* * * * *
During the long flight on a cargo plane, the plan was discussed in detail, and Jackson stepped off with a new temporary identity. He knew where to go and what to do, taking into consideration several possibilities of how it might go down. But he was prepared to do whatever it took.
Within twenty-four hours, he was acclimated to the country and culture enough to feel fairly confident that this was going to work. He found himself praying and knew he had Chas to thank for that. He prayed for Chas as much as for himself—that she wouldn’t be worrying, that she would forgive him, and that whatever the outcome of this, she would be all right. He found it ironic that he was concerned for his own safety more than he’d been in years. The thought of being able to go home to a woman who loved him had given his life more value and meaning. Knowing that his mother and sister would miss him added to that feeling, and he prayed that all would go well and he could be home and retired before the end of the week.
When the time came to complete the deal, Jackson went into the situation in place of a drug dealer who was now in FBI custody. Their target had never met the man before, but many weeks of communication over the pending deal had been taking place between them. An arrest had been made, information had been confiscated, and communication intercepted. Now Jackson only had to hope that no one was on to him, and he could be in and out in a hurry, giving the local police all they needed to bring this guy down for good. With the grief this drug lord had given both countries, they were in this together, which made everything a whole lot easier.
Jackson was amazed at how easily it came together. Years of watching and waiting paid off, and it was over in minutes. With his mission accomplished, Jackson went to bed in a dirty motel, anticipating being on his way home early in the morning. He would be especially glad to call Chas, to hear her voice, and to reassure her that he’d had no choice in being unable to call her. He drifted into sleep, while thoughts of her soothed him like a lullaby.
Jackson was yanked out of his sleep so abruptly that he was consumed with terror. He knew there were at least three men dragging him out of his bed by the way he was being held too tightly to do anything about it. A dark sack was put over his head, assaulting him with images of terrorist executions. He’d encountered fear countless times in his career, but he had never been so afraid in his life. He’d never felt so helpless as he was bound, dragged, and shoved into a vehicle where he endured a long and painful ride in some kind of confined space. He realized he must have fallen asleep when the vehicle came to a jolting stop and he was startled back to the awareness that this was really happening.
After being dragged into some kind of foul-smelling structure with hollow-sounding passages, he was thrown onto a concrete floor, and the sack was pulled off of his head. But he couldn’t see his captors due to the bright light in his face. He’d encountered many moments in his life that had felt like some sick twist on a bad movie, but this definitely topped the list. While he was wondering what exactly this was about, and if there was any possible hope of escape, the questions and accusations started flying. He was grateful for his fluent Spanish, which made it possible for him to understand and answer. He was certain they would have beaten the language into him had he not already known it. But as his understanding of the language made the situation alarmingly clear, he began to doubt that he would ever get out of here alive. The identity he’d taken on to get rid of a drug lord was apparently someone these people had good cause to be angry with. They wanted information that Jackson couldn’t give them, and he knew these kinds of people well enough to know that there was only one possible response to not getting what they wanted.
* * * * *
Every hour that Chas didn’t hear from Jackson was torturous. She knew something was wrong; she just knew it. She desperately wanted to talk to his mother and sister, knowing their grief and concerns would be the same. But she held off, knowing that when Melva missed her son’s call, Chas would hear from her.
When Melva did call, Chas could only try to reassure her, but she knew she didn’t sound very convincing. Melva got her daughter on the other extension, and the three of them discussed the possibilities and all they were feeling. By the end of the conversation they were all crying. But at least she had someone to cry with, Chas concluded. The following day Melva called her again. And the day after that. By the time Chas had not heard from Jackson for a week, she had become dependent on over-the-counter sleeping pills to get any rest, and her days were spent aimlessly going through the motions of her work and her life. She prayed constantly, and did a twenty-four-hour fast every few days. It didn’t feel like much of a sacrifice when she could hardly bring herself to eat.
On the day that she was supposed to go to the temple, she almost didn’t. Then she realized there was no better place for her to go when she so desperately needed God’s help in giving her hope that Jackson would be all right. She came home feeling more calm, but she feared that the peace had more to do with her acceptance of Jackson’s death than with his being alive and well. And the worst of it was the not knowing, the helplessness, the wondering. She missed him so much! She ached for his company. Even across the miles, he had become her best friend, and she had grown to rely on his companionship every day. She loved him! She needed him! But all she could do was pray.
* * * * *
Jackson came awake to the horror that he was still in the same place. Nothing had changed. The stench of his surroundings was still there. The growling pain of hunger hadn’t left him. The floor where he slept was still hard and cold. And the slightest movement brought to mind the repeated torture he’d endured. These people didn’t know who he was, but the man they believed him to be apparently was a great threat to them. The problem was that he couldn’t give them information he didn’t have, and they were too sadistic to just kill him and get it over with. And with every waking moment, he felt continual heartache while he wondered what Chas was thinking. And his mother and sister. The internal torment was equal to his physical suffering.
He felt sure that being in hell itself with Satan as his warden could not be worse than this. There was the tiniest bit of satisfaction in knowing that before he had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, he had been instrumental in bringing down the evil scum he had been hunting for years. These thoughts gave him some tiny degree of sanity. Arrests had been made, and he had felt vindication on behalf of Dave and everyone else affected by what had happened. That gratification had quickly disintegrated, however, during daily sessions of tortured questioning, and the rations he was being given couldn’t sustain a cat. What little food and water there was tasted bad and was making him sick. He could only pray that it would end soon.
* * * * *
Chas was flipping through channels and paused when she saw the letters FBI. She watched for a minute as men with those letters printed boldly on bullet-proof vests entered a building with guns poised. Then the shooting began, and she changed the channel. After a few minutes on the Food Network and a brief look at Little House on the Prairie, she cruised through channels again until she stopped on the scene of a drama taking place in a busy office, with a couple of nice-looking guys wearing guns in shoulder holsters. Not as nice-looking as Jackson, she concluded. The next channel was news from Iraq, then she ended up back at the same movie where the FBI swat team was now arresting the bad guys and putting one of their own into a body bag. Chas flipped off the TV. No wonder Jackson hated watching it. She actually screamed as she threw the remote at the wall, grateful to know that she was alone in the house. Then she sobbed uncontrollably before crawling into bed, even though it was only nine o’clock.
A little before nine-thirty the phone rang. The caller ID told her it was either Melva or Melinda. She sighed, wondering how she could give these women hope when she felt none at all. Melinda had barely said hello before Chas could tell that something was wrong.
“What’s happened?” she demanded.
“The FBI called.
”
“Is he dead?” She had to know.
“They don’t know,” Melinda cried. “Mama’s so upset; we both are.” Chas couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt like she was going to throw up even before she got any more information. “Ironically, they called because Jackson had Mama down as next of kin in his file when he was first hired. She’s living with me, so she’s not at the number he put down, but they found her through her Social Security checks. They are the FBI. If we hadn’t seen him in December, it would have been the first we’d heard of him in all those years.”
Chas appreciated the irony, but she was more concerned with the present. “What did they tell you? What’s happened?”
“They would hardly tell us anything. They said he had to go out of the country on very short notice and he couldn’t let anyone know he was going. But he disappeared in the middle of whatever they were doing, and they can’t find him. They’re looking, they told us. But they wouldn’t tell us which country, or anything else. Now you know everything I know, Chas. I just don’t know what to think.”
Melinda started to cry so hard she couldn’t speak, but Chas was crying too. They cried together on the phone for a few more minutes until they realized it was pointless, and Melinda promised to let her know when they heard anything, no matter what time of day or night. Chas threw the phone at the wall and it landed near the remote. A deep, unfathomable pain rose from within her, and she howled with anguish before she curled around her pillow and cried so hard that she ended up having to dash into the bathroom to throw up. The possibilities of where he might be if he was still alive were as nauseating as the possibilities of how he might have died.
Chas was curled up on the bathroom floor, still sobbing uncontrollably, when Polly found her there. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Tell me, Chas. Calm down and tell me.” Chas tried but couldn’t speak. Polly sat on the floor beside her and wrapped her in a sisterly embrace. Chas continued to cry, but Polly just held her. When she calmed down enough to speak, Chas muttered, “They don’t know if he’s alive or dead. The FBI doesn’t know where he is, or what happened to him. They won’t even tell his mother what country he’s in. We only know it’s not this one.”
“But he could still be alive?” Polly said.
“Under what circumstances?” Chas countered and started to cry again.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Polly insisted and helped her to her feet. “Have you taken anything yet to help you sleep?”
“No,” Chas said. “I don’t want to sleep. I want to . . .”
“What? Cry your heart out all night? You need some sleep. It’s just the two of us here tonight, and we’ll talk it through in the morning.” She handed Chas a pill and glass of water.
“Don’t leave me, Polly.”
“I’ll stay right here until you go to sleep,” she promised, “and then I’ll be in the next room with the door open. I’ll be here if you need anything. Now rest.”
Chas was grateful for the numbing effect of the pill that lulled her into sleep, but her dreams were littered with images of Jackson being shot down in the streets of some third-world country—or worse. She knew she’d watched way too much TV when visions of what could be happening became all too clear in her mind as she drifted in and out of sleep, caught between the terror of her dreams and the horror of her thoughts.
* * * * *
Jackson was grateful to spend more time unconscious than awake, but he wondered if that meant he was nearly dead. He hoped so. He’d lost his sense of time, but he knew he’d been there at least three weeks. His mind had started playing tricks on him as memories and fears all mingled with the present and he couldn’t tell what was dreaming and what was hallucination. More than once he heard a voice; a comforting voice, familiar and warm. But he couldn’t quite tell what it was saying. Then he heard the voice and thought he felt a hand on his face. He jumped at the sensation and found no one there. Then the voice became more clear. Whether it was in his mind or he actually heard it with his ears, he couldn’t be sure, but he distinctly heard the words, Hold on a little longer, young man. You have much to live for. You’re just getting started.
Jackson drifted again into oblivion, and his next awareness occurred as he was being dragged to his feet, as much as that was possible when he was too weak to stand. He was literally being dragged by two men holding his arms. The pain such movement provoked was excruciating, but he didn’t have enough voice to protest. He hoped this was the end, and prayed that it would be quick and painless. And he prayed that the three women who loved him would forgive him, and be comforted. He could barely see shadows and glimpses of blurry light through his swollen eyes, but he knew they were going the opposite direction from where he was taken for the usual torture routine. This increased his hope that death was coming. He felt fresh air and knew they were outside. It was dark; nighttime. He was shoved into a vehicle, and he groaned. He heard an engine start, and a second later he was pulled out of the vehicle through the other door. He heard whispered words near his ear, “We’re going to drop and roll, buddy. Just hold on to me.”
Jackson’s heart began to pound. The voice was familiar! The words were in English! It only took him a few more seconds to recognize that he was rolling on the ground with another man holding onto him. It all felt familiar. Marine training. Rescuing the wounded. He found enough adrenaline to assist in the efforts of his rescuer. A split second after they stopped moving, an explosion occurred; presumably the vehicle they’d gotten in and out of.
“Okay, buddy,” he heard near his ear. “We’re going to stay right here and not move for a while. With any luck they’ll think you’re dead.”
“Got it,” Jackson managed to say. “Thank you.” Then he lost consciousness. When he came around again, he still couldn’t see more than shadows, but he knew the sound. He was in a helicopter. He moved slightly and realized he was strapped to a rescue gurney. There was an IV in his arm. A soothing male voice said, “Don’t try to move. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.”
“Okay,” Jackson said. “Water.”
“You bet,” the voice said, and his head was lifted so that he could drink. And it was real water. He couldn’t believe it! He was really going to survive this.
The next words out of his mouth were, “Phone. I need a phone.”
He heard chuckling. “Give us another hour or so, Agent Leeds, and you can use my phone.”
“Okay,” Jackson said again. “More water, please.”
“You got it,” he was told, and Jackson pulled the water into his body like he pulled hope into his spirit. It was over!
* * * * *
Chas was practically inconsolable, and she was so upset that Polly finally called the home teachers, who came to give her a blessing. She was offered comfort and peace, and she was able to rest better. But there was no promise of the outcome, and her heart ached for Jackson in ways she couldn’t comprehend. At least when Martin had died she had known he was dead. She had known how and when it had happened. She had known that it was quick; he hadn’t even known what hit him. This was pure, unrefined agony.
Two and half days after Chas had received news that she felt certain she would never recover from, Polly told her she needed to go out for twenty minutes, and as Jen hadn’t arrived yet, Chas would need to man the phone.
“Are you okay with that?” Polly asked. “Or do you want me to have someone come over and—”
“I can answer the phone,” Chas said. “It’s not likely to ring, anyway. I’m not completely crippled, and I’m going to have to get a grip sooner or later. Just go, but hurry back.” She knew Polly had meant that she was more afraid to leave Chas alone than she was of leaving her to answer the phone. She’d never felt so traumatized in her life. At least when Martin had been killed, Granny had been here. And Granny had been here when the baby had died. And Jackson had been here when she’d lost Granny. Now she couldn’t imagine what she would do without Polly, and she didn’t
want to be alone.
Polly hadn’t been gone five minutes when the phone rang, and Chas wanted to curse, except that she had a rule about that. She looked at the caller ID. Out of area. That didn’t mean anything. She cleared her throat and struggled for an even tone of voice, answering as she always did, “Dickensian Inn. How may I help you?”
“Chas?” she heard through a horrible mass of noise in the background.
“Yes,” she said, her heart pounding with hope that it was him, and dread that it wasn’t. She sat up straighter and clutched the phone more tightly.
“Thank God it’s you,” the voice said, and with those four words she knew it was Jackson, even though his voice sounded gruff and unnatural.
She resisted the temptation to start sobbing when she feared barely being able to communicate with him at all. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“What?” he asked.
“Where are you?” she shouted. “I can barely hear you.”
“I know. It’s insane here. I can’t tell you where I am, and I don’t know when I can call you again. I only have about a minute—literally—so listen carefully.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” she said, tears rolling down her face.
“There’s a reason I didn’t call, Chas. You need to know that. But I’m okay now.”
“Now?”
“I don’t know when I can call you again, but please don’t worry. And don’t think it’s because I don’t care. I love you. Are you hearing me?”
He was shouting and she could barely hear him, but she replied firmly, “Yes. I hear you. I love you too.”
“I’ll be in isolation; I don’t know how long. They’ll be treating me for PTSD, and there’s the whole debriefing thing, and . . . I’m rambling. It doesn’t matter. Just know that I’m okay, and will you call my mother and . . .”
The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Page 27