The Chair (39 page)

He knew what he had to do. There was only one solution. A glance out his front window told him the night was ideal. Clouds had moved in and covered the moon. Perfect. No light to help him see what would be rushing up at him.

He glanced at his watch. He could be standing on the edge of the cliff by 3 a.m.

C
orin’s heart pounded as he strode to the garage, grabbed his parachuting gear, opened the trunk of his car, and flung it inside.

He backed out of his driveway, threw his Highlander into Drive, and mashed his foot to the floor. Two seconds later he broke the speed limit. In four he’d rocketed up to fifty miles per hour. Five minutes later he scorched through the first red light going ninety. A car horn screamed at him, but by the time it registered, he was already through the next stoplight, moving at over one hundred.

A few minutes later he slowed down. No point in getting killed here. He had to get to the jump in one piece.

An hour and fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead. Two minutes after that he strode down the path leading to the edge of the cliff.

The stars and moon were shrouded by thick clouds and he stumbled on roots twice on his way to the edge. Trees that lined the path pressed in on him, but the fear they would have stirred two weeks ago had vanished.

The chair.

It had healed him.

Destroyed his relationship with Shasta.

Then Corin destroyed the chair.

Now he would complete the circle and join his brother and they would be friends once more.

An image flashed into his mind of Shasta and him sitting next to each other on the Blue Streak roller coaster in Cedar Point, Ohio. Ten and eight years old. They’d ridden it sixteen times that day. And came back the next day for more. It had been the birth of their adventures together.

Tonight Corin would usher in its death. His fast walk morphed into a slow jog as he clipped toward the launch point.

When he reached the edge of the cliff, a light wind buffeted his face. Perfect. Maybe the winds were stronger two hundred or five hundred feet down. Maybe they’d take him for a ride he’d never remember. All possibilities were good ones.

Corin stared at the darkness below. If his memory was still serving him accurately, he’d be able to float for five seconds, maybe seven, before pulling his chute. Without seeing the ground he couldn’t be sure. But wasn’t that the idea?

Once he was in the air he’d decide when to send his chute out behind him in a stream of salvation. Or maybe he wouldn’t decide.

A deep breath. Then another.

Corin strode back five paces from the edge and turned. Both his legs bounced like mini jackhammers and his hands shook. He felt his palms. Dry. Cold. Same for this feet. Icy cold. The terror surging through him had probably pulled all the blood from his extremities.

A voice so deep inside it was only the hint of a whisper tried to speak. Corin shut it down and stared into the void in front of him.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

There was no question. He had to do this.

Do you?
The voice inside grew louder.

“Yes.”

Corin pulled his chute from his pack and slipped into his harness.

Pictures of Nicole and Shasta and Tesser and the chair swirled through his mind in a kaleidoscope of images.

Just before he lunged forward into his sprint toward the cliff, his cell phone pierced the night air.

How ironic. Was it God trying to save him?

It didn’t matter. Because unless it was God on the phone, he wasn’t backing down.

Might as well see who it was.

Corin yanked his phone out of his pocket. A. C. A good man, a good friend. Corin muted the ring and shoved the phone deep into his pocket. “Sorry, pal.”

He stared into the blackness. Into the nothingness. Just like the lake.

He counted to three, then sprinted for the edge. Faster, something from behind pushing, digging deep into the dirt with the toes of his Nikes with each step. A moment later he was floating, not seeing anything, embracing the fear exploding in his stomach.

Start counting.

One.

Two.

The darkness surrounded him, pulling him down, wind pummeling his face.

Three.

Time to pull. The adrenaline in his stomach exploded.

Four.

Pull!

His mind screamed it again. But he didn’t listen.

Five.

Pull the chute now!

Corin squeezed tighter on the chute.

An instant later the drowning flashed through his mind so vividly he was under the water again, struggling for air, tearing at his life jacket, his fingernails digging into his father’s arm, then opening his mouth and sucking in a monstrous lungful of water, filling his ear canals, pressing into his mind, drawing him toward death.

In that moment clarity flashed like a lightning strike.

He’d been wrong for twenty-four years.

Drowning. He’d never been scared of it.

It had never been his fear.

It had always been the fear behind the fear.

He was scared of death.

Of dying.

Of the darkness he’d escaped smothering him forever.

Of the nothingness.

Corin’s eyes fluttered open and stared into the black earth rushing up at him.

Was he too late?

“Ahhhhhh!” he shouted as he heaved his chute into the screaming air.

Release. Please . . .

His chute snapped open like the sound of a rifle’s report.

Be my life jacket.

Too late, he was too late.

“I’m sorry, Shasta.”

He glanced at the thicker darkness streaking toward him. The ground. Less than 150 feet. Too close. He was still moving far too fast. Milliseconds now.

He braced for impact.

As his legs slammed into the ground he tried to roll to lessen the impact, but the futility of the action filled his mind at the same time a freight train of pain ripped into his feet and legs and up his back.

An instant later a vise grip grabbed his lungs and squeezed.

He gasped and pulled in a teaspoon of air.

Not enough air.

Not even close!

He tried again, but it was like sucking air through a straw the size of a needle.

He had to breathe.

His head rolled from side the side, as he gasped again and again for air. Air that wouldn’t come, that he couldn’t reach, couldn’t find. So close but ages away. And death was settling down on him like early winter snow.

Exactly the same feeling he’d had underwater.

He was about to die.

Corin rolled onto his back and screamed. Fire shot through his upper chest and right arm. “Uhhhhhhhhh.”

Stay alive. He had to. What time had he jumped? Three a.m.? It wouldn’t be light for another three and a half hours.

As he lay on the ground, feeling the moisture slowly seeping through his clothes into his skin, Corin thought back to Nicole’s eyes just before she died and her last words:
“Forgiveness. For both.”

Instantly he knew who she meant.

Killing or paralyzing himself would never bring restoration. Forgiveness was his only hope.

His last thought before blacking out was of Shasta.

I never asked you. Why did I never ask?

“Mr. Roscoe? Can you hear me?”

Corin moaned and squeezed his eyes tighter shut. It didn’t do much good against the blinding light that shot through his eyelids and seemed to burn his corneas. What did it remind him of? Hadn’t he just done this? Right—in the ambulance after A. C. had been shot.

“Bright . . . so bright.” He tried to bring his arm up to shield his eyes but he couldn’t move his arm.

“Nurse, do you mind . . . ?” The light in the room dimmed and Corin opened his eyes a slit.

“How do you feel?”

“Run over. Multiple times.” Corin tried to move his legs, but the pain that shot down them was so intense blackness moved across his vision. “Run over by an aircraft carrier.”

“Aircraft carriers float.”

“This one was on wheels.” He opened his eyes halfway.

“Having a sense of humor at this point is a good sign.”

“I’m in a hospital.”

“Yes.”

Corin opened his eyes all the way and gazed at his surroundings. Off-white walls, off-white curtain half surrounding his bed, off-white coat covering an African American doctor with bright eyes.

“How bad am I?”

“Given what you almost did to yourself and the condition you should have wound up in, I’m required to tell you you’re lucky to be alive.”

“How lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“How bad?”

“One leg sprained, the other badly broken, a sprained right arm, punctured lung—which is why you have a tube coming out of your side—and you almost ripped your right ear off.” The doctor leaned in. “That’s the bad news.”

“What’s the good?”

“You’ll probably walk with a slight limp the rest of your life, but the rest will heal up fine. You’ll be in some intense pain for the next few days, but—”

“Will I be going home tonight?”

“Like I said, I like the humor. Some people think it can cure everything from warts to cancer.”

Corin stared at the doctor for a moment. “Do you believe in miracles? That people can be instantaneously healed by the power of God?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Why? Have you seen one?”

“I believe there’s a higher power. A being I would call God. I believe I’m not Him. Until I am, I’ll leave room that He invades our world with His goodness and mercy. And that includes healing. Of the body.” The doctor placed his fingers on Corin’s good arm. “And sometimes, more important, of the soul.” He touched Corin’s chest over his heart.

“I need to see my brother.”

“I think in a week or so you’ll be able to.”

Countdown. Six days to go.

S
ix days later Corin sat at the lake—crutches lying on his right, pain pills in his left pocket—and prayed. For peace. For the meeting he would have with Shasta in a little less than an hour. For himself. For understanding. For forgiveness.

A few minutes later a cough floated toward him through the light fog that covered the lake and shoreline. He turned toward the sound.

“Good to see you alive, Corin.” Mark Jefferies stood ten yards behind and to his left, hands jammed into his black leather jacket.

Corin blinked and couldn’t stop a smile from forming. “It was you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You saved my life. In Tesser’s house.”

“True.”

“And again when I jumped off that cliff.”

“Yep.” Mark gave a thin smile, slid onto the bench next to Corin, and leaned back, legs crossed, hands behind his head.

“I see you aren’t limited to a few bodyguards for your protection.”

“My friends know friends who know friends—nice to have them in cities and situations like the ones you found yourself in.”

“Thank you.”

Mark nodded. “The thing with Nicole? That was wrong. She was a wonderful woman. Who walked with God.”

“You met her?”

“I did. Very recently.” Mark scraped his feet on the concrete path. “She pumped my head full of wisdom. Wisdom . . . truth I needed.”

“She was my grandmother.”

“I suspected that.”

“How?”

“From studying the legend. Sometimes the passing on of the chair skipped a generation. It’s always been from woman to woman, but that was tradition, not an absolute mandate.”

And now he’d ended the tradition, but there would be no chair to pass down to a daughter or a son. The thought filled him with an emptiness and a longing for forgiveness. But from whom he didn’t know. Nicole? God?

Corin glanced at Mark. The man didn’t make sense. So full of swagger and pride. Yet the pastor had saved him and seemed to want nothing in return.

“Why were you so obsessed with the chair?”

“I still am.” Mark pressed the tips of his fingers and thumbs together. “It has always fascinated me. The possibility of its existence—the type of legend only seen in stories come to real life—the thought I might be the one to find it.”