Life Support (8 page)

“Is that all?” he asked.

Rena closed her eyes again and tried to keep her voice calm.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Is that all you remember?”

“Uh, I looked over the edge. That's when I saw he was dead. I'd rather not talk about it anymore.”

“Of course. I know you're upset, but whenever there is a death, I have to file a detailed report. Unfortunately, your husband isn't the first person who has died up there. Since I've been with the sheriff 's department three other people have slipped on the rocks and been seriously injured or killed. The park service should post signs warning people to stay back.”

“I'm not going to sue anybody,” Rena blurted out. She immediately regretted saying anything that sounded so mercenary.

“That's not why I mentioned it. I didn't think you would be thinking about that at a time like this.”

Rena tried to regain control. “I don't want to think. It's all such a shock. I haven't even called his family with the news.”

The detective stepped back. “I'd better leave you then. Could I have your phone number in case I have other questions when I'm preparing my report?”

Rena couldn't think of a good reason to deny his request. She didn't want him calling her cell phone so she gave him the number for their house in Santee. The detective didn't write down the number.

“How are you going to remember it?” she asked.

“I'm good with phone numbers. I've had a lot of practice. I'll note it in a file when I get back to my office.”

The detective took out a business card and laid it on the bed beside her arm.

“I'm very sorry about your husband. Here's my card and the keys to your vehicle. It's parked near the ER entrance. The helicopter has probably arrived by now. I've been inside waiting to talk to you and haven't been in contact with them. Someone at the triage desk can give you the information you need about the body. I assume you'll want to have him taken to your hometown. If I can help you in any way, please let me know.”

With the end of the interview in sight, Rena became gracious.

“Thanks,” she said. “You've been a great help.”

The detective stepped to the door. Then he stopped and turned toward her. “Oh, how did you get the scratches on your face and arm?”

Rena touched her face and felt the dried blood. “When I was running down the trail to the bottom of the falls, a limb slapped me. I also have a knot on my head where I slipped and hit a rock near my husband's body.”

“Did it knock you out?”

“No, but it dazed me for a second.”

“Was that before or after you gave your husband CPR?”

Rena quickly analyzed her answer and couldn't see a reason to pick one time over another.

“After. I was so upset, I wasn't careful.”

The detective moved farther out of the room. “Of course. I hope you're going to be okay. Don't forget to call if I can help you.”

Rena nodded and closed her eyes. The image of Baxter's face as he lay on the rock at the base of the waterfall played on the movie screen behind her eyelids. Every time she erased it, the scene returned as soon as her guard was down. Giving up, she opened her eyes and turned her head to make sure the detective was gone.

Giles Porter was standing less than a foot from her bed.

“What do you want?” she demanded indignantly. “I've told you everything that happened!”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I wasn't sure if you were awake. It's my report. I forgot to ask your address and social security number.”

Rena gave him the information. Once again the detective didn't take a note. He moved closer to the door, but Rena held no hope that he was really leaving.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“No. I have everything I need from you. I'm very sorry about the accident.”

A nurse brushed by the detective and came into the room to take out Rena's IV. The detective watched for a second and then left without a parting question. The nurse finished, and Rena sat up on the edge of the bed. She put the keys to the SUV in her pocket and dropped Porter's card in the trash receptacle. Going to the triage station, she asked about the helicopter. It hadn't arrived yet. Transporting Baxter's body was taking longer than she had expected.

Rena found her vehicle and sat inside to wait for the helicopter. She hoped she wouldn't be asked to identify the body. The last thing she needed was another image of Baxter to stalk her future.

While she waited, Rena telephoned Baxter's father at a number where she was sure he wouldn't be there to answer. Fifty-eight-year-old Ezra Richardson was at the office and could be reached on his private line, but she didn't want to talk to him in person. Not yet. A message that didn't require immediate explanation would be the way to break the news of his younger son's tragic accident. Her father-in-law lived alone in a massive house near the eighteenth green of the best golf course in the area, but since his wife's death from cancer five years before, he spent most nights in a suite adjacent to his office. His work had always been his mistress; now it was his wife as well. Rena called his home phone number. Her voice cracked with emotion.

“This is Rena. There has been a tragic accident. Baxter got too close to the edge of a cliff on our hike and fell.” She held the phone away from her mouth for a second as if trying to regain her composure. When she did, she had a sudden change in plan. “Please call me. I'll have my phone with me at all times.”

She couldn't report Baxter's death to an answering machine. That wouldn't look right. Only the government could send a notice of death in a cold, impersonal way. It was better to lay the groundwork of bad news in a voice message and finish the job when Ezra called back. She put the key in the ignition and turned it to accessory power so she could listen to music in an effort to calm herself while she waited for the helicopter. There was a knock on the window. Rena jumped.

It was Giles Porter.

Rena pushed the button that lowered the window. Without trying to hide her irritation, she asked, “What is it now?”

The green-and-white helicopter came into view. Porter pointed to it.

“I was in my car and heard the pilot call in on the police band. They're not landing here. They're taking your husband to the trauma center in Greenville. He's alive.”

7

True worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth.

JOHN 4:23

T
ed Morgan read the last page of the book and set it on the wooden lamp stand beside his chair. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through curly brown hair that was beginning to show streaks of gray along the edges. It was quiet inside the small, white frame house that served as the parsonage for the part-time music minister at Sandy Flats Church. The curtains moved slightly in front of an open window that let in the cool night air tinged with the salt smell of the ocean that lay a few miles to the east. The salt air refreshed the inside of the house but attacked with silent fury the peeling paint on the outside. The church trustees had stopped by after supper and told him it was time to scrape off the old flakes and put on a new coat. That meant by next week Ted would be on a ladder with a paintbrush in his hand.

A walnut regulator clock on the mantel struck the hour. Beside the clock was a picture of Ted's daughter, Angelica, when she graduated from Juilliard. She still lived in New York and played the viola in chamber music ensembles while waiting to land a job with a major orchestra in the United States or Europe. Angelica shared her father's broad brow and deep brown eyes, but her hair was black and straight like that of her mother. She didn't blame either one of them for the divorce that irrevocably divided the family when she was a little girl.

Ted had been awake since before dawn that day, but he wasn't sleepy. He paced back and forth across the room. He wanted to live in the world where the book had taken him—a place where miracles happened as part of everyday life and the atmosphere of whole towns was charged with the manifest presence of God. But his experience mocked his desire. Sandy Flats Church barely kept equilibrium between living souls coming in the front door and dead bodies departing out the back to the ancient cemetery behind Ted's house. The words he'd read about extraordinary revivals in South America had stirred him. The same ocean touched the coasts of South America and South Carolina. Why couldn't the same mighty rushing wind blow onto these shores? Wasn't Jesus Christ the Lord of the whole earth?

There was only one remedy for the discontent he felt.

Putting on a lightweight jacket, Ted went outside. It was dark. A strong night breeze swept off the ocean, and clouds were building as the warm air above the water clashed with the cool air over the land. A midnight storm was brewing. The breeze parted the long strands of dune grass that guarded the entrance to the crushed-shell parking lot in front of the sanctuary. The church didn't need a fresh coat of paint. Preservation of the beautiful building with its narrow, pointed windows and ornately crafted steeple was the highest priority of religion for many longtime members of the congregation, and the trustees kept the church in pristine condition. Ted had spent many hours repairing everything from leaks in the plumbing to a crack in the pulpit.

The church had a rich heritage. Before the Revolutionary War, Francis Asbury preached from horseback to local settlers less than a hundred yards from where Ted lived. The high watermark of the church's history came in the 1850s, when Sundays found the sanctuary packed with hundreds of people who attended the morning services and stayed most of the afternoon for dinner on the grounds and additional preaching. Many members of the congregation from that era lay buried in the church cemetery beneath live oaks covered with Spanish moss. Others died in Civil War battlefields to the north and west.

It was a short walk from the front door of the old parsonage to the brick steps leading up to the church. The senior pastor, John Heathcliff, lived in a newer house two miles away; however, instead of tearing down the old parsonage, the congregation used it as part of the compensation package for a minister of music. Ted was hired because he had two valuable skills—he could play the piano for the Sunday service and perform maintenance work on the church buildings during the rest of the week.

He unlocked the door to the sanctuary and went inside. The bare wooden floors creaked as he walked down the center aisle past dark pews hand-planed by nineteenth-century craftsmen, then worn smooth by generations of church members sliding in and out on Sunday mornings. Outside, storm clouds partially concealed the moon. Still, the dim light penetrated through the narrow, stained-glass windows and created a faint glow without strength to cast a shadow. Ted didn't turn on any lights. He wasn't bothered by the dark and knew where he wanted to go. He made his way to the front of the room where the piano waited behind a low altar railing.

Ted sat on a piano bench in front of a magnificent Steinway more suited for a concert hall than a rural church building. He opened the cover for the keyboard. No light shone on the ivory keys, but it didn't matter. Ted's connection to the piano was not based on sight. The eighty-eight keys were as much a part of him as the fingers that touched them, and he knew their sounds more intimately than his daughter's voice. He closed his eyes. Although frustrated by the atmosphere of spiritual impotency that surrounded him in that sanctuary each week, Ted knew that the remedy for his negative feelings was not to bang out a demand toward heaven. The presence of God is wooed, not coerced, and tonight he began with notes of quiet reflection intended as an invitation. He didn't say a prayer; he played one.

As often happened, the music took Ted to a place he hadn't planned to go. He came to the sanctuary to ask for revival and healing power. Instead, the invitation led to a musical oasis where his heavenly Father reminded him of his divine love. From that spring, all living water flowed, and the rippling of the notes brought a sweet peace into the room and to Ted's soul. The balm of Gilead is gentle, not strident, and the notes expressed in music the endless compassion of the God who loves his children with an eternal love. Tears pooled in Ted's eyes, and two matching drops rolled slowly down his cheeks. No matter the dryness of the spiritual landscape around him, this refreshing flowed in the presence of the Lord.

Ted blinked back the tears. Usually, he played with his eyes open as he stared into the darkness. Sometimes, glimpses of light flashed by the corner of his vision as unseen messengers gathered to watch and wonder. Occasionally, he played with his eyes shut and enhanced to the fullest his sensitivity to the sounds produced by his hands. But always, from beginning to end, it was a spontaneous composition never heard before nor reproduced again. It was a new creation and flowed from the depths of the musician's spirit to the place where anointed music goes.

Ted could change from one key to another as effortlessly as a landscape artist selecting a different color. The sounds began to build. He transitioned to the deep-throated notes of the lower octaves. He stayed for several minutes in the lower range and let the call build in intensity. Ted had learned not to hurry from one theme to the next and sustained the suspense until the urge to move higher became irresistible. When his hands finally climbed up the keyboard, the sound exploded as the entire range of the piano's capabilities was fully revealed. Nature answered with thunder from a distant lightning strike. Ted lost himself in the music and found himself in the manifest presence of God—the place where all the praise of a lifetime is not enough.

An hour later the last note softly soared away. Ted let out a deep breath and lifted his hands from the keyboard. His burden lifted. His petition set free.

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