Bullet in the Night (7 page)

A guard dragged the prisoner away but not before he yelled, “Now I’m sucked up into this lousy system.” The suited man on the same side of the cubicle as me got the message the session was over and packed his briefcase.

I turned back to Kirk, who’d observed the incident also, and was still watching the retreating figure.

“So that’s how you feel? Like a victim caught in the process?”

A shadow flickered across his face. “I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore. I was starting to think I was a real person with a job and a future and then this.” He waved his arm back and forth. “In my life growing up, the “haves” were the drug-pushers, pimps, and thieves and the “have-nots” were the straights. I try to go straight and look where it lands me.”

I held up my right hand in a stop gesture. “No sense wasting time in this pity pit. It’s not helpful to you or honest. In your prior life, didn’t you define fairness by robbing other people who had more? That’s absolutely wrong and besides, it didn’t work or you wouldn’t have history behind bars.”

Kirk lowered his head. “You sound like Lenora.”

“I’ve seen enough clients with ‘poor me’ syndrome to know it’s easy to convince yourself you deserve whatever you can take. It’s not right and never will be.”

“Okay, you nailed me. Until I reformed, that is. After my third prison stint, I really was going straight. I hooked up with Jesus—made a huge difference in my thinking. Lenora understood.” He rested his elbow on the narrow ledge in front of him and looked into my eyes. “I changed, plain and simple and for real.”

For his sake I wanted this to be true. I’d heard my share of stories about insincere foxhole conversions but knew real ones occurred too. “Go on, Kirk. The fact is, I need to be convinced.”

“It was a big deal to me that Lenora Lawrence cared about me and became a friend. The first I had in a long time, maybe ever.” Kirk squeezed his fist into the palm of his hand. “I’d die before letting her down. To think I could hurt her, well, it’s just crazy, that’s all.”

While he talked, I studied him, trying to gage how credible he was. Sincere or insincere? Hard to tell for sure. Maybe Christ had transformed his you-owe-me attitude, but reform is usually a process. Could he have changed so quickly? Or was it the lure of a job with Lenora’s foundation that led to his fake conversion?

Lord, give me discernment.

“I’m different, not just here.” Kirk pointed to his head. “Here.” He stabbed at his heart.

“I want to believe you.”

That was as much as I could honestly say. Kirk had an engaging intensity in his outgoing personality. He might have made a great living selling cars. How much of what I hoped was Kirk’s innocence came from a smooth professional con act? Did he take me for Miss Sweetie-Pie-Believe-Anything?

No silent sulking on his part, for which I was grateful. It appeared, at least, he’d opened up. I urged him to continue.

He recounted details of his prison Bible study. As I listened I kept seeing the image of my colleague working with him. I respected Lenora’s efforts to create a positive change and had no doubt she was an excellent counselor. Her incredible, altruistic bent led to her foundation. But no counselor was infallible. Good counseling enlisted the force of a person’s will to motivate change.

One more force helped—the Holy Spirit’s supernatural power to achieve more than mere human will. Lenora had experienced the difference genuine Christian conversion makes. How many times had I told my clients, “You can change. You’ve got to want it as bad as your next breath, work like you’re the only one who can make it happen, and pray daily for God’s grace to help you succeed.”

I studied Kirk as he shifted restlessly on the hard-backed chair. “So I connect with Christ and now this. I’m back in jail and if Lenora dies, I could be in prison the rest of my life. Is this how He treats people who trust Him?”

“Let’s keep the blame where it belongs and try to figure out what happened. I get it, Kirk. It’d be stupid to shoot Lenora when she was helping you. In your Bible reading, have you come across Job complaining because of God’s apparent abandonment? In the end, Job kept his trust in God, and the things he lost in life were restored. Check out his life.”

“Lenora told me to read the Gospels, especially John.” He brushed his hand across his eyes.

“Good place to start.”

“Now how can I convince the police of my innocence?”

“Convince me first.”

“Once and for all, it wasn’t me.” He raised his voice, and the guard in the corner hurried over.

I jerked my head toward the officer. “Calm down, Kirk.”

“Problem, ma’am?” The officer was leaning over me, his badge bright and close.

“No, everything’s fine.” I stammered.

The guard glared at Kirk. “Keep it down.”

To my relief he didn’t take Kirk away. No way did I want to end this interview yet.

As the guard backed away, I prayed again for discernment. Lord, can I believe what Kirk is saying? I don’t like to trust my feelings because I know how flighty they can be, but I sense he underwent a genuine reform. You have plans for this man; what are they?

I stared directly into his eyes. “When I walked in here, I didn’t know what to think. I do believe when Christ gets hold of a life, good things happen, not bad. When He’s at work, good can come out of even horrible events. If your commitment is sincere, it will be evident, and we’ll beat this.”

Kirk stared at me. Had his mind registered that he heard me say “we?”

Finally he spoke. “It’s nice to have somebody in my camp,” he stammered and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

“If you weren’t the shooter, we have to figure out who fired that nearly fatal shot at Lenora.”

“How can I help stuck in here?”

I lowered my voice. “Were there any other ex-convicts—either ones Lenora worked with or for some reason turned down helping—who might have been angry with her or the foundation?”

“None I can think of off the top of my head.”

“When the police finish their investigation, they won’t have enough evidence to hold you.”
Let’s hope.

Kirk slumped forward. “Thank God.” He started to cry.

This didn’t appear to be the harsh, self-serving thief whose file I’d studied the other night. I often saw clients’ tears during a counseling session. Crying didn’t make me uncomfortable, not even these tears seeming to come from the depth of his soul. I longed to pat him on the shoulder but of course, couldn’t touch him.

Tears or not, he still had a big test of trust to pass.

I waited several minutes until he collected himself.

“Sorry, not sure where that came from. I’ve been holding everything in for so long, it just sort of broke out, I guess.”

“No problem. The tension of the last few days has to be incredible. Get some rest. I’ll be back.” I’d wanted to ask more questions, but he appeared wiped out.

I stood and motioned the guard over. He appeared at Kirk’s side immediately to lead him back to his cell.

If Kirk had been acting, he was Oscar material.

CHAPTER TEN

The rest of the day, my brain bounced like a ping-pong ball between serving clients and focusing on the shooting. If Kirk hadn’t shot Lenora, who had? The question reverberated over and over.

My computer database skills were minimal but sufficient for me to perform a basic search on the web for T. Hartford. An hour later I had no success, although I was sure the information was there somewhere.

Frustrated, I called Nick and asked him to arrange for his firm’s investigator to locate the phone listing. A couple of keystrokes on his part, and I’d have it. Time was critical. Until the person who attempted to kill Lenora was behind bars, my friend wasn’t safe.

I prayed for her again, refusing to think Lenora might never get off the ventilator and be able to provide clues to her assailant.

My cell phone vibrated within the hour.
Nick
.

“Hon, just e-mailed you a list of T. Hartford phone numbers and addresses.”

“Good man. Thanks. It would have taken me half a day to do a thorough search and probably still produce nothing. Use all competent help available is my philosophy.”

“That’s why you married me. See you at home around six. You can give me my reward then.”

“A go-between and you still expect a reward?”

“Of course.”

I smiled as I put down my phone.

Before I examined the names, I called the hospital. The nasal-voiced ward clerk transferred me to the ICU waiting room. Luckily I caught Tucker.

“How is she?”

“Good news. Her blood gases are improving. They hope to begin to ease her off the ventilator.”

“Great.”

“They don’t guarantee it will work. I’m afraid to be optimistic.”

“Nick and I will be praying fervently. May it happen.” I shut my eyes briefly. “Do you have another minute?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you about a name I saw in Lenora’s appointment book.”

“Who?”

“T. Hartford. Does that ring a bell?”

A brief silence followed. “Yes, I recognize the name. Is he important?”

“So it’s a man. I think Lenora was supposed to meet with T. Hartford the day before she was shot. What can you tell me about him?”

“I’ve never met him, but I know of him. Just a minute, please.”

Murmured conversation droned in the background.

Tucker came back on. “The doctor just walked in to give me an update. What I have to tell you about Hartford is a long story. Can you meet me tomorrow for breakfast around seven at Barry’s in Lake Geneva? I’ll fill you in then.”

He hung up before I could say fine. I assumed he knew I’d be there.

* * *

“You’re quiet tonight, honey. Tough day?” Nick talked to my back. We’d just finished dinner. He sat at the table checking evening TV listings in the paper while I cleaned up.

“Just tired.” I wiped the counter, clearing away the last particles of food left behind from dinner preparations.

“Let that go for a few minutes. Come sit with me.”

“These microbes will hatch into something deadly if I miss them.”

“Not a chance with you at the helm of this home. Want some help?”

“No, you cooked.” I sighed. “Cleaning is a mundane job—life is filled with ordinary tasks, tedious and soothing at the same time. It’s weird how straightening up things at home relaxes me. I only wish I could straighten out people’s lives so easily.”

“Like Kirk’s? Tell me about your visit.” Nick put down his newspaper.

“Where are the kids?”

“In their rooms doing homework, I think.”

“Good. I can give you the details while the kids are out of earshot. They don’t need to hear. The laundry can wait. Let’s sit in the living room.”

We settled side by side on the sofa. I slipped out of my faux suede slides and lifted my legs onto the coffee table. “Kirk seemed nice, after he loosened up. To start with, he acted like a zombie. I think because he was so scared. When he realized I sincerely wanted to help, he relaxed a bit and started talking.”

“What’s his story?”

“Says he never would have hurt Lenora. Her kindness made a huge impact on him. She’s like a holy angel in his mind. He assured me she was his prison savior.”

“How?”

“Softened him up, opened his eyes to opportunities around him. Got him to attend Prison Fellowship meetings that really benefitted him. Claims he made a decision to let Jesus transform him and he sees life differently now.” I heard Jenny whoop with glee in the background. She must have finished her schoolwork.

“Good for him.”

“I agree. If it’s for real and Kirk seriously made a commitment to Christ, he’s a brand new creation. Let’s hope he’s not using Christianity as a shield.”

“Don’t you think he’s genuine?” Nick’s question plunged into the recesses of my mind.

“I don’t know. He seems sincere, but how can I be sure without knowing him better?” I ran my fingers across my forehead. “He’s still a strong suspect. I read the notes Lenora had made for his job performance eval—pretty severe.”

Nick’s eyes widened. “What were his issues?”

“Not enough compassion. Lenora wanted him to convey more caring when he spoke to fellow ex-cons. Apparently he came across as rather judgmental and harsh.”

“Makes sense his reformation would be a process.” TV noise exploded from the family room. “Turn it down,” Nick yelled before resuming, “and included would be forgiving himself for his former lifestyle.”

“Well, if he didn’t shoot Lenora, there’s no shortage of potential suspects. Those regular editorials she wrote on prison conditions pushed buttons. Hopefully, Tucker can come up with actual hate letters she received if she kept them—which is doubtful.”

“
And
if they’re as severe as he stated.” Nick leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. “People don’t usually shoot you because they disagree with you.”

I blinked. “No? Watch yourself, Nicholas Trevor. I expect perfect agreement at all times about everything.” I playfully pounded his shoulder.

He yelled, “Husband abuse!”

I giggled. “Thanks. I haven’t laughed all day. It feels good.”

Nick wrapped his arms around me and squeezed “I know another way to make you feel good.”

“Show me.”

And he did.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next day I awoke at six and, while still reclining in bed, made a silent morning offering of thoughts, words, and deeds of the day to God. I prayed His protection on Nick and the children. My morning routine, down to a science, took twenty minutes including a quick shower, three minutes to apply makeup base and my favorite coral lipstick and blow dry my whip-it-and-go hair. I dressed in a beige linen suit with a white silk shell, dressier clothes than usual because I was scheduled to give a presentation to the Rotary Club on family mental health at noon.

I caught my image in the full-length mirror on my closet door. Too drab. I hunted for my blue, green, and beige scarf and draped it across my shoulders then rummaged in my jewelry drawer for a gold circle pin to hold it in place.