Never Too Far (part 1)

Peter walked alone through the night. Glancing at the clouds, he pulled the collar of his jacket closer. Thunder rumbled. He picked up his pace. He’d parked just a few blocks from the office, so he wouldn’t have far to walk.

Rain started spitting down. Peter ducked his head and sped up his stride. 

As he rounded the corner, he heard mutters, jangling keys, and the squeaking of leather soles on a wet street. He stopped.

A man was pinned to the brick wall, kept in place by two gang members on one side and two more on the other. A fifth gang member had a blade pressed to the man’s neck—its glint glowered in the dim light. 

He’d seen gang violence before—it was impossible to grow up in this part of Detroit without seeing it to some degree—but never this close. Peter glanced from side to side. If he tried to help, he would be outnumbered. Besides, what could he do? 

They hadn’t seen him yet. Should he run for help? Should he turn away and pretend he hadn’t seen anything? 

Just then, the gang member with the blade turned and looked his way. Slitting his eyes, he gave Peter a killing glare. “What are you looking at?” He pointed his chin toward the man pinned to the wall, his eyes never leaving Peter’s. “You know this man?”

Peter swallowed. He started to shake his head, then paused. Something about the man’s silhouette seemed familiar. He looked a little more closely.

That bend in his nose, the small scar above his eyebrow—there was no mistaking him. He’d know that face anywhere. 

Patrick.

“So?” The man who’d spoken, apparently the leader, curved an eyebrow. 

Peter shook his head firmly. “No—no, I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.” He trembled at the lie. But there was no way he could say yes. What might they do? Pin him to the wall beside Patrick? There wouldn’t be much good in dying together. I’m sorry, he pleaded inside. Please understand.

The man dismissed him with a quick nod, and Peter turned and fled into the night, his soles slapping the rain-spattered street. He hadn’t gone far when Patrick’s voice called, “I love you, Peter!” 

A siren sounded in the distance, and there were shouts and pattering feet.

Then all went quiet.

Peter’s heart wrenched. Had they—? No, he couldn’t think about it. He mustn’t. 

The thought niggled at him—whatever happened, it’s your fault. It’s all your fault.

He kept running.

When he stopped to ease the pain in his side—he hadn’t run like this in a while—he looked up at the road sign and groaned when he saw the street name. He’d run in the wrong direction, the exact opposite of where he was supposed to go, and now he’d need to go back. 

Heading back meant going past the place where it had happened. As he neared the spot, he slowed down. The men had scattered and left Patrick lying on the street. Glancing side to side, Peter walked over. 

There was a single cut on Patrick’s neck. Peter knelt on the pavement and picked him up, cradling him in his arms. 

Then he began to cry.

Just then, Patrick shifted and gave a small moan. Peter’s heart leapt. 

He’s alive! 

His heart sank again. How will he ever forgive me?

A squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and a police officer stepped out and strode over. “What’s going on here?” His gaze swept over Patrick, then he looked at Peter. “Do you know this man?”

Peter’s heart stopped a few seconds. He hadn’t thought about how this might look. With his large build and black leather jacket, especially in the dark, he probably looked more like a gang member than a pastor. How was he going to explain? There was no easy way out.

He swallowed hard. For the second time, he said, “No—no, I don’t. I was walking by on the way to my car and happened to see him lying here.”

“Hmmm.” The officer took off his shades and gave him a disbelieving look. “In any case, you’re coming with me to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“This is not the time for questions. Just get in the car. This man needs immediate medical attention.” With that, the officer strode back to his car. 

Peter had no choice but to follow, still carrying Patrick. He felt light—he must’ve lost weight since seminary days.

As soon as they got in, the officer said, “You need to come because you’re going to have to give a report. As far as I know, you were the only witness.”

Peter took a deep breath. He couldn’t go back, not now. He’d have to carry this through to the end. “You must have me mistaken for someone else, officer.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw you walk by earlier. If you’re not the same man I saw, you look a lot like him.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.”

Silence followed.

When they got to the hospital and brought Patrick in, once again Peter faced that inescapable question. It was the first thing the nurse asked after inquiring about Patrick’s condition. 

“Do you know this man?” She tapped her pen on her clipboard and tilted her head at Peter.

It was far too late to turn back. He had no choice. “No, I don’t.” 

She gave him another curious glance, then scribbled on her clipboard. “Okay then.”

Patrick, who still lay in Peter’s arms, opened his eyes and looked straight at him, his gaze slightly misty but unmistakably kind. 

Peter looked away. “I have to go,” he told the nurse and the officer. After handing Patrick over, he fled to a nearby waiting room that was mercifully empty. There he crumpled into a chair and wept.

What have I done?