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That evening, Brad Williams stretched out full length on the bed in Room 321 with a glass of water in one hand, and an ice pack in the other.
He pressed the ice to his swollen jaw, swirled the water between his teeth, and closed his eyes. To judge by the way his jaw was throbbing, he was sure that he was now the proud owner of a hairline fracture. He hoped with all his heart that the other guy had at least a broken tooth.
Although, to be fair, that guy had probably been one of the Duchess’ slaves and had just been trying to protect her.
He inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes against a new wave of pain.
His cell phone buzzed suddenly, and he would’ve ignored it, but the name on the display read Delores Watkins. He cursed but pressed the phone gingerly to his good ear.
“Hello?”
Delores’ musky voice rumbled through the speaker. “Hello, wonder boy. How’s life in the green hill country?”
“Great,” he mumbled sardonically.
“How’s your story coming?”
“Here’s my headline for today,” he mumbled. “Amish People Hate Us.”
“That’s cute,” Delores commiserated. “Meanwhile, did you notice that Channel 1 snagged an interview with the girl’s lawyer?”
“I saw.”
“Is that all you can say?”
Brad inhaled again. “For the moment.”
“What’s wrong with your voice? You sound like you’ve got cotton in your mouth.”
“I got slugged.”
“Hmmm.” Delores’ voice sounded strangely unsurprised. “Well, be sure to ice it down tonight, because I don’t want you looking like a piece of beef tomorrow. You’re the face of the paper right now.”
“You’re all heart, Delores.”
The other shoe suddenly dropped. Brad could practically see the light dawning on the other end of the line. “—Tell me the truck is still in one piece, Brad!”
Brad groaned and hissed: “Sssss -—the pain! I have to go, Delores – can’t talk anymore!”
He pressed a button, tossed the cell phone weakly onto the bed, and took another careful sip.
The cold drink made him suck in air, and grimace. Every muscle in his body ached, and his jaw throbbed. He was as muscular as the next guy, in fact he’d been told that he had a very nice body. He’d had plenty of energy last year in high school. He was something of an athlete; he’d pitched on the baseball team, he’d dated a bevy of girls, he’d hardly slept.
But something about this business today had drained him. Maybe it was the excitement of seeing the Duchess close up – as goofy as that sounded – and the adrenalin rush of a near-death experience.
But no matter where it came from, the charge he’d been running on was wearing off. He had to admit to himself that he was exhausted.
That dark-haired guy had nailed him with a dead-on shot to the chops. His ears were still ringing. Even the arm he’d used to block the second shot ached.
Of course, blasting across more than an acre of brambles, at top speed, with the Duchess’ father right at his heels had cost him a little something, too. He felt as if he could sleep for a week.
He closed his eyes, and tried to relax. His hotel room was quiet, and thankfully, he had no near neighbors. The only sound he could hear was the faint chirp of birds outside, calling to each other as the light faded.
Gradually, the pain in his jaw receded enough for him to drift off into a twilight sleep. The Duchess was in his arms again, but this time, she wasn’t impatient, and didn’t try to pull away. The sound of her dulcet voice whispered in his ear. She was still angry, she was still telling him to beat it, but she was doing it in such a soft voice that even “get lost” sounded hot.
He dozed for a few hours, and when he woke up again, it was early evening. The sky outside was dim, and lights shimmered over the blue pool water.
He sighed and stretched. He couldn’t remember what he had dreamed, if he had dreamed anything, but for some strange reason—he woke up thinking about what happened to you, when you died.
For the first time in his life, he wondered if he really might—as several people had suggested – be headed to hell.
He remembered the Duchess’ angry eyes, and hoped devoutly that the decision wasn’t up to her. He reached for the glass on the bedside table, and took another sip.
He’d never really given an afterlife any serious consideration, and probably wouldn’t have now, except that he was in Amish country, where they thought about that sort of thing all the time. Plus, he had almost been murdered that afternoon, and it was sort of a reminder that he could, well—actually die.
The thought was creepy, and he shook it off, but it was persistent.
What would happen to him, if he died?
Nothing, probably – he’d just cease to exist. Or at least, he’d always assumed that was true. Neither of his parents had made any mention of what they thought on the subject, and since they’d both been deadbeats, he wouldn’t have paid attention if they had. Brad took another careful sip of his water.
His friends at school hadn’t talked about it, either. He’d assumed that they were agnostics, like he was himself; at any rate, they lived as if they didn’t believe in any God. Even the religious kids at school had been pretty much like everyone else—no important difference that he’d noticed.
Jemima was the only person he’d ever known who acted like she really believed all that religious stuff. She was the only person he’d even heard of who would give away half a million dollars of her own money, without spending a dime of it on herself.
That was pretty crazy, when he thought about it. But also – he had to admit it – pretty amazing, too.
Of course, Jemima hated him right now, and maybe she had a right to hate him. In his own defense, he really had believed that getting rich would be great for her, but maybe it hadn’t been so great after all – at least for an Amish girl, who wasn’t into things. Maybe it had just complicated her life.
And maybe she was even right about his motives. Maybe he had used her, a little, to get a job at the paper. Another pain hit him suddenly. It was sharp, and deep, but this pain wasn’t in his jaw. It felt like it was somewhere under his ribcage, somewhere too deep to soothe with an ice pack.
Jemima had accused him of lying, and using her, and not caring about what she thought, or wanted, or even needed. She had called him everything except a child of God.
He twisted his lip. Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t one.
He glanced over at the bedside table. He’d noticed that someone had stuck a Bible in the top drawer, and he reached out and opened it.
It was a plain brown book. It looked inexpensive, and it was written in some impenetrable medieval dialect.
But he opened it anyway. He’d heard of it all his life, but had never cracked it open before.
He flipped through it idly, and stopped at a random point near the front. The text read:
“And the Lord said unto me, Say unto them. Go not up, neither fight; for I am not among you; lest ye be smitten before your enemies.
“So I spake unto you; and ye would not hear, but rebelled against the commandment of the Lord, and went presumptuously up into the hill.
“And the Amorites, which dwelt in that mountain, came out against you, and chased you, as bees do, and destroyed you in Seir, even unto Hormah.”
Brad pinched his lips into a straight line, looked up at the ceiling, and hurriedly flipped the book closed again, as if he’d been stung.
