— Franklin Graham

The storm continued to rage outside, but not even the rain, thunder and lightning could muffle Jennifer Bailey’s loud shriek when she turned around and saw her husband, Robert, pointing a gun in their direction.

But before that shriek ended, Robert quickly raised the pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling, as if he were signaling the start of the 100-meter dash at a track meet. Jennifer immediately fell silent and any argument Wakeman had summoned evaporated on the tip of his tongue.

Both instinctively raised their hands, and Robert gave them a weak smile as bits of Drywall, wood and paint fell softly to the floor.

“That’s better. I’d hate to put any more holes in my house,” he snarled. “Mr. Pells, I knew you were going to cause me trouble the minute you set foot on my property. You were repeatedly warned not to enter this room, and you still managed to disobey.”

Wakeman cleared his throat, preparing for a retort, when Robert cut him off.

“I don’t want you to say a word, Mr. Pells. A single word! I will be doing all of the talking now. I am a pretty good shot with this thing, you know. I hit the range at least once a week and I could take out both of your kneecaps in short order.”

“You probably wouldn’t need much of an excuse to blast away, would you, Bailey? Anything to keep your precious secrets.”

Wakemen was so scared he was surprised that his body still maintained its faculties. He was relatively unknown in the Duluth area, so if Bailey did decide to kill him, who would know the difference? The madman would probably just bury him in the backyard and make a point of setting up a croquet tournament over that very spot next summer.

Robert then glanced toward his wife, who stood just inches away from Wakeman.

“Here, catch.”

He tossed the cell phone in her direction, and for a moment Wakeman thought the poor, fright-stricken woman would let it fall at her feet. But she lowered her hands quickly enough to snatch the phone out of the air.

“Jennifer, I will deal with your indiscretion later. I know that in your case curiousity simply got the best of you, but that doesn’t excuse what you did.”

“Listen to him … he talks to her like she’s a 10-year-old kid.”

“Come here, Jennifer,” Robert motioned for her to stand next to him. 

“I want you to find Stuart Kolleen’s number and call him.”

She scurried over to his heel like a well-trained Labrador, obediently placed the call and handed the cell phone back to him.

As Robert held it to his ear, the gun and his gaze never wavered from Wakeman. After a few seconds, he spoke. “Hello, Stuart. Yes, I know how late it is, but we’ve had a break-in tonight in the meeting room. … Who? It’s Pells — who else? I need you to give me one good reason not to shoot him right here.”

That’s when Wakeman uttered a quick, silent prayer for God to supply Kolleen with at least two good reasons.

*      *          *

    While Robert Bailey was talking to Stuart Kolleen about Wakeman Pells, Tate Saunders wondered what happened to his conversation with Caisee Pells. They had been talking for a few minutes, she asked him to wait while she sprinted through the rain to her car ... and then nothing.

So, here he sat, trying to keep warm inside a bus stop in Duluth while the rain came down in torrents all around him. His thoughts fell to him just as rapidly.

“Maybe her cell phone battery went dead, or maybe the storm broke our connection. Still, it’s strange that I didn’t hear back from her. 

It only should have taken her a few seconds to get to her car. I heard her shut the door. Maybe she’s just driving over here now and we’ll pick up the conversation from there.”

Then Tate remembered what she had said just before heading into the rain — “There’s something I want to tell you.” His heart couldn’t help but flutter a bit. Could she finally be telling him what he had dreamed — and prayed — for since he was a teenager?

“I love you.”

Tate closed his eyes and imagined those three wonderful words falling from her lips, eyes sparkling, her arms wrapped around him. She would flash him that irresistible smile … immediately followed by a passionate kiss, of course. And then their “happily ever after” would kick into high gear.

Ever since he told Caisee that he loved her — and she didn’t return those words in kind — Tate mostly had kept this daydream under lock and key. His heart ached enough for her, why puncture it even more by giving in to silly fantasies? They were great friends, but that level was probably where they were going to remain the rest of their lives. Still, it didn’t hurt to indulge those dreams once in a while, right?

A loud peal of thunder suddenly snapped Tate out of his trance, the accompanying strike shaking the bus stop.

He opened his eyes and stared out at the rain, his fantasy shattered by a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning.

“She probably just has something mundane to tell me anyway, something that is important to her but means very little to me. She’ll probably be driving up here in just a few moments — all smiles.”

But during the next half hour, Tate’s concern for Caisee grew from slightly concerned to fairly worried. After an hour passed, he was scared. None of his calls to her went through, except to her voice mail. Same thing at home. The trip from Superior to Duluth should have only taken about 10 minutes. Where was she?

He waited another few minutes, hoping that each car that drove by had her behind the wheel. 

But when she didn’t appear, he finally placed another call. He punched in “911” and reported Caisee Pells missing.

Then, for the first time in several years, Tate Saunders bowed his head and offered a prayer of his own volition.

It was the prayer of a Psalmist from thousands of years ago. ... 

“The Lord is my shepherd. ...”