Otherworld (44 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

From “Suspected Serial Murderer Killed” by Michael Asbell in the
Houston Chronicle
:

The teenage boy suspected in a string of recent murders and one attempted kidnapping was shot to death while attacking his latest victim, authorities say.

Jimmy Horn, 17, of Houston, was wanted in connection with the murders of his mother, Maggie Horn; Carlos Diaz, a Trumbull man; and Samuel Petrie, a police officer. Police say he also attempted to abduct Diaz's daughter.

Last night, Horn assaulted Trumbull Police Captain Graham Lattimer and, after attacking a Houston man in his car, was shot by the man. Police say the shooting was clearly in self-defense, and no charges have been filed against the man, Michael Walsh of Houston.

Lattimer, meanwhile, lost an arm in the attack and has been placed on administrative duty pending further investigation.

In a strange twist, Horn's alleged accomplice is Lucas Dickey, 71, of Trumbull, the farmer renowned for his involvement in the recent rash of UFO sightings. Dickey has been arrested for the aggravated kidnapping of his wife, Gertrude Dickey, 68, of Trumbull, and for the attempted murder of a police officer.

A court date has not been set.

 

Steve Woodbridge was nibbling on a pumpkin pie and greeted Graham Lattimer with a smile as the captain entered the Dixie Shack and ambled over.

“Afternoon.”

“Afternoon.”

“How's the day been?”

“S'okay. Just got back from Petrie's funeral.”

“Oh, yeah. You … okay?”

“It's okay. It was real nice. People got up, talked about what a good kid he was. Everyone had a funny story to tell. He was a good kid, a good cop.”

“Yeah. How you been?”

“As good as it gets, I guess.”

“No more headaches?”

“Nope.”

“What about—?” Steve poked his fork at the empty space that should have held Graham's right arm.

“Can't say as I miss it,” Graham joked.

Steve chuckled. “What are you gonna do, ya think?”

“Not sure. Not much use for a one-armed cop. I'm not a desk duty kind of guy, anyway. Probably put in for early retirement, take a good, long vacation. After that, who knows? Thinking about PI work.”

“In Trumbull?”

“Well, I s'pose not. How about you, Steve? Any
decisions
?” He emphasized that last word, knowing full well his friend could not have survived their experience without developing some resolution. Graham had seen the minister's confidence emerge under that pressure, under the threat behind all threats.

“I went ahead and submitted my resignation.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. The committee will probably try to talk me out of it again, but my mind's made up.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'd like them to send us into missionary training.”

“Sheesh.”

“And then to Mexico, if possible.”

“They'll say no.”

“We're going anyway. I've wasted a lot of years doing the wrong ‘right thing.'”

“Mexico.”

“Yep. Pray with me?”

“Absolutely.”

From “Out with the Cold” by Stanley Gruenwald in the
Houston Chronicle
:

After a prolonged cold spell, southeast Texas is enjoying the onset of an Indian summer. Record lows were set in the Houston area and there was even scattered snowfall, uncommon for late autumn in the area. The forecast now calls for early spring-like conditions—mostly sunny and warm for at least the next five days.

 

Sutzkever allowed no shadows of significant size in his house, at Bering's request. This feat required a ridiculous number of lamps and lights, all recent and hurried purchases from the local home improvement store. Sutzkever shopped alone, as Bering had slept for two days without interruption.

When Bering awoke, his old friend had tea at the ready, and a friendly pat on the arm. Bering had wet the bed, and despite his natural embarrassment, he was too weak and too grateful to protest Sutzkever's tending to the soiled sheets.

“You are being good,” Bering said meekly. It was an infantile statement, a matter-of-fact acknowledgement and thank-you from a mind recently freed from the heaviest of burdens. It sounded downright silly, but Sutzkever seemed not to care.

“You are my friend,” Sutzkever said, words that would make the most sense to Bering, delivered in an equally sensible and simple manner.

Over the next few days, Bering's strength began to return. His embarrassment only increased as the exploits of the last few months came more to memory. Sutzkever watched over him constantly, called in to the university and arranged for Bering's sick leave, then prayed over his friend like every breath depended on it.

The great divorce between Bering's crimes and Sutzkever's reaction became more and more obvious in Bering's every waking moment. And all of Sutzkever's care and concern only increased Bering's sense of guilt. For each time Bering secretly shrunk in the horror of his own sin, Sutzkever somehow intuitively built him up with a kind word or deed.

The response was crushing. The amount of apathy was almost too much for him to bear.
No, apathy is not the right word
, thought Bering. Sutzkever was smothering him to life with something for which Bering was at a loss for synonyms. He knew nothing of grace until now.

“I tried to kill you, Leo,” Bering said suddenly one morning over breakfast.

“I know,” Sutzkever said. “Eat your toast.”

From the journal of Dr. Leopold Sutzkever:

God's strength is perfected in man's weakness. What an odd sort, that Malcam. He intended to do us evil, thinking he had drawn us all together for some strange mass murder. But God meant it all for good. We did not all escape unharmed, but we did emerge alive. And God claimed the victory.

Michael is seeking help for his problems, I hear. Reverend Woodbridge has referred him to a counselor friend. We have cleared up the matter of his eternal destiny with him. He no longer fears death, because he is for the first time alive. Death, where is thy victory? Where is thy sting?

Samuel appears well also. We have added theology to our list of debatable topics, but his heart isn't really in it. I believe he is exhausted mentally and spiritually. When you devote your entire soul to a soulless enterprise, no matter how scientifically articulate you think it is, you come away a shell of a man.

We are reconciling religion and science together. He is finding that it is quite silly to believe in hyperspatial beings and to disbelieve in a Creator. Especially a Creator he knows saved his life.

I do not know where Malcam went, though I hope it was to hell. And I do not know if he will return, but I somehow doubt it.

Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing!

 

The
Spotlight
Magazine
office was as deserted as a ghost town except for two old friends exchanging secrets in an open copy room.

“That is the absolute weirdest story I've ever heard,” Robbie Jensen said. “And I don't believe a single word.”

“Scout's honor,” said Mike.

“Mind blower.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You need some time off, man.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Call tomorrow. Talk to Tina. She'll set you up with a ticket—”

Robbie froze.

“What?” Mike asked.

“—or two.”

Mike turned. In the doorway stood the loveliest vision he'd ever seen, a picture of grace and beauty, mercy personified. An object of desire, a purpose for sacrifice. His love, his life. His wife.

“Molly.” Mike stood weakly, slack-jawed.

“Hi.”

Too wonderful. Too glorious.

Don't screw this up.
“Hi.”

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“I'm just gonna … do something, uh, someplace,” Robbie said, making his exit.

“About me?” Mike asked.
Can I hug her? Should I?

“I missed you.”

Mike walked to her, every step less loud than his beating heart. He looked into her eyes.
Those marvelous blue eyes.
“I missed you, too. So much.”

Was she? She was! Reaching for him. She grabbed him, pulled him close. She felt so good against him, so right. Her hair smelled so sweet. Mike trembled.

“Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry.”

The tears began to fall on both of their cheeks.

“No, don't say that,” he said. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one. I am so selfish. I ignored you, took you for granted—”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. It's not okay. I'm so sorry, Molly. Sorry for being a worthless person, a lousy husband, a bad friend. I was lazy, stupid. Please forgive me.”

“I do, I do.”

“Please forgive me.”
Can't get her close enough.

She leaned back, not to escape his embrace, but to look him in the eyes. With a delicate finger, she traced the stitches on his face. A soft gasp puffed through her lips.

“Mike, what happened?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine. I'll tell you all about it later. I've had the worst weeks ever, things you wouldn't believe. But I'm alive. For the first time in my life, I feel alive. Everything got made right. But I still need someone; I need you. I
want you
. I want to make you happy, to give you the love you deserve.”

“Slow down, Mike, slow down.”

“I can't, I can't. I have to have you. I can't believe you'd take me back.”

“I love you.”

“I love
you
. And I'm getting help, help with all of it—my problems, our relationship. I promise to love you more and be a better husband from this point on.”

“I believe you. I believe you.”

Should I kiss her? Can I?
He did, and she let him, even kissed him back.

“Can we go somewhere and talk about all this?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Mike was overjoyed. He felt like a lovestruck teenager, flushed and sweaty, blushing sheepishly, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, his knees wobbly. He managed to ask, “Wanna share a pizza?”

She smiled.

Wow
, Mike thought.

“I'd love to,” she said.

So they did. They left, walking together hand in hand into the autumn sunlight to share dinner. And after it, a lifetime.

OTHERWORLD

Published by David C Cook

4050 Lee Vance View

Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

David C Cook Distribution Canada

55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

without written permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Romans 6:23 and 1 Corinthians 13:53-57 in chapter 12 are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version©, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.
TM
Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com; John 3:16 in chapter 12, Timothy 4:3–4 in chapter 14, Psalm 62:1–4 in chapter 17, and Psalm 64:1, 10; 66:8–11; and 68:1–2 in chapter 18 are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org.); 1 John 4:1–3 and Romans 16:20 in chapter 13, Psalm 68:3 in chapter 18, and Revelation 5:12 in chapter 19 are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. (Public Domain.).

ISBN 978-0-7814-1116-5

eISBN 978-1-4347-0704-8

© 2013 Jared C. Wilson

The Team: Alex Field, Nick Lee, Caitlyn Carlson, Karen Athen

Cover Design: Nick Lee

Cover Photo: Shutterstock

First Edition 2013