Point of No Return (35 page)

The man suddenly jerked toward the stage as if someone had punched him from the side. He reached his hands out wildly, then fell to his knees. Spinning out of control, he grabbed the edge of the stage with a grimy hand for only a second before collapsing to the floor.

CHAPTER THREE

W
HIT RODE WITH THE
unconscious stranger in the back of the ambulance to the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses met the gurney as it was brought into the ward. Whit started to follow as they wheeled it past a curtained area, but a doctor stopped him.

“Please wait out here,” he said, pulling the curtains together.

Dazed by everything that had happened, Whit slowly paced back and forth in the lounge of the emergency area.

“I need some information about the patient,” a nurse with a clipboard told him. “Name?”

“I don't know,” Whit said.

“Do you know
anything
about him?”

Whit shook his head. “Not really. He's a stranger. He collapsed in my shop.”

“Then he isn't insured, is he?” the nurse asked.

“If you're worried about who'll pay,” Whit replied, “I'll take care of everything. Just help him, all right?”

The nurse handed Whit the clipboard. “Then I'll need you to fill this out and sign at the bottom.”

Whit mechanically obeyed. Even as his fingers moved the pen through the little boxes asking for his name, address, and financial information, his mind raced with everything the stranger had said earlier.
Do I know what Jesus meant?
he asked himself again and again.
What does it really mean to follow Him? What does it mean to walk in His steps?

The hands of the clock above the nurses' station moved indifferently past the hour—then past another hour. Whit sat staring at the torn black leather on the waiting lounge sofa. The television was on but the sound was off. Whit didn't pay attention to the fast-cutting images that flickered and flashed on the screen.
Does following Jesus mean just trying to be good, or does it mean something more? What does it mean to walk in His steps?

“Well, Whit?”

Before he looked up, Whit knew the voice. It was Captain Wilkins from the Odyssey police.

“Hi, Joe,” Whit said.

Captain Wilkins sat down on a small chair nearby. He was dressed in casual clothes, as if he'd been called from an evening at home. His jacket was partially zipped up over a flannel shirt.

“Is it cold outside?” Whit asked. He had forgotten to bring his own coat.

“A typical fall night. Crisp,” the captain replied. “Tom told me what happened at Whit's End. I guess some of the kids and parents are still shook up. What can you tell me about the stranger?”

Whit sighed. “Not much. He said he was an unemployed printer from Connellsville. His wife died a few months ago in a tenement owned by a Christian. He has a daughter, but didn't say where she was. That's all.”

“It's a start,” Wilkins said. “He didn't have a wallet or any identification. I can check with the printers' union, though. And the Connellsville police may be able to help me with tracking down information about the dead wife.”

Whit glanced at the captain. His words sounded so cold and clinical, as if the stranger was an abandoned car instead of a human being.

The captain leaned toward Whit. “They told me you're going to take care of his bills. Why? You've never seen him before today, right?”

“He came to my door this afternoon and the shop tonight.”

“You don't have to feel obligated, Whit,” Captain Wilkins said. “He's not your responsibility.”

“Isn't he?” Whit asked.

Dr. Morton appeared in the doorway to the waiting lounge. Her white coat was rumpled and her hands were shoved deep in its pockets. She looked tired. “Whit?”

Whit looked up at her.

“Your friend has a damaged heart,” she said. “There isn't much we can do. Right now he's in a coma.”

The doctors moved the stranger to the intensive care ward. Since no one had been able to find any information about the next of kin, Dr. Morton gave permission for Whit to sit with him. Apart from a patient across the floor, all the other beds were empty. The stranger was attached to all kinds of tubes and equipment. A heart monitor blipped a green line on a black screen. Its effect on Whit was hypnotic. Up and down, up and down the line went.

It was close to ten o'clock when one of the nurses signaled Whit to come out in the hall. Tom Riley was waiting for him, clutching a coat in his hands.

“How's our mystery man?” Tom asked.

“In a coma,” Whit answered, then moved to the vending machine to get a cup of coffee. He slid the coins into the slot and watched as the cup dropped and slowly filled with the dark brown liquid. “He has a bad heart.”

Tom shook his head. “That's too bad. Are you planning to spend the night here?”

“I think I should. Don't you?”

Tom shrugged. “I can stay with him for a while if you get tired.”

“Thanks.”

The two men looked at each other with a deep understanding. They were both affected by the stranger and all he had said. His words hadn't been idle or the ramblings of a lunatic. He had spoken calmly and asked them a simple question that cut to the very heart of their Christianity. The Bible spoke of entertaining angels unaware. Whit and Tom took the notion seriously. And even if the stranger wasn't an angel, his words seemed to come from heavenly places.

“We canceled the contest,” Tom said. “I used the rest of the time talking to the kids and their parents. Some of them were pretty upset. I guess we were all just trying to figure out what to make of what he said.”

“Did any of you come to a conclusion?” Whit picked up the cup of coffee and blew the steam across the top.

“No. There wasn't much to say—everyone felt bad—we all wished we had done more to help him.” Tom shuffled uneasily. “I think most of us got to wondering about his question. You know, what does it mean to follow Jesus?”

“Me, too.”

They stood in silence again. The hospital hallway was empty.

“Let's pray, Tom.”

Tom agreed and the two men bowed their heads then and there. They didn't say much out loud, except to ask God to heal the stranger and to help them understand the meaning behind the evening's events.

When they finished, Tom held up the coat in his hand. It was plain brown, torn, and grease-smeared. “I found this in the back of the auditorium. I think it's his.”

Whit took it. “Thanks for everything, Tom.”

“Oh, and I brought your car. Third row back from the front entrance.” Tom handed him the extra set of keys Whit kept at the shop for emergencies. “I'll get a lift back from Donnie Armstrong. He's an orderly downstairs. His shift is about to end. Good kid. Used to be in my Sunday school class.”

Whit nodded. He remembered Donnie.

“You call me if you want me to come back. I mean it. I'll stay.”

“I will.” Whit watched his friend walk down the hallway with a renewed feeling of gratitude.

Back in the intensive care unit, the stranger remained unconscious. Whit sat down with his coffee and realized that the stranger's coat might have some identification in the pockets. He checked the outside ones first, discovering only a fragment of an old sandwich and some plastic-wrapped saltine crackers. His fingers felt the inside breast pocket and made contact with a small paper bag that had been carefully folded down to a rectangle. Whit opened the bag: It held three letters. Each one was addressed to Raymond Clark. In the upper left-hand corner, above an address in Columbus, Ohio, was the name of Christine Holt.

Whit slipped out of the room to phone Captain Wilkins.

“Raymond Clark of Connellsville,” Captain Wilkins confirmed an hour later over the phone. “His wife's name was Mary. Christine Holt is his daughter. Holt is her married name. We've been trying to reach her in Columbus, but haven't had much success. I think the Columbus police are going to send someone around to the address you gave me. I'll let you know if we learn any more.”

“Joe,” Whit said slowly, his speech a little slurred from his weariness, “if it's a matter of money…I mean, if his daughter needs help to get here…leave it to me.”

“If you say so,” Captain Wilkins said. They hung up. Whit was aware of a surge of activity down the hall—in the intensive care unit— and felt a sick feeling go through his stomach. He walked quickly and then found himself running back to Raymond Clark's bed. Two nurses were at its side, adjusting equipment and checking his vital signs.

“Promise me…” Raymond Clark was saying when Whit arrived.

“He's talking?” Whit asked, surprised.

“Stay back, Mr. Whittaker,” one of the nurses said.

“Promise me,” Raymond Clark said again. His voice was a harsh whisper.

Whit got as close to the bed as he could without getting in the nurses' way.

“Promise you what?” Whit asked gently. “Mr. Clark?”

Raymond Clark turned his head slightly. His eyes were red and wet, but he fixed them on Whit. “You're a kind man. My daughter. Promise me you'll tell her where I am.”

“I promise,” Whit said. “In fact, we found her letters in your coat pocket. We're going to bring her to see you as fast as we can.”

“She won't…” his voice trailed off to a mumble, then returned with, “…in time. I know. I'm not afraid. Do you see Him? Jesus is…” his voice trailed off again.

Raymond Clark slowly closed his eyes. The green line on the heart monitor machine stopped bouncing and went flat across the screen. The room was filled with the sound of a solitary, unending beep.

The nurses and doctors were powerless to save his life.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Dr. Morton advised Whit later in the waiting lounge. “There's nothing you can do.”

Whit rubbed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep and the tears that wouldn't fall.
Nothing you can do
, Whit thought again and again as he drove home. In a few hours another Sunday morning would arrive in Odyssey. People would get up and go to church like they always did, unaware—or uncaring—about the Raymond Clarks in the world who had slept hungry the night before…or died.

Nothing you can do
, Dr. Morton had said.

Whit brought his car to a halt in his driveway and leaned against the steering wheel.

Well
, he thought,
we'll just see about that….

CHAPTER FOUR

L
UCY WALKED INTO THE
sanctuary of Odyssey Community Church and scanned the half-filled pews. It was still early. Most of the congregation hadn't wandered in from their various Sunday school classes. Lucy clutched her Bible and noticed smudges of white powder on the cover. She smiled to herself. It was baby powder from changing David Kemper's diapers in the nursery.

Karen Crosby waved from her normal spot on the pew on the side of the church. She was sitting with Jack, Matt, and Oscar—
The Three Musketeers
, Lucy called them, because they'd been together so much lately. Lucy strolled over and slid in next to the gang.