The Valley of Dry Bones

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “I’ll leave at total darkness,” Zeke said. “Alone.”

  22

  FLIGHT

  LESS THAN AN HOUR into his walk toward the compound, Zeke became less vigilant about scanning the horizon. His gait had been steady and strong despite pain and fatigue, but that was no surprise. No destination was more magnetic than home, and home was wherever his girls were. Alexis and Sasha’s faces drew his every step, and though he knew he had a lot of explaining and apologizing to do—and not to them alone—just being back with his people would set everything right again.

  He concentrated on his own body weight, the footfall of his boots on the hard-packed desert floor, the sweat, the stillness of the night, and the miles ahead. Whatever God had allowed him to endure, and for whatever reason, he accepted it as part of the process, the price, the preparation.

  But for what, Lord? I offer myself afresh.

  “Remain vigilant.”

  I will.

  “Hear Me.”

  I’m listening.

  “A message.”

  Silence. Zeke kept moving, unsure what to do. Should he stop? Had he lost the ability to hear God? Had he only imagined the Lord was still speaking to him? Was he to kneel, show reverence, respect? He estimated that in the ninety-degree heat and the way he was pushing himself to maintain a pace of about three-and-a-half miles an hour, he would reach the compound around eleven o’clock

  He had enough water, but he dared not stop. Surely a search party was out. They couldn’t have, wouldn’t have given up on him yet. And while base camp would still be largely dark to keep threats away, they would have walkie-talkies on, listening for any sign of him—and they would raise the scopes intermittently at least to watch for him or to ensure they weren’t taken by surprise.

  Yet Zeke was willing to stop, if that was what God wanted.

  “Share My message.”

  My only mission is to serve You, Lord.

  “Tell him.”

  I will.

  The question was, to whom should he be telling? Zeke no longer questioned that God would give him both the words and the courage to say them, regardless of the cost.

  “Tell the one who believes he is unworthy.”

  That could be anyone. Zeke himself had felt that way not so long ago.

  “Tell the one who believes he is beyond My reach.”

  I will.

  The gospel? The message of salvation?

  “I will raise a Branch of righteousness, a King who shall reign and prosper and execute judgment and righteousness on the earth. He will be called The Lord Our Righteousness.”

  Zeke felt, as always when God spoke to him, as if he were being filled. Temporal things seemed to disappear, and he became cognizant only of the Spirit alive within, sharpening his mind and heart and soul. Questions were answered before he could pose them. It was as if God allowed him to process pure truth simultaneously rather than linearly, in the same way his brain had functioned between the time he flew off the bike and when he landed.

  He knew the Branch of Righteousness was Jesus, and he even understood that this was what God meant when He had inspired Paul to write to the Corinthian church that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, that old things have passed away and all things have become new.

  So the one who believes he is unworthy, the one who believes he is beyond the reach of God’s love does not have to be righteous or worthy!

  “Be vigilant.”

  Yes, Lord.

  “Now.”

  Zeke stopped, ending the rustle of his clothing with his stride and the soft crunch of his boots. No wind. No animal sounds. On the horizon a pinprick of light.

  Thank You, Lord.

  At least two miles away, Zeke couldn’t even tell yet whether the light was coming from one source or two. But it was moving. A cycle? Car? Truck? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t likely leave this unpaved but well-worn route. Zeke estimated it would be upon him within four minutes. Wearing all black was in his favor in the meantime, but he’d have to find a secluded spot fast. If it was a vehicle he recognized from the compound, he’d have time to reveal himself. Otherwise, he could remain hidden.

  About four hundred yards ahead to his left, a hulking silhouette reminded him of a rock formation surrounded by scrub he had seen only from inside a vehicle, but if memory served, it could work. In fact, if he hurried he could scatter enough obstacles in the vehicle’s path to force it to slow and pick its way through, making it briefly face the outcropping. That should reflect the headlights into the windshield and give him a brief look at whoever was inside. It was a long shot worth the risk.

  Zeke had to get there fast enough to accomplish the task and find a secluded spot with a view before the headlights were close enough to expose him. He broke into a trot, reminded afresh of everything that hurt. About ninety seconds later he reached the area, and the approaching light had defined itself as two and to be a sedan. The rock formation proved to be the one he remembered, and its pale red face would serve his purpose.

  He yanked at the edges of the brush, finding it hardier and sharper than he expected and his wrists still tender from his accident. No time to wimp out. With an expanse of scraggly brush about eight feet wide and two feet high in the path, Zeke knew that if the driver didn’t see it till the last instant and didn’t swerve, the car could blast through it with no problem. He had to be sure.

  A quick peek told him he had fewer than thirty seconds to move a boulder of about 150 pounds into position where the car would have to weave its way to the right, between it and the outcropping. And Zeke didn’t dare injure himself in the process if he had any hope of making it back to the compound in the next two hours.

  He straddled the rock, squatted, straightened his back, breathed evenly, and lifted it just enough to lessen the friction between it and the ground. He duckwalked as quickly as he could and thudded it into place, then dove off the road and settled into the rest of the brush at the side of the outcropping.

  Zeke was mostly hidden provided the headlights didn’t catch his face as he peeked through the thicket, but he had not accounted for the thorns that dug through to his skin. He wondered what damage he might do to himself if he had to make a break for it. The car was close enough to hear now, so he was stuck in more ways than one. At least the lights wouldn’t hit him head-on. Because the prickly branches pressed into his haunches, Zeke dared not rest his weight on the foliage so he squatted again, straining the same muscles and joints and ligaments he had just used to move the boulder to now support his own weight—causing him to shake.

  Lord, You caused a bush to burn. You can keep this one from shaking.

  He prayed all this work had been needless and that this car would carry his own search party from the compound. Just let them see the boulder in time not to wreck. Wouldn’t that be ironic? I crash my own rescue team. Couldn’t he have one thing go his way after twenty hours of reminders that he wasn’t in charge?

  As the low-slung sedan drew into view, it was clearly the same make and model as the one that had chased him fewer than twelve hours before. That didn’t mean it had to be the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It could have been the Drug Enforcement Administration for all he knew.

  The car suddenly slowed and nearly stopped when the driver apparently noticed the obstacles. Zeke held his breath at the soft crunch of tires over the rocky soil as the car turned right and snaked its way around the boulder and the brush. The headlights illuminated the foliage in which Zeke was suspended, desperately trying not to shake, then swept left to reflect off the tall rock formation.

  Which allowed Zeke to clearly see three passengers.

  Officer Billy Fritz was behind the wheel, talking.

  The man next to him, however, was not his partner from the night before. He was pale and blond, wearing a tie and jacket.

  Yuma’s wife, Kineks, sat in the backseat directly behind the blond, her profile plain as they passed, and she seemed thoroughly engaged, as if list
ening to Fritz.

  Things quickly became clear to Zeke. If Kineks had gone to Parker to inform relatives of her husband’s grandmother’s demise, they had refused to return with her for the burial. More likely she had not gone for that purpose at all. Rather she had used that as a cover for her real mission: to rid her people of Zeke and Pastor Bob and Doc and their ilk—anyone who threatened the tribe and its way of life.

  Though to Zeke’s knowledge Doc had never met Gaho, he had treated nearly everyone else in the settlement except Kineks. And it wouldn’t have taken much for her to unknowingly implicate him in Gaho’s death because of his coincidental ordering of an acute treatment regimen for Jennie Gill.

  If, as Zeke suspected, the other man in the car was DEA, the two agencies were working together, meaning it wouldn’t be long before the holdouts would be exposed. Even if Kaga and Yuma vouched for Doc and he was cleared of malpractice in Gaho’s case, Kineks would pursue the religious harassment charge against Zeke and Pastor Bob until the entire group was banished from California.

  When the taillights disappeared, Zeke gingerly extricated himself from the scrub. He couldn’t let Kineks succeed. That Gaho had been found with Scripture in her hand when she died meant the holdouts could be on the verge of a real spiritual breakthrough with the Nuwuwu in spite of Kineks. Kaga had invited Zeke and his friends back for the burial, and the old man and even his son, Yuma, would want that Scripture read at the Crying Service ritual.

  What an impact that could have on the whole tribe!

  But what would happen when Kineks showed up with officers from two federal agencies and discovered Zeke had just been there? Would she talk the agents into trying to find him before he got back to the compound? Or was she crafty enough to let the invitation stand and have them ambush Zeke and whatever friends he brought with him to the burial service the next night, Wednesday?

  She didn’t know he knew the agents were there, and the easy answer was to get back to the compound and not show up at the service. But that would be thumbing his nose at the invitation of the tribal leader to the burial of his own mother—and reading publicly the salvation verse that clearly meant so much to her. It would also mean sacrificing, out of fear, everything they had been working toward with the Nuwuwu. Could Zeke not trust God to protect them?

  Of course he could, even if it required a bedfellow as strange as Willard the WatDoc.

  “He who believes he is unworthy.”

  That’s who You were talking about!

  Kineks and her federal agents would get to the Nuwuwu settlement long before Zeke would reach his compound. Even if Kaga and Yuma were wise enough not to tell her he had just been there, could they keep Zaltana from saying anything?

  Kineks was likely angry enough to invent a story about why no relatives had returned with her, and she would make up another about why the agents had come. It would probably have something to do with legally documenting Gaho’s death and properly disposing of the body, though she had never trusted the United States before. Why now?

  Whatever she devised, Zeke only hoped it wouldn’t cause her husband and her father-in-law to let down their guard and reveal that they had invited him and others from the compound to return for the Crying Service. But he was kidding himself. Except for how long it took them to reveal the existence of the ancient Gaho, he had never known of a kept secret in that tiny community. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, and if the adults didn’t say anything, the irrepressible Zaltana would.

  Zeke’s best-case scenario was that if the agents did learn of his plan to return with friends, they would resist the urge to come looking for him and wait to ambush him when he arrived.

  Against his better judgment, Zeke guzzled half a bottle of water and broke into a trot again. He was beyond exhaustion now, but he had to be proactive. He wasn’t about to wait around to see whether he had to elude agents or hope to be rescued by his own people. It was time to get home.

  23

  THE SCHEME

  ZEKE NEARLY WEPT when he realized he was standing atop the decline that led to the garage door of the compound. In his absence Doc would be in charge, and he had apparently made the wise decision to go dark. He had also undoubtedly sent out a search party, and whoever was left inside raised the periscopes only intermittently.

  Still reluctant to announce himself orally over the walkie-talkie, Zeke switched it on and clicked it twice.

  Almost immediately two clicks came in response and the two east-facing periscopes rose a couple of inches. Zeke apologetically waved wearily, hoping Alexis or Sasha was monitoring one of the scopes but knowing they would be immediately informed regardless.

  The garage door began to rise and he started down the decline, but just as quickly his walkie-talkie squawked to life, the scopes sank back down, and the door stopped and reversed itself.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me, Zeke!” Willard’s voice came over the air. “What the heck’r you doin’ all the way back over’n this area! Wasn’t a half hour ago I run into some o’ yer people and sent ’em hightailin’ where y’all tol’ me ya said ya’s gon’ be! If ya ain’t there, where ya at?”

  “Oh, no, WatDoc! Where are you?”

  “Jes’ sittin’ here havin’ a smoke, man. I sent my guys home.”

  “You’re comin’ in loud and clear, so you’ve got to be close. Your engine running?”

  “I’ll turn it on an’ hit the lights.”

  Zeke ran away from the compound, knowing they could also hear him inside and would know to stay dark. At least they knew he was safe and was protecting the place, but they had to wonder why he and WatDoc sounded so chummy.

  “You need to pick me up,” he said, “and we need to catch my people before they get there. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know ’em, man. Three foreigners in a Rover. They was all with ya the other day. Oriental guy and the Mexican couple. Purty suspicious o’ me, I kin tell ya that. Can’t blame ’em, but I tol’ ’em what you said to tell ’em.”

  “I hear your engine, I don’t see you. Flash your lights or something.”

  “I’ll cut a cookie.”

  “There you are. I’m at six o’clock.”

  “I’m comin’.”

  Zeke jumped aboard and Willard raced off toward the Nuwuwu.

  “If you saw them half an hour ago, they’ve got to be there by now.”

  “Maybe not. I seen ’em quite a ways east.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So, what’s with the change o’ plans?”

  Zeke shrugged. “Didn’t think it all the way through.”

  “So you live back there somewheres, eh?”

  Zeke hesitated but knew he was going to have to start trusting Willard if he ever expected the same in return. “Yeah.”

  “Yer secret’s safe with me, man. I won’t do ya no harm.”

  “I hope not. A lot of people depend on me.”

  “Lemme tell ya somethin’, Zeke. You can have worse guys on yer side. You got no idea how much help I kin be.”

  “Good to know.” Over the next several minutes, as Willard guided the big tanker over the rough terrain, Zeke brought him up to speed.

  “Oh, man!” Willard said. “You know who that blond guy is?”

  “How would I?”

  “He’s the guy who’s in my pocket. Least I got that on him. I heard o’ Fritz but never met ’im. None of them Injuns like me, but the one yer talkin’ ’bout, she owes me ’cause I run her over to Parker yesterday. Anyways, we got to get yer people outta there and keep them feds from even seein’ you, right?”

  “That possible?”

  “Ever’thing’s possible, Zeke. First, I don’t want nobody knowin’ we’re even there. I’ll kill the lights ’fore I get near the place, then I’ll roll up short an’ see where they’re parked. Then we’ll stash you someplace where yer people kin pick you up on their way back.”

  “How’re you going to get them free of the feds? They might have already arre
sted them.”

  “What they gonna charge ’em with, that religious stuff? Where they gonna put ’em out here in the middle o’ nowhere? More likely they want you and that doctor, so they’ll be tryin’ to force yer people to give up you and yer compound.”

  “They won’t get anywhere with that.”

  “’Specially not when I get through with ’em. Give me somethin’ I can say or show yer people so they know I’m talkin’ fer you. I’ll tell ’em where to find you and I’ll distract the feds till they get outta there.”

  “How’re you gonna do that, Willard?”

  “You jes’ watch.”

  “I’m going to be where I can watch?”

  “Maybe. First I’m gonna have me some fun with their car. Then I’m gonna tell ’em I was jes’ with you and can lead ’em right to ya. By time they figger out an’ fix what’s wrong with the car and then follow me the whole wrong direction, you’ll be home with yer family.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “Risky’s my middle name, man. Well, really DeWayne is, but you know what I mean. Okay, here we go.”

  Willard turned off his lights as they rolled to within sight of the Nuwuwu settlement, then shifted into neutral, turned off the engine, and let the rig roll about a hundred yards to about a quarter mile from the site. “There they are.”

  The government-issue sedan sat next to the Land Rover.

  “Here’s where I wish we was wearin’ moccasins, am I right?” Willard said, slapping Zeke’s knee.

  Hilarious.

  “What can I write on?” Zeke said. Willard leaned over him and pulled an order pad and pen from the glove box. “I need a little light, something that won’t be seen from down there.”

  “Overhead’s gonna come on when we jump out, but that’ll only be fer a second. Lemme see.” He rummaged deeper in the glove compartment and found a flashlight. “Jes’ keep it pointed down.”

  “Okay, where am I gonna be?”

  “Well, first yer gonna be with me an’ we’re gonna see what we can see an’ hear. If they’re meetin’ in the tribal hut, which looks like the only one with a fire goin’, see?”