“Lucky you,” came Dr. Sam’s tremulous voice.
“What?”
“You get to rescue Sally Beth. I’ve been trying to do that for over a year. Go now! You might be able to catch them. You have to catch them!”
John’s head cleared. He struggled out the doorway, searched for the back door, and lurched toward it. Somehow, he found himself looking out the window in the door just in time to see two men dressed in army fatigues standing beside Alethia’s van and throwing a limp Sally Beth into it.
He yelled as he reached for the doorknob. The door was stuck. He jerked it harder, kicking it and wrenching it away from the doorframe, then he leaped outside as the van roared away through the open gate.
The back courtyard stood as empty and forlorn as a prison yard; all of the cars and maintenance vehicles were gone, along with all the equipment that had been stored there. Remembering the bicycles by the shower building, he ran for them, leaped on the first one he saw, then tore off, pedaling as fast as he could through the silvery night. The van had already outstripped him, so he turned southward. His only chance was to get aloft.
The house was still intact, the front door standing ajar from his and Sally Beth’s hasty exit. Glancing over, he could barely see the shape of his plane, which sat nearly invisible beneath the blanket of meadow. He pedaled right up to it on his bicycle, then, despite his spinning head and the pain in his shoulders, he struggled to pull at the yards of fabric Sally Beth had stitched together. He did not bother to remove it completely, but simply uncovered the nose and the windshield, then he stuck his head under the tent, wrenched open the door, and climbed aboard. He was airborne within a minute.
Making his way back to the Ugandan Road, he turned northward, crossing the shimmering river and the tattered bridge, and before long, he caught up with the colorful old van streaking its way toward the border. He tried to think of a way to stop it; he could shoot at it, but he was afraid. Sally Beth and Priscilla were in there.
Reaching into the box below his seat, he wrenched it open and pulled out one of the loaded revolvers. He banked, dropped altitude, then, holding his breath, he leaned out of the window, took careful aim at the roof just above the driver’s seat, and fired. The van swerved, nearly veering off the road, then righted its course and accelerated. From the passenger side a man leaned out the window, aimed his AK-47 at him, and pulled the trigger, releasing a burst of bullets that whizzed by him. He pulled back at the sound of small pops! that seemed to buzz and zing all around him, and then, suddenly, he became aware of a searing pain in his thigh.
Grabbing his leg with both hands, he felt the warm blood flowing out over his fingers. Probing for both the entry and exit holes, he managed to stuff a handkerchief into one of them, then he ripped at the sleeve of his shirt until he had torn it off. That served to staunch the other bleeding bullet hole. With darkness spitting at his eyes and his hands off the yoke, he was helpless to ward off the trees that suddenly rushed up at him. He took hold of the controls again, pulling up just as his pontoons brushed through the utmost branches of a grove of wattle trees. Their pungent sent filled his nostrils, reviving him enough to right himself and look out into the horizon.
Lights loomed ahead of him. The Ugandan border, and he could see soldiers standing in a line, rifles raised toward him, the intermittent flashes of gunfire spitting into the night. He banked right, heading toward the dark glimmer of the lake in the distance. When he was well out over the water, he circled back north until he thought—hoped—he had gone far enough into safety. Fighting against the pain and the weakness, he headed back toward land and managed a semi-controlled landing in a long field at the edge of the lake.
It was deep night, and the darkness crept into his consciousness, but he took a great breath of the cold night air and revived enough to pull out his emergency first aid kit from underneath the seat. Blood still ran too freely from the wound in his thigh. Dizzy and weak, he found a roll of gauze, which he unwound and wrapped tightly around his thigh. It did not staunch the flow of blood as well as he had hoped. Within seconds, he could see the white gauze turning dark in the dim light of the slender moon.
He gritted his teeth and vowed not to die.
When John awoke again, he was relieved to find himself in some sort of hospital room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Geneva drifting toward him, her face full of pity and concern, and then he saw the kind, smiling face of Holy Miracle Jones looking at him with love as he struggled to keep strength in his voice.
“Ah, boy, I see ye carry the pain of loss with ye, but be of good cheer. There’s no loss, only happiness right here with ye. All ye have to do is look.”
His eyes moved to Sally Beth, and John suddenly saw her, as if for the first time. Sally Beth, bringer of light and laughter, who lifts the burdens of all she meets. Who said that? Someone once said that. He looked at her again. Sally Beth, who had asked him to love her, smiled at him, then she lifted the crown off her pink cowboy hat and placed it on his head, saying, “I declare you king of my heart.”
November 1, 1978, Somewhere in southern Uganda
Sally Beth had been awake for some time, but she kept her eyes shut and listened to the sounds around her. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back, and her feet were tied as well. The one brief blink she had allowed herself told her that Priscilla also was awake, lying on her side on the dirt floor, her hands similarly bound behind her back. She waited until she was sure they were alone in the tent before she looked at the child.
Sally Beth smiled at her and Priscilla smiled back. She did not seem to be afraid, but nodded and whispered, “My hands aren’t tied too tight.” She began to wriggle toward Sally Beth, turning her back.
Sally Beth’s arms hurt. The side of her face felt like it was the size of a watermelon, and it buzzed with pain, but she rolled close to Priscilla, and with her back turned, felt for the cords binding the wrists.
Yes, they were not very tight. The ropes had been tied halfway up to the elbows and they were so thick that they had not snugged down on Priscilla’s bony arms. She had somehow worked them downward toward her even skinnier wrists, and it didn’t take long for Sally Beth’s fingers to work open the clumsy knot.
She had just freed Priscilla and was watching her sit up to untie her feet, when they both froze. Voices came to them from the other side of the canvas wall.
Several men were walking toward them, speaking loudly, arguing, really, but she could not understand them. She looked at Priscilla, who mouthed softly, “Lugandes.”
“Can you understand them?”
Priscilla grinned. “My native language.” She stopped, listening intently. Another, more authoritative voice had begun to speak. He barked at the men shortly, and then there was silence.
“What did they say?” whispered Sally Beth.
Priscilla sat up, untied her feet, then moved to Sally Beth. “They want to have a good time with us and they are arguing over who gets to go first, but their commander told them they can’t kill you. He’s taking you to Kampala to hold you for ransom.” She smiled wryly. “He says Americans bring a pretty good price.” She picked the last knot loose.
“What about you?” Sally Beth sat up, rubbing her wrists, before reaching down to work at the ropes at her ankles.
Priscilla looked at the floor and shrugged, blinking hard, but she could not stop the tears rolling down her face. “I’m not worth anything except maybe a minute of fun.”
Sally Beth’s heart plunged. The image of the little girl who had died in her arms pushed itself up against her eyes until she could see into the hole in her cheekbone, black with blood and powder burns.
Oh, please, Lord. Let them do whatever they will with me, but don’t let them hurt Prissy any more. I can’t survive watching her die.
Whatever they did to her own body was of little consequence, as long as she could stay alive long enough to get Priscilla out. Precious Priscilla, who was brave enough to sacrifice everything for
those she loved, who loved her enough to refuse to leave her, while she obsessed and whined to John about how frightened she was. Prissy, who had already lived through war and privation, who just wanted a safe home and people who would be kind, was facing horror and torture that would end in death. Sally Beth would rather die than let her be ravished and murdered by those beasts outside.
More shouting came from without, and there was a sudden burst of gunfire. She heard the running footfalls of several men, and then engines started up.
“What is it?” whispered Sally Beth.
“I’m not sure. I think some Libyans have come. I don’t understand them, but the Ugandans are talking about a battle, and they’re driving away. Maybe they’ll leave and forget about us,” she added hopefully.
Carefully, Sally Beth made her way to the edge of the tent, picked up a sharp stick, and poked at a tiny hole in the canvas. She worked at it patiently for a minute before putting her eye to the hole she had enlarged. They were in a camp with perhaps five more tents directly in her line of vision, but she knew there were more all around. Jeeps and various vehicles, including Alethia’s van and one shiny black sports car were being moved around. Some were being parked, some were being driven off, careening onto a road that lead off into a forest.
Priscilla nudged her aside. She watched for a while before turning back to her. “I think they are all leaving. There’s two men with rifles by our tent, but everybody else is loading up.”
Sally Beth took her turn at the peephole. Priscilla was right. Jeeps and cars were clearing out. Two to four soldiers sat in each of the jeeps, their rifles bristling out like the legs of spiders, and two trucks filled with soldiers rolled by. She watched until they all left, until they were alone except for the two men who paced around their tent.
She moved back to the center of the space. “Sit back down. Put your feet together, and lay the rope over them. Make them think we are still tied up if they come in. She moved off to the side, draped a rope around her ankles, then snatched up another rope, holding it in her hands, which she moved behind her back. They sat quietly for a very long time, waiting, watching the entrance to the tent and listening to the men arguing and laughing outside.
Sally Beth wasn’t sure what she would do, but she was certain she would not let anything happen to Priscilla if she had a breath left in her body. She repeatedly went over in her mind the moves that Edna Mae had taught her. How to use an opponent’s weight against him. How to throw him and stomp on his windpipe. How to feint, then lunge, to grab a man around the neck and twist the head around.
She wondered if she could do it. Kill another human being. Take a God-given life. She had grown up believing peace was the answer. Her father and her mother had told her that there was always a peaceful resolution to things, that you did not have to resort to violence, that all people had some kindness in them.
But they had been wrong. They had not seen what she had seen for the last week—the desire to torture and murder, even delight in it, and she knew she had no choice. If she were to save Prissy, she would have to kill. And then she would see if God would forgive her, if she would forgive herself. She closed her eyes and prayed as honestly as she could.
Lord, I know I have done wrong. Things got hard and I just gave up on You. I wanted You to take care of me and those I love when others were dying and suffering. I know I was just thinking about my pitiful self, and I’m sorry. And maybe I used that as an excuse for my lust for John. I seduced him, and I didn’t give him a choice. I know I did, I was just so lonesome and so scared. I’m not really sorry, though, because it was beautiful, except I know I probably hurt him, and I am sorry for that. But I hope You understand and forgive me, and I hope that I am never sorry for it, or him, either, and please, don’t make me be sorry.
I know You love me, and I know You have better things planned for me than I could ever imagine, things here or in heaven. I don’t care, because if it comes from You, it will be good, and whatever evil that happens, I know You will find a way to make some good come of it. But Lord, I cannot watch what they will do to Prissy. I can’t. I just can’t. Lord, these are Your enemies; they are my enemies. Give me the strength to vanquish them. I ask You, Lord, I beg You.
Sally Beth stopped praying. A man had entered the tent. He glared at her, then his eyes roved over to Priscilla’s bare legs beneath her flimsy skirt, then up her body to her face. She sat up straight, her eyes defiant, staring at him as if she could kill him with only her thoughts. He laughed at her childish bravado, and Sally Beth could see the malevolent humor in his eyes. Prissy sat quietly, her legs together, her hands behind her back. Sally Beth began to tremble, but Prissy sat like a cold, heavy stone. There was no fear in her, only the burning defiance that blazed from her eyes.
Sally Beth took courage. The man held his rifle loosely in his hands. He pointed it at Sally Beth and spat out, “Bapbapbapbapbap,” laughing as she flinched. Then he pointed it at Priscilla, sneering, and let loose a quick burst of fire just beside her. Priscilla jumped, and so did Sally Beth. The ropes slid off their legs, and the man, startled at the sight, let out a quick bark before lunging for Priscilla. She rolled to the side and jumped up. Flinging aside all doubts, Sally Beth leaped at him from behind and tried to get her arm around his neck.
She might as well have been wrestling a tree. He was as solid as wood, and her lightweight attempt to throttle him was almost laughable. Edna Mae had told her it was easy. Now she knew it would only be easy to die at the hands of this brute. He reached behind him, grabbing her hair, and flung her over his head as easily as if she had been a cat scratching at his back. Then he turned to her, and as he raised his hand, Sally Beth cowered against the canvas wall, waiting for the blow.
The thoughts that came to her were surprisingly clear and devoid of emotion. There would be no ransom for her, but that did not matter because she did not deserve to be ransomed. And yet, grace would come; indeed, it had already made its way into the tent, giving her a sense of peace, a sureness that all would be well. This man’s sweating, sneering face would be the last thing she ever saw, but it did not frighten her, and it was not as ugly as she thought it should be.
Perhaps Death would take her quickly, she thought, and she fervently asked the Almighty that the same would be true for Prissy. She did not take her eyes from the face, distorted with bloodlust as she called aloud upon the name of Jesus.
The man’s eyes flew open, as if he were surprised, and she marveled that the name of Jesus had had an impact on him, until he made a strange sound and fell to his knees. Prissy loomed up behind him, and as she watched, the child stepped forward, leaning around him with something red in her hand. A soft gurgling sound escaped from his lips as her own eyes felt something fly into them. Through a red, smeary, mist, she saw him open his mouth and close it, as if he were thinking of something to say, and while she stared at his moving lips, he toppled forward and landed at her feet. Blood spilled out of his neck and quivering mouth onto her legs.
She looked up. Priscilla stood before her, a bloody knife in her hand, an indefinable look on her face. She dropped the knife to pick up the would-be attacker’s rifle, turned, strode to the corner by the opening of the tent, and waited, poised and still as a panther.
The man outside yelled. Priscilla raised the rifle. Sally Beth went to kneel in front of the dead man, facing the opening and blocking him from sight. A moment later, the man outside called again, and the two froze, holding their breath while the seconds ticked by in long, dusty silence.
The other man stuck his head into the opening and, somehow, Sally Beth found the courage to smile at him. As her eyes locked onto his, she forced herself to keep them steady, not to let them flicker over to Priscilla as the girl raised the rifle and fired at least five shots into the man’s chest.
He fell over, blood pouring out of his chest and mouth, while his body continued to move feebly. Priscilla stepped forward, pointed the rifle at his head and held her finger on the
trigger until the sound became empty and impotent.
Sally Beth stumbled out of the tent, falling to her knees, fighting against waves of light and darkness, and then, suddenly, without warning, she vomited into the dirt. She heaved and spewed, then heaved more until there was nothing left, and then she looked at the blood soaking into her jeans, and she heaved again. Priscilla watched her silently, then she gently laid her hand on her head. Stroking her hair, she murmured, “There, there, Miss Sally Beth. It’s all over now. Those bad men can’t hurt you now.”
This rocked Sally Beth back on her heels. A fourteen-year-old girl had just disarmed a seasoned soldier, stabbed him in the back, slashed his throat, and then calmly waited for the chance to murder another. And now she was petting Sally Beth’s head and telling her not to be scared. The roles had become mixed up, and it made her angry to be trumped by the courage and mercy of a child. Grabbing Priscilla, she dragged her into her lap and rocked her like a baby as she sobbed and stroked her head.
Presently, she began to laugh as well as cry, but Priscilla did not let her indulge in her hysteria for long. She jumped up, dragging Sally Beth with her. “We have to go.” She picked up the rifles of both men, stripped the dead soldier at her feet of his ammunition and side arm. “Go get that other guy’s stuff. See if you can find a canteen.”
Sally Beth jumped up to follow the orders. It was more emotionally than physically hard to move the dead, bloody man enough to steal his ammunition, but she knew that if she was going to make it out of there with Priscilla, she’d better be ready to do just about anything. She dragged the clip, revolver, and a half-full canteen out of the tent.
“Do you suppose there’s any fresh water?” she asked. The thought of drinking after that man made her stomach lurch.
Priscilla pointed to several big plastic jugs of water sitting in the shade. “If we can get one of those onto a jeep, we’ll have enough water to last us. And maybe there’s food, too. I’m starving,” She looked at the puddle of Sally Beth’s vomit on the ground and added, “And I bet you will be, too, soon enough.”
The Women of Jacob’s Mountain Boxed Set Page 73
