02_The Hero Next Door (16 page)

“Sure. And I’m really glad you decided to talk to him. Now we can all be a family again.”

“I’m glad, too.”

Brian shot the older man an anxious look. “I think he’s gonna be okay, don’t you?”

She hoped so. “It sounds very promising.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

As Walter rose and picked up his carry-on, Heather moved beside him. “Be safe, Dad.” She reached out, and he gave her a tight hug.

“I will. And I’m going to take you up on your invitation to come back at Christmas.”

She smiled. “That would be great.” Turning to Brian, she hugged him, too. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Yeah. I’m done with that stuff. Come on, Grandpa.” He took the older man’s arm, and they moved off.

Heather watched until they’d disappeared from sight. Then she pulled out her cell phone to call J.C. Though he’d offered to try to find a replacement at work so he could accompany her to the airport, she’d assured him she’d be fine. And she was.

But she’d be better after she heard his voice.

Because she was falling in love with him.

As she tapped in his number, a thrill ran through her. Yet she was also scared. Things were moving too fast. She’d had a whirlwind courtship with Mark, and look how that had ended.

But that relationship had been different, she thought as she waited for J.C. to answer. With Mark, she’d always been in
control of her emotions. Able to weigh the pros and cons of caring for him and to dole out her affection in safe increments as she tested the waters. Tested him.

Maybe that was one of the reasons it hadn’t worked, she conceded. Perhaps Mark had never felt needed. Or important in her life.

And the truth was, he hadn’t been.

That role belonged to a special Chicago cop.

She’d told J.C. a few days ago that she didn’t trust her judgment when it came to men. But she did now—with him. With his kindness and honor and humor, he’d opened the door to a new world for her. A world where trust and commitment and love beckoned. And she was ready now to take the first steps through that door…with him by her side.

Thanks to him, she was also laying the groundwork for a faith that, while still in its infancy, seemed to be pointing her toward a better way of living. Toward a new, higher relationship that would help sustain her all the days of her life.

“Heather?”

As his voice came over the line, she found herself smiling. “Hi.”

“Did they get off okay?”

“Yes.”

“How are you doing?”

“Better than I thought.”

“Good. Listen, you deserve a night out after everything that’s been going on. How about we use that gift card from the trivia event? I’d take you tonight, but I agreed to work part of the night shift for one of the guys whose wife just had a baby. Is tomorrow okay?”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Officer Clay?” Heather teased.

“Yeah. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

She chuckled. “Yeah. I’d say it’s about time.”

I
t was too early in the morning for the phone to be ringing.

With a groan, J.C. lifted his wrist and squinted at the numbers on his watch.

Ten-fifteen.

Okay, so it wasn’t too early for phone calls. For most people. But after working a full shift yesterday and half a shift last night, he’d been in bed for less than sixty minutes.

The temptation to let the call roll to his voice mail was strong. But he wasn’t wired that way.

Shifting onto his side, he groped on the nightstand for his phone and peered at the caller ID. The area code told him the call was from Illinois, but the number was unfamiliar.

Stifling a yawn, he put the phone to his ear. “Hello.”

“Detective Clay?”

Few people outside work addressed him by his Chicago PD title. Caution colored his response. “Yes.”

“This is Eric Coplin, the warden at Pontiac Correctional Center. You’re listed as the primary contact for your brother, Nathan. I wanted to inform you that we have your brother on suicide watch after he attempted to take his life last night.”

Shock reverberated through J.C. “Is he all right?”

“Physically, yes.”

“What happened?”

“He tried to strangle himself with the drawstring from his pants.”

A wave of nausea swept over J.C., and he bunched the sheet in his hand as he took a long, slow breath. “Does anyone have any idea what prompted this?”

“No. And your brother isn’t communicating. I’ve spoken with our mental health people, and they think having family close by could be helpful.”

Swinging his legs out of bed, J.C. retrieved his duffel bag from the closet. “Did he ask you to call me?”

“No. He hasn’t spoken more than a few words since this happened.”

“Okay. I’m working on Nantucket for the summer. I’ll book the first possible flight out, but I doubt I can get there in less than ten or twelve hours.”

“Is there anyone closer who could come sooner?”

He thought of Marci. But she and Nathan hadn’t spoken in years. There was no way she’d make the two-hour drive to Pontiac.

“No. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Look…keep him safe, okay?” His voice rasped on the last word.

“We video monitor the suicide-watch cells twenty-four hours a day. Nothing will happen to him there. Shall we tell him you’re coming?”

“No. I’d rather just show up.”

“All right. We’ll see you soon.”

When the call ended, J.C. went into action. Within minutes he’d booked a flight that would leave Nantucket for Boston in an hour and a half. Factoring in a two-hour layover there, he’d arrive in Chicago about five. Thanks to rush-hour traffic in the Windy City on a Friday afternoon, the usual two-hour drive to Pontiac would take longer. Plus, he needed to pick
up a rental car. Best-case scenario, he estimated arrival at Pontiac around eight.

Next, he called Burke. He knew cutting out on short notice was going to put everyone in a bind, but he had no option. Fortunately, the chief was familiar with his family situation. Or as much of it as J.C. had ever shared with anyone. Burke simply told him to do what he had to do and come back when he could.

Ending that call, J.C. tossed his duffel bag onto the bed and punched in Marci’s number. She might not want any part of this mess, but he figured she should know what had happened.

She answered as he began opening the drawers in his dresser and tossing clothes into the bag.

“Marci, I just had a call from Pontiac.” His tone was clipped, his mind racing ahead to the logistics of the trip. “I know there’s no love lost between you and Nathan, but I thought you should know. He tried to kill himself last night.”

He heard her draw a harsh breath. “Oh, God!” The agonized whisper was torn from the depths of her soul.

Surprised at her reaction, J.C. stopped packing. She hadn’t expressed one iota of sympathy for Nathan in years. Nor had she ever asked about him. The anguish in her inflection didn’t fit.

“Marci? Are you okay?”

A choked sob came over the line. The words that followed were barely audible. “I was afraid this would happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After you told me the news about the drug bust, I—I wrote him. It wasn’t a nice letter. I beat him up pretty bad for almost getting you killed. And I told him about the two cops who died.”

“What!” The word exploded from J.C.’s lips, and the churning in his gut intensified.

“I—I’m sorry, J.C.” Marci’s whispered apology caught on
a sob. “I was just so mad about the way he’s treated you, after all you’ve done to try to help him. But as soon as I m-mailed the letter, I had a feeling it was a mistake.”

Raking his fingers through his hair, J.C. tried to regroup. What was done was done, he reminded himself. It was clear Marci regretted her rash action, and berating her wasn’t going to change the situation. It would only strain a relationship he’d worked hard to solidify.

And one good thing had come out of this, he suddenly realized. If Marci’s letter had driven Nathan to take this drastic measure, it must mean his brother hadn’t purposely set him up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have felt any guilt or remorse.

“Okay.” J.C. swallowed. “We can’t rewind. We have what we have. I’m heading back in about an hour and a half. I’ll let you know how everything goes.”

“Are you…How are you getting to Pontiac?”

“I’ll get a rental at O’Hare.” He resumed packing.

“Why don’t I pick you up? We could drive down together.” J.C.’s hand froze as he tucked a pair of socks into the duffel. “You want to go with me?”

“No.” Her breath hitched. “But I have to. This is my fault, J.C. I can’t just walk away from that responsibility.”

He didn’t try to reassure her or absolve her of blame. They both knew her letter had been the catalyst for this crisis.

“Okay.” He gave her his flight information, tossed his shaving kit into the duffel and zipped the bag closed. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Checking his watch as he ended the call, J.C. picked up his Bible. He needed five minutes with the twenty-third Psalm. Then he’d order a cab, run over and talk to Heather, and try to prepare for the difficult hours ahead.

As a knock sounded on her back door, Heather slid the tray of lemon tarts she was holding on to a cooling rack and turned.
To her surprise, J.C. stood in the shadows of the porch. She’d expected him to sleep late today.

“Come on in.” Smiling, she walked toward him as he pulled open the door and stepped through.

When the bright kitchen light illuminated his face, however, her step faltered. He looked as if someone had died.

Picking up her pace again, she covered the distance between them in a few long strides and reached for his hands. “What’s wrong?”

His grip was fierce. “Nathan tried to commit suicide last night.”

Shock wiped the expression from her face. “Oh, J.C.! Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah. But I’m heading back there to be with him.”

“Of course. What happened?”

“Marci sent him a letter. I told her about Nathan’s role in the drug bust ambush, and she decided to let him have it. Listen…I’m sorry about canceling our date tonight.”

“I’ll give you a rain check.” Heather loosened her hand and reached up to touch his cheek. “Do you…Would you like some company on your trip?”

She saw surprise flare in his eyes—followed by a flame of love shining strong and bright in their depths. Just as she knew it was shining in hers.

“You’ll never know how much that offer means to me.” His voice hoarsened, and he cleared his throat. “But your life has been thrown into chaos enough lately. And you have a business to run.”

“This is more important.”

He touched her face, stroked her hair, let his hand drift down to cup her neck. “I’ll be okay. As long as I know you’re waiting when I return.”

She took a step closer and put her arms around his neck. “Count on it.”

He rested his hands on her waist and searched her eyes. “There’s a lot I want to talk about when I get back.”

“I’ll be here. What time is your flight?”

“In just over an hour. I need to go.”

“Let me drive you.”

“A cab’s already on the way.” She started to protest, but he lifted a hand. “I’d rather say goodbye here.”

With that, he bent his head and gave her a lingering kiss.

When at last he drew back, he stroked her cheek with a fingertip. “Say a few prayers, okay?”

“I’ll say more than a few.”

He gave her one more hug, then stepped out the door.

And as he disappeared around the house, she knew he would need every prayer he could get to make it through the traumatic hours to come.

By the time Marci and J.C. pulled up ten hours later in front of the dreary stone structure Nathan called home, his eyes felt gritty with fatigue. And the harsh lights in the sterile conference room they were shown to didn’t help.

Two people were waiting for them. He knew Steve Taylor, the chaplain. They’d often spoken during his visits. The thirtysomething woman with gold-rimmed glasses and short brown hair, who introduced herself as Jo Sherman, chief of psychology services at the facility, was a stranger.

After providing them with cups of strong coffee, the psychologist took the lead. “Before you see Nathan, we wanted you to know we think we’ve found the trigger for his actions.”

She opened a folder and withdrew a letter. J.C. recognized Marci’s handwriting at once. Beside him, coffee sloshed on the table as his sister’s grip tightened on her disposable cup.

“We came to the same conclusion.” J.C. used his napkin to mop up the spilled liquid.

The psychologist folded her hands on the table and leaned
forward intently. “As bad as everything seems right now, there is a plus side. Nathan’s despondency over this letter and his subsequent suicide attempt indicate a well-formed conscience. He cares about the repercussions of his actions. That has positive implications for rehabilitation.”

“Only if we can get him to care about living again.” J.C. compressed his lips into a grim line.

“I think you’re the one who can do that,” the psychologist said.

J.C. shook his head, a pang of regret echoing in his heart. “He has no use for me.”

The psychologist gave him a long look, then pulled a small plastic bin toward her. “We found this when his cell was inspected after the suicide attempt.” Opening the lid, she withdrew several notebooks and set them on the table. Underneath, lined up in neat rows, were letters.

His letters, J.C. realized.

Dozens and dozens of them.

He stared at them, stunned, as she silently pushed the bin toward him.

With fingers that weren’t quite steady, he riffled through them. They’d been filed in chronological order, the older ones yellowed a bit, he noted. Pulling out the first one, he checked the date. Sucked in a sharp breath. Closed his eyes.

Nathan had kept every single letter he’d written.

And based on their dog-eared appearance, each had been read numerous times.

“We also found these in the bin.” The psychologist gestured toward the notebooks. Selecting the one on top, she opened it to the first page and handed it to J.C.

Another shock rippled through him. The pencil portrait took several years off his age, but it had been rendered in exquisite, loving detail by a masterful hand.

Paging through the rest of the notebook, he found more
portraits—including one of Marci, which elicited a soft gasp from his sister—plus still-life scenes and a few landscapes. All were beautifully executed.

“There are five more notebooks like that,” the psychologist told him.

J.C. shook his head, overwhelmed. “I had no idea.”

“Nathan has a remarkable talent—and a lot to offer,” the chaplain said. “Our challenge is to convince him of that.”

Wiping a hand down his face, J.C. sighed. “How do we do that?” He felt no closer to answering that troubling question now than he had when Nathan had first been incarcerated.

“I wish I had the magic words that would reach into his heart and convince him he’s loved and valued not only by his family but by the Lord,” the chaplain said. “I’ve tried, but he’s never been receptive to that message. Perhaps he will be now. Why don’t we ask God to give you the words that will help him turn his life around?”

J.C. knew Marci would be uncomfortable with prayer, but he needed the strength it would offer. “That’s a good idea.”

With a nod, the chaplain bowed his head. “Lord, please be with J.C. and Marci as they talk to Nathan. Help him hear their message with his heart as well as his ears. Let him believe in their enduring love. And let him feel Your healing grace so that in time he may be open to Your words. Amen.”

When the prayer ended, J.C. looked at Marci. “Do you want to go in together?”

She shook her head. “You go first. Two of us at once might overwhelm him.”

“I arranged for you to see Nathan in one of the private interview rooms,” the psychologist told him. “There will be guards present, but the atmosphere will be more conducive to interpersonal interaction.”

That was a deviation from the usual rigid security protocol, J.C. knew. Perhaps his law enforcement credentials had
bought them a few concessions. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. “Thank you.”

Five minutes later, when he entered the small room, Nathan was already there, two guards standing nearby. In place of the usual orange prison garb, he wore a blue, sleeveless isolation jumpsuit. The one-piece kind with Velcro fasteners, often used for prisoners on suicide watch. J.C.’s stomach clenched.

As he moved toward the table, his first thought was that the past five years hadn’t been kind to his kid brother. Though he was only thirty-two, fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes. A smattering of gray peppered his brown hair, and above his drooping shoulders, his cheeks were gaunt. Rather than looking up when J.C. entered, he continued to stare dully at his shackled hands, folded on the table in front of him.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, J.C. spoke. “Hello, Nathan.”