“After the rescue by a barge with a crane and a long summer of sanding and varnishing, the boat was back as good as new. Right, Pops?”
Pops held out his hand and gave the so-so tilt, and the church crowd laughed again.
Nick paused to regain his thoughts. “John is my best friend.” His face flushed as he grew serious. “I, too, have so many questions about this senseless, random act of violence. I find myself asking the why in all this. I am really struggling with it. But I do know this: there is no one better than John to teach us about love. He gave up fame and fortune. He gave up the big house and the fancy cars to minister to the poorest of the poor—freely giving of himself. He felt more comfortable in the slums or in the back of a Central American chicken bus than anywhere else. Looking around at all of you today, John is the richest man I know.”
Nick choked back more tears. “Love you, John. Save a place by the campfire for me, bud.”
Maggie smiled at Nick as he left the podium. An inner sense of peace slowly pushed at the gloom and darkness filling her soul.
He’s right. It will only be a short time in the scheme of eternity that I will be with him again. She touched the ring still on her finger. She knew Forever Yours was engraved inside.
Pastor Chris returned to the pulpit and adjusted the microphone. “You know, John would have loved this laughter. His wonderful spirit toward life is what makes us miss him so much.”
He paused, gazing over the guests. “Last night I didn’t sleep well. A scripture kept waking me up. It was John 15:13: ‘Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ We know John and Maggie truly demonstrated God’s love by laying their lives down for the people in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. We just never expected something so tragic to happen to such a godly man.”
Pastor Chris fidgeted with the large wooden cross hung around his neck. His voice deepened. “I am reminded today that Easter is only a few days away. Like that day 2000 years ago, today…today is the worst of days and the best of days.” He paused. “John has been taken from our lives here on earth, but he now walks with Jesus in Heaven, his body, mind, and spirit fully restored, fully resurrected. For those of us who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, this is our hope. This is the promise that has been made to us. There will be that time when we are all there, together, with all the saints, rejoicing. No more pain, no more sorrow, no more tears. Truly, it is the worst of days and the best of days.”
The pastor nodded to Maggie’s sister.
On cue, she stood, took the microphone, and sang, Because He Lives, the song that Maggie and John had learned while visiting a church in California.
Her sister’s song filled the church with joyous lyrics of belief and faith—of Jesus’s triumph over death.
Maggie closed her eyes, listened to the words, and held her hands in prayer. In her mind’s eye, she saw John standing next to her as they worshipped their God together. She could see his smile and the look of peace that came over him as he entered into the Lord’s presence. A great warmth flooded her, and she stood and raised her hands over her head, creating a ripple throughout the church as the congregation rose to stand with her.
When the song ended, Maggie slowly opened her eyes, surprised she was on her feet and blushed with embarrassment. Then, when she realized everyone was standing with her, she felt a wave of strength enter her.
She gestured to her sister to give her the microphone. Maggie’s legs would not carry her up to the pulpit, but she knew she had to speak.
But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She had a terrible urge to sit down when her father, standing beside her, supported her with his hand on her back.
Maggie wiped a large tear. “Um…John and I…um…I wanted to thank you all for showing so much love to us.” She looked at Nick. “I, like you Nick, have so many questions as to how something like this could happen. Everyone here knows that John would do anything for anybody in need. He often would say that his favorite people were the poor.”
Maggie’s mother handed her a tissue, and she wiped her eyes. “But John loved what he did. He loved the mission. He loved the families. He loved the children.” She dabbed her eyes. “Even though…” Her lower lip quivered. “Even though I miss him…” She cleared her throat. “I know that I know I will see him again in heaven. One of John’s favorite verses from scripture is in Psalm 23: ‘Surely goodness and loving kindness will follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ”
Her body heaved with sobs, betraying her spiritual courage, and her father wrapped his arm around her.
Maggie persevered. “I want you all to know. God is good. This evil did not come from God. But God will be faithful to make good things come from this.” With increasing strength and resolve, she smiled. Speaking to herself as much as to everyone else, she said, “Evil does not win.”
She gave the microphone to her father, and he helped her sit down. The congregation sat. Her father turned to a group of elders from their Tribe standing against the wall at the back and waved them to come forward. The elders marched solemnly to the front of the church where Maggie’s father and brothers waited. The tribesmen positioned themselves around a large ceremonial drum placed at the center of the stage. In front of the drum and facing the crowd was an empty chair on which a drumstick had been placed.
Maggie’s father spoke. “With my Native People, we celebrate Jesus with our song and dance. This song talks about the love that our Heavenly Father has for each one of us and how He longs to be reunited with each one of His children and the promise of heaven.”
He began the rhythmic drumming and was joined by Maggie’s brothers and the elders. A beautifully haunting Blackfeet song filled the church. Only a select few understood the words, but everyone understood the meaning. It was a transcendent moment. The song reached a crescendo as the drummers beat the taut, elk-skin drum. The song grew louder and louder, then suddenly stopped. The congregation sat in total silence.
Then, silently and in single file, the tribesmen left the stage, with the exception of Maggie’s father who remained standing beside the empty chair. When the elders had returned to the back of the church, Maggie’s father held up the drumstick. An eagle feather dangled from its ornate, beaded end. With both hands, Maggie’s father raised the stick to the ceiling and then gently placed it on the drum. A single beam of light streamed from above and bathed the drumstick in a rapturous glow.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
For the Fatherland
Dr. Chul came around the corner, sweat-soaked, frightened, just in time to see Pak. While he was called “doctor,” the closest medical training he had had was as a medic during the Korean War. When the North invaded South Korea in what the North calls the Joguk Haebang Jeonjaeng or the “Fatherland Liberation War,” Chul was in the first wave of infantry. He knew horror. Four million people died in the conflict that left a divided peninsula, devastating the economies in both countries and separating families. Now, at age seventy-five, the memories of his fallen comrades lodged deep in his soul.
Gowned in a blood-stained, white butcher’s apron and surgical gloves, he wiped dripping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. It was not heat that made him sweat, it was fear.
Chul watched Pak pluck an apple off the table and put it in his pocket. Chul had saved it for the girl upstairs, but he did not stop Pak.
“Chairman Pak,” he said, bowing low at the waist. “Your arrival is unexpectedly early.”
Chul called him “chairman” only out of respect for Pak’s father, Vice-Chairman of the National Defense Commission. Pak Song-nam had appointed his son begrudgingly to Minister of Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau of the Korean Worker’s Party Central Committee, North Korea’s equivalent to the CIA. To his father’s surprise, Pak had blossomed, performing his duties well and surpassing expectations when his team recently executed a successful cyber-attack on American and South
Korean government computers.
Pak barely acknowledged Chul’s presence, even though Chul was the director of the medical research facility, but Chul’s blood-stained gown caught his eye as he passed the doctor, anxious to get to the business at hand.
Pak gripped the handrail to pull himself up the stairs to the second floor. He had gone only a few steps when Chul spoke.
“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman, Sir?”
Pak whirled around with anger at his subordinate. He didn’t have to say a word; his expression said it all.
Chul knew to speak out was a life-altering decision. He bowed so low that his knees gave way, and he fell to the cold, grey tile.
“Forgive me, Chairman, I wanted to ask—”
“Can this not wait?”
Chul had anxiously pondered this moment for weeks, but in a society based on fear, nothing could have prepared him for it. Standing up for righteousness was unheard of. After all, what was the definition of right in a country that dictated what was right and what was wrong? Someone like Chul was not to have an opinion. He’d known for a while what Pak was doing was wrong, but he had put it out of his mind and enjoyed most of the work. It was a privilege to be a part of this secret new order.
But Chul couldn’t overlook it any longer. The girls had gotten younger and younger, and the risks greater and greater. He saw his bloody handprints on the tile. This was the fourth girl in two weeks who died. It was time to say something.
“Forgive me, Suseung-nim,” he said, using the ultimate term for master.
He could feel Pak’s eyes burning holes in the back of his neck.
“We just lost another young girl,” Chul said. “I tried the best that I could, but she was too small and the baby…I could not get the baby out. She bled. I could not stop it.” Chul knew what would happen for speaking out because no one ever questioned authority.
Even so, he found courage in his mind and body and lifted himself off the floor. Pictures of his wife and son flashed in his mind. He saw his own twelve-year old granddaughter in the faces of the girls at the clinic. This was a defining moment in his life; he sensed a presence that gave him courage. Chul didn’t know about a god. He knew about the dead Great Leader Kim Il-sung. Maybe that was the presence that gave him courage to abandon the discouragement and hopelessness that filled his days in exchange for this new, inexplicable peace.
A frail, aged man, Chul stood as tall as his arthritic spine would allow. He looked Pak in the eyes. What he saw was darkness, rage and hate that sent a shiver down his spine. But Chul continued. He had to.
“Mr. Pak,” he announced, addressing him as an equal. It was the first time he had done so, and it would be the last. “We must not use girls so young. They are too frail, their bodies too immature. There are plenty of older girls that are of age.”
Pak stared through Chul without emotion. “Yes, like your granddaughter,” and turned to continue up the stairs.
Chul knew his family might never see him again.
* * *
Pak regarded Chul’s voice an unwelcome intrusion in the excitement of his daily visit. But he was glad when the antiseptic smell of the facility erased the sound of Chul.
There were no windows on the second-floor, and the hallway was dimly lit. One of the few lights illuminated pictures of Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and the newest dictator Kim Jong-un. Every building and almost every room in the country was plastered with portraits of the leaders. Pak had almost stopped noticing them. He hated them.
Pak entered the room without knocking. He paused for a moment to let the sweet perfume fill his nostrils. It was the same as it had been every day for years—the same lighting, the same décor, the same fragrance, but a different girl.
The perfume was ordered from Paris. It was rumored to be his mother’s favorite, but no one but Pak knew for sure. The room was set up like the room he loved—his mother’s.
The girl had been told on how to lie on the bed and what expression to hold on her face. As Pak appeared in the doorway, this girl emitted a small, nearly inaudible whimper. Her attendees had covered her small budding breasts and waist with silk and painted her face with heavy makeup. She shifted slightly as she fought the urge to cover herself.
Seeing her fear, Pak’s excitement rose. He had never been able to distinguish between fear and sexual excitement. The child’s pupils were dilated with terror. Pak noticed her lack of pubic hair and judged her to be about eleven years old.
Pak thought of his mother. If she’d still been alive, she would have delighted in this scene. Pak imagined a whole cloud of generational witnesses rejoicing in this ritual. Many times in history, Japan had invaded Korea. Even up to World War II, the Japanese used millions of Koreans in forced labor camps. Pak and his maternal lineage were born out of this, a secret hidden from his father but revealed to him by his dying mother. His mother was the only one in generations not forced into sexual slavery. But the evil ran deep in her psyche, and she was a slave to her own sexuality and the foul spirits that controlled her compulsions.
Pak began to undress, making a pageant of shedding his garments. He had learned to linger in the moment. It was a pleasure to do his duty. Thanks to him and a few chosen associates, the country was experiencing a baby boom. Under his direction, baby factories operated throughout North Korea. The plan was to produce a superior race, and the method was artificial insemination. While Pak was in charge and delegated his directives, he believed there was something sacred in performing the act himself.
He loved when the girl was a virgin. His perennially cold stare warmed with sentimentality as he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the girl’s hair.
“It is all right, my little one,” he whispered, “this is your destiny. Today you become a mother for the Fatherland.”
CHAPTER 8
* * *
An Invitation
Maggie and Nick stood beside the car at the airport, neither wanting to say goodbye. Nick was sorry he had to leave the morning after the service. He pulled Maggie’s rain jacket closed around her neck to shield her against the Seattle mist.
“You going to be all right?”
She nodded, looking at her feet. “My family will stay as long as I need them.”
Nick experienced a twinge of guilt. “Maggie, I’m so sorry I have to leave today. I’m on call tonight, and I just couldn’t find anyone to cover for me.”
“I understand,” she smiled, looking into his eyes. “Really, I do.”
Nick knew that she did, but that didn’t help to ease his guilt. He asked, “What can I do that would help you the most?”
She hesitated. “Nick, I know you’re busy. I don’t even know if I should ask this of you.” She paused. “Would you consider coming down to Guatemala to help me? I really need to return to the Hope Center and our staff.”
It was his turn to look at his feet.
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now,” she said. “But would you at least think about it?”
He looked into her deep, dark eyes. “Let me see what I can do.”
* * *
Back home in his apartment, Nick had barely put his keys down when his beeper went off. He glanced at its message: STAT. Dr. Hart, please report to the ER immediately.
Living five minutes away from the MED was a huge bonus for Nick as his Porsche sped down Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Ave. He was on his Bluetooth phone in the car. “What do you have?” he asked the chief resident.
“Dr. Hart, we have a ten-year-old that was playing by train tracks. He slipped under one of the train cars. It got both his legs. It’s bad, probably need amputations, but thought we better get your thoughts before we proceed.”
“His parents there yet?”
“They’re on their way. Not sure we can wait.”
“You get pictures?” Nick asked, thinking of the legal implications. “I’m there in two.”
“We’re headed to the OR. He’s lost tons of blood, but I think we are getting
caught up.”
“See you there.”
Nick squealed into his parking spot and saw the tire marks that he left behind after his talk with Anita Roe a few days earlier. Residual anger rose inside him.
“What a bitch,” he muttered. He really could not say he was happy to be back.
* * *
Nick burst through the OR doors to Trauma One. The room buzzed with activity. James Taylor’s Fire and Rain came through the stereo in the corner.
The young boy looked ghostly from the blood loss. A red puddle stained the blue surgical drop cloth underneath him.
What a contrast.
Nick looked at the boy with tangled blond hair and a healthy dose of freckles on an angelic face, a skinny preadolescent body, and gruesome and grotesque leg injuries.
The loss of innocence.
Nick put his hand on the boy’s arm. At least he was warm and alive. Dr. Andrews, a female anesthesiologist, looked up from her monitors at the head of the OR table. She wore her mask pulled down under her nose. The whites of her eyes were red as they met Nick’s.
“You okay?” Nick asked.
“My son just turned ten. Sometimes it gets to me.” Her face flushed as she turned her attention to the patient. “I mean, yeah, I think we’ve pretty well transfused him. He may need more depending on what you guys do.”
“This is a bad one,” Nick said as he looked down at the mangled legs. “Never easy.”
“Yeah, it really keeps you on your knees for your kids,” she replied.
Nick thought about asking what she meant. He had heard a lot about prayer the last twenty-four hours, but he was interrupted by the OR nurse handing him a pack of sterile gloves. It was Jasmine. He smiled at her through his mask, remembering their encounter a few nights ago.
But this time Jasmine was all business. “Dr. Hart,” she nodded. “The guys are out scrubbing. They told me to tell you they have already taken pictures but wanted your final word.”
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