Sacrifices of Joy (26 page)

He began to clap, slowly at first, and then into a full round of applause.

I could taste my own sweat and realized that every pore in my face was open and dripping.

“I knew you were a hero.” His words cut through the darkness. “I knew that you would look for her, that you would find her, because you care. You care about people and don't seek recognition for yourself. That's why you are Sienna St. James, LCSW-C, CEO and founder of The Whole Soul Center. The hero always comes to save the day.”

The flick of a match, the smell of sulfur.

A candle lit the room.

He set it down on a shelf next to a dust-covered white canister labeled FLOUR. “One day people are praising your name. The next day they want to burn you alive at the stake. It's human nature. It's been proven over and over again throughout history. Look what they did to Jamal Abdul. One day he is an American hero. The next a heathen terrorist. And he did nothing wrong.”

“You don't . . . you don't have to hurt us.” I heard the pointlessness in my own voice. This man had already been responsible for the deaths of many, including his own brother and eight-year-old nephew. We meant nothing to him, nothing more than pawns to prove his twisted points.

“Oh, I wasn't going to hurt anyone.” He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “You are. Or rather, you have a choice to make, Sienna. First, give me my book.”

I looked at the blue volume I'd tucked tightly under my arm.

“Give it to me now, please,” he commanded. I had no choice but to pass it to him. That book was the one solid thing I had to prove who he was and what he'd done.

And he knew it.

“Good girl. Now, this is what you need to decide.” He pointed to a small device attached to the ropes that bound Darci to her seat. Her whimpers grew louder. “That's a detonator attached to those ropes. It's very sensitive. It's counting down now. It started the moment you came through my window. If it gets to zero, boom.” He widened his arms in an exaggerated motion. “If she doesn't get untied in the next, let's see . . .” He checked a watch. “Forty-seven minutes now, she's dead, and everything points to you. I set it up that way, and I'm good at what I do. Before you doubt my skills, consider this: I've committed what some view as a terrorist attack on American soil, and the government doesn't even know I exist. They're not looking for me. They've got a suspect in custody.” He turned toward the door, pulled on the handle, then stopped.

“Oh, I said you had a choice.” He turned back toward me. “See, I know you'll be tempted to simply get this poor mother of two free from the ropes, but I should point out that the ropes are attached to another detonator.” He pointed to several taut strings the width of dental floss that went from the ropes to another unfamiliar device. “If you undo the ropes to free her, that other detonator will go off and trigger a remote I've got set to your cell phone. If you untie her and allow the other detonator to go off, when your phone rings and someone answers, a much bigger, stronger bomb will go off somewhere in this great country of ours that will make the bomb I left at BWI seem like a firecracker in comparison.

“The choice is yours. No matter which option, you still come out the bad guy. The good news is that you get to decide if you stand here and watch this nice lady you know die, or if you both go home and watch the news coverage of the slaughter of hundreds that you directly caused. It's hard doing the right thing, the choices you have to make.”

Every limb on my body shook in fear. My mouth opened and I waited to hear what words would come out of it. Despite my temporary paralysis, my voice came out solid and strong. “You didn't have to choose to become this bitter against those who hurt you. Look what your anger has done to you. I know your story, Jebidiah.”

“Well, fancy that. You know my story, and I didn't even post it on Facebook. Good luck, Ms. St. James.” He opened the door and left. I watched as he hopped out the window and then I ran over to Darci's side.

“Darci, I am so sorry. I'm sorry.” I grabbed the box cutter from my pocket, looked at the complicated web of ropes that bound her body.

“Sienna, you have to go!” Darci screamed as I hesitated. “There is no way I could live with myself if I went home and learned about hundreds of people dying. Don't waste any more time on me. Sienna, please! Go! Please! He told me before you came that the other detonator will go off regardless of what you do. You've got to stop it. Don't worry about me.”

I stared at the ropes, trying to make sense of her words, the strings, our predicament. My brain had turned to mud and every thought that tried to form in it was stuck.

“Sienna, you have time to get help. I beg of you, go! Now!” Her scream jolted me to action. I ran to the window of the kitchen. Forty-five minutes. I set the timer on Yvette's phone.

Didn't need a signal for that function.

“I'm going to get help. Everything will be okay.” I did my best to reassure both her and me.

“Just kiss my babies for me. Tell them Mommy always loves them.”

I paused at her words, but only for a second.

Forty-four minutes.

Clouds had gathered during the moments I'd been in the home. Yvette's car was done and dead nearly half a mile away down the driveway. Dry cornstalks, which reached upward of six feet tall, blocked my view of anything beyond that cursed house and the road that led to it. I wasn't even sure which direction Mordecai's service shop was from my vantage point.

And Jebidiah Bennett was somewhere nearby.

I wanted to drop to the ground, curl up in a ball, wait for it all to end; but I knew that wasn't an option. I ran around the house toward the driveway, but immediately turned around.

Jebidiah was in view, fiddling with Yvette's car in the distance. The hood was up. He was going to get it started, I was sure.

The driveway was not an option.

I ran back to the rear of the house. I closed my eyes, tried to imagine standing on top of my car to see where the house was in relation to the trees that bordered Mordecai's service station.

I couldn't remember. My nerves were too shook up.

Forty-three minutes.

“I'm making this harder than I need to and I don't have that kind of time.” I ran to the side again and jumped through the window.

“Sienna, you're still here?”

I could hear the panic in Darci's voice.

“I have a plan.” Didn't know if it was a good one, but it was the only one I had at the moment.

I ran up the stairs, nearly falling through them on a couple of loose steps. I ran to a bedroom and looked out a window. Jebidiah was in the car, driving.
Is he coming back to the house?
My heart skipped a beat as the car rolled toward us, but then stopped. He hopped out and popped the hood again.

I had to get out of there for both of our sakes, or there would be no hope for either of us or for the people in the zone of his planted bomb.

I ran to another bedroom and looked out the window. Mordecai's green barn showed through a row of trees about two miles away.

Rows and rows of dead cornstalks were between here and there.

I dashed down the steps, jumping over the open holes left from my previous ascent.

“Okay, I'm getting help!”

I dashed out the window and picked up one of the cinderblocks and ran toward the fields. I started out in the direction of the trees, but quickly saw why cornstalks help create good mazes.

Even in their deteriorating states, I was lost within three minutes of entering the fields. I looked up at the sky and saw clear blue. At least the clouds had left, I considered, as challenges worse than rain entered my mind.

I realized that these were the scenarios that had played through Jebidiah's mind. He didn't kill me because he probably thought I'd never make it out of the maze of his family's old cornfields.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic.
I took a deep breath, slowed down my heart rate.

I'd brought the cinderblock for a reason, I remembered. I set it on the ground and then, fighting through the overgrown stalks, I ran and sprung up from off the top of it. For that quick second of my jump, I saw treetops in the distance. Landing back on my feet hurt as the dried plants smacked me in the face. Some of the leaves and ears crumbled at contact.

And so I ran through the old cornfields, pushing the crumbling stalks out of my way, gagging on the pungent smell; coughing, tripping, jumping, falling, and getting up and going at it all again.

It took me almost twenty minutes to get in view of the line of trees that bordered the property.

That's when I heard the rustling, the footsteps.

I froze.

Nothing.

Maybe it's all in my mind,
I decided, looking at the timer. I didn't have time to stand there and figure it out.

“Jesus, help!” I prayed aloud.

It was a deer at the edge of the field, I realized as I stepped into a small clearing. I watched as the deer darted off and I saw green wood peeking through the trees.

The barn.

I ran like I never had before, praying that all would end well.

Mordecai was not in the lot.

Nobody appeared to be around.

I burst into the shabby building and looked around for a phone. There was no sight of either a phone or Mordecai.

“That's right, he's keeping a front of having no technology.” My heart sank, but then I remembered the back room. He said he had a satellite dish to keep him connected. A phone, a computer, something to communicate with the world had to be in there. I rammed into the closed door with the cinderblock, nearly knocking the wood door off its hinges.

“Help!” I screamed.

I heard Laz's voice.

“Laz?” I stumbled through the tiny room, trying to make sense of it all. “Laz, are you here?”

A television.

A small flat-screen television sat inside an open dresser drawer, its cord dangling and plugged into what looked like a small portable generator that had about seven other cords pressed into it.

This man had all kinds of fire hazards on his property.

Laz was on TV.

“Authorities have confirmed that they are looking for the owner of a black Honda Accord as new security footage shows the car being driven on the Delaware Turnpike at the time the driver was purporting to be on the West Coast the day of the BWI bombing. Officials have not released any names, but are actively seeking this new person of interest as other key evidence potentially ties this person to the scene of the bombing. This person may now be driving an older model Buick Century and is believed to be somewhere in Pennsylvania. That is all we are being told. This is Laz Tyson reporting live in DC. Back to you in the studio, Ray.”

“And that is the coverage we have from one of our local affiliates,” a newscaster on CNN somberly stated. A still shot of a black Accord, my car, going through a toll on the turnpike filled the screen, followed by a stock photo of an older-model Buick Century.

My car was seen on the Delaware Turnpike last weekend while I was with Roman in San Diego?
So I wasn't crazy. It had been stolen.

When would the nightmare end?

I heard a click behind me and knew that it would not be anytime soon. I turned around slowly. The barrel of a long hunting rifle pointed directly at me and Mordecai Bennett was the triggerman.

“Who are you and why are you here?” he asked as I raised my hands in the air. He looked from the television screen to me and back, the rifle steady though his hands appeared to be shaking.

“Please, don't shoot. I've been tracking down your nephew Jebidiah and he's been behind everything. He's got blond hair, blue eyes, and deep dimples when he smiles. Think about it, how else would I know what he looks like if I haven't seen him myself?”

Mordecai's hands shook even more as I saw the battle in his eyes, him trying to decide if he believed me. I kept talking.

“There's a woman attached to two bombs in that old house in the fields. It's going to go off in twenty minutes and many people will get hurt. Killed. That's what your nephew said. Please call the police and tell them to get here quickly.”

He studied me for a few more seconds and then slowly lowered the gun. “I already called the police. They're on their way.”

They caught him in my sister's car. The sputtering vehicle had died once again only three miles down the road, and authorities were specifically looking for a Buick Century.

His book, which served as a detailed outline for carrying out his plots, was in his hands. The bombing at BWI had been a starting point for him, to “wipe the slate clean of any and all of his past existence.” The bomb he planned to detonate from my phone would have wiped out the community where his sister-in-law's parents lived. A plan for Mordecai's demise was in a plot detailed in chapter five. Every plan he had not only caused death and destruction to many random, innocent people, but each plot included a regular haunt of a member of the church that had excommunicated him.

Nobody would have seen the connection, and, after all was said and done, he would have lived life truly as a nonexistent because the people who knew he'd even been born would be buried in their graves, all around the country.

His father's remains would later be dug up from the cornfields that surrounded the old house. A fractured skull pointed to homicide and Jebidiah Bennett was the only suspect in the case.

“A lot of vicious crimes are a result of relationships gone wrong. The pain and bitterness that can result can lead to extremes. Granted, most of the time, those extremes don't involve taking another's life, but extremes in mood, like depression, extremes in emotions, like rage, can be just as debilitating emotionally as a physical loss. If you are dealing with deep-seated pain and bitterness from broken relationships, seek help, be whole. Get your freedom.”

I looked a little chunky on TV, I decided as I again watched my interview on CNN. I'd been exhausted and I looked rough in my sweats and running shoes, remnants of rotting cornstalks still in my hair. S
OCIAL WORKER
S
IENNA
S
T
.J
AMES,THETHERAPISTWHOTRACKEDDOWNTHETERRORIST
was the caption underneath. The young woman who'd interviewed me live in front of the abandoned farm house in Pennsylvania was from a local station and was obviously new at covering breaking national news. She didn't have the poise or presence that Laz would have had during such an important interview with the woman who'd led authorities to the correct perpetrator of a terrorist attack.

That I was that woman still felt surreal.

But it felt good.

I'd trusted my instincts, I'd dug for the truth, and I didn't let fear hold me back, even when it justifiably should have.

Once the authorities arrived following Mordecai's call, the end of the nightmare came quickly. Special ATF agents were able to remotely disable the detonator tied to my cell phone number, allowing Darci to be freed from the ropes just in the nick of time.

There were no more casualties and Jamal Abdul was free to go home to his wife and two kids.

“Do you, um, like consider yourself, um, to be, like, a hero, Ms. St. James?”

It had been painful watching the news reporter struggle during our live interview. Seeing how challenging it was for her to stay confident under a national spotlight gave me a new appreciation for Laz's journalistic ability, and, well, his cockiness. He deserved to have that new job in Atlanta. That station was getting a natural anchorman.

“No. I don't consider myself a hero. I consider myself to be someone who tries really, really hard to do the right thing, whenever I can, however I can do it.” I'd looked directly into the camera as I continued. “Heroes are people who are superhuman, who stand out for having supernatural strength and powers. I'm just a mom, a sister, a daughter, a friend who has flaws and failures and occasional triumphs. Any strength or power I have has come from learning the supremacy of love, the necessity of courage, the freedom in forgiveness, and the joy and clarity that comes from surrendering to the God of it all. No, I'm not a hero. I'm a fighter with more victories than defeats because the people and challenges in my life have developed my muscles and fine-tuned my aim.”

The video ended. I turned off the CNN app that had played it and considered turning off my phone completely; but a text message was waiting.

Roman.

I stared at his message, reread it several times, thought about that picture of him at his fifth-grade graduation. That light blue seersucker shorts suit and bowtie.

I smiled.

I love you and I'm proud of you, I texted back. Tell Mbali to be on the lookout for a package, a belated birthday present for her daughter, your sister. Yes, we will all be okay.

I pressed send and walked back into the building where I had been waiting for nearly thirty minutes. I found an empty bench and sat down.

“There you are!”

I heard his voice and smelled his cologne, even before I saw his face.

Laz.

“I'm so sorry I'm late, Sienna. I had a last-minute change to a story I'm working on and it threw my whole day off. It's chilly for April, isn't it?” He blew into his hands, wiped his nose with a tissue. Barely looked my way.

We had agreed to meet at the Walters Art Museum, in downtown Baltimore. It was late Sunday afternoon, the first day of a new week, a new chance, a new everything.

I still had on my church clothes from the morning. My stomach was full from my mother's Sunday dinner. Chicken and dumplings.

“Yeah, I'm glad I got your message when I did.” He sat down next to me. “I drove straight from taping in DC to try to get here on time.” Our bench faced a painting in shades of yellow and orange. SUNBURST, the sign underneath read. I thought of my own artwork, my portraits and collages. Maybe I could find a local gallery willing to display my work.

A passing thought.

“Sienna, you did good, girl. Your interview. Your determination. I'm in awe of the woman you are.” He glanced over at me. I still hadn't said anything. “Look, Sienna, I know we have a lot to talk about, but I need you to know that I have done nothing but support you, on a personal level, throughout this whole ordeal. Professionally, I have to do my job. I am required to report stories as they are given to me, and it is my duty to protect my reputation to ensure the integrity of my news reports. I owe it to the station. My actions and on-air reports over the past couple of days were not an attack against you. I'm sure you know that. I have a tough career, Sienna. I do what I have to do.”

“I know, Laz. I can respect that, just like I'm sure you will respect that I have to do what I have to do right now.” Our eyes met. I took out the small gift bag I'd hidden in my purse and passed it to him. “A going-away present for you.”

He didn't say anything as he opened it. “You're . . . giving me the lion's head ring.” He held up the massive jewel. Its rare gems danced in the sunlight of the open foyer.

“You told me I could do what I wanted with the jewels on this ring, that I could take it and reset it as a way of starting over.” I shook my head. “I don't want to reset it. I want it to stay as is. And I want to give it to you.”

“This thing is worth—”

“Nothing to me.”

Laz raised his eyebrow, cocked his head to one side.

“RiChard was a complete fraud. That wasn't even his name. Our marriage was a sham. I don't even need a divorce. I believe I can just get our vows annulled as we married under false conditions, plus he had multiple wives before and after me.”

“Your marriage was a sham, huh?”

“Yes, just like a marriage between us would be.”

“Ouch.” Laz looked away, blew out a loud sigh. “That was a punch below the belt, Ms. Fighter.”

“But it's true and you know it. You don't need a wife. You need a worshipper and I can't worship you the way you want me to.”

A large mass of people came in, looked like a tour group from another country. The foyer became an echo-filled cavern of foreign dialects, loud footsteps, and laughter. The commotion continued until the group filed into another corridor and then silence filled our space.

“I . . . I can't keep the ring though, Sienna.” Laz's voice was barely over a whisper.

“Laz, you told me that you were offering me a chance to take my past, acknowledge it, and start over, and make it work for me in a layout of my choice. That's what you've done. You really have offered me that, and that's what I'm doing. I'm moving on. I'm leaving my past behind me. I'm leaving it with you. Take good care of it.” I smiled.

He was quiet for a moment; then he nodded slowly. He smiled back at me, the ring dancing on the tips of his fingers.

“It was going to be good for us in Atlanta, Ms. St. James. Dinner parties. Private receptions. I was going to get you a white Benz to match mine for your wedding present.”

“No, it will be good for
you
in Atlanta. I'm a social worker. Here, in Baltimore. I'm a social worker and a whole woman.”

“That you are, Sienna, that you are.” He bit his lip, nodded again. “Well, you take care of yourself, and if you go chasing down any more terrorists or come across any other newsworthy stories, you got my number.” We both chuckled.

He grabbed my hand and I squeezed his.

Then we both let go.

The air in Downtown Baltimore
was
chilly for April, I realized as I left the Walters, but the sun was out and not one cloud hung in the sky. For the first time in, hmmm, my entire adult life, maybe, I felt completely whole, completely free, and completely loved and loveable.

With nowhere to go, no plans for the rest of the day, and no fear of the future, I walked all the way down Charles Street to Fayette then Light Street and ended at the Inner Harbor. Colorful boats filled the murky waters and a crowd stood watching a street performer juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle. I laughed along at his cheesy jokes and then I entered a nearby bakery on Pratt Street.

All that walking and thinking and feeling so free, I believed I'd earned a brownie or two.

It was a new shop and a group of high school-aged boys and girls who were supposed to be working were instead standing around giggling, joking, and playing. Nice that someone had given them a chance. I shook my head and chuckled as they suddenly sobered and ran to their positions around the small, bright dining area that smelled of chocolate, berries, and lemonade.

“The boss is back,” they whispered among themselves, quickly grabbing gloves and aprons, scrubbing tables and straightening chairs.

The door to the kitchen swung open and the owner stepped out. Our eyes met as he set out a tray of fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies.

Leon.