Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Ben pulled his phone from his shirt pocket. “If it’s him, we need to find out.” He punched in a series of numbers. “Hey, Vo. How are things? Good. We’ll be ready in the morning for the ten o’clock appointment.” He paused. “Yes, pick us up where you dropped us off.”

  He dropped the phone back inside his pocket. “Now we’ll see who has betrayed us. I’m not beyond suspecting you.”

  “I understand,” Paul said. Ben’s relentless distrust was beginning to wear on him. “What time do you want to leave in the morning?”

  Ben said nothing for several seconds. “Can Gadwa get us there by eight? Perhaps Babrak can get us out of the city before Vo realizes we’re gone.”

  “I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  “If this is true, Vo will be dead before this time tomorrow.”

  “Can you use him? Feed him wrong information?” Paul said.

  Ben forced a laugh. “You’re beginning to sound like one of us.”

  “I am one of you.”

  * * *

  At eight o’clock the following morning, Ben and Farid slipped through the gate at Babrak’s home and hurried inside to see the old man. Ben had mixed feelings about the meeting. As much as he wanted to find Rachel, he didn’t want her near the city. The issue wasn’t getting her out of Khartoum, but what she had endured while she was there.

  After sharing a few pleasantries and making sure Babrak could transport them out of the city, Ben could wait no longer. “What did you learn about Rachel?”

  “Nothing. No one has heard of or seen her in or around Khartoum. I understand you were hoping to find her, and I’m sorry.” Babrak touched Ben’s arm.

  “I did want to find her, but not here . . . where she could be harmed.”

  “A blessing perhaps?” Babrak said with a tilt of his head.

  “I think so.” Ben took a deep breath. “I hope so. Slave traders are looking.”

  The gatekeeper halted their conversation. “I see two GOS cars coming down the street. They’re up to something.”

  “I think so too,” Babrak said. “Please escort these gentlemen out the back. A driver has been waiting since you arrived. Hurry now, before you’re discovered.”

  “Thank you,” Farid said. “We’ll talk soon.”

  Ben shook Babrak’s hand and followed the gatekeeper through the back of the house.

  Slipping between concrete houses and buildings, they made their way to the car. A moment later the vehicle moved down the street and toward the outskirts of Khartoum.

  “Vo betrayed you,” the driver said. “Babrak had me follow him. Colonel, what would you have us do?”

  Ben glanced about to make sure the GOS wasn’t following them. As much as he disliked Farid, the Arab did make sense about using Vo. If Ben had taken the time to consider the situation, he would have come up with the same idea. “Continue to treat him as though we are ignorant of his treachery. Watch him. He can be used to our advantage.”

  “Very wise, Colonel,” the driver said.

  Farid coughed. Ben wished he could wipe the smirk off the weasel’s face.

  Once they reached the Blue Nile, the two men boarded a fishing boat and headed south. An hour into their journey, Ben attempted to relax. The sleepy Nile, often called the water of life by the Sudanese, was as revered as the Garden of Eden to the Christians. Some speculated the original paradise lay between the White Nile and Blue Nile. Ben could see why. Its beauty rivaled that of any river on earth, and its waters irrigated their land while providing fish for their bellies. Along the banks, palm trees rose like giant statues guarding the river, while colorful birds appeared to lead the way.

  Someday Ben intended to live an easy life along the Nile. He allowed his eyes to drift shut. Just before he nodded off, his phone rang.

  “Reported helicopter shootings near a Red Cross center,” his contact said.

  “What happened?”

  “GOS opened fire on civilians, mostly women and children. Two of the Red Cross workers were killed.”

  Larson and Nyok were there. “It was an approved site!”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve sent men into the area.”

  Little good it would do now. “Keep me posted.” Ben replaced his phone and stole a look at Farid. “Helicopter gunners fired on a Red Cross center.”

  “How many casualties?” Farid buried his face in his hands, then abruptly raised his head. “Larson and Nyok,” he whispered.

  “I know. No totals yet, only that a couple of the workers were killed. The rest were women and children.”

  “Animals,” Farid said.

  Ben shot his attention at the Arab. “Aren’t those your people?”

  “What do you mean ‘my people’? Just because we’re the same race doesn’t mean I condone what they do.” Farid’s face reddened. “How quickly can we get names or find out if Larson and Nyok are all right?”

  “I’ll keep checking.” The familiar rise of anger threatened to overtake Ben. Not Larson and Nyok. They had to be safe. She had been in a lot of tough situations before and knew how to use her head, but she would risk her life for those in trouble. At least Nyok was with her. He would keep her out of harm’s way. The boy would die for that woman. “We’ll push on through. Not stop until we get to the site.”

  The lines across Farid’s forehead deepened. “At least we agree on that.” His jaw tightened. “I’m getting her a phone, a global one. She should have had one a long time ago.”

  Ben hated to admit that the Arab was right again. Why hadn’t he thought of providing Larson some means of communication?

  “When your sister is found and I’m back to flying for FTW, Larson will need to have a source of help,” Farid continued. “And a good computer too. She could email FTW for supplies and keep in contact with . . . with whomever she wanted.”

  “What kind do you mean?”

  “One that is intended for rugged use—a notebook designed to handle extreme temperatures, one equipped with the latest in satellite communications. It could have a built-in global positioning receiver, long battery life—all the latest technology. In fact,” he said as he peered intently at Ben, “you need one too.”

  “How could she charge up the battery?” Ben asked, leaning in closer.

  “She has a generator for the refrigerated medicine. I believe FTW or one of the other humanitarian agencies supplies her with gas. I know I’ve seen the tank.”

  The Arab confused Ben. He understood Larson’s need, but his? Money might not be a problem for Farid, but why should he help the SPLA? “That would be a valuable asset.”

  “And for you, Colonel, I’d think the technology of GPS and its ability to pinpoint where you are and the surrounding terrain would be invaluable.”

  Incredulous best described Ben. “Why would you do this for me?”

  “Why not?” Farid asked. “We’re on the same side. We both want southern Sudan to one day know peace and be able to assume some type of autonomy. We both want freedom of religion and a democracy. We both want the children to grow up educated in the best schools.” He took a deep breath. “It isn’t going to happen unless one of two things takes place: either the peace negotiations are successful, or the SPLA gets a step ahead of the GOS.”

  Ben said nothing. He twisted and turned at the thought of Paul Farid being the man the media claimed he was. Had he really fled the royal family due to his new beliefs? Ben didn’t want to admit he had been wrong one more time, but everything Farid said and did pointed to a man committed to the good of Sudan.

  “It’s hard to trust you,” Ben said. The rhythmic sound of water slapping against the sides of the small fishing boat soothed his troubled mind.

  Farid nodded. “I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes. You know my past, and I know you were raised in a Christian Dinka home. Despite what I did then, I now serve Jesus Christ. That’s it, plain and simple.”

  The man was too good to be true, and Ben ref
used to take him into his confidence. His offer to purchase needed equipment for him and Larson had to be a trick. Somehow, someway, he would uncover Paul Farid’s deceit.

  * * *

  Larson swiped at the mosquitoes swarming between her and the critically wounded woman before her. She couldn’t stop the bleeding. Without surgery the woman would die. She would make six dead and ten wounded. To make matters worse, the woman was pregnant.

  “Marty, check on the little girl over there.” Larson pointed. “She has a few scratches and bruises, but she keeps crying.”

  “That’s because you’re working on her mother,” Marty said.

  “Oh no.”

  “Mama’s not going to make it?” Marty whispered, then turned her attention to the little girl, who was not much more than three years old.

  “It doesn’t look like it.” Frustrated, Larson cursed. “I didn’t bring supplies to perform surgery. I intended to see you, perform some routine medical procedures, and then go home. I can’t do a thing for these people but dig out bullets with local anesthetic and bandage them up.”

  Marty touched her shoulder. “No one expects any more than what you give.”

  Larson swallowed the emotion rising in her throat. These people expect a miracle. She glanced about at the makeshift tents set up to shelter the wounded—pieces of canvas held down by boxes. Yesterday the afternoon rains had drenched them all, blood, dirt, and sweat mixing in a swirl of confusion.

  Larson caught her breath. The woman before her was dead. “One more for the count,” she said, easing away from the cramped position on her knees and stretching her back.

  How many bodies had she seen since coming to Sudan? Sometimes in the dark of night, they opened their eyes and pointed their bony fingers at her. “You could have done more,” they said.

  Larson pulled a worn sheet over the dead woman’s face.

  Marty rubbed her temples. A tear slid from her eye. She said nothing but rose from her position across from the body and walked over to the little girl. The child seemed to sense what had happened and cried harder. Larson watched as Marty gathered her up and held her close. The child laid her head against Marty’s chest, sobbing.

  It was the sound of Sudan: children weeping.

  SPLA soldiers had been at the site since a few hours after the attack. They surrounded the Red Cross area ready to assist if the need arose. Larson wished Ben were leading them. His presence made her feel safe—as long as he kept his distance. Not far away, a group of women and children began to sing. Larson and Marty turned to hear them.

  “‘Jesus Loves Me,’” Marty said. “How sweet the words. We can’t forget the Lord is here with us. He sees all the suffering. How fitting a child’s song should usher in the love and peace of our Lord.”

  The thought tore through Larson’s mind. “How can you even think a loving God would permit this kind of barbarity?”

  “Are you blaming God for the government’s sin?”

  “I can’t blame something that isn’t there.”

  Another tear slipped down Marty’s cheek. “How can you not believe when you see the love in these people’s faces? It’s a miracle we weren’t all killed.”

  Larson couldn’t stop the bitterness clawing at her chest. “Have you been blind too? What has your God done for you?” She pointed to the sky. “Nearly got you blown up?”

  Marty held the child as though paralyzed while tears flowed unchecked over her cheeks and onto the child’s head. “Jesus Christ is my reason for breathing in this sin-infested world.”

  Larson detected the distinct odor of death and sickened bodies. She would never grow accustomed to it. Never. “The stench of what the GOS is doing to southern Sudan wrenches at my stomach. Don’t tell me you can’t smell it. Sometimes I think I can taste it before it happens.”

  “But God doesn’t bring evil.” Marty’s words were gentle, quiet, not like the explosion in Larson’s heart and mind.

  “I agree. It’s the roar of a million demons plaguing a helpless land.”

  Marty shook her head and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “If you believe in demons, then surely you believe in God.”

  “I can’t.” Larson stood from the ground. “I refuse to mask life with this God-loves-everyone veil. It’s a sad joke played on unsuspecting fools.”

  Marty gasped. “Are you saying I’m a fool to trust the Creator of the universe? How did you become so bitter?”

  Larson detested the words spewing from her mouth. She took a deep breath and willed her shattered emotions to calm down. “No, Marty, you’re not a fool. You’re a wonderful, giving person. I’m sorry. I . . . I simply don’t believe in a God of love. I look around me and see nothing but waste and carnage.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  Larson had never been asked that question before. In the past, her cynicism about the subject had always stopped others from pursuing the issue any further. Where did she put her faith and trust? In medicine? In democracy? In the law of the jungle—only the strongest survive? Larson cast her gaze beyond Marty to the thick forest.

  “I don’t know,” Larson finally said. “I grew up in church. My grandfather was a Methodist preacher. I went through all the motions of being a good Christian, until life proved unbearable. I decided I would rather be in charge of my future than see the disastrous results of those who served God.”

  Marty’s chin quivered. She shook her head and blinked. “What do you think will happen to you when you die?”

  “I’ll rot somewhere and probably smell worse than these poor Sudanese bodies.”

  “I don’t think for one minute you have completely forsaken God.” Marty pressed her lips together before continuing. “When I recall the many times He has saved you, then I understand He is after you. God wants to return you to His fold, and He’s waiting.”

  “Marty, don’t. The past two days have been a nightmare. We’re exhausted and emotionally spent. Let’s not talk of this anymore.”

  “I love you, my sister, and I won’t ever stop praying one day you will seek God with your whole heart.”

  “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.”

  Larson covered her ears. The words of David shouted above her senses. She didn’t want to remember. She wanted it all to stop.

  “Larson. Larson.” Marty touched her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  Larson uncovered her ears and peered into her friend’s face. “Ah, yes, I’m fine. I’m very tired right now.”

  “You did work through the night.”

  “And so did you.”

  Marty shifted the little girl in her arms. “The wounded are tended to. Why don’t you lie down for a few hours? I rarely pull an all-nighter. I think you do it on a regular basis.”

  Larson glanced around. She’d forgotten Nyok had been sitting there listening to the conversation. She sucked in her breath. He didn’t know about her growing up in church or about her grandfather being a Christian minister. His deep-brown eyes met hers. All the hostility of the past days had vanished.

  “Please, Dr. Kerr. Miss Marty is right. You need rest, or you will be sick.” He nodded at the body. “I’ll take care of the woman and help with the burial. The soldiers dug the other graves. They will dig this one.”

  The bodies of the Red Cross volunteers who died would be sent home. Larson wondered if their families had been notified. How sad. All they had wanted to do was give of their time, and now they had no time left to give.

  “I’ll help you get situated for a nap,” Marty said, “and manage things until you wake up.”

  Too spent to argue, Larson nodded. “Thanks, both of you. The rains will begin soon.”

  “It will be like a lullaby,” Marty said. “Go. Over by the plane is shelter. Nyok and I have things under control.”

  Contrary to her obstinate nature, Larson agreed and allowed Marty to lead her around
shattered boxes, broken crates, and other vestiges of the recent mayhem to the shelter beneath the plane’s wings. She would merely catch an hour’s nap, just long enough to refresh her body.

  “I will continue to pray for you,” Marty whispered.

  Larson smiled, the fight drained from her. Someone needs to.

  “Jesus loves me, this I know . . .”

  CHAPTER 25

  The truck rumbled along, splattering mud as high as the windows. In some places, Paul wondered if they would make it through the water at all. A rickety bridge creaked and moaned as the truck jolted across. For Paul, the vehicle couldn’t go fast enough. As before, the bumps threw them against the sides. The sounds of birds and screeching monkeys ordering them away from their forest homes contrasted with the fumes from the antiquated vehicle.

  Ben snatched up his cell phone and placed a call. “Any word about the attack on the Red Cross center?” He listened, his face showing no sign of emotion. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Any news?” Paul asked.

  “Seven dead, two more critical. No count on the wounded. SPLA are posted there, but the GOS haven’t returned.”

  “I don’t imagine they’ll be back. They’ve done their dirty work, and they enjoy the element of surprise,” Paul said.

  “And the tactics of taking civilian lives.”

  Paul shook his head. What would it take to end this war? “This latest attack ought to get worldwide attention.”

  “At least until the next news break. Maybe we’ll get coverage on CNN—as a one-liner about Red Cross workers killed while helping the needy.”

  “How special.” Paul stopped before he produced a whole string of ungodly statements. In the next instant, he realized he was getting as derisive as Ben. For once they were in agreement. What a paradox. At least for the moment he and the colonel weren’t arguing.

  Shoving aside his convictions, Paul prayed for Larson, Nyok, and the others involved at the center. Larson had mentioned how she was looking forward to seeing a friend there, a woman who volunteered for the Red Cross. He hoped the friend hadn’t been one of the two workers killed or among the wounded. Paul prayed for something in that tragedy to speak to Larson about Jesus and His love.