Two men, two different centuries. Will either one come home alive?

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Excerpt:

MONDAY

"Today I meet the Mennonites," Stan Windemere said.

His wife held her fork mid-air, syrup dripping back onto her pancake.

"It's for that job. You know. The security guard position."

Rose laid her fork carefully on her plate. "I don't know why you want to work for those people. They hate Jamie. They think what he's doing is evil."

"They don't even know Jamie."

"But they're pacifists." As if that explained everything.

Stan sighed and rubbed his forehead before looking at his wife. "It's only for a couple of weeks. I'll be working at night. I won't even see most of the people. I'll be in and out, and no one will know the difference."

She had no response, except to pick up her napkin and dab at the corners of her mouth.

"We can use the money." But that wasn't it. Not really. It was the job itself Stan needed. Something to do. Something to keep him from thinking.

Rose stacked her silverware on top of her half-eaten breakfast and took it over to the sink, where she carefully rinsed her plate. Stan watched as she opened the door to the dishwasher and gently placed the plate in the rack, easing her silverware—one piece at a time—into the little bin. No clashing of metal against metal for his Rose.

"You shouldn't go," his Rose said.

But Stan went anyway.

***

As Stan negotiated the numbered streets of Goshen, Indiana, the little burg where he and Rose had grown up, staying to marry and raise their children, he tried not to think. Instead, he paid close attention to the shapes of the sprouting trees, the thump, thump, thump, of the bricks that made up Fifth Street, and the children out at recess in the playground of Chandler Elementary.

But that brought memories of Jamie.

More distractions. The beauty of the city's courthouse, its tan bricks newly powerwashed. The bank that had so recently been burglarized, the director stolen from his home to let the robbers into the vault. The cedar-sided house on the corner by the stoplight...

This time the thoughts came rushing in. Attacking. Jamie, fourteen years old. His principal, Mr. Albert, calling Stan at work, demanding that Stan come to school immediately to deal with a discipline problem.

"I can't drop everything and run to your office," Stan had told him. "I'm in the middle of my shift, on the way to a car accident on thirty-three. Whatever your issue is will have to wait."

No use in calling Rose. She would've flown to the school, clucking over Jamie like a mother hen. Only this hen had teeth, ready to be bared at anyone threatening her chick.

Finally, at the end of the day, coming home to Jamie's sheepish expression. Being told over mashed potatoes and pot roast that Jamie had joined his friends in vandalizing the principal's home over the weekend.

"It wasn't vandalism, Dad," Jamie said.

"Well, thank goodness for that. What would you call it, exactly?"

Jamie wiggled in his chair. "We were just having fun."

"And to have fun one needs eggs, soap, and toilet paper?"

Andrea, Jamie's little sister, who would've been eight at the time, giggled, and Stan shot her a warning look.

"It was just..." Jamie bit a thumbnail. "We knew he was gone. Memorial Day, right? So we thought—"

"You thought? I am absolutely astounded to hear that. To imagine you thought and still decided this was a good idea."

Jamie's head dipped. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"I expect so. I also expect you've heard what happened over the weekend? With the things you decided to leave at Mr. Albert's house?"

Jamie's face screwed up with confusion. "What? They wouldn't tell me anything at school."

"Well, I was told plenty when I stopped by the office this afternoon to talk with your principal. Seems while he was traveling, his Sunday School took care of cleaning up the property. It also seems that soap and eggs don't do anything good for cedar siding."
Jamie paled.

"I offered to have you re-stain the siding, seeing how you've done some painting here at home, but Mr. Albert doesn't want you touching his house. Can't imagine why. Mr. Albert also said he won't be calling the police about this—although bringing me into it kind of constitutes that—if you pay damages. I figure you have enough in your savings account to cover it."

"But, Dad, I wasn't the only one—"

"You'll be paying your share. The others will pay theirs."

Jamie sat back in his chair and let out a sigh of relief. "So that's it, then?"

Stan laughed. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, I have other plans." He handed his son a sheet of paper. "Here are the addresses of all of the people who cleaned up Mr. Albert's house. You will go apologize to all of them. Tonight."

Jamie glanced at Stan's plate, still full of food. "After you're done?"

Stan raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm not taking you. You're riding your bike."

"But these houses are all over town! I'll never make it before dark!"

Stan picked up his fork and knife. "Well, then, I guess you'd better get going."

And Jamie went. He really had made it to each house before dark, and the next day neither of them said a word about it. Mr. Albert had never been keen on Jamie after that, but that was all right. Jamie had stayed out of trouble the rest of his high school career.

Stan had thought the Navy would keep him out of trouble once he'd left high school and the attempt at college. Jamie had always wanted to join. Get out in the world. Make a difference.

It hadn't exactly turned out that way.

The bumps as Stan drove over the railroad tracks brought him back to the present, to the Old Bag Factory, where local artisans and other creative folks had set up shop. An adjoining building, The Depot, named, of course, for one of the town's old train stations, housed several non-profits, including the Mennonite Central Committee office. Stan pulled into a parking spot.

A few cars down a group of Hispanic teen-agers lounged around a Grand Am. They were Mexican, probably. Lots of Spanish-speaking folks in Goshen. These guys were young. Maybe out of school. Maybe playing hooky. Didn't look like trouble, but you never know. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, their conversation stopped abruptly. He nodded to them, raising his hand. They checked him out, hands in pockets as they leaned against their car.

One of them smiled, elbowing his friend. "Hey, mire ese viejo hechandonos una mirada."
His friend waved him off. "Él no es viejo. Gringo justo."

"Espere." The first one stepped away from the car, squinting toward Stan. "¿No es ese el policia que aresto a David?"

All four boys turned to look at him with renewed interest. "Pienso que usted tiene razón," one said. "¡Si es! ¿Qué esta haciendo el aqui?"

"Comprando algunos regalos para su vieja en la tienda de descuentos."

Three of the four found this discussion hilarious. Stan couldn't understand anything except the words "policia", meaning cop, "Gringo," and the name David, so he didn't know if he'd find it funny or not. He assumed not. The fourth guy, standing against the car, his arms crossed, gave a little smile, but didn't put energy into actual laughter. His eyes met Stan's, and he returned Stan's nod with a subtle tilt of his chin.

Pushing open the door of the building, Stan left them behind.

Inside The Depot, Stan paused to look around. He'd never been called to this building, so it was all new to him. By the time the businesses had moved in he'd changed out of police uniform to his plain clothes, which meant no routine calls or stops at local merchants. He was strictly an emergency man now, meeting people only when the worst had happened.

To his right was something called The Whistle Stop. Looked like a thrift store of some kind. And to his left The Switch Yard, the same sort of shop, only for larger merchandise—washers, dryers, and such. He walked past a few other store fronts—Choice Books, Ten Thousand Villages, Africa Inter-Mennonite Missions—and found himself at the doorway of Mennonite Central Committee, Great Lakes Division. It didn't look like a place where he'd find hatred, as Rose had predicted. Rather, it looked bright and cheerful and friendly. He stepped in.

"Good morning," a girl said. She smiled. "May I help you?"

She looked about thirteen, but Stan supposed that was her wholesome, milk-fed appearance. He assumed she was at least eighteen if she was working a desk. The nameplate said Sheila Yoder.

"Name's Stan Windemere. I have an appointment with someone this morning. About the security job?"

"Of course. Mr. Brenneman is on a conference call right now, but he should be ready in a minute. Please make yourself at home here in the waiting area."

Stan glanced at the surroundings. Decorated eggs in a glass case, children's books and cookbooks on a stand, a quote painted on the wall in big letters proclaiming, "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together." An African proverb, it said. And an entire wall making up of a map of The World.

"Thanks," Stan told the girl.

She kept smiling. "I'm Sheila. The receptionist, if you haven't guessed." Her laugh was light and high, like the windchimes Stan had hung on his back porch. Rose hadn't really wanted them there, had complained about the noise, but he'd done it anyway. She'd let it go.

"You're welcome to have a seat on our sofa over there," Sheila said. "Or browse through our displays."

The phone rang.

"Excuse me." Sheila picked up the receiver. "Good morning, Mennonite Central Committee, Great Lakes Region." Her face lit up. "Senor Ramos! El número que usted me dio para Sr. Gonzalez era corecto. Muchas gracias. Fue de mucha ayuda."

Stan stared at her. Was she speaking Spanish? He thought Mennonites spoke German. Or that Pennsylvania Dutch used by the Amish folks with the coverings and dark blue pants. Those Mexican kids in the parking lot—they were the ones who were supposed to be speaking Spanish.

"Mr. Windemere?"

Stan looked away from Sheila the Spanish-speaker to see a man, about his age, mid-forties or so, standing beside him with his hand out.

"Jerry Brenneman," the man said. "Thanks for coming."

Stan nodded.

"Sheila introducing the place to you?"

"A bit."

"Good, good. I suppose you figured out this is the welcoming area. You saw our books, our display case here." He indicated the stand. "This has the brochures which explain our projects around the world."

Stan looked, but kept his hands at his sides. Lots of pamphlets, calendars, bookmarks. Pictures of people with all shades of skin, from the darkest of what he assumed was Africa, to the white of any Caucasian. Children. Adults. Groups. Individuals.

Brenneman took a few steps to the side and gestured toward the wall. "This is our world map which shows where volunteers from the Great Lakes region are working."

Photos of families, smiling broadly, tacked to the wall in their spot of the world. South America, China, Mozambique. There were no photos on the area designating Russia. Stan averted his eyes.

"Over here," Brenneman said, "is our work area, copier, fax machine and such. And also our resource library."

Stan glanced over the shelves of books and videos. DVDs, too.

"But this can all wait. Why don't you come on back to my office and we can talk?"

He led Stan a couple of feet further into a small room, two sides taken up with windows looking out into the greater office. On the other two walls stood bookshelves filled with papers, books, and prominently displayed photos.

"My family," Brenneman said, seeing the direction of Stan's gaze. "My wife, Jenny, and my sons. Chad and Brent. Chad's a senior at Goshen College. Music major. Brent fled the nest and went all the way to Virginia, where he's into computers. Eastern Mennonite University. You have children?"

Stan looked at the man. "Two. One of each. Boy and girl."

Brenneman waited expectantly, but Stan was done with family talk. "You have a job for me?"

"We do." Brenneman sank into his chair and indicated the cushioned one in front of the desk, where Stan sat. "A security job. I spoke with your chief and he recommended you for the position. I understand you're taking some time off? A sabbatical?"

Something like that. Stan nodded.

"We have a big warehouse," Brenneman said. "I'll show you in a minute. We often store large quantities of provisions there, which get sent all over the world. Food, blankets, school supplies. The thrift stores use it, too. In the big picture, not a huge financial investment in the materials, but we do our best to keep them safe on our own."

"Something's changed?" But Stan suspected the answer. Or part of it, anyway.

"You know there's been trouble in this part of town. Theft, breaking and entering. We suspect the local gangs have something to do with it, but there's no way to be sure. We've done our best to lock things up, and we really haven't had too much trouble. A few things missing here and there.

"But we have an especially large shipment coming this week. Tons of supplies, meant for the earthquake that struck Pakistan last month. Clothing, food, blankets, toiletries. Five-gallon buckets stuffed with goods." He waved his hand. "After the tsunami in Asia MCC requested twenty-two thousand relief kits from the Church. We got them all. Plus donations of more than twelve million dollars."

A vision shot through Stan's mind. Photos from Newsweek of the tragedy in that country. Wide-eyed children, orphaned, homeless, starving. Brown skin, brown eyes, black hair. All afraid, hungry. But some strangely hopeful.

"Five days ago," Jerry was saying, "another local charity, La Casa, was cleaned out during the night. Everything worth taking and light enough to carry gone in only a few hours."

Stan grunted. Nodded. He'd heard about the incident, just days after he'd walked out of the police station, his life altered.

"So we'd like to have a security presence," Brenneman continued. "Someone to keep an eye on things, make sure nothing... unusual happens. And as I said, your chief thought you might be interested."

Stan glanced again at the man's family photo. His wife, cheerful and composed, his boys happy. Healthy. Safe.

"I might be," Stan said.

Brenneman slapped his hands on the arms of his chair. "Great. Let me show you around."

They took a short walk down the hallway, Jerry pointing out desks, cubicles, a kitchenette. More quotes painted on the walls. Artwork with a worldwide flair.

Through a conference room into the warehouse. Ceilings reaching high, space filled with bins of colorful relief kits, baled blankets on flats, white buckets with the MCC logo of a dove. A forklift resting quietly in the corner.

Brenneman held out his hands. "It's really a multi-use space, as I said. Health kits, thrift store merchandise, used clothing. Over here are extra supplies to fill in what might be missing in any of the packs sent by church members.

"Our Material Resource Coordinator uses this office." He poked his head into a concrete-walled room. "Guess she's not here right now. But she oversees volunteer groups, as well as the organization of the warehouse."

"Has she noticed anything missing? Any broken door locks, or other signs of vandalism?"

Brenneman gestured toward the far side of the room. "The back door's lock was messed up several days ago. All we could report missing were some canned goods and other food items. We weren't sure how we were going to disperse them, anyway, so we hope they went to someone who could use them. We've had blankets go missing. Clothes sometime. Once a lamp shaped like a zebra." He smiled. "Like I said, not a lot of great financial value needs protecting here. But with the extra-large shipment we'll be storing, partnered with the increased local crime..." He shrugged.

"Hours?" Stan asked.

"We can negotiate. But I was thinking twelve-hour shifts. Seven in the evening to seven AM. Sundays off. The job will only be for three weeks or so, until the last of the supplies are sent out."

Stan pursed his lips and nodded, his thumb hooked into his belt. "Why not just use an alarm? The cops would be notified if someone broke in."

"We talked about that, and if we can't find someone to take the job we'll go that route. It's just... we prefer a presence here. Someone to be a face for the building, rather than a blinking box on the wall."

Stan nodded. Made sense. Sometimes it was that one person who could make the difference. Make a robbery seem not worth the effort.

"And Sunday nights? What would you do then?"

"We'd find someone. Or take turns. It should only be three Sundays, if things go as planned. We can work that out."

Sounded reasonable. And Stan couldn't work every night. Not if he wanted to stay alert.

Brenneman caught his eye. "We will, of course, ask that you leave your gun at home."

Stan's head stopped mid-nod, and he felt automatically for his weapon. The Glock 40 that had become just another part of his body. The weight against his hip. The security it brought. "I can't do that."

Brenneman tilted his chin toward the gun. "And we can't do that."

"I've never used it. I've never even taken it out of the holster except to clean or store it."

It was the truth. Real-life police work wasn't like TV, where the young handsome or shapely cops—along with the token grizzled, cynical veterans—were constantly yanking out their guns and pointing them at people. Every real police officer knew that if you took your gun out of its holster you had to fill out a report. And they had way too many of those as it was.

Brenneman smiled grimly. "I understand and appreciate that you feel more comfortable with your gun. But we have nothing here that would come close to equaling the value of a human life. We'd rather someone left with everything than be killed in the process."

What about my life? Stan wondered. Is it worth my life to protect a warehouse full of used furniture and already-worn clothing? Or a stack of plastic-wrapped blankets?

"I'm sorry, then. I guess we've both wasted our time this morning. Because I won't do a security job without my weapon."

"I'm sorry, too." Brenneman held out his hand. "But I appreciate your coming by. I hope you find a job you feel comfortable with until you're ready to go back to the police department."

Stan stared at him. What exactly had the chief told him? What secrets had he spilled to this unyielding pacifist?

"Thank you," Stan said. "I hope you can keep your shipment safe." And good luck with that.

Brenneman led him back out through the conference room, the maze of cubicles, past the kitchenette and work area. The wall-sized map of The World. The smiling, Spanish-speaking, adolescent-looking receptionist.

"Good-bye, Mr. Windemere," Brenneman said.

"Good-bye."

Stan left the office, his gun securely at his hip, his decision hanging over him like a dense cloud of doubt. When he looked back, Jerry Brenneman stood watching him, his face a kind mixture of understanding and disappointment.

Stan turned and walked away.

At least Rose would be happy.