From the clinic, it took him ten minutes to get to Wal-Mart. Fortunately, they had not yet converted this Wal-Mart into a Super Wal-Mart, but it still took him another seven minutes to find the spray. Including the wait in line at the register, it took eight minutes to pay for the spray. When he finally got out of Wal-Mart, knowing he was pushing his luck, he jogged to the van. Once in the van, he tossed the Mace onto the passenger seat and headed back to the clinic. By the time he got back to the interstate, it was 11:40. He pushed hard on the accelerator and shifted gears with purpose as he sped down the interstate on-ramp, praying that his van wouldn’t break down under the strain.

  Take it easy, he told himself. You still got time. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for speeding. So he let up on the accelerator, confident he’d make it with time to spare. He motored down the busy not-yet-widened interstate and rounded the top of the hill just past West Town Mall.

  “What the . . . oh, come on! Not now!” he screamed and stomped on the brakes. The traffic slowed to a crawl and then to a dead halt.

  Jake swayed back and forth, craning his neck in a futile attempt to find the source of the delay. Brake lights blinked on and off like a string of Christmas lights fading into the summer haze, but he saw no cause for the delay.

  Just as he was about to lean on the horn, the brown Duster in front of him lurched forward. “Thank you,” he said, as a wave of relief washed over him . . . until the traffic stopped again. “Oh come on!” he yelled and slammed his palm against the horn.

  Jake looked at his watch—11:42. He waited. The traffic moved, then stopped. “Come on! Let’s move it! I can walk faster than this.”

  At 11:45, the traffic nudged forward again and then stopped. Jake frantically searched for a solution. He would have gone to the emergency lane, but too many people had the same idea. It was also clogged with stationary cars. He would have driven in the grass, but he was hopelessly pinned into the slow lane.

  For a languishing seven minutes, the infuriating pattern of stop-and-go dragged on, but at 11:52, the source of the traffic jam burned into his retinas. “I can’t believe this!” He pounded the steering wheel in denial. “Don’t you people have a life! Move it!”

  At 11:54, he leaned forward with his head pressing against the steering wheel, to the point of tears. Denial turned to acceptance. He should have stayed at the clinic and taken his chances without the Mace. He should have relied on God for help, not the Mace. He’d blown it again, and Matt would pay the price.

  A horn blaring from behind startled his attention back to the road. The cars were moving—slowly, but at least they were moving. Maybe, just maybe, he thought while inching forward, frowning at the reason Matt might be paralyzed again. To the left, flashing blue lights of squad cars surrounded an accident—in the opposite lane! The delay was caused by morbid curiosity as rubber-neckers slowed down to get a better look.

  “Thanks a lot, people!” Jake said and craned his neck for a better look.

  As soon as he passed the wreck, the traffic immediately sped to a normal stream. He stomped on the accelerator, shoving and yanking the gear shift toward its highest gear. He sped down the interstate as fast as the four-cylinder van would carry him, weaving in and out of lanes, dodging motorists. He reached Riverside Drive and sped up the off ramp. He veered into the right emergency lane, flying by stationary motorists, who patiently waited for the red light to turn green.

  When he reached Riverside Drive, he downshifted and skidded to a stop. He glanced at his watch. 11:57! Just three minutes—if the watch wasn’t slow. With the light still red, Jake saw a gap in the flow of traffic. He punched the clutch, shoved the stick into first, kicked the gas pedal, popped the clutch, and nearly tipped the van over when he rounded the curve. Riverside Drive had no emergency lane, so he passed cars in the turning lane, weaving back and forth, racing along the road that ran parallel to the French Broad River.

  He sped by the Welcome to Livingston University sign and plowed ahead into campus. Making sure he could turn into the library parking lot when he got there, he veered over to the right lane and approached the intersection of Clinch and Riverside. He was almost there. The light at the intersection turned yellow. He had to get across Clinch and into that parking lot. He had to beat that light!

  “Come on, come on, don’t stop!” he yelled at the Pinto ahead of him. “It’s still yellow. You can make it! NO!” The car stopped just as the light turned red. Jake slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop behind the Pinto as traffic clogged the way across Clinch. He looked right, down Clinch Avenue. Maybe a football field away, he could clearly see the protesters still marching. He still had time.

  He looked down at his watch—12:00! He looked back down to the clinic. Panic jabbed him hard when he saw Roland Denny walk down the steps of the clinic, turn right, and head toward the alley.

  “Come on, let’s go!” he screamed at the red light.

  It was no use. He was caught between the Pinto in front of his van and the campus cop with the flashing blue lights behind his van.

  “Oh, please, no!” Jake shrieked. He spotted none other than Wayne Brummitt in his rearview mirror, moseying toward the van with his thumb tucked under his gun belt.

  Frantic, Jake searched for a solution, but none came.

  Wayne yanked open the door of Jake’s van. “Well, well. What have we here? If it isn’t our little Christian soldier. Now step out of that vehicle!”

  “Look, Wayne, I don’t have time for this!”

  “The way you was drivin’, I can see that. Now I told you I’d run you in if I saw you on campus. You think if you drove fast enough you could sneak by me? Is that it? Now out of that vehicle!”

  Jake did as instructed. He vaulted out of the van, shoved Wayne backward, and dashed into the intersection, ignoring the flashing “no-walking” signal. In a series of stops and starts as horns blew, tires squealed, and Wayne hollered, Jake dodged cars and made it to the other side of Clinch, sprinting onto the library lawn.

  “Stop!” Wayne cried. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Jake glanced back to see Wayne running across the crosswalk with his gun drawn.

  Jake tore into the grass, scrambling toward the parking lot, hoping to find Roland still loading his gun and praying that Wayne wouldn’t shoot him in the back. Just then, Jake spotted a girl coming out the side exit of the library, the kind of exit that locked to the outside. Jake dove for the door and caught the handle just before it closed. He yanked the door open, jumped into the stairwell, and pulled the door shut behind him. He turned and stormed up the stairway, two steps at a time.

  Wayne pounded on the door. “Let me in! In the name of the law, let me in!”

  Jake reached the top of the first flight of stairs, jerked open the door, and sprinted across the study lounge, passing stunned faces of students on couches and cubicle desks. He rammed the study lounge door and burst into the main hallway, plowing straight into a man carrying a stack of books. Books fell in a quick series of thuds. “Hey! Are you crazy? Come back here,” the man hollered after Jake.

  “Sorry,” Jake yelled and darted down the hall. His Reeboks echoed in the wide, high-ceilinged main corridor as he raced toward the back exit. He charged past the book theft detector, knocked aside the swinging metal bar with his thigh, and hammered through the back door. He ran a few more steps, gripped a steel handrail, and used it and his momentum to hurl his body down a short flight of concrete steps.

  He hit the sidewalk running and sprinted out into the parking lot, eyes peeled for Roland Denny. He cut right and raced by rows of cars toward the alley between the clinic and the bookstore, hoping to cut off Roland’s path. Jake’s Reeboks made a succession of hard claps against the sidewalk when he ground to a halt just before the entrance to the alley. He bent over with his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He looked up and peered into the littered, brick-walled walkway.

  He spotted a figure idling down the alley. It was Roland! The silver glint of a revolver swung by his side. He was halfway to his target. Jake patted his pockets for the Mace. It was still in the van!

  “God, help me!” he prayed, then he tore into a full sprint down the alley. He sped past high, red brick walls, imagining Roland striving for the end zone to make the winning score for the opposing team. Closing fast, just yards away, Jake hunkered down, arms wide, eyes focused on the legs, ready for the game-saving tackle. Roland stopped and spun around. Jake saw the silver revolver streaking up as he dove for Roland’s waist.

  BANG!

  The gun exploded overhead just as Jake smashed into Roland’s waist, sending them both tumbling violently to the paved alley floor. Asphalt ground into Jake’s knuckles under the weight of both of their bodies as they skidded to a halt. Jake wrenched his hands from underneath his stunned, groaning adversary. He spotted the shiny revolver lying on the pavement next to a crushed Coke can. Jake shoved the heel of his palm into Roland’s chest, pushed himself to his feet, and scampered toward the gun. He snatched the gun up and pointed it at Roland, who was now climbing to his feet. “Stay . . . right there!” Jake shouted between gasps for air.

  “Freeze or I’ll shoot!” cried a voice from behind. “Drop the gun!”

  Jake slowly laid the gun on the ground, for once glad to hear Wayne’s voice. He raised his hands in the air and slowly turned to see Wayne pointing a gun with his quivering hand. It was perfect timing. Jake didn’t even have to call the police.

  In the background, a crowd of clinic protesters had gathered just a few yards away at the opening of the alley. And there was Matt—still walking. Jake had done it. Not only had he managed to save Matt from a life of paralysis, but he’d also saved injuries to three other fellow Christians. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain this to the cops, but Matt and the others were safe. That’s all that mattered.

  “Up against the wall,” Wayne yelled and shoved Jake into the bricks. With his cheek pressed against the cold, rough brick, he could see Roland Denny scratching his head, wearing a perplexed grin.

  “Take it easy,” Jake said. “I can explain.”

  “Roland, are you okay?” Wayne asked. “I heard the shot. Came as fast as I could. I swear, kid, if I’d a known you was packin’ a gun, I’d of shot you in the back. Good job, Roland. You could of gotten yourself killed, but good job. Are you sure you’re okay?” Wayne wrenched Jake’s arm around and handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

  “Whoa! Hold on a second,” Jake said. “You got it all wrong.”

  Roland dusted his clothes off and responded. “Y-y-yeah, Wayne, I think so. Little shook up. I was uh . . . just on my lunch break when I seen this guy comin’ down the alley with a gun. Like you said, he tried to shoot me. Said he’s going to shoot up the clinic. I told you those fanatics are crazy.”

  “WHAT!? No, he’s lying!” Jake cried. “It was him! He was going to kill the protesters!”

  “Shut up, kid. Tell it to the judge,” Wayne said. Then he said to Roland, “I’d say this makes you a hero. Way to go, cousin.”

  Chapter 26

  “Attempted murder? This is a joke, right?”

  Weary from three nights of insomnia, Jake’s fatigue-fogged brain could hardly believe what was happening. He found himself sitting at a table in a sound-proofed room, staring at this absurd confession statement before him. Detective Pete Cunningham sat in a chair across from Jake. The blond Dudley Do-Right officer who had carted Jake to Lakeside the day before and to jail this time was pacing the floor behind Detective Cunningham. Jake figured they were putting on the good cop-bad cop routine. But once they put it together, he should be out of there by dinnertime. No need to bother Dad’s lawyer friend, Hank. After all, he was no criminal. He was a hero.

  Detective Cunningham leaned forward. “This is no joke, kid. You’re in it deep. But if you’ll just sign that, we’ll go easy on you.”

  Jake slid the confession statement away from him. “Look, officer, I’m not going to sign that. I’m not going to lie just to get a lighter sentence when I don’t deserve a sentence at all. Now all you’ve got to do is see who that gun is registered to, then you’ll see I’m telling the truth.” Jake grinned and looked at his wrist, forgetting that they had taken his watch as well as his other valuables for the second time in two days. At least they let him keep his shoelaces.

  Dudley walked over and put his hands on the tabletop, leaning on them. “That gun was stolen five years ago. We figure you bought it on the street.”

  On second thought, calling Hank might not be a bad idea—but not yet. Jake still had a little ammo for his defense. “What about the prints? Aren’t Roland’s prints on the gun?”

  Detective Cunningham smirked, lifting the corner of his brown mustache-topped upper lip. “Considering that Mr. Denny claims to have struggled with you over the gun, it wouldn’t surprise us to find a couple of his prints on it. But still, you were the one found holding the gun, pointing it at Mr. Denny. Even if what you say is true, your own hand would of messed up most of his prints anyway.”

  Jake leaned forward and rubbed the sweat-slick temples of his head. Okay, Jake. Think. Think of something.

  Then it hit him. Powder burns. He’d watched enough TV to know that you couldn’t shoot a gun without leaving powder burns on your hands. “Powder burns,” he blurted. “If Roland says I tried to shoot him, then check my hands for powder burns. Then you’ll see I didn’t shoot the gun.”

  Detective Cunningham sat back, stroking his brown mustache, drilling Jake with unrelenting eye contact. “That’s good. You been watchin’ “Murder She Wrote,” I see. But according to Mr. Denny’s testimony, he knocked the gun out of your hand. He says the gun went off when it hit the ground, and there’s scratches on the gun to confirm his statement.”

  “That’s because when I tackled him, he dropped the gun,” Jake said. “I told you that already.”

  “Look, you might as well confess, and we’ll go light on you. We know what you were planning. You were going to go in that clinic and blow everyone away, weren’t you? If Mr. Denny hadn’t of wrestled with you, you’d have pulled it off too.”

  “No, it was Roland. He was the one going postal. I was just trying to stop him.”

  Detective Cunningham gave Jake a questioning look. “Postal?”

  “Yeah, you know. Disgruntled workers going nuts and shooting everybody,” Jake explained. Then he realized his mouth had done it again. Postal was a term coined in the ’90’s.

  Detective Cunningham sat up in his chair and frowned. “I don’t like what you’re implying. My father was a postal worker for 30 years, the kindest man you’ll ever meet.”

  “Sorry. I’m sure he is. It’s just . . . just watch the news. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Dudley walked up to the table shaking his head in disgust. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being on the news. Thinking you were a hero. Sacrificing yourself in the name of God for the whole world to see. Is that what you thought you were doing? But whoever heard of murder in the name of Jesus? I’m a Christian, and I don’t agree with abortion either, but killing is not the Christian way, under any circumstances.”

  “I wasn’t going to shoot anybody,” Jake pleaded. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  Mmm, mmm, mm,” Dudley said. “And so young too.”

  “You think I’m young,” he murmured, remembering Columbine High School.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Detective Cunningham leaned forward, no doubt thinking Jake was about to confess.

  “Just consider home-schooling your kids,” Jake said. It was hard enough keeping his mouth shut when he was alert. He was just too tired to think clearly. If he could just take a nap, just a couple of hours. Then maybe he could reason with these guys.

  Detective Cunningham leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “You know, you got a lot of weird in you, kid. Acting like you know the future. Well, how do you know all this?”

  Jake crimped his lips and pleaded the Fifth. He’d already done enough damage.

  “And you say Mr. Denny was going to shoot the protesters.” Detective Cunningham unlaced his hands, sprang forward, and jabbed an accusing finger at Jake. “Then how did you know what he was planning? You think you’re some kind of prophet or something?”

  Jake closed his eyes, forcing his weary brain to think of a loophole, some way he could tell the truth—without telling the truth—some way he could explain without ending up back at Lakeside.

  Detective Cunningham pushed the confession statement back in front of Jake and placed a pen on top of it. “You might as well stop racking your brain and confess. There’s no way you’ll get out of this. I mean, in just one day, here’s what we got on you so far. Besides Mr. Denny’s testimony—”

  “But Roland’s nuts,” Jake said. “Check him out. He’s got mental problems.”

  “We know about Mr. Denny’s condition, but he’s on medication. He has no criminal record and no history of violence. You, on the other hand, besides Mr. Denny’s testimony, here’s what else we got on you. One,” Detective Cunningham bent back an index finger, keeping a tally, “we know you’re involved with those protesters. Two,” he pushed back his middle finger, “after the fight you got in yesterday, we know you got a violent personality. Three,” his ring finger went back, “you were stopped by campus police and fled directly to the clinic. Why did you flee? Why would you flee unless you were carrying a gun and didn’t want your plan foiled? Not to mention the fact that the campus cop found you with the gun in your hand, pointed at Mr. Denny.”

  “That was after I knocked him down and took the gun from him!”

 

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