I had a discussion with a friend last night, concerning many things, but mainly centered around God's will and murder and killing (it's a long story/argument, the gist of which I may or may not post at a later time).
But while we were talking about it, the subject of suicide bombing came up. Both he and I agreed that there was something we could learn from Muslim fundamentalists - NOT suicide bombing, but rather the courage to do so, if God willed it. We both thought that such courage was greatly lacking among Christians, particularly in America. Not many of the Christians I know would be willing to study bombmaking for years, and then blow themselves up with one if God called them to do so.
Some might protest, saying that God would never tell anyone to do such a thing. Well, He has in the past. The Canaanites were to be completely wiped out, every man, woman, and child. It was also God's will for Elisha to call out bears to maul children who had done nothing more than tease Him. It was God's will to wipe out the entire population of the earth, minus eight people. Unreasonable? Perhaps. But crazy or not, we as God's people are to be prepared to carry out His will, no matter how cruel or "unreasonable" in our eyes it may be.
7.29.2010
7.26.2010
kung-fu phony
I've recently been watching a lot of kung-fu movies, thanks in part to my mom's efforts to integrate more Chinese into my life. But as part of it...I've become rather jaded.
First of all, a disclaimer. I do not bash kung-fu movies because of their over-masculinity. I do not claim to dislike action movies. I do not claim to dislike violence in movies.
However, it is the ludicrousness and the predictability of such movies that I dislike. I mean, quite honestly, one man repeatedly battling huge swarms of minions and then battling "THE EPIC EVIL DUDE OF DOOM" in a close fight and then winning is no way for a story to go. It is hardly realistic. It is hardly anything but predictable. And although there is a stereotypical theme (usually that of courage in impossible odds, or of fighting for what you believe in, or the like), one can argue, and argue well, that there are a hundred better ways to portray it than through a kung-fu movie.
Although the physical conflict is more than present, I must argue that the emotional conflict in such cases tend to be tacky, or nonexistent. The characters are stereotypes, and the dialogue something out of a comic book. They have very little depth, and too much action. In fact, oftentimes, there is too much action and too little story for anyone to really care about the characters, much less how they end up. And usually, one can guess those as well.
I guess there is some thrill in seeing epic battles play out on the screen. However, this last note I have to say: the best conflict is played out not on the battlefield, but in the heart and in the mind.
First of all, a disclaimer. I do not bash kung-fu movies because of their over-masculinity. I do not claim to dislike action movies. I do not claim to dislike violence in movies.
However, it is the ludicrousness and the predictability of such movies that I dislike. I mean, quite honestly, one man repeatedly battling huge swarms of minions and then battling "THE EPIC EVIL DUDE OF DOOM" in a close fight and then winning is no way for a story to go. It is hardly realistic. It is hardly anything but predictable. And although there is a stereotypical theme (usually that of courage in impossible odds, or of fighting for what you believe in, or the like), one can argue, and argue well, that there are a hundred better ways to portray it than through a kung-fu movie.
Although the physical conflict is more than present, I must argue that the emotional conflict in such cases tend to be tacky, or nonexistent. The characters are stereotypes, and the dialogue something out of a comic book. They have very little depth, and too much action. In fact, oftentimes, there is too much action and too little story for anyone to really care about the characters, much less how they end up. And usually, one can guess those as well.
I guess there is some thrill in seeing epic battles play out on the screen. However, this last note I have to say: the best conflict is played out not on the battlefield, but in the heart and in the mind.
7.21.2010
Psalm 88
A song, the lyrics based on Psalm 88
VS. I
O Lord my God,
God of my salvation,
I cry out to you by day
and I scream for you at night.
Hear my prayer;
Listen to my cry.
For my soul is filled with strife,
And my death draws near.
PRECHORUS
I am as good as dead
I’m a man without strength.
I am left among the dead
like the slain in the grave.
I am forgotten, cut off from your hand.
Lord, I’ve called you...but where are you?
CHORUS
Do the dead praise your name?
Is your love declared from the grave?
Are your wonders known in the dark?
Your faithfulness in Abbadon?
So Lord I call upon your name.
Lord, I need an answer.
VS. II
Lord, explain
why you’ve placed me here.
In the depths of this dark pit
Underneath your crashing waves.
I am alone
my friends have disappeared
I am trapped in this dark place
with no escape.
CHORUS X2
BRIDGE
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
I lift my hands to you
Why do you hide your face?
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
My eyes grow dim with tears
Lord save me from this place!
INSTRUMENTAL
CHORUS II
May the dead praise your name
May I declare your love to my grave
May I shine your light in the dark
Be faithful in the valley of death
So Lord I call upon your name
‘Cause Lord, you are the answer.
VS. I
O Lord my God,
God of my salvation,
I cry out to you by day
and I scream for you at night.
Hear my prayer;
Listen to my cry.
For my soul is filled with strife,
And my death draws near.
PRECHORUS
I am as good as dead
I’m a man without strength.
I am left among the dead
like the slain in the grave.
I am forgotten, cut off from your hand.
Lord, I’ve called you...but where are you?
CHORUS
Do the dead praise your name?
Is your love declared from the grave?
Are your wonders known in the dark?
Your faithfulness in Abbadon?
So Lord I call upon your name.
Lord, I need an answer.
VS. II
Lord, explain
why you’ve placed me here.
In the depths of this dark pit
Underneath your crashing waves.
I am alone
my friends have disappeared
I am trapped in this dark place
with no escape.
CHORUS X2
BRIDGE
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
I lift my hands to you
Why do you hide your face?
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
My eyes grow dim with tears
Lord save me from this place!
INSTRUMENTAL
CHORUS II
May the dead praise your name
May I declare your love to my grave
May I shine your light in the dark
Be faithful in the valley of death
So Lord I call upon your name
‘Cause Lord, you are the answer.
7.13.2010
Inspiration
What is inspiration?
I ask because I seem to lack it recently.
dictionary.com - oh wait, I mean RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY - "an inspiring or animating action or influence," "a divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul," "the drawing of air into the lungs; inhalation."
urbandictionary.com - "See instead 'plagiarism'," "a word for that special herb," and others too obscene to mention.
So to unpack these definitions...I'll start with the irreverent last two. "See instead 'plagiarism'," and "a word for that special herb." Sometimes I feel that's exactly what my inspiration is. I watch a movie, and am tempted to write a story in the same style, with the same kinds of characters, or with the same plot. It's a "it's-so-good-I-have-to-try-to-do-something-like-it" syndrome. Or perhaps it's a thirst for fame - "hey-guess-what-this-is-awesome-and-famous-and-maybe-if-I-copy-it-I-can-get-awesome-and-famous-too." It's a sad state of affairs.
As for "that special herb," I sometimes use my inspiration like that. I put on my favorite piece of music, or watch an "inspiring" movie, and do so simply to get a high out of it...I don't do any of the things I am inspired to do...I just like the feeling of being inspired. It doesn't do me any good, nor anyone else, either.
Now on to more positive definitions: "An inspiring or animating action or influence." No need for discussion there. Although I do like the use of the word "animating," as in bringing to life. Another key word is "action." It's unusual, but sometimes doing something (rather than passively watching or listening to something) will provide inspiration. Like going for a run. Or making a movie (see last post).
"A divine influence..." I particularly like that one. The idea that God provides me with the words and ideas is a comforting one. This kind of inspiration, although not necessarily recognizable, is the one I consider the best.
The final one is the most literal meaning of inspiration, as taken from the Latin - "in-breathing" or inhalation. I don't really want to write about this one, because I feel as though I would botch the description. I'll let you guys think about it.
I ask because I seem to lack it recently.
dictionary.com - oh wait, I mean RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY - "an inspiring or animating action or influence," "a divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul," "the drawing of air into the lungs; inhalation."
urbandictionary.com - "See instead 'plagiarism'," "a word for that special herb," and others too obscene to mention.
So to unpack these definitions...I'll start with the irreverent last two. "See instead 'plagiarism'," and "a word for that special herb." Sometimes I feel that's exactly what my inspiration is. I watch a movie, and am tempted to write a story in the same style, with the same kinds of characters, or with the same plot. It's a "it's-so-good-I-have-to-try-to-do-something-like-it" syndrome. Or perhaps it's a thirst for fame - "hey-guess-what-this-is-awesome-and-famous-and-maybe-if-I-copy-it-I-can-get-awesome-and-famous-too." It's a sad state of affairs.
As for "that special herb," I sometimes use my inspiration like that. I put on my favorite piece of music, or watch an "inspiring" movie, and do so simply to get a high out of it...I don't do any of the things I am inspired to do...I just like the feeling of being inspired. It doesn't do me any good, nor anyone else, either.
Now on to more positive definitions: "An inspiring or animating action or influence." No need for discussion there. Although I do like the use of the word "animating," as in bringing to life. Another key word is "action." It's unusual, but sometimes doing something (rather than passively watching or listening to something) will provide inspiration. Like going for a run. Or making a movie (see last post).
"A divine influence..." I particularly like that one. The idea that God provides me with the words and ideas is a comforting one. This kind of inspiration, although not necessarily recognizable, is the one I consider the best.
The final one is the most literal meaning of inspiration, as taken from the Latin - "in-breathing" or inhalation. I don't really want to write about this one, because I feel as though I would botch the description. I'll let you guys think about it.
7.10.2010
Negotiations: a story
Negotiations
written by Faith Liu
based on the short film by Ryan Mullins, Faith Liu, PJ Liu, and Joshua Jackson
No one had thought of the Anderson house as a possible home to a hostage situation. They were your average American family, with an average amount of money, an average-sized house, in an average neighborhood of an average part of the country. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
No one had thought of forty-seven-year-old Sean Anderson as a potential hostage, either. He was no danger to anyone, he wasn't related to anyone that would be a potential victim of a hate crime, and his family had no vast deposits of money or political power. He was practically harmless.
And now, gagged and unconscious, he was completely harmless.
Not that the hostile party was particularly concerned with that fact.
The main room of the basement had become far too small for the Hostage Rescue Team. It didn't help anyone relieve tension either. Knowing that in the next room was a serial killer with an unconscious hostage, and being able to do nothing about it made the HRT restless. They had more weapons, more skills, and were more prepared than any other SWAT members, but being able to fast-rope was no use if there was no window big enough to come down through. The only thing to do was wait.
John Able, the officer in charge, was just about to glance at his watch for the third time since calling for a negotiator, when he heard the door to the basement open. His sigh of relief was automatically followed by a dubious glance at the negotiator herself.
She was tiny - a five-foot two girl, of possibly Middle-Eastern heritage, with black, curly hair that made her look as though she had come fresh from high school, and soft brown eyes reminiscent of an Audrey Hepburn. Her tan trench coat seemed two sizes too big, making her look even smaller than she was. More like a hostage than a hostage situation negotiator, the man thought.
"What's the situation, Mr. Able?"
John cringed. Her voice was high enough to belong to a sixth-grader - as clear and innocent as a songbird. Too innocent for her line of work. But he held out a hand anyway and said, "Call me John."
"Alright then. I'm Ariel Parker."
He nodded, and followed that up by quickly summarizing the situation. "One victim, as far as we can tell. Sean Anderson. Fifty-seven years old. Judging from the lack of noise, we think he's knocked out."
"What about the kidnapper? The file sent to me didn't give me much - a white male in his twenties could mean anything."
John acquiesced. "HQ nicknamed him Double. Real name is unknown."
"Why Double?"
"Because in every case he's been involved in, two people - one victim, one negotiator or a forced negotiator, have been shot."
No facial response to that, so he continued. "He's done three of these so far, and in two of those, the killing and the escape happened before the FBI could get there. Always a secluded area. Witnesses see nothing, hear only gunshots. He's either trigger-happy...or just too smart."
"Then what's his point? Killing everyone first doesn't get him a reward."
"No, it doesn't. He always demands a ransom, but whether paid or not paid, it's still the same body count. Two."
"Yeah, the file told me. Always takes one person, then somehow gets another body by the time he leaves. No discernable patterns as far as victims, time, and place go. Always demands money, a different amount each time, and always specific down to the cent. Still two dead either way." She paused, processing her own information. "He's not doing this for the money, then."
"Correct."
"Do you know what it is he wants?"
"No. None of the negotiators have managed to get out of the room with that information."
"I see." Her eyes shifted to the left, but otherwise, no emotion. "He always has to talk to the negotiator in person?"
"Yes. That's...that's why the negotiator is always dead. He won't allow it any other way."
"Can we talk to him on the phone? Through notes? Shouting through the door?"
"We've already tried getting him to talk. All we've gotten so far is a note slipped under the door, saying he won't talk to anyone but the negotiator."
Her eyes stared at the floor. Either she was thinking hard, or there was a fascinating insect specimen next to his left foot.
"You one of those psychologist types?" he asked, merely to relieve the tension.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's the other type?"
"The politician."
She laughed. Not a real laugh, but enough to relax her face. "The psychologist, definitely. Behavioral, to be precise." She ended, almost to herself: "But it doesn't really matter in this case."
A pause. Then she asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the next room; from what we can hear, they're in the corner of the room."
"Lighting? Surroundings?"
"Bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling. Your typical unfinished basement. Lots of shelves. Power tools, toilet paper, storage stuff. No windows big enough for our snipers. You get the picture."
"Anything else I should be aware of?"
"Then you're going in?"
She shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."
Able shook his head at her innocence. "You sure this is wise? Once you're in there, we can't cover you. And anyway, we do have the clearance to just go in with the guns. He won't be able to escape this-"
"He still has a hostage. You can't risk it." Her voice was becoming challenging, so he responded with like boldness.
"We can't risk losing you, either. Or anyone else after you. Statistically, going in heavy-duty would be safer."
"But would it be right?" She let the question sink in for a moment. "Mr. Able, I have two jobs: one is to get the hostage out, and the other is to get the criminal out and into handcuffs. Compromising on one to get the other is not an option."
John took a deep breath and looked at the floor for a moment. "All right. I won't say I approve of this, but seeing as it's your own life on the line...I'll assume you know what to do with it." He forced his eyes back onto her face, and was again shocked by how young she seemed. A girl her age shouldn't even be involved in such business, much less die in it.
"Did you bring a bulletproof vest with you?"
She looked at him again, eyebrow raised. "What for?"
Again, he was slapped in the face by her innocence. Or her naivete. He wasn't sure which one it was. "For protection, dammit! What if you get shot?"
"Then I get shot."
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but was too surprised to care. "Listen, as a negotiator, you don't go in with weapons. That doesn't mean no protection!"
"I don't go in with weapons assuming that he will do the same. If I wear a vest, that means I don't trust him, and that he can't trust me."
"Trust? Are you crazy? You're worrying about trust at a time like this?"
"Yes, in fact I am." Her voice had a decided edge to it now, as if she were growing uncomfortable talking about the topic. And well she might; the thought of getting shot was as distasteful to her as it would be to any other person.
John's shoulders slumped as he realized there would be no convincing her. "Well, then..." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Good luck, Ariel." Realizing this might be the last time he would see her alive, he impulsively hugged the small girl.
When she pulled away, he saw that her eyes now had a sorrow in them that made them seem ten years older. She murmured a thank you and hurried off.
She didn't want him to see her cry.
As she headed for the door to the adjacent room, the rest of the HRT team seemed to step aside for her, almost in awe. They all knew what she was doing, and most of them thought she was crazy.
She probably was.
She put her mouth to the door and spoke loudly, "Hello? This is the hostage negotiator. Alright if I come in?" Other than the volume, her voice seemed perfectly at ease.
She checked her watch, and decided to wait for one minute. At 48 seconds, a piece of paper towel was slipped under the door. The thin, spidery writing had been done in a red pen. "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
"Religious nut...what else is new?" she muttered to herself. "Alright, everyone," she called to the men in uniform surrounding her. "Stand clear of the door...and pray as though your life depends on it." She laughed nervously at her own joke. No one laughed with her.
Taking a deep breath, Ariel Parker opened the door...
...and stepped into the lion's den.
The unfinished room was dark, except for the stream of light from the tiny window near the ceiling that lit up the center of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, with small alcoves hidden in the walls. All of them were in complete black; any of them would make a good hiding place.
She called out a precursory "Hello?" but got no response. She glanced behind the work shelves. No one. Turning around, she made her way towards the other end of the room. A pack of paper towels stood opened on the floor near the furnace. Part of one had been ripped off.
Taking the bait, she checked behind the furnace. Still no one.
"Hello? This is Ariel Parker. Are you there?"
She stepped out from behind the furnace and out in front of a particularly dark alcove.
She heard a sound coming from the blackness, and spun around just as the ceiling lightbulb came on, illuminating the alcove.
"Ah...the negotiator." A dark voice, low with menace and - was it really? - amusement.
Under the naked lightbulb stood the killer, looking as every serial killer should: dark coat, closely-cropped brown hair, ghostly pale skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun. Despite that fact, he was wearing a pair of dark shades that concealed his eyes. A strange accessory, but not as menacing as the M4 Carbine in his hands. Pointed at her, of course.
She could see the man behind him, slumped against a wall, unconscious. His hands and feet were bound with zip-ties, a gag was tied around his mouth, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.
She took the metaphorical deep breath.
Step one: establish rapport and maintain calm.
She lifted her arms away from her sides to show that she didn't have a weapon. "I'm Ariel Parker, the-"
"Hostage negotiator, yes." He wasn't hasty to interrupt. Not nervous or frantic. Just...in control. It wasn't normal.
Alright, moving on. Step two: find out what he wants and establish authority over the situation.
"We have the money you want...back in the other room. If you like, I can go back and get it as soon as we've established the terms of exchange."
He didn't respond to that one. She had a feeling that he was waiting for something, his eyes boring into hers from behind the dark lenses.
Step three: find out what he really wants.
"But I don't think that's what you're after, is it?"
"You're the psychologist; you tell me." He seemed to have relaxed now, to the point where his tone of voice might have been used in dinner conversation.
"What is it you're after?"
He cocked his head in an exaggerated motion of thinking. "Money." He was playing with her now.
"I don't think that's what it is."
Silence.
"I can't get it for you unless you tell me what it is."
He laughed quietly. "You wouldn't be able to get it for me anyway."
"Well, why don't you try me?"
He laughed again - a long, steady, unsettling sound. She couldn't be sure if it was a good or a bad sign.
When he had finished, he leaned against the concrete wall, and motioned for her to sit down on a nearby stool. "If you're going to be that persistent, you might as well sit down for the story."
She obliged, noting hopefully that he had set the Carbine down on the ground, if only to give his hands a rest.
"How well do you know this man here?" He pointed to the hostage behind him.
She glanced at him, and then replied almost impatiently, "He's in his fifties, works as professor at the community college, has a wife and two children, and has no criminal record to speak of. Has he offended you personally in some way?"
"No - mustn't jump to conclusions, miss. What do you think Mr. Anderson was doing two nights ago?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Well, I do. He wasn't at home watching TV with his wife - he was at the home of one of his students. One of his female students, I might add." He laughed again, a darker laugh than the one he had used earlier. "He told his wife that he was going to be at a meeting. Definitely a lot more exciting than those previous, don't you think?"
She decided not to respond to the question, asking her own instead. "What does this have to do with-"
"Ah, ah, miss. Let me finish." For a brief instant, his mouth twisted into an indulgent smile, as if she were a child with too many questions, but then his face became grim. "That wasn't the first time, either. Anderson has been doing this for years...and hasn't been caught or punished. Until now, that is."
"I still don't see what this has to do with y-"
"It has nothing to do with me. This has to do with justice." His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. She almost believed him.
"Then that is a matter for the law to handle, not you."
That statement brought an explosion from the man. "Look around you, miss! The law doesn't work. Innocent people are being violated, killed, all the time, and with nothing to make up for it. Justice has not been served - it cannot be served with our human systems of so-called law."
"And how does what you're doing help?"
"I'm letting you know. I'm letting everyone know. The only proper response to evil is to eradicate it - to destroy it. The wages of sin is death. There is no substitute."
"Is that what you're going to do? Prove that there is no substitute for...for this?"
"I won't be doing it. You will." The Carbine was pointed at her again.
Slowly, she stood up. Slowly, she thought over what she was going to say. And slowly, she said it. "What is it you want me to do?"
"You get to make a choice. You can either let me kill this man, as is deserved, or you can try to offer an alternative."
"You just said there was none."
"That's only what I know. Obviously, you think otherwise. You have one hour to come up with a substitute, or to let justice be done. If you're wise, you'll choose the latter."
"The wages of sin is death."
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the low light as he raised his gun.
"But." She stood up. "But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."
His smile disappeared. "Wrong answer. Your Lord Jesus isn't coming down to save this man."
"No, but I can." She breathed in and out, hard. Tried to keep her hands from shaking. "I have a substitute."
"Oh really? Well, let's hear your offer."
She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. Opened them. Managed to look at him straight in the eye. "Me. Kill me. Let him go."
The man's lip curled into a snarl. "How noble. You're stupid, you know?"
"Perhaps."
"You expecting your God to come and save you? Huh?"
"If He wills it."
That answer seemed to infuriate him even more. He crossed the room, gun in hand, in two seconds, slammed her body against the concrete wall, shoved the barrel of the gun into her gut, and sneered in her face, "Well, your God can't save you now."
In a rage, he turned and kicked the still-unconscious hostage in the ribs. "And this guy? He won't even know what you've done for him. No one will care!" He was screaming now. "This!" He picked up the man by the shirt collar. "This pathetic piece of worthless junk is what you're dying for?!"
She remained leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight, wordless.
He dropped the man on the floor, and suddenly his voice dropped down to a whisper even more dangerous than his screams. "And what about you? What about everything you've worked for, that you're never going to see finished? What about your family, your friends, that you are never going to see again? Is this worth it?"
She heard a click as he prepared the gun, still talking. "Death isn't fun, you know. And trust me, your God's not coming to save you this time. Or anytime else. No one can save you now, except yourself. Look at me!"
Her eyes shot open at the command. The man now looked emotionless, except for his hands, which were clenched tight. "You're going to go through with this?"
"Yes."
There was a bang, and suddenly her left leg gave out from under her and she fell onto her knees, gasping.
"You sure?" he asked through clenched teeth, his finger still on the trigger.
"...yes."
Another bang, and the hand supporting her trembling body felt like it was on fire. Her shoulder hit the concrete.
Before another word was spoken, another bullet hole appeared in her back.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, between which muffled sobs could be heard.
Through bleary eyes, she could see a dark form looming over her. "Last chance now. Do you want to back out?"
She was in too much pain to speak, but she managed to make a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Darkness.
If one ever happens to pass by the Calvary Church of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, on any given Friday, be sure to step in for a minute or two. It's a relaxing place, with long, dark pews, colored by the afternoon light filtering in from the stained-glass windows. A simple wooden cross hangs at the front, with a matching altar underneath. The soft carpet muffles almost any sound, so that it's so quiet, one feels as though one can hear the imperceptible sounds that angels make when flying. It's a peaceful place. A place of rest.
And, if you happen to come in at the right time, you may observe that there are three people sitting in the front row - two men sitting on the pew, one other in a wheelchair. They are very quiet, and don't seem to be doing anything other than contemplating the cross and the altar. Occasionally, one of the men - the older one - will grasp the hand of the person in the wheelchair.
If you are patient, you may see their faces when they leave up the aisle. The first, you will observe, is a young man. His hair is brown, and closely cropped, and he wears dark clothes, which contrast against his pale skin. He walks with his back so straight one might call it stiff. But his eyes, which are a soft green, bear the look of one who has been relieved of a great burden.
The older man is pushing the wheelchair. His hair is gray, and there are deep lines, worn by care and penitence, in his face. There is a name tag pinned onto his shirt, revealing that his name is Sean Anderson and that he works as a greeter at the church. He wears the gentle smile of one who has been forgiven of a great sin, and is now at peace.
Now that you can their faces, you realize that the person in the wheelchair is a girl in her twenties. Her left leg is in a cast, and her right arm is heavily bandaged. Her black hair falls to her shoulders in waves. Her eyes, doe-like and soft brown, stare into the distance, as if contemplating something profound and wonderful. Her face is that of one who has served as a vessel, poured out for God, and filled again to overflowing.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - The words of Christ, as recorded in John 15:13.
written by Faith Liu
based on the short film by Ryan Mullins, Faith Liu, PJ Liu, and Joshua Jackson
No one had thought of the Anderson house as a possible home to a hostage situation. They were your average American family, with an average amount of money, an average-sized house, in an average neighborhood of an average part of the country. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
No one had thought of forty-seven-year-old Sean Anderson as a potential hostage, either. He was no danger to anyone, he wasn't related to anyone that would be a potential victim of a hate crime, and his family had no vast deposits of money or political power. He was practically harmless.
And now, gagged and unconscious, he was completely harmless.
Not that the hostile party was particularly concerned with that fact.
The main room of the basement had become far too small for the Hostage Rescue Team. It didn't help anyone relieve tension either. Knowing that in the next room was a serial killer with an unconscious hostage, and being able to do nothing about it made the HRT restless. They had more weapons, more skills, and were more prepared than any other SWAT members, but being able to fast-rope was no use if there was no window big enough to come down through. The only thing to do was wait.
John Able, the officer in charge, was just about to glance at his watch for the third time since calling for a negotiator, when he heard the door to the basement open. His sigh of relief was automatically followed by a dubious glance at the negotiator herself.
She was tiny - a five-foot two girl, of possibly Middle-Eastern heritage, with black, curly hair that made her look as though she had come fresh from high school, and soft brown eyes reminiscent of an Audrey Hepburn. Her tan trench coat seemed two sizes too big, making her look even smaller than she was. More like a hostage than a hostage situation negotiator, the man thought.
"What's the situation, Mr. Able?"
John cringed. Her voice was high enough to belong to a sixth-grader - as clear and innocent as a songbird. Too innocent for her line of work. But he held out a hand anyway and said, "Call me John."
"Alright then. I'm Ariel Parker."
He nodded, and followed that up by quickly summarizing the situation. "One victim, as far as we can tell. Sean Anderson. Fifty-seven years old. Judging from the lack of noise, we think he's knocked out."
"What about the kidnapper? The file sent to me didn't give me much - a white male in his twenties could mean anything."
John acquiesced. "HQ nicknamed him Double. Real name is unknown."
"Why Double?"
"Because in every case he's been involved in, two people - one victim, one negotiator or a forced negotiator, have been shot."
No facial response to that, so he continued. "He's done three of these so far, and in two of those, the killing and the escape happened before the FBI could get there. Always a secluded area. Witnesses see nothing, hear only gunshots. He's either trigger-happy...or just too smart."
"Then what's his point? Killing everyone first doesn't get him a reward."
"No, it doesn't. He always demands a ransom, but whether paid or not paid, it's still the same body count. Two."
"Yeah, the file told me. Always takes one person, then somehow gets another body by the time he leaves. No discernable patterns as far as victims, time, and place go. Always demands money, a different amount each time, and always specific down to the cent. Still two dead either way." She paused, processing her own information. "He's not doing this for the money, then."
"Correct."
"Do you know what it is he wants?"
"No. None of the negotiators have managed to get out of the room with that information."
"I see." Her eyes shifted to the left, but otherwise, no emotion. "He always has to talk to the negotiator in person?"
"Yes. That's...that's why the negotiator is always dead. He won't allow it any other way."
"Can we talk to him on the phone? Through notes? Shouting through the door?"
"We've already tried getting him to talk. All we've gotten so far is a note slipped under the door, saying he won't talk to anyone but the negotiator."
Her eyes stared at the floor. Either she was thinking hard, or there was a fascinating insect specimen next to his left foot.
"You one of those psychologist types?" he asked, merely to relieve the tension.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's the other type?"
"The politician."
She laughed. Not a real laugh, but enough to relax her face. "The psychologist, definitely. Behavioral, to be precise." She ended, almost to herself: "But it doesn't really matter in this case."
A pause. Then she asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the next room; from what we can hear, they're in the corner of the room."
"Lighting? Surroundings?"
"Bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling. Your typical unfinished basement. Lots of shelves. Power tools, toilet paper, storage stuff. No windows big enough for our snipers. You get the picture."
"Anything else I should be aware of?"
"Then you're going in?"
She shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."
Able shook his head at her innocence. "You sure this is wise? Once you're in there, we can't cover you. And anyway, we do have the clearance to just go in with the guns. He won't be able to escape this-"
"He still has a hostage. You can't risk it." Her voice was becoming challenging, so he responded with like boldness.
"We can't risk losing you, either. Or anyone else after you. Statistically, going in heavy-duty would be safer."
"But would it be right?" She let the question sink in for a moment. "Mr. Able, I have two jobs: one is to get the hostage out, and the other is to get the criminal out and into handcuffs. Compromising on one to get the other is not an option."
John took a deep breath and looked at the floor for a moment. "All right. I won't say I approve of this, but seeing as it's your own life on the line...I'll assume you know what to do with it." He forced his eyes back onto her face, and was again shocked by how young she seemed. A girl her age shouldn't even be involved in such business, much less die in it.
"Did you bring a bulletproof vest with you?"
She looked at him again, eyebrow raised. "What for?"
Again, he was slapped in the face by her innocence. Or her naivete. He wasn't sure which one it was. "For protection, dammit! What if you get shot?"
"Then I get shot."
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but was too surprised to care. "Listen, as a negotiator, you don't go in with weapons. That doesn't mean no protection!"
"I don't go in with weapons assuming that he will do the same. If I wear a vest, that means I don't trust him, and that he can't trust me."
"Trust? Are you crazy? You're worrying about trust at a time like this?"
"Yes, in fact I am." Her voice had a decided edge to it now, as if she were growing uncomfortable talking about the topic. And well she might; the thought of getting shot was as distasteful to her as it would be to any other person.
John's shoulders slumped as he realized there would be no convincing her. "Well, then..." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Good luck, Ariel." Realizing this might be the last time he would see her alive, he impulsively hugged the small girl.
When she pulled away, he saw that her eyes now had a sorrow in them that made them seem ten years older. She murmured a thank you and hurried off.
She didn't want him to see her cry.
As she headed for the door to the adjacent room, the rest of the HRT team seemed to step aside for her, almost in awe. They all knew what she was doing, and most of them thought she was crazy.
She probably was.
She put her mouth to the door and spoke loudly, "Hello? This is the hostage negotiator. Alright if I come in?" Other than the volume, her voice seemed perfectly at ease.
She checked her watch, and decided to wait for one minute. At 48 seconds, a piece of paper towel was slipped under the door. The thin, spidery writing had been done in a red pen. "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
"Religious nut...what else is new?" she muttered to herself. "Alright, everyone," she called to the men in uniform surrounding her. "Stand clear of the door...and pray as though your life depends on it." She laughed nervously at her own joke. No one laughed with her.
Taking a deep breath, Ariel Parker opened the door...
...and stepped into the lion's den.
The unfinished room was dark, except for the stream of light from the tiny window near the ceiling that lit up the center of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, with small alcoves hidden in the walls. All of them were in complete black; any of them would make a good hiding place.
She called out a precursory "Hello?" but got no response. She glanced behind the work shelves. No one. Turning around, she made her way towards the other end of the room. A pack of paper towels stood opened on the floor near the furnace. Part of one had been ripped off.
Taking the bait, she checked behind the furnace. Still no one.
"Hello? This is Ariel Parker. Are you there?"
She stepped out from behind the furnace and out in front of a particularly dark alcove.
She heard a sound coming from the blackness, and spun around just as the ceiling lightbulb came on, illuminating the alcove.
"Ah...the negotiator." A dark voice, low with menace and - was it really? - amusement.
Under the naked lightbulb stood the killer, looking as every serial killer should: dark coat, closely-cropped brown hair, ghostly pale skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun. Despite that fact, he was wearing a pair of dark shades that concealed his eyes. A strange accessory, but not as menacing as the M4 Carbine in his hands. Pointed at her, of course.
She could see the man behind him, slumped against a wall, unconscious. His hands and feet were bound with zip-ties, a gag was tied around his mouth, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.
She took the metaphorical deep breath.
Step one: establish rapport and maintain calm.
She lifted her arms away from her sides to show that she didn't have a weapon. "I'm Ariel Parker, the-"
"Hostage negotiator, yes." He wasn't hasty to interrupt. Not nervous or frantic. Just...in control. It wasn't normal.
Alright, moving on. Step two: find out what he wants and establish authority over the situation.
"We have the money you want...back in the other room. If you like, I can go back and get it as soon as we've established the terms of exchange."
He didn't respond to that one. She had a feeling that he was waiting for something, his eyes boring into hers from behind the dark lenses.
Step three: find out what he really wants.
"But I don't think that's what you're after, is it?"
"You're the psychologist; you tell me." He seemed to have relaxed now, to the point where his tone of voice might have been used in dinner conversation.
"What is it you're after?"
He cocked his head in an exaggerated motion of thinking. "Money." He was playing with her now.
"I don't think that's what it is."
Silence.
"I can't get it for you unless you tell me what it is."
He laughed quietly. "You wouldn't be able to get it for me anyway."
"Well, why don't you try me?"
He laughed again - a long, steady, unsettling sound. She couldn't be sure if it was a good or a bad sign.
When he had finished, he leaned against the concrete wall, and motioned for her to sit down on a nearby stool. "If you're going to be that persistent, you might as well sit down for the story."
She obliged, noting hopefully that he had set the Carbine down on the ground, if only to give his hands a rest.
"How well do you know this man here?" He pointed to the hostage behind him.
She glanced at him, and then replied almost impatiently, "He's in his fifties, works as professor at the community college, has a wife and two children, and has no criminal record to speak of. Has he offended you personally in some way?"
"No - mustn't jump to conclusions, miss. What do you think Mr. Anderson was doing two nights ago?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Well, I do. He wasn't at home watching TV with his wife - he was at the home of one of his students. One of his female students, I might add." He laughed again, a darker laugh than the one he had used earlier. "He told his wife that he was going to be at a meeting. Definitely a lot more exciting than those previous, don't you think?"
She decided not to respond to the question, asking her own instead. "What does this have to do with-"
"Ah, ah, miss. Let me finish." For a brief instant, his mouth twisted into an indulgent smile, as if she were a child with too many questions, but then his face became grim. "That wasn't the first time, either. Anderson has been doing this for years...and hasn't been caught or punished. Until now, that is."
"I still don't see what this has to do with y-"
"It has nothing to do with me. This has to do with justice." His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. She almost believed him.
"Then that is a matter for the law to handle, not you."
That statement brought an explosion from the man. "Look around you, miss! The law doesn't work. Innocent people are being violated, killed, all the time, and with nothing to make up for it. Justice has not been served - it cannot be served with our human systems of so-called law."
"And how does what you're doing help?"
"I'm letting you know. I'm letting everyone know. The only proper response to evil is to eradicate it - to destroy it. The wages of sin is death. There is no substitute."
"Is that what you're going to do? Prove that there is no substitute for...for this?"
"I won't be doing it. You will." The Carbine was pointed at her again.
Slowly, she stood up. Slowly, she thought over what she was going to say. And slowly, she said it. "What is it you want me to do?"
"You get to make a choice. You can either let me kill this man, as is deserved, or you can try to offer an alternative."
"You just said there was none."
"That's only what I know. Obviously, you think otherwise. You have one hour to come up with a substitute, or to let justice be done. If you're wise, you'll choose the latter."
"The wages of sin is death."
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the low light as he raised his gun.
"But." She stood up. "But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."
His smile disappeared. "Wrong answer. Your Lord Jesus isn't coming down to save this man."
"No, but I can." She breathed in and out, hard. Tried to keep her hands from shaking. "I have a substitute."
"Oh really? Well, let's hear your offer."
She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. Opened them. Managed to look at him straight in the eye. "Me. Kill me. Let him go."
The man's lip curled into a snarl. "How noble. You're stupid, you know?"
"Perhaps."
"You expecting your God to come and save you? Huh?"
"If He wills it."
That answer seemed to infuriate him even more. He crossed the room, gun in hand, in two seconds, slammed her body against the concrete wall, shoved the barrel of the gun into her gut, and sneered in her face, "Well, your God can't save you now."
In a rage, he turned and kicked the still-unconscious hostage in the ribs. "And this guy? He won't even know what you've done for him. No one will care!" He was screaming now. "This!" He picked up the man by the shirt collar. "This pathetic piece of worthless junk is what you're dying for?!"
She remained leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight, wordless.
He dropped the man on the floor, and suddenly his voice dropped down to a whisper even more dangerous than his screams. "And what about you? What about everything you've worked for, that you're never going to see finished? What about your family, your friends, that you are never going to see again? Is this worth it?"
She heard a click as he prepared the gun, still talking. "Death isn't fun, you know. And trust me, your God's not coming to save you this time. Or anytime else. No one can save you now, except yourself. Look at me!"
Her eyes shot open at the command. The man now looked emotionless, except for his hands, which were clenched tight. "You're going to go through with this?"
"Yes."
There was a bang, and suddenly her left leg gave out from under her and she fell onto her knees, gasping.
"You sure?" he asked through clenched teeth, his finger still on the trigger.
"...yes."
Another bang, and the hand supporting her trembling body felt like it was on fire. Her shoulder hit the concrete.
Before another word was spoken, another bullet hole appeared in her back.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, between which muffled sobs could be heard.
Through bleary eyes, she could see a dark form looming over her. "Last chance now. Do you want to back out?"
She was in too much pain to speak, but she managed to make a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Darkness.
If one ever happens to pass by the Calvary Church of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, on any given Friday, be sure to step in for a minute or two. It's a relaxing place, with long, dark pews, colored by the afternoon light filtering in from the stained-glass windows. A simple wooden cross hangs at the front, with a matching altar underneath. The soft carpet muffles almost any sound, so that it's so quiet, one feels as though one can hear the imperceptible sounds that angels make when flying. It's a peaceful place. A place of rest.
And, if you happen to come in at the right time, you may observe that there are three people sitting in the front row - two men sitting on the pew, one other in a wheelchair. They are very quiet, and don't seem to be doing anything other than contemplating the cross and the altar. Occasionally, one of the men - the older one - will grasp the hand of the person in the wheelchair.
If you are patient, you may see their faces when they leave up the aisle. The first, you will observe, is a young man. His hair is brown, and closely cropped, and he wears dark clothes, which contrast against his pale skin. He walks with his back so straight one might call it stiff. But his eyes, which are a soft green, bear the look of one who has been relieved of a great burden.
The older man is pushing the wheelchair. His hair is gray, and there are deep lines, worn by care and penitence, in his face. There is a name tag pinned onto his shirt, revealing that his name is Sean Anderson and that he works as a greeter at the church. He wears the gentle smile of one who has been forgiven of a great sin, and is now at peace.
Now that you can their faces, you realize that the person in the wheelchair is a girl in her twenties. Her left leg is in a cast, and her right arm is heavily bandaged. Her black hair falls to her shoulders in waves. Her eyes, doe-like and soft brown, stare into the distance, as if contemplating something profound and wonderful. Her face is that of one who has served as a vessel, poured out for God, and filled again to overflowing.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - The words of Christ, as recorded in John 15:13.
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