Where Tomorrow Leads

by DiAnn Mills

  “Excuse me?”

  “Please, Larson, take Thomas and drive away from the village until Santino or I get home. Better yet, drive to Ben’s camp. You should be able to get there in two hours or less. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “I have my rifle and my pistol. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “I said get out of there.”

  “All right.” He heard her moving. Was she hurrying to Thomas’s cradle? “I’ll call once I’m outside the village.”

  “Just drive. Muti is a dangerous man. He was after you once, and he could be on his way there now. Larson, I have to know you’re safe.”

  * * *

  Fear threatened to overtake Larson. With one hand holding Thomas, wrapped in a blanket, and the other holding a pistol and an insulated bag containing several formula bottles, she yanked open the Hummer door and dropped her keys. Quivering, she stooped and grabbed them. Thomas started to cry.

  “Hush, sweetheart. We’re going for a ride.” She strapped him into his infant car seat and kissed him. A glance to the backseat revealed a change of clothes for both of them and several diapers.

  Help me, Jesus. I’m scared.

  Moments later, she headed down the single mud-rutted road leading away from the village and on toward Ben’s camp.

  Twice of late she’d danced with death and won. She was pregnant, recovering from a bullet wound, and now one of her abductors had escaped. Paul was afraid for her, and his love translated into a wide range of emotions.

  Thomas cried louder. She snatched up a bottle and held it for him while driving. Drat, her shoulder hurt. She hoped she didn’t have to shift gears soon. Soon the sounds of sucking replaced his weeping. She leaned the bottle against the side of the car seat and pressed the numbers on her phone to call Paul.

  “I’m on the way.”

  “Good. Do you want to see if Ben can send someone to meet you?”

  “No. I’m fine. I imagine he’s shorthanded anyway.” Larson stared into the face of her tiny son. What can I do besides pray?

  “All right. Please keep me posted. Don’t stop for any reason.”

  “I won’t. Right now I’m watching Thomas’s bottle so it doesn’t fall from his mouth, talking to you, and driving.”

  “What a woman. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

  She blinked back a tear. Stupid hormones. “No problem. I love you. I’ll call every thirty minutes until I get to Ben’s camp.”

  The phone clicked, and she dropped it beside her. The truth shook her until she feared she might be sick. Paul would get himself killed if he wasn’t careful. In fretting over her, he’d ignore his own safety, and one of his many enemies might get lucky. Larson refused to have her beloved husband’s blood on her hands. What should she do? Make arrangements to leave Sudan and tell him about it later? But that meant deserting her beloved husband and the commitment they’d made to Sudan. Would he understand she only wanted to keep him from harm?

  Dear God, I don’t know what to do.

  CHAPTER 23

  Paul wound around the path to the edge of the river where Bishop Malou stood in waist-deep water to baptize the small family. A crowd had gathered, and their hymn singing rose beyond the treetops. The bishop always preached at a baptism, which grounded Paul’s dismay. With his luck, more people would want to embrace the waters, and he and the bishop might not get started back to Warkou until evening. Paul frowned while frustration snaked through his veins. Judging from the number of people streaming through the area, another village had been summoned to the event. That meant more decisions and more baptisms.

  He should be glad—thrilled so many people were becoming believers. Instead, a cloud of frustration settled upon him. What had happened to his joy?

  Gazing out over the murky water, he searched for snakes or crocs. About a year ago, a croc had taken out after Bishop Malou in the middle of a baptism. If it hadn’t been for one of the men shouting a warning, he would have been dead. Ever since, Paul had kept a watchful eye out for anything in those waters that resembled death.

  Paul sucked in a breath. A young woman limped up to his side. She had an advanced stage of Guinea worm and carried a stick to wind the worm around it as it exited her leg. He hoped she didn’t have any plans to step into the murky mess. She’d gotten the parasite from dirty water, and here the bishop was baptizing in it. Paul would need to bring Larson here to administer antibiotics and medications to ease the pain. If this woman had contracted the parasite, others would too.

  The sad part about it was that the woman could get it again, and unless she and others like her learned to stay out of filthy water, the problem would continue. Between this disease and a host of others, he wondered how the people survived. Here lay his passion and Larson’s. They were destined to help the people in any way possible. Would they abandon southern Sudan if the situation grew hot? He thought so. He believed so. But taking in all the needs of his surroundings, he was no longer certain.

  Larson. He’d treated her shamefully, but at least he’d apologized. She’d be calling him in the next few minutes. The Hummer was an armored tank; she’d be safe until she got to Ben’s camp. He sighed. His treatment of Bishop Malou had been just as rude. What was wrong with him? Glancing about at the spiritual and physical needs of these people, he realized fear had coiled around his heart—fear for Larson and his new family’s safety, fear for their health, and a tremendous fear he could not protect them from any of it.

  Bishop Malou waved from the water. “A few more people are requesting baptism.”

  Paul nodded, fighting the annoyance and disappointment building inside him again. “I’ll call Larson and tell her we’ll be late leaving.” He forced a smile. But he couldn’t guarantee the rage wouldn’t explode at any given provocation. Something had taken root in his heart, something he didn’t like.

  Leaving the group at the riverbank, he walked back to the truck. With the things he had to say to Larson, some privacy was in order. He had to believe she and Thomas were all right. A nudging at his spirit urged him to start the truck. It had hesitated earlier today, and he figured the battery was about gone. If it needed attention, he’d rather do it now and not lose his temper about it later. Strange. His temper had not plagued him before, but now he felt it like a boil wanting to fester and spread its infection.

  Paul inserted the key into the ignition. Nothing. Not even a turn of the engine. Larson would pour Coke over the battery terminals of the old piece of junk she used to drive before the Hummer. She’d made a comment about what the drink probably did to a person’s stomach lining. Ever since, he’d carried a can of Coke for that purpose. He opened the creaky door and slammed it so hard he looked back to make sure it hadn’t taken flight. Lifting the hood, he splashed the brown, fizzing liquid over the battery terminals and waited. With the hood still up, he tried starting the engine again. Nothing. He banged his palm against the steering wheel. Now what? Could things get any worse?

  Lord, what is happening here? Everything I touch faces destruction.

  Only a formidable silence met him. Paul rubbed his face and tried to listen to the small voice of God. But all he heard was the buzz of insects. Clenching his fists, he fought the overwhelming urge to unleash his anger. He had to conquer the fury raging through his soul before it controlled him. He knew he was in danger of pushing himself even further away from God, but Paul was angry with Him. Why were those who served God the ones being preyed upon? What was the purpose in all of this? He closed his eyes and attempted to pray. He despised his tormented soul and longed for the peace that came only from God.

  His phone rang, and Paul knew instinctively it was Larson. Although she was supposed to check in with him, he should have called her before wrestling with the dead battery.

  “Hey, I’m sorry for being so short lately.” He took a deep breath, wanting to sound like the caring husband who had everything under control.

  “It’s all right. I understand you’re
under a lot of pressure.”

  “I think you’re under more than I am.” Paul closed his eyes and envisioned her in the Hummer. “Is Thomas asleep?”

  “Yes. Do you anticipate being home late tonight, or are you going to have Bishop Malou drop you off at the Rhino Battalion’s camp?”

  “Not sure. The truck’s battery is dead.”

  “Isn’t there a new one behind the driver’s seat? I thought I saw one there when you and the bishop packed the truck.”

  “Let me check.” He flung open the creaky door and searched behind the driver’s seat. The moment his fingers touched the square metal box, he belted out a loud whoop. “Wonderful. Now when the bishop is finished, we can hit the road.”

  “I have a suggestion that may make your life easier.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the source of your stress. I can move to Nairobi and fly back and forth to Warkou or other areas where medical attention is needed. You can’t work when you’re worrying about me and Thomas. You found suitable living quarters for us in Nairobi when you flew Santino to the university. I think the time’s come for us to make the move.”

  Her offer gave him some degree of comfort, but the defeat in her voice bothered him too. “I am worried about you. But it seems like one problem leads to another. Living in Kenya and working here would be an adjustment for both of us.”

  “But I’m ready. The danger is not going away. My pregnancy brings another set of problems. This way you can rest easier, and all of us will be safe. Santino will be with us only a while longer.”

  Paul took a long look around him at the beautiful paradise filled with lush green vegetation and the sounds of nature. It all contrasted with a government that didn’t care about its people—a government longing to kill him. “When I get home, let’s plan a trip to Nairobi. We can look for a new home there.”

  “Good. I’ll be at the camp in about an hour. This lady will be well protected.”

  He combed his fingers through his hair. “I wanted to leave two hours ago. But as long as there are people who want to hear Bishop Malou’s message and wade into these disease-infested waters for baptism, he’ll want to stay.”

  “That’s how it should be, Paul.”

  “My habibti, I—”

  “You’ve lost your joy.” She wept softly. “I see it. I feel it. We’ve been in terrible circumstances lately, but it’s not God’s fault.”

  “He could protect us.” The instant the words flew from his mouth, he regretted them.

  “We’re not here for a picnic. We’re here to make a difference. No matter where we are in the world, there will be those who ridicule and persecute us because of our faith.”

  “How many of the people in those places will try to kill us?” Paul stared down at the torn seat. He yanked up a loose thread, and the rip grew longer. Did he dare reveal his thoughts of returning to California and contributing his money to various organizations that helped the Sudanese? There they’d all be safe. “I’m tired, Larson. Tired and frustrated. I feel like all I need is one shove, and I’ll burst into something ugly.”

  * * *

  When Larson was within thirty minutes of the Rhino Battalion, she phoned Ben.

  “Where are you?” Impatience edged his words.

  “I’m west of your camp. Should be there shortly.”

  “Did you run into any trouble?”

  “No. I’m sure this is nothing, but I feel better knowing I don’t have to defend myself against Muti.”

  “When I find him, he’ll wish he was dead.”

  She didn’t answer. Ben could be horrible to deal with when he was in a mood like this. Even if she did agree with him.

  Within the half hour, Larson pulled into the camp. Hard men rose with rifles in hand to greet her in the evening shadows. Among them was Ben. He met her at the Hummer and opened the door. She saw the old look on his face, the one of love and regret.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” she said. “Any word about Muti?”

  “No. Okuk has a few men trailing him. Not so sure this is a safe place for you if he decides to bring a firefight down on us. But better here than in Warkou with no one else there to handle a gun.” He peered over her. “I’ll get Thomas on the other side. Do I take the whole contraption he’s in?”

  She laughed lightly to ease the tension between them—the tension that spoke of the many years she’d failed to speak of his love for her. “I’ll unfasten the carrier. He’ll sleep in it.”

  “You can stay in my tent until Paul arrives.”

  She wanted to protest since being alone with him made her nervous. No doubt he felt the same. Once inside the tent, he lit an oil lamp and set Thomas’s carrier in a corner. He was such a good baby, sleeping through all the turmoil around him. The yellow-gold shadows bouncing off the tent walls reminded her of the many late nights talking with Ben before Paul had entered the picture.

  “I can make coffee,” she said. “I see you have a fire going strong.” Just like it used to be.

  “We could argue about my tactics in battling the GOS.”

  She laughed. “Or the prospect of peace in the near future.”

  “Or my need to confiscate some grain from you to feed my men.”

  “And I could threaten to blow a hole through you if you cause my villagers to go hungry.”

  She finished measuring the coffee into an old percolator that looked like it had never been washed, and he set it outside over the fire. The moments ticked by. She felt his gaze boring through her, could almost read his thoughts.

  “It never would have worked, Ben.”

  “Did you really give it a chance?”

  “If I could have forced myself to love you, I would have.” She turned to face him. They should have talked a long time ago.

  “I used to think the problem was race.” He chuckled, but the sound crackled in the air instead of making her laugh. “But you proved me wrong.”

  “I don’t know what to say. We’re both married, Ben, and I can tell Daruka loves you very much.”

  “She’s a good woman. A good mother to a fine son.”

  “Give her a chance to make you happy.”

  “I’m trying.”

  She took a step toward him, then wrapped her arms around her shoulders. In the past she would have hugged him for friendship’s sake, but those days were gone.

  “I respect you and Paul too much to interfere in your lives. But it doesn’t mean the desire is gone.”

  “I know.” Larson gazed into his dark eyes, and she shivered with the intense longing she saw there.

  “I should have said all this before you two married, but I kept hoping you’d change your mind. Guess you must really love him.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll always love you, Larson. Nothing will ever change my feelings. Just promise me if you ever need anything, you’ll let me help.”

  * * *

  Paul and Bishop Malou were unable to leave for Warkou until the following morning. A storm had blown in with brilliant lightning. It flashed its jagged swords across the sky, and rain fell in blinding sheets. Turmoil twisted inside Paul—and a pounding headache with the roar of the storm kept him tossing most of the night. The what-ifs of his and Larson’s life stacked up in his mind like a deck of cards. He wanted to pray, but the words refused to form. He read through many of the Psalms and attempted to use Scripture as prayer, but he couldn’t concentrate. Larson needed protection, and he wasn’t there to provide it. She was Paul’s responsibility, not Ben’s.

  What would he do if he came upon Larson and Thomas in a death heap? He’d be tempted to pull the trigger on himself without a second thought. At times he didn’t think he could ever breathe again without her.

  God, where are You in all of this? Used to be I knew exactly what should be done. I understood my work for You and knew the difference between right and wrong. Now all I see is gray. I’m miserable, but You already know that. When do the doubts end and I find di
rection?

  The truck bounced along, and with no shocks, Bishop Malou and Paul often hit the truck roof. The jostling didn’t help Paul’s mood, and he was already operating on a sleep deficit.

  “I can drive.” Paul closed his Bible. Nothing made sense anyway.

  “Maybe later. Right now I’m all right. Paul, how can I pray for you?”

  He expelled a heavy sigh. “If I knew the answer, I’d pray for myself.”

  “Talk to me. I know Muti’s escape is eating at you, but I sensed a problem before.”

  “You remind me of your father. I miss Abraham. He had a way of peering into my wretched soul and loving me anyway.”

  The bishop smiled. “My father was the closest thing to Jesus I’ve ever seen. He had his faults, but he lived and breathed Scripture, always inching his way closer to the Lord.”

  Paul nodded. “Honestly, I feel like I need a spiritual doctor. I hate what this life is doing to Larson. Twice in the past month, she’s nearly been killed by whoever is trying to kill me. She’s agreed to leave the country and travel back and forth with her practice, but is this what God wants? To make matters worse, one of my brothers claims to be interested in Christianity. He wants to meet with me, but is his request a trap or a God-given opportunity? I feel like I should be doing more for the people in Darfur.” He took a big breath. “I don’t know how to be a father. God knows, mine had his own agenda.” He rubbed his face. “I sound like a spoiled kid who can’t have his own way.”

  “No, you sound like a man whose life is out of control. God is your spiritual doctor. He—”

  “Don’t waste your breath. God isn’t listening or answering. Everything is quiet, like when the skies are darkening and everything is strangely calm before the lightning flashes and the thunder roars.”

  “What do you want Him to say?” Bishop Malou’s soft tone reminded Paul so much of Abraham—so much he shivered in the 120-degree temperature.

  Paul shrugged. “To point me in the right direction. To show me what’s right and what’s wrong. Larson says I’m a color person—everything is either black or white—and gray disorients me. And I guess that’s true. Am I supposed to live in Sudan and risk the lives of my family? Most of all, I want God to touch me with His Spirit. I’ve never felt so far away from Him.”