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  When Harry got up and went to the podium, David sat straighter, watching, listening.

  “My wife…” Harry stopped and cleared his throat. Finally, he went on. “My wife planned her funeral. She told me who she wanted to preach it, who she wanted to speak, who she wanted to sing. She had very specific instructions.”

  He stopped and brought a handkerchief to his nose. “A few days before her death, she asked me to bring the tape recorder to her room. She had some things she wanted to say to all of you. So here…in her own voice, and her own words, is my wife’s message.”

  He went back to his seat and wiped his eyes, stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  David glanced at Brenda again. Her face looked stricken as she waited for the tape to begin.

  Then David heard the hiss of the tape. He stared down at his hands, listening.

  “Hello, friends.”

  It was as if she stood in the room with them, standing at the microphone, her smile lighting up the place.

  “When you hear the rumors of my death, don’t you believe them.”

  He looked up, frowning, and locked eyes with the picture of her on her casket.

  “By the time you hear this, I will be in the presence of Jesus. I’ll be free of this sick, earthly body, and I’ll be laughing with more joy than I’ve ever known on earth. And I’ve had lots of joy. John 16:22 says, ‘Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.’

  “So don’t cry for me. Remember the happy times, the times when God worked in our lives, when he taught us precious lessons, when he used us together. Remember the best moments.”

  David met Brenda’s eyes, and wished he could be beside her.

  “And think ahead to that day, not so far from now, when I’ll be there to greet you, as you come home, too.

  “Harry, I can’t express how much I’ve loved you. God chose you for me when we were very young, and you have been a model to me of how much Christ loves me. My love for you has not died. It remains and lives on.

  “Sarah, what a beautiful daughter you’ve been, and what a precious mother. You’re my treasure, and my hope. Everything I had I put into you. I can’t wait to see all your crowns when you get here. Gary, take good care of her and little Breanna, and all those other children that you and Sarah will have.

  “Breanna, know that your grandma loves you. You won’t have memories of me, so let me tell you what’s important to know, and what I want you to tell all the other grandchildren yet to come. Tell them that my life was worth it. Everything, all of it, was worth it, because of the unsurpassed joy that Christ has on the other side.

  “Jeff, my son, my precious boy…You’re a man after God’s own heart, and I’m so proud of you. Someday you’ll marry and have children, too, and though I won’t be there to see them, I’ll be ready to make up for lost time when they get here.

  “To my dear neighbors, and my very closest friends in the world, I’ve loved you so much.”

  David felt tears ambushing him, catching in his throat, pulling at his face. He closed his eyes.

  “Cathy and Steve, God has brought the two of you together, and joined your two families. You’ve been joined for a purpose, all of you. I pray that you’ll learn the art of dying to yourself, living for each other, and bearing much fruit for the Lord who gives you everything you need.

  “Annie, you were right all those months ago. When God lit up our path that day, he was telling me that he would light my way. I know you’re thinking that my prediction didn’t come true, that I’ll never dance at your wedding. But when Christ comes to get his Bride, I’ll be with him. I’ll see you in that white gown, after all.”

  Annie covered her face and pressed a wad of tissue to her eyes.

  “Mark and Rick, you’re turning into such godly young men. You’ll be wonderful fathers and husbands some day. I’m so proud of both of you. And Tracy, what a precious child. I know you’ll grow into a godly woman.

  “Tory and Barry…”

  Next to David, Barry leaned his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands.

  “Your faith has grown so much in the last few years. The Lord has done mighty things in your lives. I know he’ll continue those mighty works. I know that your children will grow to become people of God—Brittany and Spencer, and even little Hannah, who will one day invite Jesus into her heart. There’s no doubt in my mind. Always remember to have the simple faith of that little child, and you can’t go wrong.

  “And Brenda and David…”

  David looked up, staring through his tears at that picture again. It was as if Sylvia’s eyes were fixed on him.

  “What a dear family you have, and God has done amazing works in your lives. I expect multitudes to know Jesus, because of Joseph’s sweet, priceless heart, and Daniel, Leah, and Rachel’s abiding faith. Brenda, you’ve done a wonderful job with them. Never let the worries of the world interfere with your life’s work.

  “Joseph, I want you to have Midnight. Dr. Harry and I have arranged for you to keep her at a stable nearby. Her rent and food are paid for for the next five years. I think God meant her for you all along…”

  David smiled and looked at his son, saw that Joseph smiled through his tears.

  “And David…”

  He snapped his gaze back to the picture.

  “David, I want you to know that God does exist, and he loves you. I want to see you in heaven, David. I want to see the joy in your eyes as you walk down the streets of gold and behold the light of the Lord’s glory. All of your family will be there. David, don’t be left behind.”

  It was as though a stake had been driven through his heart, killing something inside him, crushing the core of who he believed himself to be. From Sylvia’s perspective, he was an incomplete man, a man who hid from obvious truth, a man with a void the shape of hope in his heart.

  He couldn’t stop himself as grief—for Sylvia, but even more for himself—conquered him completely. He set his elbows on his knees and dropped his face. Barry straightened beside him and touched his shoulder. Daniel patted his knee.

  The rest of the service went by in a blur, as the preacher gave a message that once again pointed to Christ rather than Sylvia.

  Someone sang, someone read a poem…

  But none of it registered in his mind. All he could hear was Sylvia’s voice ringing in his ears. David, don’t be left behind.

  He pictured that day, when his family went to heaven and greeted Sylvia again. Joseph, running and jumping in some divine meadow, Leah and Rachel glowing like angels, Daniel rejoicing, Brenda laughing and laughing and laughing…

  But he was not in that picture. Like the night they had all headed off for the program at church, the program that he’d almost missed, he would be left out.

  David, don’t be left behind.

  The pallbearers stood, and shaking himself out of his reverie, he stood with them. Leaving the casket where it was for now, they filed out of the room. Harry and the family, and Brenda, Tory, Cathy, and the kids all lined up behind them and left the room.

  He couldn’t talk to anyone, couldn’t look in their eyes, couldn’t make small talk about what a wonderful service it had been. Instead he went into the rest room, bent over the sink, and splashed water on his face. Slowly, he dried it off, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  David, don’t be left behind.

  He left the bathroom, and went back into the sanctuary. It was empty now, except for the casket. Sylvia’s picture had been taken down, but the autumn flowers still draped across its lid.

  Tears that seemed to come from some aged place in the deepest part of his soul rushed up to drown him, and he twisted his face and let it go.

  Slowly, he fell to his knees at the altar behind the casket.

  “David?” It was Harry’s voice behind him, and he looked up at the man who should have been the one doubled over in grief.

  He started
to rise up. “Harry, I’m so sorry…”

  “It’s okay.” Harry knelt beside him. “Talk to me, David.”

  David tried to stop the slide of his anguish. “What she said on that tape…”

  Harry smiled. “Tough stuff, huh? It was very serious business to her. Your salvation has been on her heart for a very long time. Just as it’s been on Brenda’s.”

  David didn’t know how so many tears could be pouring from his eyes, while his throat seemed so dry. “Harry, I saw a picture of heaven in my mind during the funeral. And I wasn’t there.” He sucked in a sob and wiped the tears from his face.

  Finally, he looked Harry in the eye. “Harry, I don’t want to be left behind.”

  Out in the church foyer, Brenda searched the faces of the departing mourners for David. Soon they would be loading the casket into the hearse, and the cars would line up for their procession to the grave site.

  She knew he was upset. She’d watched his profile as Sylvia spoke directly to him, and she’d seen the pain on his face. As much as she wanted Sylvia’s words to penetrate his heart, she hated the thought that he was hurting or embarrassed, somewhere alone.

  She found Daniel standing with the other pallbearers. “Honey, where’s your dad?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Somebody said they saw him go back into the sanctuary, but I don’t know why he’d do that.”

  Frowning, Brenda hurried down the hall. As she neared the sanctuary, she saw the funeral director standing just outside the door.

  “Is anyone in there?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I was going to roll the casket out, but Dr. Bryan and another man are having a private conversation.”

  Another man. She knew it was David. She bolted through the doors and into the large room. She saw her husband kneeling at the altar, with Harry beside him.

  She stood silently as he prayed. She couldn’t hear the words, but her heart soared with hope. Lord, are you answering my prayer?

  After a moment, the prayer came to an end, and David looked up. Harry hugged him tightly, and both men came to their feet.

  As David turned to her, she saw the tears on his face. “Brenda,” he whispered.

  She ran into his arms, and clung to him with all her strength.

  “I’m so sorry, Brenda.”

  “So sorry? For what?” she asked. “What have you done?”

  “I’ve failed you all these years,” he said, “by not believing the truth that was so obvious. The truth about Jesus Christ. He’s real. I’ve seen it so many times, but I chose to reject it. All the things you’ve stood for all these years are right, and I don’t know why I’ve been so blind.”

  He broke down, and Brenda kept holding him. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

  Harry put his hand on both of their backs. “Tell her what you did, David.”

  He pulled back and looked down at her. “I asked Christ to forgive me and change me,” he said. “I want to live for him from now on, like Sylvia did…like you do. When I die, I want to leave good things behind. And I want to be a spiritual leader in our family, because you deserve that. I want to be a new person.”

  Brenda suddenly knew the joy that Sylvia had prayed for. There was joy in her death. Fruit had come from it. David was a believer!

  As she wept and pulled Harry into their circle, she saw that Harry had that joy, too. All of Sylvia’s prayers had now been answered.

  CHAPTER

  Eighty-One

  The Lord seemed to have adorned the world for Sylvia’s burial. The autumn trees wore an explosion of colors, from yellow to bright red, and the early November breeze whispered gently across the hills.

  The neighbors of Cedar Circle stood hand in hand at the burial, their husbands behind them. Next to Cathy stood Annie, Rick, and Mark, each struggling with their own open grief. Brenda and David stood on the end with Joseph, Leah, Rachel, and Daniel beside them, and Tory and Barry had Brittany and Spencer standing quietly in front of them.

  When the burial service was finished, all of the funeral attendees went back to their cars. Harry and the kids stood near the cars, talking softly to the mourners.

  “It was a beautiful day,” Brenda whispered. “Sylvia would have liked it.”

  “Yeah,” Cathy said. “She would have been clipping leaves to use as Thanksgiving centerpieces.”

  “Riding Midnight,” Tory added.

  A gentle wind whipped up, blowing their hair and drying their tears. But more came.

  “I can’t do this,” Tory whispered. “I can’t say good-bye.”

  “Yes, you can.” Brenda squeezed her hand. “We said it when she went to León. We knew we’d see her again. It’s no different now.”

  “It feels different,” Tory said.

  Harry came back and gave them each a flower from the top of the casket. One by one, he kissed their cheeks. “We’ll go on,” he told them. “It seems impossible now, but we will. There’s work to do.”

  Cathy took his hand. “You’re going back to León, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I want to be back for their memorial service next week. The kids are joining me there for Christmas. I think it’ll be good for them to see the results of their mother’s work.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Brenda said.

  He couldn’t answer. His eyes strayed to the casket, still sitting beside the grave it would be lowered into after they were gone.

  “She would tell us to sing,” he whispered. “Don’t you think she would?”

  There was a long silence…

  Then Brenda began to sing. “It will be worth it all, when we see Jesus…”

  Cathy joined in…then Tory picked up…and Harry followed.

  The song lifted on the breeze, carried across the grave sites, rose up the hills on the other side…

  From the depths of their grief came a fragile joy…and from the hollow of their good-bye…

  …A distant hello.

  For their story would not end, until they met again.

  Enjoy This Exerpt from

  PRIVATE JUSTICE

  in the Newpointe 911 Series

  Chapter One

  The competing sounds of brass bands, jazz ensembles, and zydeco musicians gave Newpointe, Louisiana, an irresistibly festive atmosphere, but Mark Branning tried not to feel festive. It was a struggle, since he stood in a clown suit with an orange wig on his head, preparing to make the long walk down the Mardi Gras parade route. Already, Jacquard Street was packed with tourists and townspeople here to chase beads and candy being thrown by drunken heroes. In moments, he and his fellow firefighters, also dressed as clowns, would fall into their sloppy formation on the town’s main drag, followed by the fire truck that carried even more painted firemen.

  It was what promoters advertised as a “family friendly” parade—unlike the decadent bacchanalian celebrations in New Orleans, only forty minutes away. But Fat Tuesday was still Fat Tuesday, no matter where it was celebrated, and it always got out of hand. It was the time of year when the protective services in Newpointe had to be on the alert. Last year, during the same “family friendly” parade, a man had been stabbed, two women had been raped, and they’d been called to the scene of four drunk-driving accidents. It seemed to get worse every year.

  Just days ago, Jim Shoemaker, police chief of the small town, and Craig Barnes, fire chief, had appealed to the mayor that the town was better served if their forces remained on duty on Fat Tuesday. Mayor Patricia Castor insisted that the community needed to see their emergency personnel having fun with everyone else. It fostered trust, she said, and made the men and women who protected the town look more human. At her insistence, and to Shoemaker’s and Barnes’s dismay, only skeleton crews were to remain on duty, while the rest of the firemen, police officers, and paramedics were to dress like clowns and act like idiots. “It’s a religious holiday,” she drawled, as if that sealed her decision.

  Mark slung the shoulder strap of his bag
of beads and candies over his head, and snickered at the idea that they would call Fat Tuesday a religious anything. The fact that it preceded Lent—a time for fasting and reflection as Easter approached—seemed to him a lame excuse for drunken revelry.

  A police squad car pulled up beside the group of wayward firefighters, and Stan Shepherd, the town’s only detective—still unadorned and unpainted—grinned out at him. “Lookin’ good, Mark,” he said with a chuckle.

  “So how’d you get out of this?” Mark asked him, ambling toward the car. “I thought Newpointe’s finest were supposed to dress like demonic bikers.”

  “Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?” Stan asked with a grin. “Pat Castor wants us to show the town how human and accessible we are, so she makes us wear makeup that could give nightmares to a Marine.”

  “Hey, what can you say? It’s Mardi Gras. You still haven’t told me why you’re not made up.”

  “Because I refused,” Stan stated flatly. “How’s that for a reason?”

  Mark leaned on the car door and stared down at his friend. “You mean that’s all it took?”

  “That’s all. Plus I read some statute to her about how it was illegal for someone out of uniform to drive a squad car.”

  “You’re not in uniform, Stan.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m a plainclothes cop. This is my uniform.” Stan looked past Mark to the others milling around, waiting impatiently for their chance to ruin their reputations. “Speaking of nightmares, check out George’s costume.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout me?” George Broussard asked, coming toward the car. Mark grinned at the Cajun’s gaudy three-colored foil wig and the yellow and purple-polka dot shirt he wore. It was too little for him, and the buttons strained over his protruding gut. His hairy belly peeked out from under the bottom hem of the ill-chosen blouse, and someone had drawn a smiling pair of lips under his navel and crossed eyes above it.

  “Yep. The stuff that bad dreams are made of,” Mark agreed.

  “Yeah, and you got lotsa room to talk,” George returned. “Just ’cause you don’t got the canvas I got to work with…” He patted his bare belly again, and Mark turned away in mock disgust.