Dark Eyes, Deep Eyes

By T. Neal Tarver

Two men. Two eternal destinies. One common hope.

College grad Nick doesnt trust God. Unimpressed by Gods work in his fathers life, Nick wages a daily war to thwart His holy advances. No verbal blasts. No waving God is dead! banners. Just a simple message written across his heart: God, youre not welcome here.

Wayne, former pastor and current factory employee, drifts in doubts strong current. Hes Gods man, all right. He just hasnt felt like it in a while. A past failure holds his heart hostage.

On a beautiful Thursday in May, deaths specter burns both mens names into its appointment book. Each embarks on an amazing journeyone doused in dread, the other dripping with delight.

As heavens light shines, a troubled Wayne wants to hide in the dark. Will he overcome doubts drift to sail home in confidence?

Nick, lost in hells night, cant escape Gods searchlight. His memories force him to reevaluate his fathers weakness and the strength of his fathers God. For Nick, will regret become an itch he will have all eternity to scratch?

Dark Eyes, Deep Eyes examines life, death, faith, and hope against the backdrop of heaven, hell, and modern-day San Antonio.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449738037

T. Neal Tarver

T. Neal Tarver, a native Texan living in Wisconsin, has served churches in Texas and Wisconsin. He, his wife Ellen, and his son Daniel lived and worked for three years as missionaries in the Russian Far East. Tom speaks enough Russian to both converse and confuse.             In 2010, Tom was selected as a semi-finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Genesis contest. He has written articles for the local newspaper and an international magazine. He currently writes from his home in Richland Center, Wisconsin, or from wherever his travels take him. He posts articles weekly at www.tnealtarver.com.             Tom has spoken in churches across America, and in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. In the heart of Packerland, home of the Frozen Tundra, he roots for the Cowboys and longs for a beachside view of palm trees.

Book preview

DARK

EYES,

DEEP

EYES

T. Neal Tarver

1_a_reigun.ai

Copyright © 2012 T. Neal Tarver

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1-[phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-3803-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-3804-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-3805-1 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901212

WestBow Press rev. date: 2/22/2012

contents

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

chapter thirty-one

chapter thirty-two

chapter thirty-three

chapter thirty-four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty-six

chapter thirty-seven

chapter thirty-eight

chapter thirty-nine

chapter forty

chapter forty-one

chapter forty-two

chapter forty-three

chapter forty-four

acknowledgements

about t. neal tarver

Without you, Nellye,

this book never happens.

Dickens got it half-right.

It was the worst of times—that Thursday afternoon in late May,

the day I got the kind of call no one wants to get.

—Sarah Daniels

chapter one

Niiiickkk, Niiiickkk. Lullaby smooth, her voice cooed in Nick’s ears. He snuggled closer.

I love you, Brittany.

Warm and comforting, her body shifted.

He hugged her tight.

She stiffened.

Brittany, what’s wrong?

Brittany? I’m not Brittany.

Not… Brittany… Not… Who? What?

A startled Nick woke and found a strange girl staring at him with wide bullet eyes. Where was he?

A car. His car. From a darkened dashboard, the clock glowed 3:37.

Who are you?

Well, I’m not Brittany, whoever she is.

Had he been dreaming? Or was this the dream?

But who are you?

The young woman pressed against the passenger-side door and gripped its handle. She was call-the-cops scared and ready to bolt. She seemed as clueless as Nick.

Had he kidnapped the girl? Nah, that’d be ridiculous. Why would he make an idiot move like that? He didn’t do stupid. Not regularly. Not ever.

Well, had they done the dirty deed? After all, they were alone in a car in…? In…? Where the heck were they?

An unlit Bennigan’s sign—must have been the one in the neighborhood. Nick wasn’t far from home.

So had they been intimate in Bennigan’s parking lot? He couldn’t remember, and he wasn’t about to ask what’s-her-name. Say, I have no idea who you are, but I was just wondering. Did we get it on last night? Yeah, bet she’d love that.

A second question popped into his head. By the way, how was I? He laughed.

What’s so funny?

She asks, what’s so funny? Look, girlfriend—girlfriend? I don’t even know her name—but this whole situation reeks of hilarious. Nothing, nothing’s funny.

The girl’s hand tensed on the handle.

Oh, horse turds—that didn’t look good. Well, of course it didn’t look good, ya jerk-face. Given the circumstances, who’d blame the girl for being scared? Strange car, strange guy.

But he wasn’t strange. Just your average, everyday brilliant, good-looking guy. Another chuckle. A tighter grip on the handle; big, dark eyes wide as hubcaps.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, lady friend. Don’t go there. Please, please, please don’t go there.

Well, Mr. Brilliant-and-Beautiful, say something. An eat-’em-up fragrance drifted his way. You smell good.

What?

I mean you’re delicious. Just brilliant, Nicky boy, just brilliant. How can the girl not think she’s in the car with the next Jeffrey Dahmer? I’m sorry. I’m just a little confused here. Do you know who I am? Because… well… uh… I sure as hell fire don’t know who you are.

Bigger eyes, quivering lips. This definitely wasn’t going well. Nick started to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Bad idea. She pasted herself against the door.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say. Really, I am sorry. Let me start all over. He held out a hand and smiled, hoping he didn’t look too dopey or… devious. I’m Nick.

The girl stared at the proffered hand but remained in her corner. Lavender.

Lavender? For real? This all seemed so déjà vu.

She relaxed, even smiled. Yeah, my parents are a little weird.

I’m sure they’ve got nothing on my old man.

Nick could picture his father sitting in the living room reading his extra-thick, holier-than-thou Bible. The moment Nick told him the story about Lavender, his father would look over his reading glasses, cluck his tongue, then go to the bedroom and pray for Nick’s damned soul.

The car’s tension deflated. The girl released the door handle and slumped in her seat. Nick yawned.

Lavender, strange name… for the weird girl… in his car…

Bigger yawn. Daddy dearest wouldn’t like… strange girl… in weird car… with Jeffrey Dahmer… No… Not Dahmer… But weird girl… strange na…

chapter two

Wayne Daniels stomped out of the bedroom. At the doorway, he whirled and planted himself.

Look, Wayne, we went over this last night. I never said I’d go with you or even acted like I was the least bit interested in going. You knew that before you talked with Junior.

But I thought—

You thought what, dear?

His wife’s terse reply cut Wayne off mid-sentence. Dear might as well have been you fat-headed jerk for all the tenderness the term conveyed.

Why in the world had he agreed to Junior’s invitation? He’d known Sarah wouldn’t go along with it. He sure didn’t want to ride in like the Lone Ranger without his Tonto. But Sarah refused to play the part. Some dutiful wife, huh?

His arms dropped as he gave a long, heavy sigh. He’d now fallen back on an old trick from their early years of marriage. He pouted and sulked—an infantile and selfish gesture that always proved ineffective with Sarah. What made him think today would be any different? She’d made up her mind long before their discussion last night. No amount of ridiculous huffing and puffing would make her budge now.

His pride punctured, Wayne turned toward the house’s lone bathroom.

He, not Sarah, had gotten himself into this mess. He, not Sarah, couldn’t say no to a friend. She hadn’t even been around for the conversation between him and Junior.

Wayne shuffled by the blank white walls in the hall where family pictures should have hung. No portraits of growing children. No pint-sized fish held up like trophies by grandkids. No visual record of family trips out west. No cherished photos posted to remove the institutional feel to this plot of rented space. All those memories still stuffed away in boxes.

With his chest caught in worry’s tightening vise, Wayne stumbled through the usual shaving-and-showering morning routine. After he toweled dry, he put on a light blue button-down Oxford and a pair of crisply pressed khaki pants. His brown leather Tony Lamas completed the ensemble.

He stood at the mirror with two ties in hand. He moved them back and forth, right-hand red to left-hand yellow then back to right-hand red. He opted for neither.

Not very hungry, as nervous as a teenage boy hooked into a date with Aunt Millie’s sweet little neighbor girl, Wayne entered the close kitchen confines. Two cups of coffee and a cherry Pop-Tart later, he headed out the front door.

The trip from southeast to northwest San Antonio took Wayne right through the heart of the city. The Tower of the Americas pricked the clear blue sky to his right. Just beyond, he could see the four corner columns of the Dead Armadillo Dome, known officially as the Alamodome. On a Sunday morning, light traffic offered Wayne a thirty-minute drive to ponder his predicament.

Got a job for you, Waynie. Junior’s half-year-old words came back to haunt Wayne. He’d been desperate for a job, and Junior knew it. His old friend only meant to help, but yesterday’s help felt a whole lot like today’s blackmail. Obligation, especially when it involved a man’s livelihood, had a way of backing said man into a corner. Corner? Shoot, more like a coffin, thank you very much.

So, this fine Sunday morning, when he would have rather stayed home with Sarah, Wayne kept his rendezvous with Junior.

Following his friend’s directions, he finally pulled into a semi-full parking lot. He spotted Junior’s tall frame beneath a black felt Stetson. The hat hid Junior’s bald head but not the ample splash of freckles surrounding a toothy grin. Junior waved with both arms, not stopping until Wayne gave a simple two-fingered salute in response.

By the time Wayne parked, Junior had bolted across the parking lot and grabbed the driver’s-side door handle. When the door popped open, Wayne found himself staring eye level at a big meaty hand. He took the hand in his own and gave it a firm, but brief, shake.

Whatsa matter, Waynie? Mad at me for inviting you to church?

Wayne responded with a succinct no. Mad wasn’t the word to describe his feelings. Scared to death would be more like it. Why? Why? Why had he ever promised Junior he’d come?

Laughing, Junior threw an arm over Wayne’s shoulder, steered him toward the two large glass doors under an aluminum awning. Sue’s saving us a couple of seats.

Wayne could hear a variety of instruments playing up-tempo music as he stepped through the doors. He had no idea whether the music was live or recorded.

The two men ran through what seemed to Wayne like an eon’s worth of glad-handers and well-wishers. By the time Wayne passed through the prominent, dark-stained, walnut doors into the sanctuary, he had been slapped on the back, squeezed on the arm, and hugged by at least a dozen people.

This had to be the friendliest, happiest church north of the Rio Grande. And Wayne, on this bright Sunday morning in May, just wasn’t hankering for friendly or happy.

While Junior searched the crowd for his wife, Wayne surveyed his holy surroundings. So the music hadn’t been professionally recorded. A live band camped on the left side of the stage. Currently a saxophone swayed back and forth in the hands of an attractive young brunette. Its smooth, mellow tones, a jazzy rendition of Amazing Grace, floated over the gathering.

Wayne noticed the large wooden cross dangling in midair above the altar as if it were held in place by magic. The securing cables seemed a might thin to his liking.

Colorful banners hung on each side at the front of the sanctuary. Behind the praise band on the left, a lake and mountain scene proclaimed, Be still and know that I am God. No one at this church seemed to take the admonition seriously.

On the banner to the right, an eagle soared through a crystalline sky. The message extolled, Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.

To the right of the cross, a large video screen announced,

Women of Faith Spring Retreat

May 24th-26th

Scholarships still available.

Additional messages announcing a men’s midweek Bible study, the evening’s youth group plans, and other church activities scrolled across the screen. When the screen repeated the Women Of Faith message, Wayne looked down.

His gaze came to rest on an item in the center of the stage behind the altar. He couldn’t have been more troubled if he had been staring at a lighted stick of dynamite.

What a day to return to the scene of the crime.

chapter three

Nick awakened in his own bed, in his own apartment, fully clothed, minus his shoes. One sock slid halfway down the arch of a foot, a single dangling witness to the previous night’s struggle with a recalcitrant shoe.

The sound of falling water came from the bathroom. Nick lived alone, so who else would be taking a shower?

Driven by pure instinct, Nick put a hand on the back pocket of his blue jeans and felt for a wallet. Touching the familiar bulge, he exhaled. He pulled out the slim piece of brown leather.

Credit card, driver’s license, money—yep, all tucked away in their proper places. But was that all of it? He couldn’t remember. Obviously, no one had tampered with the wallet. The rest of last night’s details remained fuzzy.

He surveyed the room, but its general disarray told him nothing more than what he already knew—which was little more than nothing at all. A thief breaking in would have looked around at the mess and said, Ah, nuts! Someone beat me to it.

Nick sucked in a big breath then crinkled his nose. Yuck! Smells like someone puked in here.

He tipped his head down, pulled his shirt toward his face, and sniffed. No, not him. So where was the smell coming from?

He followed the scent to the floor and noticed an unfamiliar shirt crumpled between his iPod and Robert Jordan’s Knife of Dreams. The letters W-I-R of a WIRED magazine peered out from beneath the purple shirt.

Purple? Lavender? He remembered the girl’s name. Had he brought Lavender home? What a dumb, stupid, idiot move—bringing a strange girl with a weird name home. Maybe she was nuts. And now she knew where he lived. Too much shades of Freddie-Krueger-Nightmare-on-Oakdale-Way stuff.

The shower shut off. She’d be coming out soon. What should he do? Be cool. Just a girl. With a strange name. And maybe a sicko personality.

But she seemed normal enough. Normal? Where’d that idea come from? Nick couldn’t remember much more than the girl’s name. His mind was so screwed up he couldn’t say if the girl was whacked in the head or up for the Nobel Peace Prize. Heck, for all he knew, she could be a Panamanian terrorist.

Did terrorists come from Panama? Nah, not Panama. Cuba maybe, Middle East definitely, but Panama? Hardly. Maybe she’s a terrorist all right. But not from Panama.

Through Panama? Yeah, that’s it. She’s Cuban, been through the freaking Panama canal, and she was here to blow up something. Like his apartment.

The bathroom door opened. Lavender stood with a neon-blue and banana-yellow beach towel wrapped around her. She had large brown eyes, long black hair, but looked nothing like a terrorist. Perhaps Cuban or Panamanian and…

She looked better than Nick recalled.

Of course, last night’s images came through a foggy memory and a darkened car interior. So far the rest of the night remained shoved away in a vault to which Nick had no access code.

Nick waved. Hey.

Hey.

It’s Lavender, right?

Yeah. And you’rrrrr…?

Nick.

Yeah, that’s right. Nick. Lavender scanned the room. This your place?

Yeah.

Kind of a mess.

Nick laughed. Yep.

Just you live here?

Had a roommate but he moved out a week ago.

Oh.

Nick wanted to move past this monosyllabic conversation. His dying-to-know curiosity shoved his macho-man pride aside. "Did weeee, uh…?"

Lavender’s cheeks flamed. No! Oh, no. I’m sure we didn’t, uh, well, you know.

Okay so they didn’t do the dirty deed. How’d he feel about that? Relieved? Disappointed? He had no recollection of last night’s goings on, so what difference did her response make? Whether they did it or didn’t do it, the result remained the same. He flat out couldn’t remember. And forgotten pleasure was no pleasure at all. He might as well have been hugged and kissed on the lips by an old doting aunt. At least that would be worth forgetting.

It’s just that she didn’t have to answer like he’d flicked a burning match at her.

And what about the here and now? The previous evening’s forgetfulness didn’t need to carry over to today. He would remember if anything happened now.

He flashed a so-what-do-you-say smile and waggled his eyebrows. Well, it’s never too late.

Nick might as well have slapped Lavender in the face and pulled out a bundle of ropes for the look she shot back at him. Her lower lip quivered and her terror-stricken face shouted, Serial rapist! Tears appeared ready to spill. One teeny lascivious remark, one foolish suggestive foible, and the dam would shatter.

Oh, I’ve got to go. I need to get home now. My folks must be worried sick. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life.

Boy, did he feel like a schmuck. What was he thinking? Well, duh. Sex. He wanted sex. Was it going to happen? Well, double duh. No. More like 9-1-1, cop cars, and rape charges.

As if he had been transformed into Noah’s dove, Nick extended a peace branch toward her. Hey, hey, listen. No need to get all worked up. Give your folks a call and let them know you’re all right.

Lavender’s face brightened. Thanks. Could I?

Could she? Why did she need his permission to call her parents? Maybe she needed reassuring—after all, she’d waked up in a strange guy’s apartment. Boy, he didn’t envy her position at all. Sure. Go ahead.

Lavender didn’t move. She stared at Nick for a moment. Only one problem.

What’s that?

I don’t have a cell phone.

Nick must have telegraphed his you’ve-got-no-cell-phone shock because Lavender reddened. I…uh… I dropped mine in the… uh…

Come on, girl. Spit it out. You dropped your cell phone and it broke? You dropped it and lost it? You dropped it and what?

In the… She giggled. In the… She giggled again. Toilet.

Ooooh, that’s not good.

Happened a coupla weeks ago, and my folks still won’t get me a new one. Isn’t that the pits?

Yeah, that blows. You can use mine. Nick patted down his pockets. He looked at her. That is if you can find it. It’s gotta be around here somewhere.

He started moving the floor debris without any immediate luck. Hey, Lavender, why don’t you give the living room and kitchen a once-over while I keep looking in here?

Sure. She pirouetted toward the front of the apartment. Midstride through the room, she stopped and turned back to face Nick. So what am I looking for?

A blue Samsung. I’d prefer an iPhone but just can’t afford one yet. And my dad’s not going to waste any money on me. Boy, was that ever the truth. Daddy Dearest spending money on Wayward Son? No way.

So where was the cell phone? Did he leave it at the… the… Where in the world had he gone last night? Bennigan’s? If the phone wasn’t in the apartment, where else could it be? No idea unless maybe, just maybe the Samsung had fallen out in the car. If not here or there, then where? And what if the thing disappeared, lost forever? What would he do until he replaced it?

Before he succumbed to a full-blown panic attack, Lavender yelled from the other room. Found it.

Nick peered around the corner to see the cell phone in her upraised hand. Where’d ya find it?

On the kitchen bar.

Lavender flipped the phone open and punched in a number.

Relieved to still have a phone, Nick now needed to investigate another big concern. Since his mind held little recollection of last night, he assumed he’d been in no condition to drive. The thought of driving under the influence—and this would have been under a major influence—caused him to shudder.

Nick marched across the living room to the front window. He separated the slats in the blinds and made a quick scan of the parking lot. His silver ’96 Dodge Intrepid sat like a well-behaved retriever under the two live oaks where he usually parked it. By whatever means or miracle they had arrived at his apartment, somehow the car, the girl, and he all appeared unharmed. His throbbing, aching head and Lavender’s top seemed to be the extent of last night’s casualties.

Nick turned back around.

Lavender said, Hey, Daddy, it’s me.

Judging from only half the conversation that followed, Lavender would have some explaining to do when she got home.

This whole scene, whether innocent or not, wouldn’t have played well at all in his dad’s house. What were you thinking, Nick, bringing a strange girl home? You weren’t thinking, were you? If you were thinking with anything it was with your crotch and not your brain.

Actually, Nick had never in his life heard his father use the word crotch.

Can you take me home, Nick?

What?

Can you take me hhoommme?

Oh, yeah, yeah, no problem.

Lavender spoke into the phone. Yes, Daddy, Nick’ll bring me home.

After she said good-bye, she closed the phone and tossed it toward Nick. Here. Catch.

In midair the phone rang, playing a dirge.

Lavender said, Oh, that’s creepy. Who’s calling you?

Nick caught the phone, examined the caller ID, Satan, and smiled. Nobody important.

chapter four

The pickup jostled Wayne from side to side as it moved up the Reinharts’ gravel driveway. The place, not the people, offered reason for his Sunday afternoon drive. He needed a starting line. And Junior’s country estate provided Wayne the perfect departure point.

Patches of yucca, an occasional prickly pear, a host of weeds, a few late-blooming Indian Blankets, and a scattering of lackluster limestone rocks ushered Wayne toward an acre clearing fifty yards from the main highway.

Beyond a flower-festooned wire fence, a gray brick three-bedroom ranch floated on the surface of a seamless green sea of St. Augustine grass. Honeysuckle vines had overgrown the fence and buried its true identity years ago.

A pair of crepe myrtles costumed in green leaves and bright pink blossoms stood as sentinels at the house’s corners. Rows of neatly clipped hedges lined its sides.

A massive solitary live oak spread its boughs in the front yard, an offering of shade that beckoned Wayne to sit under the tree’s protective cover.

Junior and Sue sat in two of the four white spindle rockers on the porch. The wooden table between them, an old reclaimed cable spool, held a sweating ice-filled pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. Two were already full and a third remained empty, awaiting Wayne’s arrival.

When Wayne parked and got out of his truck, the sickly sweet breath of ligustrum blooms, massive clusters of little white flowers in the death throes of late spring, scented the air.

From his post in the rocking chair, Junior said, You look like a fluorescent bumblebee.

Wayne wore a lemon-yellow Pearl Izumi jersey and black Canari gel cycling shorts. The outfit provided a high visibility and comfort level on the road. It needn’t pass muster on his friend’s porch. Junior’s glib remark prickled Wayne.

You’re out here to relax, right? So don’t worry about what Junior thinks. Wayne dredged up a smile. You got a problem with that, buddy?

So I guess you’re not still mad at me about church.

Sue said, Oh, Junior, Wayne wasn’t mad.

Sure he was. Weren’t you, Waynie?

Wayne stepped through the gate and approached the porch. He pointed first to Sue and then Junior. Sue’s right. You’re wrong. He put his finger in the air, waving it like a composer’s baton to punctuate each point. I wasn’t mad. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad.

Junior leaned forward in his seat. Well, if you weren’t hotter’n a five-alarm chili pepper, you sure hopped up and zipped right out after church. They’d hardly opened the doors before you came bustin’ outta the sanctuary like the whole place was on fire.

Wayne said, C’mon. You’re exaggerating. I didn’t run out of church as soon as it was over.

Hah, you’re kiddin’ me, right? You should try out for the Cowboys this summer with the speed you showed this morning. Just ask Sue.

Wayne looked at Sue, who shook her head like she had no intention of getting into this argument.

Wayne had come just wanting to take a ride in the country. That’s all. This morning’s unsettled feeling during the worship service brought him to Junior and Sue’s porch now.

But he couldn’t just come here, hop on his bike, and ride off before at least a few minutes of polite porch talk with the Reinharts. He knew he’d have to endure a little good-natured ribbing from Junior. Only Junior didn’t just tease him. He asked questions, a lot more of them than Wayne wanted to answer.

With no response from his wife and a half second of dead air space to fill, Junior said, If you weren’t just a bit on the hostile side this morning, then what were you there, cowpoke?

Wayne said, Now that’s a good question.