“Shut up!” A voice hissed at them. The smell of alcohol and old tobacco filled the tight space. “I've got a gun! Don't move.”
Next to him, Joe stopped scuffling and grew still. “We're police. Don't do something stupid.”
A different voice laughed at them, and the sound was anything but humorous. Clay blinked and tried to make out their faces. Two Asian-American men, both young and high as kites.
“That's right, Superman; you're finished.”
His partner kicked Clay's leg. “You didn't think you could come snoopin' around without an official welcome, did you?” His snort was half laugh, half nervous energy. “We'll lose business because of you jerks.”
Business? The pieces came rushing together. They were drug dealers; maybe part of a ring. And now they were wanted in a murder.
In a rush of movement, Joe pulled his gun and pushed the guy who claimed to be armed. “Up against the wall!” His voice was loud, stern. He pulled away enough to get his hand on his revolver, but as he did, both men lunged at him.
Clay pulled his own gun free when a gunshot exploded through the small, cramped space. Joe slumped against the door frame and inched down. His eyes found Clay's and his mouth formed the word, “Help!”
“Joe!” Clay grabbed hold of his friend, stopping him from sliding all the way to the ground.
Both men stepped back and stared at Joe. “Now you did it!” one of them snarled. He pushed his buddy aside and ran down the alley, toward the Top Hat.
“I … I didn't mean it. I didn't shoot him; I swear it.” Before the last word was out, the second man turned and followed after his friend.
“Backup!” Clay shouted over his shoulder. Where were the other detectives?
God, let them hear me. Please …
“I need backup. Officer down!”
His hands were shaking so hard he could barely use them. But he kept one set of fingers firmly around Joe's arm, and with the other he yanked his cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed 911.
“911. What's your emergency?”
Clay gritted his teeth. The other detectives had to be close.
Come on, God … please let Joe be okay.
“Officer down!” He gave his location. “I need emergency backup.”
Clay heard screeching tires in the distance and then footsteps, lots of them, running hard and growing closer. NYPD detectives ran up, breathless. “We called for help. Four cars have a bead on the suspects.” Clay grabbed a quick breath. “An ambulance will be here any minute.”
“Clay …” Joe's voice was fading. His eyes were open, but they looked frozen, in shock. He gasped for breath and stared hard at Clay. “Tell … tell Wanda I … I love her.”
“Keep him upright.” One of the detectives moved in along the other side of Joe and held that arm. “He's losing a lot of blood.”
Something caught Clay's eyes and he saw it was a red stain on the door frame, a smeary blood trail caused by Joe's body sliding down it. Joe'd been shot clear through the abdomen just beneath his flak jacket. He had blood at the corners of his mouth and near his nose, and his eyes were closing. His breathing was labored and slow.
“Joe!” Clay gave him a shake. It was okay; he was going to be okay. He had to be okay. “Hang in there. Wanda wants you to tell her yourself, man. Come on!”
Sirens drew closer, but would the ambulance even matter? Joe was bleeding to death; he had maybe a few minutes by the looks of it. Clay hung his head. “God … please stop the bleeding. Make it stop, God …” His prayer was loud enough for the other detectives to hear, but even as Clay prayed, Joe closed his eyes and his head fell forward.
“No!” Clay tightened his grip on Joe's shoulder. His heart raced and he wanted to shake something. No, Joe couldn't die. “God, don't let him die, please!”
The ambulance sped up and slammed to a stop a few feet away. Clay stayed beside Joe as he was placed on the stretcher, as the men loaded him into the back. He would go with him, of course. Travel in the back to the hospital and stay with him until they found a way to save his life. “Joe, hang on!” Clay shouted the words, in case Joe could hear him.
One of the other detectives grabbed Clay's shirt and pulled him back from the scene. “You can't go with him.”
“Why? He needs me there.” He jerked away and took a step toward the ambulance.
“Stop!” It was the other officer, the lead detective.
“I'm going with him!” Clay spun, breathless. The paramedics were closing the door; if he waited another few seconds it would be too late.
“You can't, Michaels.” The detective's expression changed. “The medic told me they're doing CPR; they need all the space they can get.”
“CPR?” Clay felt the ground beneath him turn to liquid.
The detective motioned toward the NYPD squad car, fifty yards away. “Come with us; we'll get you there just as fast.”
He was in the squad car, the other detectives driving him to the emergency room, when he figured out what to do next. He grabbed his phone and dialed Jamie's number.
She picked up on the second ring. “Clay … I'm glad you called.”
“Jamie.” He hesitated, not sure how to tell her. “Joe's been shot. I'm … I'm not sure he's going to make it.”
Her gasp was sharp, and he could picture her face. Beautiful, terrified. “What happened?”
“We were doing street interviews.” He didn't want to tell her the other details—not yet. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The detective at the wheel had the siren on, making the best time possible to the hospital. “Pray, Jamie. Please.” He told her what hospital they were headed for. “And call Wanda, okay?”
“Clay … are you all right?”
Her voice was balm for his soul, but he couldn't think about her that way; not now. He opened his eyes and stared at the city street ahead of them. The hospital wasn't far away. “Just pray.”
As he hung up he realized something that ripped him apart inside, something that made him turn and lean his head against the car window. If they were doing CPR on Joe Reynolds, then he wasn't breathing. Which meant there was another reason they hadn't wanted Clay in the ambulance. Not so much because they had to start CPR.
But because they might have to stop it.
T
WENTY
-F
OUR
It took Jamie twenty minutes to board the ferry for Manhattan.
Her first call had been to Wanda, and as she'd expected, her friend was terrified, too scared to speak. She was able to say only that she was on her way to the hospital and that she wanted Jamie to meet her there.
Next she called a neighbor, who was more than willing to take Sierra for the evening. Before she did that, she told Sierra that Clay's friend had been hurt and she needed to be with him. Sierra didn't say much, but her eyes shone. A strange mixture of fear and hope.
Jamie thought she knew why.
She hadn't seen or spoken about Clay in days, and Sierra wasn't happy about the fact. Now, though, if Jamie was going to the hospital to meet him—even for a sad reason—then maybe she would get to see Clay again.
Even so, they didn't talk about Clay. Every second counted, and she wanted to be at the hospital when Wanda arrived. She took time to do just one thing before she left. She went to her bedroom dresser, where she kept Jake's Bible, and she lifted her left hand.
She'd always believed she would know. That when it was time for her wedding ring to come off, she wouldn't have any doubts. She studied the ring. Jake, her marriage to him, their days of loving and laughing and making a life together, would always be a part of her. But the ring …
It was time.
She worked it off her finger, held it in her hand a moment, then opened the lid on a small blown-glass box. With careful fingers, she set her wedding ring inside the box, and shut the lid.
Her hand seemed empty. She ran her thumb over the bare spot, the pale indented circle at the base of her finger. It would bear for a very long time the proof that Jake's ring had been there. Much as her heart would forever bear proof of Jake himself.
She took a quick step back, then left the room. She ran Sierra over to the neighbor's, then headed toward the ferry. The news was still working its way through her, convincing her that this latest, terrible thing really had happened. That Joe had been shot and critically wounded on the streets of Manhattan.
Jamie parked and made her way to the line for the ferry. Once aboard, she crossed to the opposite side, so she'd be first off when the boat docked. It was dark, the sky providing a cloud cover that kept temperatures from dropping too much. She found a place outside, near the railing, and stared at the skyline.
God … let him live. Guide the doctors and be with Wanda. Please, Father.
Peace wrapped its arms around her and she leaned into it.
Tragedy used to scare her to death. The news of it almost as much as the event itself. That was something else the terrorist attacks had taught her—how to handle bad news. Nothing could be as terrible as coming into the health club lobby that awful Tuesday morning and seeing the World Trade Center in flames on television.
She was anxious, lifting her voice to God every few minutes on Joe's behalf. But she was calm at the core, convinced that survival was possible—even in the face of great loss. And so it wasn't only thoughts of Joe that filled her mind as the boat sliced through the harbor. It was thoughts of Clay and Jake and Sierra and life.
And of her epiphany on the beach.
It wasn't that she'd avoided life all this time. She hadn't chosen death over life, not at first. Working at St. Paul's had been her way of choosing to live. It was that or crawl into bed and never get up again.
But after two years of volunteering, after hearing the stories of loss and praying with grieving relatives and letting strangers cry on her shoulder, Jamie had grown. She no longer needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. God gave her that just by sending the morning, by giving her another day with Him.
Whether she spent that day with Sierra or the people at St. Paul's, she no longer felt like one of the walking dead, the empty-eyed grievers who still colored the Manhattan landscape. Rather she was excited about life, about what God wanted to do with her and through her as long as she drew breath. It only made sense that she'd outgrown her time at Ground Zero. She could find purpose at St. Paul's, but she couldn't move on there.
She looked at the sky and saw Jake's image, his face smiling at her, giving her that knowing look. The one that told her he knew what she needed to do, and she knew it too. Now all she had to do was make the decision.
“Choose life, right, Jake?” Tears blurred her eyes. “Even with someone new. That's what you want me to do, isn't it?”
His eyes were as clear as if he were standing in front of her, clear and blue and filled with a love that she hadn't understood when he was alive. “Jake …”
The image held for a moment longer. Then it faded and blurred and became night sky. Yes, that's exactly what he would want her to do. Him and God Almighty.
See, I set before you now life and prosperity, death and destruction … Choose life!
That was why God brought Clay into her life in the first place. That she might be moved forward in the healing process, past the point of St. Paul's and toward the possibility of new life.
New love.
Just the thought of Clay made her breath catch in her throat. As desperate as the situation was, she felt a little bit like Sierra. Frightened and filled with concern, but with eyes that shone with hope. Because in a very little while she would see Clay again. And at some point, she'd tell him about her day, how she'd figured things out on a cold lonely beach, and how wrong she'd been before.
How much she needed him.
But what about Joe? What if he didn't make it? Clay had sounded desperately worried. She wanted to be with Clay, to pray with him and help him believe everything would work out. She pressed into the railing, urging the boat to move faster.
They needed to sit by Joe and coax him to hold on, because with God Almighty calling the shots, life—with all its painful turns and gut-wrenching losses—still had tremendous hope even in the simplicity of a sunrise.
Jamie had made the choice to choose life. Now, where Joe was concerned, she would pray for it.
The boat pulled up to the dock, and Jamie had a cab in record time. She was still praying for Joe when they arrived at the hospital and she paid the driver. Now that she'd come this far, she couldn't wait to find Clay, and she ran into the lobby and down the hall toward the emergency room.
Clay was the first person she saw.
He had his back to her, his arms crossed, head hung. He wore his uniform, and next to him sat two detectives, talking to a third uniformed officer with a notepad. Their conversation was hushed, relegated to the far corner of the waiting room.
Jamie made her way closer, and when she was halfway there, Clay turned. His eyes found hers, and her heart skipped. How could she have considered leaving this man, losing him, just because his brother was Eric Michaels? The entire situation seemed ludicrous now. After all, if Eric made her uncomfortable, she could keep her distance from him.