One Tuesday Morning & Beyond Tuesday Morning Compilation (53 page)

“I know.” A respectful quiet fell between them. “Still hard to believe he’s gone.”

“Yes.” Once more she glanced at Jake’s picture. “Still hard to believe.”

She felt strangely awkward, the way she had back in high school when some boy other than Jake smiled at her or flirted with her. But Aaron wasn’t flirting with her, and she wasn’t in high school…and Jake was dead.

But not really; not when he lived in her memory as fully as he’d once lived in her home.

No wonder the strange feeling, the hint of guilt at being caught looking at the picture of her husband. She’d felt this way before on occasion, though only when she was with Aaron. Even so, she refused to make too much of her emotions. They were bound to be all over the board, even if she and Aaron were only friends.

He nodded his head toward the center of the chapel. “There’s a lady in the front pew; she could use your help. Husband was a cop, died in the collapse.” His eyes met hers and held. Concern shone through, and the awkward feeling disappeared. “You ready?”

“Ready.” Jamie fell in beside him and headed down one of the pews toward the other side of the chapel. She wanted to glance once more at Jake’s picture, but she didn’t.

He pointed to a blonde woman in the front row. “You got it?”

Jamie nodded. “What about you?”

“Over there.” He glanced toward the back of the chapel. The memorial tables framed the perimeter of the room. A couple in their seventies stood near the back wall. “Tourists. Lots of questions.”

They shared a knowing look—this was what they did at St. Paul’s: being there for the people who came through the doors, whatever their reason—then they turned and went their separate ways.

With slow, hushed steps, Jamie came alongside the blonde woman. Many of the widows who visited St. Paul’s had been there before, but this one wasn’t familiar. Jamie sat down and waited until the woman looked at her.

“Hi, I’m Jamie Bryan; I’m a volunteer.”

The woman’s eyes were red and swollen, and though she opened her mouth, no words came. She lowered her head into her hands, and a few quiet sobs worked their way through her body.

Jamie put her hand on the woman’s back. The woman was in her late forties, Jamie guessed, heavyset with an ocean of pain welling within her. When the woman’s tears subsided, she sniffed and found Jamie’s eyes. “Does…the pain ever go away?”

This was the hard part. Jamie was here at St. Paul’s for one reason: to offer hope to those devastated by the losses of September 11. The problem was just what Martha White, the volunteer coordinator, had warned her from the beginning. She couldn’t work through her own pain by giving advice to people about theirs.

“I’m fine,” she’d told Martha. “I’m working through it, but I’m fine at St. Paul’s.”

Martha looked doubtful. “You tell me if it’s too much.” She wagged a motherly finger at Jamie. “You’re a victim same as everyone else.”

The coordinator’s words came back to Jamie now, and she swallowed hard. What had the weeping woman just asked her? Did the pain ever go away?

Jamie looked from the woman to the front of the church, the place where the old ornate cross stood like an anchor. Without taking her eyes from it, Jamie gave a slow shake of her head. “No. The pain doesn’t go away.” She turned back to the woman. “But God helps us learn how to live with it.”

Another wave of tears hit the woman. Her face contorted, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “It still…feels like September 12. Sometimes I think it always will.”

A strength rose from within Jamie. Every time she’d been needed in a situation like this one, God had delivered. Every time. She turned so she could see the woman better. “Tell me about your husband.”

“He was a cop.” She lifted one shoulder and ran the back of her hands beneath her eyes. “Everyone’s always talking about the firemen, but the cops took a hit too.”

Jamie had heard this before from the wives of other police officers. “Have you been around the chapel yet?”

“I just started when…” She held her breath, probably stifling another wave of sobs.

“It’s okay to cry.”

“Thank you.” The woman’s shoulders shook again. “This chapel…That’s why I’m crying.” She searched Jamie’s eyes. “I didn’t think anyone cared until I came here, and now…”

“Now you know the truth.”

“Yes.” The woman grabbed a quick breath and stared at a poster on a wall overhead.
Oklahoma Cares.
Beneath the banner title were hundreds of handprints from children who had experienced the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. One line read,
We love our police!
“I didn’t come before because I didn’t want to be angry at anyone. But this is where I need to be; I should’ve come a hundred times by now.”

“I’m Jamie.” She held out her hand, and the woman across from her took it. “What’s your name?”

“Cindy Grammar.” The woman allowed the hint of a smile. “Is it just me, or do you feel something here?”

“I feel it. Everyone who comes inside feels it.”

“It’s the only place where the memory of all those people still lives. You know, as a group.”

“Exactly.” Jamie folded her hands in her lap and looked around the chapel at the banners, then at the memorabilia lining the walls—items collected from the edge of the pit or left near the chapel steps. One day the city would have an official memorial to the victims of September 11. But for now, those two thousand people were remembered with grace and love at St. Paul’s.

“This city loved my Bill. I could sense that the minute I walked in here.”

“You’re right.” Jamie gave Cindy’s hand a gentle squeeze. “And no one will forget what he did that day. He was a hero, Cindy. Same as the firefighters.”

The conversation continued for nearly an hour before the woman felt ready to finish making her way around the inside of the building. By then her eyes were dry and she had shared the story of how she’d met her husband, how much they’d loved each other. Jamie knew the names of the woman’s two sons, and the fact that they both played high school football.

“Thanks, Jamie.” The woman’s expression was still filled with sorrow, but now it was also tinged with gratitude and peace. “I haven’t felt this good in months.”

Jamie’s heart soared. Her job was to bring hope to the hopeless, and to do it in Jake’s name. Again and again and again. She took Cindy’s hands again. “Let’s pray, okay?”

The woman squirmed. “I’m…I’m not sure about God, Jamie.”

“That’s okay.” Jamie’s smile came from her heart, from the place that understood God the way Jake had always wanted her to understand. “God’s sure about you.”

“Really?” Doubt colored Cindy’s eyes.

“Really. We don’t have to pray; just let me know.” Jamie bit her lip, waiting.

“I want to.” The woman knit her brow together. “I don’t know what to say.”

Jamie gave the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll say it.” She bowed her head and began, the way she had dozens of times over the past two years. “God, we come to You because You know all things. You are sovereign and mighty and You care about us deeply. Help Cindy believe in You, Lord. Help her to understand that You hold a flashlight as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And let her find new life in You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Jamie opened her eyes.

A fresh sort of peace filled Cindy’s face. She leaned closer and hugged Jamie. “I’ll be back.”

Jamie smiled. “I know.”

The woman stood and headed for the outer rim of the chapel with a promise to return some day so that maybe the two could talk—and even pray again.

When she was finally alone, Jamie’s hands trembled. Her legs were stiff from sitting for so long. Meetings like that were emotionally draining, and Jamie wanted water before she talked to anyone else.

But before she could reach the stairs, another woman approached her, four young teenage girls in tow, each holding a notebook. “Hi, maybe you could help us.”

“Of course.” Jamie gave the group her full attention. “What would you like to know?”

“We’re a homeschool group and—” she looked at the girls—“each of the students has a list of questions for you. They want to know how St. Paul’s was instrumental in serving the people who cleaned up the pile of debris after the towers collapsed.”

“Okay.” Jamie smiled, but something grated against her heart. The pile of debris? Jake had been in that pile. It was okay for
her
to call it that, but these people were…they were on a quest for details, like so many reporters. She ignored her irritation and directed the group to the nearest pew. “Let’s sit here and we can talk.”

School groups were common, and always needed help from volunteers. They wanted to know how many hundreds of gallons of water were given out—more than four thousand; how many different types of services were offered free to the work crew—podiatry, massage therapy, counseling, chiropractic care, nursing care, and optometry among others; and what sort of impact did St. Paul’s and its volunteers have on the work crew—a dramatic one.

The questions continued, but they weren’t out of line. By the time Jamie was finished talking with the group, she regretted her first impression. The girls were well-mannered, the parent sensitive to the information Jamie shared. It was nearly noon when the group went on their way. Jamie scanned the pews first, and then the perimeter of the chapel. She was thirsty, but the visitors came first. The week she trained as a volunteer Martha had made that clear.

“Look for fires to put out.” A tiny woman with a big mouth and a heart as vast as the Grand Canyon, Martha was particularly serious about this detail. “Look for the people breaking down and weeping, the ones sitting by themselves in a pew. Those are the ones you should approach. Just so they know you’re there.”

No fires at the moment.

Aaron was across the room, talking to another pair of tourists. At least his conversations looked less intense than the one she’d had with Cindy. She trudged up the stairs to the volunteers’ break room. An open case of water bottles sat on the table; she took one and twisted off the lid. Chairs lined the area, but she was tired of sitting. She leaned against the stone wall and looked up at the aged stained glass.

Funny, the way Martha had said it.
Fires to put out.
It was one more way Jamie was keeping Jake’s memory alive. No, she didn’t deal with flames and fire hoses. But she was putting out fires all the same. He would’ve been proud of her.

In fact, if he’d survived, he’d be right here at St. Paul’s with her. All the more reason to volunteer as long as the chapel was open. It gave her purpose, and in that sense it wasn’t only a way to keep Jake’s memory, his sacrifice, alive.

It was a way to keep herself alive too.

T
WO

From the moment Clay Michaels started his shift, he felt strange about the day, as if God was trying to tell him something—to warn him. The unsettling sensation churned in his gut and worked through his spine and neck and brain. A knowing, almost, that things weren’t right. Or maybe worse. Maybe something awful was about to happen.

Clay wasn’t sure exactly what the feeling was, but it bothered him.

All day, while he hunted down the usual speeders on the Ventura Freeway corridor between the San Fernando Valley and the beach exits, the feeling weighed on him. Each time he approached a car his senses went on heightened alert. A college kid late for his classes at Pepperdine; a business guy making time to his office in Camarillo; a carload of tourists unaware of the speed limits. The stops had been routine, nothing more.

Still the feeling stayed with him.

At lunchtime he picked up a McDonald’s salad, drove to one of his lookout spots near the westbound Las Virgenes exit, and settled back into his seat.

Maybe the feeling meant it was time to move on.

He’d been to Eric and Laura’s house the night before, and the scene had been the same as always. Or the same as it had been since Eric returned home from New York City. Eric and Laura holding hands; Eric and Laura stealing a kiss or two in the kitchen; Eric and Laura sharing a private glance or a joke or an embrace when they thought no one was looking.

Clay tried not to notice. He was happy for them, grateful that the horrific events of September 11 had wrought only good for two people he loved so dearly. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder…

He took a bite of his salad and watched a car speed past.
Lucky day, buddy.
Only something dangerous would pull Clay away during a break. Especially when the strange feeling was still gnawing at him. It must’ve stemmed from his regrets about Laura, about the fact that their closeness had dissolved—as it had to—the minute Eric walked back through the door. The thing was, too often Clay caught himself watching Laura, remembering the way things were when Eric was gone, when they thought he was dead.

Clay had gone to college in the Midwest and he’d only been back in Los Angeles a few months when the terrorist attacks occurred. After September 11, while they grieved Eric’s loss, he and Laura grew closer every day. They even traveled to New York City together to search for him.

When it was finally obvious that he had died in the collapsed towers, they went home, and the bond they shared grew even stronger. Clay had been convinced that he and Laura would wind up together. After all, they’d known each other since high school. Laura had been his first crush.

Josh—Eric and Laura’s son—connected with Clay immediately, barely missing his father. And Laura had relied on him for everything. But that was not a surprise. Back then, Eric was a sorry excuse for a husband and father. He’d been obsessed with climbing the corporate ladder, making another deal, traveling to Manhattan as often as the company’s president demanded. All at Laura and Josh’s expense.

Clay took another bite of his salad and rolled down his window. The air smelled of late summer and fresh-cut grass.

Yes, he’d been shocked to discover Eric was a lousy husband and father. While he was away at school, he assumed things were great between Eric and Laura. Laura was golden, a beautiful woman with a tenderness and compassion that worked its way through everything she said or did. She was worth more than any job, and Clay intended to tell Eric so.

He never got the chance.

Instead his brother headed for New York City and disappeared from their lives for three months. When he returned, he was a changed man, the victim of amnesia and mistaken identity.

Clay stared at the rolling hills in the distance and watched a hawk land on a lone oak tree. God was here; he could feel it. Never mind the strange certainty that something bad was about to happen, God was here. That was all that mattered.

God…what You did with Eric…it was all part of Your plan, wasn’t it?

Even now, after three years, he could hardly believe what had happened to his big brother. The story was as strange as it was miraculous. Mistaken for an FDNY guy, a man who apparently loved God and his family in a way that should have earned him honors, Eric was taken to the man’s home and family. For weeks he’d done nothing but read the man’s Bible, his journal, his notes on loving his wife and their daughter.

When Eric finally remembered who he really was, the other man’s wife helped Eric find his way home. He didn’t talk about the woman much, but she must have been something, first surviving the shock that Eric wasn’t her husband, and then helping him return to Laura and Josh. And though Eric never spoke about his time with the woman, one thing was certain: he was a changed man. Because of that, Laura was the happiest woman in the world, and Josh the happiest eleven-year-old boy.

And Clay?

He dated now and then, but no one ever worked their way into his heart the way Laura had. Though his feelings for her weren’t right, they were there. And that made it hard to find someone else, someone he could fall in love with and marry and start a family with. The way he dreamed every day of doing.

Clay exhaled hard and tossed the empty plastic salad container into the backseat. He was about to take a swig from his iced tea when his radio crackled to life.

“Urgent! Calling all cars!” The code that followed told Clay the unthinkable had happened. A carjacking and fatal shooting at the gas station at Las Virgenes exit and Ventura Freeway. Suspect a twenty-five-year-old Hispanic male, five-ten, muscular, driving the victim’s blue 2002 Chevy Tahoe. “Suspect is headed west on 101. Suspect is armed and highly dangerous. Repeat, suspect is armed and dangerous.”

Clay straightened as a rush of adrenaline shot through him. He started his car as he grabbed the radio receiver. He identified himself and confirmed that he was at the location and headed toward the suspect.

Other officers gave their location and stated their intent to begin pursuit immediately and provide backup. But none of them were within ten minutes of Clay’s location. He would be first on the scene.

“God, go with me.”

He whispered that prayer every time he took a call, but this time there was urgency in his voice. He’d known, hadn’t he? That something would go down today? He flipped his siren on, spun his car around, and darted across the overpass and down the on-ramp onto the westbound lanes of the freeway. The dispatcher’s words screamed at him again.
Armed and highly dangerous.
He leaned toward the windshield, both hands on the steering wheel.

Chases were fairly common on California freeways. Chases involving a crazy man who’d already killed one person were not. It took three minutes for Clay to spot the blue Chevy tearing down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. This was their guy. But without backup…

He spoke into the receiver again. “This is Officer Michaels; I’ve got the suspect in sight. How close is backup?”

Another series of crackling noises filled the car. “We’ve got CHP officers fifteen minutes away. LAPD detectives ten minutes behind you and catching up. Wait if you can.”

If he could?

Too late. The suspect must have seen the red lights and heard the siren. He was picking up speed, darting in and out of all three lanes, jeopardizing everyone on the road. That meant Clay had two choices. Pursue him a few feet from his bumper to help warn drivers he was approaching, or back off until he had assistance. But backing off didn’t guarantee the man would slow down or drive more responsibly. He’d just killed a person; he wouldn’t mind if someone else died.

Clay decided to pursue. It was his job, and he wouldn’t back off just because he was alone.

He maneuvered his patrol car through the traffic until he was a few yards from the suspect’s bumper. He could see the man looking over his shoulder, but he couldn’t make out his face. Then the man waved his weapon out the window. It wasn’t any ordinary handgun; it was an AK-47. The man aimed it at the sky and fired—clear warning that he intended to kill whoever tried to stop him. Clay tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his palms sweaty. Still no backup in sight.

Come on, guys…hurry.

His foot pushed harder at the gas pedal, moving his patrol car even closer to the suspect. He was in firing range, for sure. If the man were able to fire the machine gun at him while still maintaining his high speeds, Clay would already be dead.

Cars were pulling over now, the way he’d wanted them to do. Amazing what the sound of a siren or the sight of a flashing light could accomplish. Clay glanced at his speedometer. Nearly a hundred miles per hour.

At that instant, the suspect darted across all three lanes of traffic, sped up the hill at the Kanan Road off-ramp, and made a sharp, squealing left turn. He bumped two cars traveling in the right lane, but kept going.

Clay pressed the button on his radio receiver. “Suspect has exited the freeway at Kanan Road, heading west.”

“Copy. Backup is closing in, a few minutes away.”

Clay gritted his teeth.
Please, God…I need help. Hurry them up
. He heard no holy whispers or answers. But the strange feeling grew stronger. Whatever was up ahead, he had to be ready.
God, be with me, whatever happens.

They sped past a series of condos and buildings as other cars pulled to the side or darted out of their way. Again the suspect waved his gun out the window, and Clay checked his rearview mirror. Nothing.

They neared the twisting turns of the canyon, turns that would force Clay to slow down or risk flying over the edge. Suddenly the suspect jerked his car onto the gravelly shoulder, kicking up a cloud of rocks and dust. Clay was still close behind him, and for a moment he couldn’t see anything. He heard the debris hit his windshield as he slammed on his brakes.

The cloud settled, and he saw the man was out of his car, the assault weapon trained on Clay’s vehicle. He was going to fire before Clay had a chance to get out of his car, let alone grab his revolver. The cloud of dust and rocks had been the suspect’s cover, and now Clay was trapped.

Here he sat, the barrel of an AK-47 pointed straight at him, and he could only think of one thing:
I knew this was coming.

He ducked just as the man braced himself and fired.

A spray of bullets peppered Clay’s windshield, shattering the glass and piercing where he’d been sitting just seconds ago. Clay cocked his revolver, glanced over the dash and fired. He dropped back down as the suspect sprayed another round of bullets. This time they came at closer range, louder, more fierce. The man’s footsteps were closing in. Clay gritted his teeth. What could he do? At this close range, he couldn’t fire without making himself a target. He raised his hand above the dash and fired blindly. Again the man let loose a burst of gunfire. He was closer now. It was only a matter of time.

How could God let it end this way? Death before he’d ever really found life—the sort of life he’d wanted, with a wife and a family. Senseless death because of a crazy man with an assault weapon. Clay’s breathing came in short bursts.
God…no! Help me, please!

At that instant he heard two things: sirens and footsteps, both coming closer. Backup was almost here. A few more seconds and everything would be okay. The man shouted something in Spanish, something about having a bad life.

Anger welled up in Clay. He wasn’t going to sit there and wait to be shot at; if he was going down, he’d go down fighting.
God…be with me
. He peered over the dash and spotted the man, ten yards away and closing. The suspect saw Clay too. The man pulled the trigger just as Clay fired once—straight at the man’s chest—then ducked to the floorboard area.

Even as another spray of bullets ripped through his car, Clay heard the sirens getting louder. His heart pounded. He listened, but he couldn’t hear the man coming closer. Had he shot him? Had he actually killed a man? The sirens were right behind him now, and he heard two cars pull onto the shoulder, then the sound of doors slamming. A voice yelled, “Police, don’t move!”

Someone was running up from behind, along the passenger side of Clay’s car. It could be the suspect, but not likely. Still, Clay aimed his revolver at the opposite door just as Detective Joe Reynolds flung it open and looked inside. “Michaels, you okay?”

“The suspect?”

“He’s dead.” The officer was a black man, a former attorney who’d grown tired of the corporate world and took up police work. He was a detective now, one of the best. He worked the west end and had an office down the hall from the lunchroom. Clay considered him his closest friend in the department.

“I…I killed him?”

“You did everyone a favor.”

Clay’s body shook as relief worked its way through him. “A few more seconds and…”

“What’d he do, pull over and come after you?”

“Yeah.” Clay set his gun on the seat and pushed himself up. “The guy…he was crazy.”

“Must’ve been flying over a hundred.”

“He was.”

Reynolds was still out of breath. “We got here fast as we could. He was dying on the ground, still reaching for his weapon when we pulled up.” He ran his fingers over the bullet holes scattered across the front seat. “Someone must be looking out for you, Michaels. AK-47s don’t usually miss.”

It was true. Even though he’d ducked into the floorboard, he should’ve been hit. Weapons like the assault rifle spray their bullets, and one easily could have ripped through the dash and killed him. “I was praying the whole time.”

Reynolds cocked his head. “I’d say the Big Guy heard you.”

Clay glanced around and saw another officer, one he didn’t know as well, in his patrol car on the radio. Probably calling for someone to come get the body.

Clay looked at the covered figure lying a few yards from his car. Nausea rushed up in his belly. “First time I ever shot a suspect.”

“They’ll want you to take some time, a paid leave.” Reynolds studied him. “Part of the investigation.”

“Right.” He’d had no choice, of course. The man would have killed him if he hadn’t shot. In a situation like that—with a crazed suspect running at you, firing a gun—Clay had been taught there was just one way to do it: shoot to kill.