Interlude (19 page)

When he was finished, he looked up at the camera. He frantically racked his brain for the right words. He couldn't mention the letter, but he wanted Betty to know he'd received it.

“Betty,” he finally said, managing only the vestige of a smile, “You've always had a way with words. Like you said in your poem, ‘our love still burns.' Keep waiting. I love you.”

8

W
hen Betty awoke the morning after the death threat, she was a little surprised to find no messages on her answering machine. She moved the machine back to her bedroom and adjusted the volume so she could hear it. Just as she was going out the door to work, it rang.

“Betty? Mike Brody. How are you?”

“I'm okay, Mike. Yesterday was a pretty bad day, but thanks to your little talk with Jim, I've cheered up a bit.”

“I was glad to talk to him, Betty. But to be honest I wondered why you didn't call me yourself.”

Betty's secret grudge against Mike didn't seem worth mentioning at the moment. “I didn't want to talk to anybody yesterday, Mike. But I appreciate the fact you talked to Jim. He said that you had heard something about a release?”

“Yeah, in fact that's why I'm calling. Keep this to yourself, Betty. It's probably indiscreet for me to tell you, but I trust your confidentiality, and I want you to know that there are some pretty reliable people predicting an imminent hostage release.”

“This isn't just some newspaper report?”

“No. In fact it hasn't even hit the media yet. That's why I'm suggesting that you keep it between us for the time being.”

Betty smiled.
Maybe this is a peace offering of some sort.
“What does ‘imminent' mean?”

“Well, I suppose it could mean anything from a few days to a couple of months. Just put it in the back of your mind, Betty, and try to go about your business as usual.”

“I won't tell anyone, Mike. And thanks for the encouragement.”

Betty drove to OMI with a feeling of renewed energy. She attacked the Uganda project head on and found herself making significant progress. The impending trip to Africa still troubled her, but that was weeks away. Today she was comforted both by the promise she'd heard in her heart the night before and by Mike's unexpected call.

More significantly, she was aware of a quiet sense of expectancy. She had prayed, “Lord, let me know if Jon is still alive and that he still loves me.” In the midst of all her overwrought emotions, it could be argued that she had put God to the test in a manipulative way. But she could only hope He had understood her despair and would provide some sort of an answer anyway. Always curious about such things, Betty was fascinated with the possibilities of how her answer might come.

Around three o'clock Jim called her to his office. There was a tone of urgency in his voice.

“Betty, I just got a call from my wife. There's a video of Jon being broadcast on all the networks, and . . .”

“A video? Of Jon? You mean he really is alive?”

“That's what Rhoda just told me. You'd better get yourself home, and I think Joyce and I ought to come with you. Your place is probably already swarming with reporters, and you're going to need some help.”

A video . . . that's the answer I was waiting for!
Betty thought excitedly.

“Jim, I prayed just last night that God would let me know Jon's alive!”

“Well, there's your answer. He's alive enough to be taped.”

Joyce and Jim followed Betty home in a separate car, and just as Jim predicted, there was a gathering of newspeople outside her condo. Jim took charge immediately. “Ms. Casey hasn't seen the video yet. We're going inside to see it before she makes any comment.”

Again Betty was bombarded with questions as she walked through the reporters. Did she hear someone say something about “his message to you” as she darted inside?

They had to wait a few minutes for the top of the news on CNN. Meanwhile the phone rang incessantly, and journalists from all over the country recorded their various appeals for interviews. Betty fidgeted impatiently. Would the commercials never end? At long last the hostage report came on, and the distorted videotape was broadcast.

Jon looked haggard and unkempt. His eyes seemed strained, and his voice lacked any inflection at all as he read the awkwardly written statement his captors had prepared for him. Betty was relieved to see him alive, of course, but somewhat sickened by his wretched appearance. When he finished reading, he looked up, squinting at the camera.

“Betty,” he said quite firmly, “you've always had a way with words. Like you said in your poem, ‘our love still burns.' Keep waiting. I love you.”

Betty leaped to her feet and shouted, “He got my poem! I don't believe it! He got it! There's no other reason he would say that!”

Jim looked at her a little confused. “Your poem? What poem?”

“He got the letter
and
the poem!”

“Betty, what are you talking about?”

“Oh Jim, I never told you, because I was embarrassed and I never thought anything would come of it anyway. But a few months ago a man named Badr called me from Lebanon—some guy who used to know Jon. The guy said he knew the people Jon was ‘visiting,' meaning his captors. I mentioned it to Mike, and he figured Badr was probably looking for money.”

“I'm sure he was. Why else would he call?”

“Right. Well, I didn't tell Mike, but I figured ‘Fine, so give him money.' I took a chance and paid him to deliver a letter and a poem to Jon. I can't believe it, but it sure sounds like it got through to him. The last line of the poem was, ‘Still burn, Love. Never die!'”

Jim and Joyce stared at her. “Do you mean to tell me that you sent a check to some stranger in Lebanon and he actually did what you paid him to do?”

Betty gave Jim a sheepish grin. “I sent him $100.”

“Are you crazy?” Jim was stunned by her extravagant gamble. Joyce quickly interrupted. “Betty, it had to be God, didn't it?”

“The whole thing was God—letter, videotape, everything. Last night I prayed that I'd know Jon is alive and that he still loves me. I got a direct answer less than twenty-four hours later. Now that's a miracle, no matter how you try to explain it.”

Jim motioned toward the door. “That reminds me. What are you going to tell those patient souls waiting out there in your front yard?”

Betty calmed herself. There was no way she could even hint at the meaning of Jon's personal message when she talked to the media. “Good question. I don't want anyone to know about the letter, because it might get somebody in trouble—maybe even Jon. I guess I'll just say I'm glad he's alive, and that I can't wait to see him face to face.”

Mike Brody called the following day, and it didn't take Betty long to deduce that he was probing for some details about her contact with Badr. “Interesting comment Jon made about your writing, Betty. Do you think he was referring to anything specific?”

“Yes, of course he was. He was talking about a poem I wrote for him.”

“Was it a poem you'd given to him before he was picked up?”

Betty took a deep breath. She was going to have to tell Mike the truth or blatantly lie to him.
Oh, God. What should I say?

“Mike, you remember when Badr called me the last time?”

“That was several months ago, wasn't it?”

“Right. Well, after you told me he might be looking for money, I decided to risk it. Since he said he knew the people who were holding Jon, I sent him $100 along with a letter and poem and asked him to get them to Jon. Judging by what Jon said, I'm sure he did it.”

“Interesting . . .” Mike was quiet for a moment or two, as if he were digesting this new data. Finally he said, “Betty, that delivery may well have cost a lot more than $100. Both Badr and his brother were shot dead last month.”

Nausea tightened Betty's throat.
No wonder he hasn't called back.
“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive. It may be that the kidnappers suspected that the brothers were trying to sell information. Or it could be that the Badrs had involved themselves in some other unrelated dispute. They were criminals, that much we can confirm. We'll probably never know exactly what happened.”

“Oh, Mike. Do you think it was my fault? I'm so sorry. I never imagined . . .”

“Hey, it was Badr's choice. He took the job. And like I said, he may have been shot for some altogether different reason. Don't worry about it. Just be glad the letter reached Jon. The odds against his ever getting it were outrageous.”

Betty felt somewhat relieved. “I really do think it was a miracle, Mike. But it makes me sick that Badr is dead.” Mike's voice was gentle. “Don't worry about it, Betty.”

“I'll try not to. By the way, is there any more word on releases?”

“Nothing much.”

“You know I'm supposed to go overseas myself in a few weeks?”

“Where to?”

“East Africa.”

“Nairobi?”

“I'll be passing through there, but I'm actually going to Kampala. I sure hope Jon's free before I leave.”

“Well, whether he is or isn't, register yourself with the U.S. Embassy there, and let them know where you're staying. That way you can be located quickly if there's a release.”

In the following days Betty was more at peace than she'd been since the kidnapping. Apart from the videotape, nothing else had changed, and yet it seemed that everything had been transformed by the touch of divine grace.

As usual, after the excitement died down, time began to drag again. The phone was silent. The hostage issue vanished from the newspapers and the television screen.

Betty touched the silvery bracelet on her wrist. Were other people remembering to pray for Jon? It awed her to think that prayers for the hostages were being offered by complete strangers. Praying for the captives in Lebanon had never occurred to her until Jon joined their miserable ranks.

One Saturday afternoon Erica called Betty at home. “How would you feel about speaking to a woman's group at our church?”

“About what, Erica? What do I have to say?”

“Well, our guest speaker has chosen the subject ‘God, Our Deliverer' as her topic. She'll be applying it to all kinds of difficult circumstances, but we thought you might like to share a few stories of the way the Lord has helped you during Jon's captivity.”

“God, our Deliverer? Is it about demons or something?”

Erica laughed heartily. “I guess the word ‘deliverance' has been a little overused in some circles. No, Betty, we're not going to be talking about that at all. All through the Bible God has delivered His people from all sorts of bondage. And Ruth Masters, our speaker, has an excellent presentation about how He's still doing it.”

“Is this some sort of brunch or something?” Betty had never felt particularly at home with women's groups.

“It's an afternoon tea.”

Oh, yuck. I suppose they'll all be wearing hats.

“Erica, I'm not sure I have anything to say.” She wanted to tell Erica that Jon had received the letter, but thought better of it.

“Just think about some of the answered prayers you've had, Betty. I think you've got some wonderful stories to tell, and you really should share them.”

Once again Betty agreed to do something simply because she didn't know how to say no. There was only one good reason for going, and that was to thank Erica for her faithful concern. So with that in mind, Betty agreed to be at Orange Hills Episcopal Church on the following Saturday afternoon.

In the meantime, Uganda beckoned. She had pictures taken for her Ugandan and Kenyan visas, refilled a prescription for a malaria preventive and endured a cholera injection. The report itself was coming along nicely. Apart from some finishing touches it lacked only the stories of several children that Betty intended to compile during her visit to Kampala.

She wasn't the least bit excited about the long journey that lay ahead of her but had finally overcome her resistance to it. For weeks she had insistently prayed, “Let Jon get out before I get to Uganda.” Now she was beginning to think it would be better if he didn't. Once he was home, she wasn't going to want to leave his side. She certainly wouldn't be inclined to travel to the ends of the earth without him.

Saturday arrived and Betty nervously shoved a handful of scribbled notecards in her purse as she left the house for Erica's tea. “How do I get myself into these things, anyway?” she grumbled as she backed the car out of the driveway.

But when she met Ruth Masters, it occurred to Betty this little outing might not have been such a bad idea after all. Ruth wasn't the typical well-coiffed, expensively dressed women's speaker Betty had expected. She was short, a little overweight, and thoroughly nondescript. But a deep sincerity shone from her eyes. Ruth carried a quiet authority that made Betty want to listen and learn from her.

“Elisabeth, I've seen you on television several times. How are you holding up under all this adversity?” Ruth had penetrating gray eyes, and it was immediately evident that her question wasn't just small talk.

“Oh, I'm doing a lot better than I was, thanks in part to Erica, here.” Betty gave her friend a hug.

As their conversation continued, Ruth led Betty to a quiet corner, away from the others, and they sat down together. “What has been the most difficult aspect of your experience?”

“Ruth, I suppose at the beginning it was guilt. There were some things I had to work through. I had to realize God wasn't punishing me by taking Jon away. Lately, it's been fear, I guess. And questions—so many questions. Will our love last? Will we be so changed by the experience that we won't feel the same way about each other? Will he ever get out? Will he survive? Right at the moment, I feel pretty confident about all that. But sometimes, especially at night, everything kind of distorts into a mass of confusion.”