In the Shadow of Evil (29 page)

"I don't think I know why your mom's in the nursing home." Maddox's voice shattered her reprieve.

He must have caught her expression by the dashboard lights because he was very quick to continue. "I shouldn't have pried. It's none of my business."

She couldn't even find the words to tell him. It was embarrassing. And painful. The truth about her mother was too awful to discuss. "She had a brain injury, leaving her mentally incapacitated."

"I'm so sorry."

The pity in his words undid her. Everyone always apologized, as if this horrible tragedy had befallen their family. That was so far from the truth. Her mother's condition was self-inflicted. Roseanna Taylor had made a conscious choice to continue taking depressants. She put herself in the nursing home, all because of her selfish wants with no thought to her family.

"It's okay." And it was. Her mother had gotten what she deserved.

Maddox drove the rest of the way in silence. She didn't offer any conversation on her end. What could she say?

He parked the car near the wing she motioned to. She reached for the handle, but her muscles protested. He came around and opened the door for her, giving her a hand to help her out.

Why was this so hard?

"Are you okay?" He stopped at the stairs to the hallway door.

She stared at the keypad beside the door. She'd never been here but knew the code. Alana always told her when they changed it. Funny how that was embedded in her mind. If only it weren't, she'd have the perfect excuse to give Alana.

"Layla?"

She nodded. No way was she going to explain why her feet were reluctant to move. Why her fingers trembled as she punched in the four numbers. Why she thought she'd vomit as she reached for the cold metal door handle.

Stepping onto the checkered-pattern tile floor, the smell of Lysol and bleach accosted her. Her body went rigid.

"Layla, are you all right?" Maddox was right beside her, his hand under her elbow, giving more support than he realized.

"Yeah. I'm fine." She could do this. Just walk down to the fourth door on the right, crack it open, and peek inside. Her mother was probably asleep. Hadn't Alana told her they put her mother down on the first wave of those incapable of tucking themselves in for the night?

"Are you sure? You don't seem okay."

"I said I was fine," she snapped. Then felt guilty. "Sorry," she whispered.

She forced herself to move. One foot in front of the other. This was simple. She could do it.
Oh, Lord, give me strength. Help me do this.

Emotions dragged on her legs—anger, guilt, frustration, regret. Each one weighted every step she took. Her hands trembled.

Finally she stood before her mother's door. Then she glanced at the floor. Great, light shone from the crack under the door. They hadn't tucked her mother in for the night. She faced Maddox. "Could you please talk to the nurses? Let them know what's going on so they'll be alert?" If someone else got hurt because of her probing . . .

Maddox nodded. He gave her elbow a little squeeze, then headed down the hall.

She took in a deep breath, uncertainty clawing away any chance of peace. She hadn't seen her mother once since she'd entered the nursing home. The last image Layla had of her mother was on the floor of the house, seizing and unconscious, almost eight years ago.
God, please help me get through this.
She pushed open the door.

Mom sat in a high-back wheelchair by the window, facing the door. Her arms and legs were in awkward positions, curled and gnarled. Her head tilted to the side as if her neck couldn't support it.

Layla froze. Seeing her mother like this—helpless and distorted—snatched her breath. The vibrant woman she'd once been was gone. A catheter bag hung to the wheelchair. A strap held her in.

Tears streamed from Layla. Her mother . . . Mom . . . horrible. Being stuck in such a body had to be a living hell. Layla didn't even know if her mother recognized her or was aware of anything. But she couldn't just stand there staring.

She stepped next to the bed separating her from her mother. "Alana asked me to come check on you. There are some things happening that made her think you might be in danger."

"AAAAlllaaaannnnnaaaa." A bit of drool pooled as Mom struggled with the one word.

"Yes, Alana. She was worried about you."

"LLLLLaaaayyyyllllaaa." More drool.

Layla didn't move. Her spine straightened. "Yes, Mom, I'm Layla." Her mother recognized her! Remembered her!

"SSSSooooo sssoooorrrryyyy."

Her heart thumped faster as she moved closer to her mother. She bent to get at eye level. "Mom, did you mean to say you were sorry? Do you realize what you're saying?"

"GGGooodddd."

Even in the slurred words, Layla could make out she said God.
Oh, Lord. Have mercy on Mom.
She's trapped inside this . . . this farce of a body.

She moved in front of her mother.

"Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven."

Tears washed unabashedly down her face.
Father, forgive me for not forgiving. Open my heart to Your will.

HE'D HAD NO IDEA.

Maddox stood at the cracked door to Mrs. Taylor's room. Layla stood over her mother with her back to the door. Her mother's arms and legs were pulled into strange positions by contractures, her head lolled to the side. But her eyes were focused on her daughter.

He felt like an intruder. An eavesdropper. And he was. He'd had no idea her mother was in such a horrible condition.

Maddox swallowed hard. He couldn't conceive how he'd feel if his mother were in that wheelchair totally incapacitated. Maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that she'd died. He swallowed again, never imagining he'd think such a thing.

Layla's shoulders hunched. Her body shook as she ducked her head. The quiet sobs echoed off the bare walls.

Maddox balled his hands to stay in place. This was a private moment between Layla and her mother. He had no right to intrude. But he couldn't turn away.

She dropped to her knees and laid her head in her mother's lap. Sobs ripped from her, nearly ripping his own heart from his chest.

"Oh, Mom . . . I'm the one who's sorry." Layla wrapped her arms around her mother, wheelchair and all. "I'm sorry for not coming to visit you. I'm sorry for blaming you for all my troubles. I'm so sorry for not forgiving you for doing this to yourself."

Her cries stirred something primitive inside him. Something that made him want to scoop her up and hold her, shielding her and protecting her from all pain.

"I forgive you, Mom, and hope you'll forgive me. I love you."

Maddox couldn't even swallow. He didn't know exactly what he was witnessing, but he knew something had changed for Layla.

He inched back from the door and moved down the hall, shocked to discover his vision blurred because of tears.

What was happening to him? This was crazy. He'd never wanted to protect a woman from emotional pain before. Even talking about emotional issues made him break out in a cold sweat. That wasn't who he was. No, he was more of the love-'em-and-leave-'em type.

So why did he feel so strongly about Layla Taylor? She wasn't even his type. She was strong. Independent. Didn't fawn at his feet. And then there was that whole religion thing.

"'How great is God—beyond our understanding.'"

He leaned against the wall as the Scripture his father had quoted to him earlier wrapped around his mind. It seemed everywhere he turned lately, God was there. In his face. Not in a beat-you-over-the-head-with-a-Bible way, but just . . . there.

And funny thing was, it wasn't bothering him as much as it had in the past. Something had changed. Him?

He pictured Betty Page's kind face as she inquired about his father after losing her husband. Peace. Was that God?

His father, telling him that he loved him. Was that God?

Alana's calm expression in the hospital waiting room. Was that God?

Layla's compassion and kindness to him when he'd been waiting for word on his father. Was that God? The scene with her mother just now. Was that God?

His cell phone vibrated. He yanked it from his hip and checked the caller ID—dispatch. "Bishop."

"Sir, report of a fire in Eternal Springs. Fire department and emergency medical personnel have been dispatched. You and Wallace have been requested on scene."

"Copy that." He'd just order Layla to sit in the car while he checked it out. "Address?" He pulled out a notebook and pen.

The dispatcher read him the street address. "It's Eternal Springs Christian Church, sir."

TWENTY-EIGHT

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN

"LAYLA."

She wiped the tears from her face before standing and turning.

Maddox filled the doorway. "I'm sorry, but I've got a call I have to go to. Do you want me to come by later and pick you up? I don't know how long I'll be."

She smiled and kissed her mother's cheek. "No, Mom needs her rest." She squatted in front of the wheelchair. "Mom, I need to go. I'll come see you again soon." She straightened and ran a hand over her mother's hair. It was still as silky as she remembered. "I love you," she whispered.

With a heart lighter than it'd felt in years, Layla followed Maddox into the hall. "Another murder?"

"A fire."

She had to double her steps to keep up with his long stride. "A fire?" Her throat tightened. Not another one.

He opened the door for her.

Rain came down in sheets, blown by the cold, driving wind. Puddles already lined the parking lot. She pulled her coat tighter.

"Let's make a run for it." Maddox pressed a button on his remote key chain. The lights inside the Mustang illuminated, casting shadows around the car, and a beep sounded above the pounding of the rain. He ducked and ran.

She followed suit, keeping her head down. Didn't really matter—her hair and coat were soaked as she pulled the door shut behind her. The chill went all the way to her bones. "I'm soaking your seat."

"It's leather. It'll wipe." He turned the key and revved the engine, then stared at her. "Layla, you need to know—the fire is at the church."

"My church?" Images of the beautiful stained-glass windows—true works of art—danced in her mind. "My church is on fire?"

"Yes." He rammed the car in reverse. The tires spun on the wet asphalt.

Her brain refused to process the information. No, the church couldn't be on fire. Not the church.

"I don't know any more than it's on fire and the fire department has been dispatched. I was asked to the scene."

It was late. No one should be in the church now except maybe Pastor, and he was in the hospital.

A fire. Unreal. She clasped and unclasped her hands. Wait a minute . . . Why would Maddox be called to a fire?

"Maddox?"

"Yeah?" He didn't take his eyes off the road as he sped toward the church.

She hated to ask. Hated to give voice to her fears, but she had to know. "Is there a body in the church? Another murder victim?"

He spared her a glance. "Don't know. They didn't say."

"Then why were you called?"

"I'm not sure."

Sirens filled the air.

Layla's chest tightened even more. "Oh, Lord, please have mercy."

Maddox threw her a quick look, then concentrated back on the road.

She hadn't meant to pray aloud—the words had just slipped out. She gripped her hands together as the familiar sights of Eternal Springs rushed by the window.

The smell of smoke filtered through the heater. Her nose tickled, then burned. Her pulse rose with the speedometer. The steady drone of the windshield wipers on high pounded in her head.

He turned onto the church's road. "I need you to stay in the car, Layla. No matter how much you want to get out and look around, you have to stay in the car. Okay?"

No, that wasn't okay. She wanted to see how much damage had been done. Know if anyone was inside.

"Okay, Layla? I'm serious."

"Yes. Okay." But she widened her eyes as he pulled into the church's parking lot, trying to take it all in.

"Stay here." He jumped out of the car and headed toward Houston, who stood talking with a fireman and Lincoln Vailes under the canopy of a large live oak tree.

Fire trucks were parked sideways in the lot, one even up on the front lawn. The lawn where they'd had two garage sales to make money for the sod. Water hoses stretched from the hydrant at street side across the pavement. Despite the deluge of rain, orange and blue flames licked the steeple and bell tower.

Fire ate the building she'd renovated not even a year ago, months of work devoured in moments by a relentless enemy. Tears pooled in her eyes, marring her vision. So much destruction. The Hope-for-Homes site. Her office. Second Chances. And now, the one place left not violated that gave her a measure of peace . . . disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Lord, when will it all stop? Hasn't Eternal Springs suffered enough?