Interlude (11 page)

Jon's prayer was being answered even as he prayed.

Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing.

5

B
etty was slouching over her desk, scratching out a bitter little verse on the back of an envelope. She read it sullenly, and then copied it onto her desk calendar.

No, Hope.
I will find another bridge
From here to reality.
I dare not set foot
Upon your treacherous, unstable span.
I do not trust you.

Despite various media predictions, the weekend had passed without a hostage release. Jim Richards had cautioned her. Her father had warned her. Even Mike Brody had been uncharacteristically direct in saying that rumors were just that—rumors.

So why was it that Betty had allowed hope to creep into some corner of her consciousness and her better judgment? And now came another inevitable Monday morning, and with it the usual letdown. Thick, gray hopelessness clouded her thoughts. Certainly she was exhausted from an unusually stressful Sunday. But the real problem was a lingering, chronic depression that had never really abated since the early November morning call from George O'Ryan.

Betty tried to rouse herself out of her lethargy to stimulate her lagging interest in the Ugandan orphanage project that cluttered her desk. Untidy stacks of research materials, photographs, and statistical printouts littered every inch of her workspace. Very little of that information had as yet found its way into her report.

To make matters worse, Jim Richards had startled her earlier this morning by saying, “I have a feeling we're going to have to send you to Africa before this project is over. We really don't have enough stories about individual children, and we'll never get them unless you go. Everyone out there is just too busy to get the job done.”

Panic seized her. There was no way she could go to Uganda until Jon was free. Any kind of communication was impossible there. Jon could be out on the street for days before she'd know about it. The orphanage had no phone, no radio, no television. Overseas calls from the Kampala post office could take as long as two or three hours to connect.

I will absolutely not go to Uganda—not until Jon gets home. And that's final,
she vowed to herself. It annoyed her that Jim was insensitive enough to suggest such a thing. Didn't he understand that the telephone and television were her only remaining links with Jon?

Oh, there was God of course. But that particular spiritual link seemed more like a frayed string than a trustworthy cable. Sure, He'd healed her skin years before. And He'd helped her through the pregnancy scare. And He'd taken care of her financially as long as she could remember. But what about the one thing that mattered the most? What about Jon? Their love, their marriage, their life together?

Never in her life had Betty questioned God's sovereignty. She had a strong belief in His right to do what He wanted with His children. This conviction was rooted in her familiarity with the Old Testament Book of Job and her own somewhat Job-like existence in years gone by.

When phones were ringing, unique opportunities were arising and people were reaching out in encouragement, Betty could envision some obscure divine purpose in it all. But days of unbroken silence were totally disabling. For the first time in her life, circumstances were eroding the core of her faith. She wasn't just questioning God's love this time. She was seriously wondering about the reality of His existence. He seemed out of touch, out of reach, and His absence left an aching void in her heart.

Day after day, week after week, life marched on, cruel and disinterested. Even at OMI, where everyone knew and loved Jon, it seemed that he was all but forgotten. And Betty sensed that some of her coworkers were hiding a private disapproval of her heavy heart.

She suspected that, to them, a “victorious Christian” would have handled the crisis quite differently. There would have been a sunny smile. Staunch words of faith and victory. A song of praise, extolling “peace in the midst of pain.”
I've heard every Christian platitude that exists,
she sighed, staring across the parking lot at a gray-green bank of smog. Thick haze obscured the graceful San Gabriel mountains that normally reigned over the valley.

She let out a sigh and booted up her computer. It was time to stop all this philosophizing and get busy. Uganda. Kampala. Orphans.

Her mind was blank.

I'm supposed to care about orphans? Haven't I got enough troubles of my own?

How could the phone be so silent? Was anyone in the world thinking about Jon besides her? In Washington D.C.? In Wellington, New Zealand? What about heaven?

She glanced out the window again, and a thought popped into her mind from nowhere.
The mountains are still there. You just can't see them.
Was it another platitude? Not exactly. For some reason it sounded like the still, small voice she heard in her heart.

She nodded, assenting to some silent lesson.

“Okay, Lord,” she whispered glumly. “You get Jon out. I'll do the Uganda report.”

There it was again, on the answering machine. The fuzzy, overseas line. The beeps. The voice, “Elisabeth Casey, this is Badr. I have information for you. Please call me.” This time he left a number.

Betty was still at work. As usual, she checked her messages every hour or two “just in case.” Now that she'd heard from Lebanon again, should she call Mike Brody?

Why not?

Should I wait ‘til after work? He'll be gone by then, and I don't want to bother him at home.

She dialed the number in Virginia.

“Brody,” he answered sharply on the first ring.

“Mike? This is Betty in California.”

“Betty!” Mike's voice warmed immediately. “How nice to hear from you! How are you?”

“I'm okay I guess. How are you doing?”

“Can't complain. What's going on out there in California, or did you just call to cheer me up?”

Betty smiled, wondering if she really was a bright spot in Mike's day. “It's smoggy and I just got another call from that guy in Lebanon. He wants me to phone him.”

“Why don't you run the phone number by me . . . just in case.”

Sometimes Betty suspected that everything she told Mike was immediately vacuumed into a gargantuan mainframe computer. She desperately wanted to think he was actually doing something with the information she gave him. But some sort of acumen told her Mike was simply a collector of facts for somebody else, not a man of action himself. Nevertheless she continued to talk to him.

“Mike, should I try to get a hold of him?”

“You can try if you want, but don't be too surprised if you don't get through. He'll probably call back anyway.”

“Do you think he's trying to help Jon?”

Mike chuckled. “Well, I'd like to think so, Betty. Perhaps he does have a personal concern for Jon. Most likely, though, he's after something for himself.”

“Like what?”

“Money. Maybe a green card. He might even be trying to set up some sort of quid pro quo.”

“A what?”

“A ransom.”

“So you think he's actually in touch with the kidnappers?” Betty was starting to get excited.

“That's not what I said. I said he's after something for himself, whether he's in touch with them or not. And even if he is in touch with them, Betty, it doesn't mean he has the kind of clout to affect Jon's captivity one way or the other.”

“Could he get a message to him from me?”

“Maybe, for a fee . . .”

“How much?”

“Betty, wait a minute. You're jumping to conclusions. This man may or may not know the kidnappers. And even if he does know them, he may be nothing more than an old school chum or a distant relative. Everything in Lebanon has a price tag these days. That's especially true when it comes to anything involving the hostages. And, believe me, Betty, you don't always get what you pay for.”

“Can I tell him to give Jon my love?”

Mike missed a beat before he answered. “Don't tell him anything until you find out what he wants. Check back with me if you hear from him again. And thanks for calling, Betty. It's good to hear your voice.”

She hung up, feeling mildly uplifted. Maybe, just maybe, this Badr person actually had access to Jon. If she could just get a message to him, a word of encouragement. An idea dawned. Maybe she could pay Badr to deliver a letter—maybe she'd even send a poem. Jon would like that.

It's a million-to-one chance, but it's worth the try.

Two days later she had just turned off the eleven o'clock news when the phone rang. As always, she thought it was “the call.” Instead, it was Badr, calling from Lebanon again.

“I have information for you about our friend,” he told her between the hisses and pops of the long-distance line.

“What kind of information do you have?”

“Forgive me, but I cannot discuss this on the phone. I'm sure you understand. Can you meet me in Europe?”

Betty wanted very much to make a deal with this man, despite Brody's cautious admonitions. “I have no money to go to Europe.” She paused, then took the leap. “But I will pay you if you'll do something for me.”

“What can I do for you and our friend? I am pleased to try.”

“I'm going to send you a letter and a check. Can you cash an American check there?”

“Yes. Of course. How much?”

“I'll send . . .” Betty tried to mentally balance her checkbook before answering. What could she spare? Nothing really, but . . .

“I'll send you a hundred dollars.”

“This is very kind, Elisabeth. You want me to deliver this letter to our friend, yes?”

“That's right. Are you sure you can get it to him?”

“Of course. Of course. You send it to this address. I take care of everything for you, Elisabeth.”

Betty excitedly jotted down everything he told her. She zealously double-checked the spelling of each word. Once they'd hung up, she immediately reached for her stationery and began to write.

Dear Jon,

I don't know if you'll ever receive this letter or not. I'm sending it with a man who says he knows you and that he'll see that it gets into your hands. I can only hope he's as good as his word.

All is well here, for the most part. All your friends are doing fine, except for their sadness in knowing about your ordeal.

And as for me, Jon, I love you and miss you so terribly. I feel powerless because there's nothing I can do to help you except pray. But please be sure that my prayers are with you constantly, as are those of so many others all over the world. Someone even gave me a prayer bracelet with your name inscribed on it. I wear it on my left wrist—it's on the same hand as the beautiful diamond ring you gave me.

Please be strong and courageous, Jon. Don't be afraid—God is with you even if you don't feel His presence. And be completely assured of my love for you. It is written in my heart.

I'm sending a poem to you. When I wrote it, I meant to give it to you as a little wedding gift. But here it is now—in my heart I believe we are already married.

I love you, Jon, more than ever.

Betty

On a separate sheet she carefully copied the poem. It was the one she had composed months before while sitting in the shadow of the tower at Victoria Beach.

As, with a cry, I drew first breath,
This soul began to live,
And Love was lit within my breast—
A feeble wick, of no use to the rest.
Still, burn it did. But why?
It flickered ‘til it caught alight.
It warmed my father's face.
And on the men who shared my room
It gleamed and glowed; though futile in the gloom,
Still burned. It had to try.

Then spurning seas and spanning worlds,
You smiled ‘til shadows fled;
‘Til Love blazed brighter than the sun,
Flashed fire, flared hot, and melded us as one.
Still burn, Love. Never die!

She read and reread the letter folded and unfolded the poem. Would he understand it? Was it too vague or too arty? At last she sealed them into an envelope. She wrote out a check for $100, and sealed it and the first envelope into a second one.

I'm a fool to be doing this. And heaven help me if Brody ever finds out.
She had smiled at the thought of doing something behind his back.
Mr. Information.

She studied the address she'd printed on the carrier envelope, confirming each number and letter. Then, grabbing her purse, she threw a coat on over her nightgown, slipped on some shoes and ran out the front door.

Once she was at the Post Office she realized she had no idea how much postage her letter would require. There was no list of overseas charges to be found. Frantically, she bought $5 worth of stamps out of a machine and stuck every last one of them on the envelope.

That's enough postage to take it around the world three times.

She checked the schedule on the mail drop. The next pick up would be at 5:30 in the morning. Trembling, she slipped the precious letter into the slot and heard it softly thud at the bottom of the chute.

Oh, Lord. Please. Get it to Jon, somehow. I know it's a foolish request, but I've just got to tell him how much I love him. I know there's no way he'll ever receive it.

But God, nothing's impossible for You.

The recording studio was located on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. Betty squinted as she searched for the addresses posted on an assortment of nondescript stucco buildings. Finally she spotted the one she was looking for, turned into the lot, and parked the car. She looked around at the rundown area.

This is a weird neighborhood. What have I gotten myself into?

As she approached the front of the building, she encountered a locked door with no outside handle. She rang a bell, waited, and rang it again. She was just begin
ning to wonder if she'd made a terrible mistake by coming on the wrong day, or maybe by coming at all, when a long-haired youth opened the formidable entrance from the inside.