Evidence of Mercy (5 page)

The phone buzzed again. “Lynda Barrett's office.”

“Sally, she says she's left messages, and Lynda hasn't called. She's pretty upset—”

Sally moaned. “All right. Send her back. I'll talk to her.”

She hung up and sat for a moment, staring at the phone, wondering what excuse she'd use to cover for Lynda this time. The plain, simple truth was that Paige Varner's was a
pro bono
case, and it wasn't exactly one of Lynda's top priorities.

She saw the elevator doors open, and Paige bolted off, clutching her three-year-old daughter, Brianna, on her hip. Paige's eyes were swollen and red as she cast Sally a frantic look and started toward her.

Sally got up to meet her. “Hello, Paige. Lynda's not here.”

“I've
got
to talk to her,” Paige said, starting to cry. “We've got to
do
something. He tried to kidnap Brianna!”

“Who?” Sally asked, leading her to a chair and making her sit down. Brianna's feet hit the floor, but Paige pulled her into her lap, unable to let her go.

“Her father,” she said. “Do we have a court date yet? If we do, I can make plans to leave the state, so he won't know where we are—”

“Calm down,” Sally said, stooping in front of her. “Now start over. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

Paige didn't want to take time to start over, but she tried. “Her day-care teacher called me at work and told me that Keith was there claiming that I told him to pick her up.”

“Wait a minute. Don't you have a restraining order?”

“Yes!” Paige cried. “But it's
worthless!
We're not safe here! I have to talk to Lynda. If she can get us a court date, then I can get that over with and get out of town, before he takes her, or comes after me again, or—”

The phone rang, and Sally stood up reluctantly. “I'm sorry, Paige. I have to get that.”

Paige covered her eyes and nodded.

Sally went back to her desk and grabbed the phone, praying it was Lynda. “Lynda Barrett's office.”

“Is this Sally Crawford?”

Sally glanced at Paige. Brianna was wiping her mother's tears, and Paige was whispering to her. “Yes.”

“This is Mac Lowery. I'm a mechanic at the St. Clair Airport. I'm afraid there's been an accident.”

CHAPTER FIVE

F
or a moment, as the fog slowly cleared, Lynda lay still, trying to find some clarity to hang her thoughts on. The plane had hit belly to pavement, she remembered, and had slid for what had seemed like miles, breaking into fragments, crumpling, shattering, rolling—

Now the plane was on its side, and she hung sideways in her seat, still clamped by the seat belt that cut mercilessly into her shoulder and hipbones. Trying to get her head upright, wincing at the stab of pain in her ribs and the cracking pain in her head, she released the latch and slid from her seat against the back of the one next to her.

Pain seared through her, and she looked down to find the source of it. Shards of glass had lodged in her arm, her thigh, and her stomach. With bloody hands that seemed to belong to someone else, she tried to pull one out.

But then she saw him.

All clarity returned as she reached for Jake, still strapped into the bottom of his seat, which had broken off from its back. Twisted, unconscious, and soaked with blood, he lay limp under the bashed instrument panel.

“Jake!” Her voice sounded hollow and distant, as if it came from someone else as she tried to reach for him. “Jake, are you all right?”

But he didn't stir.

Panic shook her as the first hint of smoke reached her senses—then, with dim relief, she heard sirens. But they sounded too far away, and there was no time to wait!

Forcing herself to move despite her pain, she managed to free Jake from his seat belt then grabbed under his arms and, with all her might, slid him two feet back toward the door. Praying that it would open, she disengaged the latch. The door swung down, providing a hatch no more than a yard above the ground.

The smoke was growing thicker as the sirens came closer. Lynda half-fell out the opening. Then with every ounce of energy she could gather, pulled Jake behind her, ignoring her own fuzzy thoughts about his limpness and the blood soaking into her clothes.

The moment he dropped onto the pavement, she struggled to her feet beside the plane, grabbed his arms, and dragged him across the dirt as far away from the plane as she could before collapsing beside him.

She heard tires screeching and people yelling; suddenly she was aware of movement around her. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to the paramedics as they lifted her onto a gurney then ran with her like war medics taking her out of the line of fire. A vague protest formed in her mind that they should leave her and save Jake, but that thought evaporated as a loud, vacuum sound—
whoosh—
split the air.

She opened her eyes—her plane was engulfed in quiet flames that spread to cover the place where she and Jake had lain only moments before.
It should be loud,
she thought,
like a lightning bolt from God.
Instead, this explosion had been a quiet one, almost gentle, as it worked its violence on the plane.

As the paramedics hurried her along, she glimpsed another group of medics carrying Jake. He was still limp on the gurney, and blood glistened on that expensive shirt and those slacks that had been so perfectly creased such a short time ago. The paramedics set her down and, blocking her view, bent over her with stethoscopes and an IV. “No!” she cried, trying to move them out of her way. “Help him! He's bleeding!”

“So are you.”

“No, take him first! Please!”

“He's in good hands,” the lead paramedic said in a steady voice, trying to calm her. “
You're
my concern right now.” He took her vitals, barking out numbers that meant little to her. Still, she strained to see around him. “Is he—is he—alive?”

They were busy attaching the IV, talking to each other over her, shouting and exchanging orders.

And then she saw the urgency on the faces of the other group of paramedics, and someone shouted, “Talk to him! He's going into shock!”

“Jake, can you hear me?” someone asked him. “Jake, you've got to hold on. We're getting you to the hospital.”

“We're losing him!” one of the others shouted.

“Oh, no, God, please!” She lost sight of him as the EMTs crowded around him, desperately trying to bring him back. She saw someone bring the defibrillator, and heard the desperate counting and the “Clear!” then the shock that jolted his body.

She lost sight of him again as her paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, and she tried to sit up to see through the doors before they closed them. “Please! I've got to know if he's—”

But the doors shut, and the ambulance accelerated away.

L
ynda didn't remember when she had lost consciousness, but when she woke, she was in a hospital room, the cold antiseptic smell stirring her back to life.

A woman she didn't know stood over her, shining a light in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Lynda squinted against the light and jerked her face away.

“Am I in the hospital?”

“That's right,” the woman said. “You just got out of surgery.”

“Surgery?”

The woman nodded. “And judging by what you've been through, I'd say you're extremely lucky. You're scratched and cut up pretty good, and you broke a couple of ribs, but you're going to be fine.” The woman patted her shoulder gently then said, “I'll go tell the doctor you're awake.”

Lynda squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find some clarity. Images rushed through her mind: the plane hitting the ground; the horror of impact after impact; the sight of Jake strapped in his seat ... Jake drenched in blood ... Jake not responding....He was dead. It was her punishment, she told herself—although she wasn't sure at the moment what she was being punished for. A thick, smothering shroud of guilt draped itself over her.

Tears oozed from her eyes. She squeezed them shut and, under her breath, tried to bargain with God for Jake's life.

The door swung open. Two doctors came in, followed by the nurse, who rushed to Lynda's side when she saw her tears. “Lynda, you're going to be all right,” one of the doctors said gently. “You had some internal bleeding, and we had to remove your spleen. I know it's been traumatic for you—but try to understand this: You're going to be okay. Please try to calm down.”

Hiccuping her sobs, she reached up and grabbed the doctor's coat with her good hand. “Is he . . . dead?”

“Is who dead?”

“Jake!” she shouted.

“Doctor, the other crash victim,” the nurse said. “He was brought in with her.”

The second doctor took her hand, and she gripped it with all the urgency she felt as he leaned over her. “I just left him, Lynda,” he said. “He's still in surgery. His condition is critical, but—”

“He's alive?” she asked, almost sitting up. “Jake's alive?”

“We almost lost him,” he said. “But we think he's going to pull through.”

“Oh, thank God,” she cried, wilting back down.

The doctor checked the monitors attached to her then whispered a few instructions to the nurse as Lynda tried to catch her breath. When she was able, she grabbed the doctor's coat again. “I want to see him. The minute he's out of surgery I need to see him.”

“That won't be possible today,” he said gently. “And even tomorrow, if he regains consciousness, he'll be in ICU. That means no visitors.”

“Please,” she said. “You can bend a few rules, can't you? Let me see him for five minutes. That's all.”

The two doctors exchanged looks, and finally, one shrugged. “We'll see what we can do. No promises. But right now there are several people out in the waiting room anxious to see you. Are you up to any visitors?”

She covered her face with a hand and tried to stop her tears. “Uh, who's out there?”

The nurse pulled a pad from her pocket, flipped a few pages, and said, “Mike somebody. And Sally—she said she's your secretary. And your pastor and a few people who said you used to go to their church....”

“Um, I'd like to talk to Mike first,” she whispered.

“All right,” the nurse said, “but just for a few minutes, okay? You don't realize how weak you are, but you will as soon as you start seeing people.”

Lynda already felt too weak to talk, but there were things she needed to say to Mike. Things that couldn't wait.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he police station smelled like stale cigarettes and three-day-old sweat, and the noise level was worse than the day-care center where Brianna spent each day. Paige bent and picked up the child, holding her close and felt that familiar surge of shame that she hadn't been able to shelter her from the ugly realities of life.

“It's okay, Brianna,” she whispered, kissing the child's forehead. “We're going to get one of these policemen to help us.”

“Are they putting Daddy in jail, Mommy?”

Paige hesitated. “I don't know, honey. We'll see. Do you want them to?”

“Yes,” she whispered with timid honesty.

Paige made her way to the big desk where people waited in line to file complaints, trying to blink back the tears that threatened her eyes again.

A plane crash. It couldn't be real, yet it was. Lynda had been in a plane crash.

She closed her eyes and tried to fight off the abject terror that her lawyer could die—or might, in fact, already be dead. Sally had said that Lynda was still alive, but she'd been in such a panic that Paige wasn't sure it was true.

The person at the front of the line left the desk, and Paige counted the people in front of her. She was fourth in line. Any minute now it would be her turn, and someone would tell her what to do.

Brianna laid her head on Paige's shoulder, and Paige realized that the child hadn't had her nap today. She was tired. She should be home, safe in her own room, resting to a Barney tape, instead of waiting in a police station to find a way to keep her father from getting close to her.

Lynda had known ways and had made lots of promises, but Paige couldn't depend on her now. Those tears surfaced again, and she told herself that she should stop thinking so much of herself. Lynda's plane crash was a tragedy, but Paige could only deal with one tragedy at a time.

At last her turn came, and she tried to steady her voice as she faced the uniformed woman behind the desk. “My name's Paige Varner. I have a restraining order against my ex-husband, Keith Varner, but today he tried to take our daughter from her day care. I went to my lawyer first, but she was in an accident today. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she waited for a response.

The officer casually dropped her pencil and leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “Mrs. Varner, we can't arrest someone for violating a restraining order unless we witness the violation.”

“What do you mean, witness it? Who has to witness it?”

“You're supposed to call the police when it happens, and when they arrive, they have to see him there. If he leaves, it's out of our hands.”

Paige gripped Brianna tighter, incredulous. “But that's ridiculous! I wasn't there! The restraining order is supposed to keep him away from her, too.”

“You should have had the teachers call 911. Next time, you need to call us as soon as he shows up, and if the officers get there while he's still there—”

“Next time?” Paige shouted. “There's not supposed to
be
a next time. You people are supposed to protect me from that!”

“We can only do what the law allows.”

“Then what's the use in having a restraining order? He can still do anything he wants!”

“You do have recourse,” the woman said, as if talking to a child. “You need to file a motion for order to show cause.”