Tara Quinn - Nothing Sacred

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.

“You need to see a doctor, honey! We need to know how badly injured you are.”

“No! I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” But he had a horrible feeling the calls could wait, that Ellen’s most serious injuries weren’t physical. Authority came through out of necessity. “You need to tell me what happened, Ellen. Now.”

A fresh spate of sobs erupted, and she clutched the sleeve of his shirt with her fingers.

“Tell me, honey,” he said, growing more and more certain that he wasn’t ready to hear what he suspected she would—eventually—tell him.

An agonizing couple of minutes passed while she cried, then took a deep breath, only to choke on another outburst of agony.

“You have to tell me what happened, Ellen.” David forced as much calm into the words as his thick throat allowed. “You need help.”

“I—” She broke off, tightening her grip on his shirt as she lifted her head enough to look up at him. “Only…you.” She stumbled over the words. “Only you.”

Because he knew he had no choice, David nodded. “I’m the only one here.”

He pushed her gently into the chair he’d pulled out for her, then sat in the adjoining chair and clasped her hands.

She hadn’t said a word, but David knew. And felt the acid burning of vomit rising to his throat.

Help me. The plea was a demand, issued as urgently as he’d ever spoken to whatever higher power was guiding his life.

I’m here.

Okay, then. He took a deep breath.

“Ellen?”

“I ran out of gas.”

He probably shouldn’t be holding her hands, shouldn’t touch her at all.

She needs you. Listen.

He did. To his heart. He released one of her hands and smoothed the hair back from Ellen’s swollen cheeks, brushed it off a forehead grimy with sweat and God knew what else.

He was going to see someone in hell for this.

Later.

“He…he…” She began to shake. Violently.

David couldn’t remember ever being more scared. And only once before in his life had he felt this sick.

Steady.

Yeah. Yeah. Steady. He knew what life was about. All of it. The happiness. And the suffering, too.

“Someone hurt you when you ran out of gas?” he asked, compelled to get this over with. To get to the healing part.

“I hitchhiked,” she said through chattering teeth.

“And someone picked you up.”

When she nodded, David’s heart sank.

“It was a man,” he said.

With a second, jerky nod, she confirmed his worst fears. But he continued, anyway, getting her to tell him where the man had taken her.

“He told me if I didn’t take my clothes off, he’d rip them.” She was shivering, huddled in her chair, but speaking clearly now, as though she was somehow detached from it all. “And when I didn’t, he started to—so I…” She faltered and started to cry again, more softly.

“So you did.”

“Yes.” The whisper was barely audible. And tore through David with such ferocity he didn’t know how he stayed seated.

I’m the wrong man for this one, he thought grimly.

Steady.

You be steady! The angry words were spoken only in his mind.

I am. Always.

Anguish ripped through him. Hers. His. Too much anguish.

Shut up!

“He…touched…me….”

No. I can’t stand this. Don’t go! he implored the voice.

I’m always here.

Ellen described the humiliation and horror of having a strange man touch her in places he should never have seen. Of having her body violated in ways that were unfathomable to her.