Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (16 page)

She was asleep, her dark hair spread out across the pillow, the covers tucked almost up to her chin.

“
Kill it . . . kill it!
” the voice started chanting louder. More urgent. More hungry. Full of lust and hate. “
This is what I brought you here for. Do what I tell you, and you will be mine. We will be together! Forever! Now do what I say!
”

This wasn’t the first time the man had listened to the evil voice that growled from time to time in his head. But this was a new voice. And this was the first time it had asked him to do something so . . .
permanent
. The man hesitated a moment. Could he do it? Could he kill her! Could he really plunge the knife?

But the devil inside him had become his best friend. He was his comrade, his companion, the only ally that he had, and he would do as his new friend told him for he really had no choice.

“
Look at it!
” the voice hissed. “
Look at it sleeping! It is innocent now, but it won’t stay that way for long. Believe me, it will fight us, it will hurt us, it will haunt us one day. It will grow strong and wise. We must kill it while we can! So take your knife and do it. Kill it before it is too late!
”

The man hesitated as he looked at the girl, seeing a glimpse of the good that lie within her soul. He could barely make out her face in the darkness, so peaceful and calm.

He faltered a moment. How could she be dangerous! She was beautiful and childlike. What threat could she bare?

“
KILL IT!
” his master screamed. “
Do what I tell you or you will die!
”

The man slowly raised the knife.

“
KILL IT!
” the master cried a final time.

The man sniffled, then grimaced. He would do as he was told.

Moving forward, he held the knife in a death grip and it trembled in his hand. He reached up to steady it with the other and took another step toward the bed. Having made up his mind, he was moving faster now, sweeping through the darkness.

Then he saw it. He froze mid-step and hissed in dread. A tiny light, like a star, began to shine over the bed. The light grew from a soft glow to a shimmer as an angel appeared, surrounded by fire, heat and an overwhelming power that filled him with dismay. The angel was dressed in a white robe with a silver hood pulled over the crown of his head. A single star, like a diamond, shone from a golden headband, identical to the one lying beside Azadeh’s bed. He lit up the room with his power and the flaming sword in his hand. The light hurt him!
It hurt him!
He wanted to turn and run!

“I know who you are,” the angel said in a voice that tore with power and thundered through the night.

The mortal was filled with terror.
The light hurt him. He had to flee!
But the Dark One held him, not letting him go. “And I know you,” the Dark One answered, his voice escaping like hissing air from the mortal’s throat. “But what have I to do with you? I only want the girl.”

The angel rose in power and lifted the mighty sword. “You will not touch this child,” he commanded. “She is worthy of my protection, and she is my friend!”

The mortal seemed to shake off the dark inside him and he cowered toward the corner. “I
must
kill her!” he then whispered. It was the mortal not the devil who was speaking to the angel now. “I must or he will hurt me.
He will hurt me!
I must do as the master says.”

The angel took a position over Azadeh and raised his sword again. “
YOU WILL NOT HARM THIS CHILD!
” he commanded. “Now go back to your master! Go back to your hell!”

The angel grew suddenly taller and more brilliant, shining with a fire that was brighter than the sun.

The mortal felt the heat and fell back in pain. The fire seemed to surround and consume him! The angel shook the silver hood from his head and his fine hair trailed back, blowing over his shoulders from an invisible wind. His blue eyes were so piercing they seemed to cut through the mortal’s soul. “Go now!” he commanded and the Earth seemed to shake. “In the name of Jesus, I command you to leave.”

The evil inside the mortal immediately recoiled, then cried out, cursing in a foul tone and then fled. The man felt the dark world falling all around him, the crushing weight of having been deserted and the emptiness of despair. He was alone now. His master had departed. He was on his own.

He stumbled backward like a coward, reaching for the bedroom door. The angel lifted his arm and pointed at him, and he squealed in wrenching pain, scrambling like a rat through the door and out into the night.

The next day, a fisherman found his body floating in the swollen river, twenty miles downstream. Having spent his life in the service of his master, the mortal had closed his final deal by jumping into the cold darkness of his master’s world.

General Neil Brighton stood outside the famous Lelas Bar and Café, a small brick and mortar joint at the back of an alley off of
Schandelberg Strasse.
After finding out his flight would be delayed for a few hours due to mechanical problems, he’d taken the opportunity to call his son, Sam, and arrange for a quick lunch meeting. Sam had suggested Lelas, and the general had been very pleased to have a chance to visit his old hunting grounds. All through the Cold War, when there were more ex-pat Americans in Germany than anywhere else in the world, when the U.S. Army was massed and ready to drive back the Soviet hordes by defending the Foulda Gap, Lelas had been a popular U.S. joint. During the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, U.S. forces in Germany had been built up once again. On any given night Lelas was crammed to the walls, smoky and warm from the open pit grills, and bustling with U.S. soldiers and young German women looking for American husbands. Seven nights a week, Orleans blues could be heard wailing up from the basement bar from an old American jazz band that had somehow ended up in Germany and now played for tips and beer. The food came heaped on huge plates and for seven American dollars, one could eat until he was stuffed.

But though General Brighton loved Lelas for the food, there was another, much more important reason he was so fond of the place. This was the place where he had first met his wife. Sara was touring with some friends from college. He was a young pilot assigned to Ramstein. The fates had brought them together here and they had never looked back.

General Brighton stared at the old brick building, hearing the noisy crowd and the music pounding through the small windows and ancient wooden door.

It all seemed so long ago. A different life. A different world. So much had changed since that rainy day long before.

He took a step into the café and quickly summed up the crowd. It was a rough looking group, and he was surprised not to be able to pick out any other Americans there. He listened to the voices, but heard no English being spoken as he made his way through the crowd and sat down at a round table near the back of the bar. He felt suddenly uncomfortable in his uniform, his dark pants and blue shirt with pilot wings on his chest. The café was smoky and warm, just like it always used to be, but the music wasn’t familiar. Instead of the blues, European techno blasted from speakers over his head. He ordered three house specials; two to eat in and one to take back to the crew chief, then sat back and waited for Sam.

He thought back on the unlikely events that had brought the boy into their lives almost eight years before.

* * *

Brighton and his family were living in southern Virginia where he was the commander at the First Fighter Wing, the oldest and most prestigious fighter wing in the U.S. Air Force.

The phone call came late one Sunday afternoon. “Neil,” his friend’s voice boomed through the phone. A huge black man from Mississippi, Gene was direct as a sledgehammer, with an equally powerful voice. Brighton had met him at a community luncheon (the kind of thing he hated, but was required to attend) and the two had hit it off. Brighton wished all of his pilots were such fighters. Gene wished that all the men he worked with cared about their families like Brighton did.

“Hey Gene, what’s going on?” Brighton replied.

“You military guys ever going to figure out all this world strife and warring crap?” Gene boomed back. A Child Protective Services employee (and part-time preacher) who had spent his life working with at-risk kids from some of the worst areas in Hampton, Virginia, a job that had gotten infinitely more difficult through the years, Gene was not impressed with Brighton’s military rank. Make him president for a day, and he’d shut the military down. Divert the funds to the hungry and homeless, those who could really use the help.

“Yeah, we’re figuring it out, I think. The answer is bigger bombs. More money. Faster jets. The usual thing. Speaking of money, you ever going to pay up your poker debts?” Brighton answered.

“Soon as the state gives me that pay raise they’ve been promising me for years.”

Brighton didn’t touch it. It was a sore spot to his friend. He waited but Gene was quiet until he finally asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Got a little problem, Neil. Need your help.”

“What’s up?” Brighton asked, already preparing himself.

“Got a boy I was hoping we could send over to spend a few days with your family.”

“You’ve got a what?” Brighton asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

“I just placed a foster child with another family, but it isn’t working out. He’s a good kid, but he’s had a real lousy start. Abusive home. Alcoholic father. Mother hardly ever around. He’s been with this other family for a couple days and, I don’t know . . . it just seems they haven’t hit it off like we all hoped that they would.”

Brighton’s chest tightened. “What has he done? Tried to burn their house down?”

Gene chuckled, his laugh as powerful as his voice. “Nope, nothing like that. Like I said, he’s not a bad kid, never been in trouble in his life. He’s OK with this family, but it just doesn’t
feel
right if you know what I mean? As I’ve been working with them, I’ve had a clear impression. Now you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve come to the conclusion there’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home. And just between you and me—and I’m not saying this as a representative of the state, so don’t you ever think that or repeat this to anyone, this is just between us friends—but I think that’s what the good Lord intended all along. We just had to take a detour to get there. Now what do you say?”

Brighton shook his head. “Look Gene, this isn’t a stray puppy you’re asking me to take in. We’ve never even considered . . . .” He was stammering now. “We’re not foster parents. We’re not prepared!”

“Life is full of surprises. And are we ever really prepared?”

“But Gene,” Brighton floundered.

“I could fast track all of the paper work. Get you and Sara qualified.”

Brighton shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Inside, his gut grew tight and his heart skipped a beat. But something Gene had said kept on rolling through his head.

“
There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.
”

The sound of Gene’s breathing filled the silence on the phone. “Neil,” he said, his voice softening now. “Forget everything that I just told you. Forget any of what the Lord intended, OK, that’s not fair of me. Put all of that aside. I’ve got to find this kid a place to stay, even if it’s only for a couple days. Now will you please consider it? Just for a few days. That’s all that I’m asking for right now.”

Brighton heard Gene talking but his voice seemed a long way away. The words rolled again and he felt a shiver down his spine.

“
There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.
”

Another long moment of silence. “How old is he?” Brighton asked.

“Thirteen. A couple years older than your boys.”

“He’s a good kid?”

“He really is, Neil. The problem isn’t him; it was the cards he was dealt. He’s never been in trouble. He has a good heart. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”

Brighton cleared his throat and shifted his weight a final time. “I’d have to talk to Sara.”

“Of course, of course. And it’s just for a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll keep working with social services to find him a permanent home.”

“OK,” Brighton answered. “Let me talk to Sara then I’ll call you back.”

“Great, Neil, thanks. If we could, we’d like to bring him over tonight.”

“Tonight,” Brighton answered. “That’s kind of quick, don’t you think.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, but he ain’t got nothing on the state. Now go talk to Sara, then give me a call.”

“Hey wait,” Brighton stopped him. “What’s his name?”

“Samuel Casey. He goes by Sam.”

* * *

The little boy stood in the doorway, clearly as hostile as he was terrified. He was thirteen, but small framed and he could have passed for ten. He was grim and firm-faced, with the demeanor of a boxer, someone who had fought his way through life. Sara knelt down beside him. “Hi Sam,” she said.

“Where do you want me to stay?” he answered curtly while grasping a small suitcase in his left hand.

Sara stole a quick glance at her husband. “We’ve got a room upstairs for you,” she answered.

“Should I leave my bag here or take it upstairs with me?”

Sara hesitated, understanding his subtle point. “Don’t you want to unpack?” she asked him.

“Won’t be here that long.”

“You could still unpack your things and make yourself comfortable.”

“It’s hard to be comfortable in someone else’s home.”

Sara straightened herself and reached for his hand. Sam didn’t take it and kept his eyes on the floor.

Brighton studied him from the foot of the stairs. He saw the bruised cheekbones and the cigarette burns on the back of his hands. He boiled inside. Who could do this to him? He knelt down beside Sam and took the suitcase from him. “Come on, Sam. I’ll show you around. We’ve got a swimming pool at the officer’s club across the park. Do you like to swim?”

The young boy’s eyes widened in fear and he pulled back instantly, pressing against the wall. “I can’t swim,” he said. “Please don’t make me get in the pool!”