The Firstborn (8 page)

“Agreed. Whoever goes stands a good chance of getting killed.” Clay scanned the room. “Any volunteers?”

He watched every set of eyes in the room turn down.

“Come on, people,” he snorted sarcastically, “there’s got to be somebody we’re willing to lose.”

There was a moment’s consideration.

“What about that guy who had a fling with Morris Childs’s niece?” someone offered.

Vincent laughed. “Do you mean John Temple?”

Clay considered for a moment. “He embarrassed the Ora and the Domani. He’s a loose cannon and annoyance.”

He thought a moment longer.

“He’s perfect.”

John Temple hammered his last nail for the day. He sat back, mopping the drench of sweat from his brow with a red paisley handkerchief. The Central American heat was still draining by his American standards. Six weeks, after all, was hardly enough time to acclimate to the rain forest. He took a few deep breaths and lay back against the roof he had been working on.

“Johnny Temple,” a voice shouted, “wake up; I have water for you.”

John sat up, looking down from the roof to see the boy calling up to him. Paolo, seven years old, stood with a smiling face. “Come down,” he shouted again, smile getting bigger.

“Just a second,” John replied and in a moment descended the ladder. On the ground the boy handed him water in a jug. John threw back the container and chugged. It wasn’t very cool water, but it kept him hydrated. He finished the water, using the last of it to wash his face and hands. He passed the jug back to Paolo, mussing the boy’s hair.

Thunder growled in the distance.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” John asked rhetorically. Paolo shrugged, and they started walking up the road to the temporary building where he’d been living.

Paolo followed like a baby goose in a gaggle. “Johnny Temple, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” John replied warmly, still walking.

“Why are you going back to America?”

“Because my visit was only for six weeks,” he said.

“As a missionary?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure you have to leave tomorrow?”

John put a hand on the boy’s shoulder as they walked. “Yes, I’m afraid I do. Now wait here while I change.”

He entered a small, bare room that held only a cot and his duffle bag. His shirt didn’t come off—it peeled from his skin, soaked with sweat. He tossed it on his cot and dug out a new white cotton shirt. He buttoned it most of the way up, still allowing it to breathe, then rolled up his sleeves. Next, he changed his wet socks, soaked from heat, and considered putting on a new pair of khaki cargo pants before replacing his work boots on his feet. He put his elephant-hair bracelet on his wrist, a souvenir he’d picked up while doing missions work with farmers in Kenya. He pulled out a small mirror, looking at his stubble.

Shaving was probably a good idea, but he liked the scruffy look. It was his hair that bothered him. Normally he kept it short, but it was starting to get longer, blond strands tickling his ears. He brushed them away. At least his tan was coming along nicely.

He reached down, next to his bed, and picked up his Bible and prayer journal. Books in hand, he stepped out of the temp building. There Paolo stood, waiting patiently.

“Where are you going?” Paolo asked.

“I’m going to go spend some time alone with God,” John replied, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “When I get back we’ll play some catch, OK?”

“OK,” the boy replied cheerily.

John headed down a narrow pathway toward the river. When he reached a grassy clearing, he took a seat near the river and opened his Bible.

He stopped for a minute and looked at the photograph tucked in the front cover. It was a picture of him and a beautiful young woman. He kept meaning to get rid of the old photo, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

John flipped through some pages. He was in Psalms again. It was his favorite book in the Bible—the poetry, the rapture, the joy of walking personally with God. It was reading Psalms that had led him into a life of consistent, short-term missions work.

He read, prayed, and wrote in his leather-bound journal for nearly an hour before the first droplet of rain landed on the Bible page with a smack, leaving a ragged circular blotch on the paper. Above, the clouds were dark and gray, moving in front of the sun.

John felt it—this storm was serious.

Andy stomped into the temp building.

“Where’s John?”

Judah, a fellow missionary, lay on his cot. He looked up from his Bible. “I don’t know. He was working the last I saw him, but after we finished he disappeared.”

“He better get back here quick,” Andy announced, peering out the front door. “The rain is getting bad. Nobody should be out in this.”

Judah shrugged. “Maybe Paolo knows.”

Andy nodded. The boy certainly admired John, and the two of them had spent a lot of time together. If John was around, Paolo would either be with him or know where he’d gone.

“I’ll go ask.”

He stepped outside, pulling a jacket over his head for shelter. The sky was dark now and the rain heavier. Water poured down from the trees above, and tiny, muddy tributaries began running downhill toward the river. To his relief he spotted Paolo right away, playing in the rain, hopping from puddle to puddle, kicking and splashing.

“Hey, Paolo,” Andy shouted. Paolo looked up. “Have you seen Mr. Temple?”

Paolo ran up. “He said he was going to talk with God. Why?”

Andy shook his head. “He’s not back yet, and I’m starting to worry.”

Paolo flashed a big smile. “I’ll look for him.”

“You don’t have to—” Andy started to say, but the boy was already running, disappearing into the trees.

Andy shrugged and headed back inside.

“I’m so sick of John running off like this,” Andy announced as he plopped on his cot. “He’s so reckless.”

Judah looked up from his own cot again. “But his heart’s in the right place.”

Andy groaned. “He’s an irresponsible showboat.”

Judah turned a page in his Bible. “He leaves tomorrow, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Andy nodded. “I suppose I should be thankful for that.”

Just ahead John saw the village through the thick curtain of rain.

Between the buildings the ground had turned to mud again, boiling with the relentless downpour, chubby drops of water bursting like mortar shells as they hit the ground. John trudged forward, heading for the temp building when his vision began to blur, filling with a greenish haze—

Paolo in the trees.

The constant deluge.

The boy slipping, falling to the ground.

Sliding toward—the river.

John dropped his Bible beneath a tree and ran into the forest.

Paolo tried to stand—but his world was thrown to the ground.

Shock overtook him. How was he on the ground? He’d slipped in the mud and rushing runoff.

Reaching out with his hands for—

He slipped, body crashing into the mud. Paolo began to cry. He wanted to get home, to be with his parents, to see John. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be in the rain anymore.

Looking back, he realized he was sliding down the steep embankment—

—into the river.

The boy grasped at leaves, roots, and rocks.

Something came loose in his hand, and he fell backward, body slamming into soggy earth, air escaping from his lungs as he rolled and tumbled—his view disintegrating into a swirling kaleidoscope of mud, fronds, and rain.

Then he crashed through the river’s surface.

A cascade of water burst off a frond as John knocked it out of his way, smashing through the foliage, running as fast as his legs would carry him. He hacked at the leaves that obscured his path, striking at them with open palms as he sprinted through the torrential downpour.

A clearing. He stopped, looked around—
lost
, he thought, furious with himself for not keeping track of the boy. Nothing but trees all around—every direction was wrong.

Round and round he turned, hands working through his sopping hair, trying to think what direction he was going.

“God,” he shouted into the rain, mouth filling with water, then dropped to his knees, head bowed. Water spilled down his back and face, drenching every inch of him.

He needed a sign, a signal, a vision. Something to save the boy—and he needed it now.

Then he felt it—not images—sensations, soaking him to the bone—

The boiling river. Water—rushing fast.

Hacking. Choking.

Exploding to the rainy surface. Clawing at rocks.

Hands slipping. Plunging back into the dark.

Fear. Panic. Pain.

Kicking. Thrashing. Clawing.

The knowledge of inexorable drowning.

Slipping farther down the river.

John stood, looking around. He knew it in his gut now, like a compass in his soul. He spun in the right direction—

And ran.

John Temple smashed through the foliage like a juggernaut.

The boy was being pulled downstream by the current, grasping at everything in sight, unable to gain a hold—John could feel that now.

He felt the panic of a seven-year-old boy—the thrashing that drained the boy’s strength as he tried to save himself, only wearing out his tiny body. Only hastening drowning.