Brother Word (25 page)

My God—has she shot him?

He wanted to stop and turn around—but a quick glance at his watch showed that he had only ten minutes to e-mail his story, complete with corresponding picture, back to Ryman Wells. There was no time to go back and see what had happened. At his pickup truck now, he opened his backpack and booted up his laptop. Scrolling through the seventeen pictures stored in his digital camera, he finally settled on a close headshot of Chance in which Chance appeared to be directly staring into the camera.

Perfect . . . I’m gonna be the number one newspaper reporter in South Carolina . . .

He uploaded the file as an attachment to his eight-hundred-word follow-up story on the mystery healing man and clicked the send button.

LYNN HAD CRAWLED
BEHIND
the steering column for cover once she’d heard the gunshots, and now she slowly peered from around it, ready to bolt at the sign of more trouble. But Jucinda was nowhere to be seen.

Chance! Oh my God . . .

The images of the two bullets tearing into Chance’s flesh and how he’d toppled overboard would forever be burned in her mind.

“Lynn, you alright?” she heard Pop calling out behind her, but she ignored him as she scrambled to the spot where Chance had fallen overboard.

She had never been much of a swimmer; her mom had enrolled her in a swimming class when she was five, but Lynn had lasted all of a week there. Her greatest fear then and now was of being completely submerged. Her swim instructor had been patient with her, repeatedly assuring her that putting one’s head underwater was as natural as breathing. But Lynn had kicked, screamed, and practically
dared
someone to put her head under the water.

But this was not the time for fear. By her estimation, Chance had been underwater for at least thirty seconds—and he surely had been in no shape to hold his breath.

God has not given me a spirit of fear, but of love, power, and of a sound mind
, she thought, kicking off her shoes and stepping onto the boat’s railing. The blue water was tainted with streaks of red—Chance’s blood—and if she had needed any more motivation for diving in after him, that was it. After all, this was the man whose faith (coupled with hers) had touched heaven and opened her blinded eyes. She took a deep breath and dived into the warm water. It stung at her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to adjust to the murky darkness as she swam toward the bottom of the lake.

Chance, where are you? Lord Jesus, help me . . .

Frantically, she looked to her right and left, but saw nothing except inky blackness the farther down she traveled from the surface. She could not believe how . . . dark . . . everything seemed. Once she felt her feet touch the bottom, she tentatively took one weightless step, then another. After a few seconds, not only could she not see anything, but her lungs were beginning to burn. How far was it back to the surface? And more important, could she
make
it back to the surface?

Feeling like crying after being unable to find Chance, she began scissor-kicking her feet, pushing upward. After what seemed like forever, her head finally broke through.

“Lynn!” she heard Pop calling from the boat, about twenty feet to her right. “Lynn, are you alright? I’ve called for help—help is on the way!”

For a few seconds, Lynn treaded water with her legs, sucking in precious mouthfuls of air. Air had never . . .
tasted
so good in her life. She was glad that Pop had called for help, but with each passing second, Chance was down there . . . dying.

Oh, God . . . oh, Jesus . . . no!

She had to try one more time. She gave a thumbs-up sign to Pop and inhaled deeply. Then, pushing every childhood fear of being submerged underwater to the far corners of her brain, she went back under. This time, she adjusted quickly to the darkness as she swam downward. After she remembered where the boat had been docked, her orientation was much better now. She kicked her legs furiously and stroked with her arms, swimming faster now. Her heart leaped when she saw what looked like a white tennis shoe resting on the lake’s bottom.

That’s Chance’s shoe!

She swam over to see Chance’s body wedged in between two rocks, then wrapped her arms around his torso, attempting to wrest him out. But he was like a dead weight, and Lynn’s lungs were beginning to burn again.

No! God, help me!

Straining with every muscle in her body, she tugged on Chance’s upper body once more. His waist suddenly twisted, and he was soon free from the rocks.

Yes!

Lynn’s joy was short-lived, however. The exertion of freeing Chance from the rocks had sapped virtually all of her energy, causing her lungs to strain against her chest. She didn’t know if she had the strength to swim to the surface
herself
, much less carry the body of a man weighing roughly 180 pounds.

It’s not supposed to end like this
, she thought, feeling an overwhelming sense of despair. Had God not healed her blinded eyes to be a testimony to His power? Had He not spoken awesome prophecies into her spirit that should now go unfulfilled? And what about Chance Howard—a man in whom God had vested a healing gift the likes of which most Christians had never before witnessed? Was he supposed to die like this, too?

God, are we supposed to die here? Alone at the bottom of some lake? That can’t be . . . Your will . . .”

If there was an answer from God, Lynn was not in a position to hear it. Her lungs felt like they would collapse any second. Slumping forward, she rested her head on Chance’s chest, ready to let her spirit slip away to heaven.

Suddenly, she felt two arms powerfully encircle her and begin to lift her up.

Too little, too late
, she thought, just before everything went black.

Chapter Forty-four

T
HE FINAL REHEARSAL
for Faith Community’s fall choral concert was a rousing success for all those blessed to be in attendance. Choir representatives from churches throughout the area and from as far away as Charleston came to finalize color arrangements, discuss song selection changes, and deal with any last-minute glitches. The hired video production crew from Raleigh had also come down to coordinate lighting and camera placement and to work alongside the church’s audio technicians. The concert would be recorded live, in digital format, with the CD and DVD sets to be available just in time for the upcoming holiday season.

Arlene had walked through the entire program with Pastor Gentry, who was duly impressed with the scope of planning and preparation. He agreed this would be the finest fall concert yet.

“Sister Arlene, you simply amaze me,” Pastor Gentry now said as they sat in the sanctuary, listening to a guest soloist from Winston-Salem sing “Mercy Said No.” “Your anointing for directing is so strong, you could probably take four off-key cats sitting on a fence and form a first-rate quartet.”

Arlene laughed. “Is that a special request? Songs in the key of
meow
?”

Pastor Gentry laughed along with her. “The Bible
does
say, let everything that has breath praise the Lord, right? No, seriously, what you’ve done in the past few years with the choir has been nothing short of tremendous. God has always designed music to be an integral component of worship, and you’ve always embraced that revelation. That makes pastoring so much easier, let me tell you.”

“Thank you, Pastor. And it’s blessed me so much to be under leadership that doesn’t stifle the creative flow of the music ministry.”

“It’s a two-way street, isn’t it?”

“Amen to that!”

As the guest soloist finished her selection, Sister Margie hurriedly burst through the sanctuary’s side doors, making a beeline toward her pastor.

“Pastor Gentry,” she began, nearly out of breath. “Three of us—on the intercessory team—we’ve all just had the same vision.”

Pastor Gentry straightened up in the pew, sensing Sister Margie’s alarm. He’d long since learned to take the combined visions of his intercessory team seriously. Charged with praying for Faith Community’s members, they prayed six to eight hours a day and walked in a heightened level of sensitivity to the Holy Spirit.

“What is it, Sister Margie?”

“It’s Sister Lynn, and that man she went to Louisiana to meet. They’re in serious danger—right
now
. Oh, my sweet Jesus . . .”

Nothing more needed to be said. Pastor Gentry immediately grabbed the hands of both Sister Arlene and Sister Margie and began fervently praying in the Spirit.

JEANNETTE HARPER
LOVINGLY STARED
at the framed picture of Lynn, a picture taken when her daughter had graduated from Sumter High. She squirted some glass cleaner on the frame and gently wiped the glass surface with an old cloth until it sparkled in the afternoon light. Jeannette took great pride in cleaning her house, and what she loved most of all was cleaning the countless pictures that hung in every room.

“Pictures paint the story line of families,” she would always say to anyone who thought her numerous picture frames were cluttering the house. “And the story line of this family begins and ends with Lynn . . .”

Jeannette and Leonard had wanted more children—maybe four or five kids. But a medical condition had prevented Jeannette from having another child; the doctors thought it a miracle that she was even able to carry Lynn to term.

“Yes, you were . . . and you will
always
be a miracle,” Jeannette now said, setting the graduation picture back on the mantel and picking up the next one. “
My
miracle.” It was a candid shot of a much younger Lynn and Leonard, playing around at Myrtle Beach. Even though the picture had been taken more than twenty years earlier, Jeannette remembered it like it had been yesterday.

“No, Daddy!” Lynn had been screaming playfully, as Leonard swung her by her arms, around and around. Leonard had been getting closer to the ocean’s edge, and Lynn had been terrified of water.

“It’s alright, baby,” Leonard had reassured her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jeannette had snapped the picture just as Leonard had pulled Lynn closer to his chest—both of them laughing, wet, frolicking, and enjoying the special daddy-daughter bond they had always shared. Just above their shoulders, the purplish-red sun was peeking through gray-and-white clouds over the Atlantic Ocean. It was Jeannette’s favorite picture because it beautifully highlighted the two people she loved most. She smiled as she recalled again how afraid Lynn had been (and still was, to this day) of the water.

“No, Daddy! You’re getting too close to the water! Don’t let me go under!”

“Relax, Lynn, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Suddenly, the picture slipped from Jeannette’s hands and crashed against the mantel’s wooden surface, breaking the glass frame.

“Oh my God,” Jeannette breathed, but for the moment all thoughts about her favorite picture had ceased. A new fear gripped her heart—the kind of terror that could only be linked with a mother’s intuition. At that second, she
knew
that her child was in trouble—a mother’s worst nightmare.

“Oh, my . . .
God
!” she screamed. The same horrible feeling had terrorized her at the exact moment Lynn had gotten into that car accident.

“Jeannette?” Leonard hurried into the living room. “Are you alright? What happened?” He carefully steered her away from the broken glass around the fireplace, taking her over to the couch.

“It’s Lynn . . . I feel . . . I
know
. . . something’s wrong. She’s in danger.”

“Lynn? She’s in Louisiana, right? She went to meet that man who healed her eyes.”

Jeannette wriggled out of her husband’s arms and picked up the cordless phone lying on the coffee table. She dialed Lynn’s cell number, but the call went straight to voice mail.

“Her phone’s not on . . . I told her to keep it on! She doesn’t know anybody in Louisiana . . . anything can happen to her and we wouldn’t—”

“Jeannette, that’s enough now,” Leonard said soothingly, taking his wife into his arms once more. “Getting hysterical is not going to help matters right now. We should pray—God has always protected Lynn, even when . . . and
especially
when we couldn’t.”

“But she’s in trouble! I know—”

“Shh . . . Jeannette, come on, let’s pray.”

Jeannette nodded, convincing herself that Leonard was right.
“God, please help my baby . . .”

Chapter Forty-five

T
RAVIS HAD DRIVEN BACK
to his motel room in pursuit of some well-deserved rest. The reporter in him wanted to return to the lake to find out what had transpired after the gunshots, but after camping out all night outside Chance Howard’s home and then waiting all morning by the docks, his body was officially shutting down. Besides, he’d gotten what he came here for, so as far as he was concerned—
mission accomplished.

The cheap motel room he’d gotten was not much for looks, but that was the least of his concerns as he flung his bag to the floor, kicked off his shoes, and tumbled onto the bed. The second his head touched the pillow, he was out cold.

He dreamed that he was sitting at a desk in a sprawling high-rise corner office overlooking Manhattan. Atop the mahogany desk lay that day’s edition of the
New York Times
, with the right-corner headline displaying, “Travis Everett Captures Pulitzer Prize.”

Travis picked up the newspaper, leaned back in his seat, and scanned through the first few paragraphs. He was now a celebrated writer at the
New Yorker
magazine and he’d apparently just won the Pulitzer for writing an article documenting the rebuilding project for the Ground Zero memorial. The article hailed his piece as a “courageous effort to capture the patriotism, courage, and honor shown by the heroes of the 9/11 tragedy.” Travis was about to pat himself on the back when a stunning brunette appeared at his doorway. “Mr. Everett,” she began in a voice dripping with pure honey, “you have a call on line one.”