BoneMan's Daughters

by Ted Dekker

  “Yes.” Kahlid looked at the pictures. “And so are they. Killed by Satan himself, whom you don’t seem to care about, because you don’t believe in God.”

  Kahlid swiveled to him, and Ryan saw the change in his eyes immediately. Something in his mind had shifted.

  “Do you know how many women and children your war on our country has killed? Do you have any notion at all of how many thousands of innocent victims the Great Satan has left dead in my country?”

  A small voice whispered a warning in Ryan’s mind, but he couldn’t make it out.

  “They all die; they die, they are butchered by your bombs and your missiles and it’s all so clinical and distant—you don’t feel the pain because it’s so far away and because you don’t understand the wailing of the mothers and fathers and of God himself when you kill the children!”

  He spat the words with bitterness.

  “So now”—he paused, taking a deep breath through his nostrils and closing his eyes—“you are going to help me bring the pain of our loss to all the mothers and fathers of your country.”

  Ryan’s eyes snapped open.

  “Do you understand yet?”

  The man thrust his finger back at the photographs. “If Satan had killed a few children on the streets of any town in your country, horror would settle in the hearts of millions. Ted Bundy kills a few dozen women and the press screams foul, foul, foul. Your Beltway Killer shoots a handful of people on the streets of your capital and the country cries out with outrage!”

  Kahlid blinked. “But Satan comes here and kills thousands of women and children and not a single tear is shed. And I tell myself, I have to turn the thousands into one. If they can see just one die, they will understand our pain.”

  “This is madness,” Ryan said.

  The man’s nostrils flared. “Bring him in!”

  The door swung open and a shirtless young man, perhaps fifteen, walked in, wearing an expression that looked part confused, part curious.

  “Ahmed.” Kahlid smiled at the boy. “Come here, Ahmed.”

  The boy walked over to Kahlid tentatively, eyes wide at the sight before him.

  Kahlid put his hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t speak a word of English. Which is good, because if he knew that I was going to kill him the way my own son was killed—that I was going to crush his bones—he would cause quite a scene.”

  Nausea swept through Ryan’s gut.

  “I don’t have a building to drop on him, so I’m going to break his bones with a hammer. To be more accurate, you’re going to break his bones. You will kill him, just as you killed my wife and my child one year ago to this day. No one cried because no one saw. So you will do it again, and this time we will put it on film.”

  He wouldn’t kill, of course. How could they force him to kill? But the mere suggestion of it made his mind swim.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” was all he could manage.

  “You can save this child a fate that neither of us would wish upon him,” Kahlid said. “You’re wearing a wedding band; tell us where your wife and children live. I have some friends in your country who are waiting for my call. They will go to your home, kill your wife and your child on camera so that the whole world will know how painful even one lost child can be. Look into the camera and tell us to execute your child and I will spare this one.”

  Ryan’s mind refused to process his thoughts logically for a few beats. What was he being asked to do? Surely they… Surely this man didn’t…

  Then the game altered in his mind and he knew that he wasn’t the only one who would die here in this room. They would use empathetic pain to break him. Survivor guilt and self-loathing, meant to crush his will.

  The ease with which he made his decision surprised even him. It was as if a steel wall had gone up in his mind, shutting off all but his stoic resolve. If it came down to it and this man was not bluffing, then he would have to accept the death of this boy, however monstrous it seemed. The alternative was simply an impossibility.

  “You’ll only make them hate you more,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. Americans have a great capacity for forgiveness once they understand a man’s pain. Their problem is that they don’t understand our pain.”

  He wasn’t bluffing, was he? The man actually intended to go through with this.

  “I will leave Ahmed with you for six hours. Then I will return and kill him, unless you are willing to sacrifice your child’s life for his. And then”—a tear formed on the edge of Kahlid’s eyes and slipped down his cheek—“then we will bring in the second one. A girl named Miriam. You’ve killed thousands, but I beg of you, don’t make me kill even one more.”

  6

  THE ATMOSPHERE AT Truluck’s steak and seafood restaurant in downtown Austin reminded Bethany of success, with all the clinking silverware and wineglasses, the murmur of important people reviewing what they’d accomplished this day and planning the next. The fact that the district attorney, Burt Welsh, had joined her and her mother, two days after her selection to be on the cover of Youth Nation, only solidified the impression.

  Problem was, she was quite sure she didn’t belong.

  Everywhere she looked, waiters in white aprons served customers heaping plates of broiled lobster tails and crab legs while a piano player filled the dimly lit room with music.

  “A toast?” The DA held up his wineglass with an infectious grin.

  Her mother lifted her glass and Bethany followed suit, raising her own, never mind that it was Dr. Pepper.

  “To the next cover girl of Youth Nation,” the DA said.

  “To the most wonderful daughter a mother could ever hope for,” Celine chimed in, beaming.

  Her mother was certainly in her element. Bethany smiled graciously. “Thank you.”

  They clinked their glasses and took sips.

  “I have to say, I’ve been around the block a few times, and I admit I have an eye for those bound for glory. You, young lady, are one such person, I could see it the moment you walked in tonight.”

  What did you say to that?

  The DA continued before she could say anything. “Like mother, like daughter.”

  Her mother’s eyes sparkled with pride. “Thank you, Burt.”

  It was the first time Bethany had actually met the DA, and thinking of him by his name seemed strange to her. Her mother, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly so reserved. Only a blind man wouldn’t see the chemistry between them. Didn’t they care that half the restaurant probably recognized the DA and was wondering at this very moment why he was sitting at a table with a married woman and her daughter, with more than food on his mind?

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They talked about the upcoming trip to New York and the modeling business while they waited for their food. She was surprised to learn that the DA—Burt, he insisted she call him—that Burt Welsh had modeled himself once, while attending law school at the University of Texas. He’d quit when they’d asked him to do an underwear shoot.

  Honestly, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man. He certainly had the look of a model, with large square shoulders and a closely shaved jaw, but she found him oddly repulsive. A perfect fit for her mother maybe, with his compelling, confident demeanor, but that didn’t make him God’s gift to all women.

  They’d come to celebrate; when Celine suggested they take up the DA’s offer to take them to dinner, she’d agreed. Clearly something was going on between them; maybe it was time to meet this man her mother spent so much time on the phone with.

  But half an hour in Burt’s company reminded her why she didn’t think she could stomach the modeling business as more than a passing gig.

  She began to regret her decision to let him join them. It was fine for her mother, who deserved some love in her life—her father had failed miserably on that front. But that didn’t mean Bethany had to like the man who was sharing her mother’s bed when it suited them.

&n
bsp; In fact, sitting here with him in the lap of luxury, Bethany felt oddly sick. Here the rich partook of the spoils of their wealth, but in Bethany’s world girls were cutting their skin with razor blades to escape the emotional pain that haunted them.

  She’d even thought about cutting herself a time or two, if for no other reason than to see what so many saw in it. She knew the reasoning, of course: better to control the pain inflicted by yourself than the pain dumped on you by your circumstances.

  Bethany blinked. Here she was thinking about razor blades while her mother and Welsh were toasting life. There was irony. She decided to bring them into her world.

  “I’ve decided that I don’t want to pursue modeling beyond this job,” she said and sat back to hear their response.

  Her mother dismissed her with a slight flip of her hand. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Why would you say that?” Burt asked, swirling the red wine in his glass.

  “I just don’t think I could stomach all the superficiality that comes with it. What do people really know about models anyway?”

  “What do you mean, angel? It’s not a marriage; it’s a job. A job that could lead to acting, Hollywood. This is just the beginning. What happened to all those calls with your agent, was that all just for grins?”

  The DA tipped his glass at Celine. “Your mother has a point. This could be just the beginning of something much bigger. Cover at your age? That’s pretty impressive.”

  “Hollywood stars are the same thing. I walk around school and already they look at me like I’m some kind of monkey in a zoo. They don’t know a thing about me.”

  Her mother’s mouth gaped in a show of shock. “How could you be so ungrateful? Every last girl in that school would kill to be you right now. You just want to throw that away because you don’t have a deep, meaningful relationship with every boy in the hall?”

  Now this was more like Mother. Bethany had to admit that she wasn’t entirely ready to throw out modeling just yet, but her claim was at least partly true. Maybe even mostly true.

  “I’m just saying”—she picked at the bread on her plate—“it bothers me.”

  Her mother offered Burt a condescending grin. “She’s sixteen going on twenty-one with a degree in philosophy. Everything about life bothers her when it suits her. Nothing is really meaningful. Our little existentialist in the making. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love to shake her butt in front of a thousand boys at football games, now does it?”

  A raised brow from Burt. He seemed to be enjoying the shift in conversation.

  “So I play the game; you taught me that, Mother, didn’t you? Play all the angles, use your assets to take all you can from life. Just because I’ve decided to try things your way doesn’t mean I have to like it or give my life to it the way you have.”

  “My, my.” Burt’s eyes were bright with interest, and she thought his grin was more one of fascination than embarrassment. “You’re quite intelligent.”

  “For what? A bimbo on a cover? I think you may have made my point.”

  “No, for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Too smart for her own britches, if you ask me,” Mother said.

  Bethany decided to take it one step further, aware that she might be purposefully throwing a few stones into their perfect little love affair.

  “I love you, Mother, and I will learn whatever you have to teach me. But don’t expect me to live the same life you live, hopping around from party to party, man to man, looking to fill the hole in your soul with social fluff.”

  Both Celine and the DA sat frozen in place. She might as well have dropped a stun grenade. But her mother recovered quickly; it was a skill she’d long ago perfected.

  She uttered a short chuckle and lifted her glass. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Bethany. But don’t take your own search for significance out on me. I wasn’t the one who left.”

  Touché. She hated it when Mother played the father card. Bethany wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “She’s never forgiven him,” Celine said to Burt. “Sorry you have to hear all of this, I had no idea—”

  “Don’t be sorry, I think this is entirely appropriate,” Burt said, folding his fingers together in front of his chin. “We all have a cross to bear. So tell me, Bethany, what’s it like having a Naval Intelligence officer as a father?”

  She resented the question and considered telling him that she wasn’t in the market for a counselor, particularly one who was sleeping with her mother. She wasn’t looking for a father, either, just in case he was getting any ideas.

  On second thought, maybe she should clear a few things up.

  “I’m not looking for a father, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I meant exactly what I said. What’s it like to have a Naval Intelligence officer as a father?”

  “What is this, cross-examination?”

  He laughed and Mother joined him, relieved by the break in tension. “It’s what I do, I suppose. You’re right, you should drop the modeling thing like I did and pursue a career in law or politics.” He lifted his water glass. “Here’s to you, kid.”

  After a moment, Mother pushed the point. “So tell him, Bethany. What’s it like?”

  “I wouldn’t know, actually. I don’t remember having a father who was a Naval Intelligence officer. I used to think I should feel bad about that, but I really don’t know what it’s like to have a father. Ryan’s never been home. He feels more like a statue in my life. An ATM in the corner of our house.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting way of putting it,” Mother said.

  “You don’t feel any loyalty to him?”

  “Maybe I’m not being clear. I don’t like Ryan. I might even hate him. Like I said, I used to feel guilty about that, but I’ve come to realize that my father left us long ago for another wife. The worst part is that he’s too stupid to see that. I’m sure that he’s a good enough person in his own way, but I can’t think of him as my father, and I don’t blame my mother for looking for another husband.”

  There. Was that what you wanted to hear? They weren’t laughing.

  The waiter stepped in and placed hot butter and crab forks next to each plate.

  “Everything to your satisfaction, sir?”

  “It’s fine, Robert. Thank you.”

  He dipped his head. “Your food will be right up.”

  The waiter left.

  “Aren’t you a little concerned about what people will think, seeing you in public like this?” Bethany asked.

  “Doing what? Having dinner with a mother and her daughter?”

  “Please. Half the waiters in the joint probably know you’re sleeping together. You can see it a mile away.”

  “Bethany,” her mother scolded, flushing red.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “You may be right,” Burt said. “Did I say you should consider a career in law?”

  “Too many charlatans.”

  “Present company excluded, I hope.”

  Bethany didn’t respond to the unspoken request. But as long as she was clearing the air, she might as well clear it all.

  “I don’t know you that well, Mr. Welsh, but if my mother loves you, that’s fine by me. Not that you need my permission.”

  “No. But I appreciate both your candor and approval.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you sure you’re only sixteen?”

  Bethany arched her eyebrow. “You never know, in this happy little family of ours. For all I know I’m really fourteen or eighteen and adopted.”

  Her mother chuckled.

  “Well, for the record, your honor, I think I like this happy little family. Very much.”

  A cart loaded with cracked Alaskan king crab legs and three large lobsters rolled up to their table.

  Bethany still wasn’t sure how much she liked Mr. DA Burton Welsh, but she liked him more now than she had ten minutes earlier.


  7

  THE BOY SAT in a chair opposite Ryan, staring at the wall with round eyes that had long ago stopped crying. Their captors had tied his hands behind his back and his ankles were strapped to the chair legs with nylon fishing line. Sweat had washed away the long lines that tears had etched down his cheeks.

  The camera winked red. Kahlid’s pictures peered at Ryan over the boy’s shoulder.

  This was the situation.

  But this didn’t even modestly describe the situation, because the real situation resided in their minds. In Kahlid’s mind, in the youth’s mind, in Ryan’s mind.

  Above all else, Ryan knew that he could not allow his mind to break. If Kahlid managed to shape his responses, Ryan knew he would do whatever the man wanted, which in this case would likely mean the death of his wife and daughter.

  The manner with which Kahlid meant to break his mind was clear enough. What kind of man could stand by and watch innocent victims being killed on his account without suffering terrible anguish? The pressure of such horror would eventually break him.

  But the only way to save Ahmed was to offer up his own wife and child.

  The similarity between this particular situation and war was inescapable. Kahlid was right, innocent victims were allowed to die in war for the greater good of the campaign. To slay the dragon you had to kill a few bunnies who got in the way. Collateral damage. You could try to say the innocents weren’t truly innocent, but in the end they were daughters and sons and wives and they were innocent.

  Innocent like Ahmed.

  The only difference between the quivering Arab strapped to the chair before Ryan and the innocents who’d been killed by shrapnel from a bomb dropped on a building was that one was face-to-face, and one was distant.

  Kahlid meant to make it all personal to Ryan and through his camera to the world.

  It was an impossible conundrum. But Ryan had long ago learned that every code could be broken. Every game could be beaten. Even the impossible ones. He’d given his life to this one objective. He’d saved a thousand lives by doing what very few could do or were willing to do. This was what he knew.