Chapter 17

“Hide,” Father MacClenny whispered, shoving Novas down the hall.

“Hide? Father, I’m going back into my room. You hide.”

He grabbed her as she opened her door. “Where? Help me.”

“In the rest room. Pick up an empty bucket. Pretend you are hauling up the water.”

He started away, but sprung back, grabbing her arm again. “Where do I get the water?”

“From the pump in the kitchen.” She sprung her arm free and disappeared behind her door.

Father MacClenny had an incredible urge to follow her, but lost his nerve and slipped into the rest room instead. He fumbled around until the fading light from the window was sufficient to see, and then found the buckets and picked up two of them. Although empty, they were heavy; the thick metal-banded wood weighed more than he thought it should. Not that he was going to carry them with water.

He turned just in time to get a lantern in his face. A grizzled man, almost as old as he, faced him. He balanced a rifle across his arm, but looked ready to shoot at a second’s notice.

“What are you doing up here?” The words cracked into Father MacClenny.

“Water,” he gasped. “For the sisters. I carry up their water each night. Too heavy for them.”

He lied. The sin of such a thing came pouring into him. He, a Father, a representative of Christ in this world, had just lied to cover himself, to save himself. He was Peter again, denying his Lord, just to save himself.

He expected to be either struck down or at least ordered to leave, but instead the grizzled man slipped the rifle over one shoulder and picked up the remaining two empty buckets with one had.

“Go,” he commanded, waving the lantern.

Carrying the buckets down the stairs was difficult, but they balanced and the Father managed the trip all the way to the kitchen. He set them down in the center, trying to catch his breath, and looked around. What did a pump look like? He had only been in the kitchen once or twice, as it was the domain of the sisters, so he had decided.

He studied the main sink, but only saw more buckets. The sink had no faucets. He could feel the sweat running down his neck as the old man waited and watched him. Over in a corner, almost out of the lantern light, he spotted it, or what he hoped was it. He picked up a bucket and moved in that direction.

The old man was suddenly in front of him. “I’ll pump; you hold.”

Hold? Hold the bucket as it filled with water? Father MacClenny could barely hold the bucket empty. He prayed for strength, but at the same time felt hopeless. He was about to be found out, if not already

“Stop!” The sound recoiled off his ears. He spun around, wondering whose voice it was. Sister Mary Sarah stood in the doorway, a long wooden stick in her hand. Was she going to hit someone with it?

“Father, you know you can’t carry water anymore. You are too old. And two buckets without the yoke, shame on you.” She took his bucket and set it in the basin under the pump. “Pump, please.”

The old man almost smiled as he expertly filled the bucket, then the second when the Sister replaced it. “You have carried water,” he said, pointing at the Sister. “He has not.”

Father MacClenny braced himself. This was it. His lie was now in the open. He readied himself for the consequences. Liars deserved punishment, and he would accept his.

Instead, the old man helped Sister Mary Sarah balance the yoke across her shoulders and slipped the buckets into place when she bent down. “Thank you,” she said, easily stood with the two full buckets, and left.

Father MacClenny gasped, watching her easily carry them away.

“You carry no water,” the grizzled man observed. “You sightseeing up there?”

“I was looking for…” Father MacClenny was not going to lie, but the truth was not an option either.

“Don’t worry, dear Father. You’re secret is safe with me.” The old man waved him out of the kitchen. “Living with six young women. No one believes you keep your pecker celebrate, or that they don’t care for all your needs.”

Outrage. Never had he been spoken to as such. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for such a situation. He had lied, and the sin was far greater punished then he could have imagined. He had not received physical wounds, as he had expected. No, the wounds were much worse, clear down into his soul. He had betrayed his calling and the consequences were more than he could bear. He retreated to his room at the other end of the mission, beyond the scores of men watching him run through the chapel. Once in his room, he fell on his bed and wept bitterly.

Car no trouble

Today was so much different.

Sailed again across the bridge, knocking five minutes off my trip from yesterday. Service guy said, "Good morning, Mr. Pelkey," and took my key.

"You know me?"

"Yeah, from last time. You look about the same." Last time was eight months ago. "Everything looks good. Be about an hour. Have some coffee at the bar, or soda and juice in the fridge."

"An hour?" That sounded good.

"Or more. Depends on what we find."

That sounded not good. He printed out something from my key.

"Was it 200 miles?"

"Don't know. Didn't check. We reset it anyway. Not something we track."

"Are you going to check my key settings?"

He scanned the computer. "The settings are the ones you asked for when you purchased the car."

Way too easy.

An hour later, he waved me in from the waiting room. "We did find a problem."

Here it comes.

"One of your wiper blades was slightly bent. Probably not doing a good job of wiping."

"Did you fix it?"

"Well, no."

Did he want money?

"We just replace them. Nothing to worry about." He must have seen the look on my face.

"Any other problems?" Just in case.

"The guy who washed and vaccumed your car found a bee jammed in your grill. Really jammed good. Had to blow it out with an air hose. Nothing else I can think of."

As he handed me my key, he said, "You got a nice little car there, Mr. Pelkey. You are keeping it in really good shape. Take the brakes, for instance. They start with a rating, we call 12. Normally we replace them about every 50,000 miles when they get down to a three. At 55,000 miles, your brakes are a 10. So, keep driving the way you are, and you will get 150,000 more miles on them. You are a good driver, Mr. Pelkey. Shows in the car. Everything is still like brand new. You should get another 150,000 miles out of your car with no trouble."

I'm a good driver. No one has ever told me that before. Brakes are a 1o. Never had anything that was a 10 before either.

I felt like I did when the Mariners scored 10 runs in the bottom of the ninth with two outs to win. Wait a minute. The Mariners have never done that. Now, I know how I would feel if they ever did.

Car Trouble

Today, I took my car to the BMW dealer for scheduled maintenance. Theoritically, this is supposed to happen every 15,000 miles. However, the scheduled maintenance odometer, kind of a reverse regular odometer, doesn't exactly function as theoritically as the car video describes it.

I had my first 15,000 mile maintenance at 17,000 miles, the second at 36,000 miles. The odometer trotted across 55,000 miles and reversing thing still had 600 to go, meaning the 15,000 miles was going to be well over 19,000 miles. So, what? I'm a good driver and have boring roads to travel. The county where I live has so much unemployment (largest industry is self employment - meth labs), no one is on the road at 6:30 in the morning when I go to work. Or 6:30 in the evening when I come home.

The exciting thing about going to the BMW dealer is the 40 mile drive to Fife, which from the West Sound is like a journey. All traffic is funneled into a single bridge, which is turning into two bridges over a ten year construction period with the approach roadways shoved off to one side while they construct. Anyway, it takes about an hour to go the last five miles, either way, during "rush" hour. (Which can be all 24 hours even on Sunday.)

This morning was an exception, smooth sailing. Like everyone is practing for Memorial Day by taking a three day weekend (to go with the four day weekend next week). So, something had to be wrong. Something was.

BMWs can be researched through the key. It is like a laptop inside there. The dealer can set my radio volume, automatic window swishing, daytime lights, and a bunch of other stuff I don't know is happening, all in the key. It tells them how many miles I have driven each day since I've owned the car.

First comment: "You still have 300 miles to go before your maintenance."

"I know. I told the appointment person I had 600 miles left last Saturday and would be driving 500 miles by this Saturday. But she said I had to come in on Friday as it was all day maintenance instead of half day, so I would only be driving 400 miles. She said 200 miles was OK. And that you would provide a loaner."

"But it says 300 miles."

"I drove it 400 miles. I can't help if the reverse odometer thing doesn't go backward as fast as the forward odometer thing."

"You are correct. You did drive 400 miles since Saturday."

My key vindicated me. Now I know why it is important to be able to tell how many miles I have driven each day since birth.

"However, you scheduled yourself for the fourth maintenance. You have only driven far enough for the third maintenance, just an oil change."

Now, I didn't schedule myself for anything. I said my name, my car, my 55,000 miles, all answers to questions. The schedule person assumed I was beating up my car and the 60,000 mile maintenance was early.

He went off to see his manager. One of those back room things. Now, BMWs don't have back room price guys, you know, the ones the sales guys says has to bless your such a deal, break the car dealer sale. BMWs don't even have stickers. You print out what you want on the internet, with the MSRP, the dealer has it or finds it or builds it, and you drive away. So, the backroom guy is for maintenance.

He comes back. "We can't give you a car for a two hour maintenance. But we can perform the maintenance if you are willing to wait, even with 300 miles left."

"How long?"

"Two hours."

Wait a minute. It was their idea I come in on Friday, their odometer thing that doesn't go backward fast enough, and my crummy job that doesn't allow for two hour do nothing Fridays.

"How about if I come back tomorrow? I'll be under 200 miles and I won't be late for work."

They loved it. No rules broken.

So, I'm going back tomorrow. Will have to drive the senic route, as the trip from Fife to Olympia, 35 miles, and the trip from Olympia to Allyn, 40 miles, has only reduced the reverse odometer thing 50 miles.

The next thing said was the best. "Remember to get new tires within the next 5,000 miles."

"New tires?"

"Yes, the tires on your car are rated for 30,000 miles; sports tires have lower mileage. You must have replaced the tires by now."

"Yeah, I replaced them at 54,000 miles, so they have 1,000 miles on them. "

"Amazing," he said, and asked for my key back. He wanted to enter the date I got new tires and the mileage into my laptop.

While programming my key, he asked. "Sure you don't want to activate your window wipers?"

"No."

"Your daytime running lights?"

"No."

"Your radio volume?"

"No."

"Your..."

"No."

He sighed, and gave me my key back. I'll probably get to hear it all again tomorrow.

Carrie vs. Bo

OK, Bo is good. The polish of performing is showing and firing the musicians for a song didn't hurt. Unless Carrie or Vonzell have a sudden impact in voting, Bo looks like he's in the driver's seat, his title to win or lose. A

Not that Carrie is bad or anything. I would buy all three songs she sang, well two anyway. She just didn' t show the polish Bo showed. But I like her voice much better, and hope she puts out some oldies, like Crying and Making Love...(which is one of my all time favorite songs) when she gets into the song sales business. A-

Vonzell probably could hold her own against Fantasia. This is a different series and maybe she is a season late. She didn't knock out all three songs as did Bo and Carrie, and the quality is a shade less. Maybe her fan base will save her, but it won't be because she is a top two. B

I will be surprised if Carrie isn't in the final two. I will be amazed if Bo isn't. I will be both surprised and amazed, plus disappointed if Vonzell is.

Boo hiss Ian. Won the all time Survivor dumber than a brick award. Needs to watch Rob and Amber reruns and get a clue. yay, tom. ra, ra, ra.

Chapter 16

Novas gawked at the face staring back at her from inside her bed. Stefen. How did he get there?

She had been herded into the kitchen with the other sisters and left under guard while the soldiers searched the mission. With the excuse of getting something from the storage room, which had no other exit, she found the mattress shoved in between two shelves, and looking like it had been there for months. But, no sheet, and no Stefen.

One of the other sisters joined her. “I came, soon as we heard the men. No one here. I took the bucket and pan. You were with him Sister Mary Sarah?”

“No,” Novas replied. “I don’t know where he is either.”

“No one will believe you. Being a sister means you should not lie, even to save yourself.”

Novas didn’t care much for the sister, and nothing was changing her opinion. “I didn’t lie. I don’t know where he is.”

They were interrupted by a soldier, who waved them back into the kitchen with his weapon.

Now, hours later, they had all been sent to bed, with the understanding the men would not come up, and they were not to go down until the morning.

“We give you this space, between us and you. Upstairs is yours. If you come down without permission, we come up.”

Well, she wasn’t about to go down stairs, at least not until now.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. But it was no good, he did not understand.

“Tehpoe?” he asked, a word they both knew.

She make her fingers on one hand chase a single finger on the other hand. “Gone.”

He tried to nod, as much as he could do between the mattress and the board. “Gone.”

When he wouldn’t look directly at her, but down the bed, she realized when bending over, her nightgown hung open, providing him a clear view of her breasts, even in the dim evening light. And having recognized the view, he now looked away to protect her modesty. She wore only a light cotton baggy nightgown, which stopped well above her knees. And she realized he could not be wearing anything except the sheet. Didn’t matter under the circumstances. “Screw modesty,” she said. Not that he would understand her.

She lifted up the mattress, confirming that he was indeed naked, and motioned for him to get out. She tried not to look, but he was a guy, and under better circumstances, probably a very well built one. And, despite the circumstances, one part seemed to be building. Now it was her turn to look away. “Sorry,” she whispered. Not that she was.

His efforts to move out from under the mattress failed, and she ended up sliding it to the floor. She realized he had spent too much time trying to balance it, and he arms and legs did not work, partly from exhaustion, and partly from the lack of circulation.

Ignoring his condition and state of dress, she worked one arm until it started moving on its own, and switched to the other with the splint. The second one took longer, and the pain she was inflicting on him trying to get it to work altered his state, and lessoned her concern about what men in her bed, even badly damaged men, might want to do.

When she moved to his legs, the situation reversed itself, and she smiled despite herself and the conditions. She took care to study his face, not the rest of him, but could not help but wonder at the state of affairs they were in, she sitting on a bed in a short nightgown, while manipulating a naked man’s legs. She had never in her life even imagined such a sight.

Eventually, the circulation came back, and he was able to sit. She pulled his sheet out from under him and wrapped it around him for a cover. Not that she had failed to memorize him first. He was circumcised, which had to mean something. Not that she was certain of what. He also seemed embarrassed that she had seen him. And he also was looking at her, not in a brotherly fashion either.

“Sister,” she pointed at herself. “Mary Sarah.” She left him to figure out what she meant.

“Mary Sarah?” The words lingered after her through the door as she closed it behind her.

Out in the hallway, she leaned against a wall, trying to catch her breath and focus. She was a sister, dedicated to serving Christ and not men, ever. He was a man, in terrible condition, uncertain if he would even live very long. He was in her bed, naked, which somehow played into the situation, although she wasn’t exactly certain how. They had soldiers downstairs, violating their mission, occupying their home. And she felt giddy, like a schoolgirl on her first date.

Her thoughts were disturbed by a creak in the steps. Someone was coming, and trying to be silent. She thought about retreating into her room, but decided to face whoever was coming. The lights from below, their precious lanterns wasting what little fuel they had, gave her enough light to see and be seen. The someone reached the top and peered around the corner. She breathed a sigh, and stepped forward.

“Father MacClenny, what are you doing up here?” she demanded.

“Sister Mary Sarah, our mission is overrun with military men.”

“Father, I know that. What has it to do with you being up here?

“They haven’t captured Stefen yet. He has to be here somewhere. I’m going to rescue him. Save him.”

“And how are you going to do that when you don’t know where he is?”

Before he could answer her, they were interrupted by someone at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s going on up there?” the voice demanded, and started up.

I did it.

It isn't the photo that one copies and pastes, it is the link to the photo. Slow and dumb still conquers once in a while.

It's all in the pan

I am a lousy cook, or was anyway. Probably still am when compared to semi-bald guys like Emirl. But, I'm getting better in my old age. While shopping at Safeway last month, I stumbled onto a pan sale thing, with the feature pan of the week. As I'm not crazy about my pans, and the most important one lost its handle in the early 80's, I decided to buy a new one, or two. Castilon. The good thing about the pan was the cooking instructions on the bottom. Like greasing it for instance.

So, what to cook in my new pan? Tried my egg and cheese scrambled/omlet (almost) thing. I knew something was different when the eggs started to firm up the second they hit the pan. No medal utinsuls allowed, so I tried a rubber spatula, now a crooked rubber blog spatula. So, don't hold it too long in one spot. Anyway, the eggs came out better, didn't even have to flip them around, and the cheese, butter, and a couple of spices mixed together really nice.

Enboldened with my success of the past two or three weeks, yesterday I tackled a steak I got in a two for one sale at Safeway. Rancher's delight or something like that. Rancher's Roost? Whatever. Trying to make like the semi bald guy, I put a little Lowery's sauce on it, some pepper (did remember to use a touch of Wesson to moisten the pan first) and hoped for the best. Found a lid from another fry pan to see if covering mattered. Anyway, the thing cooked up in five-six minutes, with me flipping it with my trusty blog spatula only about five or ten times. So, done and ready to eat with my microwave spud and ready to mix salad (romaine, eggs, olivies, parmasion ((so I can't spell)) cheese, crutons, Italian dressing) .

Sunk my teeth into the first bite and almost fainted. IT WAS SO GOOD! Like the steak you get at some place with a second mortgage form pre-filled and waiting for you when you pay. Only even better because I cooked it.

I did it. I cooked something so good I'm not afraid to blog about it. Take that, bald guy, Martha Stewart (does she cook or just make doilies?), and all of those snottly, expensive chiefs. For one day, one bite anyway, I am just as good as you are.

Chapter 15

Sweat dripped across Stefen’s face, as he felt his arms and legs start to shake. Only a matter of a few more minutes and he would have to give it up. The rebels had searched the room around him, even throwing the clothing out of the tiny closet onto the bed, but it was hours before, and he was in better shape then. If lying with two broken feet and a broken arm equated to being in any kind of shape.

In the storage room, he had awakened to the sound of marching, that low, even rhythm he had heard in the camps where he had been held captive. Only here, it had a different meaning. Not drilling, but real marching. When it stopped, he decided to make whatever move he could.

He tucked himself into the sheet as best he could, leaving his legs free, and crawled off the mattress. He pulled it to the wall between shelves and folded it as best he could. Using a broom for a crutch, he managed to stand, then walk on the splint with the lesser of the two broken feet. It wasn’t easy; he almost passed out, but it couldn’t be helped. This world wasn’t big enough for a white European to be able to hide in, and the concept of ransom seemed all compelling. He had been sold twice with that as the intention, the buyer swindled each time when his home country refused to pay.

After swirling the dust around the floor as best he could, he shook the broom off over the rolled up mattress. Maybe it would look like it had been sitting there for awhile. He moved the broom to the other side of the storage room, disassociation was as important as any other means of disguise, and gave up walking. He didn’t have much time, but he had to find a much better place to hide.

He toyed with the idea of crawling outside, but had no idea if the mission was fenced in. The front had high walls; maybe the back did too. His only other option was somewhere in the building. He had seen the stairway and headed toward that, just as the first of the commotion commenced outside.

Crawling up the stairs was very difficult. He knees ached before he was half way up, and his feet were in agony. He didn’t give up, but doubted he could evade the makers of the marching and shouting for very long. Still…

The top of the stairs revealed a hallway going in both directions, to what appeared to be dead ends. He counted eight doors facing the front, six on one side, and two on the other. Four doors faced the back. He crawled to the first door facing the back, but it was locked. The second door opened into a bathroom, with a sink, toilet, and a dozen buckets lining a wall. The commode was normal looking except the top was open. He noticed no pipes led in and realized what the buckets were for. Hopefully, if they used the water to wash in, it was good enough to drink. He pulled himself to his feet and was able to look out a high window. The wall confirmed his fear, at least eight feet high and impossible for him to climb. He did note the tiny back gate, but crawling across the 100 or so feet would be both torture and a dead giveaway. He turned back to the situation at hand. What to do? Drink something.

He remembered to drink just a little, and used the commode, a relief after months of just squatting. However, he could hear the noise spread below and realized he had wasted valuable time. He would have to leave everything as was, for pouring water into the commode would most likely trigger sounds below. After giving up on finding anything that even remotely looked like a hiding place, he gave up and crawled across the hall to the center room facing the front, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The room was sparse, a bed, closet, dresser with a bowl on top, and little else. The closet was tiny and walled in all sides. No hope. The dresser was also too small to be of use. He pulled himself up to the window and immediately ducked. The front entrance was full rebels, the same uniforms of those who had been the captors previous to Tehpoe. Not good. They were the worst of the three groups, and the ones who had broken his feet.

He could hear footsteps on the stairway. It was only a matter of time now, seconds perhaps. No place to hide. No escape through the window. No point going under the bed, the most obvious place. But, also the only place.

As he tried to slip under, while trying to grip the mattress, he found an odd discovery hidden under the almost floor length sheet. Between the mattress, slightly saggy, and some of the worse looking springs ever, someone had inserted a board, about as think as plywood, but not exactly that. Must be too many sprung springs. However, it gave him an idea. Carefully, as to make as little noise as possible, he slid under the mattress, losing the sheet, but using it to help hide him. He tried to balance the mattress as evenly as possible by holding it up with his hands and feet to a point level with his chest, not easy, as it seemed to float left and right. Finally, he got it to sit still. However, his efforts had pulled more of the sheet over the edge, and ruined the perfectly made bed.

Not good. The sisters were beyond immaculate, nothing ever out of place. Even the buckets were lined up carefully, each a finger width from the wall. But, someone was opening the door. Too late to fix anything.

He could hear the sound of drawers opening, then someone dumping clothing from the closet onto the bed. He saw dirty fingers grip the bed inches from his face as the rebel looked under the bed. He held his breath, not daring to even think, and hoped he tiring arms and legs wouldn’t give up. They didn’t, and after some muttering, the rebel left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Stefen tried to relax, but couldn’t. Any second someone could reenter for a last look. Even when he could hear footsteps retreating down the stairs, he didn’t move. Making give up sounds while planting a silent spy had to be one of the best ploys in the business.

It could have been minutes or hours, he had no idea. His feet had long since given up, too tired and too much pain to continue. It meant the mattress angled slightly down toward the foot, but couldn’t be helped.

He thought about sliding out, and was almost in motion when the door opened again. He had not heard any noise, and his suspicions were rewarded. They had left a spy.

However, the spy wasn’t spying, but was hanging up the clothing, while muttering louder than the rebel had. Maybe he was wrong, and this was someone else. One of the sisters? He couldn’t even attempt to check. But, what if the sister decided it was time for bed? Other than him screaming in agony, the bed swirling around would be a giveaway.

When the sheet was pulled away, he had to make his move. He could see a bare leg, but couldn’t touch it without letting go of the mattress. He doubted his arms would move anyway, having been locked in place for who knew how long. But he had to try. His first attempt didn’t generate anything, but using his knees, he managed to move the mattress just before the sister climbed on

His worse fear was a scream, but instead he heard a gasp, and found a face looking at him, inches away. His angel.

Anthony

One of the difficult parts of a diminishing contestant "reality" show is the diminishing contestants. Although Anthony probably was the weakest and least marketable of the four remaining singers, he still brought a personality out that I will miss. The concept of people being on television and at the same time being regular usually is non-existant by now, with the promised hype of being a "star" taking over. Anthony appeared to be just about the same guy as in the audition as he was in the end. He didn't get plastic.

Perhaps none of them got plastic. But, with the exception of Constantine, after they were gone for a week, they were out of mind along with the out of sight. The show is too close to the end for Anthony to be out of sight. Must be hard to lose so close, but at the same time, surprising to make it so far.

Would I buy an Anthony CD? Doubtful, as I don't buy all that much music. But, despite that, I hope he does well, when he doesn't have to compete for a share of the attention, and can really be himself singing, maybe he will shine.

Would I buy Bo's? Nose. I can listen to some Boxtop oldies if I want to hear his kind of voice.

Would I buy Vonzell's? Probably not, although I think she sounds better than Whitney singing Whitney. Maybe when she sings Vonzell, she'll sound even better.

Would I buy Carrie's? I really don't care much for country. But...maybe she can mix a bit in and I'll feel better when I buy one. Provided she produces one. Will see.

Would I buy Constantine's? Only if he skipped the rock and sang what he is good at. What is the chance of that?

American Upchuck

Probably the worst American Idol production in their four years. The producers should vote themselves out. One would think with a zillion songs, they could come up with more than three for the Philly sound. I didn't think Idol could mimic Survivor kicking off Janu for ratings. Maybe Carrie was running away with it and they needed to level the playing field. However, they didn't have to pee on the playing field to level it.

Carrie had the best song and the worst song. In both instances she was way more and less than the others. Why in the world did they think her second song was a singable arrangement? It had to have stunk in the practices. And then to have poor Anthony look like he was exploiting a bad situation? Reminded me of WWW wrestling. FIXED!!

Bo must be short for Bo-ring, which is what his first song was. His second song was not loud enough to hear the first half over the background, but he appeared to be singing it OK. Again, Fixed? Vonzell blubbered through her first song. She did better with the second song, but not that much better. Anthony had the most consistant performance. But, he is probably the worst singer, by far. They should have fixed it the week Constantine was voted off. I think he could have easily beaten them all this week.

Carrie gets and A+ and an F-. C?
Bo gets a D+ and a B-. Another C?
Vonzell gets a D and a C+. Still another C?
Anthony gets a B- and a B+. Does that make him the best singer?

Bottom two, if they still count it like last week: Vonzell, Anthony
Going, going, gone: probably Anthony. But I said that last week.

Chapter 14

Father MacClenny awoke to a prickly feeling in his neck, and amost ended his life when the face causing the feeling appeared inches away. He jumped, but fortunately, the face and the knife also jumped, and he was left with only a slight slice across his throat. The knife came right back, and he froze, making air sounds instead of words.

“Dis ‘em?” the knife welder asked.

“He’s the priest, you idiot. "

Although he could not see the speaker without moving, and he couldn’t move, Father MacClenny decided whoever it was must be the leader, and was rewarded with the knife holder removed his knife, leaving another mark, much smaller than the first one.

The leader, a uniformed military man, strode into view, pulled the Father to his feet, and demanded, “Where is he?”

“Where is who?” He had no idea who the military man could possibly want.

Instead of an answer, the military man sneered in his face. “Let’s see, Father. You got three men in this place. The first man, Nyeayea, I think his name was, decided to lie about this other man. So, he has new air conditioning in his chest. The second man is you. The third man, we want. Where is he? Now, Father.”

The dentist, he wanted the dentist. “In the storage room.” It came out before he even had a chance to think.

“Wrong. He was in the storage room. He isn’t there anymore. Where, Father?”

“I don’t know.” The knife man moved forward. “He can’t be far; he has two broken legs…feet.”

“Good going, Father. Maybe you will make it though this yet.”

The military man motioned the knife man back and let go of the Father, who fell back onto his bed. He tried to stand again, but only managed to sit, shaking.

“Who are you? You don’t sound like someone…”

The military man snapped his finger, silencing the Father. “Someone from the sticks of little ol’ Africa. Hardly. I’m from Bakersfield. Heard of it?”

Father MacClenny nodded.

“My grandfather, however, was born about 200 miles north of here. French Something Africa they called it then. Now, it’s home.”

He barked out some orders in a language Father MacClenny didn’t follow. The man with the knife left, and the Father could hear scrambling in the adjacent rooms.

“The sisters?” he asked.

“Safe and sound, tucked in the kitchen. All six of them, right?”

“Yes, six.”

“And your housekeeper, or whatever, I sent her home.” He laughed at the Father’s stricken look. “No, not home to Jesus, just home. The seven of you, and the two hundred of us. Although we did have to split up, so only about 100 of us. The rest are looking for a friend of yours. Tehpoe? Know where he is?”

Father MacClenny shook his head. “He doesn’t tell us where he…” He stopped at another burst of laughter.

The military man ambled to the door. “You don’t know, Father. I’ll take your word for it." He paused and cracked a smile. "God, Father, you’d be fun to torture. Wave, say, a hot poker in your face. And we’d know how many times you jacked off and how many strokes it took each time. You’re a gem, Father.”

The military man left the Father shivering with perspiration. He tried to stand, but knew it was no use. He had no strength left.

He attempted to focus on the situation. He was the only man to face 100 rebels, with only six others, all women, to depend on. For what? “Why, God,” he asked. “Why now? What do you want of me?”

Nyeayea was dead. Not that he was going to miss the little coward. Who was he to call someone a coward? He was far worse. He couldn’t even stand up to Sister Mary Sarah.

Sudden terror struck him. The sister. The military man said six, so he would have her. If he knew the dentist was here, he would know the sister was American. He would have two for ransom. And who knows what else? And, most puzzling, where was the dentist? Stefen? He couldn’t walk. But, they hadn’t found him yet, as the noise of searching still filled the mission.

Hope.

He prayed, “Save us,” and left it at that. Summoning all of his strength, he stumbled out of bed and to his closet for something to wear. He had no idea of what he could do. But, the military man left him alone, so he would do something.

Americans for Idolness

Getting closer to the end.

Anthony didn't impress, although I thought he was better than given credit for. C+

Scott should have been gone two weeks ago, but again he wasn't the worst. B-

Vonzell is in danger, but it wasn't from her singing. "When you tell me that you love me" was the best performance of the night, despite Simon's poopy comments. A+

Bo rocks. So why sing "Stand by me?" I guess because he can. Nice job. A-

Carrie rocks too; I really enjoyed her first song. And from the second song, she has a versitility that may not be matched in this competition. A

Anthony, Scott, and Vonzell may be in the bottom three, but only Anthony appears in danger. Based on singing, two weeks from now the final bottom three should be Vonzell, Bo, and Carrie.

I miss Constantine.

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 12 (revised ending)

Stefen. He was in danger. Of what, she didn’t know, but the alarm sounded inside. If they found him…

She ran through the back door to the kitchen and into the storage room, now empty. He was gone.


CHAPTER 13

Not only was he gone, no sign indicated he ever existed. The floor was swept recently; Novas could see the swirls of a straw broom in the dust. The bedding was gone too, and the remenants of Stefen’s clothing. She found the bucket for water returned to it’s normal position and the pan he had used scrubbed up and drying on a counter.

The noise coming from the front continued, and now grew louder as whoever making it came closer to the kitchen. They were searching the mission, usually off limits to all military. Even Tephoe had not set foot inside. This group was not so concerned about honoring their mission status as religious and non-participants in any uprising or war effort. Maybe they were Moslim and the Catholic mission meant nothing. Maybe they were of no religion and nothing meant nothing.

Novas shuttered. Rumors of sisters being killed and worse first were not uncommon in Africa, although they had not been specifically threatened. However, she thought of Tephoe’s three week agreement assumed with Father MacClenny. Could this group be searching for the same thing? And taking the sisters as they found them? No, the sounds were not of screams or fights, just of demands and shuffling around. And they were heading into the kitchen.

Novas slipped out the back door, debating with running through the back gate or climbing to the roof. She discarded the gate idea as Stefen had to be somewhere inside. The mission kept water basins to catch rainfall on the roof, and she could always say she was cleaning them in preparation for the next season. Sisters were always cleaning something, so it wouldn’t be a blatant lie.

She climbed the ladder to the roof, and for a moment felt safe from the outside. She grabbed a cloth from cabinet kept for storage and swirled it around an empty basin. It was instantly black from the dust of several weeks of no rain. While pretending to clean, she surveyed the surroundings. Here she could see into the town, now virtually empty, the soldiers or whatever they were milling around in front of the mission, and that she had forgotten to close the back gate. And, unfortunately, they could see her.

The soldiers pointed and started yelling. It wasn’t English, so her Moslim theory was beginning to make sense. Whoever they were yelling at was yelling back from inside. Someone fired a gun, and she instinctively ducked.

“Get down here, now.”

The words were English and cut worse than the gunfire. She peeked over the edge by the ladder while pretending to flap the cleaning cloth, and saw she was the object of the command. Bunching her robe for modesty, she slowly made her way to the ground, the dirty cloth over her shoulder.
The soldier giving the command grabbed her at the end of her decent. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Cleaning the basins, sir. To get them ready for rain.”

“It is months before rain. You are lying.”

“Basins cleaned weekly are ready should the season begin early.”

“Or, you are hiding, say a European recently left in your care? A dentist?”

He turned and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a group of men stepped forward. Novas cringed when she saw Nyeayea among them, smiling at something one of them said. So, they weren’t Muslims, but northern tribesmen. When did they get organized?

“Where is this man you care for?” Nyeayea asked, looking directly into her eyes, something he never did.

“I don’t know which man you are reffering to,” she stamered in reply. “What is his name?” She was certain Nyeayea could not know it.

Nyeayea was stopped, but only for an instant. “His name does not matter. You know who we want, the one’s whose broken arm and legs you just fixed. Is he up there? I say he is.” The smile was worse, with malice and anger replacing the fear Nyeayea usually presented himself with.

“If this man had broken arms and legs, he could not climb.”

The man facing her, apparently in charge of the soldiers, cut off the conversation and sent one of his men up the ladder. Nyeayea’s smile soured when he heard whatever the soldier shouted down. Novas knew it had to be verifying her claim.

Nyeayea spotted the opened back gate. “She took him through the gate. I will get him.” He took off running toward the opening and almost made it, before a single shot rang out, crumpling him to the ground.

The officer holstered his pistol and barked some commands. Several soldiers trotted toward the fallen man, flipped him over onto his stomach, and took turns stabbing him. Then they drug him though the gate and disappeared.

The officer faced Novas. “He said wherever we found you, we would find the dentist. Obviously, he lied. Do you lie too?” he asked, fingering his pistol.

“I don’t know where this man you speak of is. I do not lie.”

“It is good. Religious people lying, well it would give religions a bad name, don’t you think?” He grabbed her arm.

“What do you want?” Novas asked, trying to shake his hand off without success.

“World peace?” He laughed at his attempt of a joke. “But, lacking that, I want you.”