“Somebody get up there!” Boyd Fletcher squalled. “She’s going to get that boy killed!”
Megan tried to pull Gerry up but couldn’t. She lacked the upperbody muscle it would take to pull the boy up. At the same time she wondered who had brought Boyd Fletcher out into the parking lot. If the man hadn’t startled Gerry—
But he did, she told herself. You’re dealing with that now. No! God, we’re dealing with this! You and me! You helped put Gerry out here on this roof tonight, and You’re going to help me get him back down!
Metal rang as the MPs pounded up the stairs. “Hold on, ma’am!” one of them called. “Just hold on!”
I am! Megan thought. God help me, I am! God, please help me!
Megan could see an explosion of fear go off inside Gerry as he dangled above the waiting ground. Whatever he’d thought when he stepped off the roof, he’d clearly changed his mind now. He kicked and whipped his other arm up to grab hold of her forearm.
“Pull me up, Mrs. Gander!” the boy pleaded. “Pull me up! I don’t want to fall! Please don’t let me fall!”
At least we’re on the same page now, Megan thought. She pulled at her arm. Abruptly, she slid across the roof’s edge. Her shirt buttons rasped against the rough surface. No! God, no!
She kicked her legs back and barely managed to stop herself from continuing to skid over the edge. From the sound of their steps on the metal treads, the MPs had reached the second landing now. She breathed as deeply as she could, forcing herself to be calm.
“Somebody stop her!” Boyd Fletcher yelled. “She’s going to get my son killed!”
My son. Megan heard the words, but she didn’t believe it. Boyd Fletcher hadn’t ever called Gerry by his name in her hearing before. He’d referred to the boy as a possession; the same as saying “my car.”
Pain burned through her arm. She focused on Gerry. His eyes were wide with panic. His fingernails clawed into her arm, leaving bloody furrows. Her own fear allowed her to ignore the burning pain of the deep scratches, as if it were someone else’s flesh that was getting torn.
“Mrs. Gander! Mrs. Gander! Please help me!”
“I am, Gerry. I am.” Megan tried to keep the tears from her eyes but she couldn’t. She was going to drop him. She’d never be able to hold him till help arrived. He seemed to get heavier with each passing second, a weight like a blacksmith’s anvil kicking and yelling at the end of her arm.
“Stop her!” Boyd Fletcher yelled. “She’s going to kill him! She’s crazy!” He struggled, trying to break away from the two MPs who had stayed with him, even though his hands were cuffed behind his back. One of the MPs slapped his stick at the backs of Fletcher’s legs, knocking the man into a crumpled kneeling position. He leaned down, pinning Fletcher with one hand against the small of his back.
Fletcher screamed curses.
“Calm down, Private,” one of the MPs ordered.
To Megan the voices, even Fletcher’s yells, seemed like they came from a million miles away.
“Mrs. Gander!” Gerry hung on to her desperately.
Megan slid another couple inches, getting dangerously close to losing her scant purchase at the roof’s edge. “God,” she shouted, “please help me! Please help me with this!”
But there was no answer.
There had never been an answer when she had asked for help. Sometimes, most of the time, she had to admit, the situations she prayed over had gotten better. Bill told her that God acted in the world, gave signs that built faith if people trusted enough to look for them. Even in the Old Testament, when God had spoken to His prophets on a regular basis, those ancient men had struggled more to disbelieve and discount than to accept. Bill had suggested that was why idolatry had sprung up, that man had a self-defeating need to reach out to things that didn’t exist rather than admit God’s love was there for them.
Idols couldn’t hold a person accountable for his or her actions. A person couldn’t break faith with an idol. An idol was a fabrication, a thing a person chose to believe in because she could exercise some control over the idol by choosing to worship it or not worship it.
Blame could be placed on an idol, payoffs withheld from that idol, a new idol found. But what about God’s love? Megan asked herself frantically as she slid another inch. Where is His hand in this? I’m going to lose this boy, God! I’m not strong enough to hold him! Please! You can see this! You have to be able to see this! Help me!
“Mrs. Gander!” Gerry slipped another inch.
Megan’s grip on the boy’s hand loosened. Her hand grew numb and ached miserably from her sustained effort. Goose could have pulled the boy back up. She felt certain of that. Goose was strong, stable. He could handle anything the world threw at him and keep going. She had seen that.
Gerry slipped again, and Megan slid forward across the roof’s edge. She knew that if she didn’t release him his weight was going to drag her into a free fall with him. Part of her—the animal part that lived in the lowest recesses of her brain, still afraid of fire and storms and any kind of change—screamed at her to let go. No one could blame her for saving herself. She had already risked her life. Saving Gerry Fletcher was impossible—Nothing is impossible with God’s help—it would have been better if she had missed him—Why didn’t I miss him?
Gerry’s hand slipped from her forearm, no longer able to hang on, his clasp sliding from her arm to her hand.
“Mrs. Gander!”
“I’ve got you, Gerry. I’ve got you. Just hang on. Just hang on
