Afternoon melted into evening and she started pacing, sometimes glancing out the kitchen window to the busy street below. Lots of people. Thousands of people. Where had they all come from! The rain that had been pelting the apartment window finally broke. The night returned, leaving her in the dark once more.
Standing at the window, she looked outside and shivered in the cold air.
With every passing voice and footstep in the hallway, she turned, hoping desperately that Mary and Kelly would walk through the door. The hours passed. The mob grew louder. She paced the vinyl floor.
She was dreadfully thirsty now, her mouth thick and dry. But there was no water from the tap and nothing else to drink.
The night grew darker. She paced again. A deep feeling of dread began to haunt her, a feeling she’d felt too many times before: the day they had killed her father; the night she had left the village, heading off on her own; the last days at the refugee camp.
Experience and instinct were her teachers, and both were screaming now.
She looked around the dark apartment in desperation, not knowing what to do.
Suddenly, she thought of Pari al- Faruqi, the small Christian woman she had known in the Khorramshahr refugee camp. Why she thought of her at this moment, Azadeh didn’t know, but the memories came back, flooding her mind with incredible detail.
Most of the six hundred refugees in Camp Khorramshahr lived in small, semipermanent plywood structures—bland, one-room huts, barely warm, ugly and inhospitable. But Pari had decorated her small home with a delicate touch: colorful murals on the walls created from pieces of broken chalk and paste, tin cans filled with wild chrysanthemums and croton plants she had gathered along the fence, scraps of abandoned material she collected to sew dresses and colorful quilts for the younger girls in the camp, one of which lay on top of her own cot. The image of Pari’s small home filled Azadeh’s mind and she pictured every detail: the mural, the plants, a half-finished dress . . . Pari’s bed . . . the patchwork quilt . . . the silver cross on the wall at the head of her cot.
The silver cross . . . the silver cross . . .
A warm shiver ran through her as Pari’s words filled her mind. “God loves you, Azadeh. He knows you are here. You can talk to him anytime that you need to. You can pray to him and he will listen. I swear to you, that is true.”
Azadeh thought of her friend, tears welling in her eyes, then did the only thing she could think of to do. Unsure, but having faith, she knelt on the kitchen floor and started praying.
* * *
Satan watched her pray and trembled, rage and fury racing through his mind. This was the one great weapon for which he had no response, the greatest tool of the Enemy, which he could simply not destroy.
A humble prayer. Oh, how he loathed it! It gave them such comfort. It gave them such light.
And it was the light that brought him fury.
So he cursed and raged again.
Interstate 65
Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago
Sam was completely exhausted. His lungs burned, his legs were liquid, his calf and thigh muscles were cramped and tight. He slowed to a jog, his arms hanging at his side, then started walking as he gasped.
He couldn’t run another step. It was as far as he could go.
The moon had risen higher and the clouds had parted, providing moonlight and starlight to illuminate the road. He continued north along the freeway, walking between the lines of stalled cars. Passing one, he glanced through the back window, then stopped and slowly turned. Hesitating, he walked back, peered closely at the window, then looked around again. “Hey!” he called out, his voice tight with thirst. “HEY! IS SOMEONE THERE?”
A head bobbed up from the backseat of the car.
Sam sensed the movement and swiftly turned. The stranger reached for the door, pushed it open, and climbed out, his eyes wide in uncertainty and fear. Sam moved toward him quickly. The man was young, maybe thirty, with a bald head and baby-smooth skin. “Is this your car?” Sam demanded.
The bald man looked around sheepishly.
“Sir, is this your vehicle?” Sam repeated.
The man eyed Sam’s uniform. “Are you a U.S. soldier?” he asked.
Sam nodded quickly. “I am. Is this your car?”
“No, it’s not, and I’m sorry. I didn’t break in or anything. My car is stranded ten or fifteen miles south of here. I was trying to walk home when it got dark and I decided to sleep here for the night.”
“You’re not LDS, then?” Sam demanded.
The man cocked his head. “LDS? What do you mean? Why do you want to know?”
“It’s cool, man, I’m not some anti-Mormon vigilante. Tell me,” Sam said, almost hungrily, “are you a Mormon?”
The man shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
Sam deflated with disappointment, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, I thought maybe you . . . there’s a BYU sticker in the back window of this car.”
The man glanced toward it, his face expressionless. “Like I said, sir, I’m just camping here for the night. I didn’t think anyone would mind. I didn’t break or steal anything.”
Sam shook his head in frustration and turned away. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I was just . . .” He quit talking. It didn’t matter. And he didn’t have time to explain. He raised his hands in apology and started walking again.
The man watched in desperation as Sam began to merge into the dark. “Hey,” he called out, “what are you, a lieutenant, is that right?”
Sam slowed and turned back to him.
“Tell me what has happened here, lieutenant. Please, will you explain?”
“I can’t. I’ve got to go.” He turned away again.
The bald man took three steps to follow. “A couple of the doctors at my school are Mormon. They’re good doctors, from what I hear.”
Sam stopped. “What school are you talking about?”
“Northwestern. I just graduated from the medical school there.”
Sam took a step toward him. “You’re a doctor?” he demanded.
“Almost. I still have to finish my internship . . .”
A tremble ran up and down Sam’s spine, warm and flowing and full of heat. A feeling of certainty and calm. He was on the right track. And he was getting very close.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The bald man looked around, still uncertain, then answered slowly, “Jerry Woodson.”
“Come with me, Jerry!” Sam shot back, taking a step toward him.
“Come with you? Why? Where’re you going?”
Sam ran forward and grabbed his arm. “Have you got a black bag? Any doctor stuff or gear?”
Jerry didn’t answer. Sam pushed him toward the car. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry.”
“Where are we going?” Jerry asked again.
“I don’t know,” Sam answered quickly as he dragged the man along.
* * *
Sara held onto Luke, cradling his head against her chest. Rocking back and forth, she whispered in his ear. Ammon crawled away, his eyes blank. His hands grew cold and lifeless and he dropped the stranger’s gun into the mud. Looking around in desperation, he fell against a tree. For a moment, he was transported back in time. He was a little boy, small and hopeless. He needed someone’s help. But there was no one to help him. He was completely on his own. No one was going to save him. He felt a crushing weight.
No transportation.
No telephone.
No police or ambulance or rescue.
Miles of walking to the nearest hospital.
Who knew if anyone could help them even if they made it there?
There was nothing he could do now. His brother was going to die. He shivered, thinking of the bleeding hole in Luke’s chest. He pictured Luke’s gasping face and pale lips, then dropped his head between his knees.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shake his fist toward the heavens and demand an answer why!
We did everything that you commanded! We did everything you ever asked us! We did our very best, we tried to follow, and this is what we get!
He raged and cried inside, overwhelmed with grief and helplessness and pain.
Then he turned cold and clammy, beads of icy sweat forming on his brow. His heart was racing and he was panting and his face was growing pale.
He felt a soft touch against his shoulder. It took a moment before he gathered the strength to look up. Through bleary eyes he saw Mary standing there. “Do you have a first aid kit?” she asked him.
Ammon didn’t seem to hear.
“Do you have any medical supplies?” she pressed again, her voice more firm.
He shook the mud from his hands but didn’t answer as he spread his legs across the ground. “Yeah, sure, we’ve got some stuff. It’s there . . . I don’t know . . . it’s somewhere in the back of the car.”
“You need to get it,” Mary told him.
“Don’t know where . . .” he mumbled again.
Mary knelt down and looked him directly in the eye, the fire casting shadows across one side of her face. “Listen to me, baby, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to stay together, at least for a little while. You need to stand up, find your first aid kit, and help me. You’ve got to help your brother. I’ve got to help your mom. We’ve got to do everything we can to save him until we can get some help.”
Ammon shook his head in rage. “Are you kidding me!” he shouted. “Do you think it’s going to matter! Your little girl, my brother, both of them are going to die. Both of them are going to die here! And there is nothing we can do!”
Mary leaned even closer to him and took his face in both of her hands. “Can you hear me, Ammon?” she demanded. Her voice was hard but calm. “Can you hear me, son?”
He nodded but didn’t look at her.
Mary squeezed his face again. “Listen to me, Ammon, this is important. You don’t know what’s going to happen here! It’s not up to you to decide who will live or who will die. It’s not up to you to decide who’s going to suffer or what God has in his plan. It’s not up to you to complain about the situation or feel sorry for yourself.
“Your job is to do everything you can to help your brother! Do you understand what I am saying? I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, if you don’t think it’s going to help. Your brother needs you and so does your mom. You’re going to stand up now and do everything to help them. You understand me, son.”
Ammon stared into her face, his eyes coming into focus once again. “I understand you,” he whispered sadly, his face clouding with embarrassment and shame.
“Good boy. I knew you would. Now, come on, we’ve got to find that first aid kit.”
Mary stood, reached down, took Ammon by the hand, and pulled him to his feet. Turning, Ammon walked toward the cars hidden in the trees. He uncovered the back of the Honda, opened the trunk, and started searching through their supplies.
A shadow fell behind him.
Mary gasped, “Who goes there?”
Ammon turned, dropped to his knees, and reached out for the gun.
The sound of heavy breathing. Footsteps running through the trees. Shadows flashing in the darkness.
Ammon turned toward the stranger, lifted the gun, and took a breath.
Sam stepped out from the darkness.
Ammon stared at him, not believing. He was an angel. He was a vision. There was no way that he was real. Sam turned to him and smiled, and Ammon cried out in relief.
Sara looked up, her eyes wide.
Sam saw his brother lying there.
Sara tried to called his name but her mouth hung open, teardrops rolling down her cheeks.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sara laid her dying son gently down, then stood and ran to Sam. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she fell into his arms, repeating his name over and over again. She leaned back, looked into his face, brushed away her tears, then grabbed his hand and pulled him toward Luke, falling on her knees again. Ammon stood and ran toward him, throwing his arms around his neck. Sam slapped his shoulder, then stepped back and knelt down by Luke. He checked his eyes, looking into the pupils, then moved his flashlight down to see the blood that was soaking through his shirt and jacket. “What happened here?” he demanded.
“Please, Sam, you’ve got to help him,” Sara pled.
Sam turned toward the dark trees and called out, “Come on, Jerry, run!”
* * *
“Look,” Jerry said, “I’m not a doctor. Almost, but not really, and I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing. I’ve done a couple stints at Cook County Emergency Room, but nothing even close to this. And there were always other doctors I could turn to when I didn’t know what to do. I don’t have any light or the right equipment to examine him, and the conditions here aren’t really conducive to—”
“Just tell us!” Sam demanded. “Is he going to live?”
The student looked away. How much should he tell them? Did he even know himself? He glanced toward the young man, who was now lying in the backseat of the car. “He’s lost a lot of blood. I can stop most of the external bleeding, but I can’t stop the hemorrhaging that is going on inside. We’ve got to deal with shock, infection, dehydration, hypothermia . . .” His voice trailed off as he rubbed a vinyl-glove-covered hand against his face, smearing a thin swath of blood across his forehead. “I just don’t know,” he said again. “The thing I’m most worried about is the hemorrhaging. He really needs a transfusion—”
“I’m the same blood type,” Ammon interrupted.
The almost-doctor thought. “I could jury-rig a transfusion. It would take a little time, but it would help.”
“Do it,” Sam commanded. “Whatever it takes to save my brother, you understand? Whatever it takes, we’re going to do it.”
Jerry looked at him and nodded. “I’ll do everything I can. If we can get him through the night, then tomorrow, if we can get him to Chicago . . .”
“We can’t wait,” Sam shot back. “If I have to, I will carry him, but I’m going to get him there tonight.”
“No. It wouldn’t be smart, Sam, moving him right now. He needs to rest a few hours. He needs the blood transfusion.”
Sam shifted his weight. “I won’t wait . . . I can’t wait. My brother needs surgery, even I can see that. If we stay here, he’s going to die.”
Jerry shook his head. “You’ll cause more injury if you move him before he’s stabilized a little bit. And how do you propose to transport him in the dark?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Sam said, his voice determined.
Jerry thought quickly. He understood what Sam was feeling. And though he had known him only a few hours, that drag along the road had been enough to show that he was a charge-the-bunker kind of guy. Jerry respected him already. This was a man he wanted for a friend. But Sam was wrong, and Jerry had to convince him before he made matters worse. “I know you want to help your brother,” he answered calmly, “but you need to listen to me, Sam. If you try to move him tonight, he’s going to die. You can’t just reach into the car, throw him over your shoulder, and head off into the night. He couldn’t take the jostling. He couldn’t take the cold. He needs to rest. I need to control the hemorrhaging. I need to get him warm and stable, to treat the shock and get some blood into him. Let me do my job. You figure out how you’re going to move him while keeping him lying down. You’ve got to build some kind of stretcher. I’ll take care of your brother. You take care of the rest.”
Sam stomped his feet in frustration, Ammon and Sara standing at his side. “I want to know the odds,” he demanded, though his voice was much less certain now.
Jerry shook his head. “I’m not an oddsmaker,” he answered firmly. “Medicine 101: Stay away from the fortune-telling. It brings heartache to everyone.”
“Please.” Sam glanced toward his mother and lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Please, I understand why you don’t want to do it
, but I’m begging you.”
Sara reached out and placed her hand on Sam’s shoulder, then turned to Jerry. “I want to know,” she said.
Jerry hesitated, staring off into the dark. “My best guess—and it is only a guess—but I think if we move him tonight, he’s going to die. Do I know that for certain? No. Sometimes we’re surprised. But I believe that if you try to move him, there’s maybe a ten percent chance he’s going to live.”
Sara swallowed, looked away, then turned back. “But if we wait, if we stay here until morning and let you do what you can to stabilize him?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. I don’t know what kind of damage has been inflicted by the bullet. Did it hit his spleen? The liver? Did it perforate the large intestine? I’m sorry, I want to give you as much hope as I possibly can, but there’s no way I could even guess.”
“Fifty-fifty?” Sam was pleading.
Jerry thought, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really am, but no, I don’t think his chances are that good,” he said.
Sara’s hands shot to her mouth and she quivered. Sam turned and held her, folding the delicate woman into his arms. Ammon stood beside them, then moved forward and put his arms around her too. Mary stood beside the young doctor, staring sadly at the ground.
Jerry watched the family, then touched Ammon’s arm. “We need to start the blood transfusion as quickly as we
can . . .”
Sara closed her eyes, holding onto Sam, then pushed away. “No. Not yet,” she said to Jerry, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “There’s something else we need to do first, something more important.”
She turned and stared at Sam, a great weeping in her heart. He was such a good man, such a strong man. She loved him as much as any soul she’d ever known. But he had never seen the vision. He’d never grasped the plan. He was good enough and worthy, but he had just never been interested. Church. Religion. Things of God, things of the Spirit, he had never understood.
She smiled at him weakly. Even though she loved him, he couldn’t help her now. And the thing that she was asking was the most important thing that they could do. She was as certain of what Luke needed to survive as she was of anything.
The Great and Terrible Page 112