Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (88 page)

Front Royal was a typical western Virginia town, with beautiful old homes; narrow, tree-lined roads; and acres of farms surrounded by spreading hardwood trees. Sara loved reading military history, something she had picked up from her husband, and she knew that at one time the infamous Stonewall Jackson had rolled through Front Royal, completely destroying the village as well as most of the countryside around it. Every town, every building, every farm had been burned to the ground, all to capture and secure the Manassas Gap Railroad and two stone bridges over the Shenandoah River.

Sara looked out on the countryside the general had fought so hard to capture.

Half an hour before, as the sun was just beginning to set, she and Ammon and Luke had lucked upon the rundown hotel at an intersection on Skyline Drive and checked in for the night, paying four times the normal rate for a single room. Ammon and Luke had showered, wolfed some sandwiches from the café across the street, and fallen asleep on the floor, their sleeping bags rolled out against the far wall. Now she stood alone on the hotel balcony, her face bathed in moonlight. Behind her, the hotel door was open and she could hear the twins breathing in their sleep. She listened, finding comfort in the sound, then wrapped her arms around herself.

It was impossible to imagine what had brought them to this place, impossible to understand how much their world had changed. Inside her chest, she moaned, thinking of her husband’s death.

It tore her apart, the fact that there hadn’t been a funeral to note the passing of Neil Brighton’s life. Their pastor back in Washington, D.C. had wanted to hold a special service for him, but Sara wouldn’t allow it. Hundreds of thousands had been lost in the attack; she wasn’t the only widow, her sons the only children who had lost their fathers, and to have a special service for one person simply didn’t seem right.

But the pastor understood the extraordinary role her husband had played. “Sara, I think people appreciate how important Neil was to our nation. I think they understand how vital he was to the president, to our security. I think they understand how hard he worked, the sacrifices he made, the sacrifices of your family. We all know how much you missed him even before . . . . ” The pastor’s voice trailed off.

“How much I missed him even before he was killed,” Sara completed his sentence for him, her eyes sad and tired.

“I mean that in the most respectful way, Sara. Neil sacrificed his entire life, while he was living and literally at the end, in order to serve his country. But he wasn’t the only one in your family who sacrificed. You, your children, you paid the price, too. I know how often he was gone, the hours that he worked, the burden that he carried. I think I understand.”

Sara watched him, her eyes brimming. “Pastor Willow, I love you, you know that, but I just don’t think you do.”

The pastor hesitated. “May I tell you something?” he asked her.

She thought for a moment, then nodded.

The pastor cleared his throat. “You remember a few years ago, Neil came to me for counsel. He was feeling overwhelmed with his responsibilities, his duty, the time it took, the time he couldn’t be at home. Do you remember that, Sara? Do you remember when he came to see me?”

She raised her eyes and looked at him intently. “Of course,” she said.

The pastor walked toward her and took her trembling hands in his own. “During that time we spent together, the Lord showed me—I think He showed us both—a glimpse of what lay ahead. For a moment I felt the responsibility your husband carried. I don’t know if I can describe it, but for the one brief moment, I shared the burden that Neil felt. I think I had to have that experience so I could give him the counsel that he needed to go forward. So yes, Sara, I think I understand just a little the burden and sacrifices you and your family have endured, which is one of the reasons I would like to have some kind of memorial service for Neil.”

“But we don’t have a,” her voice grew slow here, “a body. Any remains. How can we provide a service without—”

“We can do it, Sara.”

She seemed to think a moment, but the truth was, she had already made up her mind. “No, thank you, Pastor Willow. Thank you for your offer, for your consideration, but I am not the only one who lost a loved one in this tragedy. I couldn’t feel good about it. It just wouldn’t be right.”

So they had joined in a general service at the church for all those who’d been killed.

It was to be the only memorial she would ever have for her husband and the father of her sons.

“Think about how many of the pilgrims left their children or their spouses in watery graves out on the ocean,” she said to Luke and Ammon later that night. “Think about all those settlers to this great nation who lost family members on the plains. They didn’t love their lost ones any less than you or I, yet they didn’t have a funeral service for them. We’re not the first to have to go through this. I guess we’ll be OK.”

“Guess so,” Ammon answered, “but I have to tell you, Mom, I didn’t think it would end up this way.”

Standing on the second-floor balcony of the Front Royal Inn, her arms growing cold, Sara considered the final service. That had been two days ago now. Seemed like two years. Two lifetimes. Too long.

She took a deep breath and held it, smelling the trees and farms, then turned and walked into her hotel room. She knelt, said a short prayer—she had been praying all day and had very little more to say—and climbed into bed, staying on the right side, leaving the other pillow and the left side of the bed for Neil, just as she had done for more than twenty years.

Lying on her back, she stared up at the dark. The blinds were thin and bled some of the lights from the streets, casting distorted squares of yellow against the ceiling and walls. Sara could hear the frogs and swamp sounds through the old windows and thin walls.

She was tired. So tired. She felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She closed her eyes. They were so heavy. It felt so good just to lie there, not to have to move, not to have to think. She didn’t have to make a decision, she didn’t have to pretend. For this moment, for right now, she didn’t have to do anything.

Her mind started drifting, thinking of her husband. Funny—she couldn’t quite picture his face. She thought of his smell: soap, shaving cream, Old Spice—there, she had it now, his face, his deep laugh and teasing smile. . . .

Her eyelids were so heavy. . . .

All she wanted was to sleep. . . .

She heard his voice just as clearly as she had ever heard anything in her life.

“
Sara, it isn’t over.
”

She sat up on the bed.

“
Sara, it isn’t over
,” she heard him say again.

“Neil,” she whispered softly, her voice catching in her throat.

“
Listen to me, Sara
.” The voice was low but strong. “
I want you to stay right here. Stay here for two more days. Then get up and drive west. You will be shown what to do when it happens.
”

“Neil,” Sara called again.

“
Stay here, then move west
.”

And then the voice was gone.

She sat up on the side of bed, staring at the darkness, then leaned back against the pillow, feeling full and warm. “Neil?” she repeated slowly before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The sun was up and the room was bright when she opened her eyes. She had slept through the night without waking, and she felt fresh and strong. Looking at her covers, which lay almost undisturbed across the bed, she realized she had hardly moved as she slept.

Glancing at the floor, she saw Ammon peering up at her.

“I had a dream, Mom,” he told her.

Sara nodded slowly. “Your father?”

Ammon looked up at the ceiling. “We’re going to stay here,” he said.

“But why?” Sara answered. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Ammon sat up on his sleeping bag and ran his hands through his hair. “Nothing makes sense anymore, Mom. Nothing at all. The only thing that makes any sense is what we know in our hearts. That’s the only way we’ll be led. We can’t look to anyone else right now, not our bishop, not other members. We’re on our own for a while. But remember what the Scriptures say about this day: Some pretty cool things are going to happen to those who will listen to the Spirit. Children will see visions and have dreams.”

Sara swallowed and looked away. “We will stay here, then.” She paused. “Although I have no idea why.”

“There has to be a reason.”

“We will stay here two days.”

“Two days,” Ammon said, then lay back on his sleeping bag again.

* * *

Two days later, they paid their bill—Luke was furious at the outrageous cost—packed their bags in the car, and were ready to go.

They waited until the sun was barely visible, its dull light shining down the narrow Shenandoah Valley, the sky blister red from high-altitude smoke and dust. Then they started the car, said a prayer, and turned west.

Ammon drove, the oldest brother, if only by a few minutes. Sara sat in the passenger seat, Luke in the back.

Ammon stole a sideways look toward his mother as he drove. She had been forcing a sense of optimism ever since the attack, straining to make herself smile while reassuringly patting their legs. But he knew. He could see it in her eyes, her body language, the sadness of her mouth. She was hurting, dying with grief, pain and fear. She was so fearful. She felt weighted down with the responsibility of her children in this upside-down world.

Ammon glanced at her again, then reached over for her hand. He took her fingers and squeezed them gently. “Mom, you are strong enough to do this.”

Sara didn’t answer.

Ammon gestured to the back. “Luke is strong enough. I am strong enough, too. We’re going to get through this. I promise you, we will.”

She turned toward him, and for an instant he saw her for what she was, a frightened little girl. “I love you, Mom,” he told her.

She nodded and pressed her lips together. “Thank you, Ammon.”

“It’s going to be OK, Mom. It really is.”

She squeezed his fingers, then pulled her hand back and looked ahead.

Behind them, Luke was reading from a small set of red, military-issue Scripture books that had belonged to his dad, the last thing he had taken from his father’s bedroom dresser before walking out of their house.

Twenty minutes passed in silence. Then, without explanation, Luke started reading aloud, “And Moses said to the people: Fear not: stand and see the great wonders of the Lord, which [H]e will do this day: for the Egyptians, whom you see now, you shall see no more for ever. The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace.”

There was peaceful silence for a moment.

“Fear not. The Lord shall fight for us. We should hold our peace,” Luke repeated.

“Cool,” Luke finally said.

Ammon nodded slowly.

For the first time in a week, Sara’s smile was genuine.

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi looked out through the dirty windows of the downtown office building, a five-story brownstone off Cage Park and Garfield Boulevard. The carpet under her feet was soiled, the walls cracked, the furniture worn, the wooden desks cluttered with papers and telephones. There were a few pictures hanging haplessly on the wall but very little other decoration or office cheer.

Azadeh, trying her best to fit in, had taken on American fashion and was wearing a black skirt, white sweater, and leather belt. But she also wore a scarf covering most of her beautiful hair. A simple silver chain hung around her neck.

The American woman, a low-ranking member of the organization that had brought her to the United States from Iran, seemed friendly, but Azadeh didn’t know. She was a stranger, after all, and Azadeh was constantly on guard.

Everything around her was so unfamiliar: the smells, the heavy sounds of traffic, the many different colored faces, the men who weren’t afraid to stare, the towering buildings, the food, even the tacky feeling in the air.

She truly was a stranger in a strange land.

A crushing wave of homesickness welled inside her. She missed her village. She missed her father. She missed her people and her home. She missed speaking Farsi, the eloquent words and velvet sounds of her native tongue. She missed the food, the great mountain that towered over her village, the peaceful wail as they were called to prayer, the woolen prayer rugs, the dark eyes of little children watching the ayatollahs rise to speak. She missed it all, and, listening to the strange sounds that emitted all around her, she felt her heart begin to tear.

She tried to fight the feeling, but it seemed her faith was set to fail.

She thought of the short walk she had just completed along the sidewalk in Chicago, the angry stares and hurtful words. She did not know the words, but the sound of cursing was universal, and she knew that the hateful expressions had been directed at her. The Americans, perhaps warm and welcoming in another time and place, definitely had their ideas of Muslims now. The fact that she was Persian, the fact that she was fleeing an oppressive regime, the fact that she was a victim, the same as they were, did not matter.

She felt a single tear begin to well and quickly wiped it away. She didn’t want to start crying now, not after all she’d been through. She wasn’t about to let it out. Not here and not now.

She took a breath and held it, fighting the homesickness. Then she forced herself to smile.

* * *

Balaam stood beside the young woman, whispering his evil thoughts into her mind. His voice was soft, smooth and tempting as he tried to draw her in. He had learned she wouldn’t listen if he screamed, so he talked tenderly, gently, his voice like dry honey, sweet but slightly grainy against her ears.

Azadeh was a trophy. He wanted her so badly he could hardly look at her. So he gave his best effort, concentrating all his skill. “
They hate you
,” he whispered softly
. “They will always hate you. They’ll never forgive your people for what they have done!
”

“
But it wasn’t my people
,” Azadeh countered in her mind.