Tomorrow We Die (26 page)
Authors: Shawn Grady
I slept so hard I forgot I was in jail.
The thinness of the mattress, the air temperature several degrees too cool, the smell of ammonia – none of it mattered. A valley and a mountain had been traversed in my life. In one day, over two decades, however one measured it.
I had at once the peace of gazing over a ripe field of wheat, the sun low and golden, and the earth uninterrupted on the horizon, mixed with the bitter gall and haunting ache of a loved one departed too soon.
So it was with a sense of newness and empty tomb excitement that I saw my father standing at the door to my cell.
“Hey, Jonner.” He was clean-shaven, his hair combed to the side, hovering light and dry with a hair-spray hold. His eyes were clear. He wore an alligator polo and pleated slacks.
I rolled off the bed and walked to the barred door. I stuck my hand through, and he took it, locking thumbs with a clasp.
I was quiet for a moment, then said, “Eli’s dead . . . And Kurtz.”
He nodded and squeezed my hand, patting it with his other.
“I heard. I am so sorry, Jonathan.” He let go of my hand. “Eli was a great man. He was . . . He was always there when you needed him. I really am so sorry.” He took a deep breath. “But not for myself anymore.”
Voices echoed around the corner.
He took off his glasses. “I had made guilt my home. Ignored you and your life.” He looked at the floor. “When you came to the bar, I realized that I still had something to offer. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I’d forfeited that right.” He lifted his chin. “I wronged your mother, and I wronged you. Lord knows I can’t change that. But you are my son. You are still my son.”
Bad Moon stepped behind the guard desk. A mechanical buzz rang from the door. “I’d recommend pulling out your arm lest you want to leave it here when you go.”
I moved back.
Detective Humbolt rounded the corner. My dad wiped his eyes and replaced his glasses. Humbolt motioned for me to step out.
I nodded. “Detective.”
“Mr. Trestle.” He held a manila folder. The edges of eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies poked out from a stack of papers and a couple DVDs in plastic holders. He held it up. “It would appear that sufficient evidence has surfaced to allow your release.”
I glanced at my father. He watched Humbolt.
The detective continued. “I know this is a hard subject. But we have security video of Dr. Petrov’s murder. And we also have video of Kurtz’s killing.” He brought his lips together. “The circumstances he created inevitably would have led to another murder, had you not intervened.”
He thumbed through the file folder. “A man named Shintao has been arrested on charges relating to the crimes at hand.” He closed it. “I personally don’t believe that self-defense and the protection of the innocent are any reasons to keep a man jailed. And it would appear that the judge agrees. Per his orders, you’re free to go under two conditions – don’t leave town until the arraignment, and keep daily contact with your court-designated chaperone.”
“Who’s that?”
Humbolt stretched an open palm toward my father. My dad smiled. The detective offered his hand to me.
I looked at it, studied his face, then gripped his hand and shook. “Well, all right, then.”
My dad drove us home. Sitting in his old Ford Tempo, looking at his profile, I saw a dim reflection of Eli in the lines of his face. I saw myself in the shape of his jawline, the angle of his nose, and the curve of his cheekbones.
I shifted in my seat, my back sore from healing glass cuts. “Have you heard how Naomi is?”
“Her parents called. And someone from Aprisa. Dale . . . ?”
“Spitzer?”
“That’s it. She’s doing well. They’re watching her in the cardiac unit, but the prognosis is very positive.”
“So no complications?”
“A little memory loss surrounding the event.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“She has some broken ribs.”
Probably from the CPR. That and the fall from the helicopter. But she was alive. Not only living, but well. My heart ached to see her.
I touched the pendant around my neck. I traced the etched words, hearing them in my mind.
I would become a doctor.
And Eli would live on for me in a physician’s words over a millennia old.
We crossed the Truckee River at the Arlington Bridge, making our way into Old Southwest.
My dad stopped at a crosswalk and ran a hand along his chin. “Humbolt did a little digging into Kurtz’s finances.”
“Yeah?”
“Sounded like Kurtz was leveraged to the hilt, including a couple big loans from some not-so-reputable sources.”
I nodded. “He was trying to grow Aprisa into something bigger.
But it was all based on a business model that didn’t really work.”
“Why didn’t he cut his losses and quit?”
“He said he already had deals on the table to go nationwide. I guess he just needed the stats to back it all up. Fortune and fame at his fingertips. Just had to tweak a few run times, make the big contracts, pay off the bad guys, and all would be good.”
“But this guy, Letell, found out about the time changes?”
“Yeah. And when he started making noise about it, Kurtz resorted to murder to cover things up.”
“But not just he alone.”
“No. He hired at least one thug to do some of the dirty work. And there’s Shintao. He oversaw the accounting department. My guess is that Kurtz paid him well to keep things on the down-low.”
We turned onto a narrow residential street.
I gazed at sidewalks that arched over bulging tree roots. I stared at my hands, incredulous that they’d taken a life. “If Eli hadn’t discovered the cause of death and provided the antidote . . .”
My dad pulled into the driveway. “It’s an incredible gift. For you. For me. Naomi. No one can ever take that fact away.” He put his hand on my shoulder.
I grabbed his wrist and blinked through the moisture in my eyes. “It’s great to have you back, Dad.”
I stopped chasing.
I learned to run a race of endurance, my goal and destination lying on the not-too-distant horizon, in a home unbound by time or death.
Now we see in a mirror dimly.
Almond shoots and cherry blossoms burst forth from stem tips on the university grounds. The temperate May afternoon lent blue skies populated by voluminous white barges. They pasted ethereal, like an aged ceiling mural.
The crowd din and rhythmic repetition of the master of ceremonies simmered in the back of my mind. The full green grass around the old buildings, the warmth of sunbaked bricks, and the special outdoor ceremony for the graduating med school class – it all contributed to filling my heart with a sense of culmination.
But none birthed greater joy than the sight of Naomi, standing in her spring maternity dress, the fullness of the third trimester ensconcing our child. Sunlight sparkled off the modest engagement diamond and wedding band I’d slipped on her finger three years before.
Her mother stood alongside, new life in her strengthened frame, the last vestiges of sickness far from her countenance. Her father stood proud. By him was Bones, still slight as a flagpole, smiling, arm in arm with his beaming and slightly heavyset fiancée. From the day he first worked up the courage to talk to her in dispatch, they’d become inseparable.
Bookending the lineup, looking ten years younger though four had passed, stood my father. His chin pushed up and chest filled with air – the pathophysiology of pride in his son, and the evidence of life discovered anew.
I felt the small brass pendant that hung outside my gown.
Thank you, Eli.
“Doctor Jonathan Trestle, summa cum laude.”
My row of supporters clapped with exuberance. I strode with confidence, a grin uncontainable in my cheeks. I clasped hands with the present med school director, Dr. Thomas Wheatland. The sun glistened off his copper brow, an approving look in his eyes.
I took in my other hand the passing of a baton, the summation of my work in a paper tube bound with red ribbon.
I supped of that moment, satiated with joy, knowing our lives to be but a breath.
For tomorrow we die.
“If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.
But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man. For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive.”
– Paul the apostle
To the Logos, God from the beginning, who became flesh and made His dwelling among us.
To my wife, Sarah Beth, for her unceasing support and help. To our children, who light up our home – Daniel, Claire, and Noah.
To my mom, who showed me Jesus from as early as I can remember.
To all my extended family, both near and far, and to my friends, both distant and close-by, for your encouragement and excitement for this book.
To my editor, Karen Schurrer, and the fantastic team at Bethany House Publishers.
To my agent, Janet Grant, for your wisdom.
To Mike Berrier, Katie Cushman, Carrie Padgett, and all my kinsmen in the written word.
To all the underpaid, overworked, and underappreciated paramedics and EMTs out there – God bless and Godspeed in your endeavors.
SHAWN GRADY has served for more than a decade as a firefighter and paramedic in Reno, Nevada, where he lives with his wife and three children. He was named “Most Promising New Writer” at the 2008 Mount Hermon Writers Conference and is the author of
Through the Fire
.
Books By Shawn Grady
Through the Fire
Tomorrow We Die
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