Through Cloud and Sunshine Read online

  “No answer,” he said. “Maybe they’re all asleep. Mercy! I surely do hope it’s not two boys we’re searchin’ for.”

  “Well, I’m heading out there, to see if we can rouse anybody,” the bishop replied, trying to keep his hand and voice steady. “We’ve got to know if Buddy got home all right.”

  He turned at the first opportunity, onto a connecting road that led to the area where Twyla Osborne lived. Sam called in to let Lula and Rosetta know their plan.

  “Brother Patrenko and Brother Nettles are working that area,” Sam reported. “She gave me Brother Patrenko’s cell number, so we can let them know if we find out anything.”

  “Good.” The bishop concentrated on his driving, no longer crawling, but now pushing the speed limit as much as he dared. A few drops of moisture began to appear on the windshield, and he grimaced. Not yet, he thought. Please, not yet.

  It seemed to take forever, but finally he pulled into the mobile home park and stopped in front of Twyla’s unit. All was dark; there was no sign of a motorcycle parked anywhere. The bishop bounded out of his car and knocked loudly on the door. There was no answer.

  He sighed. “Father, if someone’s here, please cause them to answer,” he prayed softly. Sam was walking around the small yard, peering behind the home. No one came to the door, and the bishop ran around to the back, trying to gauge where Buddy’s bedroom window would be. He had visited him there once, when Buddy had shown him his artwork. He should remember—this must be the kitchen, and these the dining area—surely this next one was Buddy’s window.

  “Buddy!” he called loudly, jumping to knock on the window.

  “Here you go, Bishop,” said Sam, bending over with laced fingers. The bishop stepped into the makeshift stirrup just long enough to rap sharply three times on Buddy’s window.

  “Buddy!” he called again.

  “What the ever-lovin’ hell do y’all think you’re doin’?” came a querulous female voice from the mobile home adjacent to Twyla’s.

  The bishop turned. “It’s an emergency,” he explained. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got to talk to these folks.”

  “Wal, Twyla ain’t even there, she’s off with that guy she goes with—Jeter, or whatever. I don’t know ’bout Buddy. He’s so quiet, I don’t know he’s home, ’lessen I see his light on.”

  “Have you seen it tonight?”

  “Seems like it, but I cain’t say for sure.”

  “Bishop!” said Sam, and indicated Buddy’s window, where the blind seemed to be pulled back an inch or so.

  “Buddy! It’s Bishop. I need to talk to you!”

  The window inched open. “Bishop? For reals?”

  “Yes, Buddy—please open the door, okay?”

  “Yes, for mercy’s sake, do that, so a body can get some sleep!” The window behind them snapped shut, and they raced around to the front door again. A tousled, sleepy Buddy turned on the porch light and held the door open, blinking.

  “What’s up, Bishop? Hey, Brother Wright.”

  “Buddy, bless your heart, I’m so glad to see you!” the bishop said, grabbing the boy’s thin shoulders. “Listen, we understand T-Rex gave you a ride home, tonight, on his bike. Is that right?”

  “Sure is. Boy, that was cool! Scary, but cool. But why . . . what? Did something happen to him? Did he wreck, or something?”

  “We don’t know where he is, that’s the problem. About what time did he leave here?”

  Buddy thought. “It was about—about seven forty or forty-five, I think. He came inside for just a couple of minutes to look at some of my stuff, and then he said he was late and had to get home. He told his folks he was going to watch a video with them—somethin’ they’d just got for Christmas.”

  “So he was in a hurry?”

  “Reckon he was, but he didn’t seem too worried. Said he knew a shortcut to take.”

  “Did he say what that was? Or do you know what it might be?”

  Buddy thought. “He didn’t say. But—reckon it might could be Post Hole Road. I use that sometimes, on my bike. But only in the daytime, and in good weather.”

  “Could you show us?”

  “Sure. I’ll just throw on my coat and shoes.”

  The bishop looked at his counselor with both hope and dread. Sam flipped open his phone and called Robert Patrenko and gave him the news. He listened a minute, then said, “See you along there, somewhere, I expect.” He turned back to the bishop. “Brother Nettles knows that road. They’ll head in that direction, too.”

  The three of them, two men and a tousle-haired boy in pajamas, scoured both sides of the dark roadway the best they could. The bishop drove slowly down the middle of the two-lane road, so that his headlights could pick up anything suspicious on either side. It ran through a wooded area, and the bishop privately thought it should have been named “Pot Hole Road,” in honor of the number of those they had to skirt. What if one of them had caught T-Rex’s wheel and thrown his bike out of control? It seemed a likely scenario.

  Sam’s phone burred in his pocket, and he whipped it out.

  “Yes? You did? Tell me.” He paused to listen, holding up a cautioning hand to his companions. “We’re almost there.”

  He closed his phone and looked at the bishop. “They found him, a little further down this road. We should see their headlights, any minute. Said he’s wrecked his bike, all right, and he’s injured. Bob said he’s breathing, but doesn’t look too good.”

  The bishop increased his speed.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  “ . . . the solemn faith of prayer”

  Bishop Shepherd could sense Buddy, huddled between him and Sam Wright in the seat of the truck, shrinking into his coat as they drove down the dark roadway.

  “Buddy,” the bishop said, “I’m so glad you thought of this shortcut. Who knows when T-Rex would’ve been found if you hadn’t.”

  “But it’s my fault,” Buddy said, his voice low and miserable. “If he hadn’ta give me a ride home, he wouldn’ta even been this side of town, let alone needing to take a shortcut home.”

  “Didn’t he offer to bring you? I’ll bet he wanted to share the fun of his motorcycle with you.”

  “Reckon, but he didn’t need to. Deddy would’ve drove me.”

  “Friend, this isn’t your fault, any which way. It’s just a result of innocent choices and poor conditions. Don’t you go blaming yourself.”

  “Accidents happen,” Sam put in. “Reckon they’re just one of the dangers we face in this mortal life, which is uncertain at best. Hopefully, Thomas won’t be as bad off as he looks.”

  “If he was to die, reckon I’d just as leave die, too, as to have ever’body know it happened on account of him givin’ me a ride. Ever’body loves T-Rex.”

  The bishop groaned inwardly. “Let’s not even talk about him dying, all right? Let’s pray and try to have faith that he’s survived this long for a very good reason.”

  They rounded a curve and there were the headlights of Robert Patrenko’s car, which was parked so that they were beaming down into a brushy area off the right side of the road. The bishop pulled his truck into a position that added the benefit of his headlights to the scene.

  “Oh, mercy,” the bishop breathed, seeing the glint of the light on the shiny cycle that meant so much to its owner, now on its side with one wheel twisted upward. Some distance beyond the cycle, Brothers Patrenko and Nettles were kneeling beside the injured rider. Brother Nettles raised an arm and motioned to them to hurry.

  The bishop looked at Buddy. “Maybe you ought not . . .” he began, as they got out of the truck, but Buddy shook his head vehemently.

  “Got to, Bishop. Least I can do,” he said, his teeth chattering.

  “Okay.” He put one arm around the boy as they hurried down the embankment, through weeds that were nearly flattened by the gusts of cold wind that whipped through. Pine tops tossed and made a sighing sound, as if they, too, were agitated by the disturbance t
hat had come among them. Robert Patrenko and Bill Nettles were each in their shirtsleeves, their jackets covering the still form on the ground. T-Rex lay on his side, one arm trapped beneath him, and his head twisted backward. His mouth was open, and his breathing raspy and uneven. The bishop gasped, as at first it seemed that the boy’s whole head was covered with blood, and cracked open like a pumpkin, but then he realized that T-Rex still wore his helmet, which was a deep, metallic red color, and which, indeed, was split down one side.

  “When we heard you were almost here, we waited to give him a blessing,” Brother Patrenko said. “The ambulance is on its way. Bishop—who do you want to have anoint?” He held up one of the small bottles of consecrated oil. The bishop considered briefly.

  “Would you anoint, Bob? And I’ll bless. Buddy, why don’t you kneel down here by us and add your faith to our prayers, okay? Brethren, if you’ll give me just a minute to prepare . . .” He moved a few feet away from the group, facing the woods, and offered up a quick whispered prayer for guidance and inspiration in that which he was about to do, then turned back and knelt with his brethren as close to the injured boy as they could get. There were rocks in the area, and stumps where someone had partially cleared old trees away.

  The bishop felt a measure of comfort as Bob Patrenko placed the drop of oil just above T-Rex’s nose, on the only part of his head that they could access, and spoke the familiar words of the anointing. Then he took a deep breath and began the blessing. He heard himself promise the injured boy that if he chose to, he could be healed of the injuries that had occurred this night—that it would require time and courage, but his health would be restored to him through faith and the skills of medicine if that was his desire. He blessed him with strength to withstand the pain, and with patience and endurance and a new understanding of his mission in life, and encouraged him to have an obedient spirit and a willingness to accept the will of the Lord in his future. He blessed his brain and nerves and bones and internal organs—any parts of his body that might be injured or in danger, to be strong and to function properly. He assured T-Rex that the Lord knew and loved him and was aware of his needs at this time, and closed in the name of the Savior.

  “That’ll help, now,” breathed Sam Wright softly. “Thank you, Bishop.”

  The bishop became aware of Buddy crying quietly nearby, and rose to go to him, but Buddy was already standing and taking off his coat.

  “Here, my coat’s warmed up—put it over him, and one of y’all take yours back,” he said shakily. “Y’all’ve been standing out here longer.” He lifted a jacket from T-Rex’s chest and replaced it with his own, tucking it gently around him.

  “Good idea, friend,” the bishop said, doing the same thing with his jacket, draping it over T-Rex’s legs. “Now if you get too cold, Buddy, go jump in the truck, you hear?”

  “I’m fine,” the boy insisted, but he was already hugging his arms against the cold blasts. The bishop understood that this was part of the penance the younger boy felt he needed to pay for his part, though innocent, in the mishap.

  “Lula and Tom been notified?” he asked softly, looking around, and Brother Nettles nodded.

  “Bob called and got hold of Sister McIntyre at the house,” he said. “Tom’s out riding with Brother Likens. Reckon they’ll all show up here purty soon.”

  “I hope the paramedics hurry. I hate that it’s so cold, and now the rain’s comin’, too, feels like,” Sam said.

  The rain was indeed coming, and now the two coats that had just been put back on were taken off and held as a canopy over T-Rex. Soon everybody was shivering, and they talked little. It was just a matter of gritting their teeth and enduring—and besides, the bishop knew there were four internal conversations with the Lord going on besides his own. He, for one, was fervently thanking the Lord that they had been able to find T-Rex and that something had prompted him to think that Buddy Osborne might be involved. He felt pretty sure that something was the Holy Ghost.

  He looked at Buddy, who was hunkered down on his haunches, with his arms thrust between his knees for whatever warmth that could afford and thought how typical that was of the boy—always making himself into as small and inconspicuous a package as possible. He would need to make himself especially available to Buddy through the next weeks, while T-Rex was recovering . . . if he recovered. The bishop had no doubt that he could recover, but he had been as surprised as the others must have been at the indication he’d received that it would be T-Rex’s choice whether he chose to live. He fervently hoped, for Tom’s and Lula’s sake—and for Buddy’s, and even his own—that T-Rex would decide to stay around and continue to tease, annoy, and delight those who loved him.

  The ambulance could be heard long before it was seen, and the bishop thought he had never heard a more welcome sound than its mournful wail. It screeched to a stop, and the paramedics swarmed down the embankment with a speed that did his heart good. They worked quickly, taking vital signs, examining T-Rex’s eyes, assessing potential injuries from his placement and position and that of the cycle and the condition of his helmet and other considerations that the bishop could only guess at. They called their findings to the hospital and received crackly replies that they apparently were able to interpret. Eventually, they very carefully eased a backboard under the fallen boy, immobilizing his head and neck as best they could, and with a tremendous effort, lifted him and bore him up the hill. They were puffing with exertion as they loaded him into the ambulance.

  “He’s a big kid,” one of them commented, as he closed the doors.

  “He’s a linebacker,” Sam Wright told him. “The Mariners’ best. Thomas Rexford.”

  “This is T-Rex?” asked the young man, frowning. “Shoot, that’s too bad. I’ve seen him play, and he’s good. Say—could one of you folks follow along to the hospital and help us get him admitted, until his folks get there? We need a little preliminary information for our records.”

  “I’ll follow you,” the bishop offered. “I’ll want to stay there with Tom and Lula, anyway. Sam, could you drop Buddy back at home, and—”

  “Bishop?” Buddy’s voice was small, but urgent. “I gotta come, too.”

  “Aw, Buddy, there’s not a thing you can do there to help T-Rex. You might as well . . .”

  Buddy was shaking his head and still shivering all over from cold and nerves, as they all were. “See, the thing is, I just remembered I locked myself out. You know I don’t have a key—Mama left the kitchen door unlocked for me earlier, when she left, but I locked it, and when I came with you, I forgot and pulled the front door shut, and now it’s locked, too. I’m sorry. But anyway, I just want to be there.”

  “Right, come along, then. Reckon I don’t really want to leave you alone tonight, anyway.”

  “Thanks. I won’t bother nobody.”

  “You never do,” the bishop told him, placing a hand on his thin, wet shoulder as they moved toward the truck.

  “I’ll take these men home,” Robert Patrenko said. “Bishop, you’ll call us when you know anything?”

  “Me, too, Bishop? Any time of night, dudn’ matter at all,” Sam added.

  The bishop nodded. He was just about to pull away after the ambulance when another car converged on the scene. It contained Lula Rexford and Rosetta McIntyre. He stopped long enough to ask Rosetta if she could bring Lula to the hospital and stay with her there, then drove away. Lula’s face was pale and drawn. They passed a truck alongside the road that belonged to Brother Likens. It stopped just long enough to allow the ambulance and two cars to pass, then wheeled around and fell into line behind them. The cars and truck couldn’t keep up with the ambulance, but they did their best, arriving at the small hospital’s emergency entrance as the patient was being taken in. With Lula and Tom there, the bishop wasn’t needed after all to provide information, although the paramedics told him that the police would likely be contacting him to find what he knew about the circumstances of the accident. He and Buddy took seats in the e
mergency waiting room, where a wall-mounted television was showing some inane infomercial with a tanned, sleek couple flashing unnaturally white smiles at the camera every chance they got. Idly, he wondered what they were selling—but not enough to turn up the volume. A small artificial Christmas tree with winking blue and red lights was decorated with syringes, colored band-aids, and strips of gauze tied into bows. Buddy was gazing at it with distaste.

  “Don’t much feel like Christmas no more, does it?” he asked morosely.

  The bishop shook his head. “Nope,” he agreed. “Reckon I’d better call home and tell my wife what’s going on,” he said, realizing as he stood up how very tired he was, and how wet. He went to a pay phone in the hallway and put in the call. Trish was anxious, and full of questions for which he had no answers. He assured her that when more information became available, he would let her know. He hung up and walked wearily to the admissions station, where he finally got the attention of a clerk and asked if she might be able to snag a couple of blankets for him and Buddy to wrap around themselves.

  “Oh, y’all are soaking wet, aren’t you?” she said. “We could lend you a couple of hospital gowns, too, if you’d like to get out of your wet clothes.”

  “Um—no thanks,” he said, trying to smile. “Just blankets would be great. Keep us from getting pneumonia and ending up here, ourselves.”

  She brought them, eventually, and he and Buddy wrapped up in them gratefully.

  “T-Rex—he got a new seat for his cycle for Christmas, and new handgrips, and that was his new helmet he was wearing. He sure liked it,” Buddy offered after a few minutes of silence. “He’ll be mad it got cracked like that.”

  The bishop nodded. “Better the helmet than the head,” he said.

  “Reckon so. I heard, though, that sometimes helmets can cause neck injuries in a crash.”

  “Is that right?” That was not a happy thought, and the bishop hoped it wasn’t true. He wondered if T-Rex had been knocked out immediately in the accident, or if he’d had time to feel the pain of his injuries and the fear of not being found before he slipped into unconsciousness. In either case, he wondered if the boy would remember the accident later. He suspected he would not.