by Bill Myers
“All right,” a distant voice shouted, “get him to his feet.”
At first Conrad thought they meant him. He opened a swollen eye and saw Eli on the ground beside him. They were hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 311
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less than a yard apart. A rope had been tied around Eli’s neck.
“What’s happening?” Conrad gasped.
Eli’s face was hamburger, too swollen to show an expression. Conrad wasn’t even sure he saw the mouth move, but he heard the words: “Justice . . . mercy . . .” That was all Eli spoke before the rope jerked and yanked him up and out of sight.
Legs strobed past as Conrad fought to get to his knees. He almost made it until another foot landed hard in his left side, sending him sprawling back into the red clay.
Justice . . . mercy? What was he talking about? There was no justice here. And certainly no mercy.
“Connie!” He heard Suzanne’s voice, saw her kneeling at his side. Eli’s mother was behind her. “Connie,” Suzanne cried, “are you okay?”
“Yes,” he lied as she helped him to his knees. There was another flash of lightning. It had started to rain.
He struggled to stand, but Suzanne protested, “No, stay down.”
At first he refused—until he tried to stand, and realized he had no choice in the matter. He couldn’t get up. Not without her help. Still on his hands and knees, he looked up and spotted the crowd moving toward the edge of the forest, pulling the stumbling Eli by the rope. Ahead of them, a rusting green Bronco was being directed under the large bough of an oak tree.
“NO!” Conrad shouted, trying to rise.
“Connie, don’t!”
But he didn’t listen. Using all of his strength, he finally made it to his feet. But the move was too abrupt, and once again consciousness began to slip away. He leaned against Suzanne so he would not fall.
Another flash of lightning—and it happened again. It wasn’t Eli they were dragging by the rope. It was himself!
Those were his ripped Dockers, his bloody shirt, and that was his swollen, beaten face. Conrad stared in astonishment. As hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 312
312 he did, memories poured in. Memories of his failures. Memories of the first time he’d cheated on Suzanne—that production assistant in Baltimore. Then the young intern, right there in his office, right there in their home. And Julia’s voice when she’d caught them. “Daddy, Daddy, what are you doing?”
“Connie . . .” He turned. Suzanne was speaking, but she sounded far, far away.
He looked back at the crowd. The vision continued as he watched himself being dragged by the rope. In some strange way it made sense—watching himself being beaten, watching himself being mocked. After all, that’s what he deserved.
Not Eli, but Conrad. Look at all his failures, look at all he’d done to the only woman he’d ever loved.
“Connie . . .”
Again he turned to Suzanne. So much pain he’d caused, so much misery. And not just to her. What about Julia? Look how he’d ruined her life. How he’d turned her into someone incapable of having a relationship, into someone who according to Suzanne didn’t even consider herself worthy to be a mother.
He looked back at the angry mob dragging him toward the Bronco. Of course. Of course, of course, of course. That’s what he deserved. That and more. That was the justice Eli was talking about. But how did that—
“Connie, are you all right?”
He glanced back to Suzanne and nodded. But when he looked back at the scene, it had changed again. He was no longer there. He was no longer the one being dragged by the rope. It was Eli. Now they were cinching Eli’s hands behind his back. Yanking the cord so hard that it was Eli who flinched in pain.
Another flash of lightning. The storm had arrived. The rain came hard as the wind whipped and snapped their clothes.
The mob forced Eli to climb onto the hood of the Bronco.
But it was wet, and with hands tied he slipped to his knees, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 313
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nearly falling off. The crowd laughed and shouted. There was another flash of lightning, closer yet, followed by a tremendous crash. Some looked up in concern. Most didn’t notice.
“Here!” A no-neck bulldog of a man grabbed the loose end of the rope. “Let me help!” With a grunt, he flung it over the oak limb.
More lightning, followed by a ringing clap that echoed through the trees. Bulldog Man pulled the slack until there was none, until he was literally hoisting the coughing and choking Eli to his feet by the rope around his neck.
“Hey, miracle boy!” someone yelled. “Let’s see you get out of this!”
Conrad turned to Suzanne and shouted over the wind.
“Get me over there! I’ve got to help him!”
“There’s nothing we can do!” she shouted back.
“Suzanne—”
“There’s nothing we can do!”
He broke free from her and staggered forward, taking a step or two before his legs gave out and he sprawled into the clay.
“Connie!”
He struggled to his knees, not taking his eyes from the scene. The rain blew harder, stinging his eyes, making it difficult to see. But it looked as if Eli was stuck. Part of his pants leg was hung up on a custom-made chrome ornament welded to the hood. More lightning. The ornament was a sharp, jagged cobra, poised to look like it was striking.
Bulldog pulled harder, but in vain. Eli’s pants leg was firmly stuck. It became a contest over which would give out first, Eli’s pants or his neck.
“Here!” another shouted. “Let me help!” He leaped onto the front bumper of the Bronco, unsnapped Eli’s jeans, and pulled them down over his knees to his feet. The group laughed and mocked as the man yanked the jeans off one foot, then the other. To complete the effect, another reached up to Eli’s underwear and pulled it down to his ankles, then off his feet as well.
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“Try it now!” the first shouted to Bulldog.
He nodded and pulled on the rope. Suddenly Eli was stretched to the limit, standing on his toes, coughing, gagging, gasping for breath. Bulldog crossed to a lower branch and quickly tied off his end. Another man scrambled up onto the hood. He produced a large knife and in two neat slices, completely removed Eli’s T-shirt and peeled it off his back.
Now the spectacle was complete, and the crowd voiced their approval.
Another flash of lightning. Another deafening boom. And, once again, Conrad was staring up at himself. He was the one naked. He was the one humiliated and being choked.
Justice and mercy, justice and mercy. The words resonated in his head. Justice and mercy . . . More memories rushed in. More failures. From childhood, from adolescence, from his adult life. But always ending with his cheating on Suzanne. You’re only as good as your word. How many times had he said that, quoted that, made it his motto? And how many times had he failed? If you’re only as good as your word, and if your word was useless, doesn’t that make you—
“Connie . . .”
He’d failed. Failed miserably. Inexcusably.
“Daddy . . .”
He spun around. What was Julia doing there? Why was she holding him? Where was Suzanne? He looked frantically about, then turned back to her. Tears burned his eyes. He tried to speak. It took forever for the words to come. “I’m sorry,”
he finally choked, “I’m so sorry.”
“What?” It was Suzanne again.
He turned back to the Bronco. Now it was Eli on the hood.
Not Conrad, not as it should be. But Eli.
Justice and mercy, justice and mercy . . . The words continued to echo in his head, forming on his lips. Justice and mercy . . .
“What?” Suzanne asked. “Connie, what are you saying?”
He shook his head.
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The Bronco’s driver hopped behind the
wheel and revved the engine. The crowd hooted and hollered.
Justice and mercy, justice and mercy . . . weren’t those the words Eli had used in Texas when they were visiting the con-victed murderer, Ellen Perkins?
There was another flash of lightning, so close Conrad felt the hair on his arms rise.
The driver popped the clutch, giving the Bronco a jerk to scare Eli. It did the trick. Laughter and jeering followed as he fought to keep his balance.
Justice and mercy . . . that was the paradox that had troubled McFarland. The two concepts that he insisted were con-tradictory, that could not coexist . . . God’s holy justice, and His loving mercy. Yet those were the two opposites that Eli had promised he would bring together.
Justice and mercy . . .
Suddenly the realization roared into place, so powerful that it left Conrad staggering under another wave of dizziness.
Was it possible? Could it be? Here? Here, at this very moment?
Could it be that the two were finally being united?
Justice for every one of Conrad’s failures? Punishment for all he’d ever done wrong? But a punishment poured out onto someone else? Yes, Conrad should be up there. Yes, Conrad was the one who should be punished. But another person was taking that punishment for him. Justice was still being accomplished, holiness was still being preserved, but through the suffering of someone else instead of Conrad. Through the suffering of Eli.
And that— that was the mercy.
Justice and mercy. Two opposite truths coming together in one man, in one act of unfathomable love.
The Bronco revved again.
“Father!” Eli shouted into the raging wind. “Forgive them!
They don’t understand what they’re doing!”
More taunts and jeers. The Bronco revved. The crowd shouted in anticipation. This would be it. The time had come.
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Suddenly Eli searched the group, looking for someone, until his gaze landed upon Conrad. Through the rain, through the wind, their eyes connected. And if Conrad had any doubts about his theory, they were silenced by the love he saw in those eyes. Despite the unimaginable terror, the humiliation, there was no missing the love. And the mercy.
The engine revved louder. The crowd grew impatient.
Then, with the last of his strength, shouting one final time into the wind, Eli cried, “Everything . . . is . . . accomplished!”
The driver popped the clutch, sending his vehicle into reverse, causing Eli to drop from the hood. A lightning bolt seared through the air, splitting a hickory not ten feet away.
But the frightened cries of the men could not be heard over the deafening boom of the thunder. They stared in horror and astonishment. But Eli’s neck had not broken. Instead he dangled, kicking and squirming, his eyes bulging wildly, while slowly, in excruciating agony, he began to suffocate.
Suzanne turned her head. So did Eli’s mother. But Conrad did not. He could not. This was his. What Eli was undergoing was the punishment for Conrad’s own failures. Failures for which he would never have to suffer. Justice was being served. Pure, undefiled, holy justice . . . and with it, infinite, loving mercy.
Together. At the same time. In one man.
Nearly two minutes passed before Eli quit twitching. Soon his body hung lifeless, swaying back and forth in the wind, his face purple-black, his eyes protruding from their sockets.
The sight had become so hideous that even the most jaded spectator had grown silent. And yet, just as Eli had cried, everything was finished. Just as he had promised, it had all come to pass.
Justice and mercy. The union was complete.
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C H A P T E R
S E V E N T E E N
“JULES . . .”
“I see.” Julia rose to her feet.
“On his face.”
“I see it. I see.” At first she thought it was a trick of light, some game the last rays of sun were playing. But it wasn’t. A tiny drop of moisture was slowly inching its way down his crinkled face, escaping from the corner of her father’s eye.
“Connie . . .” Her mother rose. “Connie, can you hear me?”
“Dad. It’s me, Julia.”
“Connie, can you hear us?” Her mother’s voice grew more hopeful. “Connie. Connie!”
Julia strained, listening, watching. Amidst the ragged breathing she searched for some indication, for any sign that he was trying to communicate.
“Dad. Dad!” It was all she could do not to touch him, to try and shake him awake. “Dad, can you hear me?” She leaned closer to his face, shouting. “Dad, are you there!” Desperation took hold; she could barely keep it in check. “Dad! Dad!”
“Please . . .” She spun around to see the ICU nurse standing at the door. “Lower your voices. The other patients—”
“He’s crying!” Julia exclaimed. “He’s—” Catching herself, she dropped her voice. “Look at his face, see for yourself. He’s crying.”
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The nurse appeared skeptical, then walked toward the bed.
“See!” Julia pointed. “Right there. Look at his eye. Look at his eye!”
The nurse leaned closer and took a careful look.
Julia held her breath, waiting. She glanced over at her mother, who was biting her knuckle in equal anticipation.
At last the woman pulled back. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Julia said. “It’s right there, you can see for yourself!”
“I’m sorry.”
“But—he’s feeling something. He must be. See for yourself.”
The nurse shook her head. “It’s merely a reflex action. I am sorry.”
“A reflex action? A reflex action to what?”
“Julia,” her mother called softly from across the bed.
Julia turned to her. “You see it! We all see it!”
The nurse reached for a tissue from the unused packet on the steel tray beside the bed. “It’s just a watering eye,” she said.
“But . . .” Julia knew she was on the verge of losing it; she could hear it in her quivering voice. She took a breath, fighting for control, then tried again. “Couldn’t it be? Couldn’t it be some sort of emotion?”
The nurse gently shook her head as she reached over and carefully dabbed up the moisture. “I’m afraid not. Not in his condition. It’s just more of the body shutting down.”
Resentment grew as Julia watched the tear disappear. This woman was wiping away her last hope. But, exercising that iron will of hers, she remained silent. Grieving, aching, wanting the nurse to stop, she said nothing.
The nurse finished and turned back to Julia. “I am sorry,”
she repeated softly.
Julia glanced away, not wanting the moisture in her own eyes to be seen. Her father’s body gave another rattling, nerve-wracking gasp and another long exhale.
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“It shouldn’t be much longer,” the nurse quietly said. “Not much longer at all.”
Julia nodded.
v
“Connie!” Someone was banging on the motel door. “Connie, open up!”
Face buried in his pillow, Conrad exerted all of his effort to lift his head high enough to catch a glimpse of the radio alarm: 7:12 A.M.
More pounding. “Connie!” It was Suzanne.
As consciousness filtered in, so did memories of the past two days—Friday’s lynching and inconsolable grief, followed by Saturday’s absolute hopelessness.
“Connie, open up!”
He pulled aside the covers and cried out in pain. Two ribs had been bruised and one cracked during the beating he’d received Friday. But with determination, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed to the threadbare carpeting.
More pounding. “Connie!”
Something had to be wrong. M
aybe the arrests they’d feared and talked about yesterday were finally happening.
After all, if Eli was considered guilty of the bombing, didn’t that make them all accessories? If Eli was arrested, wasn’t it logical for their arrests to be next?
“Connie!’
He rose and limped to the door, running his hand through hair that stuck out in all directions. He fumbled with the chain lock, slid it aside, and opened the door. The morning sun glared behind Suzanne so brilliantly that he winced.
“He’s gone!” she cried.
“Who’s gone?”
“Eli!”
“What are you talking—”
“I just heard it on the news. There was some sort of breakin at the morgue. They took him, Connie.” She sniffed loudly, fighting back the tears. “They stole his body!”
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The information was like cold water in his face. “Are you sure?”
She nodded and swallowed. “It’s not enough that they kill him, now they steal his body!”
Conrad’s mind spun, trying to understand, trying to devise a strategy. “All right,” he finally said. “Let me get some clothes on and we’ll head down there.” He reentered the room, painfully slipped into some pants and a shirt, then stumbled back out into the sunlight. Three others had also emerged from their rooms—Jake, Maggie, and Trevor, who was in his car motioning for them to hurry and climb in.
With some difficulty Conrad crawled into the backseat; Suzanne and Maggie climbed in on either side of him. The door barely shut before Trevor ground the car into gear and it lurched forward.
Despite the sense of urgency, few words were spoken. The dull numbness from the past two days remained. Up front, Jake produced a map from the glove compartment. He gave short, terse directions. The rest of the car remained silent.
This latest news was just one more weight added to their overwhelming burden of grief. Grief in losing a great friend.
Grief in seeing evil triumph over good. And, on a more selfish note, grief in realizing how much of their life had been wasted for nothing. Nothing except humiliation, ridicule, and now a complete lack of purpose. What do you do when your God has been killed?
