But Carl had turned his weapon on the men and fired, killing one of them instantly. And that was that. Thirty men rushed at the Americans, and guns or not, the sheer number of them was overpowering. In a matter of seconds, Cody and his comrades were in handcuffs and being dragged to a series of waiting Jeeps.
The air in the building tonight felt hotter than usual. Hot and dense and thick, like an airless cloud. Cody breathed in, but the sensation left him feeling like he hadn’t breathed at all. Where was the air in this place? Or maybe his captors had done something to fill it with carbon monoxide. Maybe that was how they were going to die, slowly through suffocation.
Cody had the sudden desperate need for even the tiniest bit of fresh oxygen. He sucked in through his nose, but the inhalation brought no relief. This had happened before, right? More than once since they’d been locked up. He had the sure feeling that the hot cement walls were getting closer, closing in on him. Death dug its fingernails into his shoulders and poked at his back and ribs. Was this the end? Was he going to fall unconscious, unable to breathe in the boxy cage? Was there really enough air in the building to keep four men alive?
He opened his mouth and sucked in as deep as he could. Then he did it again and a third time. “Come on, lungs . . . find the air!” he hissed, not wanting to wake the others. “Help me breathe, God!” His heart pounded in his chest, screaming at him that if he didn’t get a full breath soon, it would be too late.
Then he had an idea. He lay down on the metal floor and pushed his legs up the far wall. Only in this position could he stretch his arms over his head and fully extend his spine.
As he did, finally . . . finally a single breath filled his lungs, making him believe once more that he might survive. Lying there like a human letter L, his legs stretched up along the far wall, he realized what he’d known before. The breathing thing was all in his head. Yes, it was hot and stuffy and oppressive, but if he stayed calm, if he forced himself not to think about what he was breathing, then he’d be okay. His captain had talked often about mental toughness. Now Cody understood why.
When his heartbeat returned to normal, he sat up again. He felt shaky and exhausted from the effort of breathing, but he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. From the corner of the room he heard the scratchy sound of mice or maybe rats as they scurried along the floor, the way they did every night. Whenever Cody and his buddies were given food, the Iraqi men scraped a few spoonfuls onto the floor in the corner. It was a way of assuring that the mice or rats would stay, irritating the Americans, making them crazy.
Cody blocked out the sound. There was a reason he stayed awake long after the others were asleep. He needed this time so he could think about creating an escape.
Every day after their captors brought in the trays of porridge, they would go to each of the cages one at a time and in broken English ask a few simple questions. “Who are you? What your name? What your rank?”
The reason they had to ask was thanks to Cody. When they were first brought here, they’d been locked in their individual cages and left alone in the dark for nearly a day before the first water and food appeared. During that time, Cody had an idea. The first thing the insurgents would do was take their names and insignia from their uniforms. In that way they could flash the scraps of material in front of news cameras, boasting that they had possession of American prisoners.
But if they destroyed their own stitched names and insignia first, the Iraqis would have nothing. The floor of the room where the cages sat was made up of dirt and small rocks. Cody instructed the others to reach through the bars in their cage and sift around until they found the sharpest rock. Then he told them to use the rock to slice off the part of their uniform that bore their name and insignia. It took more than an hour for the guys to get that far and another two hours using the sharp edges of their rocks to shred the pieces of material. By the time they were done, all that remained of those pieces of their uniforms was a small pile of threads.
When their captors came in next and flipped on the lights, it took them only a few minutes to realize what the men had done. That’s when they began shouting at them and jabbing them with the butts of their guns. After that the questions were a regular part of the visits. “Who are you? What your name? What your rank?”
Over the last few days, an idea had begun to take form. But Cody would need every detail worked out before he could share it with the others, before he could even begin to imagine acting it out. He leaned his head against the back of the metal box. However it happened, he had to get out, had to escape. Whether someone came for them or not.
He had to get out of here and back home so he could see the one person he’d dreamed of seeing every day since he left the United States.
Bailey Flanigan.
Her last letter ran through his mind again. She’d mentioned that she was spending more time with Tim, and she didn’t have any real reason not to. No one else had feelings for her, at least not that she could tell. As soon as he read her words, Cody understood why she had written them. In every letter he had made a point of telling her that she should be dating someone like Tim, someone she would have everything in common with.
So finally she’d taken Cody’s advice, but he detected at least a little bitterness in the tone of her letter. Did she really think he didn’t care for her? that he didn’t hit his bunk every night wishing he were back in Bloomington, where maybe they could’ve become better friends . . . and one day maybe even something more?
Her written words had hurt so much that in his last letter to his mother he’d told her he might just move to the West Coast. Why not? Bailey deserved someone like Tim—Cody truly meant that. Especially with him in Iraq for the next year or so. But he could hardly move back to Bloomington at the end of his tour and watch her head toward a serious relationship, maybe even a marriage, to someone else. If Bailey was falling in love with Tim, then the place for Cody was on the opposite side of the country—as far away from her as he could get.
At least that’s how he’d felt when he wrote the letter. Later he began to doubt himself. If he cared about Bailey, why hadn’t he told her? Maybe she really had turned to Tim only because she no longer thought Cody was interested. Either way, he owed her the truth at least. He had been planning to share his true feelings with her that night when he returned to his bunk. Only he never made it.
A thousand times he’d written the letter anyway, penciling it with his thoughts across the tablet of his heart. So when the time came, he would remember everything he wanted to say, and the letter would simply pour out of him. Dear Bailey, he would write. You have to understand something. I’ve been telling you to see other guys like Tim Reed for one reason only. Because you deserve someone like that and I’m not there. But don’t for a minute think that means I don’t have feelings for you. I do. I have ever since that night after Bryan left when we talked. . . .
There would be more to the letter too. He would tell her of his plans to get out of Iraq alive and come back to Bloomington, not California. His plans to get a college degree and let God bring life once more to their friendship. Plans that included her at every level. He would apologize for not making himself clear, and he would ask her to understand the things he’d said before.
The entire letter was already written.
Cody slid to the floor of the cage, curled up on his side, and closed his eyes. Hunger pangs twisted at his insides, and a few feet away the sound of scurrying scratchy feet echoed in the darkness. He ran his hands over his bony shoulders and elbows. Yes, he had the letter memorized. Now he had to find a way out of here.
Because only then could he finally get the message from his heart to hers.
There had been no word on Cody, no sign of him or his buddies. They were still listed as missing in action, though his superiors told Cody’s mother that they had a few leads that seemed promising. Either way, the fact that he hadn’t been found took away some of Bailey’s thrill that Friday.
It was
opening night for Joseph, and Bailey and Connor were driving to the theater earlier than the rest of the family. Call time was six o’clock—an hour ahead of the show when all actors had to report to the theater—but the doors didn’t open to the public until half an hour later.
Connor turned to her. “You’re thinking about Cody.” It wasn’t a question.
“He should be here.” Bailey kept her eyes on the road. The radio was turned low, and ahead of her she recognized the Reeds’ car. The theater was only a few miles away.
“It’s hard.” Connor held a big paper bag filled with supplies he’d need for the run of the show. “He joined the army because he wanted to, because he thought it was right.”
“It was right. And it’s right for our country to stand strong against terrorism.” She hesitated, feeling confused. “I’m just saying he should be here.”
After a few minutes of silence, Connor raised his eyebrows in her direction. “Care if we warm up?”
Bailey felt her shoulders fall an inch. “I’m sorry.” She gave him a weary smile. “It’s opening night. It doesn’t help Cody for us to head into the first show feeling all gloomy.”
“No.” Connor had his iPod connected to the car’s radio. He scrolled through a list of songs, and the sound of “Joseph’s Coat” filled the space around them.
They began to sing, warming up their voices, and as they did, the promise of the story lifted Bailey’s spirits. God was in control of all things at all times for all people. Maybe Cody had been thrown into a pit for now—like Joseph had been—but God knew the plans He had for Cody. She would do her friend no good by spending these days worrying.
She reached the theater and parked, and together they grabbed their things and climbed out of the car. As they headed across the street to the old theater, they heard someone behind them.
“Wait up!”
Bailey turned and saw Tim, his arms full of two flats of bottled water. As he reached her and Connor, the three of them slowed to a walk. At the side door, Tim stopped and looked at Connor. “Uh . . . why don’t you go on in, okay?”
Connor looked confused at first, but then he seemed to understand that Tim wanted to talk to Bailey alone. Connor did as he was asked.
When they were alone, Tim faced her and set the water down. “I wrote you a letter.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and grinned. “It wouldn’t fit in a text. I thought maybe you could read it before you go on tonight.”
“That’s really nice.” The gesture was so thoughtful. Sure, they’d been spending time together and texting a ton, but Tim hadn’t ever spelled out his feelings for her. There was no way of even telling if he saw her as more than a friend. Butterflies danced around in her stomach, and she was grateful for the growing darkness overhead, glad he couldn’t see the color in her cheeks.
“I know I’m in a teaching role, and I can’t really talk to you once everyone’s here. But I wanted you to know what I’ll be thinking out there in the audience.” He gave her a quick hug. “You’re going to be amazing tonight, Bailey. I can feel it.” He released her, but their eyes met and held. “I’ll be praying for you.” He bent down and picked up the flats of water. “Got to get these to the refreshment people.” He smiled at her one last time, then headed up a set of stairs toward a different door than the one actors used.
Bailey watched him go, and before he went inside, he stopped and looked at her once more. Chills ran over her arms and down her spine. Was this really happening? Was he really falling for her?
She ran down the steps to the greenroom entrance and glanced at her watch. She had time to read his letter, but not in the greenroom with everyone watching, wondering what was so important. Instead she darted down a hallway and into the dark, empty kitchen. She hit the light and moved to the corner where no one would see her even if they passed by the open door.
The letter wasn’t long, just one page, one side. The butterflies doubled as she opened the piece of paper and held it up.
Bailey,
I guess I have two things to tell you. I figured I’d do a better job if I wrote them. Otherwise I’d chicken out and never say this. Anyway, first, I want to apologize. I know I’ve never been that easy to understand, and I’m sorry about that. It was never because of you. I always liked you. From the time we were in Tom Sawyer together.
Bailey balanced herself against the rickety old refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. She had dreamed of getting a letter like this from Tim, hoped for so many years that he might really be developing feelings for her. But Tim had been so flaky in his attention toward her. Glad to see her one day and able to get through an entire CKT practice without so much as a hello another time. After a while she’d given up. Cody was living with them by then, and he was becoming the friend Tim had never really been. But now . . .
She found her place and kept reading.
The problem is the drama that comes with CKT. The drama offstage. I don’t want people knowing who I like or talking about whether we’re an item. All that garbage. So I tried dating a few girls from church, but . . . okay, you guessed it . . . they only made me think about you more. Truthfully, I still don’t know if I want a girlfriend. It’s not bad being single. You can probably agree with that. But if I did want a girlfriend, you’d be the girl. I wanted you to know. I don’t have feelings for anyone else.
Bailey’s excitement fell off by a percentage. It wasn’t bad being single? Was that supposed to make her feel good about whatever they were building together? She pursed her lips and finished the letter.
Anyway, the second thing is that you’ve really come a long, long way in your ability as a stage actress. I know CKT is about more than the stage—that’s true for all of us—but the growth I’ve seen in you as a singer and actress has been incredible. You could really do this for a living even. Out of all the kids in CKT, I think there are only a handful of us who have a future at it. Lately I have to say you’re definitely one of those.
It makes me dream that maybe one day you and me and Connor might all be living in New York City and being a light for God. I really think it could happen. I guess that’s all. I wanted you to know before you go onstage tonight. You’re blowing me away with your role as narrator. So go break a leg! I’ll talk to you later after the party when no one’s around to gossip about us.
Your friend,
Tim
Bailey made a face. She read the letter once more all the way through and tried to figure out what she was feeling. Once, when she was sixteen, her parents had taken them to a fancy steakhouse in downtown Indianapolis. For weeks her dad had built the place up, telling them that the steak was better than any he’d ever eaten. Amazing broccoli casserole and potatoes and salad and bread. When they finally reached the restaurant that Sunday evening, the whole family was ready for the best dinner of their life.
Only, when Bailey was halfway through her broccoli, she lifted a forkful to her mouth and there, stuck between two pieces of broccoli, was a dead fly. Bailey dropped her fork and had to excuse herself to the bathroom so she wouldn’t be sick. She never did end up tasting the steak or finishing her meal. Everything good about it was ruined by a single dead fly.
That was how she felt now. Okay, so Tim was admitting he liked her. Something she and her mom had talked about and something she had at times dreamed about. But he was also saying he was truly happy having no girlfriend at all. Then the part about her skills as an actress? His compliment felt cheap and . . . Bailey couldn’t quite figure out why it bothered her. Maybe because he came across arrogant, saying only “a handful of us” had a future at theater. And how about the part where he didn’t want to be seen with her? A guy should be willing to stand up to the gossip and look the other way. Who cared what people said? As long as he didn’t show her any affection or extra attention when he was in the role of teacher, there shouldn’t be a problem. But he hadn’t blamed his leadership role as the reason. He’d blamed the offstage drama. Why did it matter so much?
She frowned at the letter, folded it, and placed it back in the envelope. As she walked to her place in the greenroom in the basement of the theater, and as she found her costume on the back of her chair, she couldn’t help but think of the one person who never would’ve said such a thing.
Cody.
But then . . . Cody wasn’t interested in her. If they ever found him and rescued him, if he ever made it back to the United States safely, then he was moving as far away from her as possible. So maybe there was some merit to Tim’s idea of moving to New York City and pursuing a career in musical theater.
Her thoughts were so confused that by the time she started to apply her stage makeup, she could no longer remember the words to the opening song, a solo she was scheduled to sing. She hung her head and gripped the edge of the table where her mirror and makeup were spread out. Please clear my mind, God. Tim’s right, anyway. Being single really is better—at least for now. And please . . . wherever Cody is, be with him. Help the people looking for him so he can be found. Thank You.
She lifted her head, and Connor was standing beside her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She stood, and at the same instant the words to the song came back to her. “I just need to get onstage.”
Connor wanted to ask her about Tim, about what was so important that he had to talk to her alone outside. She knew her brother well enough to see that in his eyes. But instead he only smiled and patted her back. “Yeah. Me too.”
The hour passed quickly, and she and Sydney and Julia formed a small cluster and went over their key songs. With every word, every note, Bailey felt herself drawing closer to the part, owning her role as narrator. And with every minute that passed, all thoughts of Tim and even Cody left her.
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