Authors: Shawn Grady
Beyond the back corner, a motor idled. I propped myself against the wall and peeked around the edge. A white van sat on the loading ramp, lights off, exhaust steaming from the tailpipe. The rear door beside the dock hung ajar, smoke rising out and up along the building side.
I held the pike pole in front of me and worked my way to the front of the van. Biting wind burned my cheeks. My skin numbed. My resolve set. The pike pole had become my harpoon, Cormac my white whale.
The driver’s seat was empty. I worked my way around the front, half expecting the van to drop into gear. But the passenger compartment looked vacant. I moved back toward the building, toward the smoke-belching door, then halted and tensed.
The door moved. Outward. Only an inch.
A scuffling sound grated inside.
The door moved again.
I couldn’t let him get away. Never mind that he was my uncle.
Forget that he was my father’s brother.
My flesh.
My blood. Akin to that which flowed hot and viscous, coating my leg as it had coated my palm.
As it had coated the palms of Love himself.
I lowered the pole.
The door shifted.
I straightened. This had to end.
The back of a turnout coat emerged. A firefighter duck-walked, pulling something heavy. The name across the jacket bottom read
Sortish
. His arms were under those of another firefighter, who lay limp. A firefighter with old Reno turnouts and a cracked mask.
I dropped the pike pole.
Timothy Clark appeared carrying the legs. They struggled out the door and set Cormac flat on the concrete porch.
Timothy held up his radio. “Command, we’ve located O’Neill. We need medics on the C side of the building.” He tore off his helmet and mask and ripped off his gloves. “Check for a pulse, I’ll get airway.”
Sortish unzipped Cormac’s coat. “Strong carotid.”
“His breathing’s shallow. Come on, Aidan.” Timothy pulled the face mask off and froze, staring at Cormac’s moustached face. “Who . . . Where’s O’Neill.”
“Right here.” I shuffled to the porch and stopped. “And right there.”
Timothy’s face showed surprise, then confusion and an eyebrow-knitting concern. “Aidan. You’re bleeding bad.”
I touched my saturated pant leg. “It’s all right.”
The paramedics and a truck company charged around the corner.
“All of it,” I said. “It’s all right now.” Adrenaline receded like water in the sand. The ground started to wave.
Loss stopped.
Redemption mine.
My legs gave out, and what seemed like a dozen hands took my weight, lifting away my burden and yoke.
I awoke to see light bending in rainbows through large fluid bags hanging from IV poles. They were tethered by tubing to my arms. A third hung from a separate pole, shadowy sanguine and labeled
A Pos
in slanted cursive. A larger object eclipsed the light and came into focus.
Captain Mark Butcher.
I strained to sit up.
He put out a hand. “Sit back. It’s okay.”
Pushing down on the mattress to take the weight off my hip, I shifted upright anyway.
“You’re as stubborn as James ever was.” His affect softened.
Something had changed in those chiseled lines, so often etched with anger. “Aidan . . . I am sorry about your uncle.”
A sick feeling bored inside me. “Is he . . . Where is he?”
He swallowed and shifted his weight. “Look, you’re recuping, and I probably shouldn’t even be here right now.”
“Cap . . . Mark. Just tell me.”
“They think he’ll make it. He’s intubated on a vent. They’re going to fly him to a hyperbaric chamber.” He ran a hand down his whiskers, rubbing the ends of one side between his fingertips.
“Prevention investigated the van. Loaded with evidence. They’ve got more than enough to pin him with serial arson.”
I nodded. “And murder?”
“Sounds like the D.A. is working for multiple charges of first-degree murder.” The radio on his hip squawked. He turned it down. “I’m half tempted to go pull the plug on that ventilator myself.” He stared at the bed rail, then looked up. “Your father would be proud of you.” He patted the bed rail. “Heal up quick. We’ll miss you downtown.”
Butcher turned to leave and nodded to Ben Sower, who walked in, shoulder mic clipped to his coat.
Ben smiled with his eyes. “How’s the leg?”
“Feels like the worst charley horse ever.” I shifted in bed.
“They got you all doped up?”
My head did feel fuzzy. “I guess they do.”
“I can see it in your pupils.”
I glanced at the door. “Any chance you can bust me out of here?”
He grinned and shook his head. “They just finished sewing you up. Give it a day or two.”
I brushed my hand across the broad dressings that lay taped on my thigh. “How much blood did I lose?”
“At least a liter and a half.”
My throat felt dry. “Well, maybe one night, then.” I wondered how I could see Julianne.
A nurse entered and inserted a needled syringe into an IV port.
It held about seven milliliters of clear fluid. “What’s that?”
She depressed the plunger slowly. “Dilaudid.”
“You’d better get your rest,” Ben said.
I nodded and lifted my hand. “Thanks for being there for me.”
He took it in his. “Always.”
I reclined and closed my eyes, opening them a moment later to see my mother at the opposite side of the bed. She smiled and stroked my hair.
“When did you get here?”
“I’ve been here, darling.”
“I was just talking to Ben.” I motioned to the other side of the bed. The place where he’d been standing. “I guess I’m a little out of it.”
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been praying for you.” She put her hand over mine. “God let me have you a bit longer, Aidan. You’re his gift to me.” Her tears ran down.
My eyes welled up. “Dad was there for me. His axe.” I blinked away tears. “God was with me. Just like you prayed. Just like the verse. I don’t know how. But he was.”
She grimaced. “He wasn’t going to let another one be taken from me.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
She embraced me and sobbed, kissing my head. I squeezed shut my eyes and shed hot tears.
She sniffled and pulled away. “You rest now.”
I wiped my face. “I love you.”
She put a hand on my cheek. “I love you, too, Aidan.”
A deep narcotic slumber soon overtook me, vivid and surreal, people and events playing out stories like shadows on the wall.
The next morning Benjamin convinced the physician to release me into his care. His wife, Elizabeth, insisted that my mother and I stay with them for the next few days. I refused the wheelchair and, assisted by Ben, walked out to their car on crutches.
I tried calling Julianne on her cell but only got voice mail. The nurse who answered the direct line to the ICU said she was out for tests. I ate a light lunch with the Sowers, and then Elizabeth led me to one of the two guest rooms they had prepared. A single bed lay turned down with fresh white sheets.
She made quick mention that the small desk in the corner was mine to use as I saw fit, brushing her hand over the leather cover of a King James Bible.
“Well”—she tapped the Good Book twice—“you sure have grown since the days you climbed our old oak. You get enough sleep while you’re here. And there’s no excuse for not eating enough.”
I slept most of the afternoon, wakened by the smell of dinner. It was warm and wonderful, succulent apricot-lime glazed pork chops, baked yams with brown sugar and butter, fresh green beans with bacon and caramelized onions.
Benjamin washed the dishes, refusing to let me or my mother help, and then sat back down for tea. The four of us talked into the night, and for a few liberating hours I felt free of the pain in my leg. I had the deep exhaling sensation that must wash over a nation when a war has finally ended.
Only one thing was missing.
One person.
I admitted that I was too exhausted to stay up and retired to the back room.
After washing up, I lifted my leg like a plank onto the bed. I dialed Julianne’s cell and got her voice mail again.
From down the hall I heard the distant echoes of cheerful laughter. And it felt like the end of a long, long day, sleep coming upon me like fireplace warmth in a late-night storm.
G
etting up on Sunday morning I felt physically lighter, as if I had been traveling with a weighted pack for so long that I’d forgotten how it felt to be any other way. Elizabeth baked German pancakes, and the house swooned with the enticing scent of butter and batter.
I limped out to the table. “Nothing sweetens the air in a room like your baking.”
Elizabeth waved a kitchen towel at me. “Oh, stop, you. Come sit down.”
“Where’s Mom?”
Elizabeth opened the oven. “Hmm?”
“Did Mom go home?”
“Oh. No, she had somewhere to go this morning. She said she’d be right back.” She pulled out two round baking dishes with a towel and set them on the stovetop.
Benjamin blessed the meal with simple eloquence. Conversation stayed light, my thoughts drifting to the ache in my heart for Julianne. Ben excused himself halfway through the meal, apologizing that he had to be going to church early to help set up chairs.
Elizabeth stood with his plate and hers. “I still need to curl my hair. You leave those dishes, Aidan.”
I smiled. “Not a chance.”
She feigned a cross look and walked down the hallway.
The newspaper lay folded upside down on the edge of the table. I stretched so I didn’t have to get up and grabbed it with the tips of my fingers. Flipping over the front page, I read the big block letters.
“ARSONIST NABBED.”
A half-page photo set beneath the headline showed Blake Williams standing beside the hospital bed of an intubated and unconscious Cormac O’Neill. Blake had one hand grasping Cormac’s collar as if he had just subdued him. His other hand was on his hip, his smile sterling with camera flash reflections. All too at home in that spotlight. Happy to clear his name officially, I was sure.
The story mentioned little about the efforts of the firefighters. Mostly quotes from Blake and the brass, lilting generalities and limelight attractors. How the combined efforts of the department administration brought this serial nightmare to an end. I took a swig of orange juice and shook my head.
“Ah.” I tossed the paper on the table. “It don’t matter.”
“You’re right,” Julianne’s voice sailed across the room. “It doesn’t.”
She stood in the front doorway, hair down, with a barrette on one side. She leaned on crutches with a lower leg bound in a cast just past the knee. A dark autumn dress accentuated her features. My mom snuck out from behind her, smiling. She blew me a kiss and disappeared down the hallway.
Julianne arced over to the table, balanced her crutches in one hand, and bent down to kiss me. Her lips were supple, light and sweet.
She pulled away and smiled. “I know who the real hero is.”
I choked up, managing only to say, “How?”
“Swelling reduced. Inflammation receded. Feeling came back.”
I shook my head. “And no permanent damage?”
She grinned. “No.”
I placed my napkin on my plate and strained to get up, leaning on the chair. “Look at us, huh?”
She laughed, lightening the room, and in that instant I knew I’d have to amend what I’d said about Elizabeth’s baking.
Church was different than I’d remembered it. The elderly men who passed out bulletins looked at me with friendly faces, shaking my hand with firm grips and understanding eyes. Older women greeted me like a grandson. And there was something I hadn’t remembered much at all from before. Not because it wasn’t there, but because I think I’d barely taken notice. All throughout the foyer, families gathered—little children skittering about skirt hems, playing hide-and-go-seek in a forest of grown-ups.
Julianne saw me staring and squeezed my arm, grinning and leading me into the sanctuary. My mother was already seated with Elizabeth and Ben. We found a place in the row behind them. I sat, thankful for the respite on my leg, but no sooner had I done it than the pastor appeared on stage and asked all to rise. My mom waved her hand, admonishing us to sit, but we both stood anyway, perched on our crutches side by side, listening to the prayer.
A simple and unassuming music team took the stage, and we sat back down. The congregation sang along to acoustic guitar strumming with a bass and set of drums. Some words were old and familiar, others fresh and new. Both moved with a spirit of joy through the room. It was palpable, and apparent, like a gentle breeze in a grassy field. I rejoiced in it, and supped of it, living water deep, satisfying and healing in my core.
The musicians left the stage and the pastor walked up, casually dressed in a gray collared shirt and tan slacks. He stood at the podium and looked over his flock.
Opening the Bible, he read:
“Then King Nebuchadnezzar was astonished; and he rose in haste and spoke, saying to his counselors, ‘Did we not cast three men bound into the midst of the fire?’
They answered and said to the king, ‘True, O king.’
‘Look!’ he answered. ‘I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire; and they are not hurt, and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.’ ”
Julianne put her warm hand over mine. I looked at her and smiled, knowing that a gift had been borne, not into my blood, but into my spirit.
The assurance of what is hoped for.
The conviction of things unseen.
To Jesus Messiah, God made flesh, and the truest, greatest story ever told.
To my wife, Sarah Beth—my first reader/editor/manager and loving confidante, from the first words scrawled on a napkin nearly nine years ago.
To our wonderful children in whom we delight—Daniel Josiah, Claire Emmaline, and Noah Connor.
To my mother—for your love of books and writing and your imagination. You’ve filled my storehouse with many treasures.