers traced the
rough bark, she inhaled the scent of the wood. She looked at the lines and
crevices as if there was a clue to the mystery in their pattern. She studied
it, and then slipped down to the ground and sat down beneath its branches.
Leaning her cheek against it, she closed her eyes. From the branches above a
bird called to its mate.

She opened her eyes and touched the gold cross around her
neck. She picked up a handful of soil and let it fall between her fingers.
Reaching out again, her hand touched something. From under the leaves she
pulled out a fragment of red plastic, perhaps a piece of brake light from
Mike’s car. Cassie carefully put it in her pocket, like a sacred relic.

The tree would survive despite the accident. The oak was
strong, sturdy, deeply-rooted. Looking up she could see an abundance of leaves
and on one branch, about thirty feet up, the nest of a squirrel. She looked
again at the scar on the trunk, touched once again the cross on her neck, and
let her tears flow. She put her forehead against the tree and her tears bumped
over the rough bark and ran like a salve across the scar. After a while Cassie
knew it was time to go.