Where in the name of heaven was Paul and what could possibly be taking him so long?
Maybe they'd done this all wrong. Maybe, Rick wondered, he shouldn't have allowed Paul to go off on his own. Paul was supposed to just check out the house and, if he thought it safe, do his little business with the telephone lines. All that shouldn't take so very long, yet here Paul had been gone for almost four hours. Four hours! Rick shook his head. He should have called by now if there were any problems. If Paul got to the house and thought the situation was different—if he detected that the child wasn't there, if he spotted Zeb himself, if the authorities were around—Paul was supposed to slip away and call Rick immediately. But he hadn't phoned, which led Rick to only one possible conclusion: There'd been trouble. Rick knew it, they should have equipped Paul with a cellular phone, which would have allowed him to call Rick at even the hint of a problem. Always security-conscious, however, Paul wouldn't allow it; wireless phones weren't secure, he insisted, a conversation could be tapped far too easily.
Dear Jehovah, he prayed, please don't let the police be involved. That would only complicate things to a horrendous degree, not only for his granddaughter but also for The Congregation. What if the local police or the FBI stepped in and began to investigate things? The publicity would be awful, lawyers would come out of the woodwork, the issue would probably go to court. Little Ribka could easily be taken from all of them and placed in a foster home, which would be the worst possible thing for his family.
Or was Paul simply detained by the roads?
Oh, Lord. It was the lesser of two evils, but Paul could easily be in some ditch. Or he could easily have been side-swiped on these slippery roads and taken to a hospital.
Rick slammed shut his Bible, jumped off the bed, and went to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, he peered into the parking lot. A blanket of white covered all the cars, antennas poking out here and there. No movement. Glancing at the lampposts, he saw thick clouds of snow billowing in the light. Pressing closer to the window, he saw the highway. The traffic was much lighter than before, the cars progressing slowly. But they were moving. And there were two plows, huge orange trucks that were clearing and salting the roads. Maybe there was hope yet that Paul would return safely.
His stomach growled, for on top of everything he was famished. He hadn't eaten since lunch; he should've gone down to the restaurant when Paul first left. An hour after that Rick should've ordered room service. Now, though, Rick couldn't do either. He certainly couldn't leave the room, not even for a minute. And he most definitely didn't want to tie up the phone. What if Paul called? What if he had but one quarter?
“Lord watch over them,” he muttered, turning away from the window.
He walked across the room, running his hand along the top of the dresser, then up and across the television set. He couldn't live up here in this northern city. It wasn't just the snow. Nor the cold. It was the lack of faith. An hour ago he'd turned on the TV, but hadn't been able to find even a single minister. That was a sign, of course, of just how lost these souls were up on this northern prairie—they were so blind to their woes that they weren't even reaching out—but there wasn't much Rick could do about it. God's true church was prophesied to be small and persecuted. And The Congregation was just that, small, with slightly over twenty families and not even a hundred members total, and ever fearful as well that government forces would descend upon them and wipe them out. So not only did The Congregation not have the millions and millions of dollars it would take to start something like one of those cable Bible shows, such aggressive proselytizing wasn't part of their mission. No, the destiny of The Congregation was to be small and inward, focused solely on Jehovah and His true mission for them.
Rick walked into the bathroom, flicked a switch, and recoiled from the blinding light. Then he stood there, staring at himself. Gray pants. White shirt untucked, the top three buttons opened. The red-and-blue-striped tie long gone. And the face. He stared at himself. Martha was right. He looked awful. So tired. His hair had started to gray just three years ago, and already his sideburns were a bright white. And the top? Well, never mind about that. His front hairline had receded several inches. Actually, it was pretty thin all the way back.
Okay, so he didn't look the greatest. Martha was right; no wonder some people assumed he was over fifty. Of course, the extra weight didn't help either. He pinched himself at the waist. There was a good twenty-five pounds extra there. Hard to believe, he thought, staring at himself. Somewhere inside this figure was the skinny kid with the eager smile. But enough of that. As written in Proverbs 31, favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain.
Then again, he thought, hitting the light switch and plunging the bathroom into darkness, those long gone, frivolous days were the stupid days. He'd wasted so much time, did such heinous things, until he'd found the Lord our Father, and now he had so much to work for, so much to accomplish. If he was looking older it was because he was pushing himself, reaching, striving. The power of Jehovah, the word of God the Son, his family, The Congregation: These were his duties. He was a leader, a valued one at that. All of which was more than the vanity of Martha. She'd been so weak, so fragile. No wonder she'd fled. No spine, no vision. No devotion. He, on the other hand, was strong, determined. With the word of God the Father and the work of God the Son, he had been saved. Yes, he had to be focused.
He looked directly at himself in the mirror and muttered, “‘A double minded man is unstable in all his ways,' James chapter one, verse eight.”
Heading back to the bed and his Bible, Rick glanced at his watch. This was absolutely ghastly. Where in the world was Paul?
Seating himself, he cracked open his Bible and shook his head. This couldn't be happening. His stomach hurt, but it was worry that was eating him now, not hunger. Was Paul stuck in the snow? Stuck in jail?
A heavy hand pounded on the door.
In response, Rick spun around and called, “Paul?”
He leapt off the bed and charged across the room. As he started to twist the lock, he suddenly stopped. The authorities?
“Paul, is that you?”
“Yeah,” came the mumbled reply.
Rick ripped open the door, only to find the heavy figure slumped against the doorjamb, one hand pressed to his ear.
Snow was melting on his head, his shoulders, and Rick grabbed Paul by the arm.
“My God in heaven, what happened?” he demanded, and then looked up and down the hallway. “No one followed you here, did they?”
Paul shook his head and then lowered his hand, exposing a broad, raw gash over his ear and across his cheek. His hair was twisted and matted with dark blood, and he tried to take a step but stumbled.
“What happened?” exclaimed Rick, steadying the other man. “Was it the car? Were you in an accident?”
“No.”
As quickly as he could, Rick slammed shut the door, bolted it tightly, and demanded, “Did something happen at the house?”
Paul started to talk, but his words dissolved into a mumbled mess. Rick led him to the bed, where he seated him. Studying the injured man, Rick appraised the bleeding, swollen cuts, then hurried into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink. Grabbing one of the white hotel towels, he soaked it, wrung it out, and returned to Paul.
Rick begged, “Tell me nothing's happened to Ribka. Tell me our little baby is okay.”
“I…I…”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean, you think so? Did you see her? Did you see my little Ribka?”
Paul took the towel, pressed it against the side of his head, and nodded.
“She's not hurt? She's all right?”
Paul's head slowly went up and down again.
“Then where is she? What happened?”
The heavyset man lifted the towel from his head and studied the brilliant scarlet stain left by his wound. “Oh, crap. I hate getting hit like that. I should've
known better.”
“Hit? Hit? Tell me what happened!” demanded Rick.
“I went in.”
“The house?”
“Through the basement. And…and I had her.”
“Ribka?”
Nodding, he held the damp towel to his head and winced in pain. “But there was kind of…”
“Kind of what?”
“Kind of a problem inside—some other guy. First it was just her, the woman, but then this other guy came along and…” He shrugged. “But…but I got her. I had the baby, had her right in my arms. And then I was all the way to my car. I was just putting her in when…when…shit, no one's ever done anything like this to me! No one's ever…ever dared!”
“Someone attacked you?”
“What are you, a rocket scientist?” Paul closed his eyes and moaned in pain. “Shit, the roads are so bad I didn't think I was going to make it back here. It took me an hour and a half!”
Rick's rage was soaring, and he grabbed Paul by the shoulders, shook him, and shouted, “What happened? Who did this to you?”
“Your…your son, the bastard. He jumped me and took the baby,” snapped Paul, glaring up at Rick. “I'm gonna kill him.”
17
Zeb pulled into the employee parking lot behind the hospital and drove to a far corner. Turning off his car, he bowed his head forward, resting it on the steering wheel. What a horrible drive that had been. Thank God little Ribka and he had gotten away. But what the hell was going on? Why was Paul here? And how the hell had he found out where Ribka had been hidden? Zeb had been so sure, had felt so clever. He'd thought no one would have guessed that he'd run all the way to Minneapolis. He'd been so smugly confident that no one would find his baby girl at his own birth mother's house. That was supposed to be the very last place anyone would look; after all, he'd met Janice only once and he'd had no ongoing contact with her. So how the hell had they known to look there?
Oh, crap, he thought. It could have been her. Janice could have called someone—his mother, his father?—and told them she had the baby. Maybe that was Zeb's mistake. He'd thought and hoped this Janice Gray, the woman who'd given him birth, was someone he could trust. Or maybe she'd just panicked and called one of them. No, he thought, she was a lawyer, she wasn't dumb, she wouldn't panic. So what the hell had she done, who the hell did she think she was, giving up his own baby girl like that?
And was Paul the only member of The Congregation who'd come looking for him? There could be an entire posse of those lunatics after him, including his own father. He hoped at least that Suzanne's dad hadn't come too. When Suzanne had first found out she was pregnant, that fart of a father had locked her in her room, then come after Zeb, dragging him into a barn behind the bakery and hurling him against a wall. Who knew what would have happened if Zeb's own father and several others hadn't come running. As it turned out, he'd gotten married. Suzanne and he were barely given the chance to wash up before they were wed in the presence of The Elders and the entire Congregation. Some day-old carrot cake had served as their wedding cake.
And it was all because of what they'd been taught.
From living with his mother and attending public school in Santa Fe, Zeb knew he should have used a rubber. Some kind of protection anyway. But, no, God was their protection. They needed nothing else. Or so went the teaching of The Congregation. And Suzanne had agreed that fateful night, for He had always been watching over her. After all, she hadn't gotten pregnant yet, and how many guys had she already done it with?
Well, at least he had this little angel, he thought, staring over at his baby girl, who was bundled in a car seat. Maybe God had been watching over them and this was the best possible thing that could have happened to him. He was a dad and she was an angel. Never mind how horrendously complicated his life had become, at least they were out of there, hundreds of miles from The Congregation. Looking at his daughter, Zeb had never thought he'd care so much for a kid, never realized that being a dad would mean so much to him. But it did, and that's why he'd taken her and run away. All of his parents, both his birth and adoptive ones, had screwed up their lives, and his as well. He wasn't going to ruin hers, though, not little Ribka's. He was going to be there for her always. That was why he'd taken her in the middle of the night and fled The Congregation.
So now what? He had to get out of Minneapolis as quickly as possible. If they knew the baby had been at Janice's, then did they also know about the small room he'd rented by Powderhorn Park? He couldn't conceivably see how, but they might, and he wondered if he dared return there even simply to gather his clothes. Perhaps, but he certainly couldn't stay for any length of time. No, he was going to have to load up Ribka and his few things and they were going to have to hit the road. But where would they go? Someplace south, for sure, where there wasn't cold and snow like this, but how would they get by? He was flat broke, with less than fifty bucks to his name; everything he'd earned at the bakery had gone into the general funds of The Congregation. If only he'd been thinking ahead he would have stolen some of their money. At least he had one of their cars, he thought with a grin. One of their baby seats too. But…but where were they going to spend the night tonight?
As he mulled over the options the baby woke up.
“Hello, sweetie,” he said gently, leaning over his daughter. “Yeah, it's me, Dad. Remember? Sure you do. Everything's going to be all right. I'm here and we're together again.”
Together and getting cold. They couldn't stay out here. Within minutes the cold would overtake them. Zeb had to take Ribka into the hospital and then…then…Well, if there was a God, then He'd figure it out. With no money Zeb had no choice. How was he going to get those keys?
One thing was for certain, Zeb knew he had to be more careful than ever. He couldn't stay long at the hospital, because if The Congregation knew the baby was at Janice's, then maybe they knew about his working here at the hospital as well. But how? Could they have planted some sort of tracing device on his car?
As he unstrapped his baby daughter from her car seat, he wondered if they'd gone down to Santa Fe, if they'd hurt his mom. And what about his birth mother, Janice? She might have contacted them, but would she just have handed over the kid like that? Now that he thought about it, Zeb doubted it, for he'd seen with his own eyes how crazy she was over Ribka. Janice had no way of knowing how dangerous The Congregation was; maybe she had contacted them, but maybe they'd come and stolen away Ribka. If so, might they have hurt Janice? Gripped with worry and confusion, Zeb wondered if he shouldn't call the cops, tell them there was an emergency at Janice's. Perhaps he should just call 911 and get them to check it out.
With the baby bundled up and Zeb himself zipped up in his large nylon coat, he opened the car door and scurried through the blasting snow. Once he'd traversed the nearly empty employee lot, he passed through the side doors and entered the hospital, finding the place more deserted than ever. A lone woman sat at the reception counter, not a single soul was in the waiting area, and no one was strolling the usually busy halls. There almost always was a guard down here, but now even he was gone. As if it were the middle of the night, a number of the lights were off. So, thought Zeb, proceeding directly to the elevator, his daughter in his arms, the hospital was down to a skeleton staff. Maybe it would be easier now after all, maybe this was the time he'd been waiting for.
Zeb boarded the lift and rode it up to the third floor. Stepping into the hall, he found it completely deserted. No patients, no nurses, no one from maintenance. Standing there, he peeled away the blankets covering Ribka, then unzipped his coat. If anyone questioned his presence what was he going to say, that he was going to visit someone? No, better to claim he'd just gotten off work and that he'd forgotten something, say, his wallet.
He proceeded down the hall, his now-wet shoes smacking the linoleum and the baby beginning to squirm in his arms. Passing by several rooms, he peered in the open doors, saw one patient sleeping, another reading, yet another watching telev
ision, and he was amazed all over again that just about anyone could walk in here like this. Turning a corner, he eyed the nurses' station, saw it still darkened and empty. Then he saw the door labeled M.S. There were stacks of expensive drugs in there, but how the hell was he going to get in?
Ribka began to fuss more, and Zeb lifted her up, kissed her on the cheek, then settled her in his left arm. She was hungry and he had no food, but that was the next problem. First things first.
He tried the door, twisting the handle and finding it solidly locked. He pushed harder yet. No way in hell was the door going to budge by force alone. Zeb next checked the halls, which still stretched empty and silent, and then hurried over to the nurses' station. He grabbed at the main drawer, found it, too, locked, as were the file cabinets on either side. The overhead cabinets, a door to a back room, the cabinet beneath a sink. Crap, thought Zeb. Everything, all of it locked tight. A key to the medical supply room might or might not be lying around in one of these drawers, but he couldn't get into any of them, nor could he find anything with which to force the door. The countertops were completely clear, no letter openers, no pens, nothing long and hard and rigid.
Giving up on that, he carefully held the baby and reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out his wallet. He had a few dollars, a driver's license, and a credit card his mother had given him years ago, which he'd kept even though she canceled it once he'd stayed on with The Congregation. Could it be so simple a lock that a credit card might work on it? With nothing to lose he crossed the hall, bending over and examining the lock on the medical supply room.
“Come on, Ribka,” he whispered to his child, “work some magic for us, okay, little girl?”
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