Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  “Why don’t you call him and he’ll tell you himself?”

  “Because I don’t know his number.” That’s a lie. Of course I know his number. I asked him for it in case he disappeared with my dog and I needed to track him down.

  “Shall we search your phone?” He holds out one hand while the other lifts the gun a little higher, pointing right at my chest. “You won’t like what happens if I find it.”

  My heartbeat picks up in speed, beating so hard it sounds like a drum in my ears. I’m definitely not eager to find out. “Maybe I have it after all. But he might have disconnected it when he returned home.”

  I grab my phone, ignoring my brain’s desperate urge to dial 911 while pretending to call Shane. I scroll through my contacts until I find his name and press his number. It rings a few times before it goes to voicemail, and a computer-generated voice tells me that the owner of the number is not available.

  “Hear that?” I hold up my phone so the guy can listen. “He’s not picking up.”

  I end the call but hold on to my phone.

  “I never expected he would. Leave a voicemail and tell him someone’s here with you. Say I have a gun and if he’s not here within three hours, I’ll kill you. And no police or he’ll find himself scraping what’s left of you off the floor.”

  “What?” My voice breaks. I knew it. I knew his word was worth nothing. “You lied. You said you’d let me go.”

  “And I will. Once I have Shane.”

  Ha! I’m not stupid to believe him a second time.

  “Do it,” he urges. There’s a forcefulness in his tone I didn’t notice before. This guy is a thug and definitely not here to collect a debt. Why did Shane have to move in next door? My life wasn’t perfect before, but at least I wasn’t in mortal danger.

  If he returned to England like he said he would there’s no way he’ll make it back in time.

  What if he’s already forgotten about me and won’t listen to the voicemail in time?

  It’s been days without a phone call or text, without any sign that he still remembers me and his parting words were nothing but the empty promise of someone who didn’t know what else to say? People do that all the time. They assure you they’ll keep in touch because it’s easier to lie than to tell you straight to your face that their life will go on without you.

  “What are you waiting for?” the guy asks.

  I glare at him. “He’s in England. He won’t be here in three hours.”

  “Do it!” His tone is harsh, threatening.

  Realizing I have no choice I do as instructed, repeating his words. The guy next to me keeps silent, but the presence of his weapon weighs heavily on me. Once done, I disconnect the call and hold my breath, almost expecting the worst.

  “Get up,” he says. “Go into the bathroom and stay there. Leave your phone here.”

  I stand on shaky legs when my dog stirs. One moment she’s in deep slumber and the next she jumps up like she’s on fire, and noticing there’s someone else in the room, she begins to bark and growl.

  Oh, no! Why now?

  Like in slow motion, I watch the guy pointing his weapon at her.

  “Sammy, no!” I yell, but obeying really isn’t her strongest suit.

  “Silence your dog or I will,” the guy says.

  “Hush. Please. Be quiet.” I try to lift her up in my arms, but it seems nothing can put an end to her barking. “Sammy, calm down. Everything’s fine.” I keep my voice low and soothing as I try to infuse a false sense of safety.

  It’s not working.

  “Go to the bathroom. Get that dog out of here,” the guy says.

  I hurry to do as he says, eager to put as much distance as possible between him and my pup. Behind a closed door, I’m sure I’ll get her to cool down. But once inside the bathroom, her incessant barking only seems to turn into growling that ripples through her tiny chest in big, angry waves.

  “Shush.” I bury my face in her fur the way I always do when we both need a cuddle and strain to listen to what’s happening outside. All I can hear is the guy moving something heavy against the bathroom door that’s probably supposed to keep me from getting out. Then he begins to pace a few times while exchanging a few words in a foreign language with someone on the phone. Or maybe there’s two of them.

  The thought never even occurred to me.

  My hands begin to shake again and fear grips me by the throat, choking me with its invisible clutches.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. I want Shane to turn up, but at the same time I fear what will happen if he does.

  “He won’t,” I whisper. There is no way he could. He’s in England. And even if he weren’t, what could he possibly do?

  I doubt whoever’s out there will just leave. Maybe he’ll want to send Shane a warning to get him to turn up after all. I don’t even want to think about what that warning could be.

  “Please, God,” I chant without even thinking about what I’m saying.

  In the storm that is raging within my thoughts, there is a moment of calm like a path full of sunshine parting the way through the darkness.

  I take a deep breath and try again, my lips forming the words of the familiar prayer. I haven’t prayed in so long, it’s a miracle that my brain remembers, and yet it goes through the motions effortlessly, as though the petition is etched in my heart.

  As I say the Lord’s Prayer, and start to call upon His name, something happens to me. The waves of fear dissipate completely and peace settles in their wake. I close my eyes and smile, enjoying the sudden sense that everything will be all right.

  “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” I chant silently.

  The calm becomes complete silence. Even Sammy seems to feel it and joins in.

  I see it clearly now; the way back home is full of light and the other end of it is a merciful God who delights in seeing His children return. I pray silently, thanking the Creator for His goodness, for His mercy, for His grace, for giving me a way back home and showing it so clearly to me. For making it so easy through Jesus Christ. I think of how much God must love us that He gave us His only begotten Son so that whoever believes in Him has eternal life and doesn’t have to perish.

  Then I think of how much the Son must have loved us when He was on the cross, wounded, bleeding, pierced for our transgressions. While in pain, He asked the Father to forgive us before he died for us.

  He, who was without sin, died for us, the sinners, the ungodly.

  He just died for the unjust.

  My heart aches, this time not for myself but for our Savior, who was more than willing to lay down His life for us because it was the only way to redeem us. I couldn’t imagine a greater love than His.

  I had grown up reading the bible, attending sermons, but I had never really understood any of it before. I didn’t understand that the Father seeks fellowship with us, but we can only be made right with God through Jesus. The son is the only way to get to God. The son is the one who reconciles us to God.

  All the times I worried, I shouldn’t have carried my worries alone.

  I shouldn’t have run from an editor, from my faith, from an intruder or the world outside. It would have been sufficient to put my trust in the one who is true life, and He would have taken care of my sorrows.

  Whenever I went through deep waters, it was never anything God couldn’t handle for me.

  I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, praying, thoughts pouring in and out of my mind, as a deep sense of peace settles inside me. But that’s when I see it spreading out before my closed eyes.

  Something like a strong ray of light, so deep and beautiful it almost hurts. Tears begin to gather in my eyes, but they’re tears of joy and happiness. Through the hazy curtain I think I see meadows rolling as far as the horizon and across those meadows it’s like a figure is walking toward me. I can’t see his face clearly; I’m too foc
used on his garments. As I throw myself to his feet, clutching at the fabric of his clothes, I feel a comforting hand on my back, the touch gentle and encouraging.

  “Thank you.” The words form on my lips, though I can’t tell whether I’ve spoken them out loud or whether they just echo in the confined space of my head. My heart fills with love, the deep, penetrating kind that is warm and all consuming, spreading like a wildfire. And for a long time, that’s all I can feel, love and gratitude, and a deep sense of knowing that I’ve finally found my way back home.

  It takes a while for the commotion outside the bathroom door to penetrate the shield of safety surrounding my mind. Acknowledging that something is going on, I open my eyes, albeit not quite willingly, and leave behind the soothing cocoon of my vision.

  “What’s happening?” I whisper to Sammy as though she might be able to tell me what’s been going on while I was out of it.

  In spite of the thuds and the thumps, as though people are crashing against the walls, the fear from before doesn’t return. Just—curiosity.

  I get up from my sitting position, eager to venture out, when the door’s thrown open. I peer into the glaring brightness, almost expecting an angel or something to have come to my aid. What I see is the figure of a woman, dressed in black running gear, her blonde ponytail swaying as she moves. She opens her mouth to say something when my mother’s voice cuts her off.

  “Darling, are you all right?” An instant later, my parents have dashed past the blonde, almost pushing her aside, and I’m safely tucked in their arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The blonde aka Stacy is called The Infantry because apparently she’s the greatest backup you can have and really good at her job. Sitting around my mother’s dining table while Mom’s serving us scones and her Earl Grey tea (the yucky one with milk), I catch her expression every time the two FBI detectives joke. Mom clearly doesn’t approve. In fact, she looks almost insulted, which she never does.

  “Jesus was so humble he never called himself any of that even though he would have deserved the honor. Trust people to give themselves credit where credit is not due,” she mumbles in my ear. “I’m thankful for these guys, but let’s face it. The Lord saved you.”

  I pat her hand and smile knowingly.

  It’s early morning. A few hours have passed since my rescue, and I’m still trying to glue the pieces of the puzzle together.

  According to my mother, when I left that message on Shane’s voicemail, Stacy was the one who listened to it, which isn’t a surprise considering that she’s probably his girlfriend.

  At that time she was in my parents’ house (imagine my confusion), talking about strategies with Shane (again, imagine my confusion growing). He, I came to know, is in the witness protection program, which (and I still can’t wrap my mind around this one) my parents are a part of. A helping part, that is.

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  My parents are helping the police in witness protection manners!

  Anyway, Stacy aka The Infantry made the mistake of telling my parents that I was being held captive and advised them not to worry. That immediately caused my parents to worry a lot and they couldn’t be stopped from tagging along in their own car, following Stacy’s vehicle and running a few red lights in the process.

  Apparently, I was in that bathroom for an hour or longer. When The Infantry kicked in the door and tackled the intruders, of which there were two, I didn’t make a sound and everyone feared the worst. And by everyone I mean Mom and Dad who obviously didn’t wait outside for Stacy to finish the job.

  Mom, clutching her purse, and Dad, holding on to an ancient wrench for changing tires, came in running right behind Stacy, risking being shot. But according to Mom, she didn’t fear for a second. She just knew that the Lord would protect them because, while Dad ignored speed limits and red lights for the first time in his life, she prayed fervently with Pastor Rick, who was praying on the phone with her.

  What can I say? Prayers work. It says so in the bible, and I’m the living and breathing proof.

  According to mom, when Shane took off in the middle of the night, Stacy had planned to get rid of his phone so no one could track him down. But she forgot. The same night I was held captive, she had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach and switched on the phone. It was like a voice told her to do it, which basically saved my life. In retrospect, even Stacy can’t explain it.

  But I can. I know the answer.

  God hears prayers. He heard mine.

  It’s all a miracle and all miracles are found in God.

  My confusion changed to surprise and then to shock when I found out that not only did my parents know about Shane being in the witness protection program, but they also offered to let him stay with them.

  Since Stacy’s job is to protect him until whatever’s going on goes to trial, she’ll be staying with them, too.

  Apparently, that’s why my mother never believed that she was his girlfriend. It would be a conflict of interest for sure, but that’s never stopped anyone.

  Talking about Shane, I can’t help but keep throwing hidden glances toward the open door leading to the backyard where I imagine him sitting with Stacy and going over their next steps. While he couldn’t come to my rescue, he was pacing up and down the living room, anxiously awaiting the call that would tell him I was out of danger’s clutches. His exact words, according to mom.

  It’s after 9 a.m. when Stacy’s admirers, aka FBI detectives, finally leave, and I’m alone with my parents. Since my rescue, they haven’t let me out of their sight, and I don’t expect they will in the near future.

  “You’re moving back home,” Dad says as soon as the door’s closed behind the detectives.

  “That’s not happening, and you know it.” I take another sip of my lukewarm tea and grimace. I really don’t get why any person with their taste buds in the right place would pour milk in there, but I will not offend my mother by asking for a slice of lemon. In her home, I drink my tea as she likes it. It’s a small sacrifice after all she’s done for me.

  Like risking their lives when they could have just trusted the detectives to do their job.

  “We know.” Dad sighs and throws my mother a meaningful look. “But you can’t blame us for trying. We’re just glad you’re well and nothing happened.”

  “That we are,” Mom says, her voice trembling. “It was a close call.”

  It was. Too close.

  “Thank you for everything.” My voice is trembling too as I wrap my arms around my mother. Closing my eyes, I feel my father joining our embrace. There’s a huge clot at the back of my throat, threatening to choke me. I don’t know what makes me so emotional—the fact that I know they’re still worried about me and a million things involving me, and no reassurances will take that away, or seeing the countless fine lines around their eyes and realizing my parents won’t be around forever.

  I lied to them and they didn’t deserve it. No one ever does, and particularly not my parents who care so deeply about me. God and Christ loved me even when I was a liar and a sinner without repentance. I’m thankful for that, but I still need to change. I realize all the mistakes I made, lying being just one of them. I shouldn’t have avoided their calls. I should have been kinder.

  I should have—

  Closing my eyes, I make one resolution after another. I won’t lie again. I will stop pushing them out of my life.

  I will break all those bad habits I acquired.

  I will change and become a better person.

  I will be the best I can be, walking in truth and love.

  It seems we hug each other forever and yet, as I break off the embrace, it feels too soon.

  “So.” I pause as I compose myself, considering my words. I look at Sammy who’s at my feet, chewing on a huge slice of smelly beef jerky, the danger we were in a few hours ago already forgotten. For some reason, everything seems surreal, almost as though it happened to someone else. Now all I want a
re answers, preferably ones that involve Shane and what he’s doing in my parents’ house.

  “So,” Dad says with a frown.

  I can see my answer about moving back home didn’t please him, but I’m not going to budge on that one.

  “Your mom told me about the incident with that horrible woman.” Dad shakes his head grimly. “Did you sort it out?”

  That horrible woman can only be Madeleine Albright. My parents’ labels tend to stick. I bet they will call her that for the next twenty years.

  “You mean Mom told you how she sent the editor my manuscript without my knowing?” I peer at my mother who pretends to be busy cleaning up the table while tuning in to our conversation.

  “Did you sort it out like you said you would?” She lifts her chin defiantly as though she doesn’t agree with me and secretly hopes that I haven’t.

  “I didn’t get to it. In between being held hostage and you guys coming to my rescue, there was no time.” I smile at the way her face brightens. She looks like a light bulb just went on inside her brain.

  “Well, I’m sure everything will work out. It always does,” Dad says.

  “Maybe.” I’m not so sure about that, but in the face of deadly danger the whole situation seems to have lost its importance. Besides, my big plan wasn’t so much of a plan anyway. By the time I would have been done knocking on every door, she would have been back in her office, particularly if word of a lunatic inquiring about a certain resident had spread. It probably would have raised a few red flags that could have ended with me in police custody.

  I guess that leaves me with one option only. Roll with it, and move on to the next topic.

  “So,” I start again. I tap my fingers on my thigh as I prepare my words. Obviously, my parents can usually see right through me so I can’t be too obvious.

  But how do you ask about someone without coming across as interested?