Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  She slid in beside him uninvited and tilted her head. “Your brother wants to see you.”

  Which one? Does it really matter? “I believe you’re mistaken.” She had a large purse, but he knew security was tight at the airport and doubted the bag held anything dangerous. Nonetheless, he glanced about for a police officer.

  “Do you prefer Paul to Abdullah?” Her words sounded like a hiss. She continued to smile, a treacherous gesture.

  He should be afraid, but after the last few weeks in Sudan, this woman was merely another frustration. “What do you want?”

  “For you to come with me.”

  Paul lifted the coffee to his lips. He didn’t see anyone watching them. Two Arabs sat at a far table and two Caucasians at another, but the others seated in the small restaurant were black skinned. “And if I refuse?”

  “The men at the door have weapons. You will be killed.”

  Paul picked up the newspaper. He feigned interest while trying to figure out which men had their sights on him. “I’d be killed anyway. I’ll take my chances right here.”

  “You’re a fool. We’re prepared to kill all these people.”

  “With what?” He still pretended interest in the paper. He saw a policeman walk past the front of the restaurant. She could be bluffing.

  “I have a gun and a bomb in my bag.”

  Stall her. Paul neatly folded the paper. “Why would you want to kill yourself and these people to get me?”

  She straightened. “For Allah. For my country.”

  How well he knew her devotion.

  The policeman returned and lingered at the bar.

  “Don’t try a thing,” she said.

  The woman had been trained well. To anyone observing them, they looked like cozy friends. Paul wanted to believe the woman was lying, but this technique had been used before. Blowing herself up for the cause of Allah would give her more of a satisfying purpose according to Muslim beliefs.

  “Do you have a name?” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Either we go now, or I set off the bomb.”

  Paul refused to blink an eye. “Your friends will die too.”

  “Have you been gone so long that you’ve forgotten our ways? Now, before I lose patience.”

  Paul stood from the table and reached for his crutches. He refused to make this easy, though. Again his gaze swept across the restaurant. Two men from separate tables rose to their feet.

  * * *

  Larson massaged her throbbing back muscles. Hot, tired, and hungry, she watched the last patient move slowly toward his hut. The man had lost an eye during a village bombing and had recently developed a serious stomach problem. In short, he had mere months to live. How many times had she dreamed of a hospital with solid floors and a clean antiseptic smell where the southern Sudanese could obtain proper care? She had had all of that and more years ago in the States, but back then she had taken the professional setting for granted.

  She picked up a bottle of water that Paul had left and downed most of it. Perhaps a mobile hospital the size of a semitruck to travel around from village to village was the answer. Of course, Khartoum would confiscate it in no time.

  “You look more tired than usual,” Nyok said. The two of them, like robots, had begun to clean and disinfect the clinic.

  “I’ll get to bed earlier tonight.”

  “I miss Rachel too.” Nyok continued about his business, gathering up instruments to sterilize.

  She shook her head. “You know me too well. No matter how hard I try to hide something, you always know.”

  “It’s my responsibility.”

  Larson bit back a remark about his young age. She saw no merit in insulting his warrior status. “Must everything be a duty?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  She studied his face, wishing she could peer into his soul. His age, his wisdom, always astounded her, but with her realization came another heart-wrenching truth. Beneath Nyok’s often-hard exterior dwelled a deeply troubled man-child. “Responsibility and duty are the by-products of many happenings bearing down on our lives. They involve emotion and passion.”

  Nyok stared back at her. For a moment, his hollow eyes revealed the pain tugging at his heart. “You know my story. Nothing has changed with me.”

  “I know only what you have chosen to tell me, but it festers within you, like an infection that won’t respond to medicine.”

  “Possibly. Perhaps I’m waiting for the right time to lance my wound.” His stance had not changed, no emotion creased his smooth skin, and the lack of visible response frightened her. “Tell me why you work yourself into an early grave. What happened in the United States?”

  She shivered in the hundred-degree heat. “I’m a committed doctor. I took an oath—”

  “You can be a doctor anywhere.”

  “I told you the story of how the missionary’s child died in my care.”

  He waved away a mosquito. “That story may work for others, but not me.”

  No one knew the truth but her. “Some things are too personal.”

  “Not mine to hear, or are you denying what I see?”

  Why did the unspoken words between them mean more than the ones they shared? “Are you angry with me?”

  He picked up a broom. “No, Dr. Kerr. I speak of the happenings bearing down on our lives—the reasons we take on responsibilities. Isn’t that what you said?” He paused. “I think you and I are like mother and son, but because we are not blood and flesh, we cannot open our hearts.”

  “It would be difficult, I agree.” She stopped before she said more. Most of their discussions merely danced around those things that psychologists insisted brought healing. “I love you, Nyok.”

  Nyok pressed his lips together. “At times I believe there is no room in me for love. Other times, I feel God calling my name, but I cannot tell you what you want to hear until the pain is gone.”

  “How can I help?” Desperation clawed at her words. The mother cries inside her begged for his healing.

  “Let me carry out my responsibilities.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. “I cannot.”

  * * *

  Paul took his time hobbling to the front of the restaurant. He had experienced many close calls, and each one had seemed like his last. He prayed and looked about for a way to escape. If only he knew whether the woman was bluffing. The lives of innocent people were at stake.

  “Paul Farid.” A Caucasian with a British accent smiled broadly and stood from a small table. “Do you remember me, Roger Welby? We met about six months ago in London at a benefit for the Sudanese.”

  “Yes, I believe I do.” He leaned on his crutch and extended his hand for a shake. “Pardon my manners here.” Paul had no recollection of the man, casually dressed in tan slacks and a blue button-down shirt.

  Welby returned the gesture. “How’s the leg? I hear you took a bullet.”

  How does he know? Tom had taken every precaution to conceal Paul’s identity at the hospital. “Almost as good as new,” he said.

  “Do you have time for coffee?” Welby pulled out a chair.

  “No, we have a plane to catch,” the woman behind him said in perfect English. “Honey, we need to hurry.”

  “What a shame,” Welby said. “I wanted to learn more about your work.”

  “Another time.” The woman glanced toward the men waiting.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Welby said.

  Paul realized this might be his only opportunity to elude those who sought to kill him, but foremost in his mind was the crowd in the restaurant. He saw a handful of children. No, he definitely couldn’t risk their lives.

  “Ah, yes—”

  “Rasha.” The woman nodded politely and linked her arm through Paul’s, the same arm that held her bag. “Darling, I’m nervous about catching our flight.”

  Paul smiled at her. If only he could get his hands on the bag draped from her shoulder.

  �
��It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rasha. Paul has excellent taste.” A concerned look passed over Welby’s face. “What is sticking out of your purse?”

  Instantly Rasha released Paul’s arm. Welby snatched her bag. She gasped and struggled, shoving Paul toward the table. Two other men and a woman swung into action. The men headed for the door. The third detained Rasha. Paul lost his balance and sent the crutches crashing to the floor. He reached for a chair but couldn’t stop the spiral downward.

  A shot cracked. Then another. Screams pierced the air, and Rasha fell against Paul.

  CHAPTER 12

  “It’s all right,” Welby said. “We’ve got them.”

  Paul felt the weight of Rasha’s body pressing against him. Her head lay over his shoulder, and when he reached to touch her forehead beneath a thick mass of black hair, blood oozed between his fingers. She had neither uttered a sound nor moved since she slumped against him.

  Someone lifted Rasha’s body from him. With the sight of her life’s flow pooling around him and the unspoken confirmation of her death, his stomach twisted into a knot. A senseless vendetta in the name of a false god. The young woman lay dead, and when he glanced toward the front of the restaurant, he saw the lifeless form of one of her accomplices. The second man stood handcuffed. The sounds of whimpering women and children shrouded his senses. Their cries seemingly grew until they became a cacophony of all those who had perished under the veil of Islam.

  Welby assisted Paul to his feet. His wounded leg felt like liquid fire. “Thank you.” Paul bit down hard on his lip. “Who are you?”

  “British Intelligence,” Welby replied. “We got wind of this attempt when you arrived in Nairobi.” He handed Paul the crutches.

  “They don’t give up, do they?” Paul attempted to sound light, but his inflection betrayed him.

  “At least these three won’t cause any more trouble.” Welby eyed Paul from head to toe. “We’ll get you cleaned up and into some new clothes before your flight leaves.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “Did the woman say anything we need to know?”

  Paul sighed. “Nothing that you haven’t heard or will hear again. They won’t stop until I’m dead.”

  * * *

  Paul glanced down at his fingers. Blood was still embedded under his right forefinger nail. He unbuckled the seat belt and limped to the restroom without the aid of his crutches. His leg throbbed, and he considered taking the painkiller tucked inside his carry-on, but he needed time to think through what had happened at the Nairobi airport. Many people, including children, could have died, and for no reason except that Paul’s family wanted him dead.

  “May I help you?” one of the flight attendants asked.

  “No thanks. I’m managing.” He saw the scowls of a few seated passengers. He had seen the stares from Arab haters before.

  Paul thanked God for sparing his life, just as he had on past occasions when he had narrowly escaped death. But why had God spared him? What could he possibly do of such vital importance to further the Kingdom? Money was not the issue. In the event of his death, his wealth went to FTW. Perhaps he wasn’t to know the purpose, and with that acceptance he must go on. If God willed a martyr’s death for him, it would come soon enough.

  His mind lingered on Jackie and the boys. Hank had loved his family, and he had devoted his life first to God and then to them. Their concerns had been his concerns. Their victories, his victories; their joys, his joys. Whether Jackie had wanted to see a weepy chick flick, or the boys had decided to look at surfboards, Hank had wanted to be there. Most men let that kind of stuff slip by. He had played violin and touch football, flown food and supplies for FTW, and been able to dig his heels into any Bible study.

  Once Paul returned to his seat, he balanced on one leg and tugged out his carry-on lodged between two other pieces of luggage in the overhead compartment. He wanted to update his journal, and unless he took the pain reliever and rested, he would be no good to Jackie. Right now, he wanted to forget everything about his sordid life and where it might end.

  His flight touched down in Los Angeles on Tuesday at 2:55 in the afternoon after a four-hour layover in London. Weary and carrying more baggage than he knew a Christian should, Paul took a taxi to his cottage on Malibu Beach. He hadn’t been there in weeks, and the thought of home sounded comforting despite the circumstances. Nearly an acre of oceanfront property stood as his private paradise away from the haunting reminders of all the turmoil existing around him. He heard the waves breaking against the shore like a healing balm. Tension eased from his shoulders, and the knot loosened in his stomach.

  Paul paused outside the door and fished for the keys in his pockets. For a moment, he wondered if a bomb might explode the moment he entered. He had grown cynical of the world. It was a trait he didn’t relish, but one that was true nevertheless.

  Here, his worries were minimal. The inside sparkled with the attentive touch of Rosita, who came twice a week whether Paul was there or not. He loved the way she smothered him with affection and ample helpings of enchiladas, rice, and refried beans. What an easy life. His accountant paid all the bills, and when he needed to simply talk, Hank was there to play the wise counselor. At least he used to be.

  Paul limped to the wall of windows along his living room and peered out over the blue ocean. The waves crashed against the sand and pulled it out to sea. He loved the rhythmic sound, even when the waters grew angry and white-crusted foam boiled fiercely above each wave. He respected its dominance. It kept him humble.

  He focused his attention beyond the swaying palm trees and slate-colored rocks to where the horizon blended into everlasting blue, allowing himself to be swept away in the hypnotic trance for a moment.

  Pulling away from his aquatic reverie, Paul sank onto the sofa and took out his cell phone. He must call Jackie. He had put it off long enough. Obligation and responsibility lay before him. She answered on the third ring, her voice soft and weak.

  “Jackie, it’s Paul.”

  She sighed. “I’m so glad you’re home. Are you okay? I mean your leg?”

  “It’s healing fine. Is now a good time to see you and the boys?”

  “I’d rather come there. This house is beginning to close in on me.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course. We can grill steaks later on and talk.”

  “I’d like that . . . very much.”

  An hour later, Paul met Jackie and the boys at the door. Her pale skin, normally vibrant with color, alarmed him. She had always been slender, but now she was painfully thin with sunken eyes. He invited them inside, wishing away the awkward silence between them. He had watched Tim and Matt grow from the years they enjoyed watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating sweet cereal to sleeping late and devouring cold pizza. They should have had the glow of life on their faces rather than the downcast features of men twice their age. The cloud of grief and confusion wrenched at his heart. Their long and lanky frames hung just inside the doorway as though they didn’t know if they wanted to stay. Paul blamed himself, but did these two young men harbor the same resentment toward him?

  Paul reached for Jackie. Her frail body collapsed in his arms. She trembled and sobbed against his shoulder. In the next breath, he shed tears with her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said once he had collected his emotions. “I should have been here earlier. Hank was like a brother to me.”

  “He loved you.” She squeezed his shoulder. “The boys and I felt your prayers.”

  She released him and stepped aside to retrieve a tissue from her shoulder bag. Paul turned to Tim, the older of the brothers, reached for his hand, and drew him into a hug. Tim shook but did not break down.

  “Your father was the best friend I ever had.” Paul feared emotion would get the best of him again.

  “He felt the same way about you,” Tim said and patted him on the back.

  The younger brother fell into Paul’s arms and openly cried. “I miss him, Paul. He was t
he best dad ever. I wanted him to be at the diving competition next week. I wanted to make him proud. Now, there’s nothing.”

  “He’ll still be there.” Paul held Matt against his chest. “And he’ll be just as proud. I’m sure he’s bragging to Jesus about you and Tim right now.”

  While Matt continued to cry, Paul glanced at Tim and Jackie. “He hasn’t shed a tear until now,” Jackie said barely above a whisper. She linked her arm through Tim’s, and the two moved outside onto the deck overlooking the ocean.

  Paul’s leg ached with Matt’s weight, but showing compassion to the young man meant enduring the pain. The teen needed to grieve until every tear pent up inside him had worked its way to the surface. Standing just under Paul’s nose, Matt clung to him as though he were a child again.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I thought I was strong and shouldn’t cry ’cause of Mom.”

  “A strong man’s not afraid of tears.” Paul refused to let go of him. “Your dad and I had a few weeping sessions of our own.”

  “You did?” Matt pulled away.

  Paul nodded. “Want to sit down and I’ll tell you about it?”

  “Sure.” He swiped at his damp cheeks and handed Paul the crutches. They sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Matt and Hank shared the same type of personality, deeply sensitive to the needs of others and yet carefully guarded about their own fragile emotions.

  “Remember when I first met your dad?”

  Matt shook his head. “Seemed like you were always there.”

  “You were a little guy. I’d attended your church a few times and thought I should get involved with a Bible study. Your dad met me at the door one Sunday morning and stayed glued to my side. I came back the next Sunday, and Hank was there again.”

  “I don’t know this story,” Matt said.

  “At a Friday night Bible study, a man who had been in the Gulf War made it known how he felt about Arab Muslims. He openly stated the group did not need my presence.”

  Matt’s face softened with the story, so Paul continued.

  “I needed to leave. I made it to the front sidewalk before your dad caught up with me. Hank was equally upset.”