Evidence of Mercy by Terri Blackstock Page A

did,” Mike said. “Maybe it was random, Lynda. Random acts of violence happen all the time. People break into houses randomly, shoot at passing cars—”
    â€œSome world we live in, huh?”
    â€œYou’re right; it’s not a pleasant thought—but it’s better than thinking someone tried to kill you.”
    â€œWhat if they’re still trying?” she whispered. She felt fear rising inside. “I mean, they failed, didn’t they? What if they haven’t given up?”
    Mike got up and came to lean against the windowsill. “Think, Lynda. Is there anyone in your life who hates you enough to want to kill you?”
    â€œWell, I didn’t know there was, but obviously—”
    â€œNot so obviously. I mean, yes, there’s somebody out there who was trying to get his kicks, but that doesn’t mean he’s after you.”
    â€œKicks?” she whispered. “Causing a plane crash gave him his kicks?”
    â€œThere’s a lot of evil around us, Lynda. We don’t have to let it consume us.”
    â€œWhat if we don’t have a choice?” she whispered. “They’re probably going to let me go home tomorrow. Am I gonna be a sitting duck? And what about Paige and Brianna? They’re staying in my house.”
    â€œIf he’d wanted you, whoever it is, he could have found you at home before, don’t you think? That’s what makes me think it’s random.”
    Lynda shrugged, unconvinced.
    â€œAnyway, the two cops who are working on it are planning to come by and talk to you today. If there is someone after you, they can get to the bottom of it.” He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead and wiped a stray tear off her cheek. “It’ll be okay.”
    â€œI just need some time alone to think about it, I guess.”
    â€œI’m going,” he said. “But first, I want to tell you that the cops who are investigating this are Tony Danks and Larry Millsaps. Larry’s a buddy of mine from church. I’ve known him for years. You can trust him.”
    She felt some comfort in that. “Thank you, Mike,” she whispered.
    T he two people assigned to rehabilitate Jake—Allie Williams, a 120-pound dynamo who approached occupational therapy with a determination that rivaled Jake’s determination to sink into depression, and Buzz Slater, a former paraplegic who’d become a physical therapist after learning to walk again himself—didn’t seem to care that Jake’s head was still on the verge of bursting with pain or that nausea was hiding just below the surface, waiting to assault him at any given moment. Since he awoke from the accident, their hands had been all over him, poking and prodding, flexing and massaging, despite his venomous verbal resistance.
    Nothing he said daunted them, no insult offended them, at least not enough to make them leave him alone. Every two hours they came in and turned him over, massaged him, and bent him this way and that until finally he’d vowed to learn how to turn himself over just to get a little peace.
    â€œThat’s not all you’ll learn to do today,” Allie said brightly as she wheeled a gurney into the room. “Today you’re going to the tilt table in the rehab room. We’re going to get you sitting up, so you can get out of bed.”
    That sounded easy enough, and Jake was almost hopeful as they wheeled him down the hallway, flat on his back to the big room where a dozen or more people like him worked—on mats, in a pool, on parallel bars, with walkers.
    He didn’t object when they transferred him to the flat table, but when they began strapping him down, he got worried. “What are the straps for?”
    â€œTo keep you from sliding off, Jake,” Buzz said. “You’ve been flat for three days. We have to get you upright gradually. You may have some problems.”
    But Jake