Last Light (47 page)

Only then did Doug check Vic’s bleeding hand. His bullet had shot right through it, shattering bones and nerve endings, leaving it maimed.

Despite his hatred for the man, the agony was hard to watch. He dug through Vic’s duffel bag and found a shirt, which he used to wrap the wound. Then he went through the rest of the boxes, purging the wagon of all of the pornography, making more room for Vic to lie in the back. He tossed the filth into the fire, and watched the flames consume it, then he smothered out the flames.

Vic lay in a fetal position in the back of the wagon. Doug covered him with his sleeping bag, so no one would see him. If he could find a town that had police still working, and an active jail, he would take him there. But first, he had to find Deni.

The wagon would slow him down, and he couldn’t waste time. He thought of tying Vic to a tree with a note that he was a killer. He could tell whoever found him about the murdered couple at the farmhouse, and point them to the evidence on his wagon. Warn the finder to turn him over to police.

But what if the person just robbed the wagon, taking the evidence? Weren’t the chickens and food, and even the horses and wagon, coveted items? Why would any desperate soul pass up such provisions for the sake of justice?

And what if Vic managed to get free, or convinced someone to untie him? He might come after Doug and his family to shut them up. That would be his only hope for ever going home. After all, he wasn’t aware that anyone back home knew he was the killer.

No, Doug couldn’t take that chance. He would have to take Vic with him, and hand him over to the police himself.

He looked back at the bulky wagon. Wouldn’t police be looking for it? Someone
must
have seen it at the farmhouse. There was no way he could chase after Deni in it, without drawing more trouble.

He sat in one of the captain’s chairs, trying to think it through.
Lord
,
tell me what to do.

He prayed for wisdom, guidance, forgiveness for his hatred . . . and slowly, the fog of his uncertainty lifted.

He would have to take Vic back to Atlanta and turn him over to police there. Then he could go after Deni.

The thought sickened him. Deni would get farther and farther away.

But at least Vic wouldn’t be on her trail.

As Vic fought and squirmed in his bonds, Doug knew he’d chosen the right course.

He would turn around and go west, back to Atlanta.

God would help him make up time later.

He loaded his bike into the wagon next to Vic, then hooked the horses back up. As daylight dawned, he pulled out of the rest stop onto I-20, and headed back to Atlanta.

sixty-four

Deni followed the route back to I-20 and decided to chance returning home on the highway. Vic would expect her to go east, so he was probably searching the roads to D.C. Her skin felt tight and burned, and her lips peeled and cracked. If only she had a hat to shield her face from the ravages of the sun. She wished she hadn’t left her sunglasses back at the Joneses’ house.

Despair rode with her like a hostile passenger as her throat burned from thirst. Where would she sleep tonight? What would she eat?

The water jug the man had given her yesterday was almost empty, but she hadn’t found a place to fill it up all morning. The sun was directly overhead when she huffed over a hill, beating down on her with relentless heat, sucking the energy from her bones. Tears rolled down her face as she pushed uphill.

When she reached the top, she knew she couldn’t go on. She made it into the shade of a grove of trees, got off her bike, and laid it down beside her. Collapsing on the grass, she set her elbows on her knees and wept.

How had she come to this? Classy, sophisticated Deni Branning, who hadn’t bathed in days, who wore a base coat of dirt on her face. Intellectual Deni, the college grad with a job to die for, who didn’t have two pennies to rub together or even a safe place to sleep. Christian Deni, who had run off with a killer and pornographer, and was probably wanted for murder.

She was such a failure.

God must hate her. She didn’t blame Him at all. She’d had such promise, but she’d turned into a loser. An embarrassment to everyone who knew her.

As she sat there crying, her sins paraded through her mind, mocking her, laughing at her.

You know everything, don’t you, Deni?

Struck out on your own. Marched to your own drummer.

Oh yeah, Miss Independence, who left your family to grieve. Who’s crying now?

She thought of her sins in college—all the things her parents would be appalled to know about. She’d been above obedience to God, too wrapped up in self-indulgence to deprive herself of anything she wanted. She had lied to her parents, and manipulated them. All the while, she thought no one would ever find her out. Her sins were secret.

But not from God.

And now they had brought her to this, wallowing in shame. Wasn’t there a point at which He turned you over to your own devices? Let you launch away from Him to wallow in your own slop?

She’d called out to Him at crisis moments, begging for His help. But the second He got her out of her jams, she’d taken the reins back. And run her life right off a cliff.

Would He even listen to her prayers now?

God, don’t turn Your back on me. I need You. Please help me. I’ve been such a fool.

She thought of Jesus, who’d died on the cross to pay for
her
foolishness. Look what she had given Him in return. It was as though she had kicked dirt in His bloody face, thumbing her nose at His tears. She was among the soldiers at the foot of the cross, gambling for His robe. She was the one who hammered the nails into His wrists. She was the one who stabbed the spear into His side.

How could He ever forgive her?

Some of Jesus’ final words came back to her.
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Were those words meant for her?

She took in a deep breath, and felt His answer.

Of course they’re for you.

She wept harder as she felt His forgiveness, His redemption, His salvation.

And then she heard a sound, picking up on the breeze . . .

“Come thou fount of every blessing . . .”

Voices, lifted to the Lord. She wiped her face and got up, walked to the middle of the street.

The voices grew stronger.

A little white church stood not a hundred feet away, just on the other side of the trees. Deni’s heart swelled with longing for the familiarity of church. She got her bike and rode to the door.

Through the window, she saw there were a couple dozen people inside. It wasn’t Sunday, so she assumed this was their midweek service, held at noon since few were working, anyway.

The air was cooler in the shade of the pine trees, and the sound of singing soothed her soul. She wanted to go inside . . . rest for a moment with people who weren’t a threat . . . bask in the comfort and protection of her Savior.

She got off her bike and walked it beside her, and stepped closer to the door.

“Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it . . .”

Tears came to her eyes. She wanted to go in, but she didn’t know what to do with her bike. She couldn’t take the chance of anybody stealing it. It was all she had.

“Can I help you?”

She swung around at the sound of a woman’s voice, and saw a girl who looked about her own age walking hand in hand with a young man.

“Uh, yes. I was traveling through and heard the singing.”

The girl had big blue eyes and curly red hair, and freckles the size of raindrops all over her face. She looked kind. The man was a muscular brunette, dressed in a pair of jogging shorts and ratty T-shirt with John 3:16 on it. “It does sound nice, don’t it?” he said. “Come on in with us.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to leave my bike.”

The song kept going as the girl reached out her hand. “I’m Rita, and this is my husband, Bobby.”

Deni shook their hands. “I’m Deni Branning. I’m trying to get to I-20, so I can get back to Birmingham.”

“Take a break and come on in,” Rita said. “Bring the bike with you. Nobody will care.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Things ain’t like they used to be. We all understand the need to hang on to our bikes. Just roll it over against the wall and slip in at the end of the aisle.” She peered through the door. “Back row looks like it’s empty. Won’t be a problem at all. You can be our guest.”

Grateful, Deni followed them in and rolled her bike to the wall, then slipped into the end of the row where she could keep her hand on it.

She looked up at the worship leader. He was smiling at her as he strummed his guitar.

“Looks like we have a visitor,” he said.

The music stopped and everyone turned around to look at her. She smiled and waved.

“We’re so glad to have you. Are you from around here?”

She touched her hair, wondering how bad she looked, but she gave them her name and told them where she was headed.

They all welcomed her. When they’d all taken their seats again, the preacher read to them from 1 John 2:15–17. “ ‘Do not love the world, nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. And the world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God abides forever.’ ”

She swallowed the sorrow in her throat. Boastful pride . . . that was her downfall. It was her driving force . . . her false god. She’d been so sure she could call her own shots, do things on her own terms. Her pride had brought her so low that she’d long ago crashed through the floor.

But God had forgiven her.

She melted in tears at His goodness. Basking in the comfort of familiarity, she surrendered to the restoration of her soul and spirit. The cool air of freedom swept over her, and joy replaced the fear.

When the service was over, Deni found herself embraced by the people in that place. Several invited her home, but she decided to say yes to Rita and Bobby’s invitation, since they were the first ones she’d met.

They lived about a mile from the church, they said, but they had water to drink and food to eat, and they would be happy to share it with her.

She followed them back to the small trailer they lived in at the back of five acres his family owned. They mourned the fact that they hadn’t planted anything last spring, but they had only been married for five weeks. They had just tied the knot before the outage.

Their trailer was quaint, decorated sweetly even though there was no light and very few windows. They served lunch—salad with homemade dressing—out on a picnic table under some trees, and they did their best to make Deni feel at home.

“I’m getting married, too,” she told them as they ate.

“Really? When?”

“Supposed to be October,” she said. “That is, if we ever see each other again. He was in D.C. when the outage hit, and I was in the Birmingham area visiting my family. I never dreamed I’d get stuck there.”

She told them of the things she’d been through since she’d left home, and how she needed to get back to warn her family. She ended the story in tears, embarrassed to cry in front of strangers like this, but neither Rita nor Bobby were disturbed by her emotional display.

Rita just got a determined look in her soft eyes.

“Well, all I can say is there’s no way we’re letting you get back on the road today. You’ve got blisters on your blisters. You need to stay here overnight, get some rest, some food, some water. We have plenty of water in our well. We’ll find something to put it in so you can take some with you. But you can’t set out again without any kind of provisions.”

“I had provisions,” she said, “but I left them all when Vic killed those people. I brought the stupidest things with me from home. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“I brought a makeup mirror, a flat iron, and a blow-dryer.”