A Quality of Light (45 page)

“Expedience,” I said. “The quick out, David. Johnny’s not flexible on this and we don’t have time to dillydally around trying to come to terms. Not with the shooters crawling through the rafters. Now everybody knows what’s on the table. Now we can get busy and end this thing. Peacefully. Bloodlessly.”

There was a lengthy silence at the other end. When he spoke again it was in a more conciliatory tone.

“Okay. How soon does he want to get this done?’

“Quite soon,” I said.

“Okay. I’ll push pause on the tac team. You rewind to the point about the statement. If this is going to be some radical swill-pushing, finger-pointing rhetoric, I don’t think anybody needs it,” he said.

“It won’t be any of that. I expect him to come out with a measured response. It’s like you said yourself, he’s an articulate son-of-a-bitch.”

He chuckled. “What do you mean, measured?”

“I mean, from what I can see, everything that’s been accomplished up here has been accomplished through clarity, reason and with an obvious goal in mind. It’s not slap-dash. Right now, he’s gauging his response.”

“What about you? What’s your response going to be?”

“I’m simply going to tell people what I’ve seen here.”

“And that is?”

“That is, right or wrong, I’ve observed a man with a sense of purpose. I will neither endorse nor denigrate that purpose.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“And you have no idea what Gebhardt’s message will be exactly?”

“No.”

“Is he horning in?”

“Horning in?”

“Listening.”

“No.”

“Well, what about if we just keep the cameras pointed at him but don’t actually shoot anything?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Two reasons.”

“Shoot.”

“One, the media will expect a statement and they’ll record it anyway. You can’t stop that. Two, honor.”

“Honor?”

“Yes. He’s dropping all demands but these. He’s willing to walk out and into custody. He’s being honorable and all he expects from you is the same.”

“You sound like defense counsel, Reverend.”

“My integrity is on the line here too, David. And my life. I’m trusting that he’ll allow me to leave unharmed along with all the others. If I can, can’t you?”

“Look, Joshua, all I’m saying is that this is a guy who’s crafty enough to establish this whole situation. He’s a persuasive bastard. A grifter.”

“I hear you. But I’m the one that’s been up here, David. I’m the one who’s talked with him, who’s listened to him, and believe me, if you come across with an okay to what he’s asking, no one gets injured. I’m staking my life on it,” I said flatly. “Leave the cameras live.”

“There’s no vendetta? This isn’t just some cooked campaign to nail you once you two are alone. No sense of that?”

“None.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. I’ll ring you as soon as I push it by Dodge. Me, I’d spring. But brass is brass.”

“Try, David.”

“I will. You be cool.”

“Roger.”

W
e didn’t have to wait long. About ten minutes after I hung up, the phone buzzed and Nettles told us that Dodge had okayed the plan. First, there would be a swift tactical team response should anything amiss occur at any time throughout the release and surrender. While the hostages were being released I was to stand beside the door at all times, in full view of the police, to ensure my safety. When we exited he was to walk with arms raised behind his head and away from the weapons I had laid in front of the building. We would proceed to an area directly in front of a police van where Johnny and I would have the opportunity to make our statements to the press, which would be broadcast live over the CBC, and he would be arrested immediately after. I could, if I chose, accompany Johnny into custody, to ensure his safety. Nettles added that he had argued for that as a point of honor. I grinned and told Nettles that we would call as soon as we were ready to leave.

After a minute or two Johnny looked up at me with a half smile on his face. “It’s almost over, then,” was all he said.

“Almost,” I replied.

He opened his duffelbag and removed a bow and a leather parfleche of arrows. He handed them to me and I studied them in amazement. The arrows were fletched with hawk feathers and glued with the same sinew that bound their tips to the shafts. The arrowheads were carved from pieces of bone, stone and antler. They were beautiful. The bow was a muscular-feeling piece of wood. Its length was rubbed to a dull sheen and the sinew that stretched from end to end thrummed with a primal basso energy. It felt like it had a song. The parfleche was decorated with the same
pyramidal design that graced Johnny’s hide vest, with the same green, yellow and white beads. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and I sensed that I was holding a part of a people’s history in my hands.

“I want you to have these when it’s over,” he said.

“What?” I asked, surprised.

“They’re yours. When I made these I hoped to get a sense of connection to the warrior essence. To understand how and why I chose to fight the way I did. I wanted to be armed with the old way. Only, to be armed the old way doesn’t require weapons. But you
always
knew that. Intuitively, you always knew. This design you see is a mountain,” he said, pointing to the parfleche. “The mountain is a symbol of faith — an enduring faith. And the colors represent the by-products of faith. I had to search for them, but you always had them. You were always armed the warrior way. I’m just sorry that I didn’t know that sooner,” he said with tears in his eyes.

I reached out and accepted his incredible gift. In the Indian way, you accept a gift with all the honor, humility and dignity with which it is offered. In that way you honor both the giver and the gift itself.

“I’m sorry too, Johnny,” I said with a choked voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to reach you. That I let you leave without chasing after you and fighting for our friendship, that I didn’t hear what you were trying to tell me.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. And for denouncing your life and your wife the way I did. I was wrong, Josh. I apologize. Think she’d like to meet me someday?” he asked.

I smiled and wiped at my eyes. “Yeah. She would. Do you have an idea what my son’s name is?”

“No. What is it?”

“Jonathan,” I said, quietly. “Johnny to his friends. And to his dad.”

“Good name. Can he hit?”

“Like a machine.”

“It’s only right. With a name like Johnny. Does he know about me?”

“Everything. Same with Shirley.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Josh, when I get out …”

“We’ll be waiting,” I said, and he smiled.

We looked at each other openly and without fear. In his eyes I saw the energy and the life force, strong and resilient, directed now by compliance to a more benevolent spirit, a living force within him. In my eyes, he was not a warrior, a whiteman, a radical or a threat. He was my friend. Laughing Dog. Johnny Gebhardt. And as the moment stretched to its unspoken breadth he was as he had always been, a quality of light in which I stood.

“Me too,” was all he said finally, quietly. And I knew.

H
e scribbled away for about half an hour. When he’d finished I found an old IBM Selectric for him and for the next hour the clatter of the typewriter punched the time away. I gathered the hostages around me while Johnny typed his statement, reassuring them that the resolution of their ordeal was imminent. As a group we agreed that the women would go first. They were quiet, not even moved to question the idea that they would emerge carrying arrows. In their eyes I saw that hope has a light of its own. They looked around the room and I sensed they were seeing it in an entirely different way than they ever had before, that it would always represent something far deeper than simply another room they worked in. And so we are transformed by circumstance.

Johnny finished his feverish pecking and I made a call to Nettles to inform him that we were ready. We ran through the procedure one more time. I reiterated that the television cameras had to capture the entire event. Johnny would check to ensure that fact on a monitor at the commissionaires’ desk. No broadcast, no resolution. There could be no alteration.

Nettles said they were eager to end it provided there was no hidden agenda on Johnny’s part. I assured him there wasn’t, and he agreed to our itinerary of surrender. We would move out within minutes and I would call from a downstairs phone to let him know when to expect my appearance at the doors.

“Good luck,” he said brusquely and disconnected.

We told the captives our plan and they began preparing themselves for their return to the real world, tucking in shirt tails and primping hair, cosmetic alterations I found somehow amusing. Johnny distributed the arrows solemnly. A few hostages met his eyes: most just accepted the trim shafts and turned away towards the door. Finally, Johnny and I looked at each other, nodded, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, Johnny first, checking for tac team members and then sweeping the barrel of his automatic weapon toward the far staircase. We approached it in a vague straggly line like kindergarteners on an outing, feet clumping clumsily along the nap of the carpeting. No one said a word. I traveled in the middle of the group with Johnny bringing up the rear. All along that passageway and on into the close quarters of the stairwell, I expected any minute a crash of rifle fire, the clatter of a smoke bomb or the swift, merciless slashing of an assassin ridding us of our captor.

At the commissionaires’ desk I tuned in to the CBC broadcast from outside the building. It showed the doors in the distance and swept to the tops of buildings across the street to show snipers aiming at the doorway. For the first time I felt real terror.

“They’re ready,” I told Johnny.

“TV up and running?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Johnny, there’s snipers on the rooftops across from us.”

“Figured,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Probably more we can’t see.”

“We gonna be okay?”

“Sure! They can’t kill me in front of a national audience.”

“We’re ready, then?”

“We’re ready.”

I called Nettles.

“Game time,” I said.

“Good. Joshua —
be careful.”

“David, nothing’s gonna —”

“No! Nothing’s secure until we get him in custody. No matter how much you think you trust him, this guy’s dangerous! He’s got a live audience now, he can make any kind of huge display he wants.
Be careful!”

“Okay. I’m heading to the doors now.”

“Joshua, I mean it.”

“I know. See you in a few minutes, David.” I hung up.

I moved towards the doors with the first woman. Swallowing hard and hands clasped in front of her chest, she looked at me with desperation, and I smiled reassuringly at her. The tape came easily off the door frame and I set the pseudo explosives on the floor. Johnny’s handiwork was incredible. It looked for all the world as though the wires connected the dynamite to the detonating device. I toyed briefly with the idea that maybe it
was
real, and a chill unlike any I’d felt ran the length of my spine. I swallowed hard myself and pushed the door open. The woman stepped out to freedom, the arrow clutched tightly in her hand.

I watched as photographers scrambled for a shot. Beyond the cordoned area I could see people craning their necks, all motion stilled while the conflict unfolded before them. The woman walked unsteadily towards the line of police vehicles.

“Okay?” Johnny yelled from across the lobby.

“Okay,” I said, waving the next woman to the door.

When the last man stepped out the door, I was a quivering bale of tension. I thought of Shirley and Jonathan waiting for me at home and of how far away that was from me right at that time.

I looked back across the lobby. We see each other so differently through the lenses of stress, and for a moment all I could see was the warrior, the caricature he had created, and I felt afraid, and very, very alone. Suddenly my fate was in the hands of a masked militant. A heavily armed and agitated rebel. I walked solemnly towards him, aware suddenly of the boundaries of faith that doubt
and fear can prescribe around your world. I half expected each step to end in the eruption of the rifle he carried, the slam of metal against my flesh.