No Pit So Deep: The Cody Musket Story (20 page)

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was at the bridge on the outskirts of the Afghan village — cries of death, the stench of hell.

“Phillips? Chavez? Where are you? Secure the children! That’s an order!”

His ungainly commands were but hollow echoes against the battered walls of the smoke-filled apartment —
none present or accounted for.

He coughed again as he clung to the edge of the coffee table and pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled toward the entryway until he saw an overturned sofa that had been obliterated by scalding bullets. Somehow it looked familiar.
How did it get here?

Then the clamor in his head ceased. It was replaced by a coughing, gurgling sound that made him shudder. He moved forward slowly with weapon raised. Two men wearing black ski masks were lying on the floor. One was not moving. The other was thrashing back and forth, covered with blood, his hands wrapped around his own neck. Cody bent over and moved the bloody hands of the wounded man away from his throat to take a look. Blood spurted forth from a gaping bullet hole.

The thrashing and gurgling stopped. Cody unmasked them. Who were they? Why were they in this room? Why did everything here look familiar? This was just another of his nightmares. Wasn’t it?

In the distance, he heard a single child crying and coughing. It sounded at least fifty meters away at first, and then just a few feet. The ringing in his ears was like a fire alarm, but he recognized the cough, didn’t he?

Cody tracked in the direction of the child. He stumbled upon another masked individual lying face down in a pool of blood. Something then latched onto his left knee.

“
Knoxi!”
The toddler was trying to crawl up his leg. “Knoxi, what are you doing way out here? This is no place for you!”

Then someone else coughed at his six. He wheeled around and spotted Brandi on the floor in the kitchen. His senses returned.

He lifted Knoxi and tried to look her over for injuries, but examining her was impossible because she clung to him so tightly. He did not know the fate of the others as he raced into the kitchen to check on Brandi. She was still crouched against the wall, motionless. Hadn’t she just coughed? Was she dead?

“Brandi? Brandi, it’s me.”

She looked up in disbelief. “Cody! Oh, Cody!” She scooted forward and latched onto his knees. Still dazed, she pushed her fingers through the burn hole in his jeans above his right knee and then gazed upward for an explanation.

“Here. Take Knoxi. She has blood on her, but I don’t think it’s hers. I’m gonna check on your mom and dad. Brandi? Can you get up? Are you hurt?” He lifted her up with his free hand and hurriedly scanned her from head to toe.
No blood. Thank God!

From the end of the hallway, Whitney screamed,
“Somebody help! Call 911. My husband is shot!”

Strobes and beacons reflected upward into a low-hanging haze. An eerie, flashing, flickering glow hovered over the steel city. Emergency lights, sirens, crackly radio sounds, but it wasn’t the president who had been attacked. It was Brandi and the Babe.

In the wee hours, Pitt-Sinai Medical Center was lit up like daytime, swarming with federal and local law enforcement officers. News teams with cameras lined the streets.

Whitney was sitting with Ray in a recovery room under heavy police protection. The surgical team had removed a bullet from Ray’s shoulder. The prognosis was good. Neither his shoulder joint nor internal organs had been injured seriously.

Brandi and her toddler had been escorted to a grand hospital suite while Cody remained at the apartment giving a detailed report to police and FBI agents.

This suite was the best hospital facility Brandi had ever seen, with two rooms — one for a patient and the other for family. The family room had two double beds and two foldout couches. The bathroom was L-shaped, with two showers and a whirlpool. The other bath, situated on the patient side, was the typical hospital type — utilitarian.

Brandi’s throat felt like she had swallowed sandpaper. It was ragged from inhaling the gritty cloud in the apartment. She battled nausea and tried to calm Knoxi. The toddler had not ceased crying since the attack.

The sudden pandemonium of guns and smoke, discharges of more than a hundred rounds, and the sight of blood and human remains spotting the walls were more than Brandi’s system could handle in one evening.

Her bruises from the theater attack were still painful, and her head was splitting. Ringing in their ears would not go away. Knoxi was cold and shaking. Mother and daughter coughed intermittently.

After a warm shower with Knoxi, Brandi dressed in scrubs provided by the hospital and then collapsed on one of the double beds. She wrapped her daughter in a blanket and cuddled with her. They finally dozed.

Whitney had insisted that Cody be allowed to stay with the Barnes family. When he at last dragged himself through the door, Knoxi awoke and reached for him.

Brandi sat up and stared. His eyes resembled those of a relic statue, his face deathly, ashen. Bloodstained head to foot, he labored just to put one leg in front of the other while making his way toward the bathroom door.

Brandi’s life was a train wreck — attacked twice in one week? When would she wake up from this nightmare? The words of Dupree haunted her —
These guys are part of something much bigger.

Cody and Ray had made them pay this time, but what about next time? Her crusade against the traffickers had come at a steep price.

She struggled to her feet, moved over to the window, and raised the wooden shades. Outside, the light of a full moon was washed out amidst the glow of searchlights and flashing beacons. From the twelfth floor at 2:00 a.m., the flickering haze above reminded her of muzzle flashes and gun smoke. She closed the shade.

She headed back to bed. It was then that she noticed a trail of bright red blood on the floor — a trail that led directly to the bathroom where Cody had retreated.

Whitney arrived. “They’re bringing your father up in a few minutes.”

“Oh, thank God.” Then Brandi calmed herself. Cody needed her.

“Mama, could you take Knoxi for a minute? I can’t get her calmed down, and I am about to go crazy. Beside that, I need to check on Cody.” She pointed to the blood trail.

Whitney’s face flashed alarm. “Does he know he’s bleeding?” She took the toddler.

“No. He’s like a sleepwalker. Need to get his attention and convince him to come out. I might even have to — Um, we'll ring a nurses’ station if…” She looked toward the bathroom door.

“All right, baby, but he may just need some space if he isn’t hurt bad.”

Brandi nodded and then cautiously approached the bathroom entry. He had not latched the door.
Hmmm, not like him. He always locks it.

She gently tapped. “Cody? Are you okay, sweetie?” No response. She nudged the door open slightly and peered through the small space.

His blood-spattered clothes were on the floor — jeans, tennis shoes, socks, and shirt all lying together. Then she saw a pair of orange sports boxers lying at the far end of the room with two holes in one of the legs. The boxers were soaked with fresh blood. The words on the large waistband were still visible — Under Armour American League All-Star.

Her heart galloped, sending adrenaline to every cell. No more nausea. No more fatigue. The water was running, but no one was in the shower. She tentatively walked in, turned off the water, then quietly listened. She could hear him moaning and sobbing around the corner at the dark end of the room.

She tiptoed carefully toward him, trying to avoid bloody smudges on the floor. Brandi wanted to peek around the corner where he had taken refuge, but she was afraid. She remembered being eight years old and approaching an injured German Shepherd while Ray warned her to not approach the scared, hurting animal. She had ignored her father and the dog had attacked her, drawing blood from her arm and leaving teeth marks that lasted several months. Ray’s .45 may have saved her life that day.

Now, her bare feet standing in Cody’s blood, emotion overtook her and she tossed fear to the wind. “Cody?” No answer.

Slowly she walked the last two steps and glanced around the corner. There he stood in the shadowy recess, his back to her, head hanging low, elbows resting on the shelf. He had knocked most of the towels into the floor. Had he even noticed?

The light in the corner was off, but when her eyes adjusted, she could see that a wound on his left hip was bleeding, not gushing. It was about four inches long, two inches below his waistline. A bullet had entered and exited, leaving a dark purple tunnel underneath the skin, his hip and leg covered with blood that dripped down to the floor.

Her mind raced. Her heart pounded. Cody had taken refuge in the one place he did not expect to be disturbed and had not invited her along.

He had not locked the door. Had he subconsciously hoped to be rescued? The guns and violence had sent him back. How many more times would this happen? Would Cody have been better off had they never met?

She would back away. He would never know she had intruded. But when she turned around, her mother was standing firm in the bathroom doorway.

Brandi read Whitney’s face.
Get in there and save your man.

She cherished the mother and daughter moment with a thankful nod, and then turned back toward the corner. Again, questions came — What if this time he would not let her in? Had he finally given up?

She had come too far to let him go now. If only she knew where his mind had taken him. The Taliban torturers again? Another night trap in a thunder squall? Into what abyss had he fallen?
Will he see me as an intruder?

She paused and calmed herself. For two days, a story had rolled around inside her head. Why had she not been able to put it out of her mind?

It was the story of Esther, the young Hebrew woman chosen from among commoners to become the Queen. To save her nation, she had summoned all her courage and risked death to intrude uninvited before the King in his court. Her godly cousin, Mordecai, suggested to her that she had been born for that moment.

Now the story came to life, resonating in her heart. 
Oh, God, was I born for this moment?

With nervous fingers, she dialed up the lighting a quarter turn. Suddenly, she gasped. She had betrayed him. Brandi wanted to dim the lights again, but now that she knew, she could not unknow it — the reason he would not change his shirt in her presence.

The shock of cold discovery could not be silenced by covering her lips. Her cry echoed off the tile walls, muffled only by the steamy air. The hideous scars that extended from his shoulders to his knees were four years old, but she had only now felt their sting.

She cried softly as she pulled a towel off the rack and fastened it securely around his waist. Her fingers gently traced over the wounds on his shoulders and back as if to erase the pain the injuries had once caused, and to absorb from him the agony in his soul.

“Cody, sweetie, can you hear me? Babe, it’s me. I want to be there with you. Is there lightning where you are? Angels two zero? Let me lead you back to the deck. Cody?”

He made no response.

“Babe,
please
come back to me.”

At last, she squeezed her arms around him with all her might and screamed desperately,
“Oh, God, please save my man of steel!”

Brandi’s unbridled prayer pierced every corner of the bathroom and resounded like the battle shout of an angel warrior.

Slowly he turned around. He clutched her and drew her close. He still reeked of gunpowder, but his arms were cotton-soft around her.

They spoke not a word for several moments. This was the love she had never known —
not
sensual, but higher, deeper, transforming.
Thank you, God, for this moment.

Then a familiar verse dropped into her head — “
Those who honor Me I will honor.”

Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry you had to come in here and see me like this. You’re so pure, but every dark corner where I set my ugly scarred feet on planet earth reminds me of who I am, and that will never change. This won’t work between us.”

She eased back from him enough to look into his face, but he lowered his head. “I prayed you’d never see what I’m capable of. I don’t want the people I care about to be afraid of me. I don’t want my grief from things I’ve seen and done to wreck the lives of people I love.”

She was blindsided, wanted to reassure him somehow, but her father’s eleventh leadership principle reminded her: “
In a life-altering crisis, choose carefully your first words, for they will be remembered forever.”
Oh, God, what words can I possibly say to him that will make a difference?

If ever she needed something profound — a wise saying, a Bible story or verse, a courtside pep talk — it was now. But this time, she had only one thought:
Just tell him what is in your heart.

Really?
It seemed random, insignificant and way too simple, but she was losing him, and it was now or never. She gave her heart permission to hold nothing back, and then slowly began to speak. Her breathy words — candid, unrehearsed, unashamed — rolled from her lips like a sweet fragrance from the purest summer spring.

“I’ve seen all your scars now, Cody, and I am not afraid, because each mark shows me what you are capable of. These wounds brought soldiers home to their families.

“Who is Cody Musket? You are the man who charged into a cloud of gun smoke to save my baby. I froze, but you never hesitated.”

She gripped his shoulders — no stopping now. “In Detroit, when you read your poem to Knoxi, I knew then you were the man I had prayed for every lonely night for two years when I asked God to send me a
real
man who would love my baby girl as much as he loves me.”

She placed her hand on his heart. “Oh, my sweet, sweet man of steel, the reason you grieve is that you have a broken heart. The only heart that cannot be broken is one that has no love in it.” She cradled his face with her hands. “I know you couldn’t save the Afghan children, Cody, but across this land in every stadium and every dark corner on planet earth where you set your beautiful feet, you bring hope because of the wonderful gifts you’ve been given.

“Babe, tonight was killing, but it wasn’t murder, and when the sun rises in a few hours, America will learn that three killers will no longer steal children from their parents or abuse women for sport, because you and my father were capable of stopping them.”

He straightened his back and squared his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Sweetie, you asked God to forgive you. You’re clean. Stop calling unclean what God has cleansed, and stop punishing yourself for the children. They’re in heaven. They don’t want you to be in pain. They just want you to ‘
make it happen
.’ Remember?”

“I don’t deserve you,” he finally drawled out.

“You mean I’m not bad for a girl?”

He slowly shook his head. “You’re not a girl. I went into that theater to see Superman, but I walked out with Wonder Woman.”

“Now listen to me. You are wounded. You are bleeding.”

“No, I wasn’t hurt. I’m fine.”

She could barely manage a whisper. “Cody, you have a
bloodeus’ maximus
. I’m gonna have them send a doctor. Wash the blood off. Pull the shower curtain, but don’t lock the door. I don’t want you passing out in here alone. Do you copy?”

“Copy that, ma’am.
Did you say
bloodeus maximus?”

She giggled and turned to go. “Affirmative.
You look shot!”