Читать книгу Nothing Sacred - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 10

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK ON Thursday night, David Marks was trying to convince himself that he was interested in the National Geographic show on television. He found the plight of pandas interesting, but he’d already seen the program twice.

And he couldn’t stand another sitcom, another half hour of laugh tracks. Or news that was a repeat of what he’d heard that morning.

He’d read for an hour. Chores were done. This week’s sermon finished. Bills paid.

Never since he’d joined the ministry had he had downtime like this. Exactly the opposite, in fact. In his experience, there were always people who’d take advantage of an extended hand—usually too many of them to help. His challenge, and concern, had always been what to do with those he didn’t reach, those he couldn’t help. He’d always had to spread himself thin—so thin he’d had no time for television or extra reading or boredom or discontent. Living in this town, which didn’t trust him, didn’t need him, was an experience unlike any he’d encountered before.

“The panda is…”

What more could he do to convince the people of Shelter Valley to use his services? To do more than just show up at church and nod thoughtfully at his sermons? To ask more of him?

“Watch how playfully…”

How much longer could he hang around where he wasn’t needed?

As long as it takes.

Great. Just what he wanted to hear.

His sarcasm got no response.

“Where’ve you been?” he said aloud, staring at the television screen, registering little.

Right here.

“I haven’t heard from you in two weeks.”

You haven’t asked.

No, he supposed he hadn’t. He hated it when he did that—got so caught up in himself and his mission that he forgot he wasn’t doing this on his own.

“So tell me, is there a reason for me to be here?”

What do you think?

“I’m asking you.”

What do you think?

David didn’t know why he bothered trying to take the easy way out. Expecting him to do the work. There was no getting around the voice in his head. It always told him what he intuitively knew was right—even he didn’t recognize the rightness of what that voice said until he heard it.

And it didn’t give up.

It was why he’d grown to trust them so implicitly.

“I think I have a job to do here.”

Yes.

“There are people here who need my help.”

Yes.

“I’m here for them, not for me.”

No.

What? “What?” he reiterated out loud, sitting in the middle of his couch, feet planted firmly on the floor, staring at a TV screen that could have been popping bubbles for all he knew.

There was no answer to his question. And that happened sometimes, too.

“Then…who am I here for?” He tried rephrasing it.

You.

David stood, turned off the television. That answer hadn’t come from his angel. Because this wasn’t about him. He knew that. His life was about serving others.

He’d bake some cookies.

And take them to the veterinary clinic in the morning. If Cassie and Zack didn’t want them, then surely their clients would. Dogs ate dirt and grass and practically everything else. Surely they’d eat David’s oatmeal cookies.

The first batch wasn’t done evenly—he’d forgotten to preheat the oven and had just shoved the cookies in cold. But cookie dough was a popular taste these days.

And the second batch burned—he hadn’t bothered with the timer, knowing he’d be right there and would remember to check them. Then he’d decided to do the dishes, which led to taking out the trash, which led to a walk around the backyard just to assure himself that there wasn’t something else that needed doing. He’d known the minute he’d gone back inside what he’d done. His nose had told him.

No problem. Dogs were color-blind. And they were used to eating crunchy food. They wouldn’t care if their cookies were hard and black.

And maybe, while he was at the clinic, he’d see about getting a dog of his own. Cassie and Zack would know if there were some puppies, or even an older dog, that needed a home.

He scraped the last of the burned cookies from the pan and was just heading to the sink when there was a noise at his kitchen door. It sounded more as if something had fallen against the door than a knock. He stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

Setting down the pan, David moved to the door and opened it slowly, half expecting to see a stray pooch there, looking for a home. Maybe it had smelled the cookies….

What he saw stopped his heart.

“Ellen?” He knew it was her. But he didn’t recognize her at all.

The girl was a mess. Her clothes were torn. Her eyes and lips swollen. Her short blond hair was plastered to her head, except for a couple of places where it was sticking straight up.

What kind of accident could have done this to her?

“Honey?”

She didn’t respond. Just stood there. Staring blankly at the doorjamb as though she was seeing something far away—or deep inside herself.

He wasn’t sure she knew where she was.

“Ellen.” He spoke more firmly. He was afraid to touch her. And yet he had to find out what had happened. The extent of her injuries. She could have broken bones or be bleeding internally. “Come inside, child.”

He had to get her into the light. Get her to talk. Get help.

Keeping a tight grip on his heart, he forced logical thought to take over. This wasn’t Ellen. It wasn’t a child. Wasn’t his parishioner. Or the daughter of Martha Moore. This was simply a hurt human being in need of help.

Slowly, she took a step forward. Stumbled. Whimpered.

David’s hands flew out, catching her as she started to fall. Taking all her weight upon himself, he half carried her inside. With her head buried against his shoulder, the sounds she made were unintelligible. He had no idea if she was trying to speak or protesting painful movement.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said softly, shutting the door behind him as he guided her gently to a chair in the kitchen. “I’ll call your mother.”

“No.” She refused to sit down, buried her face more completely in the crook of his elbow. Her next words were mumbled.

“What?” he asked, holding her by the arms as he freed her face enough to look at her. “I didn’t get that.”

“The light’s too bright,” she said, and started to sob. “Please,” she hiccupped. “No light. And no calls.”

“I need the light, Ellen. I need to get a look at you. And call for help.”

“No!” she shrieked. “No calls. No one…” She started to cry again. “No one but you.”

Her insistence struck fear in the heart he’d silenced, filling his mind with dreadful suspicion.

“You need to see a doctor, honey! We need to know how badly injured you are.”

“No! I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” But he had a horrible feeling the calls could wait, that Ellen’s most serious injuries weren’t physical. Authority came through out of necessity. “You need to tell me what happened, Ellen. Now.”

A fresh spate of sobs erupted, and she clutched the sleeve of his shirt with her fingers.

“Tell me, honey,” he said, growing more and more certain that he wasn’t ready to hear what he suspected she would—eventually—tell him.

An agonizing couple of minutes passed while she cried, then took a deep breath, only to choke on another outburst of agony.

“You have to tell me what happened, Ellen.” David forced as much calm into the words as his thick throat allowed. “You need help.”

“I—” She broke off, tightening her grip on his shirt as she lifted her head enough to look up at him. “Only…you.” She stumbled over the words. “Only you.”

Because he knew he had no choice, David nodded. “I’m the only one here.”

He pushed her gently into the chair he’d pulled out for her, then sat in the adjoining chair and clasped her hands.

She hadn’t said a word, but David knew. And felt the acid burning of vomit rising to his throat.

Help me. The plea was a demand, issued as urgently as he’d ever spoken to whatever higher power was guiding his life.

I’m here.

Okay, then. He took a deep breath.

“Ellen?”

“I ran out of gas.”

He probably shouldn’t be holding her hands, shouldn’t touch her at all.

She needs you. Listen.

He did. To his heart. He released one of her hands and smoothed the hair back from Ellen’s swollen cheeks, brushed it off a forehead grimy with sweat and God knew what else.

He was going to see someone in hell for this.

Later.

“He…he…” She began to shake. Violently.

David couldn’t remember ever being more scared. And only once before in his life had he felt this sick.

Steady.

Yeah. Yeah. Steady. He knew what life was about. All of it. The happiness. And the suffering, too.

“Someone hurt you when you ran out of gas?” he asked, compelled to get this over with. To get to the healing part.

“I hitchhiked,” she said through chattering teeth.

“And someone picked you up.”

When she nodded, David’s heart sank.

“It was a man,” he said.

With a second, jerky nod, she confirmed his worst fears. But he continued, anyway, getting her to tell him where the man had taken her.

“He told me if I didn’t take my clothes off, he’d rip them.” She was shivering, huddled in her chair, but speaking clearly now, as though she was somehow detached from it all. “And when I didn’t, he started to—so I…” She faltered and started to cry again, more softly.

“So you did.”

“Yes.” The whisper was barely audible. And tore through David with such ferocity he didn’t know how he stayed seated.

I’m the wrong man for this one, he thought grimly.

Steady.

You be steady! The angry words were spoken only in his mind.

I am. Always.

Anguish ripped through him. Hers. His. Too much anguish.

Shut up!

“He…touched…me….”

No. I can’t stand this. Don’t go! he implored the voice.

I’m always here.

Ellen described the humiliation and horror of having a strange man touch her in places he should never have seen. Of having her body violated in ways that were unfathomable to her.

But if he’d only touched her? With his hands, as she was describing? Hadn’t…raped her?

“And then he made me watch him take off his clothes….”

She closed her eyes and David’s throat shut off all air. He desperately wanted to find someone else to help this poor child who was beyond anything he could do for her.

“He…raped me, Pastor Marks.” She cried aloud what his heart already knew—already felt. “He just kept doing it to me over and over…”

He could feel her agony. Her debasement. He also knew—in the midst of his almost uncontainable rage, unbearable anguish—that she needed him.

Because the biggest part of her suffering was yet to come. And David sensed that these next few days and weeks would determine her ability to recover, to live a normal life or ever love again. He knew far more than anyone realized he did.

This is why I’m here. He understood that now.

He just wasn’t sure he was ready for the journey ahead. Or the possible consequences.

He knew only that his fate had been determined that long-ago day when he’d asked for this spiritual path and promised to do all it required of him. He’d traded hell for peace, and if, now, that peace cost him some time in hell, he had no choice but to pay.

HEART FROZEN Martha sped toward Shelter Valley Community Church and the four-bedroom rectory immediately behind it. From the moment her first child had been born, she’d been dreading one of those calls. The kind that started with “I’m sorry…” insert “Martha, Mrs. Moore, Ms. Moore, Ma’am.” It had played itself out in all those ways and more over the years.

She’d just never imagined it coming from a preacher.

That had to be good news. If Ellen were dying, she’d be on her way to the hospital, not waiting in the big house behind the church. There’d be emergency personnel around, not a minister.

Of course, he’d said Ellen needed a doctor and refused to see one….

Panic made Martha’s movements jerky as she turned the last corner.

It had to be good news that her daughter had been capable of making that decision.

But why would she? Ellen didn’t have a fear of doctors. So why would her daughter suddenly be averse to…

There were no vehicles other than the pastor’s green Explorer at the house. No ambulance. No flashing lights.

That had to be good news. It had to be. Martha couldn’t face anything else.

And then David Marks opened his kitchen door and Martha had her first glimpse of her beautiful daughter, huddled there with a blanket around her shoulders, eyes filled with fear and incomprehension—and a desperate plea for her mother to make things better. And what little bit of faith Martha had been hoarding deep inside died right then and there.

MARTHA HELD ELLEN in her arms all the way to the hospital in Phoenix. The girl had tried to tell her mother what had happened, but David had done most of the talking. Enough for Martha to know Ellen needed immediate medical attention.

Talk could come later.

Ellen had refused to go to the clinic in Shelter Valley, and Martha hadn’t been able to ignore her battered daughter’s plea to keep her rape a secret. She didn’t want people’s pity or concern, didn’t want their questions or assessing looks. Martha had insisted on calling Greg Richards, though. The sheriff of Shelter Valley had a job to do. A crime to solve, the likes of which Shelter Valley had never known before.

One of their own had been violated. Right there in the town’s safe and protected limits.

Greg said he’d meet them at the hospital in Phoenix.

“Dr. Anderson’s waiting for us in the emergency room,” Martha told David as he drove with a calm she envied down the long dark stretch of highway between Shelter Valley and the nearest big city.

The only person other than the sheriff that she’d called had been her best friend, Becca Parsons, who’d arranged for the doctor to meet them at the hospital. In the meantime, they’d given Ellen some over-the-counter acetaminophen with an added sleep aid. Ellen was obviously floating in and out, but she was listening to her mother. Martha could tell by the movement in her daughter’s ribs against her own, the tightening of Ellen’s hand squeezing hers. Ellen didn’t want to see a doctor. Martha didn’t blame her.

“You’ve met Becca Parsons and her little daughter, Bethany,” Martha said to David, rubbing her hand across Ellen’s back. The girl had refused to let her mother go home and get fresh clothes for her. Or to borrow a T-shirt and shorts from Pastor Marks. She’d refused to let her clothes be taken from her body.

She’d refused to let her mother go, period, which was why Martha—in spite of seat belt laws—had a twenty-year-old child in her lap. Let some cop try to stop them and give her a hard time about it.

“Of course I know them,” David was saying. “As the new mayor, she gave me my official welcome to town.” He barely took his eyes from the road, but Martha felt his glance in their direction. “Will and I have played golf a time or two.”

Martha wondered why Becca hadn’t mentioned that.

“Dr. Anderson’s the one who helped them have Bethany,” Martha said now, hoping to reassure her daughter, somehow, that miracles did happen. That everything was going to be okay.

Reassure her child of something she knew in her heart was not the truth.

“After twenty years of trying, the impossible became possible, thanks to Dr. Anderson’s care and compassion.” If nothing else, she was filling the car with something besides the agony in her arms. In her daughter’s heart.

The hope that sometimes life did work out for the best. The belief that good people did win. That justice would be done.

Ellen’s fingers relaxed their grip on Martha’s blouse, just for a second. The tightness in Martha’s heart eased for that second, too.

“And now they have Kim, too.” David’s words were matter-of-fact.

The little Korean boy Becca and Will had adopted the previous summer. “Yeah.”

“Each is an example of faith,” he said softly.

Ellen whimpered and Martha moved her hand from her daughter’s back to the hair that was still caked to her head. Martha swallowed back nausea. God, she needed some time alone with her baby.

To bathe her. To help Ellen feel clean again.

“Faith?” Because of the child in her arms she had to restrain the intensity of the anger his words instilled. But she did so with great difficulty. Who did he think he was? Preaching, even now! She wanted to scream at him to drop it. “You got that one wrong, Preacher,” she said, rocking Ellen gently as the girl moaned again. “Becca had long ago lost faith and given up any hope of having a baby. Bethany’s arrival was sheer luck. Or the twisted humor of fate.”

The same fate that was playing with them now? As they drove Martha’s sweet daughter to see how much damage had actually been done—and to prevent any consequences from the hell she’d suffered while Martha was at home, oblivious, nagging Tim to do his math homework.

“Will never lost faith. Or gave up hope.”

The words weren’t loud, but they were firm.

Martha couldn’t reply. She didn’t feel like arguing. Let the man have his fantasies about the power of faith and hope.

She couldn’t afford them.