The Lights of Tenth Street (58 page)

Dazed, Marco looked down at himself. He was clothed in purest white, unfamiliar tears streaming down his face.

Marco looked up to see an ageless figure coming toward him, tender hands outstretched, eyes dancing with delight. Delight … for him. Eyes overflowing, he ran forward, stumbling, falling to his knees in the embrace of his unexpected Savior, basking in a love he’d never suspected, never known. Basking in the reality of the terrible price this One had paid, that he might be here, all undeserved.

C
ars were bunched in chaotic clusters around the accident, stopped where their occupants had swerved to avoid the disaster in progress or the traffic jam in front. People emerged from their cars, screaming in shock at the explosion, the fire, their own narrow escapes. Several hardy souls tried to venture toward the sports car, only to be driven back by the searing heat.

Two men watched with satisfaction as the flames began to subside, emergency vehicles arriving at the scene, lights whirling, sirens blaring.

The two men got back in their car and headed down the clogged shoulder toward a nearby exit. It had been fun, but they had the rest of their assignment to complete.

The man in the passenger seat pulled out a map and an address, working out the quickest way to the girls apartment complex. He stared at a picture of the target and whistled, his eyes gleaming. He showed the picture to the driver, who glanced at it and made an obscene comment. Too bad they were under such urgent timing constraints or they would have been tempted to take their time.

Tiffany kissed Wade good-night in the parking lot, acting disappointed that they couldn’t be together that night.

“Sorry, Sasha, but I’ve got a really early meeting tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe they asked you to work on New Year’s Eve. Slave drivers.”

“It’s because it’s New Year’s Eve that we have such an early meeting. Everyone wants to knock off early.” He pressed her into him. “Hmm. You could almost convince me to change my mind.”

“Oh, baby. No, you go home.” She pushed herself away. “I should be going anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Wade reached for her and accepted another kiss before she shooed him away.

“Go on, now.”

Tiffany watched him drive away.
Phew
. The man was a machine. She was glad for a night to herself. Not that it wasn’t worth it, she thought, climbing into her brand-new little BMW.

She pointed the car toward home and turned on the state-of-the-art stereo, bouncing along to the radio, enjoying the cheery holiday season, not a care in the world.

“Check her computer!” The large man wearing a black leather jacket stood square in the middle of the frilly apartment. He scowled as his colleague went to turn on the girls computer. “Hurry it up! The others should be getting to the club any minute.”

“Well, get a move on, then! Check their CDs!”

The leather-jacketed man pulled boxed CDs off a rack by the stereo, opening each one to see if any had the word DEMO across the front of the disc. Nothing. He pulled books off of shelves, tore through neatly stacked files, ripped pictures off of walls, looking in every conceivable nook a disc could be hidden in.

Tiffany saw the neon lights of The Challenger in the distance. On impulse, she slowed and took the exit, then slipped in the rear door of the club and saw Maris hovering near Marco’s office.

“Hey, Maris. He in?”

“He had to run to a meeting. Should be back soon.”

“Do you know if he made out payroll yet?”

“Don’t think so, dearie.”

Tiffany shrugged and started to turn away. “Oh well, I’ll try to come by tomorr—”

“Maris! Maris!”

Both women turned to see the young front-desk hostess running toward them, her face ashen. “The police are on the phone! Something—something about Marco!”

Maris was at the hallway phone in three strides. “Which line?”

“Line—” the girl was out of breath, struggling to remember. “Line two.”

Maris punched the button. “Hello? Yes, I’m standing in for Marco—” Her eyes widened with shock as she listened.

The young hostess pulled on Tiffany’s sleeve. “They said—they said there’d been a fatal accident!”

A crowd was beginning to gather in the hallway around the phone, the word spreading like wildfire.

Maris was still on the phone, scribbling notes on her order pad, the pen shaking
in her hands. “Yes, sir, I’m still here. Yes, sir. How soon will they be here? I understand.”

She put down the phone and looked at the growing crowd. “The police say—” she took a breath, trying to hold it together, “the police said there was a terrible accident on the highway tonight … and Marco was killed.”

Cries of shock … grief … consternation. Several of the dancers began sobbing. Tiffany felt herself starting to lose it, clutching the girl beside her.

Maris raised her voice. “The police will be here within thirty minutes. They say no one is to leave.”

“Why?” Nick was standing at the back of the crowd, a martini tumbler still in one hand. “Why the police?”

“I don’t know. But no one leave, will you?” Maris looked at Nick and one of the bouncers, talking fast. “Would you go ask the DJ to make an announcement? And would you keep any patrons from leaving? It shouldn’t take long.”

She looked around at the others. “Everyone go back to your posts, if you can, or stay in the break room.”

The crowd began to break up. Maris caught Tiffany’s eye and pulled her aside, her face tight, her manner hurried. “Can you go tell the other staff—the cooks, the other dancers, the waitresses—what’s happened? Make sure no one leaves?”

Tiffany could only nod her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. She set off for the kitchen, pulling out her cell phone with shaking hands, starting to gasp with great sobs. She had to find Ronnie. Ronnie had to come.

The second man emerged from Tiffany’s bedroom, having thoroughly searched both the computer for the file and the room for the disc. He shook his head, and both men made quick work of the second bedroom. Nothing. It wasn’t here.

And now they had a second girl to worry about.

The first searcher made a quick call on his cell phone and received authorization to abandon the search there and head to the club; their colleagues might already be there. They had to beat the cops there and find the girls at all costs. Neither must be allowed to escape.

Ronnie waved good-night to the Turners and Woodwards standing in the doorway and headed home. How strange but how nice that these two respectable couples would care about her. And how much pain she could have spared herself by returning the Woodwards’ calls months ago.

The offer of a “safe haven” had again been made and again politely declined, just as she had also steered away from the delicate subject of her job. Her hosts had seemed to accept the redirection, even though Sherry had said—only half-jokingly—that she was a persistent sort and wouldn’t keep letting Ronnie off the hook that easily.

Ronnie was surprised that she didn’t mind the questions, didn’t mind the obvious desire of these people to draw her away from her life at the club, to educate her about their faith. They were naive but sincere. In her life, she was used to the opposite.

She pulled onto the highway, ambivalent about taking the night off. Tiffany had probably made a boatload of money without her there to siphon off the best tips. Maybe she should go in, after all. It was only nine-thirty or so, plenty of time to still rake in some cash.

As she drove through the security gates of the apartment complex, her cell phone rang. She held it awkwardly against her shoulder as she pulled into a parking space.

“Hello?”

“Ronnie! Ronnie, O God, Ronnie!”

“Tiff! What’s wrong?”

“Marco’s dead! The police just called the club. Some kind of accident! Oh, Ronnie, can you come here? You’ve got to come!”

Ronnie felt herself backing out of the parking space and retracing her path out of the complex, hardly aware of what she was doing.

“Are you sure?” Ronnie pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, feeling the floodgates pressing against her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not sure! Are the police
sure
it was Marco? What was he doing away from the club?”

“Maris said he had to run to a last-minute meeting.” Tiffany was crying now, her voice distorted. “Please come, Ronnie. I’ve got to make a couple more calls.”

“I’m coming.”

Ronnie hung up the phone, feeling great tears leaking down her cheeks. She remembered Marco’s face, just a few nights ago in that church parking lot, the unaccustomed vulnerability, the few moments of softness. Then the gates had come down again with a clang. But she had seen him as he really was, inside, beyond the bluster and the cold business dealings. Behind the hardened man who hadn’t protected her, had abandoned her on the train platform that night. She grieved for him, for the man he was and the man he never got to be.

Is that where I’m headed?
Ronnie felt the question rise up in her spirit.
To where I can suppress who I really am, become scarred by what I’ve chosen to do? Is that the end result?

She sped toward the club, wiping tears from her eyes, her mind in turmoil.

A shining team went with her, surrounding her, their faces fierce, their orders clear.

The saints were still praying, her mother and friends still on their knees for the young woman, though they did not know why.

Loriel led the way, his thoughts racing with the plan now in motion. The timing was going to be tight, and it would all depend on the next few minutes.

He looked down at the girl in the car, leaking fresh tears every few minutes, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. A shining being was in the car with her, speaking to her, trying to get through to her softened heart.

Loriel laid his plea before the throne of grace. This little one would be the key; the saints would be the key. But her life would be in mortal danger, might—in the end—be required of her. The night could end in great triumph or tragedy … or both. The Spirit had not revealed what was to come; only what the battle would be. The heart-searching by this little lost lamb, the intervention of the saints of God, might in the end save a nation, but they could not—in themselves—save a soul.

The Lord desperately desired her love, her submission … her surrender. But in the end, it would be her choice. With these wayward children, Loriel had seen even those with soft hearts be unwilling to lay down their will before the Way, the Truth, and the Life, unwilling to accept their need for forgiveness, unwilling to give up their independence. He had wept as they had chosen to descend, with pride intact, into eternal darkness.

Loriel desperately prayed that in all the coming battle, in all the conflict for so many lives, that the conflict for this one beloved soul would not be lost.

A thought struck him and he straightened, giving thanks for the inspiration as he called over another cadre of angels. They listened a moment then sped away, flying low, attracting no attention, heading back the way the little lamb had just come.

“So what did you think?”

Doug and Vance were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

“It’s hard to know,” Doug said. “She seems like a nice girl—very normal. You’d never know she was a stripper.”

“Yeah.” Vance gave a barking laugh. “That absolutely floored me. But it explained—partly anyway—why I had such a burden to pray for her, to reach out to her at school. It was the Lord, trying to get through.”

The two men continued their task in silence. Doug found himself moving more and more slowly as they neared the final dishes. There seemed to be a weight on
him, a growing concern, an urgent call forming in his mind.

Vance, too, stopped slotting plates into the dishwasher. It was almost as if he was listening to something.

The urgency blossomed and grew in Doug’s mind until it was like a shout. He looked over at his friend. Vance, his eyes wide, stared back at him.

The men closed the dishwasher and headed into the living room.

They were met at the doorway by their wives, the same urgency in their eyes.

“What’s going on?” Sherry finally blurted out.

Doug took her hand and led her back into the living room. Vance and Jo followed, and the four saints fell to their knees on the soft carpet. And suddenly, the words began pouring out … prayers for Ronnie. Prayers for protection, for salvation, for God’s purposes to be accomplished. All four were gripped by something they did not understand, beseeching—for the second time that night—the throne of grace on behalf of one little lost lamb.

It was growing late … they had to get the kids to bed … they had things to do. But suddenly nothing was more urgent than hearing the voice of their Lord and praying with His heart.

M
aris let herself into the locked office, almost shaking with haste, and ran to Marco’s computer. She pulled out her Palm Pilot and laid it on the desk by the computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard.