Cranberry Point (Cedar Cove #4)(85)

"I did. No need to tell him I phoned, I'll catch him later." All Bob wanted was someone to tell him not to go inside that bar. Anyone. He had to hear it, because the pull toward that front door grew stronger and more compelling with every breath he drew.

"Of course," Olivia said. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "Is everything all right?"

"Sure," he lied but realized he must have sounded as desperate as he felt. "On second thought, have him call me, would you?"

"The minute he walks in, I'll let him know. You want him to call your cell phone?"

"Please." Bob didn't bother to say goodbye. He ended the call and put his hand on the door handle. He'd tried. If he walked into the Pink Dog, it was because Jack hadn't answered his phone. He'd been there for Jack countless times over the past fourteen years, but now—when he needed a friend, someone to talk sense into him—Jack was nowhere to be found. Typical. When he needed help, his good friend Jack was unavailable.

As Bob opened the car door, a cool breeze blew inside. He breathed in the scent of the night and closed his eyes, knowing full well that if he walked into that bar, it would be the end. He'd go right back to the hell his life had been twenty-one years ago. Right back to the insanity, the madness that had controlled him.

He placed one foot and then the other on the ground outside the car. He blamed his golfing partner, Pastor Dave Flemming, for this. In his frame of mind, it was easy to cast blame. All this talk about healing and forgiveness. What Dave didn't understand was that some sins couldn't be forgiven. Yeah, he talked about forgiving yourself, but that wasn't an option for Bob, not with what he'd done. Some acts defied forgiveness. A man couldn't slaughter women, children, old people, and ever be the same again. It just wasn't possible. Maybe he should've died that day.

Bob remembered returning from Vietnam. He'd landed in San Francisco, grateful to get home alive. When he was granted leave, he'd been warned against wearing his uniform into town. Returning soldiers were called "baby killers" and had blood thrown at them. Bob defied the order. He would have welcomed the attack. Then the whole world would know what he'd done; he wouldn't have to hide it any longer.

Rocking slightly now, Bob stabbed his fingers through his hair. He wanted a drink. One. He'd stop with one. That was all he needed. After twenty-one years, he knew what he could handle and what he couldn't. One beer would satisfy this need and then he'd turn around and walk out.

Blindly he grabbed the cell phone on the seat next to him. As he stared at it, he knew that if he walked into that tavern he was as good as dead. He might as well blow his brains out the same way Dan Sherman had. Drinking would take longer to actually kill him; that was the only difference.

Death wasn't such a bad thing, he reasoned. People died every day and the people they left behind mourned them, but life continued.

As if in slow motion, Bob hit speed dial for Roy McAfee's home number; fortunately, he'd programmed it in after that other incident. He'd try one last time, reach out. Roy didn't need to know his dilemma, but he could provide human contact, a human voice. Bob gazed up at the heavens, deciding that if his friend didn't pick up, he had his answer. He'd know it was useless and he should just give in and have that beer. Hell, he'd buy the whole tavern a round. But if Roy answered, then God was telling him to get back in his car and drive away. It'd be God's fault if he started drinking again, he thought, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat.

The phone rang four times, and Bob swore that each ring lasted ten seconds longer than the one before. When the answering machine clicked on, he bolted upright at the unexpectedness of it.

"You've reached the home of Roy and Corrie McAfee. We aren't available to take your call right now...."

Bob severed the connection and stared down at the phone.

Then he looked up at the night sky again. "That wasn't the deal," he shouted. Roy had answered, all right, but it wasn't really Roy, just his voice on an answering machine. In other words, God had given Bob a half-assed answer.

Bob felt the torture of indecision. He longed to test his strength and prove he was strong enough to have one drink and walk away. But he knew... Everything he'd ever learned in AA told him otherwise. Still, he didn't care. He wanted that drink. Needed that drink. Craved that drink.

The sound of his cell phone ringing jolted him badly. He grabbed it with both hands and fumbled at the keypad.

"Yes," he snapped.

"Where are you?" It was Peggy.

"Why?" he demanded. He didn't want to talk to his wife. Didn't she realize he had a life-altering decision to make?

"Something's wrong. I could feel it. Where are you?"

Bob opened his eyes wide. Could Peggy be the answer to his prayer? He slid back inside the car.

"I thought you'd be home by now," she continued. She sounded troubled. Almost afraid. "This isn't like you."

"I'm all right."

"Are you sure?"

He was now. "I thought there was someone following me again."

"Was there?"

"No.. .I'm on my way home."

"I'll be waiting."

Bob started the engine and backed out of the space.

He was going home.