The Conditioning

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Friday, August 1

At exactly fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia, startled from a sound sleep, rolled over, struggled to untangle her arms from the duvet cover, and made a grab for the phone. On her first attempt, she missed, sending the book she had been reading just before turning off the light, tumbling to the floor.

“Hello?”

Nothing, not even a breath, or a whisper answered her.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Cynthia boasted about her ability to sleep through anything. During the years of the cold war, the accidental triggering of an air raid siren had sent the entire town into panic mode. She blissfully slept through it all. Storms, parties, and street races, never affected her beauty rest. It was odd that the ringing phone should do what nothing else could.

Calls at midnight usually signaled a family crisis, a drunk whose fingers did the walking in all the wrong directions, or a legitimate wrong number. The latter was usually followed by an apology or sometimes with the hasty “clink” of a receiver into its cradle and the sound of the dial tone.

There was nothing but silence this time.

Cynthia hung up and went back to sleep muttering about the rudeness of some people.

Saturday, August 2

At precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, the phone rang.

This time, Cynthia’s reflexes responded with more accuracy. Her hand grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Look, who is this?”

Empty air answered her.

The receiver returned to its cradle just a little more violently than it had the previous night.

Cynthia was scheduled to have Saturday morning brunch with some friends. Over orange juice and scrambled eggs, she recounted the experience of the last few nights.

“I don’t know what to do. Should I report it to the phone company? It doesn’t seem serious enough to call the police. There isn’t even any heavy breathing.”

Her friends commiserated with her. Maybe she should consider taking her phone off the hook at night, or getting an unlisted number.

Sunday, August 3

The clock in the living room struck 12:15 a.m. just as the phone beside Cynthia’s bed began to ring. For a second it seemed part of the dream haunting her at that moment. She had been walking along a road. Fog lay heavy and wet around her, preventing her from seeing much beyond the end of her nose. Branches hung from the trees—dripping telephone receivers, which she kept banging into. The sound of the phone pulled Cynthia off the path. The sheets were damp, her pajamas bathed in sweat.

“What do you want?” This time, politeness fled with sleep.

Again, there was nothing but silence.

Cynthia flung the phone down. She considered unplugging it, but resisted. Her father wasn’t well, and the family could call if something were to happen to him.

Later that morning, the now bleary-eyed woman, shared her experience with the other members of her Sunday School class.

“If whoever is on the other end of the line would just say something, then at least I would have some idea of how to respond. But this silence, and the clockwork timing is so frustrating.”

Cynthia felt better after the others prayed with her asking that the Lord would intervene in the situation. She went to sleep that night hanging on to those prayers, plus a few of her own.

Monday, August 4

The sound jerked her out of a peaceful slumber. This time, precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia didn’t even bother to ask who was calling. She pulled the phone from its cradle, listened to the silence for thirty seconds, and then put the receiver back.

The routine chores of the day were carried out on automatic pilot as Cynthia chewed on the dilemma of the midnight caller. There was so much to do as a first-time homeowner. The hours in the day never seemed enough.

Tuesday, August 5

Cynthia woke up at precisely fifteen minutes after midnight—to absolute silence. There was an odd smell in the room and a light haze. Her mind, now conditioned to respond at this hour, kicked into high gear. She recognized smoke and the odor of something burning.

On her list of things to do in the new house had been a revision of the smoke alarms.

Later, as the firefighters checked the house for any further signs of overheated wiring, she thanked God for His midnight caller who had saved her life and her home.

Covered

Once a church in Murree, Google Images

Anne stepped out of the office, breathing in the cool air coming down from the mountains of Kashmir on the other side of the Jhelum River.

She loved Murree; had done so since first arriving to teach at the missionary children’s school eight years earlier. The place exuded history and pageantry, both of which fascinated the young woman. Wherever she went in Pakistan, the dusty remnants of the long, lost British Empire could still be seen. She had wandered through the excavation site at Mohenjo-daro* in the Indus Valley, entered the humble dwellings of Marwari tribesmen, been blessed by their older women and touched her hands to the foreheads of the younger women as she blessed them. Anne had traveled through the streets of Shikapur, head covered as Muslim law demanded of even non-Muslims, “protected” by the company of whichever male, however young, was willing to explore with her.

Murree outshone them all. Here, in the streets of the bazaar, walking the forest trails, or passing though Jhika Gali just beyond the gates of the school, she could walk freely, alone, with her head uncovered. This was a world within a world tucked away among these magnificent Himalayan foothills.

However, peaceful Murree lay surrounded by a world of conflict, making the 150 children of missionaries, diplomats and foreign executives in boarding here, a mighty big temptation. The school took every precaution. Anne chuckled out loud, remembering the first time she had seen the fierce-looking mustached men walking the streets of Murree, rifles slung over one shoulder, double bandoliers full of cartridges crisscrossing their chests. They were not, she had been told, people she needed to fear.

Anne, caught up in her reverie, almost missed the sharp retort of rapid gunfire coming from the gate just beyond the drafty old British Garrison Church that now housed the high school.

The kids!

The yard was empty.

Recess is over. They’re back in class.

Anne sucked in air, suddenly conscious that the yard was empty—except for her. She could hear the thudding coming from the church, semi-automatic fire, yelling, screams suddenly silenced. Feet came pounding toward her. She pulled back and pressed herself into the rough stone corner jutting out into the yard from the administration building. It was poor shelter, but too late for anything else.

A figure in western clothing raced past her. Anne almost called out but bit her tongue when she realized that the man was carrying an assault rifle. He dashed toward the door to the office, kicked it open, strafed the room, and ran on without looking.

Oh Lord, please not Faridah.

That room belonged to the school’s secretary.

Horrified, the young teacher stepped out of her hiding place. She needed to get to Faridah. The sound of more pounding feet drove her back into the skinny shadows. This time the steps slowed and stopped.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Lord…

She couldn’t see, and didn’t dare expose herself in case it was another of the attackers. She sensed movement, and the figure came into view. The man’s head moved back and forth, rapidly scanning everything around him, his back toward Anne. With his peripheral vision, he had to be able to see her, sense her. The hunter and the hunted both saw the movement to their left at the same time. The gunman spun in that direction, leveling his weapon as he turned.

Anne cringed, stifling a cry as Mukhtar’s familiar figure flopped backward, unable to resist the impact from the spray of bullets. He was, had been, one of the kitchen boys.

The killer surveyed the yard again. He took a step back as though seeking shelter in the same shadowed corner where Anne huddled. She had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch him. How could he not feel her breath on his neck, sense her presence?

Lord, remind mom I’ll see her…

The man moved on, heading toward the back of the property and the safety of the woods beyond. He never looked back, never saw the girl, never felt her presence, or heard her gasps for breath.

Nor did he feel the brush of the angel’s wings as they covered her.





*The Mound of the Dead, one of the earliest city-settlements in the world.
Author’s Note: this story is based on actual events. Six Pakistanis died in the attack on Murree Christian School in August 2002. The quick action of the staff prevented the four terrorists from entering the classroom areas.

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