Deadline (34 page)

“This was my home. The other place was like a rented room. I knew I was just passin’ through, and when you’re just passin’ through you don’t get too attached. We loved those Scriptures that said this was our home. We loved the reminders we were pilgrims, aliens, strangers in a foreign country. ‘Our citizenship is in heaven, from which we await a Savior.’” Zeke laughed. “I said that verse so many times a day, Elyon himself must have gotten tired of it, and he wrote it!”

Finney laughed right along with Zeke, and even Zyor seemed to find humor in it.

“See, Finney, for all the same reasons the rich and comfortable loved their homes on earth and didn’t relish the thought of leaving them, we looked forward to the final day and the long tomorrow. That’s the reason for our songs—‘Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home.”’

Now Zeke broke into song, his beautiful baritone resonating with emotion. “‘Soon I will be done with the troubles of the world, goin’ home to live wid God. No more weepin’ and a wailin’, I’m goin to live wid God.”’

Finney saw, in his mind’s eye, Zeke standing in torn clothes, working in a field, back bent from fourteen-hour days. This often happened when he met new friends here—their bodies were windows to their character, and their character had been molded by their past on earth. So when one became familiar with another, he always learned the story of how he had served Elyon on earth. Finney was constantly reminded that no one’s life in the other world was forgotten and irrelevant, but had ongoing and vital links to his identity in this one.

“That song was on your lips when you left the dark world,” Zyor said to Zeke.

“Was it now? I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“There is much I have not told you yet, old friend. And there is no hurry here.”

Zeke looked at Finney. “We were privileged, you and I. Zyor was an ace of a guardian.”

“The best,” Finney replied.

“I longed for your freedom, Master Zeke.” Zyor’s head hung now, and in a flash he moved from sadness to fury.

“Every time they whipped you I begged Elyon to let me break their arms. Twice he let me strike them, only twice in forty years. I agonized when I could not hold back those who hunted you down or defeat the evil spirits that compelled them.”

Finney now saw Zeke running across a river, with a pack of dogs and six men, rifles in hand, chasing him.

“And if you’d succeeded, I wouldn’t have come to Elyon’s world when I did, which would have been my loss.”

Finney watched Zeke’s right shoulder explode, blood discoloring the foliage. But somehow he kept running, and for some reason the dogs ran another direction.

“I made it to the railroad. They were the kindest white people I ever met—present company excepted, Mister Finney. It was good to die in their arms, rather than be eaten by the dogs in the woods and paraded home as another captured nigger. They had sad eyes in the railroad. And that made me trust them. The sad-eyed people knew pain, and often they knew Elyon. The steely-eyed ones, they thought they had life by the tail. They’d sooner spit on you than give you the time o’ day. I feel sorry for them now. My hardship was just for a time. Theirs is for eternity. And here I am. Ol’Zeke. Walkin the streets of heaven with the likes of Zyor and Finney. And Zyor calls me ‘Master.’ You think it didn’t take a while to get over that one?”

Zeke let out the heartiest laugh Finney had heard since coming to heaven.

“So don’t fret about not being able to save me, Zyor. Elyon is sovereign over the smallest things, from the hairs on your head to the flip of a coin. There’s a purpose in everything. Even if we don’t understand it till we get here.”

Suddenly something inside him seized hold of Zeke.

“The birthing room. I’ve got to go to the birthing room. Somebody’s comin’! Are you with me, gents?”

Zyor and Finney moved rapidly alongside Zeke. The journey was a long one by earth’s standards, but no sooner had they gotten moving than they were there, as if the speed of thought took over and their sense of urgency created a shortcut through heaven’s version of space and time.

On the other side of the portal was a tiny black boy lying in an all-white hospital bed, his mother and father holding each others’ hands and clutching on to the boy, as if to keep him from going anywhere. Finney could feel heaven’s tug on the boy, and his spirit seemed to be pushing toward the portal by its own will.

“That’s Bobby. He’s got leukemia. Been hard on his ma and pa. He’s suffered pretty bad, though they’ve sure taken good care of him. Doctor’s have come a long way since my time, but when a little one hurts, everyone hurts.”

I know
, Finney thought. His mind went back to Jenny’s death. Suddenly he wanted to go find her and hug her again.

“I knew it would be soon,” Zeke said. “He caught a glimpse of me three days ago by his time. He saw me in this robe and thought I was an angel!”

Zeke angled his elbow upwards and poked Zyor in the ribs. The angel gave an almost-grin, as if it were a human ability he couldn’t quite get right, but wanted to.

“Me, an angel! When he woke up for a minute, you know what he said? He said, ‘Mama, I saw an angel. And, Mama, he was black!’”

Zeke laughed heartily again.

“To me, these angels up here look like they’ve taken on a middle eastern dark brown. But I guess Bobby expected white. His mama got the biggest kick out of the black angel. She’s told everybody. When someone’s dyin’, people need something to laugh at. Of course, they all thought he was delirious. They never knew he really saw me. Me, the black angel!”

Zeke whooped, and a lot more laughter joined his. Finney realized the room was now crowded with people, most of them black, all of them indescribably beautiful, wearing their character on the outside as if it were a bride’s wedding dress. He caught impressions of great stories, great suffering, and great joy. He wanted to experience their stories now, but reminded himself “there is no hurry here.”

Zeke pressed forward and leaned over in expectation, pointing and leaning so far into the portal Finney wondered if his hand would appear on the other side.

“Zyor knows this, Mister Finney, but I should tell you. That woman there is my great granddaughter, and Bobby is my great great grandson. Me and Nancy used to pray for our children and their children’s children, that they would know better days. And Elyon blessed us with all these good people you see here. I’m the patriarch of this whole bunch! I was here in this room to greet every one of them. I guess you’d say I was the midwife, eh Zy?”

His elbow flew at the big angel again. Finney had never imagined anyone calling him Zy, but there was no complaint.

“There’s Nancy now! Get over here, woman! Bobby can’t come till you’re here with me. That was Elyon’s promise to us, remember?”

Nancy was strikingly beautiful. Elyon had obviously used her hardships to make her into someone very special.

Looking at Finney, Zeke explained, “Elyon said to us, ‘You were faithful to me. In every generation of your line there will be some who will follow me, and it will be your honor, both of you, to welcome them to my world.’

“I’ve been longin’ to hold little Bobby. He’s suffered enough. It’s time for rest. It’s time for him to be able to run and play, and to eat and drink without tubes. It’s time, Elyon, it’s time, all-wise God.”

Zeke’s voice was now strong and focused and carried authority.

“Please, my God, bring him home now. Pull up the anchor and let him sail ’cross the lake. Now, Elyon, please bring him to us now!”

Nancy sighed her heartfelt agreement with the prayer.

Suddenly there was a mad rush of wind. The portal to the dark world strained and twisted. It was like the final stage of labor. Finney now saw the view from heaven’s side of the birthing room. A huge warriorlike figure slipped through to the side, out of the limelight, quietly welcomed and congratulated by Zyor and several other angels. Suddenly there was Bobby, popping through the portal into Zeke’s arms. He wore not the blue hospital gown but a beautiful white robe that fit perfectly, as if sown precisely for him and no one else. His eyes grew big, and he reached his tiny hand up to touch Zeke’s craggy face. A tear ran down Zeke’s cheek. Bobby caught it on his index finger and looked at it. Zeke held him tight.

“Welcome to heaven, Bobby.”

Bobby smiled wonderfully. “It doesn’t hurt any more.” He looked at Zeke and asked, “Are you Jesus?”

There were several hearty laughs, Nancy’s the loudest.

“No, Bobby,” Zeke replied. “Once you see Jesus, you’ll know there’s no face like his.”

“I know who you are,” Bobby said. “You’re the angel!”

The whole crowd laughed this time, and Zeke threw Bobby up into the air and caught him. He giggled and giggled. Everyone came up close to touch and hold the boy, in the way that you do someone you’ve loved and watched and prayed for from afar, but never been able to touch till now. Finney stepped back to give them room, feeling privileged to witness such intimate moments. Nancy held Bobby the longest, before surrendering him back to Zeke.

Suddenly there was a bright light and a powerful but gentle presence, divine and yet fully human. It was Elyon’s Son. Everyone turned toward him in wonder, dropping on their knees. Zeke was right. There was no face like his. He was shorter than the angels, man-sized. Yet those hands had towed heavy lumber up a long lonely hill, and eons before had fashioned the galaxies themselves. The sheer force of his presence dwarfed the mightiest angel. Strangely, his eyes were moist and heavy. Finney realized the Carpenter had just gone through the agony with Bobby and his family.

“Rise, my friends. I come to join your celebration. It’s time to prepare a special feast. Bobby has arrived!”

The Christ’s eyes held those of the child, whose jaw hung open in wonder, his pearly white teeth perfectly matching his robe.

“You can’t hold him forever, Zeke. Give him to me!”

Zeke reverently held out the child, and the Creator and Lover of children took him into his arms. Turning only to say “we will see you all at the feast,” he walked away with Bobby.

Where they went, Finney did not know, though he watched as Elyon’s Son put Bobby to the ground for the first time, and the boy took his first uncertain Bambi steps in heaven, followed by running and jumping and yelling and falling without being hurt, wildly flailing arms he hadn’t had the strength to lift in a year.

Finney thought of the time he had spent alone with Elyon’s Son after his own birth into this world. It was the most wonderful experience he’d ever had. He could only rejoice for Bobby at the undivided attention he was now receiving. Yet here all attention was Elyon’s attention, and Finney drew closer to him every day, not only through their direct interaction, but through the indescribable way he spoke to him through each of his creatures, both men and angels.

Zeke looked back at the portal. For a moment his joy was tempered by what he saw. Bobby’s parents wept.

“This is the hard part. We understand what they as yet cannot. They’re going to miss him terribly. Lead us in prayer for them, will you, Finney?”

Finney prayed, he wasn’t sure how long, his thoughts linking with others to put invisible arms around Bobby’s family. He well remembered the day he and Sue and Angie and Little Finn had lost someone so dear to them they thought they couldn’t bear to survive another hour. Elyon and his people had comforted them. And now, at last, he’d been reunited with Jenny. He was no longer on the underside of the tapestry, where all you could see were the snarls and knots and frays. He was now on the top side, where he saw the beautiful work of art woven by the Master Artist.

“O God, give them strength to trust you and walk with you despite the blows from the last enemy, Death. Help them to know you understand how it feels to have your son suffer and die. Help them to anticipate the glorious reunion with Bobby.”

As he finished the prayer, it occurred to Finney that after Jenny’s death, his mother had no doubt prayed for him and Sue, just as he and Zeke and Nancy and Zyor prayed for Bobby’s parents. He made a mental note—with no fear of forgetting—to join Zeke and Nancy in the birthing room for each reunion between Bobby and his family members.

Suddenly he caught a glimpse of Jake, Janet, and Carly in an apartment living room in another world. He prayed for them, longing for them to one day experience the great reunion.

Some of the crowd began to disperse, several excitedly making arrangements, deciding the feast would have to be just so, and saying Bobby hadn’t eaten a normal earth meal for so long, and wait until he was served not only the best food in the universe but discovered his vastly improved capacity to taste.

Zeke and Nancy stayed where they were, exchanging hugs and handshakes and backslaps with dozens of great-grandmothers and great-aunts and great-uncles, all chattering on and on about the goodness of Elyon, and how another of their family had come home.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he seventeen-year-old girl put down the book, heavily underlined. She had considered her options carefully. While this one was messy, it was at least fast. She looked through the medicine cabinet and found the hidden pack of blades for Mom’s old-style razor. Carly removed one of the blades, looking at it carefully to be sure it was new and sharp.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub. Her eyes were empty. The will to live was gone and in its place was a power from somewhere else, a power that gave her the will to die. Deliberately she lowered the blade to her wrist, to just the right place the book had described.

With a sudden slashing motion she chose death over life. Blood gushed from her wrist, which she’d been careful to hold over the bathtub, wanting to make as little mess as possible for her mother. Carly turned pale and slumped into the tub, her life flowing down the drain.

Suddenly, with a strength that shouldn’t have been in her, she looked toward someone at the bathroom door, someone watching her, and screamed, “You did this to me. It’s your fault. I hate you! I hate you!”

“Carly! No! No! Don’t! Carly!” Jake jumped out of bed, turned a circle, and ran to his door, flipping on the overhead light and frantically looking back into his room. Champ was on alert, trying to find the enemy, not sure whether to bark or at what. Jake kept looking around the room and saw the clock that said 4:30 A.M.

Then he stepped quickly to his bathroom, turned on the glaring light, and looked in the bright white tub. It was empty. He sat on the bathtub’s edge. For some reason he turned on the water. He sat motionless for five minutes while the water ran.

Jake pulled up close against the curb right before Sue’s driveway, tucking in next to the familiar maple tree. He remembered when the tree was young and small, back when Finney and Sue had moved here twenty years ago. Now it towered, still looking majestic despite losing more of itself every day to the ravages of late fall. Even as he watched, a yellowish-purple leaf fell, sashaying its way down, picking up one gentle gust after another, like a hang glider trying to catch the right current to postpone its inevitable appointment with the ground. It was mid-November, and a shivery Oregon winter took its turn at the season’s helm.

Jake sat in the Mustang reviewing the morning’s events. He’d called Janet at 6:45 to make sure Carly was okay, asking her to check in on the room where her little girl slept, just to make sure. Janet could sense something in his voice, she always could, but of course he didn’t tell her about the dream. He said he was just checking. She said that was nice, but sounded worried about him. He hadn’t gone back to bed since the dream, and felt like he never would.

Still a few minutes early and not eager to go in, he got out and looked at the maple tree, pondering whether it was really possible someone stooped over by this tree, then crawled under Doc’s Suburban. Someone with an ordinary hacksaw and an extraordinary thirst to kill. Jake examined the concrete driveway, wishing the ground could talk and wondering what story it would tell. He wasn’t looking forward to walking into a room of anti-abortionists, where everyone would suddenly quit talking about him and stare, then try to gang up and convert him.

This feeling was reinforced as he looked at the familiar black and yellow bumper sticker on the Hyundai Finney used to drive, parked right in front of him. “My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter.”

“Hi dere, Unca Jake!” The unmistakable voice brought light music to air that was otherwise heavy and dark.

“Hi dere, Little Finn!” Finn jumped up at Jake with the same abandon Champ showed when Jake returned from out-of-town trips. Unlike Champ, however, Little Finn was getting bigger. As Jake braced to catch Finn’s weight, he realized again his back and side were still sore from the accident.

“I’m gettin’ ready for school. And I’m fixin’ my own breakfast ’cause Mom has her prayer meetin.”

“Really? Whatcha fixin’ for breakfast, guy?”

“Honey Nut Cheerios!” Little Finn said it almost reverently, with all the pride he’d have if he were fixing strawberry crepes and eggs Benedict for a champagne brunch.

“Wow, sounds good!”

“I’ll make a bowl for you too!”

“Uh, no thanks, Finn. Already had breakfast.” That was a lie. For some reason Jake felt funny telling even a harmless lie to this child.

“Bet you got room for dose donuts Mom got, dough. She says dey’re your
favorites.”
It tickled Jake the way Finn’s oval eyes grew when he shared inside information.

“Well, there’s always room for a donut.”

“Unca Jake, guess what?”

“What?”

“It’s about my sister, Angie.”

“What about Angie?”

“She’s gonna have a baby!” Finn jumped in the air to accentuate the point.

“No kidding! Hey, congratulations. Now
you’re
going to be an unca!” Jake thought a moment. “Hey, Finn, how about I take you to a basketball game some time soon?”

“No kiddin’! Hey, datted be great, Unca Jake! Wait till I tell Mom!”

Little Finn started to run into the house, but turned around, ran back, and grabbed Jake’s hand, pulling him, yanking him on to the porch.

“Mom’s goin’ to New York next Thursday to see Aunt Adele.”

That was Little Finn—a bottomless pit of random information.
Wait a minute. New York? Thursday?

Sue met Jake at the door, giving him a hug. “Jake, good to have you. Come on in.” Sue held his hand, leading him into the familiar living room.

“Jake, this is Betty Brenner, Suzanne Largo, and Tom and Zoe Sellars. This is Jake Woods, one of my best friends. He was like a brother to Finney.”

The introduction touched Jake. Their differences were never enough to alienate Finney or Sue from him.

“Hi, Jake. Read your column all the time. Glad to meet you.” Tom Sellars extended his hand.

I notice you said you
read
my column, not that you like it
, Jake thought, returning the firm grip.

The ladies also said they were glad to meet him, and by that time Sue had him seated on the recliner with his favorite Seahawk Sunday afternoon coffee mug, filled with dark Colombian Supremo. Now she was back with a tray of donuts, with old-fashioned buttermilks stacked to the side she offered Jake.

Right on target again. At least the morning won’t be a total loss.

Several others marched in, warmly greeted by all, and within five minutes Jake was in a crowded living room with sixteen people. Among them was Alan Weber, Finney’s friend, the pastor who spoke at his funeral.

Sue got things going. “I’ve told just a few of you the purpose of this meeting. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

Not the most reassuring way to start, Sue.

“I want you to know Jake and I don’t always agree, but I trust him, and what he’s going to tell you is the truth. You can be honest with him. He’s not here to get a story for the
Trib.
This relates to Finney and our friend Dr. Lowell. Jake, I guess the floor is yours.”

“Well, first let me say thanks for coming. And let me ask you a favor. Please keep confidential what I’m about to tell you. That’s
very
important.”

A few of them nodded, but Jake was skeptical. He remembered with embarrassment a few times he’d printed information intended to be confidential. He knew he couldn’t control these people. Trusting them made him nervous.

“In fact, it’s so important that if any of you don’t feel comfortable agreeing to absolute confidentiality. I have to ask you to leave now before we go further.”

No takers. Everyone sat still. Jake drew a deep breath.

“All right, the situation is this. We have reason to believe—no, I should say we know with absolute certainty that Finney and Doc, Dr. Lowell, were murdered.”

Jake’s words stunned everyone in the room. A few of the women generated quick tears, and the two sitting on either side of Sue reached out and took her hands. There was a certain gratification here to a veteran reporter. He’d hooked his audience with his lead, and they were his.

“Someone sabotaged Dr. Lowell’s car. I’m not a homicide detective, of course, but for years I was an investigative journalist. Because these men were my good friends, I’m doing what I can to assist one of the police detectives. And Sue’s right, this isn’t for a story or a column or anything. We just want to find out who did it.”

Jake paused, trying to think of how to phrase what he had to say next. Sue bailed him out.

“Jake has been asked by the homicide detective to come up with a list of names, no matter how unlikely, of anyone who had any reason to dislike Dr. Lowell or to act against him in any way. He’s got a long list of people, and they may all be innocent. But as we all know, some of the first people who might come to mind as enemies of Dr. Lowell would be, well, active prolifers.”

“Are you saying we’re…suspects?” Betty Largo asked incredulously.

“No, not at all,” Jake reassured her. “What I’m wondering is if you know of people that have been particularly upset with Dr. Lowell. Maybe someone who has threatened him or screamed at him, pushed him, written him a letter, stalked him, done anything violent or spoken of doing something violent.”

There was a long pause, then Tom Sellars spoke. “Mr. Woods, I think you have the wrong impression about us. In fact, since I’ve read your column regularly for years I can say without a doubt you have the wrong impression. I know there have been some violent things happen around the country, but our group, like the vast majority of prolife groups, is committed to nonviolence. That’s why we oppose abortion in the first place, because it’s violent.”

“I don’t believe there’s one of us who would even consider doing anything violent,” Betty added. “We’re just there to tell women the truth and offer them alternatives to abortion.”

“Maybe it would help,” Suzanne’s voice had an edge of defensiveness, “if you understood what we’re doing at the clinics.” She opened a piece of literature with a picture of an unborn baby.

Here comes the propaganda.
Jake steeled himself, reluctantly looking at the soft rose-colored picture with the delicate eyes, ears, mouth, nose, fingers, and toes.

“In the abortion clinics they say this isn’t a baby, it’s just a mass of tissue. Well, my husband’s a doctor, and I’m a nurse, like Sue. What they tell women isn’t true. We think they deserve to know the truth. So we educate and offer alternatives. That’s it. We’re not there to take revenge on anybody.”

“Look, this is a tough issue for all of us.” Alan Weber spoke now, and it was obvious to Jake his voice was respected in this group. “And it must be
really
tough for Jake meeting here with us. Put yourself in his place. He’s lost his two closest friends. I golfed with the three of them once, and there was something special about their friendship. And now Jake’s just trying to find out the truth. There’s no hidden agenda here. I trust Sue and Jake on this. We don’t need to be defensive or apologetic about anything, and neither does Jake. He’s trying to find out the truth, and we’re committed to the truth in everything, aren’t we? So, Jake, don’t feel bad asking us for help. As for me, there’s only one guy I’ve ever met in prolife circles that I could even imagine doing something like this. He’s not part of any established group, but I met him at a rally last year. I think I’ve got his name at my office. Anyway, I know where I can get it. I doubt seriously he would even consider doing something like this, but I guess there’s no harm in checking him out.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

A woman in her midforties spoke up now. “I met Dr. Lowell once, maybe a year and a half ago, over at the hospital, when we were protesting their experiments with RU-486. I remember at first he just had a smile on his face, seemed sort of smug, and he drove by us as if we weren’t there. But after a few weeks, when we didn’t go away, he got agitated. He shook his fist at us, and once he swerved as if to run us over. I don’t think he really meant to do it, but it was pretty scary. I admit I don’t understand how a doctor can know the medical facts and just go right ahead and kill babies anyway, but I can tell you this—I had no hatred for Dr. Lowell. None whatsoever. In fact, we used to pray for him, right there on the sidewalk. We prayed that God would open his eyes to the truth. It may sound funny to you, but I can honestly say we loved him.”

“You asked if we knew of anyone who might have written him a letter,” Betty said. “I know
I
did, but it wasn’t a threatening letter. It was a letter reminding him of his oaths to protect life and not to take it. I know a lot of us are labeled as being emotional about this issue. But then, we’re convinced that unborn babies are no less precious than born ones. They’re just a little smaller, weaker, more vulnerable. They’re in need of protection. And for some of us, at least three of us I know of in this room, it’s closer to home than that.” Her eyes watered.

“I suppose everyone here but you,” Betty was looking right at Jake now, “knows I had two abortions, one early, one late. I didn’t know, Mr. Woods, or maybe I just deceived myself. I went to Planned Parenthood, and they assured me abortion was a simple procedure, the solution to all my problems. So I did it. Two years later I did it again. I went through the anxiety attacks, the suicidal thoughts, the dreams of my babies asking me why, the whole nine yards. After years of suffering and depression, I discovered from reading a women’s magazine that it was Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome.”

Her lip was trembling now. “So if it seems like some of us can get a little emotional now and then, I guess it’s because the deaths of little children is a pretty emotional thing. And I thought about Dr. Lowell a lot, because…he was the one who did my second abortion.”

The woman next to her reached over to comfort Betty, and Jake caught the look of surprise in Sue’s eyes.

One of the three men in the room, middle-aged, dressed in a business suit, said, “To be honest, there was one guy who used to come down to the hospital and sort of cause trouble. Several times he raised his voice at Dr. Lowell. One day he rolled down his window and they started yelling at each other. Frankly, I was embarrassed, and I took the man aside. I told him if he couldn’t hold his temper to please stay home and do something else. He stopped coming. I don’t want to say his name here, and I have a feeling it’s the same guy Alan’s thinking of. But anyway I’ll write it down for you, as long as you understand I don’t think he would have done it.”