CHAPTER 7
Leaning against the plastered wall and clutching his chest, Dylan pressed his lips into a tight line as he glared at Jesse. He glanced around; Andrew had disappeared. Intense pain filled his chest and his left shoulder.
"You will not win, Jesse," he said. "God will win this war—not your master Satan."
"No, He won't. My master will win!" roared Jesse. "Meanwhile, you are going to die, and your new baby along with you! I am going to shoot that baby just as soon as it's born!" He pressed the revolver against Dylan's temple. "Then I'm going to force your girlfriend to accept that implant myself."
Dylan bared his teeth. "You really think Aileen's going to agree to take the implant if you kill our child? You may as well just go right ahead and kill her as well. Trust me, she won't want to go on living if the baby dies." He swallowed. "Especially since she's going to lose me as well."
Silently, he prayed to God to help them. He knew he was going to die shortly. He could only be grateful that he was on the right side at last—on God's side. He shuddered inwardly, as he pondered what would have happened had God not used Andrew to get his attention. Please, God, help Aileen and save her baby! he silently prayed.
His shoulder throbbed anew, making him bite his lower lip. My stupid shoulder picked the worst possible moment to act up! He shook his head. If that hadn't happened, I might have been able to get the gun away from Jesse.
Andrew stepped into the room, the unearthly light gone from his body. The lamplight caused a shadow to spread across the carpet from him to a nearby armchair. Shaking his head at the sight, the angel of death turned his disapproving gaze to the policeman.
"Officer Whitman, God is going to protect Aileen Adamson. You will not win, for you are on the losing side."
Jesse snorted, then smirked. "I don't think so. Puccini is god, and he will win. And everyone who won't worship him will die!" He slipped his revolver back into the holster. "Including you!" He smirked at the angel.
Before Andrew could respond, Monica rushed into the room, her shoes making soft thuds in the carpet. "Dylan, Aileen is about to give birth. Gloria sent me to bring you." She stopped short as she gaped at Dylan's chest. "Oh, Dylan…!"
"It's all right. I'll help you upstairs," Andrew told the dying man. "You'll have a chance to see your baby first." He pulled the sling out of Dylan's pants pocket. "First, though, let's get your left arm into this. I'll give you a handkerchief to staunch the blood while we're upstairs."
As he spoke, Andrew yanked the wadded sling out of the pocket, draped it around Dylan's neck, then gently assisted his arm into it. "There, that'll ease the pain some," he told the dying man. Biting his lower lip, Dylan nodded his thanks.
Putting his arm around Dylan's waist, Andrew helped him down the hall and up the stairs. He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pants pocket and handed it to Dylan, who in turn held it against his bloodied chest with his right hand. Officer Whitman followed, hand on his revolver.
Meanwhile, as Aileen fidgeted on the soft, rumpled bedspread, trying valiantly to take her mind off the agony, she attempted to fix her mind on the good times she and Dylan had once enjoyed. All that kept coming to her mind's eye, though, was that awful day when he had given her that ultimatum—accept the implant or else!
Aileen remembered that awful day…
"I want you to know, Aileen, that I'm still willing to marry you. I haven't reneged on that." Dylan smiled. "But there is one thing we must do first. Together. If you will agree to this one thing, I will marry you tomorrow."
Aileen leaned forward, shifting her weight on the sofa. An uneasy sensation welled up in her gut. "What?"
Dylan paused. A troubled expression flitted across his face. "Tomorrow, I want you to go with me to turn in your debit card and receive that chip Puccini is offering." He swallowed. "And then worship his statue. I will be doing the same."
Aileen froze, then drew back. "No!" she gasped…
"Aileen?" Gloria's voice broke into her thoughts. "You're crowning now—I can see the head. I want you to push now. As hard as you can!" Taking a deep breath, Aileen scrooged her eyes shut.
The door swung open; Andrew helped Dylan enter the room. "I'm—here, Aileen," Dylan told her, clutching a bloodied handkerchief against his chest. "Don't try to talk—just do what—the doctor says!"
"You stay in the hall!" Tess ordered the policeman. Meekly, Officer Whitman backed away from the entrance.
Face red and sweaty, not looking in Dylan's direction, Aileen gasped in pain as she pushed, eyes squeezed shut. A moment later, a red-faced, squalling baby slid onto the bed. Gloria cleaned it, then dropped some antiseptic into its eyes. "To protect her sight," she explained to Aileen and Dylan. "It's a girl!" She smiled broadly.
She handed the baby to Aileen, who cradled her against her breast. "Dylan. Look!" A contented smile spread across Aileen's face as she gazed at her new baby. "We have a daughter." Raising her head to look at Dylan for the first time, she stared in horror at his chest. "Oh, Dylan! What happened? Did that policeman—shoot you?"
"Yes." Dylan sighed as, with Andrew's help, he bent over. An unnatural pallor had spread over his face; his skin looked clammy. "And I'm afraid that—I—I'm not going to live—to be her father, Aileen. I'm dying. I can't even—marry you now." Aileen bit her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes.
END OF CHAPTER 7
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