The Lights of Tenth Street

by Shaunti Feldhahn

  The guard emerged from the staircase to see three of his colleagues busy in and around the intruding boat, which now bumped gently up against the dam. He caught his breath—and was blinded by a roaring flash of light. From fifty feet away, he was thrown back onto the steps, shielding his face from the heat of the explosion.

  He shouted out for his colleagues on the boat, trying to regain his equilibrium, to stand, to do something. He saw his supervisor run out onto the deck of the security station, also shielding his face from the flame, trying to see with his eyes what couldn’t have been true on the monitor.

  The two men locked eyes, and they turned and fixed their gaze on the top of the dam. A chunk looked like it had been bitten out by a ravenous giant. Cracks were forming, right down to the waterline, where two boats were burning down to empty hulks—hulks that would quickly sink or be washed over the dam. Along with millions of gallons of water.

  The supervisor disappeared from the doorway, and on his radio the guard could hear the alert going out. “Breach in progress! Move away from the river! Alert the towns!” Within moments, over the crackle of the flame and the sound of the groaning dam, the old sirens could be heard far below.

  In slow motion, he watched the cracks spread, illuminated by the flames in the darkness, the vision of hell. Then there was a great crumbling and a roar as a giant chunk gave way.

  Tyson and the other members of the S-Group sat perched on their island wicker chairs, staring, intent, at a bank of television sets, each turned to a different cable channel. Different channels, same news.

  Tyson watched the anxious reporters—some soaked or covered with mud—documenting the sudden tragedy that had befallen the river valley. The nighttime pictures were murky, lit only by the lights of cameras and emergency workers. But that was enough to see the houses torn apart, the cars flipped high on the ravine, the body bags, the shattered families. The darkness and cold added to the confusion, the horror. It was feared that hundreds, probably thousands, had been killed, one of the worst flooding tragedies of the past hundred years. Shaken reporters looked into the cameras and spoke of the impact of such a tragedy during the Christmas season.

  The newscasts were full of speculation as to the cause of the breach, the theories spreading like wildfire. But no one would stick his neck out and say the T word. Not until they had more information.

  Tyson sipped his glass of wine. It was all part of the necessary cycle of destruction and rebirth. He was just helping it along. And getting paid handsomely in exchange.

  “Turn that up!” Tyson gestured toward the man nearest a particular television set, where a reporter stood, microphone in hand, shivering amid the carnage.

  “Sources now tell us this was a deliberate explosion, a bomb aboard a small boat of some kind. Again, we’re coming to you first with the news that this was no accident. This was a deliberate act of malice with—it appears—the intent to destroy thousands of innocent lives. We can only speculate who may be behind this attack and whether this horrific act will result in even greater loss. Again, let’s take you to the precarious situation on the dam just a few miles upriver from where we stand.”

  A helicopter shot showed the beleaguered dam, the partial breach down the middle and across one side, the remaining mass of water pressing on the weakened structure. Sober-eyed commentators safe in their television studios interviewed engineers about the chances that the rest of the dam could go. It was astounding, the engineers said, that only that top rectangular piece had broken free so far … the pressure for a complete breach was enormous … authorities must swiftly let out more of the water in as controlled a manner as possible.

  The members of the S-Group scowled. On a scale of ten, this was probably a four. But since this was just a warm-up, a test, the pressure was off. And regardless, their client was pleased.

  There were yells and cheers in the dusty early-morning streets as the enemies of the Great Satan got word that another blow had been struck, another great loss inflicted. And during the infidels’ celebrations of their heretical Christmas holiday season, at that. It could not be better.

  Men gave each other impromptu presents, teens fired automatic weapons in the air, chanting national slogans, and children danced in the streets.

  Mr. Mohammed watched from a third-floor window, his arms crossed, his tight lips now curving in a smile. Ah, the younger generation. Passionate, pliable, and steeped in the old teachings without question. The perfect tools that they needed now and for the foreseeable future; for as long as they fought this shadow war against the great enemy of Islam. As was their custom, their team would gather at prayers soon and give thanks to Allah for their success.

  He ducked back inside his informal command center—a sparse two-room apartment—and continued the debriefing via secure cell phone with several of the operatives involved. Being infidels, caring only about money, they had not been willing to be martyrs for the cause. But it hadn’t been necessary; the boat had been remotely guided from a pickup truck parked nearby.

  The bomb could have just as easily been detonated by the same operatives, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the test, and it had worked beautifully.

  Mr. Mohammed turned and watched the scenes of devastation on CNN, the tragedy not two hours old. The test run had proven that the real event would be a great success, Allah willing.

  He disconnected from the American operatives and punched in the number that would reach his backers. He stood at the window, watching the ongoing celebration in the streets. Just imagine what these streets would look like after Super Bowl Sunday.

  Everyone clustered around the break room television set, eyes stretched with disbelief, watching the horrific scenes. Several of the girls were crying, their makeup running. Maris chain-smoked, tears in her hardened eyes, angrily jabbing out one cigarette only to light another within minutes. Ronnie sat next to her on the couch, unable, like the others, to look away from the devastation of this new kind of attack.

  The room was crowded with so many staffers away from their posts, but it didn’t matter. The club floor was practically deserted, most patrons having rushed home to turn on their own televisions once the news was announced. The only busy area was the bar, where Nick had a small set turned to CNN. He plied the shocked customers with drinks, which they paid for and drank like automatons, all attention focused on the news.

  Within half an hour, Marco came in, his face somber. He announced that they would close up early that night; that everyone could go home. His voice was brusque and he never looked toward the television set. Instead, his eyes searched the crowd in the room and settled on Ronnie. He jerked his head toward the door.

  “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Wiping her eyes, Ronnie picked her way through the haphazard cluster of sitting and standing staff members and followed Marco out into the hallway.

  “I need to schedule this gig for you on Saturday night.” He spoke with no further preamble. “The special Christmas party with some business partners at my place. We’ll just have one dancer. You up for it? I’ll pay you directly, no money to change hands there.”

  Ronnie tried to attend to what he was saying. How could he expect her to focus on business right now?

  She sniffled a little, one eye still on the television set, glimpsed through the doorway. There was a heart-wrenching shot of a child crying in a policeman’s arms.

  “Oh, Marco, isn’t it awful?” She sniffled some more. “How could anyone do something like that?”

  Marco made an impatient movement with his hand. “Yes, awful. But I need to know the answer now, or I need to pick another girl. You in or out?”

  Ronnie closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. “In, I guess.”

  “Will you be able to pull it together by then?” Marco’s tone was cold.

  Her eyes flew open again. “How can you be so … so heartless?” She could feel her ire rising and turned her back on the television screen. “Yeah, I’ll be fine by
the weekend, enough to earn my keep for the party. Sure, no problem, Marco, if that’s all you care about!”

  He scowled at her, irritated, and turned away, saying over his shoulder. “Fine, I’ll put you on the schedule.” He vanished into his office, and closed the door behind him.

  Ronnie muttered a few choice words in his direction, then turned and headed back into the break room. School finals were in progress, and she had no idea how anyone was going to be able to concentrate on their tests tomorrow.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  You still want to go to the game?” Sherry Turner was pacing around the living room, the television set on—as it had been almost continually since the dam attack—but muted. “You think it’s safe?”

  On the other end of the line, Jo Woodward sounded exasperated. “Who knows, these days? Who would’ve thought three days ago that some remote, peaceful river valley would be unsafe? But it’s the same thing I thought after the 9/11 attacks—I hate the idea of letting the terrorists win.”

  “Yeah, I know. Doug will be home any minute, and I’ll ask him what he thinks.”

  “How’s the outreach going, by the way? The food pantry thing?”

  “Hopping. All those immigrants that depend on day labor jobs have been just decimated these last few days. We’ve been collecting lots of extra food and have taken it over twice already this week.”

  “God’s timing is amazing. What would those people have done if that hadn’t already been in place?”

  “I don’t know. And it’s been important from a spiritual standpoint, too. Like everyone else, they’ve been really shaken by this. Even before, so many new people from the complexes were coming to church that we were considering starting either a Spanish service or a simultaneous translation. After this, I think it’ll be a must.”

  Sherry looked up as Doug came in the garage door, loosening his tie. He set his briefcase beside the door and came to give her a peck on the cheek. He mouthed the words “who is it?”

  Sherry whispered, “Jo Woodward. About our plans for Saturday night. You still want to go?”

  Doug slipped the knot on his tie, considering. Then he nodded. “If the kids were going, I might not be so quick. But I think we have to get on with normal life.”

  In Sherry’s ear, Jo was saying, “We have to get on with life, you know?”

  Sherry almost giggled. “Doug just came home and he said the same thing.”

  “Well, then, let’s do it.” There was sudden hesitation in the cheery voice. “If you’re—you know—still up for it.”

  “Hey! None of that nonsense!” Sherry laughed outright. “We want to treat you to this game. We’ve been talking about it forever, and you agreed to let us, so no backing out now!”

  Tyson slipped into his cluttered office and checked his e-mail for anything new from the client. One by one, the members of the S-Group arrived for the next planning meeting. When all were in place, Tyson stood and addressed the small group.

  “The client is pleased. They are releasing to us the first bonus in the payment package—the first bonus for the first job delivered.”

  There were careful smiles and nods. “About time,” a couple of people muttered.

  “We’ve all been under a great deal of stress these last few weeks, and we think it’s about time we combined business with pleasure. It’s the holidays, after all. We’ll meet Saturday at the house of one of our principals—Marco, who most of you know—and after the all-day strategy session, we’ll have a little all-night bash. I’m told that as entertainment, we’ll be joined by one of Marco’s showcase girls, who have—all unwittingly—been of so much use to us.

  “Just one caution: I don’t know which girl Marco will be able to get for Saturday. Remember that some are more … amenable … to various attentions than others. These girls are thoroughbreds and each one needs to be handled differently. Some are more relaxed, some more jumpy.”

  One of the men looked irritated, his eyes hard. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you should all remember how much we have invested in these girls before you act, okay? Remember the lesson we taught Glenn, just recently, for the breakdown in discipline.”

  One or two of the men nodded, but Tyson had an uncomfortable feeling they would do exactly what they wanted to do, whether he liked it or not.

  Ronnie stepped back, uncomfortable. What was with these guys tonight? They weren’t playing by the rules.

  She gave another desperate glance around, looking for Marco. Again, he was nowhere to be found. Dozens of drinks had been knocked back, and she could tell that the men in this elite little group were used to getting their way.

  Another man put his arm around her, his hands wandering, unwelcome. She again fended off the inappropriate touch, trying to act calm even as her heart began to pound.

  “Uh—sorry, gentlemen. I’ll just be a moment. I need some air.”

  She hurried out onto the deck, shivering in the chill air. The deck had a dizzying view of a plunging hill beyond, putting to rest any thoughts she had about climbing over the edge and down to the ground floor to try to find her boss.

  She heard footsteps behind her and spun around, face to face with three of the men, their expressions leaving no doubt of their intentions. She opened her mouth to scream, but one clamped a hand over her lips, pressing her bare back against the wooden railing.

  “Now, you be a good girl, you hear? You don’t know who we are, but you’ll do just what we say. We’re paying your salary; that’s who we are. That’s all you need to know. And if you don’t cooperate, we’ll toss you over the edge. I don’t care how much we have invested in you.”

  Ronnie closed her eyes, blocking out the strange words, the drunken and ruthless eyes. No choice. Again, no choice. She stopped struggling, stopped caring, and watched from afar, from behind the wall that had been built brick by brick since she was eight years old.

  “Sorry, Macy. Sorry.” Marco repeated the words over and over, his voice regretful but calm.

  He waited through her shuddering tears as she clutched at him, shivering, fighting off shock. She was sitting in the front seat of his luxury car, his long overcoat covering the few clothes she had been wearing when it all started. He had to get back to the party for the bigwigs, but had snuck out to drop her at the subway. He would have someone bring her car to the club in the morning.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He gave her arm a final, awkward pat. “They had me busy downstairs.” In the back of his mind, he wondered whether he had purposely been diverted away. They must have known that he would never consciously allow one of his girls to be abused, no matter what the orders were.

  Ronnie gave a final few gulping sobs, trying to pull it together so she could get out of the car. Act normal, girl. Even when everything was crumbling, act normal. All she wanted was to get home and crawl in bed, never to come out. She climbed out of the car, stiff and shaky, and slammed the door behind her. Where was all the indignation, the fury that Marco had poured out on Glenn?

  She wove her way into the station on shaky legs, bought a token, and climbed the stairs that led to the aboveground platform of the rail station. She had to stop halfway up, bracing herself against the concrete stairwell to stop her head from spinning. Once on the platform she shivered from cold as well as from shock, Marco’s overcoat providing little defense against the wind.

  The subway was alive with chatter about the play-offs, the Falcons having narrowly beaten the Eagles in the final minutes of the game.

  Doug and Sherry stood near Jo and Vance Woodward, clutching the standing subway poles for balance as the train rocketed them toward home. The subway gradually emptied, and the two couples were able to find seats together.

  Sherry sat snuggled in the crook of Doug’s shoulder, content to watch, listen, and enjoy the security of her husband’s arms again. In the last few months he had become a different man. In their early counseling sessions, Pastor Steven had warned them that eve
ry husband—just like every wife—responded differently, that some would need more time, more healing, more patience than others. No one could predict the path that each couple would need to walk.

  One more time, Sherry breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that their path, while painful and dark at times, had been a path to restoration. Her husband was becoming more whole, more loving with every day. Somehow, being forced to confess and confront his problem so openly had freed him.

  Doug told Sherry that he had to be on guard every day—that he always would have to be, that the temptation would always be there if he let himself open the door even a crack. She had grown used to asking him the tough questions and loving him through both the bad and good answers. But it was so worth it to see him living without the fear that regression was inevitable. He had been, really and truly, set free.

  The train approached the last stop, and Doug took Sherry’s hand as the foursome made their way to the doors. Jo and Vance filed off first, Doug and Sherry right behind them, pushing through the crowd waiting to board. Vance stopped suddenly, causing Doug to bump into his back.

  “Jo, look!” Vance said.

  Jo put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh. That’s—”

  “That’s her!”

  “Go, quick!”

  Shivering, Ronnie waited to board the train. She felt dizzy and faint. She would not cry in public. Would not cry.

  A gentle hand gripped her arm, and she jumped.

  “Ronnie?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Woodward stood there, their kind eyes darkened with worry.

  “Ronnie, are you okay?”

  Ronnie felt Mrs. Woodward’s hand tighten on her arm. Then she heard Mr. Woodward’s concerned voice. It sounded odd, as if it were coming through a rapidly deepening tunnel.

  FORTY-NINE

  Ronnie’s head was pounding, her mouth dry. She lay still, letting other sensations arrive one by one.

  She was lying on a bed. She could feel the weight of a thick, soft comforter, smell a gentle scent.