Point of No Return (39 page)

Lucy shrugged. “I'm sure Mr. Laker had his reasons.”

“I'm sure he did, too,” Karen said suspiciously. “Look at this note.”

Lucy leaned over and read the typed letter on Ballistic Printing's letterhead. It thanked Mr. Laker for his business, then detailed a lot of form numbers and charges. “What am I supposed to see here?” Lucy asked.

Karen pointed to the P.S. at the bottom of the letter. “See this?”

Lucy adjusted her glasses and read a handwritten scrawl: “P.S.— Art, your ‘gift' is enclosed as usual for services rendered.” The letter was signed Jim Forrester, President of Ballistic Printing, with a “J.F.” scribbled after the P.S.

“Gift?”

Karen held up a photocopy of a check for $2,000 payable to Art Laker from Ballistic Printing. Lucy gasped.

“Why would Ballistic Printing pay Mr. Laker $2,000?” Karen closed the file.

Lucy's best instincts as a reporter kicked into gear. “Wait a minute. So what we have here is a company that does
all
of the school's printing—even though it's
more
expensive—because Mr. Laker is given money by the owner.” Now it was Lucy's turn to check the hallway. She whispered, “But that's wrong!”

“It sure is,” Karen answered.

Now Lucy understood why Karen looked so worried. She had accidentally stumbled onto a small case of corruption in the upper ranks of their school.

“What am I going to do?” Karen asked, then paused thoughtfully. “What would
Jesus
do?”

Lucy put her hand on Karen's shoulder. “I'm not so sure what Jesus would do, but a good reporter would take this file back to the
Owl'
s office and make copies of those bids, that letter, and the check!”

Lucy and Karen made their way through the
Owl'
s office and into the adjoining closet. It was a cramped little room with metal shelving piled high with reams of paper, envelopes, textbooks about journalism, old issues of the
Owl
, and a small photocopier that had been donated to the
Owl
by Mr. Whittaker two years ago. Karen watched nervously while Lucy made copies of the incriminating documents.

“So, what would Jesus do about this?” Lucy asked.

Karen chewed on a fingernail. “I don't know. Would Jesus have sneaked a peek in the file in the first place?”

“You didn't
sneak
a peek,” Lucy rebuked her. “You were looking for a phone number and saw the rest of it by accident.
If
it was an accident.”

“What do you mean,
if
? I didn't do this on purpose!”

“I know
you
didn't. But maybe somebody else did.”

“Like who?”

“God.” Lucy made the last copy and handed the original pages back to Karen. “Mr. Whittaker is always telling us how God answers our prayers in unexpected ways. You said you want to follow in Jesus' steps. Maybe this is His way of testing your pledge.”

Karen groaned. “But I thought God was going to show me how to do better on my homework or get along with people I didn't like. I didn't think He'd drop me in the middle of a school scandal!”

“What would Jesus do?” Lucy asked simply.

“I don't know,” Karen admitted.

Lucy giggled and said, “Jesus said to go into our closets to pray…and this is a closet. So let's pray about it and see what happens.”

Karen said it was a good idea and they stood next to the humming copier and prayed for God to help Karen understand what Jesus would do.

“Lucy? Karen? Is anyone in here?” a voice called from the office.

Karen barely stifled a shriek. It was Mr. Laker!

“We're in here,” Lucy called back and quickly shoved the copies she'd just made under a package of paper.

“What do I do? What do I say?” Karen asked quickly.

“Just get out of here. We can't let him see us next to the copier!” Lucy whispered and pushed Karen toward the closet door.

Karen stumbled into the
Owl'
s office. Mr. Laker was crossing the room and looked at her suspiciously. “Hi. I've been looking all over for you. Mrs. Biedermann said she saw you together and had a wild hunch that you'd be here. It looks like her hunch was right.”

Lucy came out of the closet and closed the door behind her. “Hi, Mr. Laker,” she said pleasantly.

Karen stared at her wordlessly.

“I came to get the Ballistic Printing file,” Mr. Laker said. “Do you still have it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Karen said and snatched it from her notebook. She handed it over.

“Did you get what you wanted?” asked Mr. Laker.

Karen swallowed hard as her mouth went dry. “Yes, sir. The phone number.”

“Good. Y'know, I wasn't very happy with Mrs. Stewart. She shouldn't have let that file out of the office.” He patted the file. “Oh, well. No harm done, I guess.”

“No, sir,” Karen said.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Mr. Laker said and walked out.

“No harm done,” Karen repeated softly.

“
Yet
,” Lucy added.

Back in his office, Mr. Laker opened the Ballistic Printing file. He hadn't actually looked at its contents for a long time. Invoices, receipts, and letters had been randomly shoved inside without his thinking that anyone else would ever see them. It was one of several files that he kept at home. He had a “modified” version of the Ballistic Printing file in the school office. It was a safer version.

He chastised himself for bringing the file from home. He'd had a meeting with Jim Forrester a few days ago and wanted it on hand. It should have gone back into the filing cabinet at home right away. Obviously, he was getting careless in his old age. Leaving it in his briefcase was a stupid thing to do. He sighed. He should have cleaned the file out ages ago anyway.

He flipped through the pages, checking each one to see if there was anything unusual—anything that might draw the wrong kind of attention.

The report card bids caught his eye. What were they doing in there? He thought he'd thrown them away. He swore to himself and laid the bids on the desk. He'd use the office shredder to take care of them.

His gaze drifted back down to the file in his lap. He saw the letter from Jim Forrester, the P.S., and the copy of the check—and slammed his fist against the desk.

CHAPTER EIGHT

W
HIT STOOD ON THE LONG
stretch of land behind Whit's End and absentmindedly raked wayward autumn leaves into small piles. His mind was on Raymond Clark. Raking leaves was one of the jobs Whit knew he could have offered to the man. He sighed heavily and looked at his watch. It was a little after 3:00
P.M.
He knew he needed to hurry up: The after-school rush of kids would keep him busy inside until dinnertime. He gazed down at the street in front of his shop, just as a young woman—probably in her early twenties—rounded the corner. She stopped when she saw him.

“Hello,” she called out.

Whit walked toward her, skirting the shop to lean the rake against the wall. “Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”

As he got closer to the woman, he was struck by her square face and kind eyes—a clear resemblance to Raymond Clark. No doubt it was his daughter.

“Are you John Whittaker?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

She held out her hand. “I'm Christine Holt—er,
Clark
. You helped my father, I was told. I came to say thank you.”

Whit shook her hand. “No thanks are necessary.”

“I disagree. You've been extremely kind and generous and—” She stopped as tears came to her abruptly. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Whit put his arm around her and led her to the back entrance of the shop. “Come in and sit down. I'll make us some coffee.”

He sat her down at the large wooden table in the kitchen and, once the coffee had been made and poured, eased into a chair across from her. She got her tears under control and sat quietly for a moment. Then she explained, “I went to the hospital to identify him and fill out a dozen different forms. When I asked about settling our bill with the doctors, they said you had taken care of everything. So I'm here to settle accounts with you.”

Whit sipped his coffee. “There's nothing to settle, Mrs. Holt.”

“Christine.”

“Christine, then.” Whit looked at her earnestly. “I'd be insulted if you insisted on paying me back. I did what I did as a matter of conscience. I only wish I could have done more—and sooner.”

“That makes two of us,” Christine said, wrapping her fingers around the coffee cup as if to keep them warm. A silent moment passed. “You're wondering how he wound up like he did.”

“You don't have to explain anything.”

“No, I owe you that much. Though I'm not sure about all the details myself.” An ironic smile crossed her face. “That must sound terrible coming from his only daughter. But there's so much I didn't know. I'm not even sure where to begin.”

“Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Chicago. That's where we lived most of my life. Dad was a press operator for various printers. It was never a great moneymaking job, but it was all he knew. His father was a printer, too.” She lifted the cup to her lips and blew gently across the top to cool the coffee down. “All I remember growing up was how little we had. We weren't poverty-stricken, but we were pretty poor. Mom and I did what we could to help out. Dad didn't want us to work, though. He insisted on being the breadwinner of the family. No matter how bad it got, he wouldn't let us find jobs. In fact, he did everything he could to hide how bad things were financially.”

“That's how it was with men from the older generation,” Whit said.

Christine continued, “I left home to go to college. I worked nights to do it. Dad felt terrible. He kept saying that he should pay my tuition. I didn't mind doing it myself. Let's see. That was four years ago. I met Robert on campus—he's my husband—and we moved to Columbus because that's where his work was. He's a legal assistant right now. He's studying to be a lawyer.”

“How did your father wind up in Connellsville?” Whit asked.

Christine replied, “The new computer technology kept putting Dad out of work, so he and Mom moved there. Staying in touch got harder and harder from so far away. I wrote and called, but he wouldn't tell me what was happening. He didn't tell me how sick Mom was with cancer. I barely found out just before she died. He also didn't mention that he'd lost his job. I kept meaning to come visit him, but we couldn't find the time.”

Whit frowned.
Couldn't find the time
. How well he knew that reason. Or was it an excuse? “Why did your father keep so much to himself ?”

“He knew I would have insisted that he come live with us in Columbus,” Christine said.

“He didn't like Columbus?”

Christine smiled and, for a moment, Whit saw a fresh-faced young girl, instead of a grieving daughter. “He didn't want to be a burden to me or Robert.”

“If you can't turn to your own family, who can you turn to?” Whit asked softly.

“That's right,” Christine said, then lowered her head. “I had no idea he was walking the streets, begging for work. The doctors said he had a very weak heart. If he had only told me—if I'd only known…” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Whit reached across the table and gently placed his hand over hers.

“I don't know whether I feel sad or extremely angry at him for hiding so much from me.” She wiped her nose with a balled-up tissue.

“Tell me about your father's faith. He said a lot of things to us that made me think he was a Christian. Was he?”

Christine nodded. “Oh, yes. He was an elder in our church for years. That's one thing he didn't hide: his faith. I think he struggled with it sometimes. I know he questioned God when he couldn't keep a job— and when Mom got sick and died. He never said anything outright, just little things that made me believe he was wrestling with what it all meant. The last time I saw him, at Mom's funeral, he asked me if I understood what it really meant to be a Christian. It's as if he was trying to figure out what makes a Christian different from other people. He never said anything judgmental. It was like he was sorting it out for himself.”