He couldn’t let them see her like this. He’d have to move her.
Greg picked the ladder up from the dusty ground and set it against the thick trunk. He had to stand carefully, balancing himself while he pulled Sarah’s limp body to his chest. His breath sputtered like a car on a cold morning. The cord slid roughly toward him, until he could reach it with his pocket knife. He used the serrated side to cut through the plastic lining, through the copper electrical wire, until it snapped. Sarah fell heavy into his arms. He descended one aluminum rung at a time with quavering legs. His muscles slackened, turned to noodles. He sat down and laid her head in his lap.
Her head tilted to the side. A deep, purple mark circled her throat like a choker. Deep grooves and gashes ran up and down the side of her neck. Blood marred her porcelain skin. Red stained her fingertips; she must have had second thoughts.
Hot tears stung the back of his eyes. He held her head; her hair tangled around his fingers and his chest heaved. Breath came in ragged gasps. He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. He took twenty minutes to compose himself before carrying her inside the house as a husband would a new bride. He placed her in her bed, pulled the covers just under her chin to obscure the swollen neck and the bloody scratches and dialed 911.
After a brief description of the incident, he called Mom and Dad. He said he had some bad news and that they should get Mason and come home right away. After that, he set the phone down, knelt next to Sarah, and wept until his tears ran dry.
* * *
Thinking of Nathan was like going blind. Crimson drapes ran like blood over his vision until scarlet shaded the entire world, gradually darkening until at last, he saw nothing.
He’d told the police about Nathan when they finally arrived hours after he called. They dismissed it and insisted that the mayor’s son wouldn’t have done anything like Greg said.
They didn’t know him and didn’t want to. They said it with such disregard as if someone from Newland could never be capable of rape and assault. They’d expect that kind of behavior if Nathan lived in Hailey, but in their mind, someone from Newland would never do that.
Justice, it seemed, no longer existed in Hailey.
Greg couldn’t accept that. Justice would be served, even if Greg had to do it himself. The day after Sarah died, Greg went to school. He had a baseball game to play, a game Nathan would also play in.
He arrived early at the locker room and changed into his uniform by himself. He took his bat, walked down to the field, sat on the bench and waited.
Nathan walked up from the field with a young girl on each arm and a sack of McDonalds in his hand. The girls smiled at him, enamored with his charm and his quasi-celebrity. Greg wanted to vomit. Red colored the corners of the world.
Nathan moved a hand over one the girl’s back, then a little lower. She smiled awkwardly and stepped away. At first, Nathan looked dejected, but then anger swept over his face. He met Greg’s fierce stare. “Oh look, it’s the slut’s brother.”
In Greg’s mind, he swung the bat at Nathan’s head and heard a crack like a hollow piñata. He clenched his fists and pushed the thought from his mind. The two girls said something terse to Nathan and walked past Greg.
“My sister is dead,” Greg said. “She died last night.”
Nathan frowned. “Did she have AIDS?”
Greg took a deep breath. “You never showed her any respect, but by God you’ll respect her now. I know what you did.”
Nathan grinned, leaned in close. “She tell you everything? How she screamed my name? How she begged me for it?” Blackness shimmered in his eyes. “Not my fault she got knocked up. And not my fault she wanted to keep the stupid thing.”
Greg tightened his grip on the bat.
Nathan’s breath stank of onions. “Funny thing about pregnancies,” he whispered. “Hit a girl hard enough in the right place and the baby dies. Looks just like a miscarriage, too.”
Blindness. Heavy, benevolent darkness.
His arms moved like wind, sweeping from one side to the other. Something cracked. A muffled distant cry rang in his ears, a scream, another crack and Greg’s arms shook, reverberated.
He moved mechanically, little more than a robot carrying out instructions, swinging and shaking, swinging and shaking. The hollow cracking sound echoed with each swing.
* * *
When his vision returned, Greg stood over Nathan’s barely recognizable body. His face and neck were swollen; his arm bent underneath him, legs sprawled at awkward angles. Blood ran from his face and arms, from his mouth, and from his black, black eyes. There was no white, no color in the iris; only a viscous black, like a swimming, undulating tar. Greg couldn’t look away.
The tar began pulsing, as if his eyes were veins, and the tar, the blood of a demonic being. The pulsing captivated him, until it erupted from Nathan’s pupils, like a volcano spewing smoke. To Greg’s surprise, it did not dissipate. It hung suspended in mid-air, swirling and coagulating into a thick black face, twisted in a grim pride, a toothy grin.
It shrieked and stared at Greg. The smile drained away and the blackness collapsed to the concrete below, slowly seeping into it like water through cheesecloth. Greg took two steps back from the body. He knew Nathan was evil, but not like this.
Greg stepped back from Nathan’s broken body. Had Greg really done that? He hadn’t imagined himself capable of such savagery. He should be afraid, guilty, remorseful.
He had to put distance between himself and Nathan, had to get far away from the creeping black tar of Nathan’s soul. He needed someplace quiet, where he could be alone and think.
The Mojave pulled him inexplicably toward it. Before long, he parked his car on the side of Highway 29 about thirty miles from Newland Valley High School and about twenty miles from his home. Here, the river deviated about a mile and a half from the highway. Various train tracks ran the course between the river and highway. Tall cottonwoods with golden leaves and black branches isolated the river from the rest of the world. This was exactly what he needed: seclusion and time to think. He sat on the bank of the river, which trickled from a recent rain.
Everything happened so quickly, he’d not remembered to pray until now. With a humble heart, he bowed his head. Forgiveness, however, was not his request. Instead, he thanked God. God’s justice had been appeased, and Greg had been the instrument God used. He thanked Him for the opportunity to serve as the tool of His righteous anger. He didn’t doubt he’d served God the best way he knew how, by removing evil from the earth.
How many girls had Nathan raped? How many had he beaten? How many more would he have hurt if Greg let him live? There was no measure to the righteous anger of God, and though he didn’t remember much of it, he acted justly.
The police wouldn’t see it that way. All they would see was a Hailey kid murdering Newland’s mayor’s son. His mind flashed back to the image of Nathan bloodied and bruised, Greg’s bat lying beside him. It was only a matter of time before they found him. What then? He could drive away, try to get out of state. No, by now they’d be looking for his car, and he wasn’t about to steal a vehicle.
His father would know what to do. He always did. But he wouldn’t be able to drive home, not in his car. How long would it take him to walk twenty miles? Four hours? Five hours? He could follow the river up and cut across the wash. The trees and creosote bushes would provide good cover from anyone looking for him, either on the highway or in the air. If he hurried, he could be home just after nightfall.
His walk home consisted of ubiquitous thoughts: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, a Dr. Seuss chorus juxtaposed against the darkness of the day. He had no direction but straight. Follow the river, think less, act more. Move. Move. Must move.
Before long, the sun plunged behind the mountains, thrusting Greg into shadow. Another few minutes and th
e moon ascended like a seraphic eye. Tired and hungry, he moved determinedly, his skin scratched from traipsing through a myriad of angry bushes. Sand filled his cleats, and he wished he’d at least thought to change shoes before running off. He’d had no time to think or plan. He operated on base instinct, something deep within him that shut off his conscious mind.
Greg stumbled through his front door an hour after sunset. His mother and father paced the living room, fear etched in their wrinkled faces. Mason stood in the hallway, watching. Mousy as ever, Greg thought.
Greg’s father hung up his phone. “My God, Greg.” He took his son in his arms and held him tight, a father’s hug: equal parts relief, exasperation, fear, comfort, and instruction.
He answered the question his mother asked with her eyes. “I’m fine.” He turned to his father. “Pops, it’s okay. I did what was right.”
His father looked sad. “I’m worried sick, son. You wouldn’t believe what I’m hearing. And the day after your sister.”
“I did it for her.”
His mother put a hand to her mouth. “You did it? The police came by and said …”
Greg hugged his mother. “I had to do it, for Sarah.”
“Why?” his father said. “What does he have to do with Sarah?”
Greg’s hands fisted. “She told me not to tell you, but I did what had to be done.”
Greg’s father shook his head. “I’m sorry, son.”
The front door crashed open, punching a hole in the side of the wall. Greg spun around in time to see a uniformed man tackle him. A boiling pain ruptured through his chest. He wanted to cry out, but found no air in his lungs. A fast smacking sound followed a distant voice, “On your stomach, now!”
Greg tried to roll over, but the uniformed officer still pinned him to the floor. Again, he tried to speak, but the weight of the man choked him.
“All right, get him up!”
He heard his mother’s voice. “Stop! Stop! You’re hurting him!”
“Get him outside!”
The officer stood up, grabbed Greg by the collar of his baseball uniform, and dragged him toward the door. The collar slipped up his neck to his throat, and his feet dragged along the carpet. Greg grasped at his throat, unable to breathe.
Just like Sarah.
No thought. Only instinct. He took his hands from his collar and grabbed the couch, then the coffee table, anything he could reach. If he could only stand.
More hands on him, at the shoulders. Something hard hit his arms and legs. Wooden. A stick? More than one. Two or three at a time. Then he was outside of his garage, pushed to the concrete.
He gasped.
Up.
He steadied his legs, turned to face his attackers. Three in all, each with the badge of Newland’s finest. The hefty one stepped toward him, arm raised.
Greg steeled his nerves and sent his fist rocketing at the man’s chin. It connected in a sickening crunch and sent the man wobbling back. The other two rushed him. Greg ducked, tripped one up and felt the other’s foot in his ribs. When he doubled over, something hit his back. It felt like a web, or a wire. His muscles convulsed in agonizing pain, and he collapsed. He felt a foot on his back; his arms were pulled behind him and cold metal clasped over his wrists. “You’re under arrest, Greg Becker.”
From the driveway, Greg saw the silhouette of his mother and father and Mason in the garage. Had they seen the whole thing? His father held his mother. Mason stood with slumped shoulders as if he had rushed to help, but, for fear’s sake, stopped. He stood frozen in a half-run like a sculpture of a second-place Olympian.
Chapter 9
Friday, September 4th
Nine years ago, I flew over the border of Chad in a helicopter and touched down a few miles into Northern Darfur. We landed under an unforgiving African sun. The Sudanese government wielded its power like a machete. Hate and genocide had swept the land like a sandstorm—quick and irresistible.
I didn’t have to wait long to see the darkness of men’s souls. The following morning, the Janjaweed rode into the village where I stayed. The tall men traveled on horseback and wielded intimidation like swords. Seven arrived swiftly, armed with G3 rifles. The man riding in front also carried a machete. Their ebony skin glistened with sweat. They all smiled, content to carry out their orders from the government: exterminate the Massaleit ethnicity. The villagers panicked, ran for their homes, the women for the children. A few men, brave and foolish, stood alongside me in the path of the Janjaweed.
“You are not welcome here,” they said. My translator did his best to look brave, but his quivering knees betrayed him.
The leader’s eyes were like a black liquid, and his orders were short and clipped, delivered with authority and amusement. “Kill the men and burn the village. Do what you like to the women, but save two for me.”
“What of the white one?” another asked.
“He is no doctor. Doctors do not carry cameras and notebooks. He will tell our story, and the rebels will learn.”
The rebels, a band of Sudanese, fought for freedom against a corrupt government, the same government that hired the Janjaweed to systematically destroy the tribes in Darfur, a genocide paralleled only by that in Rwanda. The calling card of this genocide was dead men, burned villages, raped women, and slaughtered children.
The villagers didn’t wait before they sprinted away. A young mother grabbed her three-month old daughter and ran as fast as her bony legs would carry her. The crack of a rifle’s hammer split the suffocating summer air. The bullet pierced the mother’s right shoulder. She slumped to the earth; with the last ounce of her miniscule strength, she used her quivering body to shield her daughter. A Janjaweed soldier closed with relentless speed. His rifle raised, his jaw opened and closed, opened and closed like a ruthless tide, the gum smacking between his lips. The mother arched her back in an act that defied the limits of human biological abilities, and interposed herself between her killer and her child. From the depths of her good lung, a few words, mixed with blood, dripped from her lips. Later, my translator told me he’d only heard a few words. “Don’t worry, love you, don’t worry.”
Another crack.
The mother crumpled. Sickness seized me.
The Janjaweed kicked her body, rolling it off of the child. “You should not have run,” he said. His eyes were a sea of undulating ink.
The sickness I’d felt in Darfur, the disease of despair, gripped me again. Greg’s story made me uneasy, and he knew it. He leaned forward. “You know what? I’d do it again.”
The room ran cold. “The blackness that seeped out of his eyes?”
Greg blinked. “I don’t know exactly. His soul maybe? A demon? Whatever it was, there was no remorse in it. It looked,” he paused. “Happy?” The word sounded more like a question. “No, satisfied.”
A uniformed guard put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “That’s time, Greg.”
Still leaning close to the transparent divider, he ignored the guard’s comments and continued softly. “There’s judgment in your eyes. You’re not my judge. What I did was right. It was necessary.”
“Finish it up,” the guard said.
Greg never broke his steel gaze. “Look after Mason. Next few days’ll be rough for him.” He hung up the phone, stood, and followed the guard through the gray door on the opposite end of the room.
“You handled that better than I expected,” Mason said.
I stood with a shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Sure, his story is chilling, but doesn’t compare to the things I’ve seen.”
In Darfur, the Janjaweed soldier raised his rifle again, took aim at the now orphaned girl. Fear froze me, kept me from moving or speaking. What if he turned the gun on me? I was paralyzed, a cowardly statue. Closing my eyes, my ears rang with the echo of a gun’s rapport,
then another body crumpling.
A baby lying on the ground would not crumple.
I opened my eyes and saw the soldier in a heap. A well-armed rebel soldier stood over him.
“Are you a doctor?”
No. I wasn’t. I didn’t have to be.
I hadn’t seen the rebels ride in from the outskirts of the village. They carried water, food, and rifles. They surrounded the remaining Janjaweed, and moved them outside of the village. The daughter’s savior scooped her into his arms.
“We will deal with these men, but we will not make the villagers see. They do not need to see what happens to these men.”
“The baby?”
“I will take her.”
I’d heard stories of mothers lifting cars off of their children. I’d heard of men surviving in the desert for weeks without water. Neither impressed me more than the selfless sacrifice this mother made for her child.
I struggled for weeks to write what I’d experienced in Darfur. World News Weekly called me daily to urge me on in the process. But, until I sat down with Nadine in the food court of Cherry Creek Shopping Center, I couldn’t fathom how to approach the suffering.
She cried as I told her the story. Shortly after, she insisted I had to handle it a different way. “This isn’t an article about suffering. It’s about the perseverance of love, a selfless act made more unbelievable by the contrast of the selfishness of the villains.”
I didn’t speak of the brutality of the rebels. It was a war, and war was not pretty. War heroes didn’t seek to peacefully speak with hostiles, to talk them out of their violent ways. They used the force available to them to protect those around them.
Greg was not in a war, but he fit the description of a hero. He sacrificed his freedom to protect other girls, other families from enduring the suffering that would likely come at Nathan’s hands.
In Mason’s truck, the jail far behind us, I asked the burning question. “Is it right to take the law into your own hands?”
Mason gripped the steering wheel and sighed. “I think you’re asking the wrong question. A better question would be, ‘is it righteous to allow evil to exist?’ I think it’s necessary to remove evil. It’s the responsibility of the righteous to end evil when possible. They must defend what’s right.”
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 7