Tying the Knot (9 page)

The shot ripped through the door. The gun bucked in his hands and metal screamed. He aimed and shot again. This time the door jerked, jumped on its hinges. Noah grabbed the knob and yanked the mutilated mass open.

A terrified store clerk, her eyes white against her dark skin, met him in the stockroom. “Get out!”

Noah laughed. He waved the gun. “Zip it.”

Fear clamped her mouth shut. She whirled, raced through the store and out the front door.

Although time blurred some of the sounds and smells, he recalled stalking to the front, his pulse racing. He slammed the butt of his weapon into the cash register, but it didn’t open.

Then sound blared through Noah’s memory—sirens whining in the padding of night.

He’d driven his shoulder into the register, kicked it, shot it twice. It dinged like a bell, and he heard the sweet sound of coins rattling around inside. But the stubborn thing still wouldn’t open.

Sirens . . . closer. His assignment had been to rob the place clean. Yeah, right. He hadn’t even been able to open the register, not to mention clean out the safe.

Noah dug his hands into his hair, remembering now the women—one with an infant, crouched near the ice-cream freezer—and a man sprawled on the floor by the counter, hands clutched over his head. “Stay down and keep your mouths shut or you’re going to die—and fast,” he had said. Had those words really spurted out of his mouth? He felt sick now, elated then. His absolute power had emboldened him.

What could he steal?

The sirens rattled the windows.

Then he’d made his eternal mark of stupidity. He grabbed a bag of groceries sitting on the counter, obviously the purchases of the patron facedown on the floor. Shoving it under his arm, he dove for the back.

Thirty seconds later he sprinted through the well-known back alleys of his neighborhood, feeling giddy, indestructible. He ran the entire way to L’il Lee’s house, where the VLs waited. Ten guys loitered on the porch, including three Vice Lord lieutenants and two foot soldiers Noah had beaten to a pulp two days earlier.

He collapsed on the back steps, gasping, his breath burning in his lungs. He ached everywhere—it felt delicious. “You. Guys. Set. Me. Up.”

“Yeah. And pow! You take out the door?” L’il Lee slapped him on the back, laughing. “Gimme that piece, boy.” He shot a grin at Mo-Jo, VL minister. “Don’t get Rock mad. He’ll fire first and never ask forgiveness!” He punched Noah on the shoulder. Noah had relished the pain that spiked down his arm.

“So, what’s the take?” Shorty Mac huffed up, looking like a proud father.

Noah handed over his spoils.

Shorty Mac opened the bag, dropped it, and burst out laughing. “Boys, we have a regular felon here. A real Billy the Kid. He goes in guns ablazin’ and comes out with—” he reached into the sack—“Doritos!”

Noah gasped, his stomach twisting at the memory. The lives he’d endangered for a bag of chips. Tears coursed down his face as he sat on the dock. He gazed heavenward and traced the first hint of stars in the bruised sky. His throat tightened, but he forced his words out. “Lord, I know I’m the worst candidate to be leading kids to You. You’ve seen my life and sometimes Your grace is simply overwhelming. But, God, these kids need Your salvation. Only You can wrench them out of death, drugs, and despair.” He swallowed, and regret lodged in his throat. “I handled it badly with Anne, Lord. She deserved better. Please forgive me.”

The memory of her slight smile when he’d offered to show her around camp hinted that maybe—just maybe—if he went crawling on his knees, she’d hear him out. Allow him to draw her a picture of the despair etched on the kids’ grimy faces and let him plead his case. She’d nearly ripped him to shreds with her cutting words, but the shred of pride that remained wouldn’t keep him from approaching her with his hat in his hands. He needed her. The kids needed her. And for their sake, she needed to know why. Then he’d cut her free and let her take the reins.

He smiled.
Lord, You choose. If You want this camp to be a go, please change Anne’s heart. Please convince her to stay.

5

Noah gunned his motorcycle along Highway 61, one eye on his speedometer, looking for the gravel drive Edith Draper had described on the telephone.

If Anne Lundstrom hoped to hide from society, she’d picked the perfect place. Noah had hunted down Dr. Simpson at Pierre’s Pizza to find Anne’s address, and he’d spent several more minutes watching Sally Williams’s toddler drive toys around her sandbox while the Grace Church secretary dug up Edith Draper’s new telephone number.

He’d caught the elderly woman just as she was leaving for a dinner out at the Granite River Resort. “She’s staying on our property, Mr. Bear, but she doesn’t have a telephone.”

“Can I come by and wait on her porch?”

For some reason he pictured Edith pulling her chin as she thought that over. “I suppose so, but I don’t keep her schedule. She might be long.”

Had he scared her all the way back to wherever she hailed from?

The wind plowed through his hair. The air smelled of storm. Black clouds obscured the moon in a gloomy nighttime canopy. Noah felt as if he’d gone about three rounds with his former homeboys as he fought the urge to grab Anne’s ankles and beg for her help, instead of simply, calmly, without pleading in his voice, explain the situation and let God tug at her heart.

He couldn’t force her to work at Wilderness Challenge. Regardless of how she greeted him, he’d apologize. Knowing he’d ignited fear in her eyes more than once had helped him muscle the courage to hop on his bike and track down her address in Deep Haven.

The Draper driveway jagged off from the road to the left. He noticed a crooked sign tacked to an oak tree.
Draper
was written on the plywood scrap, probably posted for the plumber or UPS. Noah slowed as his wheels kicked up stones and dirt. The road wound toward the lake, between balsam and birch, the foliage providing a natural sound barrier to the highway. The forest closed over him briefly before he emerged into a cleared parking area. He parked the bike next to an outbuilding and considered the two trails—one leading toward a beautiful log A-frame with a wraparound porch. The other cut through more forest.

Noah chose the road less traveled and emerged at a tiny box cabin. Although it had seen better days, obvious by the saggy front porch and peeling paint, the cabin looked cozy, even comforting. Noah hopped up the stairs and knocked on the door, in hopes Anne had returned.

Something slammed into the door on the inside. Then barking, low and somewhat desperate, with a lilt of whine at the end of the dispatch. Anne’s dog. No, Anne’s furry horse. “Anne, are you home?”

Again barking, but this time, more whine attached—enough to make Noah frown. Had something happened to Anne? Was she lying inside injured or ill? Maybe her reaction to him had triggered some sort of psychosomatic episode. “Anne?”

More barking, then the whines tumbled on top of each other, frantic, afraid. Noah flung open the screen and wiggled the doorknob. Locked. “Anne!” He pounded on the wood, hard enough that anyone reasonably near consciousness would hear him.

He thumped his shoulder into the door. Pain shot into his neck. The wood shuddered but held. He swallowed an expletive and let the screen door slam.

The dog howled.

An image of Anne in the throes of an epileptic seizure or a diabetic coma pitched his heart into his throat. He was going in.

Noah tried the window next to the door. Closed. But locked? Not likely, in this part of America. Noah flicked open his Leatherman, something much more useful than the switchblade he once carried, and jammed the screwdriver into the frame. The window argued as he jimmied it up six inches, the century-old frame reluctant to be manhandled. He pressed his hand in and found a screen. “Anne!” he yelled into the gap.

The dog nearly took his hand off. Giant paws slammed into the screen, then a tongue, snuffling. “Okay, okay, I’m coming. Back off.” Noah yanked the window up to waist height and again felt the screen. Old-fashioned tabs held it in place, and it took about thirty-five seconds for his childhood talents to pop them off. He pushed the screen open at the bottom and slid into the cabin, feetfirst.

Anne’s giant beast attacked him like a long-lost friend. Noah dug both hands into the dog’s hair, pulling him off while the animal bathed his face. “Where’s Anne?”

The Saint Bernard jumped back, sat on the floor, and swished her tail. Noah fumbled for the light, found it by the door, and flipped it on.

He gasped. “What happened here?” An antique, milk-glass table lamp lay shattered in a thousand bumpy pieces on the wooden floor. Intermingled with the white shards were the fragmented remains of a hickory log, perhaps used as an appetizer right before the animal dove into the main course—a lime green foam macramé pillow. The pillow’s shredded remains littered the room, along with what looked like a rejected portion out of the dog’s stomach. The stench, mingled with dog saliva and a very suspicious-looking puddle next to the woodstove in the corner, nearly knocked Noah to his knees.

A war zone, and no sign of Anne. Noah beelined to the bedroom, praying she wasn’t injured or worse. He popped on the bedroom light.

The pink knitted bedspread webbed the room, now an unraveled dog toy connecting the overturned lamp to a gooey pile of hand lotion. The bottle looked like it had waged a decent fight and spilled its contents in a final act of defiance.

“Oh, dog, you’re in big trouble.”

Noah knelt and finally accepted the dog’s welcome, his heart rate settling into a reasonable thump. Anne wasn’t here, she wasn’t dead, and hopefully he’d have time to clean the place up before she walked in the—

A scream nearly made him leap out of his skin. Anne stood in the bedroom doorway, her face ashen, eyes wide with terror and fixed on Noah. She dropped her bag of groceries, took a breath, and belted out another scream.

Noah jumped to his feet. “Anne, stop. It’s okay.” He glanced at the mess. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

When he turned back to her, the panic on her face halted him. She shook, on the thin edge of control, as if seeing an apparition. “Anne, calm down.”

He grabbed her arm as she whirled to escape. “Let go of me!” she shrieked. She hit at his arm, and he instantly released her.

For a second he felt sure she was going to race out the door, just like she’d floored it away from the camp. He froze, frustration and helplessness tying him into knots.

“You! What are you doing here?” Fury sizzled in her eyes. As her glare pinned him, words clogged in his throat.

She didn’t wait for a response. She hauled back and slapped him. The sting didn’t hurt nearly as much as seeing tears spring into her eyes and watching her crumple to the floor, sobbing.

He knelt beside her, his chest throbbing with each wretched sob. Had he done this? What fear prowled under her skin that roared to life every time she saw him? He longed to draw her into his circle of protection, to smooth her hair and comfort her despite the fact she thought him a close relative to a street rat. The lady was afraid and crying.

He wasn’t about to let pride stand between him and chivalry. Even if she was bound to slug him. Again. He braced himself, reached out. His hand grazed her arm.

She jerked away. “Don’t touch me!” When she looked up, her agonized expression made him cringe. The emotions in her eyes told him that she’d seen things and held secrets that put substance to her fearful behavior. He felt sick to his soul when she whispered, “What kind of criminal are you?”

Anne had never seen someone turn white so fast. She knew it; she just knew it. The guy in front of her, despite the worry on his face, probably had a case file at police headquarters so thick they used it as a footstool. She gritted her teeth, not caring that he looked like he’d been hit in the gut, pale, slack-jawed. She wondered how soon she could charge him with breaking and entering. And if she did, wouldn’t that erase her camp problem?

Then he clamped his mouth shut, as if coming to his senses, and backed away from her. Way away. As if he couldn’t put enough distance between them. He even stood and stalked across the room, standing with his back to her as he faced the woodstove. It unnerved her the way he shook.

She wondered how fast she could get to Edith’s telephone. First item on Anne’s to-do list tomorrow was to order her own service. She would even pump bad gas at Mom and Pop’s to pay for it.

Something about Noah’s demeanor made her throat raw. His shoulders were hunched and he’d cupped his hands over his face. Even eight feet away, she could see his neck muscles tense.

Then Bertha tackled her. Slobbering and smelling of—hand lotion? “Get off me!” She ran her hands over Bertha’s thick hair, thankful beyond words for her giant companion. Just think what the hoodlum would have done to her place had Bertha not been here. He’d probably locked the poor thing in her bedroom while he ransacked Anne’s tiny home.

Ransacked—why? Anne pushed the dog away and surveyed the carnage. The chaos nearly sent a wave of fresh tears. “What, taking me prisoner wasn’t enough? You had to demolish my cabin too?”