Beyond Justice (43 page)

I should get some sleep. 

But I wasn't ready to go up to the bedroom.  That could wait.  Besides, the sofa which the good folks at City on a Hill probably bought from Ikea, actually felt quite comfortable.  I grabbed one of the throw pillows and pulled the blanket that had been draped over the sofa over me and drifted off.

Her cries for help fade.  I fly up the stairs, nearly stumbling on the way. 

Oh God, it's happening.

Why didn't I come home earlier?  Should never have left. 

A long blade of light slashes the darkness though the crack in the door.  I swing it open.  The sheets are in disarray, filled with blood.

"Jenn!"

She gasps for breath in my arms, her very life bleeding out of her.

"The children..."

"I'm sorry, honey," I cry.  "I should never have—"

Her eyes turn blood red.  Her pupils become pointed diamonds. 

"It's your fault!"  she hisses.

"No, Jenn.  Please!"

She bares her teeth, serpent-like fangs.  "
You've
killed us. 
You're
responsible!"

"No…"

"And now, you're going to hop in bed with that Asian whore!  You lecherous pig!"  She lifts her hands.  The long, curved fingernails, rotted black-talons of an infernal dragon.  She sinks them into my neck and squeezes with inhuman strength.

"You faithless, worthless excuse for a human being!" she gurgles.  Maggots squirm from the open wounds in her arms, her neck.  "What did Jenn ever see in you!"

I try to scream but nothing comes out.  I try to move but I'm utterly paralyzed.  The creature clutching my throat decomposes before my very eyes.  The foul smell of death makes me queasy.

"You deserve to die!" it shouts.  Its mouth is open so wide its jaw dislodges, its breath like rotting meat.  My life drains out.  "It should have been you, Sam!"

In my heart I call out to God, "Help me!"

The creature's maniacal laugh echoes.

"Your God!" it scoffs.  "He's dead!"

"Lord!"

"I killed him two millennia ago!"

And then I understand.  Nothing has changed.  Not for two thousand years.  "In the name of Jesus!"  The creature convulses.  Its claws tremble in my bleeding neck.  "In the name of Jesus and His blood!"

Its entire body quakes.  The demon won't to let go of my neck but isn't able to prevent it.  It releases me.  I can speak.

"In the name of Jesus, I command you to leave!"

With a blood-coagulating shriek, the creature explodes into shards of decaying flesh, which dissolve into crawling maggots.

Then evaporates.

I woke up gasping, my face numb, my back wet and cold. 

A dream.

Had to be the most horrible thing I'd ever experienced.  Its foreboding effects lingered like the stench in my nightmare.  The sense that I was not alone in the house caused me to shudder.  Despite the fireplace which still burned, the room felt cold.

I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and went to my duffle bag in the hallway.  Back on the sofa with my Bible, I sat and read by the light of the fire.  A few minutes later I sunk deep into meditation, more at ease and secure as I prayed for Aaron, for guidance regarding Rachel.

My eyes were still shut when I heard it emanating from the fire.   A sizzling sound, a familiar hiss that reminded me of moisture evaporating from burning wood.  Only this was a gas burning fireplace and the simulated logs were made of concrete.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS...

I peered into the fire expecting to find a crumpled newspaper or piece of wood burning.  Nothing.  Just the concrete logs.

SSSSSSSSSSSS....

Neither loud nor abrupt, it seemed to respond to my movement.

Sssssssssssss....

The hissing grew fainter but not a bit less distinct.  A tingling sensation ran through my body.  Considering the nightmare, which was a bit too real, I should have been freaked out of my mind.   But instead, my heart pounded with anticipation.

Sssssssamuel.

I knew this voice.  It had called me before.

"I'm here, Lord."

I clutched the Bible to my chest and rubbed my eyes.  Began perceiving images in the fire.  Images, impressions of things, wondrous and strange:

I see myself as a teenager, a college student, even as a married man—many of the sins I'd committed and had long forgotten.  The lies, petty theft, cheating on exams, lust, hatred.  That homeless panhandler back in New York that I walked straight past on Christmas Eve.  Never thought twice about these things before.  Now they grieve me, fill me with shame.

Jesus hangs on the cross, streaks of blood drips line his face.  He lifts his swollen eyes to heaven.  "
Father, forgive...
"  He looks down and down by his feet, I see myself in my cell back at Salton Sea, kneeling in prayer on the night I accepted Christ as my lord and savior.  But I am naked, my body covered in festering sores.

A pair of radiant angels drape a dirty sackcloth over my head.  From above, a drop of the savior's blood falls on my back.  The sores evanesce and the sackcloth begins to glow—brilliant and white, like the angels attending me.

My shame is replaced by indescribable joy.

"Thank you, Lord."

Once again I hear the voice. "
Samuel.
"

"Yes."

"
Behold.
"  I see Him forgiving the very people who have driven a spear into his side, who have scourged him, beaten him, mocked him.  And then...

Another image appears.

Words.  Whose meaning I already understand, yet refuse to acknowledge.

"
Forgive, as you have been forgiven.
"

Brent Stringer sits at a table, his hands chained.  I am there on the other side of the table.  Our heads are bowed, my Bible rests between us.  He is weeping, nodding.  Repentant.

"
Go to him, Samuel.
"

"Lord?"  I had never had such a clear vision before, but this could not be.  I was appalled.

"
Befriend him
."

"I can't do that, Lord."

"
Forgive.
"

I stepped back from the fireplace, wishing this had been another nightmare.  I shook my head, trying to clear it.  There was absolutely no way I would ever forgive Stringer, much less befriend him.

"No."  My jaws ached from clenching.  My hands shook violently.  I gripped the Bible as if I could choke the life from it.  How could anyone ask this of me?  Brent Stringer deserved to burn in Hell, to have his eyes eternally plucked out by ravens, his entrails torn from his belly and gnawed by rats.

  In an urgent whisper, the voice from the fire spoke again—gentle, yet firm. "
Forgive us our trespasses
..."

"NO!"  With a tempestuous grunt I hurled the Bible at the voice at the fireplice, shattering the wine glass.  Crimson brandy bled darkly onto the hearth, onto the wood floor.  I stormed out of the living room without even looking back.  What kind of insane dreams and visions were these anyway?

I leaned back against the wall, sank to the floor and buried my face in my knees.  "Why, God?  Why!"

No voice this time.

Only the sound of crackling flames.

And a growing rumble.

Before my eyes, shadows danced on the wall.  Then came the acrid fumes.  I leapt to my feet and stuck my head back into the living room.  The top of the hearth, the rug beneath it, ablaze.   I ran over and tried to stamp it out.  But the glowing embers flew up and the fire ran down the rug and under the curtains.  Within seconds, everything that seemed it could catch fire did.

The entire house would go up in flames.

Chapter Ninety-One

A long, hot shower, herbal tea and vegging with truTV while lying down on the sofa would ordinarily have done the trick.  But tonight Rachel just couldn't rest her mind.  Her feelings for Sam had simmered for almost three years.  Now everything moved at frightening pace.  At least it was mutual.

Sam had been a widower for as long as she'd known him.  Still, it felt like she was in love with a married man.  Could he ever love her the way he'd loved Jenn?

Don't be pathetic, Ray.

She took a sip of tea and despised her insecurity.  The television announcer's voice droned on about an unsolved homicide.  Rachel yawned and clicked it off with the remote.  She'd had enough of murder cases.  Time for bed.

Running her fingers through her long, ebony hair, Rachel stood in front of her dresser mirror and noticed that her blouse had been open a button lower than usual, revealing a subtle glimpse of cleavage.  Not exactly buxom, but what she had was actually quite pretty.

Cute, even.

She blinked in surprise.  Plenty of women dressed this way.  But she never went out of the house like this.  Had it become undone when she and Sam started pawing each other?  Had she subconsciously left it that way?

What must he think of me?  And at the same time, she almost hoped he'd noticed. 
You're crazy, Ray.
  Staying chaste for some thirty years could make a person that way.  She meant to be a pure woman.  But she was a woman nonetheless.  Best guard against temptation and focus on Aaron's case.  And helping Sam readjust to society.

Rachel shed her clothes, sat at her dresser in a white satin robe and brushed her hair.  That look on Sam's face when he thought they were going to die in a car accident—all for a fleeting moment of passion.  It made her smile, nearly made her laugh out loud.   A few tiny lines gathered at the outset of her eyes.  Laugh lines?  No.  She hadn't truly laughed for most of her adult life.  Though she certainly had it in her.

Just ask Joey.

The smile withered.  Lord, how she missed her big brother, the pranks they used to pull, like hiding
Poh-Poh's
dentures, dropping water balloons on that crabby, old Russian lady from their fourth floor apartment in Chicago.

All those years, Joey had always been there for her, always helped her.  If only she'd been able to do that for him before he got his throat slashed while doing life at Cook County.  For a crime he did not commit.

When she finally got herself under the covers, she realized just how exhausted she'd been.  Sam's exoneration wasn't just a relief, but a victory, both personal and professional.  His reciprocation of affection was both comforting and validating.

For the first time in years she could now breathe easily.   God had not forgotten the suffering of the falsely accused.  Finally, she could afford herself the luxury of a relationship.

Don't mess this up.

She turned over on her side and slipped her hands under her pillow.  The clock radio read 2:30.  It took long enough, but she might finally be able to sleep now.  She didn't even realize that her eyelids had fallen shut until she was jolted by the cell phone buzzing on her nightstand.

Not bothering to look at the caller ID she answered.  "Sam?"

Chapter Ninety-Two

After three extra hours at the station, Lieutenant Jim O'Brien was finally heading home.  One of the advantages he enjoyed over his married buddies was putting in all the overtime he wanted without worrying about an irate spouse or clamoring kids.  He came and went as he liked.  Almost made being single and forty-five bearable.

Still, it would've been nice to come home to loving arms, a hot meal, and stories about his incredibly smart and talented kids—the way his married buddies did every night.  Jim came home to Millie, a fat orange tabby who barely opened one eye when he stepped into his condo.  Unless, of course, she was hungry.

Driving down Camino del Gato in the wee hours of the morning, any sound out of the ordinary, an occasional car or truck passing, crickets chirping in the crisp breeze, felt like a disturbance in the force.

So when a Rancho Carmelita fire engine raced ahead of him on the single lane road, honked so loud it nearly scared the crap out of him, Jim pulled over to the shoulder, slapped the magnetic flashing beacon on his roof and tailed them.

___________________

The curtains caught fire as if they'd been doused in high octane gasoline.  Out of sheer instinct, I ran to the kitchen and opened the cabinets beneath the sink, where we used to keep a fire extinguisher. 

Used to.

For a moment, I considered filling a bucket with water, but I realized that I would probably run into the same problem:
used to
have a bucket.  I ran back only to find that the fire had now spread to the adjacent curtain.  Gradual, but not slow enough.