The Runaway Prophet

by Michele Chynoweth

  Once she saw him, she became silent. Her black eyes gleamed with hatred, following Rory as he approached her. He first threw the bedspread over her, but she fought to kick it off, thrashing her legs like weapons, striking out at him like a wild animal. Rory untied her left wrist and she swung at him with her free hand. He darted out of her reach just in time and stood for a moment debating whether to free her other arm, but when she ripped the duct tape off her mouth, hurled loud screams and obscenities at him in a language he didn’t understand, and then spit at him, Rory suddenly recognized she was going to come at him full force if he freed her. He walked backward toward the bedroom door, averting his eyes from her half-naked body.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered, not knowing if she understood. As she frantically worked to free herself from her last binding, he rushed out of the room, shut the door, and ran to the anonymity of the crowded casino, leaving a still sleeping Jim behind.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Now, ten years later, a divorced and single Rory still remembered his trip to Las Vegas as if it were yesterday. While most of his fellow employees had slept during the four-hour flight from Las Vegas back to Columbus, Rory had sat and smoldered, making a promise to himself that he would never go back to Vegas again, even if it meant getting fired.

  Rory had also vowed to look for a new job, but as the years passed, he realized with increasing despair that it was out of the question. No one left a good job in the middle of an economic downturn, he had told himself, comforting himself with the knowledge that at least with the latest recession, the company cut out the trips to Vegas. Still, Rory felt like he was stuck in quicksand. Hopeless days turned into miserable years as he stuffed his feelings down like he stuffed his starched shirt into his dress pants, drove his Ford economy car to work, put in his time, and drove back again each night to his meager apartment.

  Then the call came, and everything changed.

  It was Rory’s mother, Donna Justice. She got right to the point.

  “Your father has taken a turn for the worse, Rory. He may not make it this time. He wants to see you.”

  Rory’s father, Howard, had pulmonary fibrosis. He was diagnosed with the disease several years ago at the age of sixty-eight and was eventually forced to retire from his position as a special agent in the FBI. His health had deteriorated over the past few years, and he couldn’t leave the house without taking his oxygen machine with him, and only then for short periods. Then to make matters worse, while he was hospitalized a few months ago he developed a bacterial infection known as Clostridium difficile, or “C-diff.” His doctors had tried to battle it without much success, and the drugs for the infection ended up compromising the blood thinner he was taking, causing a stroke.

  And just recently, Rory’s mother told him that his father was suffering mild dementia.

  “What about Daniel?” Rory asked his mom. Daniel Justice, Rory’s older brother and only sibling, was a sergeant in the US Army who was stationed in Afghanistan in one of the last American divisions tasked with helping the post-war government retain its tenuous stronghold before the Americans departed the war-torn country to fend for itself. His mother told him she had called Daniel to tell him about his father’s condition, and he was scheduled to depart within the next twenty-four hours.

  Rory usually travelled to his parents’ home in Bethesda, Maryland, a commuter town for many Washington DC employees, a half dozen times or more a year. Sometimes he felt resentment that his brother didn’t have to take on the obligation of attending family gatherings such as holidays, birthdays, weddings, and funerals.

  “I hope he makes it in time,” Donna Justice said, as if reading her son’s thoughts.

  “He will, Mom. Don’t worry.” He better, Rory thought, feeling a little selfish, but justified.

  They had been born and raised in the quaint little town of Rising Sun, Maryland, where Rory had lived until the age of thirteen when the family moved to Bethesda after his father was offered the job with the FBI.

  Rory had a more vivid memory of Rising Sun than he did of the posh suburbs of Bethesda, even though he had lived there only during his early formative years. He remembered his family’s house in the rural countryside where they had cows for neighbors. He recalled taking the yellow school bus to the local elementary school and coming home to his mom usually baking pies or cookies while his dad worked late most nights as a state police trooper.

  He remembered winters sledding with his brother and their friends down the big hill that sloped from the neighboring farmhouse, and summers spent swimming at the local public pool. He recalled Fourth of July fireworks, the county farm fair with its 4-H displays, carnival rides and rodeo shows, and the town’s annual summer Sun Fest with its parade of fire trucks and lots of good things to eat.

  It was an idyllic childhood, or so it seemed through the fine gauze of a child’s memory shrouding it all.

  But looking back, Rory realized it was far from idyllic or even typical, if there was such a thing. He didn’t recall ever seeing one minority in his neighborhood—no blacks, Asians, Hispanics—and only a few in most parts of the surrounding town and county. There were no minorities in his school or in any of the Rising Sun schools, and none in his Little League or the Peewee football program. Rising Sun had always been almost one hundred percent white, even into the early nineties—and it seemed the town was proud of it.

  Rory remembered hearing rumors that the Ku Klux Klan was founded in Rising Sun, and he had often overheard racial remarks made by classmates and sometimes adults. He recalled one incident in which one of his classmates came into school threatening to injure the next black person he saw. It turned out that the boy’s dad had lost his job to a young African American man.

  One day Rory mustered the courage to ask Daniel what he thought about the town’s racial disparity as he sat on his twin bed in the room they shared, watching his older brother’s serious face as he concentrated on his latest model plane project spread out on the desk. “Hey, Danny, why aren’t there more black people in Rising Sun?”

  His brother rolled his eyes. “Geez, Rory, I don’t know, go ask Dad.”

  Disgruntled at being brushed aside by his older brother, Rory stood up in a hurry and his elbow accidentally swiped against the newly glued wing of Daniel’s plane, knocking it off the desk and onto the floor.

  Daniel glared at him angrily. “Rory, you’re gonna get it!”

  Rory knew he was in trouble if his brother caught him, so he ran from the room as fast as he could, down the stairs, into the kitchen and the safety of his mother’s arms.

  He never did think again to ask his parents about their thoughts on the situation and came to believe that people of other races or social backgrounds weren’t to be trusted.

  Rory’s reflections on his flight from Columbus to Baltimore-Washington International Airport were interrupted when the pilot announced the plane was beginning its descent and everyone needed to buckle up, turn off all electronic devices, and prepare for landing. It was sixty-five degrees under partially cloudy skies in DC, and the flight was arriving on schedule.

  His mother greeted him at the door to his boyhood home in Bethesda, and together they entered the living room.

  Howard Justice lay sleeping in his day bed, which had been set up on the main floor since he could no longer climb the steps of the two-story brick colonial where he lived with his wife.

  Rory was surprised to see a strange man of about sixty sitting in the corner of the room at the far side of his dad’s bed. He then noticed the man must be a minister since he wore a collar and held an open Bible on his lap.

  “Rory, this is Pastor Dave Graybeal from our church, Bethesda United Methodist,” Donna said, as the man laid down the Bible and stood to shake hands. “I asked Pastor Graybeal to come over and be with us.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rory, I’ve heard a lot of good things about y’all,” Pastor Dave said with a beatific smile. He was a short, stout man who exuded cheerfu
lness. He was new to the church, having moved there from Alabama, and spoke with a southern accent.

  “Thank you for being here, Pastor,” Rory said with a stiff smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re not interrupting, Rory, I’ve already prayed with your mom and dad and read some passages from the Bible. Would you like me to pray with you?” The minister asked kindly.

  How do I answer that without offending him? Rory thought. “Uh, no, that’s okay; I’d just like to pray quietly until my dad wakes up, if that’s all right with you.”

  Pastor Dave smiled. “Of course, Rory, I’m just here to offer any comfort I can.”

  Rory stopped going to church when he got married. He considered himself non-denominational or independent when it came to religion and politics. Non-committed would have been a better description, and that was just fine with him.

  He felt like he had gone to church enough as a kid, attending service every Sunday with his parents. It seemed to him enough to last a lifetime.

  In his rebellious teenage years, Rory stopped listening and simply went through the motions, going to church only because it was expected of him—and he was told he would face serious consequences if he refused.

  One Sunday, when he was seventeen, Rory had sleepily refused to get up and go to church, deciding to suffer the consequences.

  He had expected a big argument, but his parents and brother simply walked out of the house without him. Hours went by, and fear set in as the sun rose high in the sky then descended to the horizon, and still his family hadn’t returned.

  Finally, they came home to a clean house. Instead of sleeping and watching TV all day, Rory, in his growing anxiety, fear, and guilt, had washed the dishes, vacuumed, dusted, and done laundry.

  “Where were you all day?” he practically yelled as they walked through the front door.

  “Oh, honey, maybe you forgot, it was the church fair and pot luck dinner today,” his mother replied nonchalantly.

  “Yeah, you missed it,” Daniel said with a superior grin. “It was actually a lot of fun.”

  “That’s because your brother here met a girl.” His dad reached out and tousled Daniel’s mop of curls.

  Rory was crestfallen. “You could have reminded me.”

  “I was going to tell you no car for a week for missing the church service,” his father said. “But seeing the look on your face, it seems like you’ve been punished already.”

  Being strict Methodists also meant that no smoking, drinking or cursing was allowed in their household, much less gambling or drugs. Instead, the boys got involved in youth activities—Daniel in sports, and Rory, being less athletically inclined, in the Boy Scouts. He earned the high honor of Eagle Scout, which kept him busy and out of trouble.

  Rory enjoyed his scouting days, basking in the pride his parents showed him when he received each merit badge and award. But it became increasingly difficult as he neared the age of eighteen to remain a model citizen when the other boys who played pranks and got in trouble tempted him to “loosen up and have some fun,” and taunted him when he resisted.

  They sneaked beer and Playboy magazines around the campfire, or pulled them out of their sleeping bags at scout camp when the adult leaders went to sleep. Rory tried his best to ignore them, feigning headaches or saying he was too tired from the day’s activities. It was hard to be good.

  Rory felt fear growing inside him as he sat with his mom and the pastor, anxiously listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. He was filled with apprehension that his father might not make it, and the deepening sense of dread that he had not done enough, said enough, gone to church enough, or prayed enough, nearly consumed him. Not to mention mom and dad still don’t know about the affair I had in Vegas, he thought.

  He was shocked at the vast change in his dad’s appearance since the last time he had visited his parents for his dad’s seventy-fifth birthday in February. His father was much thinner and frailer now, and his skin looked pale and paper thin, like he had aged fifteen years in the past several months. His glasses looked too big for his sunken cheeks, and his white hair seemed to have receded a little more from his forehead.

  Howard Justice lay sleeping now, his breath coming out in rattling gurgles.

  “Mom, shouldn’t Dad be back in the hospital?” Rory asked, trying to sound calm instead of panicked.

  “The last time the hospital released him, they suggested hospice care,” his mom said. “So I’ve had a visiting nurse come every day to help with keeping him hydrated, feeding him what little soft foods he can eat, giving him sponge baths and medicines and so on. Rory, your dad has refused to go back to the hospital or to be kept alive on any machines. He just wants to spend his last days peacefully here at home. It’s in his living will, and of course I’m in charge of carrying that out.”

  Rory took a deep breath and inched closer to the bed.

  “Will he recognize me?” Rory asked his mother tentatively.

  “It’s hard to say, honey. I hope so. He goes in and out of knowing where he is, what day it is, or who we are. Last time he was coherent, he specifically asked to see you.”

  As if he heard them, Howard’s eyes fluttered open, and he said coarsely but distinctly, “Rory?”

  Rory came close to the edge of the bed, took his father’s hand in his, and bent over so his dad could hear him.

  “I’m right here, Dad.”

  “I’m not going to be around much longer …”

  “C’mon, Dad, don’t say that …” Howard cut him off, squeezing his hand, which for him took a lot of effort.

  “Don’t argue … don’t have much time …” Howard Justice struggled to form the words, gasping for breath, occasionally emitting a hoarse wheeze.

  This isn’t good, Rory thought, trying not to cry in front of his parents, even though he wanted to.

  “I have a big favor to ask.” His father’s words came out in a whisper, and Rory strained to hear.

  “Go ahead, Dad, ask me anything.”

  “This letter … it needs to go to a friend of mine. FBI business … very important. It could save a lot of people …” Howard Justice’s hand shook as he reached for an envelope on the table next to his bed. “I need you to deliver it.”

  Rory was stunned. Why me? Is he kidding? “Dad, are you sure you want me to deliver it? What about someone in the FBI?”

  “Don’t … trust … them.” His dad was struggling now to breathe and to talk.

  “What about Daniel? Certainly he would be more qualified.” Rory felt guilty arguing, but he was sure his father must be delusional asking him to take on this kind of responsibility.

  “He … can’t. Has to be … you.” His dad’s breathing came out in rasps in between.

  “Who do I give it to? Where do I go? Should I read it? What about …?” Rory had so many questions, but they would have to go unanswered, because Howard Justice was coughing spasmodically, his face turning a deep purplish red.

  Donna Justice rushed to his bedside. “Shhh, darling, please calm down.” She shot Rory a stern look. “Don’t argue with your father, Rory, just take the letter, and do as he asks.” Her glare warned what she couldn’t bring herself to say: Can’t you see he’s dying? Say you’ll do this for him even if it doesn’t make any sense.

  Was this just nonsense brought on by his dementia? Rory reached out and hesitantly took the envelope from his father’s grasp.

  “I … love you … tell Dan too.” Howard Justice’s eyes fluttered and closed, and he laid his head back on the pillow.

  Suddenly there was no time for any more questions, and none of it mattered. His father was slipping away.

  “Dad!” Rory wasn’t ready to lose him. “I love you, Dad. Please don’t leave us.”

  Donna sat weeping, holding her husband’s hand.

  Pastor Dave read softly from Psalm 23:

  “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

  He makes me lie down in
green pastures,

  He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.

  He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil, for You are with me;

  Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.

  You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

  Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,

  And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Howard Justice took a few more shallow breaths as Pastor Dave read. When the minister closed the Bible, Rory’s father exhaled one last ragged time and then stilled. His face lost its last vestige of warmth and color.

  Rory laid his head down on his father’s quilted legs and sobbed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Daniel arrived at the Justice home a little over an hour after their father passed. Donna Justice insisted her husband’s body stay where it was until her eldest son got home to see him.

  Rory had called his brother to tell him that their dad hadn’t made it. Daniel was angry in his anguish.

  “Why couldn’t he at least wait until I got there?” he wailed into the phone as he drove in the rental car straight from BWI airport.

  “I’m sorry, Dan,” Rory said. He could feel his brother’s pain. “He said he loved you. Those were his last words. We’re keeping him right where he is until you get here. Be careful.”

  Daniel Justice arrived in civilian clothes, immediately brushed past his mother and brother, ignored Pastor Dave, knelt down beside his father’s bed, and broke down weeping.