by Bill Myers
He looked at her and came to a stop. She knew her face showed her disgust, but she no longer cared.
He smiled. “Come, come, Doctor. Don’t play pious with me.”
She stared at him.
“We are cut from the same cloth, you and I. This we both know.”
Instinctively she pulled the Bible into herself, bracing for more.
“We are people of ambition. That is how we are wired. Your ambition is no less than mine. Nor should it be. You are young, with many years ahead of you. And if this sketch is true, if indeed, this boy is ‘the one,’ there may be no end to our discoveries and advancements.”
The words sounded strangely familiar, but she couldn’t place them. Her head was starting to hurt. She glanced back down at Lewis. She was numb and sickened. And yet she continued to listen.
“You could be the next Newton, Galileo — think of it. You, a Salk, an Einstein. That is heady company, Sarah Weintraub.”
“Please.” Her voice was thin. “Stop it.”
“A Nobel prize would be nice. Not to mention the world acclaim. Think of the —”
“Stop.”
“Greatness is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Sarah took half a step back. She knew what he was doing. His words both excited and disgusted her. And still he continued. And still she listened.
“Think of the millions, of the billions you will be able to help. Your name will be synonymous with hope and encouragement, with the most important breakthroughs of our generation. You will be —”
“Stop it,” she demanded. “Stop it now!”
He took a step toward her.
“Sarah.” He smiled again. “It is true. We are cut from the same cloth.”
She tried to look away but could not.
“Any mistakes of the past will be forgotten. You have your whole future ahead of you.”
Now at last she recognized the words. They were Samuel’s. And that boy — she looked down at the body. That could just as well have been her baby, or Brandon, or —
“You’re disgusting,” she seethed, but she knew her words were spoken more out of desperation than conviction.
Reichner’s smile increased. “As are you, my dear. That is the price we must pay for our greatness.”
Again he held her eyes, and again she could not look away.
“There is nothing wrong with ambition, Sarah. Not if it means changing the world. Not if it means exonerating us from past mistakes, absolving us from —”
“Leave me alone!” She was slipping, and they both knew it.
“That is the glory of greatness.”
Her eyes shot around the room.
“To be remembered only for our good.”
She had to make him quit. The door. She had to get away.
“Everything else will be forgotten. Only our —”
She broke for the door, threw it open, and bolted down the porch stairs, running for the pickup. Reichner’s heavy footsteps followed. She didn’t look back.
“We are cut from the same cloth!” the voice called. “You and I, we are one and the same!”
Sarah flung open the pickup’s door, threw the Bible onto the seat, and crawled inside. Quickly, she fired up the engine. She could no longer hear Reichner’s words, but their truth, or her fear of their truth, echoed inside her head. She had to get away. She had made it this far, she had to keep going.
“And I still remember those early years when Pastor Martus and I rolled up our sleeves and worked together to create the Kosciusko County Food Co-op.”
Rabbi Cohen, a short bald man with a stately presence, stood at the front of the church, near Momma and her husband. Like the clergy before him, he was paying special tribute to both the church and its founders.
“We put some long hours in, my friend.” Then with a twinkle, he grinned. “Not always in agreement, mind you. But the fruit of our labors has been well-worth it.” He smiled at Momma and momentarily rested his hand on her husband’s shoulder. “And for that I count it a privilege both to have known you and to have served with you.” He gave the man a pat on the shoulder and turned to head back to his seat.
Momma stole another look at her husband. During the past several minutes, as leader after leader shared their memories and spoke their praise, it had taken all of her Southern steel to hold back the tears. Still, as grateful as she was for their kindness, part of her resented how their praise was beginning to sound less and less like a tribute and more and more like a eulogy.
The Firebird slid around a corner and headed up Center Street. Inside, the CD throbbed with another raw and angry group that kept Henderson’s adrenaline pumping. It had been ninety minutes since the attack on his car. They’d been down a dozen roads and still hadn’t seen a sign of the pickup.
Now they were heading back into town by way of Eddie’s Pizzeria. It was a favorite hangout of the townies. In fact, Reggie was certain that he’d seen the pickup there before. Henderson slowed as they passed the parking strip in front. It held a couple of vans, a beater Mustang, a rusted-out Land Cruiser, and an old blue Escort. No sign of the pickup.
Henderson gunned it and they sped down the road into town. He reached for the CD and cranked it up.
They’d find him. If it took all night, they’d find him.
Inside the pizzeria, Frank called to Brandon. “Come on, ol’ buddy, loosen up. This is a celebration, remember?”
Brandon forced a grin and raised his glass. With all the trouble the guys were going to to cheer him up, the least he could do was pretend to have fun.
But his uneasiness continued. Sarah’s words kept haunting him, as did his thoughts about the church. Something wasn’t right. And the more time passed, the more un-right it became.
Sarah raced through town, heading back to the pizzeria. She had to tell Brandon what had happened, what was going on. She had to make him see that the stakes were far higher than either of them had thought. She glanced at the Bible on the front seat. It was no longer possible for Brandon Martus to be a passive observer.
The Firebird had just crested a small knoll when Reggie pointed through the windshield. “There he is!”
Henderson peered ahead. Sure enough, above the headlights of the approaching vehicle he could see the telltale broken running light. He pressed down on the accelerator and popped on his high beams.
Back inside the pickup, Sarah squinted at the brightness. It took a moment to find the high beams and give the approaching car a courtesy flash.
Brandon looked up. What was that sound? Where was it coming from? He glanced at the others at his table. Frank, Del — no one seemed to notice. But it was growing louder. Some sort of roar. A car. More than one. And music. Loud and driving. Nothing like the country-western coming from the nearby jukebox.
Sarah flashed her high beams again. But the oncoming car didn’t respond. She flashed them a third time.
From the passenger seat of the Firebird, Reggie yelled, “What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know,” Henderson shouted, “but it’s not going to work.”
Brandon gave a start when Frank slapped him on the back. He turned to see him talking — something about picking up girls, but he couldn’t make out the words. Frank’s mouth moved and he was speaking, but from another world — his voice was no longer discernible above the roar of engines and the pounding music.
The high beams were blinding, and Sarah had to keep her eyes low and to the right side of the road.
Henderson’s grin broadened. Any second now, they would begin the game. Both he and the pickup knew the rules; they’d been clearly established. And he would play them perfectly. Only this time he would not back down. Maybe parking the car in the middle of the road the other night had been a little underhanded. Maybe he had deserved the equally cowardly attack of golf balls. But not this time. This time, he would win fair and square.
Sarah raised her left hand, shielding her eyes from the blinding brightness.
Henderson drummed his thumbs on the wheel to the beat of the music. It was time. He swerved the Firebird into the pickup’s lane.
Brandon’s eyes shot around the restaurant. Everyone was having a good time. Del was laughing, Frank was flirting with a couple of girls. But Brandon heard only the roar of engines and the swelling, pounding music. He took another gulp of his drink, trying to relax, to force the sounds away.
They only grew louder.
Sarah’s heart pounded. The car was in her lane, coming directly at her, high beams blazing. She swerved to the left.
So did the car. What was he doing?
Back in the Firebird, Henderson clenched his jaw. It was up to the pickup to make the move, to back down. Not Henderson — the pickup. And he’d better make it now.
Sarah panicked, unsure what to do. Left? Right? Which way would this car turn?
Back in the Firebird, Henderson’s eyes suddenly widened in surprise. For a split second his lights lit up the pickup’s cab. Those weren’t townies inside but a woman. He swerved back into the other lane …
Just as Sarah made a similar move.
Their fenders caught. Red fiberglass collapsed into rusted steel — hoods crumpled, frames twisted. And glass. Everywhere there was flying glass. The air bags in the boys’ car exploded open and their seat belts locked into place.
Sarah wasn’t so lucky. She flew forward, screaming …
Brandon heard the explosion of metal and shattering glass. For the briefest second he saw Sarah’s face — exactly as he had seen it in his dream — her terrified expression as she flew into his windshield. Her mouth opened in a scream, but a scream she would never finish.
Brandon leaped to his feet crying, “Sarah!”
Hark! a thrilling voice is sounding:
“Christ is nigh,” it seems to say;
“Cast away the works of darkness,
O ye children of the day.”
It was an old hymn. Momma knew that the reverend had chosen it especially for her — because of the memories. It was one they’d sung in the old days, when the church was first starting out, when they were so full of hope and expectation.
So when next he comes with glory,
And the world is wrapped in fear,
May he with his mercy shield us,
And with words of love draw near.
Sarah!
Momma froze at the sound of her son’s cry. She turned and scanned the sanctuary, but he wasn’t there. All she saw were the townsfolk standing and singing. Some looked back at her, smiling, but no one had heard what she had heard.
Yet that had been her son crying out. She was certain of it.
She looked back up at the reverend, who smiled down warmly upon her. She hesitated, then closed her hymnal and stepped past her husband into the aisle. Trying to draw as little attention as possible, she quietly headed up the aisle toward the exit.
Brandon threw open the doors to the pizzeria. He heard Frank shouting something, but didn’t stop to listen. He sprinted toward town. He had no idea where he was going or what had happened. He knew only that Sarah needed him, and she needed him now.
Momma reached the church steps. Outside, a slight wind had picked up. She felt compelled to turn to the right. She followed the instinct, heading down the steps, and turning onto the sidewalk.
Brandon continued to sprint. He didn’t have the endurance to keep up this pace forever, but he’d go as far as he could.
Momma had traveled barely a block when she heard the neighborhood dogs start to howl — and moments later the sound of an approaching siren.
Brandon’s lungs began to burn. And still he pushed himself. He had sprinted nearly half a mile, and he was definitely feeling it. His throat was on fire and his legs were growing weak. Up ahead rose a small hill. He started the ascent and was about to slow his pace when he caught a glimpse of red and orange lights flashing against the upper-story windows.
“Sarah!”
He pushed harder, the rushing air cutting a groove into his throat, his legs slowly turning to rubber.
He crested the knoll. At the bottom was an EMS vehicle and a small crowd. Behind them, illuminated by the flashing lights, were two other vehicles, both crushed and twisted. He flew down the hill, barely able to control his legs, trying to convince himself that neither of those vehicles was his pickup.
As he approached the EMS truck he could see Henderson was being eased down onto the curb by a paramedic. He looked shaken, but other than some cuts and an injury to his right arm, he appeared okay.
Brandon arrived, gasping for breath. “Where — where is she?”
Henderson looked up, startled. He tried to rise to face Brandon, but the paramedic forced him to stay down.
“Where is she?” Brandon demanded.
“I didn’t know it was her.” Henderson’s eyes were red, his cheeks still wet from crying. “I swear to God, I thought you were driving. I thought you were —”
Brandon turned from him and headed toward the crowd, toward the center of activity. He pushed his way through the onlookers until he saw another paramedic. The man was huddled over a body on the street. Heart pounding, fearing the worst, Brandon approached. At first the body’s face was blocked from his view. Then the paramedic shifted and Brandon saw her. The blood and open wound made it difficult to recognize her, but he knew it was Sarah.
Brandon’s throat tightened. He hurried the last steps as the paramedic pressed a blood-soaked gauze against a gash that ran across Sarah’s forehead and down her cheek. Brandon knelt. “Sarah.” His voice was swollen with emotion. “I didn’t …” He searched for the words. “I’m sorry …”
Through his tears, he could see the lid of her good eye start to move. Finally it opened. It took a moment to focus. When she spotted him, she tried to smile, but with little success. Ever so slowly, her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. She was attempting to speak.
A gurney rattled beside them as the other paramedic arrived and quickly lowered it.
She continued moving her lips. Brandon leaned forward, concentrating until he finally made out the broken, raspy words: “It’s … you …”
He nodded, fighting back the ache in his chest. “Yes, I’m here. I won’t leave.”
She frowned and tried to shake her head.
“Please,” one of the paramedics ordered, “give us some room here.”
Brandon pulled back as the first paramedic called to his partner. “On my count. One, two, three.” In one swift move they transferred Sarah from the ground to the gurney. They elevated the gurney to waist level and prepared to wheel it toward the EMS vehicle. Brandon saw that Sarah was still trying to speak. Again he leaned forward.
“Revelation eleven,” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s … you.”
“Please step back.” The warning was severe as the paramedics pushed past Brandon and rolled Sarah toward the ambulance. He stayed as close to her side as possible until they arrived at the back and lifted her in. For the briefest second her eyes found his. Then they slid her inside, closed the door, and she was gone.
Brandon stood motionless in the flashing lights. His mind raced in every direction, but he understood nothing. The wind was much stronger as it whipped at his shirt and blew his hair, but he barely noticed. The vehicle pulled from the curb and started its siren. Brandon watched as it headed down the street and disappeared from sight.
Unsure what to do or where to go, he turned toward his pickup. It lay twenty feet away, a crumpled piece of steel and broken glass. Slowly, numbly, he started toward it. People continued to mill about, but he paid no attention. He arrived and stood silently at what had been the right front fender. It was peeled up and back — much of it shoved into the front seat. It was amazing that Sarah had not been killed instantly.
He walked beside the wreck, slowly running his hand over the twisted metal, hearing the broken glass pop and crunch under his feet. At the passenger’s door, he looked inside. More glass, as well as crush
ed dashboard and torn upholstery. He glanced to the portion of floorboard still visible. There in plain view lay a Bible.
He frowned. He reached inside, careful to avoid the sharp and ragged metal. He took hold of the book and cautiously fished it out. His heart had started to pound again, and he was breathing a little more heavily. “Revelation eleven.” That’s what she’d said. But it had made no sense. He knew, of course, that there was a Revelation in the Bible, the last book. Could that have been what she meant? No, it was an absurd thought. And yet … what was she doing with a Bible in his truck? No, it was too crazy.
So why was he afraid to open it and see?
He held the book in his hands, working up his courage, before finally opening the cover. The wind flipped and snapped at the pages.
“Revelation eleven.” He turned to the back of the book and noticed his hands shaking. The wind blew harder against the pages, but he kept them open with his hand as he ran down the verses — two, three, four …
He stopped cold. He moved back to the third verse, then began to read out loud, his voice low, barely above a whisper.
“And I will grant authority to my two witnesses, and they will prophesy for 1,260 days clothed in sackcloth.”
He gulped air in and continued reading.
“These are the two olive trees and the two lampstands that stand before the Lord of the earth.”
His head grew light. Lampstands? Olive trees? He was beginning to feel cold. Still he continued.
“If anyone desires to hurt them, fire proceeds out of their mouth and devours their enemies.”
He closed his eyes, trying to understand, remembering all too well the fire that had escaped from his mouth during the encounter outside the church. He reopened his eyes.
“These have the power to shut up the sky in order that rain may not fall during the days of their prophesying; and they have power over the waters to turn them into blood …”
Images of the drought and the three-tiered water fountain came to mind. He was hyperventilating now, breathing hard but still unable to get enough air. He lowered the book. He could read no further. He now understood what Sarah had meant, and he was very cold and very frightened. Then, from behind, he heard his mother’s voice, as she continued to softly quote: