Freefall (28 page)

Anger surged, fever feeding fear. Rob wanted to split open his body and get out, just get out. He had lingered long in the corridors of confusion, but now knowledge burned into his mind, pumped his sluggish heart in a chest of mud. If he opened his eyes they would see a stump, a useless half leg.

Eyes closed, he remembered running track—that moment of release when he launched himself over the hurdle, then landed with fleet feet, bursting on to the next barrier and surmounting it. His strength resisting even the gravity that might hold him down. That was his life, his essence. Soaring over the roadblocks, the pitfalls. Finding the way and … and now …

He clenched his hands. Days of praise in that pit of darkness turned to ash. God had not played fair. Rob shuddered. What had he done, or not done, to deserve this? He’d changed his life, given everything to the Savior he trusted. And this was his reward?

No wonder so few made the effort. He grappled with the disillusionment, and fresh anger stirred. How had he failed—what detail had he overlooked? If you do not do thus and so, you will never walk on two legs again. Why? Why….

He opened his eyes to the half-light of a hospital night, turned his head on the thin pillow. Gentry slept in the chair beside him, her face drawn, even in slumber. He knew her pain and regret, but it was swallowed by his encompassing anger. Why hadn’t she gone at once for help? Even if she hadn’t known—

Again anger shielded the hurt. He had sung and glorified the Lord, trusting … trusting. And God had betrayed and abandoned him. The ache of separation seized him, even as he recognized that he was the one pulling away. He groaned, not wanting to see this for what it was. A setback. A hurdle. An opportunity.

My son, my beloved …

No! He didn’t want to be called on. He’d done enough. His experience of Christ had been so real, so personal. He’d given everything, lost … so much. Tears stung his eyes. Again he groaned. What had believing brought but pain and loss. Aching loss.

Gentry stirred. He willed her back to sleep, but she opened her eyes.

“Uncle Rob?” her whisper thick with worry. “Are you in pain?”

Couldn’t she see the flames? “Yes.” Numb it. Kill it.

Silence it. She pressed the button for the nurse.

Silence Him.

Rob sank back in the bed. Silence. Dark, empty silence.

Cameron opened the paper to Gentry’s face. A side column, but front-page nonetheless. Unlike the previous drivel, the article had a sympathetic tone:
Beleaguered Film Star Faces New Shock As Uncle Loses Leg
. Her sorrow and self-condemnation must be extreme, but she’d cope. If there was any quit in her, he hadn’t seen it.

And his news would help. With the disk in his possession, any further attempts at blackmail would land Troy’s mother back in jail. One down, half a million to go. It was too much to expect that people would stop taking shots at Gentry. She’d chosen the high profile, but he’d shielded her this time. He could rest easy in that.

He tossed the paper aside and booted the computer. He had plenty of things to nail down for other cases, plenty to keep his thoughts far from the woman who’d touched something he’d buried deep inside him. Mercifully, there’d been no time for it to develop.

He forked both hands into his hair and leaned back in his ergonomic chair, chosen to minimize the lower-back pain from a surfing injury. Not bad enough to keep him off his board, but bad enough to need to sit right when he worked.

Things had gotten so crazy with Gentry, he’d only surfed once on Kauai, the morning he’d startled her on the lanai. Why was every moment as crisp as Kodak? He closed his eyes and pictured her, then jerked them open and shook his head. He typed his password and brought up the Ponzi scheme he’d be reporting on for the FBI. He’d have to testify when it went to trial and made sure now that everything was documented and in order. Then he processed his bill.

Opening the file for the whiplash insurance fraud, he thought of the Jeep on Kauai. They’d recover it as soon as Robert Fox could tell them where. He pictured the battered man they’d taken from the cave, fevered, delirious, with a mangled leg. He sat back and steepled his fingers against his mustache. If he had forced Gentry to talk to TJ after seeing the doctor, would that one day have made a difference?

He ran his fingers down the line of his beard. Hindsight was lethal. It could kill confidence. But what had happened? There had to be more to it than Gentry remembered.

Maybe he should have focused there and let the pictures wait. Even though it had seemed like a cold trail, he might have found something. People didn’t realize how much they left behind for someone like him to follow. But he hadn’t been hired or even asked. If a crime had been committed the police would pursue it. He’d done what Nica asked and more.

So why did it nag him still? He sat back in his chair and sighed.

Gentry sat with her face in her hands, glad that Uncle Rob slept. With the fever broken, he could begin to heal. The leg had been killing him, but now she could see strength returning. Even so, every time she looked at the stump where his strong leg used to be, guilt crushed her. Her pride, her self-preservation, and stubbornness had caused his loss. And it hurt.

She looked up when Darla came in. This was not the time for another battle, but for once Darla didn’t stalk in like a commando. She held out a stack of publications and smiled. “You did it.”

Gentry looked down at the papers, mystified.

“You won them over. Next time they’ll be eating out of your hand.”

“I sincerely hope there’s no next time.”

Darla arched a brow. “There will be. And soon you’ll hope
for
it.” She leaned against the window seat. “You’re a real person now, not just some actor on the screen. They want to know about you, connect with you—Gentry Fox, not just the part you play.”

The thought was surprisingly intoxicating. After all the negative press, the idea that people wanted to know the truth about her soothed the wound. She returned Darla’s smile. “Thanks.”

Darla shrugged. “It’s what you pay me for.”

“Sorry I wasn’t cooperative.”

Darla cocked her head. “Next time you’ll know better.”

Next time. Darla was right. If she stayed in the industry, this would always be a factor. Her movie with Alec, if it happened, would be a giant step up—pass Go, collect $200. Was she ready for that kind of attention, when just the thought of publicity had kept her from getting help?

“Jett and I are flying back today. I trust you’ll avoid further catastrophe?”

Gentry shrugged. She’d learned not to make promises she couldn’t keep.

Darla rolled her eyes. “Touch in when you get back. I want to keep ahead of this thing with Alec.”

“Okay.”

When Darla went out, Gentry turned back to her uncle. Something in his position suggested wakefulness, though his eyes stayed closed. Avoiding her? She understood. As much as she wanted to talk to him, she didn’t know what to say. She stood and paced the room.

While her night of struggle had prepared her to accept whatever happened, it hadn’t told her how to handle it. Uncle Rob was alive, and she was deeply grateful for that, but the burden of his injury took a toll.

As Nica said, gifts came with trials. She folded her hands under her chin and closed her eyes. Instead of telling God what she needed, she asked for the strength and wisdom to deal with this and to know how to support Uncle Rob. “Your grace is sufficient, Lord. Be his strength and courage. Surround him with your love.”

Persistent and irrepressible. Rob recognized the traits he’d fostered. How often he’d imagined Gentry his own daughter, loved her as his own—and she’d forgotten him. He’d jumped in to save her, and she’d left him alone, battered. And now maimed.

He couldn’t blame her, but he did. He shouldn’t blame God, but he did. He blamed himself for blindly believing. If he hadn’t trusted so completely, he wouldn’t be so completely disappointed. Where was the grace in that?

The only good thing he could find was that Allegra wasn’t there to see. It had ripped him apart when she left, but now it was a blessing, one of the crumbs that led to false expectation. Treacherous tidbits of hope.

Gentry bent and kissed his cheek. She murmured, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Yes. Go. Leave me alone
.

The halls grew still; the lights went down. As night came on, other thoughts loomed, thoughts he’d carried with him from the cave, an infection of the spirit. While Gentry had sat beside him he’d kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. He hadn’t wanted conversation. But she’d employed something far more devastating—prayer. Didn’t she see how it stoked the fires?

She was gone now, her prayers wafting away, filtered through the air ducts into particles of nothing. He was alone. Alone.

“If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”

No.

“ Your right hand will hold me fast.”

He groaned, wishing he had not impressed the words on his mind.

“ You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me.”

“Lord,” he groaned, and tears slipped from his eyes.

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

And what happened in each of those days was for the Lord to decide; his to determine whether Robert Fox walked on one leg or two. He had snatched him from the cave and breathed life back into his body. Now God desired to resuscitate his soul.

Wherever he went, however great his resistance, the Lord would pursue him. Humility and unworthiness settled on him like the mist. Who was he to question what the Lord chose for him? Did he know more than God? Did he think, like Job, he could interrogate the Creator of all things, demand an accounting? He was nothing, and yet the Lord had plucked him from the pit. Gratitude rushed in, and praise tumbled from his lips.

TWENTY-THREE

The stain would not come off.
She stood in white, yards and yards of satin and toile, but the stain would not come off the bodice. The more she rubbed, the more it spread. She needed to get it off before anyone saw, but when she took a step, she found the floor thick with garbage.

She grabbed up her skirts, pulling in the train, foul with slime and rancid food. Her hands grew slick and putrid, but still she pulled and gathered the fabric into her arms. The miasmic odor cloyed. She gripped and pulled, armful after armful of rotting lace until her own vomit coursed down the front of her.

Allegra opened her eyes, surprised her spasming stomach had not actually spilled its contents. The white hotel sheets gathering like pursed lips into the depression made by the man who should not be there. Bronze and golden, Curt lay like a burnished treasure half buried in sand.

With the vigor and glow of a lesser decade, he slept unknowing, while she slipped from the sheets. His rum-fed slumber cradled him through her hasty dressing, stealthy packing, and silent departure. The message of her dream was clear. She’d tried so hard, rubbed and scrubbed until the outside looked, sounded, and seemed like class, but deep inside she was trash.

She’d taken the girl from the trailer, but she’d never get the trailer out of the girl. It had only been a matter of time before it showed. As she waited for the elevator, her hands rubbed each other with Macbethian persistence.