— I Timothy 4:1 (NIV)

Peering through a cheap set of binoculars that he picked up in Escanaba, Michigan, Doyle Logan trained his eyes on Tate Saunders and Caisee Pells as they completed their tour of the blue ice formations on Lake Superior and headed toward the parking lot and Tate’s car.

Logan set the binoculars down and prepared to continue tailing them in hopes of finding Wakeman Pells and finally exacting some revenge after Pells heartlessly killed his wife in a hit-and-run incident several months earlier. He didn’t have to turn the car on; it was already running, with the heat set on the highest level possible. Still, it didn’t keep Logan from shivering a bit as the Duluth winter did its best to pour through every nook and cranny of his vehicle.

Once Saunders and Pells were inside their car and began backing out of their parking spot, Logan grabbed the steering wheel and the gear shift. The pursuit was back on.

“Don’t move the car.”

“What …” Logan turned around, half expecting someone to be sitting in the back seat and pointing a gun at his head or jabbing a knife into this throat.

No one was there.

Logan looked out the front of the car, the left, the right. He could have sworn he heard a voice, but no one appeared.

He must have imagined it. He had been a little jittery at times the past few days. Plotting to kill another human being — no matter how deserving of death — wasn’t exactly a small deed. And it didn’t help matters that he drove mile after mile in fear of being spotted by Tate and Caisee.

But the weapon he brought along seemed to have the most negative effect of all. Although he rarely looked at or touched it, Logan thought about it constantly, and he was itching to use it. He seemed to be a completely different person simply by owning it. So, the gun hidden in the glove compartment may as well have been a case of nuclear waste, shooting his own body and soul full of deadly isotopes while waiting to acquire its true target: Wakeman Pells.

Yes, Logan was a nervous mess. A simple “boo” could make him jump through the roof of the car. But the voice in his head had to be the product of his overactive imagination, which more than once in the past few months made him believe that he was hearing things … specific things … specific commands … almost audible, but mired among the scattered frequencies of his own thoughts, inner dialogue, daydreams and nightmares.

Besides, Logan thought, if it wasn’t his imagination making him think that he was hearing voices, there were really only two other possibilities. Either he was going crazy or he was poss—.

Logan dropped the thought and glanced around again, making double sure no one else was around. When no one appeared either inside or outside of his car, Logan prepared to pull out of his parking spot.

Tate and Caisee’s car already was nearly out of sight. If he didn’t hit the road now, he might lose them for good.

“Shut the car off.”

This time the voice came at him with such authority and wrath that he immediately obeyed. He turned the car off as all of the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and goose bumps covered his skin.

Logan didn’t dare move. That wasn’t my imagination, and I don’t think I’m nuts. Does that mean I’m posses—. Again, he forced himself to banish the thought for another time. So, he tried to think about anything else, no matter how trite or trivial, to escape to another place and time when strange voices didn’t bounce around his head, sadness didn’t weigh down his heart and a thirst for revenge didn’t consume his soul.

Logan finally found another time to dwell on, but the setting didn’t change. He thought of how he and Martha had visited Duluth four years ago during a summer vacation of the Upper Midwest. They never had any children, and did not choose to adopt any, but they were financially well-off with Logan’s real estate earnings and Martha’s work as an nurse, so they traveled often and that seemed to fill the void in their otherwise happy marriage.

In fact, the only arguments they ever had — and they were rare — stemmed from the fact that Martha was a Christian and his own faith had dried up decades ago. A good friend had invited her to church and she came back obsessed with Jesus, someone he abandoned as a teenager. Either Jesus didn’t exist or didn’t care about Doyle Logan.

Regardless, Logan wasn’t going to waste any time on religion. But Martha attended church faithfully every Sunday and always seemed to have her head buried in the Bible — and she often asked if he wanted to go to church or read a passage or pray with her. He always declined.

At first Logan was a little jealous, but that quickly subsided. “Why am I jealous of somebody who died a few thousand years ago?  If talking to Jesus makes her happy, then I’m happy for her. I just won’t be joining her for any of her impromptu prayer meetings.”

He loved Martha like crazy and decided to put up with her religious natterings. He wasn’t about to let church divide their marriage.

One of their happier moments came on a warm, sunny August day in Duluth, when they held hands while strolling on the lakewalk, stopping for popcorn and cotton candy. Logan could practically step right back into that scene where Martha was wearing a purple and pink “Duluth, Minnesota” sweatshirt and taking his picture as he fed a legion of gulls some of his leftover popcorn. She laughed and said that they were going to carry him away and drop him in Lake Superior.

Caught in a daze, Logan’s own laughter filled the car, but was quickly followed by loud sobbing. He wished he could return to that wonderful day. Now here he was in the same place, but with a frozen, broken heart.

But he snapped out of his daydream when he saw a figure rise from a bench near the lakewalk. There were several people walking around in the distance, but something about this person made Logan pick up his binoculars to take a look. A voice didn’t prompt this action, but rather a gut feeling, a subtle charge of electricity prodding him to see.

Once Logan found his target and focused the binoculars, he instantly knew who it was — Wakeman Pells. He couldn’t believe his luck. There was the man responsible for his wife’s death — a little less than 200 yards away. So, this trip wasn’t such a wild goose chase after all.

Besides, luck was on his side. Pells’ sister and buddy apparently didn’t find him or were planning to meet him later. Either way, now was the time to act.

The fear that moments ago left him paralyzed was now replaced by nervous anxiety. He fumbled with the glove compartment and grabbed his gun. He knew that he should follow Pells, wait for a time when he’s alone and then kill him, but Logan wanted to be rid of him now.

He wanted the rage burning inside of him to be quelled, justice to be served, peace to return to his life, and whatever was playing ventriloquist with his head to be exorcized — all it took was one well-placed bullet.

Logan’s heart pounded as he dropped the weapon into his jacket pocket with a clammy hand. Although he was still very cold, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead before reaching for the car door.

But as he touched the door handle, the voice stopped him cold.

“Wait. Now is not the time. You must be patient. Soon a day will come when you will kill Wakeman Pells and many others who stand in our way. We will tell you when.”