Nothing Sacred

Right here.

“I haven’t heard from you in two weeks.”

You haven’t asked.

No, he supposed he hadn’t. He hated it when he did that—got so caught up in himself and his mission that he forgot he wasn’t doing this on his own.

“So tell me, is there a reason for me to be here?”

What do you think?

“I’m asking you.”

What do you think?

David didn’t know why he bothered trying to take the easy way out. Expecting him to do the work. There was no getting around the voice in his head. It always told him what he intuitively knew was right—even he didn’t recognize the rightness of what that voice said until he heard it.

And it didn’t give up.

It was why he’d grown to trust them so implicitly.

“I think I have a job to do here.”

Yes.

“There are people here who need my help.”

Yes.

“I’m here for them, not for me.”

No.

What? “What?” he reiterated out loud, sitting in the middle of his couch, feet planted firmly on the floor, staring at a TV screen that could have been popping bubbles for all he knew.

There was no answer to his question. And that happened sometimes, too.

“Then…who am I here for?” He tried rephrasing it.

You.

David stood, turned off the television. That answer hadn’t come from his angel. Because this wasn’t about him. He knew that. His life was about serving others.

He’d bake some cookies.

And take them to the veterinary clinic in the morning. If Cassie and Zack didn’t want them, then surely their clients would. Dogs ate dirt and grass and practically everything else. Surely they’d eat David’s oatmeal cookies.

The first batch wasn’t done evenly—he’d forgotten to preheat the oven and had just shoved the cookies in cold. But cookie dough was a popular taste these days.

And the second batch burned—he hadn’t bothered with the timer, knowing he’d be right there and would remember to check them. Then he’d decided to do the dishes, which led to taking out the trash, which led to a walk around the backyard just to assure himself that there wasn’t something else that needed doing. He’d known the minute he’d gone back inside what he’d done. His nose had told him.

No problem. Dogs were color-blind. And they were used to eating crunchy food. They wouldn’t care if their cookies were hard and black.

And maybe, while he was at the clinic, he’d see about getting a dog of his own. Cassie and Zack would know if there were some puppies, or even an older dog, that needed a home.

He scraped the last of the burned cookies from the pan and was just heading to the sink when there was a noise at his kitchen door. It sounded more as if something had fallen against the door than a knock. He stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

Setting down the pan, David moved to the door and opened it slowly, half expecting to see a stray pooch there, looking for a home. Maybe it had smelled the cookies….

What he saw stopped his heart.

“Ellen?” He knew it was her. But he didn’t recognize her at all.

The girl was a mess. Her clothes were torn. Her eyes and lips swollen. Her short blond hair was plastered to her head, except for a couple of places where it was sticking straight up.

What kind of accident could have done this to her?

“Honey?”

She didn’t respond. Just stood there. Staring blankly at the doorjamb as though she was seeing something far away—or deep inside herself.

He wasn’t sure she knew where she was.

“Ellen.” He spoke more firmly. He was afraid to touch her. And yet he had to find out what had happened. The extent of her injuries. She could have broken bones or be bleeding internally. “Come inside, child.”

He had to get her into the light. Get her to talk. Get help.

Keeping a tight grip on his heart, he forced logical thought to take over. This wasn’t Ellen. It wasn’t a child. Wasn’t his parishioner. Or the daughter of Martha Moore. This was simply a hurt human being in need of help.

Slowly, she took a step forward. Stumbled. Whimpered.

David’s hands flew out, catching her as she started to fall. Taking all her weight upon himself, he half carried her inside. With her head buried against his shoulder, the sounds she made were unintelligible. He had no idea if she was trying to speak or protesting painful movement.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said softly, shutting the door behind him as he guided her gently to a chair in the kitchen. “I’ll call your mother.”

“No.” She refused to sit down, buried her face more completely in the crook of his elbow. Her next words were mumbled.

“What?” he asked, holding her by the arms as he freed her face enough to look at her. “I didn’t get that.”

“The light’s too bright,” she said, and started to sob. “Please,” she hiccupped. “No light. And no calls.”

“I need the light, Ellen. I need to get a look at you. And call for help.”

“No!” she shrieked. “No calls. No one…” She started to cry again. “No one but you.”

Her insistence struck fear in the heart he’d silenced, filling his mind with dreadful suspicion.