Shattered Justice Page 4

  As was the agreement—loser retrieves arrows from the target—Dan went to pull their arrows free. Slipping them into his quiver, he followed Sarah’s trail with a practiced eye. No path out here. Just wilderness. Pure and majestic.

  He paused, lifting his face to the sun’s warmth. He enjoyed hiking almost as much as Sarah did. The rich, earthy fragrance of the Oregon forest filled his senses. He soaked in the towering evergreens all around, sunlight filtering down through dense needles.

  “Okay, buddy. No snoozing on the trail.”

  He chuckled and opened his eyes. His wife was just ahead of him, crouched atop a huge fallen tree. With her quiver of arrows on her belt, her bow slung across her slim shoulder, and her floppy hat set at an angle on her long chestnut hair, she looked like a modern-day Robinette Hood perched there. She sent him a mock glare from on high; he painted his features with equally mock penitence. “Sorry, boss. Not even catnaps, eh?”

  “Not even kitten naps. You can’t afford to slack off. I’m ahead of you five to three on scoring targets.”

  “Slave driver.”

  “Count on it.”

  Her severity lasted another second before laughter overtook it. She plopped down on the log, adjusting her quiver so it was out of the way, then swung those shapely legs back and forth as she pulled her water bottle free. She tipped her head back, taking a long drink; Dan drank in the sight before him.

  His wife’s beauty was all natural. As natural as the woods around them. The summer sun had kissed her golden skin, making it glow in ways no makeup could. At thirty-four, her smooth features were free of wrinkles, save one or two that danced around her eyes, peeking out from the corners when she laughed. Dan loved those wrinkles. They were testimony to the fact that his wife was happy.

  Especially today. Sarah loved being out here, in the forest, hiking and talking even as they tested each other’s mettle with a bow.

  Which made sense. She belonged here. One look at her showed how at home she was in the woods. She was almost as much a part of the wilderness as the ancient trees reaching over them, creating a lush canopy; as the rich loam of dirt and pine needles beneath their feet.

  Which was why Dan made sure they got away like this as often as possible.

  The good news was that their town, Central Point, gave them plenty of places to get away from civilization. A small community on the outskirts of Medford, Central Point afforded Dan and his family the warmth of a small town combined with the convenience of a larger city nearby. And, with his sister Annie living right in Medford, he and Sarah seldom had to worry about finding someone to watch the kids for them. Annie adored the kids and loved spending time with them whenever she could.

  The bad news was that with all their commitments—their jobs, the kids, the volunteer work Dan did with troubled kids in the area—finding a day to get away was far from easy. Then there was the fact that it got harder every year to get time off. With every county budget cut, the number of deputies shrank, which meant fewer men to handle an ever-growing area. And that meant longer, more frequent shifts.

  When Sarah reminded him a few weeks ago of how long it had been since they’d had a day out together, he knew what he had to do. Just as he knew it was going to be a battle.

  But it had been worth it.

  “So, you ready for me to beat you again?”

  Dan arched a brow at his wife’s teasing challenge, taking in her teasing smile, her glowing eyes.

  Oh, yeah. Definitely worth it.

  “That sure of yourself, are you?” He stood in front of her. Her smile deepened, and she rested her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her from the log, careful not to catch her quiver or bow on the bark, and set her on her feet in front of him. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the heady mix of fragrances—summer and forest and all woman.

  “Are you trying to distract me?”

  He pressed a small kiss to her neck as he scanned the area around them. It was his turn to choose a target. “Mmm. Depends. Is it working?”

  Sarah chuckled. “Maybe …”

  There! Just down the path. A perfect target.

  Sarah wrapped her arms around his waist then lifted her face to his. He leaned close, watching her eyes drift shut. His lips hovered over hers for a heartbeat, then he jumped away, sliding his bow off his shoulder and getting ready to move. “Okay, loser, next target is mine! Old tree stump, fifty feet ahead, dead center or no points.”

  “You are such a sneak!” Sarah’s laughing response brought a grin to his face. She slid her bow free. “You’re gonna pay for that one, bud.”

  Even as she spoke, she surveyed the area around them, spotting the target within seconds. With a whoop, they raced down the path, Sarah dodging in front of Dan.

  Dan yelped and stumbled, barely avoiding a tumble to the ground. He came up with a playful growl, which faded to dismay when he saw his fleet-footed wife already in the firing stance, nocking an arrow.

  He drew a few feet closer as she lifted the bow, and he opened his mouth to holler, hoping to distract her, knowing even as he did so it was useless. Nothing distracted that woman when she was focused. He looked at the decaying stump—and frowned.

  What was that? He peered more closely, and alarm shot through him.

  Bees. Buzzing around the top of the stump. “Sarah, wait!”

  Too late. She pulled the string back with practiced ease and let the arrow fly.

  “Sarah! Run!”

  His warning split the air just as two things happened: Sarah’s arrow struck, straight and true, dead center on the target; and she turned to toss him a gloating, “Hah!”

  Which meant her back was turned to the stump.

  Which meant she didn’t see the cloud of angry yellow insects roil up out of their assaulted shelter.

  Yellow. Yellow bees. No, not bees … yellow jackets!

  Dan’s alarm changed to near panic. “Sarah!”

  The tone in his voice made her turn and look behind her. In the seconds it took understanding to dawn, the wasps had locked on their own target: Sarah.

  Dropping her bow, she sprinted toward Dan, the insects in hot pursuit. When Sarah reached him, he grabbed his wife’s hand, and they tore through the woods.

  Dan heard Sarah cry out, felt the wasps hitting him and stinging, heard them buzzing at his face, but he didn’t stop. He just brushed madly at his attackers with his free hand as he ran.

  “Pull your shirt over your face!”

  He didn’t look to see if Sarah complied. He couldn’t. He had to stay focused on the woods in front of them, on getting them as far away from the hive as fast as possible.

  How far or how long they ran, Dan couldn’t say. All he knew was that the number of wasps swarming around him lessened, until finally there weren’t any.

  Gasping for air, his lungs burning, he drew Sarah to a halt, pulling her into his arms. “Oh, man! Un … believable!”

  Sarah didn’t respond. When Dan saw she’d pulled her shirt up over her face, relief swept him. Though he could see welts forming on her hands and arms, if she got the shirt over her face, maybe that was the worst of it.

  “Sarah? How bad are you stung, honey?”

  Again, no response. She just stood there, fingers clutching his shirt as she dragged in air.

  Listening to the wheezing sound of her breathing, dread clawed through Dan’s chest. “Sarah?” He pulled his wife’s shirt away from her face and his heart seized.

  Her face was pasty white, except for six or seven bright red welts on her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were wide, and Dan saw something in them he’d never seen before.

  Panic.

  “Can’t …” She gasped, as though sucking air through mud. “Can’t breathe …”

  Before he could reply, she sagged against him, her hands going limp.

  “Sarah!”

  Dan lowered his wheezing wife to the ground, kneeling beside her. “Oh, Jesus, please!”

  His training kicked in, a
nd his critical mind registered the facts: His wife had been stung at least fifteen or twenty times. But most adults could survive as many as two hundred stings unless …

  Unless she was allergic.

  A memory flashed through Dan’s mind. Two summers ago, eight-year-old Shannon had been stung by a wasp. It hurt the poor kid something fierce, and she cried and cried until Sarah finally got her calmed down. As Dan and Sarah settled at the kitchen table, rejuvenating cups of coffee before them, Dan sighed.

  “Man, nothing hurts quite like a bee sting.”

  Sara sipped her coffee. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Heard? You mean you’ve never been stung?”

  “Not even once; a fact for which I’m grateful.”

  Dan had laughed then, telling her she was “blessed among sting-free women.” Now …

  If she’d been stung before, they would have known she was allergic. And they’d have known to bring along the needed first-aid supplies. Instead, he had the terrifying sense that his wife’s first bee sting could be her last.

  “D-Dan …”

  He grabbed her hand—there were red bumps and splotches all down her arm. He held her limp fingers to his cheek, then used his free hand to jerk his cell phone from his belt clip. “Don’t try to talk, Sarah. I’m calling for help.”

  She said something more, but it was barely a whisper. Her fingers tugged on his, and he could see how hard she was trying to speak. He leaned close to her lips. “Easy, honey. Just whisper.”

  “Tell … kids … love them.”

  Please, Jesus! Please, help her!

  “You can tell them yourself as soon as we get home.” He flipped the cell phone open, but Sarah shook her head, the feeble motion sending panic zinging through him. “Sarah, please …”

  “Tell them.”

  Dan clenched his teeth, set the phone down, and took both her hands in his. “I will.” The hoarse promise almost shredded his heart. “You know I will—if it comes to that.”

  She coughed, her eyes drifting shut. A smile trembled on her lips. “You’re—you’re such a good man, Dan.”

  “Sarah, please honey, don’t try to talk.”

  She wasn’t listening. A tear pushed past her closed eyelid and trickled down the side of her face. “I always saw … God … in your … eyes.” She gripped his hand and opened her eyes, though he could tell what an effort it was for her. “Help … kids see … who God is. Help them … really live. Really love.” She dragged air in. “And you. Please … Dan … live … love.”

  She was saying good-bye!

  “Sarah!”

  “Love you.” The words whispered out on a faint breath. Her eyes closed, and she went limp.

  “Oh no you don’t!” He grabbed the phone, shaking her with his free hand. “You stay with me, Sarah! You hear?”

  He punched 911 into the phone, then, keeping one hand on Sarah’s chest so he could tell if she stopped breathing, he listened to the ring once … twice …

  Don’t let this happen, Jesus. Please, don’t let this—

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  Dan spoke quickly, identifying himself as a sheriff’s deputy and giving information—their names, the situation, their GPS coordinates—as clearly and concisely as possible. But even as he did so, he knew what the 911 operator would say.

  “We’ve notified emergency services, Mr. Justice, but it’s going to take them twenty minutes or more to reach your location.”

  Hopelessness landed on his chest like a leaden weight, and he looked down at Sarah—then froze.

  There was no motion under his hand.

  “She’s stopped breathing!”

  Dropping the phone on the ground, Dan leaned over Sarah, his ear next to her mouth as he felt for a pulse in her neck.

  No breath. No heartbeat.

  As though this were a stranger and not the center of his universe, he tilted Sarah’s head back and started the rhythm of CPR. Two breaths. Fifteen chest compressions. And-one-and-two-and-three …

  All the while, behind the steady count to fifteen in the forefront of his mind chaos reined. Images of Sarah and the kids, memories of laughter and loving, ran rampant … Sarah’s voice drifted through, singing the kids to sleep, uttering that deep contented sigh she breathed so often against his chest as they drifted off to sleep, the sound a sweet benediction on the day … and his own desperate prayers, agonized pleas for God’s mercy and divine intervention.

  …and fifteen.

  He pinched her nose shut, placed his mouth over hers, and watched her chest as he gave her two more breaths.

  What …?

  There was no chest movement. No sign the air was getting in.

  He tried again. Puff. Puff.

  Nothing.

  Her chest should be moving. Why wasn’t it?

  Awareness slammed into Dan. Anaphylactic shock. Severe allergies could cause anaphylaxis, which meant her airway was swollen shut.

  Jesus … Jesus! His mind screamed the name, a desperate plea for mercy. The air can’t get through.

  “No …” Dan pressed trembling fingers to his wife’s neck, checking for a pulse. “Come on, Sarah. Come on …”

  Nothing.

  He sat back with a thud, pulling his knees to his chest, lowering his face to his hands.

  There was nothing he could do.

  The sudden sound of rotors pounding the air brought him to his feet. He waved his arms, hope roaring through him as he watched the chopper lower to the ground. Rushing back to Sarah’s side, he pressed his fingers to her neck once again.

  Please … please …

  A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. “We’ll take over now, Deputy.”

  He looked up, ready to argue, to tell them he had to do this, had to save her, but the words died on his lips. The face beside him was familiar.

  His gaze fell to the name tag. Wally. Of course. Wally Johnson. Dan had worked with him at other accident scenes this summer. He’d been impressed at the way Wally treated people. With respect. And a depth of kindness.

  “Deputy?”

  Dan let himself be urged from Sarah’s side. “She—” He could hardly speak above a whisper. He tried again. “She hasn’t been breathing since I made the call to 911. It’s anaphylaxis. Bee stings.”

  Wally and his partner went to work with solemn speed and efficiency. Dan stumbled away, leaning against a nearby tree, watching as they injected Sarah’s still form, performed CPR.

  Watching. Hoping. Praying.

  But even as he did so, he knew. Had known almost from the moment she sagged against him and crumpled to the ground.

  It was over.

  His sweet Sarah was gone.

  FOUR

  “The leaves of memory seemed to make

  a mournful rustling in the dark.”

  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  “My heart is breaking as I remember

  how it used to be.”

  PSALM 42:4

  IT SHOULD BE RAINING.

  That would have made more sense. Cold, drizzling rain. Then he’d know the very heavens understood something terrible had happened.

  But as Dan stood looking out the window, there wasn’t a drop in the sky. Rather, the sun shone from behind wisps of cotton clouds. Birds sang glorious rhapsodies as they filled the trees just outside the window. A teasing breeze lifted the curtains, sending them dancing like giddy schoolgirls when spring comes to play.

  Like Sarah, on the last day of her life.

  Dan longed to choke the life from the dark anguish gnawing at him.

  How could this be? How could the world go on with such joyous abandon when his life was so broken?

  Widower. That was the kind of thing you said about white-haired men, those who’d shared long, loving lives with the women they adored. Men who talked about their fiftieth and sixtieth anniversaries, about the good old days.

  But Dan was only thirty-seven! There wasn’t a hint of white in his brown hai
r. Not unless this past week had put it there.

  Raspy fingers of emotion curled around his throat. He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets—then allowed himself a small, humorless, smile. His sister Kyla had told him to be sure and wear a suit, but Sarah would understand. She knew suits just weren’t his thing. She’d bought the black jeans he now wore for that very reason—so he’d have something at least a little dressy to wear on somber occasions.

  Yeah, well … it didn’t get more somber than this.

  He spread his hand out against the cool windowpane, closing his eyes. Mom … Dad … I wish you were here. He missed his parents since their deaths. They’d had him and his sisters late in life, starting with Dan when Mom was forty-three and Dad was forty-seven.

  His mom, who had struggled with her health for a number of years, finally lost the battle three years ago, just before she turned seventy-seven. His father faded quickly after that and died a year later. Dan remembered thinking then that losing his parents was the worst pain he’d ever known.

  He squeezed his aching eyes tight against new grief. You always knew the right thing to say. How to help craziness make sense. How to find some semblance of right and justice in even the worst of times.

  Not even his parents could make sense of this.

  As though to refute that thought, his mother’s tender, peace-filled voice drifted through his mind, speaking words he’d heard from her most of his life …

  “God’s in control, son. Don’t ever doubt it. When things look most out of control, that’s when He’s at work. His justice will always prevail.”

  Opening his eyes, he let his hand fall away from the window. How often had she said that to him? God’s justice will always prevail. He’d never doubted it. Not for a minute. Not even in the face of this loss.

  If only that helped, knowing his mother’s words were true. But it didn’t. Not at all.

  “Danny?”

  Warmth flooded him, easing the chill that seemed to have settled deep in his bones.