The Road to Mercy

The Road to Mercy

Kathy Harris

The Road to Mercy

Copyright © 2012 by Kathy Harris

ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-4193-7

Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

www.abingdonpress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored
in any retrieval system, posted on any website,
or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,
electronic, scanning, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without
written permission from the publisher, except for brief
quotations in printed reviews and articles.

The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction
are the creations of the author, and any resemblance
to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Harris, Kathy, 1951–

The road to mercy / Kathy Harris.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4267-4193-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)

I. Title.

PS3608.A783134R63   2012

813'.6—dc23

2012012565

Scripture quotation is from the
Holy Bible
, New Living Translation,
copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007. Used by permission of Tyndale
House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188.
All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 16 15 14 13 12

To Mom and Dad
God blessed me with you

A heart full of love and gratitude to my husband, Larry, who never let me quit, even when it meant takeout instead of home-cooked.

Linda Cox, my sister since second grade, you made the story better. Thank you for countless hours of dedication to this book.

I can’t imagine life without “girlfriends” to share the journey. Hugs to all of you, especially Chaz, D. J., Linda K., and ’Nita.

A shout out to eight special encouragers from American Christian Fiction Writers who are known collectively as the Naners: Alice, Amy, Carol, Kassy, Pat, Peg, Rita, and Tiff.

I owe an incredible debt to everyone at Middle Tennessee Christian Writers, especially my critique partner, Rebecca Deel, an amazing writer and cheerleader; Kaye Dacus, a mentor to many minions who walked this road with me from beginning
to end; and Tamara Leigh, who believed in the story before it was written.

Kyle Olund, thanks for taking a chance. Working with you is a blessing.

Ramona Richards, I’m grateful to you and the entire Abingdon team. May the music play on!

I also want to express my appreciation to those who assisted with research. Steve Rowitt, you helped breathe life into Isaac Ruben. Sabrina Carver, your faith has always been an inspiration to me. And I lift my thanks heavenward to the late Shirley Harkins, a special writer whose path crossed mine when we met at the ACFW conference in Nashville in 2005.

My hope is that this story will reflect the Word, Jesus Christ, who was, is, and will be forever. I write to the rhythm of his song.

Sing a new song to the L
ORD
! Let the whole earth sing to the L
ORD
!
Psalm 96:1

God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be
shown mercy. Matthew 5:7

Jack Randall jerked his foot from the accelerator and instinctively applied the brakes. His mind raced as his Plymouth Belvedere slowed to a stop. Police cars with lights blazing blocked the intersection that led to his home. The reflection off the wet pavement created an eerie blur, and shadowy figures danced across the sides of the squad cars.

Must be a bad accident
. The storm that passed earlier in the night had soaked the black asphalt.

As he watched the policeman walk toward his car, Jack cranked down the driver’s side window. The uniformed officer flashed a bright light in his direction, not quite in his eyes.

“Sorry, sir, no through traffic this morning. A small plane crashed on the Neimann farm.”

Jack’s heart pounded. “Anyone hurt? I need to see if my family is—”

“No one on the ground was hurt, sir. Everyone in the plane was killed. May I see your driver’s license?”

Jack reached into a back pocket for his well-worn wallet. From it he pulled a small piece of paper, which he placed into the gloved hand of the Illinois state trooper.

“Did the storm bring it down?”

The officer nodded while studying the license. “Lightning took out the engine. It was en route to St. Louis.” His brusque demeanor softened and he returned the paper to Jack. “A family of four. Two kids onboard.”

“Terrible.” Jack tucked the license back inside his wallet.

“You can go home now, Mr. Randall. Hug your kids. Life is short.” The trooper tipped his hat and stepped away from the blue sedan.

Jack punched his pillow down. Sleep would not come. Thoughts of the plane crash crowded his consciousness. His wife lay beside him. His children were safe in their beds. Why did he have such an uneasy feeling? Why did he feel compelled to go to the crash site?

He prayed softly and sat up on the side of the bed. “Lord, what should I do?”

Running his hands through his hair, he stared at the fluorescent green numbers on the clock face.
Five thirty
.

“Jack?” His wife roused beside him.

“I’m sorry.” He turned to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you, honey.”

“What’s wrong?”

“When I came home this morning, the state police had the intersection blocked. A plane crashed on the Neimann farm. I’m thinking about driving over there.”

“What can you do?” She propped herself on an elbow.

He kissed her on the forehead. “I don’t know. I just have to see if I can help.”

A few minutes later, Jack turned left out of his gravel driveway, his headlights illuminating the heart-shaped leaves of the
tall catalpa trees growing in the vacant lot across the street. Pods dangled from the branches like bony fingers, sending a chilling reminder of death through him.

The Neimann farm lay to the southwest, about a mile as the crow flies, toward the small town of Mercy. He had been there last year for an estate sale after old man Neimann passed away. The Neimann children had auctioned off the farm equipment and livestock. Mrs. Neimann continued to live in the house, while the land had been rented to other farmers in the community.

Sunrise streaked the twilight sky by the time Jack approached the turn onto Mercy Road. This narrow strip of asphalt led all the way into town, no more than ten miles past the farm, which was less than a thousand yards beyond the intersection.

He pulled his sedan into the gravel driveway and recognized the face of a friend, Canaan County Deputy Sheriff Harold Chester.

“Hey, buddy. How are you?” Chester said, walking toward him.

“Good, but I heard about the plane crash. Anything I can do?”

Deputy Chester shook his head. “A real shame. Two beautiful kids, maybe five to seven years old.” A tear welled in the deputy’s eye. “Not much older than my kids or yours.”

“Need any help documenting the scene, measurements, anything?”

Chester smiled, brushing moisture from his cheek. “You’re still a law enforcement man at heart, Jack. Gets in your blood, don’t it?” He nodded toward the barn. “We’ve got it done. I’m just waiting for the Feds to come in and do their assessments before we cart off the wreckage. There’s metal all over this farm.”

“Not surprising,” Jack said.

“I’m not sure how the bodies were so intact. Not much trauma, except for the pilot. He had a gash on his head. We’re pretty sure he was the father. He was still inside the plane. The mother and two kids were thrown out.”

“Would you mind if I look around?”

“Not at all. You know not to move anything.”

“Sure. No problem.”

The deputy pointed toward the orange streaks in the awakening horizon. “The main wreckage is about five hundred feet beyond the barn.”

Jack pulled his flannel shirt collar up around his neck and set out toward the deteriorating structure that stood between him and the crash site. The chilly wind chastened him for not wearing a jacket. Thankfully, he had worn his boots. Weeds had taken over the lot. The rain still clung to them, and his pants legs were quickly soaked to the knees. He scowled. If old man Neimann could see the shape this place was in, he would turn in his grave.

Jack noticed the faint odor of decaying cow manure as he walked through the open livestock gate. The old hayfield beyond had grown past the time to harvest, and ragweed stood half a foot higher than the tops of the fescue, alfalfa, and red clover.

He saw the plane wreckage straight ahead. From this distance it mimicked a kind of abstract sculpture someone had dropped onto the field. The wet surface glistened in the early morning light, creating an unnerving glow. As he approached, Jack noticed beads of moisture covering the white, twisted metal.

Four people died in this wreckage
.

The distinct odor of burnt wiring filled his nostrils. No doubt lightning had struck the plane. Fortunately, the whole
thing hadn’t gone up in flames. Not that the outcome would have been any different.

There was an unpleasantness in thinking about the bodies now lying in the county morgue. It was a far cry from the destination they must have had planned in St. Louis. Lord willing, those four souls had reached an even better place, the throne of their Creator.

Had it not been for such a terrible accident, the beauty of this quiet morning would have been refreshing. He loved the open land. Especially when it stretched farther than the eyes could see, as it did on this estate. Old man Neimann had certainly enjoyed a gorgeous piece of nature. Perhaps he was part of the welcoming committee for the . . . the . . . Jack realized he didn’t even know the names of those who had died here.

He reached out to touch the squared-off tail section of the plane. Teardrops of moisture clung to his fingers. He wiped his hands on his trousers. There was nothing he could do. He might as well go home to his family.

Turning toward the barn, a piece of trash from the plane caught his attention. A familiar shape out of context. It took a moment for him to process what he was seeing. Something was missing. What was it? Lack of sleep had slowed his cognitive processes, and he strained to put the pieces together.

A bottle
. It was a rubber nipple from a baby bottle.

He thought back to what Chet had said. Two children, five and seven years old, had been found. They wouldn’t need a baby bottle. So what was . . . ?

The realization hit him hard. An infant had been onboard. There was another body.
Oh, God. Help me find that child. He needs to be with his family, not alone in this field
.

Jack scratched his head. Where should he start looking? If only he knew where the other bodies had been located. The mother had likely been holding the child in her arms during
the flight. Chet had said she was expelled from the plane, but where had she been found?