*
Tim was sweating in the snow. His hair had frozen into porcupine quills, and he was hot and cold at the same time. On the floor behind the front seat, he found the shovel they kept for such emergencies, and he built a ramp out of hard-packed snow to ride the back tires down, but he was frozen and tired and not sure his plan would work. The lighthouse at Mercy Point glowed soft as a candlestick, a reassurance in the gloom. Nothing came down the road the whole time. No sound at all but the susurrus of snow and his own labored breathing in the miserable wind. From far away, a sudden piercing howl frightened him. He straightened and stood, trying to find the direction and source in the landscape, but he could not determine either. The wailing came from all sides and above and within. Caught between the two poles of his journey, he could only dig more furiously and hope to be soon free.
The engine whined when he turned the key, and Tim cursed his bad luck until the ignition clicked and caught hold. He threw the Jeep into gear and launched down the makeshift ramp and back onto the slippery road, making sure not to stop but to keep moving forward slowly. Following the tree line and the shapes of other landmarks, he found his way and drove carefully to the Star of the Sea parking lot. Beneath a streetlight sat Holly’s car, a mound of snow dumped on the hood and roof, and further on, the rectory stood like a gingerbread house decorated for Christmas, with white frosting the roof and ledges, and cheery lights on in the downstairs windows. Gray smoke from the chimney filtered through the ribbons of snow, and he looked forward to a few moments in front of the fire and the chance to feel his toes and fingers again. As he stepped from the car, his left foot landed awkwardly in the slush, and pain shot across his lower back. The spasm seized him when he tried to move. Snow began to sift inside the Jeep and melt against the front seat and floor, for he could not shut the door, could not budge without excruciating stabbing pain. So this is what it is like to freeze to death, he thought. I will just stand here in this church parking lot and turn to snow and ice, and in the springtime, they will only have to thaw me out to bury me. The slightest tic sent fissures of pain along his spine and tightened his muscles into cords of steel. Even a grimace hurt, even a grunt, and when he tried to call for help, he found he could make no more than a choked whisper that even a dog would not be able to hear.
His name arrived on the wind. His wife had come running hurriedly from the rectory, calling for him, the snow whipping around her head and shoulders. Clenching her unbuttoned coat with one bare hand, she first reached out to shut the door of the Jeep. When Holly touched him to see what was the matter, the pressure buckled his knees.
“What’s wrong with you?” she shouted over the wind. “What took you so long?”
“Threw my back out,” he said, wrenching out each word. “Long story. No message from Jip. Got stuck on the road. Now I can’t move.”
“Jesus,” she said. “We’ve got to get you inside.”
The old priest, dressed more sensibly in a long duster and a hat and gloves, reached them, and Miss Tiramaku was two steps behind.
“What are we going to do?” Holly yelled at them. “His back has locked up.”
“Can you try to take a step?” Father Bolden asked.
“No,” Tim said with tears in his eyes.
Miss Tiramaku removed her gloves and then took Tim’s hand in hers and bared it. “Relax, this won’t hurt.” Feeling for a pressure point, she located a spot along his wrist and then firmly pressed her thumb in the web of skin and muscle between his index finger and thumb. She held on to him until he began to feel some ease.
“I think I can move,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Tricks up my sleeve,” she said.
“I could walk, if someone would hold on to me.”
“Take my arm,” said the priest, and they all shuffled together through the snow and made their way inside the rectory. While the back pain had subsided to a tolerable degree, he now felt the effects of the cold and the damp, and the others bustled around, finding a heating pad for him to lean against, a cup of hot tea, a warm blanket, and fresh woolen socks for his red feet. The pampering superseded the interrogation, but after he settled in a comfortable chair and had shaken off the chill, he faced the board of inquiry. They surrounded him and fired away, asking for details of his journey, what time he had left and how long it had taken, were the roads passable still. Satisfied with his answers, they all relaxed until the one remaining question popped into Holly’s mind.
“But what have you done with the boys?”