by Bill Myers
She headed back toward the ICU lounge, taking another deep breath. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, taking deep breaths. The ordeal was taking its toll. She glanced at her watch: 6:10 P.M. Seven hours had passed since they’d pulled the plug. Seven hours and he was still alive.
His breathing had grown louder and even more irregular, sometimes stopping for several seconds before starting up again with gasps and chokes. But it was the seizures that really took it out of her. They’d started three to four hours ago.
The nurse assured her that, although it didn’t happen with hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 291
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all patients, it was perfectly normal for others. Well, what was perfectly normal for others was not perfectly normal for Julia.
To see her father’s body suddenly jerk or contract did not make things easier.
She arrived at the white ICU phone, picked it up, and announced her presence. The door buzzed and she stepped inside. She passed the nurses’ station. It was a new shift; the others had left at five. As she approached cubicle four she began to hear faint music. Someone was singing. The bed came into view, and she saw her mother sitting on the other side, near the window, looking down at her ex-husband and softly singing:
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is—”
“Mom,” Julia interrupted as she entered the room. “What are you doing?”
Her mother looked up, eyes slightly red and swollen. “It seems to calm him,” she said. “It gives him some peace.”
Julia looked down at her father’s body. Her mother was right. There were no spasms, no jerkings, at least for the moment. Even his breathing seemed to come a little easier.
She eased herself into the yellow chair beside him, directly across from her mother.
“Do you remember the year he taught Sunday school with me?” her mother asked. “With the first graders?”
Julia nodded, the memory almost making her smile.
“Oh, I know it was so he could duck out of church. You two were always good at dreaming up excuses.”
“You knew that?” Julia asked.
“Of course. Anyway,” her mother continued, “this was one of the songs we taught them. And they wanted to hear it every week, over and over again. So we sang it, over and over again. And your father, he never objected.”
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“No doubt hoping to use up the time so he wouldn’t have to do all those arts and crafts.”
Her mother laughed softly. “He did come home with a few glue-coated ties, didn’t he?”
Julia nodded at the memory.
“But I think it was more than that,” her mother said. “I think the singing gave him a certain comfort. I can’t explain why, but he never said no.” She glanced up to the bandaged head, staring at it for a long, tender moment. Then, quietly, she resumed the song.
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so . . .”
Her mother was no singer, but there was something about her thin, wavery voice, about the simplicity of the song, that brought a tightness to Julia’s throat.
“Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.”
Her mother took a breath and without missing a beat said,
“Sing with me, Jules.”
“Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.”
Julia opened her mouth, but no words would come.
“Yes, Jesus loves me.”
Instead, her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She tried blinking them back, angrily swiping at them. But they kept coming. Something was happening, deep inside.
“The Bible tells me so.”
It wasn’t the singing, it wasn’t the words. But whatever it was caused the tears to spill onto her cheeks and begin streaming down her face. Whatever had been unlocked inside of her made it impossible for her to stop.
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Her mother continued:
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.”
Suddenly a sob escaped from Julia’s throat. Then another.
Her mother looked up in surprise and came to a stop.
“Jules, what’s wrong?”
Embarrassed, Julia took another swipe at her tears, but it was no use.
“Julia . . .”
“I don’t know.” She tried to laugh. “I, uh . . .” She swallowed hard, trying to regain control. “I can’t, uh . . .” Another sob escaped, which she covered with a cough.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” After another gulp she continued. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I sing that?
It’s just a stupid little . . .” She swallowed again. “Just a stupid little song.”
Her mother said nothing, watching as the tears continued to fall.
Another sob slipped out. Again Julia shook her head. “I don’t know . . .” She looked away, trying to get out the words.
“I mean, I’d give anything to have that kind of faith.”
After a moment her mother answered softly. “You can.”
Julia shook her head, wiping her face. “No.”
“Yes, you can, Sweetheart, all you have to do is ask.”
“No . . .” More tears came. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is, Jules, it’s just that simple. It’s just a matter of choice.”
Julia tried to answer but could no longer speak. Instead, she lowered her head and quietly wept. She was grateful that her mother said nothing more, that she no longer had to answer questions. A full minute passed before her mother started singing again. Softly, gently. And although the song had unleashed powerful unknown emotions within her, and although she couldn’t join in, Julia still found a peace as her mother continued.
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“Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.”
v
As the number of deaths from the bombing rose, so did the public outrage. As early as 8:30 A.M., a small crowd had started gathering outside the Salem County Courthouse where Eli was held. They were not happy. In fact, as far as Conrad could tell, they had all the earmarks of a mob in the making, a mob growing more and more hungry for justice. And, true to form, the media was also arriving—stirring up things, pok-ing cameras into faces, asking people what they felt—not, of course, before telling them about the latest tally of deaths.
Nineteen was the current count, nearly a third of them infants.
Conrad had seen this type of unrest before—as a student reporter back in Chicago, during the ’68 Democratic Conven-tion, just before the riots broke out. And he was nervous. Even though there were only forty or fifty people, and even though somebody had had the good sense to station a guard at the top of the courthouse steps as a reminder that no disorder would be tolerated, those things did little to ease Conrad’s fears. This gathering was a tinderbox of outrage that, if not defused, would eventually ignite.
Earlier he’d tried contacting the sheriff’s department, using his press credentials to get more information. But as soon as he’d mentioned his name, their attitude seemed to change—almost as if they’d been alerted that he might call.
“Excuse me . . . excuse me, aren’t you one of Eli’s followers?”
Conrad recognized the voice and turned to see Gerald McFarland shoving a microphone into Jake’s face. Of the group only he, Jake, and Trevor had shown up outside the courthouse.
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“I . . . uh . . .” Jake looked at the camera, startled, then at the small group gathering around it. He coughed slightly
. “I’ve heard him speak, if that’s what you mean. At the City of God, when he was at the fountain.” He swallowed.
“No, no,” McFarland insisted, “haven’t you been on the road with him?”
More people turned in his direction. A few exchanged hushed words.
Jake shook his head. “No, you got me mixed up with somebody else.”
But McFarland was ruthless. He knew that Jake was part of the group, had seen him a number of times. “No, I’m sure you were with him.”
Other people began to approach, straining to listen. Jake’s eyes darted to Conrad, then to Trevor.
McFarland continued, “In fact, I think we’ve got footage, back in Texas when you—”
“I said I don’t know him, so I don’t know him, all right?”
He swore to further make his point. “I’m here to see what’s going on, just like the rest of you.” He pushed past McFarland and the camera. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He entered the crowd of onlookers, which parted slightly for him to exit. He’d only taken a half-dozen steps before the courthouse clock began to chime. Conrad glanced up. It was nine o’clock. He turned back to Jake. Instead of slowing or even turning, the big man had lowered his head and picked up his pace.
Conrad watched sadly. He knew exactly what the big guy was feeling—had felt it himself. Was still feeling it. Hadn’t he also betrayed Eli? Maybe not here, but what about the night of the arrest? How was he any different from Jake? Or Keith, for that matter. Granted, he’d not sold Eli for cash, but he’d still denied him. Like Jake, like Keith, like the rest of the group, he’d still betrayed him. Would it ever stop? This waf-fling weakness? This cowardliness of giving in to the world’s ways and refusing Eli’s? Would he ever—
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His thoughts froze. What on earth? There, at the foot of the courthouse steps, he saw Julia. She was sitting, but not on the steps. Instead, she sat in a yellow molded chair. And beside her . . . was a bed. A hospital bed with someone in it.
What was going on? What was she doing here? He closed his eyes and reopened them, but she was still there. Her head was bowed slightly and, although he couldn’t be sure, it looked as if she was crying.
Confused and concerned, he started toward her. But he’d barely taken a step before another voice called to him.
“Connie . . . Hey, Conrad?”
He turned to see Leo Singer, his rival from Up Front magazine. And there, trailing behind him, were Ned Burton and a soundman. They were obviously here to cover the story.
After his initial surprise came the resentment . . . and the realization. Burton had always been Conrad’s cameraman. Not Singer’s. But now, here the two of them were, a team. Leo was in, Conrad was out. It was as simple as that. Funny, he’d almost forgotten how expendable he was.
He turned back toward Julia, but she was no longer there.
Neither was her chair. Nor the bed. He frowned and turned to search the courtyard.
“You okay, buddy?” Singer asked.
Conrad continued to look, but saw nothing.
“Connie?”
He turned back to them. “Yeah, uh . . .” He caught Burton’s eyes and they exchanged nods.
“So how you been?” Singer asked. “Getting all that rest you so desperately needed?”
A sizable portion of Conrad wanted to punch him in the face, but he managed to exercise restraint.
“Did you hear the news?” Singer continued.
Conrad scanned the courtyard one last time for Julia but with no success. “What news is that?” he asked.
“It just came in a minute ago. Preliminary results indicate that the same materials used to make the bomb at the City of hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 297
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God were used in the bomb that blew up your guy’s trailer in Montana.”
Conrad turned to Singer. He now had his full attention.
“What?”
Singer nodded. “That’s right.”
Conrad felt a wave of relief wash over him. “So we’ve got proof that it’s some sort of conspiracy, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they’re the same materials, then whoever blew up the RV also planted the bomb at the City of God.”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“What do you mean?’”
“Actually, the theory being floated is that the bomb that blew up that RV was in your boy’s possession.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning it was an accidental explosion from the bombs that he and his followers were making.”
Conrad felt himself growing cold. “What?”
Singer shrugged. “That’s the story. Of course there’s no confirmation yet, but—”
“So you haven’t reported it?” Conrad couldn’t hide the urgency in his voice.
“Of course not. Not till we get it confirmed.”
Conrad looked uneasily at the people milling about the courtyard. There were a dozen more since the last time he’d checked. “Good,” he said, “because if word got out . . .”
“I know, I know,” Singer nodded, also looking over the group. “Unfortunately, just because we’re not in the business of reporting rumors”—he threw a glance toward McFarland—
“doesn’t mean others aren’t.”
Conrad spun toward McFarland. He got the message.
Loud and clear. He pushed past Singer—“Excuse me”—and started across the courtyard toward McFarland. “Gerry!
Gerry!”
If Singer had received word, chances are that McFarland had too. And, knowing his style, let alone his agenda, it was hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 298
298 doubtful that he would be quite as discerning in separating fact from fiction. “Gerry!”
A crowd was gathering around him, listening intently as he interviewed a black mother holding her child.
“What?” she practically shouted at McFarland as Conrad approached. “Are you sure?”
McFarland nodded. “The report was released moments ago. So as a mother, tell us—how does that make you feel?”
He shoved the mike back into the angry woman’s face. The expressions of those listening showed equal outrage. Murmuring and unrest swept through the crowd. Immediately, Conrad knew. McFarland had already struck.
The match inside the tinderbox had just been lit.
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C H A P T E R
S I X T E E N
“KEITH!” CONRAD BANGED ON THE PEELING DOOR OF THE MOTEL
room. “Keith, open up!”
No answer.
“Keith!” He knocked again. The kid’s car was in the parking lot. He had to be there. “Keith!”
Going to see him had been a last-minute decision, when Conrad couldn’t get through to Dr. Kerston’s people, when suddenly all ties had been severed. But they would listen to Keith. They’d have to. And they’d have to realize how dangerous it was for Eli to remain in the courthouse. Any minute, that crowd could go off. And when they did, no solitary guard stationed up on the steps could stop them. Reinforcements had to be brought in. And quickly.
“Keith!” More banging. More silence . . . except for the strange ditty going around inside Conrad’s head. It had started on the drive over. A nursery rhyme. One that he hadn’t heard in years.
Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
It was the weirdest thing. And even weirder was the fact that he couldn’t seem to shake it.
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Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.
He stole a look over his shoulder. No one was in the parking lot—just Keith’s car and the battered Toyota Travis had loaned him. Without hesitation he crossed to the window, slipped off his shoe, and bashed it through one of the panes.
The brittle glass shatt
ered effortlessly, one of the advantages of a cheap motel. He reached in, unlatched the lock, and pushed up the window.
“Keith?”
He shoved aside the sun-rotted drapes and stuck in his head.
The boy was on the bed, slumped against the back wall.
His chest was soaked in blood.
“Keith!” Conrad lifted himself into the window, trying to avoid the shards of glass. He wasn’t entirely successful; something caught his Dockers and he heard them rip as he crawled through.
“Keith!” He started toward the bed—then stopped, suddenly seeing the splattered blood on the wall and the open wound in the back of the young man’s head. In his hand he held a .32 caliber Beretta. But he was still breathing. Conrad could see his chest moving, hear little gurgling sounds from his throat. He headed for the phone on the nightstand, scooped it up, and quickly punched in 911. The first two tries were unsuccessful; then he remembered to dial 8 for an outside line.
“911,” a voice answered.
“I need an ambulance at Twin Pines Motel on Cumberland Road. There’s been a shooting. Severe head wound, lots of blood.”
“You say there was a shooting?”
“Yes, at Twin Pines Motel. Hurry, he’s still breathing, but barely.”
“Can you see him from where you are?” the voice asked.
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“Yes.”
“Is he in the room with you?”
“Yes,” Conrad answered impatiently.
“Now, by shooting, what exactly do you—”
“Just get out here!” Conrad slammed down the phone.
“Connie . . .” It was Keith’s voice, barely audible.
He scrambled onto the bed. “I’m right here, buddy, I’m right here.”
“Tell him—” Keith coughed a moment, wracking his entire body.
“Shhh.” Conrad wanted to hold him, but was unsure how.
“Take it easy, you’ll be okay.”