Valley of the Shadow (35 page)

    Mitch knew this must be the way spirits communicated once free of their mortal shells. It was a depth and wonder he could not grasp, and he felt a sudden urge to follow Conner. To see for himself. To experience what lay beyond that great door of heaven.

    But below, the vortex—the doorway back—was closing. Mitch gathered himself and turned again to face the darkness behind him.

    “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

    Death sneered and raged. “You will be lost in darkness forever.”

    Mitch shook his head. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. But he knew God had not brought him all this way—through all these things—for nothing. He felt the peace only a repentant man could feel. He felt the freedom of a man forgiven. His hate was gone.

    Buried at the foot of a cross.

    Mitch leaned backward and plunged into the emptiness of space. Death thundered in mindless, openmouthed, and impotent fury.

    It all receded rapidly as Mitch plummeted. Swallowed at last by the great vortex, he felt himself accelerating, spinning. The cliff, the stars, and all the majesty of the heavens shrank into a single point of light that glowed brightly for a moment.

    Then it faded into darkness.

LIGHTS OF THE POLICE CRUISERS
flashed red and blue against the house and through the windows. Jim was giving a statement to one of the officers while another led Devon out to the waiting car.

    Annie sat with Juanita in the Haydens’ living room. Marta Hayden stood in the hallway with her arm around Rachel.

    Jim and Annie had stopped to pick up Juanita before heading north. Even though her relationship with Devon had been broken for a long time, she was still his mother, and after their visit that morning, somehow Jim felt God was compelling him to bring her along.

    But the hospital had refused to let them see Mitch. Apparently his father had imposed a strict rule against any visitation. So Annie had suggested calling in an anonymous tip, just in case Devon was in the area.

    Then Jim had called Marta Hayden once again to see if Conner had gotten home yet. Marta had said she thought he’d be home soon and invited them over to wait.

    Jim finished giving his statement. “Conner and I had been trying to help the kid. Y’know… to get his life on the right track. I think that’s why he came here. He was looking for help.”

    Jim shot a glance at Marta, who nodded. Before the police arrived, they had put the gun somewhere out of sight. There was no need to add attempted murder to Devon’s crimes, believing as they did that he was being led along—pushed into a corner by something evil.

    Devon would need to go back to corrections, but he would need prayer and counseling more than anything. At least now he seemed open to it.

    Devon had looked exhausted by his ordeal but grew suddenly agitated when the police arrived, begging them for protection. Jim overheard Devon telling them about his gang affiliations and about some deal he had witnessed the night he’d been shot. The officers took notes and scheduled him to speak to one of their detectives.

    Jim could only shake his head at the kind of life this kid had been leading prior to all of this. Though only a teenager, Devon had already gotten involved with some serious criminal organization. Jim didn’t catch all the details and, frankly, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

    He just wanted to get back home. Back to his kids and his life. The life he’d had before he’d met Devon. And Conner Hayden, for that matter. Though something told him his life was not going to be the same after this night.

    One of the officers came in from outside with a grim look on her face.

    “Mrs. Hayden, may I speak to you in private please?”

    Marta led the woman into the kitchen. Jim could see her listening to the officer for a moment. Suddenly her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. Her face turned white and she staggered backward. The officer caught her before she collapsed.

    She was shaking her head and sobbing. “No, no, no…”

    Jim felt his stomach sinking. Somehow he knew it was about her husband. About Conner. Something terrible had happened. Jim’s vision grew tunneled. He had to sit down. He hardly knew the man but he’d spoken to him only a few hours earlier. What had happened to him?

    Rachel ran into the room and Marta tried to tell her the news. The police officer gave her the details calmly. Rachel’s reaction was different from her mother’s. She straightened, turned away, shaking her head.

    “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you. He… he said he was coming home tonight. He just went down for work. For a deposition. You must have made a mistake.”

    The officer shook her head. No, there was no mistake.

    Then Rachel began to cry.

    Jim watched them from the hallway. His mind felt numb and he steadied himself against the wall. He watched their pain as they held each other, sobbing onto each other’s shoulders. After a moment, the officer left them. Marta and Rachel stood there, holding each other. Alone in the kitchen. Weeping.

    Weeping.

LINDA WILSON SAT
at Mitch’s hospital bedside as she had done most evenings for the last two months. It was late and she knew she should be getting home. She had stopped by on her way home from work just to spend a minute to pray over Mitch, like she always did when she sat with him. But she was starting to feel it was a futile exercise. She had prayed for him for two months with no results. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was expecting. Maybe some sign that Mitch was getting better. Or at least that he wasn’t getting any worse.

    The nurses told her she had missed quite a ruckus earlier in the evening. Half a dozen deputies had combed the entire hospital looking for someone. Apparently, an anonymous caller had tipped them off to the possibility of an escaped convict in the area or in the hospital itself. Something like that. Linda didn’t get all the details.

    The deputies had hung around for a while but were now gone, and the halls were quiet again. Linda sat in the darkened room with Mitch.

    “I keep praying for you, Mitch,” she whispered, taking his meaty hand in hers. “I keep asking God to send you back to me. But I have to admit…” Her voice cracked. “I’m starting to think He’s not listening or something.”

    She wiped her tears and squeezed Mitch’s hand. “I just need you to hear me. I love you. Can you just give me some sign that you hear me?”

    She began to cry harder and laid her head against Mitch’s arm. It wasn’t fair. They had so much to live for. So many plans. And all of that had been wiped away in an instant. She thought back to that night, as she had so many times. If only he’d taken the car instead of his motorcycle. He’d been so eager to get it running. To show it off to her. If only he’d left a few minutes sooner. Or later.

    But it had to be on that stretch of highway. Just at that moment in time. The other driver swerved into Mitch’s lane. Just at that second. She had begged God for some answer. Some reason why it had to have been Mitch and not someone else.

    The other driver had gone off the road completely and struck a tree. He’d been in a coma too, and he and Mitch had even been in adjacent rooms. But when Linda arrived tonight, the other man’s room was dark. His bed was empty.

    The nurse had said they’d disconnected him earlier in the evening. His wife had held out hope for two months. Linda had met her. Prayed with her. Cried with her. Whatever loss Linda might have felt, the other man had left behind a wife and children.

    The news that he had died hit Linda in the pit of her stomach. It was as if Mitch had run out of time as well. She had no idea what Walter Kent’s plans were. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. Not even the nurses knew.

    She whispered a prayer. “Oh, Jesus, please don’t take him too. He’s not ready. Just… please, just give him another chance.”

    It was all she could say. All she could think of. She felt like she was running on an empty tank. Like any hope she might have had was finally used up with that last prayer.

    Then she felt it.

    A gentle press of flesh from Mitch’s hand against her fingers. Soft—almost imperceptible. Linda thought she’d imagined it. She popped her head up.

    “Mitch?” she whispered. She leaned up to his ear. “Mitch, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand again if you can hear me. Squeeze my hand.”

    He lay still for several seconds. Then she felt it again. The soft squeeze of his fingers against hers.

    Linda’s heart rose. She sat up. “That’s it, baby. I can feel you! I can feel you! Can you hear me?”

    This time—a third time—Mitch’s fingers squeezed firm around her hand.

    Linda was laughing now, full and loud through her tears. And her laughter filled the darkened room, spilling out into the corridor beyond.

Five days later

AN ICY NOVEMBER DRIZZLE
soaked the crowd of black-clad mourners, peppering umbrellas, overcoats, and hat brims. Jim Malone wrapped his arm around Annie and pulled her closer underneath his own umbrella. Through the gathering, he could see Marta Hayden, seated beneath the temporary pavilion with her daughter beside her. Their expressions seemed vacant as they stared at the coffin, glistening with droplets.

    The pastor beside them opened his Bible and read from Psalm 23. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures…’”

    Jim felt an ache in his chest over the events of the previous week. He had barely known Conner Hayden, and yet he found himself unexpectedly intertwined in the man’s life and in the lives of his widow and daughter.

    News of Conner’s death had come as a shock. But as the grim details of the deeper and darker story surrounding his death came to light, it grew into a full-blown media frenzy, even gaining some national attention.

    The two girls Conner had rescued—Katie Polchek and Amber Bronson—had contacted the police on Conner’s cell phone. They drove to a nearby gas station, where the police and an ambulance met them. Conner had suffered a gunshot wound to the upper back but had already lost too much blood. He was dead by the time the paramedics arrived, reportedly with a look of peace on his face.

    The two girls were treated for dehydration and severe trauma, and they gave statements to the police. The authorities descended immediately on the Bristol farm, where they discovered Mrs. Bristol sitting in the old cabin in the woods, cradling her dead son.

    She had said nothing, but after a thorough search of the premises, the police took her into custody. And her son to the morgue.

    The pundits debated Conner’s involvement and how he had managed to know the girls’ whereabouts. Had he been involved somehow with the Bristols? Or was he psychic? Had his near-death experience two months earlier given him some supernatural abilities? There were those who called it a clear act of God. And as always, there were others who doubted. Who would always doubt.

    But the girls related quite a harrowing story, saying there could be bodies buried around the farm. The Bristols were named as suspects in the disappearance of another young man from Westville two years earlier. The police indicated they were considering opening a whole slew of missing persons cases from all around the state, dating back more than twenty years. Even now they were searching the farm for remains.

    And Howard? Howard still lay comatose at the nursing home in Indiana. The news reports indicated that Mrs. Bristol had been fighting for months to keep him alive. Now the debate swirled as to the old man’s fate.

    Jim gazed again at Marta and Rachel, alone in their pain among their friends. And yet in all their sorrow, Jim thought there might still be some comfort. Some small, faint hope, awash in tears and the pain of loss, like a candle flickering in the rain, fighting to cast its light yet a little farther. And after a time, Jim knew the flame would still be burning, growing brighter as the storm waned.

    The pastor’s voice cracked with emotion as he read the psalm. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”

JULIE HARRIS WENT THROUGH
her morning routine at the LaPorte County Nursing Home. There were a few minor housekeeping chores and some paperwork left over from the night shift. Then she loaded up the supply cart and headed out on her normal rounds. She flashed a smile at the state trooper posted outside Howard Bristol’s room.

    “Hi, Gary,” she said. “Just need to load up a new feeding bag.”

    The trooper tipped his hat and stepped aside.

    Julie rolled the cart inside, humming softly.

    “Good morning, Howard,” she said. She always talked to him. Comatose or not, she decided it couldn’t hurt. And it’d been known to help in some cases.

    “Would you like some breakfast?” she said. “You look a little hungry.”

    She disconnected the old feeding bag from the IV pole; then she laid a hand on Howard’s forehead and glanced out the door at the trooper. Gary was sitting in a chair, his nose in a newspaper.

    Julie produced a small photograph from her smock and stared at it a moment. Then she leaned close to Howard’s face, holding the picture in front of his closed eyelids.

    “Thought you might like to see a picture of my boyfriend, Dale,” she whispered. “Dale Edwards. I think you might remember him. He disappeared a couple years ago. And as you can imagine, we’ve all been worried sick.”

    She leaned closer. Her voice became a low hiss. “You and your psychopathic little family killed him for no reason.” She shook her head as disgust washed over her. “What kind of a sick freak are you?”