The evil inside the mortal immediately recoiled, then cried out, cursing in a foul tone and then fled. The man felt the dark world falling all around him, the crushing weight of having been deserted and the emptiness of despair. He was alone now. His master had departed. He was on his own.
He stumbled backward like a coward, reaching for the bedroom door. The angel lifted his arm and pointed at him, and he squealed in wrenching pain, scrambling like a rat through the door and out into the night.
The next day, a fisherman found his body floating in the swollen river, twenty miles downstream. Having spent his life in the service of his master, the mortal had closed his final deal by jumping into the cold darkness of his master’s world.
SEVENTEEN
General Neil Brighton stood outside the famous Lelas Bar and Café, a small brick and mortar joint at the back of an alley off of Schandelberg Strasse. After finding out his flight would be delayed for a few hours due to mechanical problems, he’d taken the opportunity to call his son, Sam, and arrange for a quick lunch meeting. Sam had suggested Lelas, and the general had been very pleased to have a chance to visit his old hunting grounds. All through the Cold War, when there were more ex-pat Americans in Germany than anywhere else in the world, when the U.S. Army was massed and ready to drive back the Soviet hordes by defending the Foulda Gap, Lelas had been a popular U.S. joint. During the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, U.S. forces in Germany had been built up once again. On any given night Lelas was crammed to the walls, smoky and warm from the open pit grills, and bustling with U.S. soldiers and young German women looking for American husbands. Seven nights a week, Orleans blues could be heard wailing up from the basement bar from an old American jazz band that had somehow ended up in Germany and now played for tips and beer. The food came heaped on huge plates and for seven American dollars, one could eat until he was stuffed.
But though General Brighton loved Lelas for the food, there was another, much more important reason he was so fond of the place. This was the place where he had first met his wife. Sara was touring with some friends from college. He was a young pilot assigned to Ramstein. The fates had brought them together here and they had never looked back.
General Brighton stared at the old brick building, hearing the noisy crowd and the music pounding through the small windows and ancient wooden door.
It all seemed so long ago. A different life. A different world. So much had changed since that rainy day long before.
He took a step into the café and quickly summed up the crowd. It was a rough looking group, and he was surprised not to be able to pick out any other Americans there. He listened to the voices, but heard no English being spoken as he made his way through the crowd and sat down at a round table near the back of the bar. He felt suddenly uncomfortable in his uniform, his dark pants and blue shirt with pilot wings on his chest. The café was smoky and warm, just like it always used to be, but the music wasn’t familiar. Instead of the blues, European techno blasted from speakers over his head. He ordered three house specials; two to eat in and one to take back to the crew chief, then sat back and waited for Sam.
He thought back on the unlikely events that had brought the boy into their lives almost eight years before.
* * *
Brighton and his family were living in southern Virginia where he was the commander at the First Fighter Wing, the oldest and most prestigious fighter wing in the U.S. Air Force.
The phone call came late one Sunday afternoon. “Neil,” his friend’s voice boomed through the phone. A huge black man from Mississippi, Gene was direct as a sledgehammer, with an equally powerful voice. Brighton had met him at a community luncheon (the kind of thing he hated, but was required to attend) and the two had hit it off. Brighton wished all of his pilots were such fighters. Gene wished that all the men he worked with cared about their families like Brighton did.
“Hey Gene, what’s going on?” Brighton replied.
“You military guys ever going to figure out all this world strife and warring crap?” Gene boomed back. A Child Protective Services employee (and part-time preacher) who had spent his life working with at-risk kids from some of the worst areas in Hampton, Virginia, a job that had gotten infinitely more difficult through the years, Gene was not impressed with Brighton’s military rank. Make him president for a day, and he’d shut the military down. Divert the funds to the hungry and homeless, those who could really use the help.
“Yeah, we’re figuring it out, I think. The answer is bigger bombs. More money. Faster jets. The usual thing. Speaking of money, you ever going to pay up your poker debts?” Brighton answered.
“Soon as the state gives me that pay raise they’ve been promising me for years.”
Brighton didn’t touch it. It was a sore spot to his friend. He waited but Gene was quiet until he finally asked, “What can I do for you?”
“Got a little problem, Neil. Need your help.”
“What’s up?” Brighton asked, already preparing himself.
“Got a boy I was hoping we could send over to spend a few days with your family.”
“You’ve got a what?” Brighton asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.
“I just placed a foster child with another family, but it isn’t working out. He’s a good kid, but he’s had a real lousy start. Abusive home. Alcoholic father. Mother hardly ever around. He’s been with this other family for a couple days and, I don’t know . . . it just seems they haven’t hit it off like we all hoped that they would.”
Brighton’s chest tightened. “What has he done? Tried to burn their house down?”
Gene chuckled, his laugh as powerful as his voice. “Nope, nothing like that. Like I said, he’s not a bad kid, never been in trouble in his life. He’s OK with this family, but it just doesn’t feel right if you know what I mean? As I’ve been working with them, I’ve had a clear impression. Now you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve come to the conclusion there’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home. And just between you and me—and I’m not saying this as a representative of the state, so don’t you ever think that or repeat this to anyone, this is just between us friends—but I think that’s what the good Lord intended all along. We just had to take a detour to get there. Now what do you say?”
Brighton shook his head. “Look Gene, this isn’t a stray puppy you’re asking me to take in. We’ve never even considered . . . .” He was stammering now. “We’re not foster parents. We’re not prepared!”
“Life is full of surprises. And are we ever really prepared?”
“But Gene,” Brighton floundered.
“I could fast track all of the paper work. Get you and Sara qualified.”
Brighton shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Inside, his gut grew tight and his heart skipped a beat. But something Gene had said kept on rolling through his head.
“There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.”
The sound of Gene’s breathing filled the silence on the phone. “Neil,” he said, his voice softening now. “Forget everything that I just told you. Forget any of what the Lord intended, OK, that’s not fair of me. Put all of that aside. I’ve got to find this kid a place to stay, even if it’s only for a couple days. Now will you please consider it? Just for a few days. That’s all that I’m asking for right now.”
Brighton heard Gene talking but his voice seemed a long way away. The words rolled again and he felt a shiver down his spine.
“There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.”
Another long moment of silence. “How old is he?” Brighton asked.
“Thirteen. A couple years older than your boys.”
“He’s a good kid?”
“He really is, Neil. The problem isn’t him; it was the cards he was dealt. He’s never been in trouble. He has a good heart. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”
Brighton cleared his throat and shifted his weight a final tim
e. “I’d have to talk to Sara.”
“Of course, of course. And it’s just for a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll keep working with social services to find him a permanent home.”
“OK,” Brighton answered. “Let me talk to Sara then I’ll call you back.”
“Great, Neil, thanks. If we could, we’d like to bring him over tonight.”
“Tonight,” Brighton answered. “That’s kind of quick, don’t you think.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, but he ain’t got nothing on the state. Now go talk to Sara, then give me a call.”
“Hey wait,” Brighton stopped him. “What’s his name?”
“Samuel Casey. He goes by Sam.”
* * *
The little boy stood in the doorway, clearly as hostile as he was terrified. He was thirteen, but small framed and he could have passed for ten. He was grim and firm-faced, with the demeanor of a boxer, someone who had fought his way through life. Sara knelt down beside him. “Hi Sam,” she said.
“Where do you want me to stay?” he answered curtly while grasping a small suitcase in his left hand.
Sara stole a quick glance at her husband. “We’ve got a room upstairs for you,” she answered.
“Should I leave my bag here or take it upstairs with me?”
Sara hesitated, understanding his subtle point. “Don’t you want to unpack?” she asked him.
“Won’t be here that long.”
“You could still unpack your things and make yourself comfortable.”
“It’s hard to be comfortable in someone else’s home.”
Sara straightened herself and reached for his hand. Sam didn’t take it and kept his eyes on the floor.
Brighton studied him from the foot of the stairs. He saw the bruised cheekbones and the cigarette burns on the back of his hands. He boiled inside. Who could do this to him? He knelt down beside Sam and took the suitcase from him. “Come on, Sam. I’ll show you around. We’ve got a swimming pool at the officer’s club across the park. Do you like to swim?”
The young boy’s eyes widened in fear and he pulled back instantly, pressing against the wall. “I can’t swim,” he said. “Please don’t make me get in the pool!”
Neil shook his head quickly. “We won’t! We won’t! If you don’t like swimming, that’s OK, too. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
The young boy continued to cower, his face tight with fear. Sara bent down beside him and took both of his hands. “Listen to me, Sam. We’re glad that you’re here. It’s a pleasure to have you with us. We have two sons upstairs. They’re eager to meet you. We want you to feel at home.”
He looked at her defiantly. “My dad beats me at home. Are you going to beat me, too?”
Sara saw through the manipulation and didn’t react. She already understood him better than anyone in the world. “No Sam,” she said softly, “we’re not going to beat you and you know that. That’s not the way this thing works.”
She took his hand and he pulled back again, but she held to him firmly as she led him up the stairs.
Later that night, Sara and Neil stood by the kitchen sink and talked in quiet voices. “He’s a cute kid,” Neil said as he sipped a cup of tea.
Sara merely nodded as she stared out the window, seeing her reflection in the darkness outside. “What did Gene say when he called you?” she asked. Her voice and eyes were far away, absorbed in her thoughts.
Neil grunted. “Not much. Said he needed our help for a day or two. Said the other family was having problems. It didn’t feel right to them, I think was how he put it.”
Sara listened intently. “Isn’t that strange.” She was quiet for a moment.
“Sam didn’t give them problems?” she then asked.
Brighton shook his head. Sara bit her lower lip. “What do you think it means?”
Brighton hunched his shoulders. Truth was, he didn’t think it meant anything, at least not yet.
But Sara saw it differently, that was clear from her face. “He’s supposed to be here,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Brighton sucked a quiet breath. He had heard those very words before. Yet he hadn’t told Sara what Gene had said.
“I feel it,” she continued. “There’s something going on. This is a pivotal event. It will change all our lives and I’m not prepared, but I’m as certain of this as I have been of anything in my life. Samuel was sent here. We have to try and help him. I know that in my heart.”
Neil stared at her a long moment. “Are you certain?” he whispered.
Sara nodded, her eyes clear, her face intent with conviction. “I know it,” she told him. “And you will know it too. Until then, you’ve got to trust me. We have to make this work.”
Brighton stared at his mug, slowly shaking his head.
* * *
It wasn’t easy. A kid, even a good kid like Sam, couldn’t have been raised the way that he was and not carry a boatload of baggage on his back. There were long hours in counseling, long hours at school, long hours in the bedroom listening to Sam cry in his sleep along with thousands of dollars in court costs and untold other bills. There was heartbreak, frustration and occasional hate-filled accusations from out of left field. The progress came slowly, but it came, with milestones of progress achieved along the way. No more crying at night. No more tantrums of anger. Better health, better grades, more friends at school. More affection, more laughter, more smiles.
Time proved there were two turning points in Sam’s life.
The first came when he had been with the Brightons for only eight months. He was still small, vulnerable and utterly confused as to who he really was or what he wanted out of life. He knew he didn’t want his mother to shoot drugs or his father to burn him with his cigarettes anymore, but little else was clear in his adolescent mind. He knew that he liked his foster family, but they were so . . . good sometimes he felt like he would never fit in.
It all came to a head one day after school. Homework, helping with the chores, showing respect to his foster parents, saving his money and not playing football on Sunday afternoons—it all was too much. Sam decided he had had enough. He up and left, screaming, “I hate you!” as he slammed his way out of the house. He took off without taking anything but the shirt on his back and whatever money he had in his pockets.
Neil and Sara searched frantically for two days, along with the police, but Sam seemed to have melted into the underground of throwaway kids that hung out on the dirty beaches and rundown boardwalks that lined Norfolk and Hampton.
On the third day, Sam showed up, unexpectedly knocking at their front door. Sara stood there, her face pale, her cheeks stained from tears. Ammon and Luke stood behind her, holding their breath, not knowing if she was going to let him in.
“I’m sorry,” Sam told her as he stared at his feet. “I want to stay here. Will you please let me come home?”
Sara reached out and he took a slow step toward her, then rushed into her arms. Luke and Ammon ran forward and slapped him on the back. “Hey, Sam,” Ammon said as his foster brother turned toward him. “Leave us again and I’ll hunt you down and drag you kicking and screaming back home. Brothers don’t leave each other. And we are brothers now.”
Sam smiled, his lip trembling, then wiped his hand across his red eyes.
Yes, this was his family. He really was home.
* * *
The second pivotal event occurred when Sam was sixteen years old.
He had been living with the Brightons for most of three years. Because his runaway mother had refused to consent to termination of her parental rights (she would lose food stamp money and state subsistence if she let him go), and though his old man didn’t care one way or the other, the juvenile courts had directed that Sam would spend one weekend a month with his parents. His dad, a former high school football star who still hung out at games on Friday nights, a sometimes charter fisherman who rented his cruiser for fifty bucks an hour (forty if the
client was willing to furnish the beer), lived in a ramshackle clapboard house near the fishing docks in a small town called Poquoson at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Sam’s mom, an attractive blonde who was just thirty-three, lived where she wanted from one month to the next, wherever the party was or a new friend could be found.
One court appointed weekend, Sam was at the old house. It was a hot fall afternoon with a strong wind blowing through the trees. He and his dad were in the backyard patching the fiberglass hull of the boat, the old man pounding beers. His mom hadn’t been around for four months. Last Sam had heard, she was out in Las Vegas dealing cards at some low-rent casino on the outskirts of town; at least that’s what she claimed she was doing but Sam had his doubts, for the pockmarks on her arms suggested a habit that was much more expensive than minimum wage and drunken tips could sustain.
His old man, Jody (as Sam called him now with very little affection), cursed as he applied the liquid fiberglass sealant, a burning cigarette in his mouth. He rubbed at his left arm, tracing a four-inch scar, the reminder of a vicious knife fight in some unknown bar.
“You had a birthday last week, didn’t you?” the old man said.
Sam looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t like Jody to remember such a thing.
“That makes you what . . . fifteen?” the old man asked.
“Sixteen.”
“Hmm . . . ,” Jody thought, then took a step toward him and grabbed the bare bicep on his arm. “Not much there,” he miffed at Sam’s supple arm.
Sam looked at his bicep and frowned. His dad stood before him and spread his feet wide. He was a tall man, still solid, with thick arms and thick legs. And he was quick with his hands, able to pick a fly out of the air or slap his mother so fast that she never saw it coming. Sam watched his father, a sinking feeling in his chest.
“Can you take care of yourself?” Jody demanded in a sour voice.
Sam looked away before he answered, then quickly recognized his mistake. He turned back to his father and stared him in the eye, trying to hide any fear. “I do OK,” he answered defiantly.
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