chapter
22
It was time. I had strolled down memory lane for as long as I could. It was time to carry out what I had come here to do. I had showered and changed into my suit and was ready to meet my maker . . . and dance with my wife.
I positioned the letter on the desk, then turned to study my reflection in the beveled mirror. I wasn’t a bad-looking guy. My powder-white hair and Socratic beard should’ve made me look older, but I didn’t have the timeworn skin of most men my age. Yet I bore what people couldn’t see—a weatherworn heart. They couldn’t see that my soul was empty.
I stood and straightened my tie. An image of my children flashed through my head. I said a quick prayer that I was doing the right thing, that I wouldn’t create any more chaos in their world. I also wondered whether I should write a note for Jeremiah. Something encouraging because, while the others would be sad, my grandson would be heartbroken.
And yet that thought wasn’t enough to make me change my mind.
Deciding against a note, I walked over, pulled the gun out of my duffel bag, then sat on the edge of the bed. I had just placed the gun in my lap when a book on the nightstand caught my attention.
I leaned over to pick it up. The tattered pages . . . the chipped gold embossment. This looked exactly like the Bible that had been in Elizabeth’s family. The one she’d been frantic about on our wedding day.
If I didn’t know better, I would think this was her book . . . lost here all those years ago.
“Ollie, come quick! Elizabeth needs you!”
The sound of Elizabeth’s maid of honor, Carol, jolted me out of my seat, where I’d been nervously smoothing out my pant leg as I prepared to marry the love of my life.
“What’s wrong?” I said, panicked. Images of my soon-to-be wife changing her mind about marrying me ran through my head. No. Elizabeth loved me. She wouldn’t be backing out.
“I don’t know,” Carol said. “Her father showed up and said something, and Elizabeth just lost it.”
I took off down the hall to Elizabeth’s dressing room. I pounded on her door.
“Elizabeth, dear. Are you okay?”
“No,” she cried through the door.
“I’m coming in,” I said, pushing the door open.
She slammed it back closed. “No, you can’t see me.”
“Just take my hand,” I said. “Please.”
She cracked the door and I slid my arm through. I waited, my heart racing until I finally felt her touch.
“Sweetheart, talk to me.”
“It’s my Bible.”
“Y-yes. It’s gone,” she whimpered.
“What do you mean, gone?”
Elizabeth had been so excited about the minister marrying us with a Bible that had been in her family for generations. Her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother had all been married with that Bible.
“Daddy said it’s missing. What are we going to do?”
My mind was racing. I knew the Bible was important to Elizabeth, but there was no way I was going to let this special day pass by because it had come up missing.
“Sweetheart, my mother always says it’s not the book that matters. It’s what’s in the book. And what’s in the book is in our hearts.”
Silence came from the other side of the door and my heart skipped. Finally, Elizabeth said, “You’re right. It’s in our hearts.”
We’d moved forward, and the next day I’d gone out and bought her a new Bible, to begin a new tradition. That’s the one my grandchildren had ripped to shreds.
I continued running my finger along the frayed edges of the book in my hands. I flipped it open and smiled at where it landed.
The book of Jeremiah, Elizabeth’s favorite passage. The day our grandson Jeremiah was born, Elizabeth held him in her arms and recited the verse. For I know the thoughts that I think toward you . . .
A chill shot through me as I heard a voice finish the verse.
. . . thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. It sounded as if the voice was right there in the room with me. I slammed the book shut and set it back on the nightstand.
I shook off the eerie feeling buzzing in my ears. My nerves were getting the best of me. Opening to that chapter had been purely coincidental. I had come to the Markham on a mission, and I couldn’t let anything derail my plan.
I took a deep breath, nervous about pulling the trigger. No more delays. I put the gun to my head and started muttering, “One . . . two . . .”
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. “Housekeeping,” the voice called out.
I jumped up. “Are you serious?” I muttered. Why the heck did they have a Do Not Disturb sign if they were going to disturb you? I ignored the voice and was just about to put the gun back to my head when I heard the door open.
“Housekeeping,” she called out again.
I threw the gun under a pillow and raced toward the end of the bed. “It says ‘Do Not Disturb’ for a reason!” I yelled. I must have frightened her.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you were out . . .” she said, quickly closing the door.
“That’s why the Do Not Disturb sign is there!” I barked.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” she said from the other side.
I muttered silent curses and then shook away my irritation. I didn’t want to spend my last moments on earth angry and worked up.
I headed back to my spot on the bed, determined to get this over with before there were any more interruptions. I pulled the gun from under the pillow and had just positioned myself against the headboard when I noticed the anchor on the five o’clock news, which had just come on. But today, what was on the screen caused me to jump up and unmute the TV. The camera zoomed in on my son, Charlie, who was clutching a tearful Britt. They were looking at something as the anchor talked over the video of them.
“. . . Police are on the scene, trying to talk the young man down,” the anchor said.
I remained frozen, my eyes riveted to the TV and the camera as it panned from Charlie to Britt to a figure on the bridge. I had to sit down so I didn’t lose my balance when I saw the purple hoodie that Jeremiah always wore.
The anchor for Channel 26 continued, “Savannah Graham is live at the scene with an update. Savannah, what’s the latest?”
Savannah was one of my favorite reporters, not just because she was Yvonne’s best friend, but because she was genuinely good at what she did.
“Melissa,” Savannah began, “authorities are trying to talk the young man down. Witnesses say the boy reportedly jumped out of a car when it came to a stoplight here at Highway 59 and Shepherd. He took off running and came here to the overpass on Interstate 59. He was able to climb over the fence and is now on the other side, suspended over the highway. Authorities are in the process of shutting down the highly trafficked freeway.”
All thoughts of anything I was about to do evaporated, especially when the camera zoomed in on a panicked Charlie pleading through the fence to Jeremiah.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could see the despondent look in my grandson’s eyes. I recognized it because I bore it myself.
My heart raced as I noticed the rush-hour traffic. There were some cars whose drivers must have been oblivious to what was going on, because they whipped by.
I slid the gun under the mattress, grabbed my keys, and bolted out of the room, praying I could make it to Jeremiah before it was too late.