The Valley of Dry Bones (24 page)

“It was not easy for me,” the tribal leader said. “I was so sad. I had seen her asleep many times, but to know that I would never see her awake again, it was so painful. But I also knew that whatever was so important for her to write had to be very special to me. I did not want to defile her, and I did not want to damage the paper. I was weeping when I finally pulled it free. Would you like to see it?”

Zeke wanted nothing more. “Only if you care to show me,” he said.

“You will need to see it in the light,” Kaga said, rising and moving toward the entrance.

Zaltana moved from Zeke's lap to Yuma's and said, “Are you all right, Great-Granddad?”

Zeke followed Kaga, and then he took the square of paper, carefully unfolding it.

Te Naa no'oko numu ka teepu-koobatu besa soobedyana, tu besa dooa tammekoobatoo nemawuni. Tooe haga tooe nu-kwi tunaka'oedyukudu gi ya'ekwu ooosapa gwetzoinnummekwu
.

“That is amazing penmanship for a woman her age,” Zeke said. “Can you translate it for me?”

The old man tilted the page so the sun caught it flush, and though it shook in his hand, he slowly interpreted it word by word. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

“You know that's the essence of the Scriptures, Kaga,” Zeke said, his voice thick. “How meaningful that must have been to your mother. Don't you think it would please her to have it read at her burial service?”

“You would honor her and me if you would do that, Ezekiel.”

“It would be
my
honor, Kaga, but I don't know whether it would be appropriate for—”

“I would like many of you to join us, and I don't care what Kineks—”

“Forgive me for interrupting you, Kaga, but I need to tell you that I am here by accident.” He told him the story of how he had heard of Gaho's death and how he got to the settlement.

“First we must feed you. Then we must see about getting you home. Only then can you invite others to the Crying Service and the burial.”

“Oh, Kaga, I don't want you to have to worry about me. WatDoc will see someone looking for me or I'll walk back.”

“Do not trust him. You do not want him finding your dwelling. I wish he had never found ours. Let us at least feed you and then we can talk about what to do.”

Sitting at a hot meal at dusk, Zeke felt fatigue and soreness wash over him and he wondered what a guest cot at the Nuwuwu Hilton would feel like. He decided it wouldn't bother him much longer than he could keep his eyes open.

The biggest problem, of course, was how long he dared let Alexis and Sasha needlessly worry about him while keeping the rest of the holdouts in crisis mode. Did he really have the luxury of spending the night here? While Kaga had a point about the danger of WatDoc's following him right to his door, if he waited till dark, he was talking about a twelve-mile hike. It wouldn't have been Zeke's first choice, but he'd endured worse. He'd be home long before midnight, would be able to fully recover by the next day, could indeed bring a contingent back for the burial service, and it would turn into a win-win.

The downside, of course, was that he knew something Kaga and Yuma didn't. Kineks had clearly gotten to the feds and was the reason for the questions he'd been asked the night before. The DEA and the BIA had put two and two together and gotten five. They believed they had a contingent of missionary types pushing their religion on the Indian tribes,
confirmed by some kook on a dirt bike spouting doomsday prophecies in the desert in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. And they had prescriptions for last resort–type meds that appeared to be headed for verboten California.

If Kineks had gone to Arizona, not to round up shirtsleeve relatives of her husband's recently departed grandmother but rather to sic the feds on tribe interlopers, the last place Zeke needed to be found was sharing John 3:16 at the burial.

Naturally he couldn't tell Kaga and Yuma the whole truth. For now it would be enough for them to expect him to return the following evening with several of their friends. He presented the plan. Both men looked grave.

Finally Kaga spoke. “You make sense, of course. But I worry. You have to be weary, and you may have been hurt worse than you know.”

Zeke started to respond but fell silent when Kaga held up a hand and turned to his son. “Yuma, what would you think of going with him?”

“Oh,” Zeke said, “I couldn't ask him to do that.”

“You aren't asking him,” Kaga said. “I am. Yuma?”

The younger man, still more than fifteen years Zeke's senior, folded his hands under his chin. “Do you trust me? Would I be welcome at your dwelling?”

“I do and you would, but—”

“But still it would mean revealing your location to us.”

“Right, but—”

“It might be worth it to you,” Yuma said. “My problem is Kineks. She left angry. She will return angry. If anything prevented me from returning tomorrow . . .”

“You don't need that,” Zeke said.

“No,” Kaga said. “He does not. Neither do I. You do what you feel you must do.”

“I'll leave at total darkness,” Zeke said. “Alone.”

L
ESS THAN AN HOUR
into his walk toward the compound, Zeke became less vigilant about scanning the horizon. His gait had been steady and strong despite pain and fatigue, but that was no surprise. No destination was more magnetic than home, and home was wherever his girls were. Alexis and Sasha's faces drew his every step, and though he knew he had a lot of explaining and apologizing to do—and not to them alone—just being back with his people would set everything right again.

He concentrated on his own body weight, the footfall of his boots on the hard-packed desert floor, the sweat, the stillness of the night, and the miles ahead. Whatever God had allowed him to endure, and for whatever reason, he accepted it as part of the process, the price, the preparation.

But for what, Lord? I offer myself afresh
.

“Remain vigilant.”

I will
.

“Hear Me.”

I'm listening
.

“A message.”

Silence. Zeke kept moving, unsure what to do. Should he stop? Had he lost the ability to hear God? Had he only imagined the Lord was still speaking to him? Was he to kneel, show reverence, respect? He estimated that in the ninety-degree heat and the way he was pushing himself to
maintain a pace of about three-and-a-half miles an hour, he would reach the compound around eleven o'clock

He had enough water, but he dared not stop. Surely a search party was out. They couldn't have, wouldn't have given up on him yet. And while base camp would still be largely dark to keep threats away, they would have walkie-talkies on, listening for any sign of him—and they would raise the scopes intermittently at least to watch for him or to ensure they weren't taken by surprise.

Yet Zeke was willing to stop, if that was what God wanted.

“Share My message.”

My only mission is to serve You, Lord
.

“Tell him.”

I will
.

The question was, to whom should he be telling? Zeke no longer questioned that God would give him both the words and the courage to say them, regardless of the cost.

“Tell the one who believes he is unworthy.”

That could be anyone. Zeke himself had felt that way not so long ago.

“Tell the one who believes he is beyond My reach.”

I will
.

The gospel? The message of salvation?

“I will raise a Branch of righteousness, a King who shall reign and prosper and execute judgment and righteousness on the earth. He will be called The Lord Our Righteousness.”

Zeke felt, as always when God spoke to him, as if he were being filled. Temporal things seemed to disappear, and he became cognizant only of the Spirit alive within, sharpening his mind and heart and soul. Questions were answered before he could pose them. It was as if God allowed him to process pure truth simultaneously rather than linearly, in the same way his brain had functioned between the time he flew off the bike and when he landed.

He knew the Branch of Righteousness was Jesus, and he even understood that this was what God meant when He had inspired Paul to write
to the Corinthian church that if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, that old things have passed away and all things have become new.

So the one who believes he is unworthy, the one who believes he is beyond the reach of God's love does not
have
to be righteous or worthy!

“Be vigilant.”

Yes, Lord
.

“Now.”

Zeke stopped, ending the rustle of his clothing with his stride and the soft crunch of his boots. No wind. No animal sounds. On the horizon a pinprick of light.

Thank You, Lord
.

At least two miles away, Zeke couldn't even tell yet whether the light was coming from one source or two. But it was moving. A cycle? Car? Truck? Whatever it was, it wouldn't likely leave this unpaved but well-worn route. Zeke estimated it would be upon him within four minutes. Wearing all black was in his favor in the meantime, but he'd have to find a secluded spot fast. If it was a vehicle he recognized from the compound, he'd have time to reveal himself. Otherwise, he could remain hidden.

About four hundred yards ahead to his left, a hulking silhouette reminded him of a rock formation surrounded by scrub he had seen only from inside a vehicle, but if memory served, it could work. In fact, if he hurried he could scatter enough obstacles in the vehicle's path to force it to slow and pick its way through, making it briefly face the outcropping. That should reflect the headlights into the windshield and give him a brief look at whoever was inside. It was a long shot worth the risk.

Zeke had to get there fast enough to accomplish the task and find a secluded spot with a view before the headlights were close enough to expose him. He broke into a trot, reminded afresh of everything that hurt. About ninety seconds later he reached the area, and the approaching light had defined itself as two and to be a sedan. The rock formation proved to be the one he remembered, and its pale red face would serve his purpose.

He yanked at the edges of the brush, finding it hardier and sharper than he expected and his wrists still tender from his accident.
No time to
wimp out
. With an expanse of scraggly brush about eight feet wide and two feet high in the path, Zeke knew that if the driver didn't see it till the last instant and didn't swerve, the car could blast through it with no problem. He had to be sure.

A quick peek told him he had fewer than thirty seconds to move a boulder of about 150 pounds into position where the car would have to weave its way to the right, between it and the outcropping. And Zeke didn't dare injure himself in the process if he had any hope of making it back to the compound in the next two hours.

He straddled the rock, squatted, straightened his back, breathed evenly, and lifted it just enough to lessen the friction between it and the ground. He duckwalked as quickly as he could and thudded it into place, then dove off the road and settled into the rest of the brush at the side of the outcropping.

Zeke was mostly hidden provided the headlights didn't catch his face as he peeked through the thicket, but he had not accounted for the thorns that dug through to his skin. He wondered what damage he might do to himself if he had to make a break for it. The car was close enough to hear now, so he was stuck in more ways than one. At least the lights wouldn't hit him head-on. Because the prickly branches pressed into his haunches, Zeke dared not rest his weight on the foliage so he squatted again, straining the same muscles and joints and ligaments he had just used to move the boulder to now support his own weight—causing him to shake.

Lord, You caused a bush to burn. You can keep this one from shaking
.

He prayed all this work had been needless and that this car would carry his own search party from the compound.
Just let them see the boulder in time not to wreck. Wouldn't that be ironic? I crash my own rescue team
. Couldn't he have one thing go his way after twenty hours of reminders that he wasn't in charge?

As the low-slung sedan drew into view, it was clearly the same make and model as the one that had chased him fewer than twelve hours before. That didn't mean it had to be the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It could have been the Drug Enforcement Administration for all he knew.

The car suddenly slowed and nearly stopped when the driver apparently noticed the obstacles. Zeke held his breath at the soft crunch of tires over the rocky soil as the car turned right and snaked its way around the boulder and the brush. The headlights illuminated the foliage in which Zeke was suspended, desperately trying not to shake, then swept left to reflect off the tall rock formation.

Which allowed Zeke to clearly see three passengers.

Officer Billy Fritz was behind the wheel, talking.

The man next to him, however, was not his partner from the night before. He was pale and blond, wearing a tie and jacket.

Yuma's wife, Kineks, sat in the backseat directly behind the blond, her profile plain as they passed, and she seemed thoroughly engaged, as if listening to Fritz.

Things quickly became clear to Zeke. If Kineks had gone to Parker to inform relatives of her husband's grandmother's demise, they had refused to return with her for the burial. More likely she had not gone for that purpose at all. Rather she had used that as a cover for her real mission: to rid her people of Zeke and Pastor Bob and Doc and their ilk—anyone who threatened the tribe and its way of life.

Though to Zeke's knowledge Doc had never met Gaho, he had treated nearly everyone else in the settlement except Kineks. And it wouldn't have taken much for her to unknowingly implicate him in Gaho's death because of his coincidental ordering of an acute treatment regimen for Jennie Gill.