Tarnished Image (43 page)

In the fraction of a second it took to take in the scene, parts of David’s personality dissolved. Fear evaporated, caution melted away, personal protection became meaningless. All that mattered was stopping this man.

David charged. By nature he was not a physical man, although he kept in shape by playing racquetball twice each week, a habit he had learned from A.J. Barringston, his mentor. But when properly motivated, the least physical of men
could become juggernauts of force, driven by passion, propelled by love.

Without missing a beat, David continued toward the gunman, pushing himself forward with as much thrust as his rage-empowered legs could muster. He could see the assailant’s eyes widen at the sudden sounds of David’s entry and of the piercing scream he uttered as he propelled himself forward.

David—head down, arms out—left the ground. He hit the attacker with such force that electric bolts of pain struck every nerve. The force carried both men across the living room and into the desk with the computer near the picture window. The desk’s glass top came down in large shards of shark-toothed glass.

David and the gunman lay dazed and bleeding on the floor.

The gun!
David thought, fighting to hold onto consciousness.
Where’s the gun?
He rolled on his side and tried to raise himself to his knees. Glass dug into the flesh of his hands and legs. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Blood.
Must find the gun.

Next to him the man screamed in fury. Swearing. Streams of curses, maledictions, and fulmination filled the air.

David stood to his feet.
Gun. Gun. Does he still have it? Where is it?
Blood trickled into his eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” The attacker stood, less affected by the crashing blow than David. The gun was in his hand and aimed at David’s sternum.
This man is tough
, David thought.

The wig the man wore was twisted, uneven, and hanging in his eyes. He grabbed it and threw it to the floor. His face
was cut in several places, and rivulets of blood dripped from his chin, splattering the silk top he wore. A piece of glass protruded from his cheek. He took it between two fingers and slowly extracted it. If it caused him pain, he didn’t show it. “I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to find and kill you.”

“Aww,” David said sarcastically, too angry to care about his own safety any longer. “You shouldn’t have got all dressed up for me. I already have a girl.”

“Why is it that people just this side of death turn into smart alecks?”

“Nothing to lose, I guess.”

“You’re about to lose everything,” the man said. “It would have been a lot easier if you had just confessed to the crimes.”

“I didn’t commit any crimes.”
Keep talking, David
, he said to himself.
Buy some time.
He hoped and prayed for a miracle. “Why should I confess to any?”

“Because it would have saved your life. But you missed that opportunity. Now you get to die.”

“I’ve been ready to die for years. Today is as good as any.”

“No one is ready to die. It’s not natural. We all claw at life. Trust me, I’ve seen many people beg for just one more day.”

David smiled. “You won’t see it here. What about you? Are you afraid to die?”

The gunman laughed. “To quote Woody Allen, ‘It’s not that I’m afraid to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ Death happens. That’s all there is to it. You die tonight, I another night. But we will both die. See if you recognize this one: ‘As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up: so man lieth down, and riseth not: till the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.’ Can you place it?”

“It sounds familiar,” David conceded.

“Job 14. It’s from your own Bible. Pretty depressing, isn’t it?”

“You need to look deeper. Try this on for size: ‘See in what peace a Christian can die.’ Do you know who said that? Joseph Addison, English essayist of the eighteenth century. Those were his dying words. I think they were good ones. But best yet are the words of Paul the apostle: For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.’ Can you understand those words?”

“Very good, Dr. O’Neal. I’m impressed. Not enough to spare your life, but I am impressed.” The gunman brought the pistol up and aimed it at David’s head. “The night wears on, and I have new jobs waiting.”

Slowly David stepped back and to the side until he backed into the glass wall that overlooked the city. Glass crunched under his shoes with each step.

“Not afraid to die, huh?” A grin grew on the man’s face. David watched as the grin dissolved into a sneer. His lips parted to reveal blood-stained teeth. David steeled himself for the inevitable. He wondered if he would die instantly or if we would linger in pain before breathing his last. He thought of Kristen and of his deep love for her. Her face filled his mind as did the face of Timmy.

Emotions began to swirl in him like marbles in a blender.
So this is what it is like to face death.
Instead of fearing pain, he was more concerned about dying with dignity. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or Barringston Relief, but mostly he didn’t want to embarrass his Lord.

A soft pop exploded from the muzzle of the gun. David stood his ground. Glass exploded behind him as the floor-to-ceiling picture window exploded into cubes of tempered
glass and rained down on the floor, the planter, and the street fifty-three stories below. Night air rushed in where the window had been. David turned to his attacker.

“You missed.” Through the jagged opening came the ululation of distant sirens. They would have been a welcome, hopeful sound if they were not so far away.

The man’s face was drawn with anger. Wrath radiated from his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” David asked. “Didn’t I flinch enough for you?”

“You’re too stupid to plead for your life.”

“I told you, I’ve been ready to die for years. It’s the great adventure. The famous evangelist Dwight Moody called it his coronation day. Why should I fear my coronation?”

“You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you? You’re nothing but a superstitious freak.”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid to die. One of us has to be, right?” Behind the gunman, David saw Calvin slowly stand and waver. It was clear that he was in great pain. David had to buy more time.

“Ever heard of Pascal’s wager?” David asked.

“Pascal? The mathematician?”

“The very same. He was a strong Christian. He once said to an atheist, ‘If I’m wrong and there is no God, I lose nothing; but if you’re wrong and there is a God, you lose everything.’ That’s a paraphrase, but I’m not at my best right now.”

“It’s a fool’s bet,” the man said. “You’re asking me to change my life for a myth.”

“You stand to lose more than I do.”

“Nice try, Dr. O’Neal, but no dice. It’s time for you to die.”

Calvin started forward, but the gunman heard his heavy,
unsteady footsteps and spun on his heels. He fired two shots. Calvin stumbled backward and fell to his side with a scream of pain. He moaned and thrashed on the floor.

David was moving before the gunman fired the second shot. He was not experienced in any form of fighting, but he was motivated by fear for his friend’s life. As the gunman turned back to David, he was greeted with a fist to the face. David had put his full weight into the punch, which rocked the man, split his lip, but didn’t cause him to fall.

David reached for the gun but was only able to grab the man’s wrist with both hands. David felt the air leave his lungs as a fist caught him in the ribs. He held on. Another blow to the ribs, but this time it was from his attacker’s knee. Bones broke. Fire raged through David’s torso, but still he hung on. Another shot was discharged, striking the second floor-to-ceiling window. Glass again rained down.

“No one”—another kick to the ribs—“hits me!”

Another kick. More bone-breaking noises. David dropped to a knee, but still he held on. It was all he could do. It was his only hope of survival. If this man was going to kill him, he was going to have to work for the privilege. David refused to lie down and die. He had Timmy to live for—if he was still alive. He had Kristen. He had a work that changed the lives of millions. He would not surrender his life; it would have to be dragged from him.

From his crouched position, David gathered all his strength and pulled down on the man’s gun arm while springing to his feet with all his might. David’s aim was on target. The top of his head hit the gunman square on the chin. He knew he had hurt him by the pain that filled his own skull and neck.

David pulled backward, hoping to free the gun, but his strength was waning. Blackness began to engulf him, drown him. He stumbled back, still holding tenaciously to the assailant’s arm. The man followed him, careening forward out of control. David sensed his legs were weak, and he prayed that the man would fall unconscious.

The two men fell to the floor, rolling over each other trying to gain the upper position for control. But each time David found himself on top, he immediately found himself falling toward the floor again.

Glass from the shattered window dug at his back and arms. The gunman began to swear. His face was twisted into a monstrous, demonic mask of pure rage. They rolled one more time, but not to David’s advantage. He was pinned to the floor; the man sat astride him. David fought to keep the gun pointed away from himself and toward the broken window, but his opponent was stronger and better trained. No matter how much David resisted the gunman, the pistol moved inexorably closer to his head.

Then, in a move that surprised David, the assailant pulled the gun in the opposite direction. David’s grasp slipped. One second later the barrel was pressing between David’s eyes.

“You surprise me, Dr. O’Neal.” The gunman was sweating and breathing heavily. “I had you figured for a quitter, but you’ve proven an almost worthy opponent. Not that I care. Not that it matters. You’re a dead man anyway.”

A dark object emerged from just outside David’s vision. It was large and moving fast. There was a crash as the object careened into the man. The force was sufficient to knock the man off David. The gun went flying.

“You leave David alone!” Timmy was screaming. The
gunman moaned. Timmy had picked up the heavy desk chair and flung it as hard as he could. When the chair made contact with the assailant, David heard a crack. He had no idea if it was a bone or the chair breaking.

“You leave him alone! Do you hear?”

David looked at Timmy, who seemed to tower above the floor. His face was marred by blood and bruises. His nose was bleeding. But he seemed to take no notice of it.

The gun!
David scrambled to his feet. Everything hurt—the glass in his back and arms, the broken ribs, the strained muscles—but he rose to his feet. He saw the gun on the floor near the gaping hole where the window used to be. The same force that had knocked the gun from his attacker’s hand had also knocked the attacker in the same direction. The gun and he were only two feet apart.

David started for the weapon, but he wasn’t fast enough. The gunman grabbed it, rolled on his back and aimed up at David, then Timmy, then back to David.

“Back up. Back up now,” he commanded. His voice had changed. It was now charged with animalistic rage, with evil. He rose to his feet, swayed, and grimaced in pain. “Who dies first, O’Neal? Huh? You or the kid? One of you gets to watch the other die. Who wants to be the lucky one?”

He raised the gun to shoulder height. The attacker stood only a foot away from the open window frame. The glass under his feet crunched as he set his stance. “You’ve been a challenge, Dr. O’Neal. A real challenge.”

David was stuck. If he charged, he would certainly be shot and Timmy soon after that. There was nothing he could do. He was going to die.

“I think it should be Timmy,” the man said with a bloody
smile. “That should cause you a little more pain.”

Instinctively, David stepped in front of Timmy, interposing his body between the boy and the barrel of the gun.

“Such bravery, Dr. O’Neal,” the man said mockingly. “How do you know the bullet won’t go right through you?”

“I’m willing to take the chance.” Then to Timmy he said, “I love you, buddy. You know that, don’t you? I love you more than I can say.”

“I know,” Timmy said softly. “I love you too.”

“Timmy, I want you to leave now. I want you to run.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Timmy’s voice choked with tears.

“Don’t argue. The police should be in the building by now. Find them. They’ll take care of you.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me, Timmy. Do as I say.” David’s voice was loud and firm, but laced with sad kindness.

The gunman sneered. “I’ll kill him before he’s halfway to the door.”

“No you won’t,” David said confidently. “I won’t let you.”

“How are you going to stop me?”

“Now, Timmy! Run!”

Timmy turned and sprinted for the door. David watched as the attacker quickly brought the pistol around toward Timmy, but David was already on the move. The gun came back to bear on David. There was a muffled sound as a shot traveled through the silencer. A second later he heard the door to the apartment fly open as Timmy ran for his life.

The bullet smashed into David’s right shoulder, but David didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but stopping this man. The shot slowed David’s forward momentum but not
enough to stop him completely. He fell forward in a lumbering crash to the floor. He slid along the broken glass, his torso smashing into the shins of his tormentor and knocking his feet from under him. The man crashed face first on top of David. Both slid along the floor.

David opened his eyes and found himself looking down fifty-three floors to the street below. He could see police cars, tiny from this distance, with their red lights flashing. He had hoped to hit his attacker straight on, propelling them both into the empty air. It would have meant his death too, but he had resigned himself to that fact.
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.