ON WOKE BEFORE DAWN and stared at the ceiling. He’d wrestled all night with his vivid dreams. The one he could remember best had him dressed in suit and tie, sitting in a church pew, Cecily to one side of him and a small, dark-haired boy to the other. The boy’s elbow rested on Don’s leg, his chin in his hand as he stared off into the distance. Cecily held a younger boy in her lap, who wiggled and squirmed to get down. Christina sat at Cecily’s side, her left hand—with a small diamond engagement ring on the second finger—clasped in that of a handsome young man sitting next to her. She was grown up and beautiful. Her smile was an absolute joy. It’d been quite a dream–—a wonderful dream!
The phone summoned him back into the present. Cecily stirred in the cot across the room. He hesitated answering it; this wasn’t his house, after all. The ringing stopped. Aminute passed before he heard a knock at the door. There stood Pauline, wrapped in a robe.
“Kate’s on the phone. She sounds distressed,” she said.As he went to the phone in the kitchen, Don’s mind rifled through the myriad of frightful possibilities suggested by a call at such an early hour. “Hi, Kate. What’s up?”
“I’ve delayed calling so you could get some sleep. Before you panic, let me tell you Christina’s just fine.” Don felt both worse and better in the same instant. “Last night she was kidnapped.” Don’s already hammering heart grew louder.
“What happened?”He could tell by the tautness in her voice as she told him what happened that it had been a frightening experience.
“Dad was right! ...Can I talk to her?”
“I’ll wake her if you want; she’s asleep in the back seat.” “No, don’t disturb her. Have her call me when she wakes up.” “Everything will be fine. You take care of things up there and try
Debbie, her mother at her side, was led to the Intensive Care Recovery Unit. Paul, his face swollen almost beyond recognition, was lying there, still unconscious, his head bandaged. A drainage tube was stitched and tied under the skin of his partially-shaved head, and ran to a container filled with blood and fluid. A larger tube was inserted into his throat. A metal bolt stuck from his head with wires connected to a bank of monitors, which bleeped off digital readings. The surgeon informed her that the pressure on his brain was being closely monitored. Now all they could do was wait. She could stay there by his bedside, but only two people were permitted in the area at a time.
Tenderly, the two women stroked his arms and hands. Then, after offering some words of comfort, Debbie’s mom returned to the waiting area so others could come in to spend a few moments with them. A doctor’s assistant remained at the bedside.
“You must be Mrs. Barker,” the assistant said.Debbie’s gaze again fell on the helpless figure on the bed. She removed her hands from her lips long enough to answer.
“Would you like me to explain what everything is?” asked the assistant, gesturing to the array of tubes and wires. Debbie nodded. “This bolt sends a signal to the monitor, which keeps track of the pressure in his cranium. We like to keep it below 12 .” The monitor read nine. “He’s been intubated to help him breathe. A head injury can make the brain confused, and sometimes it won’t send the signal to the lungs to breathe. The wire on his finger keeps track of his oxygen level. If he can keep it up on his own we’ll take out the tube that helps him breathe. Heart monitors and blood pressure monitors track his vitals.”
Debbie listened intently as the assistant continued. “‘Posturing’ is caused by damage and pressure on the brain. This tube,” she said, pointing to the one leading from his head, “is draining excess spinal fluid and blood, thereby relieving excess pressure from his skull. The neurosurgeon was pleased with the results of the CAT-scan they took after surgery. He’ll be in to see you soon.”
Barker’s mother washed her hands in a nearby sink and went in to join her daughter-in-law. “Debbie, your Dad’s here with the bishop to give him a health blessing,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
Don, his brothers and sisters, and their wives, husbands and children were all dressed in their Sunday best. Don had on the suit Kate had given him for his court appearance. The shirt, buttoned to the collar, pinched at his neck. He’d fumbled with his necktie for a full ten minutes, but couldn’t seem to get it right. An inmate at the jail named Will Vaughan had shown him how to tie it the time he’d worn it in court. Now his fingers and brain just couldn’t do it.
Cecily stepped back in the room, dressed in a long, dark blue dress, which flowed down to mid-calf. Her hair was curled under ever so slightly, the ends barely grazing her neck. The natural beauty of her face was highlighted by a touch of makeup, blush, mascara and lipstick. He’d never seen her in a dress before. Momentarily distracted from thoughts of his daughter, he admired her reflection in the mirror as she put her things away.
“What are you doing?” she casually asked, zipping up her bag. “Watching you.” He turned to face her. The words had caught her off guard. She blushed, then laughed out loud when she saw the tangled clump around his neck.
“Would you like some help with that?”
“You know how to tie one of these?”
“‘Course I do. I have four younger brothers, remember?”
Cecily stepped close and began to unsnarl the labyrinth of knots. Don looked down at her soft lips, glimmering with shiny gloss. The lips began to move. “You simply cross the ends, wrap the big end under and over the top, then bring it around, then up again and down through the loop.”
The lips stopped moving, and he waited for her to look up so he could kiss them. The phone rang. She drew the tie up to his collar, noticing the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Then, with Maria’s call from the other room, the spell was broken. “Don, Christina’s on the phone.”
Cecily looked up into his face. He paused before turning to pick up the phone on the night table. “Yeah, Kate told me all about it. I’m so happy you’re safe....I’ll be home this evening. We’ll leave here as soon as the service is over....Okay, bye, love.”
The rest of the household had already left for the mortuary.
Stacey’s parents and sister were overjoyed to see him. After the hugs and kisses, Amber finally asked, “Where’s the man that was trying to hurt you?”
“Dead, I hope.”
“Did you kill him?”
Stacey balked at the question. He measured his answer carefully.
“I think his wrong choices were the cause of his death.” Stacey had joined the police force to preserve and protect—not to kill. He realized that if the captain was dead, it was the hand of justice that had administered the ultimate punishment.
His mother, awash in relief, embraced him.
Stacey turned to his father, a tinge of urgency in his voice. “You need to take Mom and Amber to a federal safehouse for a few days. If the man who’s been causing all this trouble isn’t dead, you’re in a great deal of danger. It’ll only be a few days, I promise.”
His father reluctantly agreed. The federal agents who’d knocked on his door in the middle of the night were still parked in the street, but they’d supply just so much protection.
While his family packed, Stacey phoned Mr. White. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. I need to find my dog....Can we make it eleven?...Good. See you then.”
After Alan had retrieved Mitsy’s body from the orchard, the family gathered to hold a brief service in her honor. Danny opted to bury her in a corner of the garden. Her rigid body was gently lifted onto an old blanket, and Jake and Alan carried her to the side yard. Kate had brought two shovels from the garage. The tired little family watched as Alan and Jake took turns shoveling soil from the chosen spot.
Don’s father hadn’t wanted a formal viewing or ceremony, just a small, simple graveside service. Don was surprised at the number of people who’d come to pay their respects. And he was even more surprised—and pleased—that nearly all of them seemed well acquainted with his dad. “You must be Gero’s son...I’ve been hoping to meet you,” they’d say. Or “You must be Brother Rodriguez’s son....” Don grew more confused by each greeting.
When he and Cecily finally stepped up to peer into the open casket, he asked in a whisper, “Who are all these people?”
“They’re members of his local congregation....I’ll tell you about it later.”
Don gazed down at his father’s body—the shell which had once housed his strong spirit. Many of the people lingered, chatting softly, until the funeral director announced that they would be moving to the grave site. “We’d ask the family to remain here to gather in a family prayer....”
As most of the gathering made their way out onto the lawn, the children and grandchildren, Pauline front and center, clustered around the casket one last time. A few of those who remained Don didn’t know. Pauline turned to a man she introduced as “bishop”.
He began to speak. As he did so, Don’s mind wandered, seesawing back and forth between what the man was saying and reflecting on the meaning behind the words. “The family has asked me to conduct this prayer. I’ve been his bishop the last five years....Gero and I
spent many hours talking about his family. He felt he was only just
beginning to get to know and understand his children again....He
hadn’t told you of the peace and joy he found returning to a life centered around Christ. I tell you this because I know he made that choice
before he learned he was ill....He credited his change of heart to a
good woman whom he met and married. His hope is that some day
all of his children can be joined to him—and her—in an eternal relationship....He told me that if you all came to this, his funeral service,
it would be the first time in many, many years you would be
together....His dying wish was to unite you, his children, together as
loved ones....Now, before the casket is closed, I ask you to join me in
a final prayer.”
The man offered a humble and beautiful prayer. Don could hear
his father’s sentiments in the man’s voice as he spoke, directing his
words and thoughts to God.
“Goodbye,” Don whispered as the lid was closed and the casket
was wheeled out of the room.
The last shovel of dirt had been replaced in the hole harboring Mitsy’s body. Two county deputies lingered out front as the family filed back into the house.
Danny had volunteered to pray before the grave was filled in. “Dear Father in Heaven,” he’d said, the tears flowing down his cheeks, “we’re here to say goodbye to Mitsy. She’s been part of our family for a long time. She was getting old and sick. Mitsy never hurt anyone; only barked a lot. She was a gentle dog, and only bit that guy to help Christina. It just wouldn’t be heaven without her, so we hope she’s there living with you. Thank you for letting us have her so long. Amen.”
Stacey was most of the way down the hall when Dianne walked out of the elevator on her way home. “How’s he doing?” he asked.
“He’s still unconscious. Where’ve you been? We were worried about you.”
“I was detained by federal agents.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It will be soon.”
Dianne looked down at her watch. “Well, I’ve got to take off,” she said. “You go up and see Debbie.”
Up on the fourth floor, Stacey found the intensive care unit halffilled with visitors. A murmur ran through the crowd and most everyone in the room turned to look as he approached.
Stacey wasn’t prepared for what he saw. He did a double-take, hardly recognizing his friend. Paul’s swollen face and black eyes made him look like he was wearing a Halloween mask. His bed was slightly elevated. He was breathing on his own.
Debbie came over and put her hand on his shoulder. “Rick, good to see you! Are you okay?”
“Are you going to be okay?” Stacey countered.
“I’ll be fine.” She turned to look down at her husband. “Paul’s doing much better, too. The doctors say he’s regained some reflexes in his left arm and leg that he didn’t have when they brought him in. Until the swelling goes down in his head, they won’t know what to expect. They think the damage is only temporary.”
“If he’s made captain,” Stacey bantered, trying to lighten things up, “that swelling will be permanent.”
Debbie smiled. Moments later, she grew deathly serious. “Where’s Bingham? They say he’s the one who shot Paul.”
“I don’t know. The feds think he’s dead—shot down in a plane over the Nevada desert.” Stacey decided to hold off on the details until later.
“Mitch tells me Sig will be just fine.”
“Good, I need to find him.”
After giving her a tender hug—and his promise to return soon— Stacey excused himself from the room.