Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

time. Not until it was almost too late. I hated God. I blamed Him for their deaths. I went to war against Him. And it almost killed me.”

She was crying again, quietly, her shoulders trembling. “I feel like that. Why? Why did He take them from me? Shane was such a good boy… so good and kind. If you had only known him… known him as I did. His heart was so good. And Amber… Amber is just a baby. Why would He take them? Is it because of me? Am I a bad mother? A bad wife?”

My heart was breaking for her. My eyes burned. The road blurred before me and I had to blink fast to clear my vision. “No — no, this didn’t happen because of you, Lisa. It didn’t”

Her hands clenched into fists, tight and white knuckled. “Then why? Why?”

Why do bad things happen to good people? The eternal question. Why would a good God allow bad things to happen? It was the question that almost destroyed me after my family’s murder. I gave her the best answer I could. The same one my father-in-law gave me to end my war with God. “Before my wife and I decided to have a baby, we knew there would be bad days. We knew that our child would be hard to take care of sometimes. That she would cry, dirty her diaper, break things. We even knew there was the possibility she could…” I had to stop for a second, clear my throat, “…could get hurt or die or maybe worse, turn out bad herself. We could have decided to buy a doll and forego any chance of those bad and difficult things happening. So, knowing all those terrible possibilities, why not forget the baby and go with the doll? Because a doll can’t appreciate love. And what parents want more than anything is to be able to share, and shower and pour out the love and beauty and wonder of all that’s been given to us. To give all your best and all the best that is in you to them.

“I think that’s why God made us. So that He could pour out all His love on us. So He could share what He is, with us. He could have created dolls and saved Himself and us a lot of heartache and pain. But if He had, both He and us would have missed out on something that is worth all the risk, all the pain, all the hurt. We would not be able to experience love, either by receiving it, or giving it. So, in order for there to be real, true love, God had to give us free choice. The ability to choose to love: ourselves, each other, even Him. Or to not love. And when people choose to not love we hurt each other.

“God didn’t do this, Lisa. Not to you and not to Shane and not to Amber. Evil men did this. Save your anger for them.”

I reached over and took her hand. She gripped my fingers tight. And then she crumbled, the cries coming in big racking sobs that shook her whole body. She cried the rest of the way home.

38

Lisa’s sister, Trudy, was at the Franklin house when we arrived. I spotted an unmarked car up the street. Two young plain-clothes cops sat inside eyeing me. I didn’t recognize either one. I followed Lisa into the house. She went to her bedroom, still crying softly.

Trudy gave me a look and I said, “Tom’s okay, but Lisa’s pretty shaken by the whole thing.” I am nothing if not the king of understatements.

“I understand,” said Trudy.

I left, stopped by my house to put on a new shirt, wincing from the bullet wound. I took a couple of extra-strength aspirin and drove to Colorado Springs; to Ballard’s Rentals. It was nicer than I pictured. A large building with a brick façade and a beautifully manicured lawn and hedges. A row of tulips lined both sides of the walk up to the front door. They smelled good. Springy.

A petite young woman was sitting behind the counter. “Hi, I’m Kendra, can I help you?” Once again her bubbly voice reminded me of Sally Fields from The Flying Nun.

“Hi, Kendra. I called about the limo with the cracked windshield.”

“Oh yeah, I remember. How sweet of you to want to take responsibility for an accident like that. Most people would try and get out of it, but here you are.”

I held out my hands, smiling, ignoring the twinge of pain across my shoulder and bicep. “Here I am.” I pointed toward a door that looked like it led to a garage. “Is it back there?”

“Yes, did you want to see it?” Her smile was as big as Marie Osmond’s.

“If you don’t mind. I want to make sure it’s the same car.”

“Oh sure. Absolutely.” She got up and came around the counter. She was all of five feet tall and maybe eighty-five pounds, with long, straight, brown hair. She was wearing blue shorts that ended just above the knees and a pretty, red, short sleeve blouse.

I opened the door for her.

“Thank yew,” she said with that Sally field voice and Marie Osmond smile. There were seven limos in the garage. The one with the cracked windshield sat at the end of the first line.

The plates were the same, so was the crack. I ran a finger along the thin edge, tracing its jagged, lightning bolt like line from the driver’s side, half-way across the windshield. “Yep, looks like it.” I turned to her. “You know, I’ve never seen the inside of one of these. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. It’s unlocked, feel free.”

I did just that. I looked around, scanning the inside for any clue. I was hoping for a business card or a receipt, anything to tie to Mr. Spock and his boys. I ran my hand along the back edge of the cushion, digging into the