by Ted Dekker
To Ryan, Hortense was God. The puppet master. Which would make him the puppet.
“And the lapses in time?”
They were seated in a Starbucks on University Parks Drive in Waco, three blocks from the apartment that Ryan had rented after moving out of the Super 8 in Austin. The coffee shop was the priest’s idea, a way to get Ryan out of his dark world and into general circulation, as he put it.
“Better,” Ryan said. He picked up his black coffee and motioned with it. “I still have the nightmares and time gets away from me, but I’m doing better this week. Much better.”
“Good. Time is a magnificent healer and you are the recipient of her best intentions.”
“Time, yes. Thank God for Father Time.”
“Not just time, of course. I think you’re coming to terms with the divorce through careful thought and grace. Those are the backbone of any strong character. No one can accuse you of having a weak character.”
“So you’ve said.”
“You disagree?”
Ryan leaned back and crossed his legs. They sat outside in a corner, beyond the hearing of the next group. A black BMW on its way to the drive-through slid past, driven by a gray-haired man in a green polo shirt.
And who was this man? What kinds of challenges had he faced in life? To all who saw him from a distance he appeared like one more successful man quietly enjoying the fruits of life, not unlike Ryan. But like Ryan, was he really a man torn by life’s most cruel circumstances? Divorce? A failed business? A wayward child? Insomnia?
“Ryan?”
“Hmm? Yes, I’m sorry, do I disagree? What was the question again? I’m sorry, I was drifting.”
“That’s fine. I was asking if you thought you had a weak character.”
“I suppose that depends on when you ask me. I’ve had some pretty weak days these last couple months.”
“And a weaker character may have never recovered from them. Few men have endured the kind of ordeal you faced in the desert, not to mention the divorce.”
The air grew silent around Ryan, despite the roar of cars nearby.
“All told, I’m surprised you’ve done so well.”
“Tell that to the man who stole my wife.”
Father Hortense chuckled and Ryan smiled with him. “The man you assaulted.”
“I hardly assaulted him. During the darkest times I wish I had.”
“Ah, yes, the time of deep, dark despairing.”
He’d made one final plea to Celine following his interview with FBI agent Valentine, during which he’d learned that he would be legally restrained from seeing Bethany. But then his now ex-wife (it was hard to believe she was no longer his wife, that the laws of Texas allowed for such a hasty divorce) had handed the phone to Bethany, who’d hung up on him.
He’d fled Austin. An hour and a half north was as far and as near as he dared. He’d taken the furnished apartment, dutifully stocked up on food, mostly the non-perishable kind, and shut himself in.
Hortense, who’d been assigned to him without his knowledge, had tracked him down and found him in his dungeon. He’d been so concerned for him those first two weeks that he’d come by every other day to open the curtains and haul him from bed. Thinking back now, Ryan was hard-pressed not to think of the change in him since as anything short of a genuine breakthrough.
“Was Kahlid insane?”
Father Hortense frowned. “Either insane or blinded by rage.”
“Or simply destroyed by sorrow,” Ryan said. “As strange as it sounds, I think I understand Kahlid.”
He’d never made the admission, and he did so now at the risk of sounding like he might be regressing. On the other hand, this kind of honesty was anything but a sign of regression. Hortense, like all psychiatrists, thrived on complete honesty.
“Tell me how you understand him.”
“Those first few weeks”—a college student talking into an iPhone walked by and Ryan waited for him to pass—“those first few weeks the horror of war haunted me; I couldn’t shake the feeling.”
“So you’ve said. And I can understand how it’s led you this new conviction of yours to turn away from war. God knows the shedding of innocent blood is a terrible business no matter where or how it’s done. But that’s exactly what Kahlid did. Shed innocent blood to make a point. That was his own kind of war. You’re saying you understand that?”
“He was driven to do exactly what he accused us of doing, taking innocent lives for a cause that”—Ryan stopped, shaking his head at the memory—“God, I could never do that. Not now.”
“So you understand what Kahlid did but you could never do it yourself. I would say that’s healthy.”
Ryan nodded absently. “Funny how it all begins to fade over time. I don’t think I will ever be able to go back into the field again, but those first few weeks… it was so raw then. I came back hating war. I looked at every teenager walking down the road differently. What Kahlid did shook me to my core, Father. I’m not sure I could hurt a fly now.”
“But it doesn’t feel as raw and you feel like it still should feel raw. You’re saying you’re suffering from guilt for not feeling as bothered as you were in the weeks after—”
“Not guilty. Just curious. When you step away from it all, you lose perspective. Like the rest of the country.”
“Then that begs another question,” Father Hortense said. “You think the war is wrong?”
“The war, I can’t say. Killing innocent life, yes. And abandoning children is as bad as killing them.”
The priest grunted. “Now there’s the real issue for you, isn’t it? It’s not just that you’ve found a heart for the innocent, it’s that you’re suffering guilt for failing as a father to your own daughter.”
Yes. Ryan didn’t say it, but they both knew it was true.
“Shall we head back?”
They stood and walked down the sidewalk toward his apartment complex.
“You didn’t fail, of course,” Hortense said.
“No, Father, I didn’t fail.” They’d been over this a dozen times. “But I did.”
“No more than half the fathers in this country.”
“Yes, as you’ve been so willing to point out. And I’m not saying it doesn’t help. Millions, hundreds of millions of children grow up without a father nearby. In whole cultures, fathers are less accessible to their children than in ours. During the times of the patriarchs, times of war, the birth of our nation, I get it. But to be rejected by your own daughter…”
They walked in silence for a few moments.
“It was a painful experience.”
“One that you’ll live with for the balance of your life,” the father said. “But you’re finding yourself again. And that’s the important thing.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“The fact that you can talk so freely about all of this is sign enough.”
Ryan nodded. A smile crept across his mouth with the memory of young Bethany, age seven, pronouncing that he was smarter than the president because the president couldn’t read people’s minds while he could—speaking of her mind, of course.
“Have you considered our last discussion?” the father asked.
“I have.”
Hortense had suggested the possibility of his returning to work on a limited schedule, stateside. Temporary duty, or TDY, as the military called it. Getting his mind into familiar territory could well speed his full recovery.
“And?”
“I think you might be right. As long as I can insulate myself from certain duties. I don’t think I can stare at pictures of casualties.”
“That can be arranged on my orders.”
The thought of reclaiming the life he knew so well in the navy was comforting. “I’m assuming it’ll take a couple weeks to line things up.”
“A few weeks, yes. Think of it as an extension of your ongoing therapy.”
Ryan took a deep breath through his nose, smelling the fresh scent of grass
, churned up by the mower giving the park to their right one last mow before winter.
“As long as it’s not in Austin…”
“San Antonio. You’d need to move back, of course.”
“Another few weeks, why not? I’ve never been crazy about Waco, anyway.”
“You’d be back under the command structure with the CO. Another psychiatrist would be assigned, but it might be for the best.”
Ryan found the thought unnerving. “Maybe.”
They dropped the subject and talked about college football, a favorite of Father Hortense. He’d suggested taking Ryan to two different UT games but the thought of traveling to Austin was far too much to consider during those dark days. He’d never been a big football fan anyway. And those crowds… they were enough to make him shudder.
Today, however, he might take the father up on a similar offer.
And if he just happened to run across Burton Welsh or Celine? Or, God forbid, Bethany?
The thought made his belly churn.
Father Hortense accompanied him up the stairs to his apartment on the second floor. “Let me make the calls and get the paperwork going.”
He’d waited until this moment to pull the envelope out of his pocket. “Father, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I know this is a lot to ask, but—”
“Bethany?”
He held the unmarked envelope out and nodded. “Yes.”
“You know I can’t.”
“The court order, I know. But if you could just, I don’t know, drop it off at her school, get the janitor to slip it into her locker… anything. This would mean a lot.”
Father Hortense took the hand that held the envelope into both of his own. “Look, I know how badly you want to reach out to her and explain yourself, and I believe you’ll get that opportunity. But it’s too soon. It would also defy the court’s order. If Bethany or your ex-wife reports this kind of direct communication from you—”
“It won’t be from me!”
“The letter’s from—”
“Picture, not letter.”
Hortense frowned and glanced at the envelope, considering.
Ryan explained while he still had the chance. “It’s just a picture, not a single written word. A picture of Bethany and myself at her ninth birthday party. There’d be no proof that it came from me.”
“What can you hope in return from her?”
He pressed the envelope into the priest’s hand and lowered his arms. “Just knowing that I’m not out of her mind. It’s my way of putting this all behind me. If I know that she has something to remember me by, something that she will know came from me, something that tells her I’m thinking of her… it’s all I can ask.”
“And you’ll put this behind you?”
“I think I can, yes. Seriously, I just need something symbolic like this to… you know, take the next step.”
“Somehow I doubt you’ll be stepping beyond your own daughter.”
“But it makes sense, you have to agree. I need a marker like this, a signpost, anything that tells me I’ve done what I can.”
Father Hortense eyed the white envelope. “I guess I can see that.”
“And I don’t think a picture counts as the court’s understanding of written communication.”
“Okay. I’m actually going to Austin for a meeting this afternoon. I suppose I could swing by Saint Michael’s Academy.”
“Thank you, Father.” He took the man’s hand and shook it aggressively. “Thank you so much. Really, you have no idea what this means to me.”
Hortense took the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Okay. See you next week.”
Ryan nodded, feeling positively relieved. “Next week.”
16
ALVIN FINCH HAD spent the day showering and applying cream and remaining calm in the face of the coming night. The waiting was always like this before he broke their bones. But this time it was different.
Two years of delayed gratification had quietly built up his need, far beyond his capacity to understand it now that he’d made his decision. How a human mind could desire anything with such compulsion mystified him. He’d always been aware of his own superiority to the masses that fed, like sheep, on society’s self-indulgent grasses. Now it seemed that he’d become like his own victims, though he was able to beat back his raw craving for personal satisfaction.
On the other hand, he was above them all, as their lord and master. He was their Satan, come in sheep’s clothing, walking among them daily without so much as raising an eyebrow.
This time was also different because this time he had other plans.
At four o’clock Alvin, who was also BoneMan, left his apartment, climbed into the blue Ford F-150 pickup, headed out onto I-35, and drove south toward Austin.
There was one thing Alvin despised, nay, two he resented more than death itself. Writers and journalists of all stripes, because they knew far less than their words suggested.
Mini Cooper automobiles, because they looked like ladybugs. He disliked bugs because bugs seemed to be attracted to Noxzema lotion for the nutrients it provided them, and he hated women, which made ladybugs a pretty nasty combination.
It took Alvin nearly three hours to fight his way through traffic and reach the H-E-B on Highway 71 and Bee Cave Road, but he’d allowed for any such delay, so although he found the crowded roads to his disliking, he was able to make the trip without too much frustration.
Once again he tried to rest by lying down on the seat. Once again the wait proved fitful because of his eagerness. Once again he walked into the store and purchased two lemons, one pack of prepared sushi, and two liters of Mug brand root beer.
It was dark by the time Alvin finally took up his position in the trees near the back of the house, where he dried his sweat and applied lotion.
“I DON’T THINK you understand what I’m saying, Mother. You’re the one who got me into this, so why the resistance now?”
“Why? You’re sixteen years old and you want to run off to New York and you wonder why I, your mother, who loves Austin, thank you very much, suggest that maybe, just maybe you’re being a bit impulsive?”
“Something like that, yes. I was under the impression that you wanted me to pursue a career in modeling.”
Celine plucked the square white box of beef and broccoli off the table and marched to the waste bin into which she summarily dumped the half-eaten takeout. “You can be such a snob, but you know that, don’t you?”
Mother rounded the counter and made a show of wiping down the tile with a dish towel, but the kitchen was spotless from lack of use. “I can’t believe you would dump this on me now of all times. I finally find someone I love, and you know very well he can’t move out of Austin, even if he wanted to, and you do what? Dump something like this on me.”
Bethany set her chopsticks into the box of noodles, crossed her arms, and sat back, fully aware of precisely what her mother was saying.
Before taking her trip to New York for the Youth Nation photo shoot, Bethany had honestly entertained doubts about her interest in pursuing a career in the camera’s eye. All five of the shoots prior to New York had been hot and tedious affairs that made her feel more like a slab of meat than an honored guest.
But the cover shoot in New York had showed her a completely new side of the business. She’d been treated like royalty from the moment she, Celine, and Patty had set foot in Youth Nation’s reception room, beginning with the large bouquet of flowers and Henri, the masseur who had met her.
Each step she’d taken in the building had been followed by an assistant, whose sole purpose was to see to her comfort, whether that meant emptying the room of the countless persons fussing over her so that she could have a moment or getting her a soda.
They’d stayed in a very luxurious suite in the Waldorf and ordered whatever they liked from room service and over the course of the week, they’d seen four Broadway shows, including both The Lion King and Wicked.<
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Naturally, she was smart enough to look past all the trappings, however enjoyable they were. In fact, she found them just a bit over-the-top. These weren’t why she’d decided that she loved New York.
But something else had happened in New York that she couldn’t easily put aside. For the first time she could remember, Bethany had seen herself not as Celine’s daughter, in a never-ending struggle for control, or even as her mother’s peer, jockeying for position in a constantly changing environment, but as herself, apart from Celine.
She, not Celine, had been the center of attention, and apart from a few fits of frustration, Celine had been forced to step back and keep her mouth shut.
For the first time her mother’s opinions hardly mattered. Bethany’s makeup and hair, and the clothes she wore, the food she ate, even the way she talked—none of it was any of her mother’s business, a point made very clear on day one. Celine and Patty were welcome to watch. Quietly.
What at first felt uncomfortable to Bethany soon turned to relief and by the end of the week, she’d grown so pleased with her ability to cope in this environment without her mother’s hawking that she began to plot ways to return.
“You’re only sixteen, for the love of God!” Mother snapped. “Don’t let all of this attention get to your head.”
“I’m who you always wanted me to be, Mother. I wasn’t the one who chose this life. Everything I am is because of you. And who I am, not to mention my agent, tells me that I would be much better off in New York. I have two other covers waiting in the wings; a whole string of smaller shoots, but I can’t very well fly to New York every weekend for photo shoots.”
“They said they could work around you! Why are you insisting on all of this? Moving to New York is out of the question. I’m getting married here!”
“Yes, of course, we would hate to interrupt your precious life for the sake of your daughter, wouldn’t we? Never have, why start now?”