Page 4 of Facing the Enemy
Trenton grabbed my shoulders and thrust me several feet ahead next to the curb. I landed on my side and rolled over. What—?
A horrible thud.
A woman screamed.
Tires squealed.
Horns blew.
Stinging pain radiated up my leg, side, arm, and head. In agony, I managed to roll over and glance at the street.
My brother’s body lay in the intersection, a twisted mass of flesh and blood.
2
I sat on the front pew next to Mom and Dad in a church that had always offered me comfort and peace.
Until now.
I tried to be strong for my parents—Mom’s tears and Dad’s swiping at his eyes and nose showed me I’d done a lousy job. A nightmarish numbness had taken over my body, except for a horrible churning in the pit of my stomach. I always believed in the power and purity of truth. Then I saw my brother die right in front of me as the driver sped away. My FBI career and my faith were based on ensuring truth stood unwavering.
Until now.
I didn’t feel like a trained agent who helped bring down those who muddy their lives by delving into violent crimes against children. Neither did I feel in control, certainly not with my scattered emotions. Stuffing the grief, screaming like a wild animal, and frantic crying were options, but not mine.
Where was God in the poisoning pain that had no antidote?
A young man with a guitar exited the front platform and walked back to his pew. Although I assisted Mom and Dad in selecting the appropriate music and Scripture for the service, I had no concept of the contents. Not even a word from the eulogy spoken by Trenton’s sponsor.
Mom and Dad had chosen a gunmetal-gray casket. I’d gone with them to support their efforts, but my bravery collapsed when I was alone. I’d helped Mom go through photos and arrange them in chronological order for the funeral, and we both shed tears. I longed for my sweet brother who loved animals and people.
His death was my fault. I should have seen the car coming. Oh, the guilt and shame. Had I betrayed my own brother?
If I could escape this morbid place, I’d beat the streets to find the madman who ran the red light. He’d left me without a brother and my parents without a son. I vowed not to rest until cuffs were clamped on the driver’s wrists. No one else had the passion to solve his death but me.
The service ended, and I took Mom’s arm to help her stand. Dad’s reddened eyes met mine, wordlessly conveying the sorrow threatening to destroy him. I fought the chill that wound through my body and penetrated my heart. The formalities were over. Dad had made a wise decision by having the graveside service before the memorial commemoration. Now to endure the church’s lunch for those who’d come to pay their respects.
How could the three of us handle much more?
Heat poured into my ears and silence like a clock that stopped ticking.
Dad and I ushered Mom to the church’s fellowship hall. What a misplaced name for funeral-goers. There among the tables loaded with salad and sandwiches, I walked through the motions of rearranging the sandwiches for a more formal appearance, straightening the paper plates and napkins, and getting Mom and Dad coffee. I knew without tasting, the brew was bitter, and with acid threatening havoc in my stomach, I left it alone.
Gage approached me. His whole body emitted warmth and compassion, his generous height and broad shoulders steadied like an anchor in my torment. I couldn’t imagine anyone else supporting me on this miserable day. He gathered me into his arms, and I let him soothe me. Something I seldom let anyone do.
I should have agreed to let him join me with Trenton.
But then Gage might’ve died.
Others from the FBI trailed him and expressed their condolences, but Gage stayed at my side, my source of understanding, my friend through adversity. So much more, but he could never learn how much I cared until I found Trenton’s killer. A relationship threatened our own on-the-job safety and others when personal feelings took precedence over our commitment to protect the innocent.
The line of people continued, while names and faces became a blur.
My head throbbed. Some of them had no thought to inappropriate remarks. If I heard one more “Your brother’s in a better place” or “I know how you feel” or the worst one, “All things work together for good ...”
An agent I didn’t know stood before me with his hands at his side. “Sorry for your loss. I see your brother was only thirty. I also saw he had a record, so I’m sure you’re relieved.”
Relieved? I clenched my fists to keep from punching him.
