Where Tomorrow Leads

by DiAnn Mills

  “Am I outnumbered here? All I wanted to do was help my lovely wife.”

  “And you did.” Larson sobered and made her way to his side. “Thank you for cleaning and washing while I slept. I should have brought you a cup of coffee. I’m sorry.”

  He planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Are you sure you want to leave today? We could wait until tomorrow.”

  “No. I can only imagine the number of wounded who need me. Another day could be the difference between life and death.”

  “I’ll look after the clinic,” Sarah said.

  “Thank you. A few patients need changes of dressings, and I made a list of those who need medicine. We should be back in two or three days.” Larson gave Paul a questioning glance.

  Paul nodded. “Three days sounds good. I still plan to take food and provisions into Darfur after we return.”

  Larson frowned, but then Sarah began asking questions about patients, and he listened to their exchange. If they’d been anywhere other than war-torn Sudan, their quiet conversation amid this tropical paradise would have been peaceful. The centuries-old trees seemed to lift their branches to protect them, like a mother hen sheltering her young. His gaze swept over the other women and children and on to the opposite riverbank. With the rainy season swelling the river, anything could be lurking in the waters.

  “Out of the water!” he shouted in Dinka. What he’d thought was a log had bulging eyes. But his revolver lay under the driver’s seat of the Hummer, and his rifle was leaning against the wall of the clinic beside Larson’s weapon.

  A woman struggled to the bank through waist-deep water, holding the hand of one child and carrying a baby. Moments before, they’d been laughing and splashing. Paul rushed in after her, measuring the distance between the crocodile and the woman. Blood flowed through his veins like a swift current. Another woman screamed. He didn’t have his knife, but he had to try to snatch the three from the snap of the croc’s jaws.

  The woman stumbled. Paul reached her in time to right her, but the croc had already opened its massive mouth. He stepped between the woman and the hideous reptile.

  A shot rang out. Or was that an alarm going off in his head? The croc dipped under the water. Another shot. The water around him tinted red. In the next instant, the reptile floated away.

  Blowing out a ragged breath, he turned his attention to Larson, who still had a rifle resting on her shoulder. Her pale face forced a smile, and she slowly lowered the weapon.

  “Sarah always brings a rifle to the river,” she said.

  CHAPTER 5

  “If I don’t get out of this hospital soon, I’m going to yank out this IV.” Ben scowled at the plump, matronly nurse. “I want my pants and my weapons. This is nothing but a . . . hole of gloom.” He’d started to call it a hellhole, but he knew from experience what that felt like. He was on the north wing, the high-security area for VIPs, but everything here smelled of disinfectant and sick people. And he wasn’t sick, just mending from his surgery to clean up the damage from the GOS bullet. He could do that with his men. Besides, he could shoot with his left hand.

  The nurse planted her hands on her ample hips. “I believe it’s time for you to take a walk, Colonel Alier. Shall I help you with a robe?”

  “Those aren’t robes.” Ben narrowed his eyes. “Those are gowns worn backward to cover my black—”

  “Now, now, now.” She wagged a finger at him as though he were four years old. “I understand that lying in this bed has made you grumpy, but after a walk you’ll feel much better.”

  “I despise this place. And I’d feel better if a twenty-year-old nurse helped me.”

  She reached inside a drawer beside his bed and pulled out a blue- and white-striped gown. “Think of me as three eighteen-year-olds, and you’ll do just fine.” She smiled wide, revealing a few missing teeth. “Besides, at the moment you couldn’t handle any woman.”

  He wanted to wipe that smirk off her face.

  “Don’t frown at me. From the looks of your chart, your arm shouldn’t have been around that woman. Did a jealous husband catch up with you?”

  Oh, he’d met his match with this one. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You’re right, and I don’t want to know what happened. Except you look like trouble to me.”

  “When am I getting out of here?”

  “I have no idea. Don’t be in such a hurry. You’re only heading back into Sudan to do the same thing again.”

  “At least the women there give me respect.”

  “As if they had a choice.”

  Ben had the perfect words to shut her up, but his doctor appeared in the doorway, a fairly young man who spoke English like the queen’s prize subject. Whatever happened to young nurses and gray-haired doctors? He’d much rather have been in Warkou with Larson tending to him. But with his luck, she’d have assigned the wrinkled, formidable Sarah as his nurse. To think that one of his soldiers planned to live with her before leaving for the university in Nairobi. Ben would be afraid she’d kill him in his sleep.

  Ben glanced at the doctor’s name tag. Dr. Phillip Khamati. He’d forgotten it again.

  “I see you’re feeling better.” The doctor glanced at his chart. “You’re not asking for as much pain medication as I anticipated.” Dr. Khamati paused a moment more. “I have your test results.”

  “Good. I’m ready to get out of here.”

  The doctor nodded at the nurse. “Give us a few minutes, please. Would you shut the door?”

  She nodded and left them alone.

  “This must be wonderful news.” Ben’s words didn’t match the alarm ringing in his head. “All I want to know is when I can go home and when this arm will heal.”

  The doctor dragged a chair to his bedside. “I’ll release you tomorrow after I run a few more tests. Your arm is healing nicely. No infection.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Dr. Khamati lifted a sheet on his clipboard. Too young. Entirely too young. A moment later, the doctor pasted on a smile. Not a good sign. Not good at all.

  “Are you going to tell me about the test results or practice your bedside manners?” Ben asked.

  “All right. Have you had much back pain?”

  “Not any more than any other man who’s fought in the wild for the last twenty-five years.”

  “We’ve found a problem. Looks like skeletal metastases.”

  “Give it to me in words I can understand.” Ben should ask for the doctor’s supervisor or, better yet, lay a fist across his clean-shaven jaw.

  “Cancer of the spine. I imagine it gets worse after strenuous activity.”

  A pounding in Ben’s head threatened to destroy his composure. “Since that’s my life, I don’t have a comparison.”

  “Other symptoms are that the pain worsens at night and doesn’t get better with rest.”

  The increasing ache in his back for the past several months now made sense. Cancer?

  “How far advanced?”

  “I want to run a few more tests.”

  Ben cursed, reached for the plastic water pitcher, and threw it across the room. It barely missed the doctor and slammed against the wall.

  Dr. Khamati didn’t budge, but water dripped from his head. “That doesn’t change the diagnosis.”

  “Makes me feel better. So how far advanced is this thing?”

  “Indications are it’s spreading rapidly.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “I don’t like to give time. Statistics prove this often depresses a patient. But we need to schedule radiation, chemotherapy, and orthotic stabilization of the spine.”

  “I’m not wasting my days being poked and prodded like a stuck pig. I have things to do, and I’d like to schedule them in the time I have left.”

  Dr. Khamati sighed. “At the most . . . six months.”

  “Thank you. Now release me so I can get out of here.”

  “I can do that tomo
rrow. I’ll give you a prescription for the pain. Taken on a regular basis, it will help manage the discomfort. Are you heading back to Sudan?”

  “Absolutely. That’s my life.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have brought better news.”

  “So do I, but I’ll deal with it.”

  “If you’re thinking about a second opinion, the test results have already been seen by a team of doctors.”

  How good of the doctor to consult others about his life. “I said I’ll deal with it. I have a request.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

  “No one, including Dr. Larson Farid or her husband, Paul, is to find out about this. Neither do I want them to know when I’m released. In fact, I want my chart destroyed.”

  “I’ll keep your condition confidential, but we don’t destroy records.” The doctor glanced back at the water-sprayed wall behind him. “Dr. Farid has called the hospital requesting information.”

  Ben propped himself up on one elbow. “Make up something to tell her. No one is to know about this. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel. But reconsider what you’re saying. Your friends and family will want to be with you, to help you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”

  Once the door shut, Ben leaned over and grabbed the gown that the nurse-nightmare had called his “robe.” He had things to do, and his days were numbered.

  * * *

  For hours Paul and Larson made their way toward Xokabuc. The Hummer eased through water- and mud-filled ruts in areas where Paul fought to see any kind of a path. Tree branches and brush swiped against the vehicle, making the way slow. Twice, when the road ahead looked like it had washed out, he considered turning around. If the engine flooded, he and Larson would be in trouble. The torrential rainfall had nearly destroyed what was left of the road. The return trip would be even more difficult.

  The windshield wipers clicked rhythmically back and forth, as if to remind them they were in a land lost in time and steeped with danger.

  “If they didn’t need us, I’d suggest heading back,” Larson said.

  He glanced at her and nodded. “The apostle Paul would scold us for not having faith.”

  “I wonder if he battled Muslim soldiers, disease, wild animals, heat, and rising water?” She glanced out the window.

  This wasn’t his optimistic, take-’em-by-storm wife. The renowned Dr. Larson Kerr Farid fought the odds of a third-world country entangled in the trenches of civil war to treat its people. Her sense of humor and relentless energy kept him on his toes. He studied her face. Pale. And she had refused to eat this morning and at noon.

  “Habibti, what’s wrong?”

  She sat up straighter and took a deep breath. “Nothing. I’m angry with the international community for not forcing Khartoum to abide by the peace treaty. Then again, the SPLA haven’t slowed much either. The people of Darfur have lost their dignity in the middle of genocide. They need so much, and I really would like to initiate an educational program for the women and children. And here we are, once again, racing to a poor village to put Band-Aids on wounds that need hospital attention. Why did the GOS attack anyway? Do we have any idea?”

  He formed his words so as not to frighten her. Better that she learn the truth from him rather than one of the villagers in Xokabuc. “From what I overheard while hiding from the soldiers, they received a report about my being in the area. In any event, I was the target. And someone had told them where the Rhino Battalion was camped. Guess you could say the attack was my fault.”

  “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. Here you are carrying a mountain of guilt, and I’m whining.” She reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m so selfish. Please forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. You’re human, and the mess here doesn’t change.”

  Images of the war-torn village bathed in the blood of the innocent marched across his mind. Why hadn’t he found the guts to give himself up? Had he turned into a coward? What kind of man allowed others to die to save his own neck? Disgust and revulsion with himself filled his mind. It didn’t matter that the chief had urged him to escape.

  “Paul, talk to me. You scare me when you keep things inside, and I don’t like the look on your face.”

  “I’m feeling pretty lousy. I should have stayed and defended the village.”

  “Do you think your death would stop what is happening all over southern Sudan?” She shook her head. “The GOS would take that as a sign from Allah to continue the killing. Possibly destroy the fragile peace.”

  “You make me sound much more important than I really am.” For a moment the swishing windshield wipers held him in a hypnotic trance.

  “I despise the free world’s sitting on the sidelines and watching—like spectators in some gruesome game,” she said. “As we suspected, the peace treaty isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. I want the fighting stopped and these poor people given a chance at life. We pray and pray, and still it seems God isn’t listening. I mean, does He hear the cries of those who have lost loved ones? The men who watch their families do without food and medical attention?” Sweat dripped from her brow.

  “In God’s divine providence, He has a plan.”

  She nodded, and a tear slipped down her cheek. So unlike his Larson. A slow rise of panic took hold of his senses. Had she contracted some disease?

  “I pray for God’s plan, Paul. It seems like we’re struggling against an enemy that no one can stop. You, me, all the people we love are trapped in something over which we have no control. Every time you and I say good-bye, I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.”

  “But you will.”

  Another tear ran down her cheek. “Waiting until heaven to see you when I’m living in an earthly hell is not reassuring.”

  “Don’t you think I fear the same about you?”

  “I’m never in the danger you are. Besides, you’re much braver and stronger.”

  “No, I’m not. I just hide my feelings better. Think about all the times you’ve picked up a rifle and used it. Look at all the times you were the first one out of a bunker to treat the wounded. What about all the times you’ve walked through water deeper than this—full of snakes and crocs—to take malaria and yellow fever medicine to a disease-ridden village? You’re the one Time magazine interviewed and Oprah wanted on her show, not me.”

  She laughed. “I need you with me all the time to keep my morale up. I feel like our faith is tested on an hourly basis, and I’m tired of it.”

  Suddenly Paul realized what was really bothering her. “Larson, Ben will be just fine.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not just Ben. It’s everything. Sudan needs help.”

  “What are you suggesting? For the free world to drop bombs on Khartoum?” He sent a sad smile her way. “Innocent people would be killed and nothing solved. The whole Arab world would be sitting on the free world’s doorstep.”

  Larson leaned back in the seat. “Of course not, Paul. I think I’m going to sleep before we get to the village.”

  His stalwart wife was sick. He knew it, and he didn’t need a medical degree to diagnose it. Had her body been attacked by some parasite? He reached over to touch her forehead. The moment his hand felt her cool skin, she smiled.

  “Sweetheart, I’m only tired. No need to worry. I’ll be running circles around you once we get to Xokabuc.”

  His hand slipped to hers. He held it firmly until her body relaxed and the sound of her even breathing met his ears. She worked much too hard, often 24-7, in the name of healing the sick and injured. He didn’t deserve her. Never had. Especially with his family’s death threats lurking in the shadows. But other Muslims had converted to Christianity and faced similar dangers. Why should he be any different?

  Hours later, the Hummer rumbled into the village. Naked children greeted them, laughing and banging on the side of the vehicle. Larson quickly roused f
rom her deep sleep. She waved at them, and for a moment, neither her face nor the children’s revealed the pain of disease or death. That’s what she did for him too.

  For the next few days, his beloved wife would attempt to heal the villagers’ bodies while he attempted to bring them spiritual healing. They made quite a team. Up ahead, some of the tukuls had been burned. These people were barely surviving anyway, and now they’d lost their homes. Fury swirled through him again—a common sensation of late. To think he’d once been among those who persecuted the South.

  CHAPTER 6

  Three days ago, Larson had treated a small girl who had cut her leg fleeing the GOS raid in Xokabuc. The injury should have had sutures, but by the time Larson had arrived with Paul to the village, too much time had elapsed. This morning, the leg looked better: the swelling had decreased, and the angry red color of the wound had improved. Larson applied antiseptic to the leg and blew on it to cool the stinging. Each time the girl screamed, her mother held her tighter and spoke soothing words of comfort.

  Larson set aside the antiseptic and gauze to take the mother’s hand. “Your daughter’s leg is much better. You have been a big help to me today.” A twinge of something unfamiliar gripped Larson’s senses—a sense of protectiveness toward her unborn child. What if her own baby became ill or hurt? Would she be able to give her baby proper medical care?

  Larson’s abdomen threatened to convulse, and she laid her hand across it. In the past, she’d quickly tossed aside any concerns about the precarious life she and Paul lived. She no longer had that luxury. As long as she remained in Sudan, she could not ignore the prevalence of infant mortality. And who would raise their child if something happened to her and Paul?

  Too many decisions to make.

  “What must I do?” the girl’s mother said as though echoing Larson’s dilemma.

  “I’ll leave medicine for her injury.” Larson kissed the child’s forehead and brushed away the tears that streamed down her tiny face. This child was Sudan’s future.