by Nobody, Joe
Then, as suddenly as the episode had started, the erratic movements stopped, Terri’s limp body slumping in his arms. He quickly checked for a pulse, then leaned in toward her head to listen to her labored breathing. It was then that he realized that his own heart was racing, adrenaline pumping through his body. Nothing about what he had seen since his arrival made any sense, but one thing was for certain. His friend needed prompt medical attention. “Don’t you worry, Miss Terri,” he reassured her, “I am going to find you some help.” Butter slipped his hand underneath her head, effortlessly scooped her from the floor and stood. He was evaluating his options for emergency care when a sound interrupted his thought process.
“Is my mommy okay?” a weak voice whimpered from below.
Hunter. In the confusion Butter had not considered the child. He knew he couldn’t leave the toddler here alone. It was late. Yet trekking through the streets of Alpha with an unconscious woman and a small boy didn’t seem wise. How would he get in touch with the local physician anyway? The doctor’s office was closed. Should he try and signal a deputy? Fire some shots into the air? Stay put and take care of Miss Terri? There didn’t seem to be a right answer. Terri wasn’t wounded as far as he could tell, his skills as a combat medic worthless. He had never felt so frustrated and helpless.
Finally, after careful deliberation, he decided the first step was to make Terri more comfortable. Her breath was now coming with a more regular rhythm. There was no blood flow he needed to stop. “Come on,” he said to the wide-eyed boy at his leg. “Your mom is just tired, little buddy. Let’s take her to bed.”
“We can read her a dinosaur story,” Hunter offered in a sweet voice. “That always makes me feel better.”
With the pickup’s speedometer pegged at over 90 miles per hour, the desert between Meraton and Alpha passed quickly. While Nick fully understood the urgency in his friend’s driving, he was also thankful Bishop’s eyes never left the road.
“Does Butter know Blackjack is still alive?” Bishop asked.
“Yes, he does, but I told him to keep the news to himself until we arrived,” Nick answered. Then, in a more reconciling tone, he added, “Seriously, I thought she was doing better?”
“She is not,” Bishop stated bluntly. “Her paranoia is growing, and I have no clue what to do for her. It’s not like there are support groups or shrinks that specialize in post-traumatic stress. What in the hell are people with mental health issues supposed to do these days? I am not aware of any therapist for this sort of thing anywhere in this territory… and even if there were a specialist back east in one of the big cities, how would I find one?”
“We’re having the same issue in the military,” Nick nodded. “As a matter of fact, it is a problem in all walks of life. Most of our survivors experienced atrocious events during the collapse, and as time goes by, many of them are having trouble dealing with what happened.”
Bishop thought back to the nurse he and his neighbors had found in Houston right as everything was going to hell. Her husband had been executed; her child shot while sitting in its car seat. She had been brutally raped and then left to die alongside the road. How had she fared? Her body would have likely healed, but what about her mind?
Shaking his head to clear the gruesome images, Bishop’s thoughts returned to his current dilemma. “What is the Alliance going to do about Blackjack?”
“There’s not much we can do,” Nick shrugged. “And I think your former boss would give you the same answer… there’s not much the United States government can do either.”
“There’s no law enforcement in Louisiana? None?” Bishop snapped, his voice bordering on incredulous.
Nick took a moment before answering, trying to choose his words carefully. “I know you are personally invested in Ketchum Jones. I don’t blame you. But… there is a different perspective on the other side of the border. Blackjack didn’t commit any heinous crimes on American soil. In fact, if I were a Louisiana State Trooper, I’d probably be writing the guy a thank you note. He is accused of actions that eliminated over one hundred criminals from greater New Orleans, none of whom met their ultimate demise on US soil. He is accused of plotting to attack the Alliance, but we only have your word on that. No one else witnessed the conversation or has admitted to having knowledge of that dastardly plot. Sure, you and I have heard that he pimped out women and sold drugs, but who is going to report him for that? The Big Easy is almost deserted. It’s not like the local neighborhood watch is going to dial 9-1-1 to report a meth lab.”
Bishop interrupted, his voice intense. “He just stole a barge full of gasoline that had been seized by the government! In the process, he used a damn illegal hand grenade and killed or wounded seven dock workers and soldiers! Isn’t all that enough fucking crime for someone to take action? Uncle Sam has labeled him a terrorist, for God’s sake.”
“There were no witnesses to pin that lawbreaking on Blackjack Jones. You and I might be one hundred percent certain that it was Ketchum, but the authorities on the other side of the border are not.”
Dark, barely controlled anger flashed across Bishop’s face. In a voice that was just above a whisper, he replied, “Terri will be a hundred percent certain. She will have no doubt who was behind that heist, and that is what troubles me the most.”
Before Nick could respond, the duo pulled into Bishop’s driveway. Neither man wasted a moment exiting the pickup.
Bishop’s heart rate jumped even higher when he found his front doorframe had been splintered. Someone had forced his way inside. Pulling the .45 from his belt, he shouted, “Terri? Butter?”
“We’re okay,” the big kid’s voice reassured from inside.
Appearing a moment later, Butter’s expression told Bishop that all was not well. “Am I glad to see you, sir. Miss Terri collapsed. She’s not doing well. I tried, but I didn’t know how to help her.”
Rushing to the bedroom, Bishop found his wife lying in bed, Hunter snuggled up next to his mother. She didn’t acknowledge his arrival, her eyes open and blank, staring toward the ceiling.
“Terri?” the concerned husband called in his most calm voice. “You okay, babe?”
She blinked once and then slowly turned to face him. Several beats passed before recognition formed in her eyes. “Oh, Bishop,” she managed before racking sobs of distress overtook her.
He held her close, letting her cry it out. While his wife sobbed hysterically in his arms, Bishop brushed Hunter’s cheek, trying to reassure what appeared to be a very frightened child.
“Mommy is sick,” Hunter explained. “She doesn’t feel well. Even the dinosaur book didn’t help.”
“She’ll be okay, little man,” the father promised the son. “We’ll take good care of her.”
After several minutes had passed, Bishop sensed Nick’s presence in the doorway. Motioning his friend inside, Bishop then turned his attention to Hunter. “Why don’t you go with Uncle Nick and Butter? You can show them your new train. Okay?”
Eagerly nodding his agreement, the child held out his arms to Nick, who in turn, lifted the blonde-haired boy in a loving embrace.
Once alone with his wife, Bishop pulled away and looked into her eyes. “What happened, my love? Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“I… I… remember hearing a car,” she managed before another waterfall of mental anguish overcame her. She was already in a frenzy, crying so hard that she could barely draw in enough air.
Bishop was patient, again pressing her close to his chest and gently caressing her hair. “It’s okay. Take your time. Everyone is okay… nobody is hurt.”
After a bit, she tried again, “I went to the spot behind the couch… where you taught me to go… where I could see both doors.”
“And?”
Squinting her bloodshot eyes, Terri finally managed to express the source of her pain. Her guilt-ridden voice transformed into a high squeal, as her confession tumbled out. “I almost shot Hunter!” she yelped as the tears flowe
d down her cheeks. “I almost killed our son, Bishop!”
Again, he pulled her close, rubbing the back of her head with a soft touch. “But you didn’t shoot him, Terri. He’s fine. He’s okay.”
“This time!” she managed between sobs. “I don’t understand what is happening to me, Bishop. I have no control over this. I don’t know how to fix my mind!”
Brimming with confidence, Blackjack’s convoy returned to New Orleans like conquering heroes in a welcoming parade. It seemed that the sweet taste of victory was the best medicine, helping to heal both his mental and physical wounds.
Like a rabid dog who tastes raw meat for the first time, his appetite would no longer be denied. Not even twenty-four hours had passed before he wanted more.
Ketchum realized that the most potent aspect of his recent triumph was how the men around him rebounded. They walked taller, responded faster, and most importantly of all, showed him a higher level of respect. His victory was as addicting as a narcotic, and Blackjack Jones wanted another fix.
“We need another op,” he informed Grinder. “We need another big score.”
His lieutenant agreed, moving to the wet bar adorning one wall of the boss’s luxury suite. There, powered by the rooftop generator, sat a coffee pot of steaming joe.
While topping off his cup, the henchman had a flash of inspiration. “What about that coffee shipment we keep hearing about? That freighter from South America? Isn’t it about time for one of its deliveries?”
Ketchum’s forehead knotted for a moment, a sure indicator that he was deep in thought. His rise to prominence had been based on providing commodities and services that the human animal craved. Sex through prostitution, drugs supplied by his grow houses and labs, alcohol processed with backwoods stills, and other pleasures that prompted dopamine dumps inside of a person’s skull. Each of his products had all been a cobblestone in his road to success. Why should the caffeine in coffee be any different? “It might be a legally addictive stimulant, but it is an addiction nonetheless,” he smirked.
Like any successful businessman, Ketchum’s first step was to analyze the potential market. The shrimpers and fishermen who brought him a significant portion of their renewable food source bartered for diesel fuel and spare parts. How many pounds of fish would they trade for a bag of java beans?
The population living on the edge of the city in the suburbs, would surely trade eggs, meat, and vegetables for coffee. They didn’t hesitate to do so for bathtub gin and marijuana. Caffeine would likely be a welcome addition to their mundane lives and Blackjack’s product line.
“How can we know when the freighter is coming in?” Blackjack asked, his multi-tasking mind churning information on several different problems at once.
“There has to be a regular schedule. Otherwise, how would his customers know when to show up and buy? According to what I’ve heard, this captain brings in thousands of pounds and holds an auction of sorts. There’s no way that happens without a lot of people being in on the arrival date,” Grinder offered.
Nodding, Ketchum quickly settled on a decision. “Send two men to Beaumont. Issue them enough gasoline and other goodies to barter some reliable information and get the lay of the land.” He paused to raise his coffee cup in a toast, “Hell, maybe we’ll all put on eye patches and peg legs and become pirates again.”
Laughing at the boss’s bad joke, Grinder immediately stepped toward the door to execute Ketchum’s wishes. “Two of the guys I know used to ride with a club from Beaumont. I think they still have friends there. I’ll make sure they get on the road right away.”
Chapter 6
Nearly a week had passed since the incident with Butter and Hunter, and Bishop’s concerns were growing deeper with each passing day.
In that time, the bruise on Terri’s head had almost vanished. His wife’s emotional state, however, was far from restored. Oh, sure, she went through the motions. Hunter was loved and cared for. She immersed herself in working with the contractor on their new home at the ranch. Like an office administrator checking off her daily “to do” list, the everyday tasks and chores of life were all addressed and completed. Almost to a fault.
There hadn’t been any more incidents of mistaken identity or illusions of Blackjack Jones appearing out of the mist of night. For that, Bishop was thankful.
Still, there was still something markedly different about her since the night that Butter dropped in. Like someone with a dark, foreboding cloud hanging over her head, Terri’s entire demeanor changed. She was withdrawn and distant. She had scheduled two different doctor’s appointments when she didn’t appear to be sick and offered only a vague explanation for why she had done so. She seldom laughed anymore, and twice in the last week, he had woken in the middle of the night to find her sobbing, alone, hiding behind the locked door of the bathroom.
Bishop was no stranger to emotional baggage, and he still wrestled his own demons from time to time. Having a little experience with post-traumatic stress from his days on the battlefield, he could relate to some of what Terri was experiencing now. Images of war, carnage, brutality, and gore were all ingrained in his memory, often surfacing in the forefront of his mind during the wee hours of the night. He had killed, dozens of times, and could recall every single instance in detailed, vivid color. He knew firsthand how such events could impact a person’s life.
“She’ll be okay,” he’d reasoned a dozen times. “I completely understand what is driving this, and I can help her heal. After all, she has recovered from this sort of pain before.”
Yet, her health had not improved. In fact, his wife seemed to be on a downward spiral. Forest Mist loomed like a dark shadow stalking them through their lives, and Bishop didn’t understand why. Terri had been through firefights before. She had done what she needed to survive. She had shot aggressors, wiggled out of tight spots, and suffered numerous wounds – both mental and physical. And while there was always some period of adjustment after such life-changing events, she had always coped. She was the strongest willed person he had ever known. Why wasn’t she healing from this experience in captivity? If what folks said was true, that time healed all wounds, why was Terri’s condition worsening? Was he missing something? What was different about the episode in East Texas?
Yesterday, a disconcerting thought finally dawned on Bishop. Maybe the source of his soul mate’s terror was unique to her. Maybe she had experienced something entirely different than he had ever faced. His mind could barely wrap around the possibility, yet he could hardly deny the likelihood. Maybe his wife had been raped while held captive. She could have been violated, maybe more than once. While he didn’t want to consider this idea, framing the odd events of the last few weeks with the assumption that Terri had been raped finally put her behavior in perspective.
With this new possibility quickly becoming a probability, Bishop combed his memory banks for examples of her out of character actions. Beginning with the night of her rescue, she needed to shower right away. She’d disappeared without a word, despite the desperate situation on the courthouse lawn. He had read before that after suffering sexual abuse, many women were compelled by an overpowering urge to bathe… over and over again... to cleanse themselves of the violation they had just suffered.
The multiple trips to the local physician could have been to check for sexually transmitted diseases or to mend whatever damage might have been done to her body during the assault. Besides, she could talk to the doctor. She could be honest with him without fear of being judged, condemned, or misunderstood.
Her obsession with protecting herself and Hunter had almost led to catastrophe. She must have felt that she was at the mercy of a madman and had no control over anything that happened… even to her own body, Bishop realized, and now, she is trying to make sure that never happens again.
After his unsettling epiphany, Bishop renewed his efforts to help with gusto. More than a dozen times, he approached his wife, offering to talk out whatever was bothering her
or just sit and listen while she sorted out her feelings. He brought her flowers and invited her out to a quiet dinner so she could relax, but she rebuffed his offers to provide any distraction. He had tried to draw her out, assured her of a friendly ear, and took every opportunity to reinforce his unconditional love.
When those attempts to help had been spurned, he decided he needed to switch tactics. He knew he needed a sounding board to figure out the best way to help Terri. He turned to the only expert he knew could keep his mouth shut, Sheriff Watts.
“I think my wife was raped while being held captive,” Bishop had stated boldly over lunch at Pete’s. “She won’t talk about it. She becomes elusive and short when the subject of her captivity comes up. Worse yet, she is still terrified, almost paranoid. She jumps at every noise. You know what happened with Nick in the alley, and with Butter at our home. Now, she won’t leave the house after dark and carries around her pistol all the time,” he paused for a moment, sipping his tea while he gathered his composure. “And the worst thing is that I am powerless to help her; I have to just sit on the sidelines and watch her deteriorate.”
The sage, old lawman nodded, “First of all, you’re probably right about the rape, Bishop. During my years in law enforcement, I’ve worked over a hundred cases like this. They are always the most difficult when it comes to the victims. Every woman reacts differently. There is no defined healing process, no documented set of steps to be taken. All that I can tell you is that she will talk about it when she’s ready, and not before. You can’t force it out of her. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and eventually, she will open up and lay all her suffering on the table. That will be the first step of her recovery.”
Shaking his head, Bishop let his frustration show. “I just wish I could help her. I would do anything… anything in the world to take away her pain.”
“From what I know of Terri’s situation, she’s suffering the additional burden of not seeing the man who hurt her in jail and facing justice,” Watts added. “There’s no closure for her.”