Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  The girl looked at him. She seethed through her teeth at him in Spanish. It was slang, and I couldn’t catch it all. She turned her face back to mine. “Let’s get her out of here.”

  “No!” I screamed, but a pungent smelling cloth over my nostrils and mouth prevented any more from leaving my throat. I was being drugged…again. I tried to jerk free, but the room faded into a floating darkness.

  * * *

  I awoke on a plane. The girl sat across from me, as did my two newly assigned bodyguards. One of them growled in Spanish, “Está despierto.” (She’s awake.)

  “Welcome back.” The woman moved to face me.

  I rubbed the back of my neck to clear the fog. This was getting old. Can you get brain damage from being repeatedly drugged? I tried to focus on her face. “Where are we?”

  “Probably over Kentucky.”

  The small plane’s engine labored like an angry swarm of bees. An air pocket bumped our seats and rattled me from my toes to my still-queasy head. “Can I have some water?”

  A bottle was shoved on my lap.

  “Thanks.” I struggled to focus enough to release the cap seal. The bottle was jerked away.

  “Here.” One of the goons twisted the cap and thrust the bottle toward my mouth. I guzzled a few gulps, spilling half down my front. He snorted a grunt, which I gathered from his gold-toothed grin, was his laugh.

  “Jose, alto.” (Stop.) The woman spoke to him in hissed tones. The goon pouted and handed me the half-empty bottle, then backed off and sat down.

  “You are headed back to Fort Worth. You suddenly got very ill—stomach flu. High fever. Probably combined with emotional exhaustion. That is what the networks were told.”

  I squinted at her. “How did you get me out of the hotel?”

  “The hotel thinks FOX called us in to care for you, but we had to call an ambulance. We helped you into the ambulance, which took you to the airport. These ENTs and I were hired to transport you home.”

  “I see.”

  The girl leaned in. “Forget all about this crusade, Mrs. Westlaw. Go back to your mundane world and live a long life.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “We’ll help you change your mind.” She nodded to the first goon with the gleaming tooth.

  A humongous fist smacked across my cheek. My jaw snapped. Then another smack hit my chin and jerked my head up like a rag doll. The inside of the airplane blurred into a stinging pain, then all went dark, again.

  * * *

  When I came to, the plane’s humming again filled my ears. The woman was reading a magazine. One goon was cleaning his nails with the edge of a knife. Both had changed into T-shirts and jeans. Goon Number Two had as well. He was loudly sawing logs, his gold tooth shining like a stalagmite in his cavernous opened mouth.

  “We will land outside the city at a small private field in a few minutes. You should be able to get home from there.”

  “What?” I rose. My jaw ached. Pain shot into my right ear and temple. My cut lip had swollen, making it feel as big as a rolled-up washcloth.

  The woman set her magazine on her lap and leaned in. “You tell no one about this. You make it home. You are to stay in your apartment and recover from the flu for the rest of the week. Do not answer the phone or the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you value your life and are smart.” She bore into me with dark daggers in her eyes. “¿Entiende?”

  “Yes, I understand.” I glared at her. She stared back in a dare, whoever blinked first, lost. I chose to blink first.

  She smirked. “Good.”

  “But what do I tell the Feds?” I slurred the question through my fat lip.

  “They’re gone. When you left for New York, you sent a clear message you no longer wanted their protection. They were reassigned.”

  Now that really made me feel stupid. Oh, if I could rewind the clock a few days. Maybe I’d learn to control my Irish hardheadedness.

  The drone of the engine changed, and the wings dipped. The plane dove for terra firma and landed with two jerky hops, rushing wind, and a screech of tires.

  “Get up.” Goon Number One ordered me as Goon Number Two opened the door and let down the stairs.

  I was pulled from my seat and half-dragged to the doorway. Then, someone’s hand thrust against my back and shoved me. I stumbled down the steps, then splayed across the tarmac, scraping my knees and the palms of my hands.

  The plane’s propeller began to whirr and the engine rev. A goon tossed my suitcase in my general vicinity. The woman called from the doorway. “Have a good, long life, Mrs. Westlaw. We will be watching.”

  With that, the door closed and the small plane rushed down the runway and reached for some light bluish-gray clouds in the black of the night sky.

  There were no lights on anywhere, except on what appeared to be a small red and white painted hangar a good football field’s length away. I sat on my tush, wondering where in the world I’d landed, and what time it was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I got up and brushed myself off. My head and jaw throbbed and my knees stung. I wobbled over to my suitcase and grabbed the handle. The bar raised to hip height as I tilted it on its wheels. Slowly, blinking back panic and tears, I breathed three deep breaths and began to walk toward the light.

  On the horizon I saw hotel signs and the familiar golden arches of McDonald’s. Praise God. Civilization. I made it to the fast-food restaurant on pure gumption and inner strength—from where I do not know. Perhaps it was Divine Guidance.

  I entered the brightly lit dining room and spotted a short hall to the right with a restroom sign. The place smelled of coffee, fries, and hamburgers, all of which sounded marvelous. I hadn’t eaten since I had lunch on the plane to New York. But first things first.

  I lugged my suitcase into the restroom and fumbled through it to find my purse. My wallet still had money, credit cards, and my newly acquired replacement IDs. I leaned back against the tiled wall in relief.

  The woman’s words echoed in my brain. “We will be watching.”

  “Join the club. So are the Feds, I’m sure, plus a few of the more tenacious reporters, and maybe the cartel. God in Heaven, help me.” I shivered it off and raised myself to the sink. My left jaw was already a nice shade of greenish-purple. My mind felt mushy. I think I stared at the running water for at least two minutes before dipping my hands in it to splash my face.

  But within minutes, I was Humpty-Dumpty back together again and ordering food. I asked the man who served my meal as politely as I could, “Where can I get a cab this time of night?”

  He eyed my suitcase. “Ma’am, this ain’t New York City. You’re in Burleson. It’s after one in the morning. Ain’t no cabs running for hours.”

  Burleson? “Oh, okay.” I smiled and grabbed my tray.

  “Why don’t you go back to your hotel room and get some more sleep. They can call you one later.”

  I gave him a nod, then cringed from the sharp pain it sent to my jaw. I slammed the tray to the counter and held my hand to my face.

  “Ma’am?” He touched my arm, head tilted, and eyes landing on my cheek. “You okay? Should I call anyone else for you?”

  “No. I’m fine.” I brushed my jaw. “Car accident on the highway. Jaw hit the airbag. They released me and got me the hotel room. I just needed food. Thanks.” Had I just lied to his face? What was happening to me?

  I sat quietly and ate my meal, barely tasting the hamburger and fries I could only chew in small bites with one side of my mouth. A young couple with eyes for no one else huddled in a corner booth, their hands intertwined. My heart ached, wishing it was me and Tom. It seemed like ages since we were tossing an apple core back and forth in a hotel room in Canyon, Texas.

  I dragged my body and suitcase across the road to the La Quinta. Now I remembered why the town of Burleson sounded familiar. Robert once brought me here to a Mexican restaurant when we were both craving real San Antonio style Tex-Mex, not
the trendy stuff with sour cream and chipotle. So, I was only thirty minutes or less from my apartment in south Fort Worth. Good.

  A man of Arab descent gave me a room without much conversation other than asking for my credit card and ID in a heavy accent. His breath reeked of curry. He gave me my key and a map of the motel’s layout, then returned to his foreign newspaper. The letters all looked like up and down squiggles.

  “Thank you.” I shot him a quick grin, which shot another sharp sting into my jaw, and then lumbered down two halls to Room 127. I swiped the card and the little green light appeared as the door lock clicked. I opened it and entered through a blast of stale AC into a clean room decorated in mustards and burnt orange. A queen-sized bed beckoned to me.

  Quite honestly, that was all I remembered.

  * * *

  At 10:45 a.m., according to the illuminated dial on the motel clock, I groaned and rolled over. I’d never even turned down the bed. For a moment I thought I was in New York, until my scraped-up knees brushed the quilted spread. Right. Not New York.

  I crawled to the restroom and examined my face. The bedspread’s pattern had left an impression into the now spreading green and purple cheek. Just gorgeous.

  After a marathon hot shower, almost matching the one I’d had in the coffin-room, I applied as much makeup as I could to cover the bruises, changed clothes, and called for a cab. When I got back to my apartment in Fort Worth, the tom cat rubbed my legs repeatedly in a figure eight dance. I picked him up and snuggled his fur. His wriggling told me he was more interested in the can of chicken and liver cat food in the cupboard. I laughed. “Typical male.”

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were watching me. I checked the lamps and my phone for listening devices. I didn’t find anything. Out the sliding door I noticed Becky taking trash to the dumpster. Her eyes turned to my balcony. I closed the vertical blinds. I didn’t want anyone to see my face right now. It would only lead to questions whose answers would be too fanciful or put me in danger.

  When she tapped on my door, I answered through the crack, hiding my left jaw.

  “I thought you were in New York?”

  “I got violently ill. They sent me home in a private jet.”

  “Can I bring you some homemade chicken and rice soup?”

  That sounded wonderful. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, though. I’m going to lie down now.”

  I closed the door. Another falsehood had rolled off my tongue. I hated lying more than getting a root canal.

  I slept some, downed a pint of Rocky Road, and vegged out on a good Hallmark movie. Tom Cat, the no-longer-stray kitty since I decided to officially name him, curled in my lap and purred softly.

  * * *

  Becky called on the phone the next day. “You’re better?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I knew something was wrong when I taped the midday show and it wasn’t you, but...”

  “I got sick. Stomach flu, maybe food poisoning. Maybe nerves. I don’t know. I am just dead tired from it all. I’ll call you in a day or so.”

  I placed the phone back into its holder and closed my eyes. I couldn’t do this on my own. I needed help finding Marisol and Monica, but obviously the best way to do that was not through mass media. There had to be another way. But how?

  Agent Hernandez had said if I told them everything, they’d protect me. But if I was in witness protection, how would that help me find the girls? And how could I then write my memoirs, which I had decided to do. The contract from a well-known publisher lay on my desk and a ghost writer had already been assigned. Still the residual pain in my jaw cautioned me to proceed with caution, if at all. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I was rusty at this sort of thing, but I tried to pray again. Not a short “I need You” prayer, but the concentrated “be with me” kind. I got down on my knees by my couch and folded my hands. After reciting the Lord’s Prayer, I winged it.

  “Dear Lord. I know I need to lay low. Protect Marisol and Monica. Protect Tom. Teach me the patience and wherewithal to handle this passion You have placed on my heart. Show me my next steps. Guide my decisions and moves. Oh, and please, protect me, too. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  I rocked back on my heels. I didn’t feel Divine intervention, but I did feel less antsy. At least that was something.

  Realizing I’d eventually need some income if I put off the book deal, I searched the want-ads and online for a new job—preferably one with the Texas Department of Human Services or with one of the immigrant welfare organizations. Maybe I could legitimately get my hand on resources. Perhaps I could even work at home doing data entry.

  I bought a used Mazda and signed up for spring classes at the Tarrant County Community College in Spanish 202 to boost my prospects of an interview, and on a whim, Bible 101 starting in June. I figured Tom would approve.

  I even went to worship, twice. I figured God would approve.

  The pastor at the church closest to my apartment was younger than I expected, but had a kind, round face. His sermons were actually rather good. He only stepped lightly on a couple of my toes each time.

  On my second visit, when I stopped to shake his hand at the back of the church after services, he held on to mine firmly. He bent forward to my ear. “I know who you are. If you need to talk...”

  A spiritual zap coursed from his hand, up my arm and into my heart. For the first time in weeks tears flooded my eyes. I nodded, tongue-tied, released my hand quickly, and bolted down the church steps. I felt dozens of eyes on my back as I wound my way through the parking lot to my car.

  I turned the key, and then turned it off again. The dam of calm I’d created cracked, then burst. Streams flowed from my eyes onto my steering wheel, flushing out every ounce of angst I had refused to admit still existed. I felt drenched from inside out, like an inward baptism of sweet release.

  The parking lot emptied. I looked up to see him close the front doors to the church. I dashed from my car and ran to stop him. “Wait. Pastor Jake.”

  He froze in his task, and shaded his eyes from the noonday sun.

  Out of breath, I reached the church steps. As I gripped the wrought iron railing, I panted my response with what I am sure were runny-mascara, raccoon eyes. “Yes. I do. I want to talk.”

  “Now?”

  I bit my lip as he studied my face, as if he could peer into my soul.

  After a moment he nodded. “Come inside. The women’s luncheon yesterday left a ton of food in the fridge.” His deep brown eyes twinkled with care. “Want to help me make a dent in it?”

  I grinned and bolted up the stairs. “Sure. Thanks.”

  He held the wooden door open and beckoned me inside. I slipped back into the cool hominess of the sanctuary.

  A flashing shudder zipped along my spine as I heard the lock click. Déjà vu? I turned, wide-eyed, to stare at him.

  The minister must have sensed my reaction. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. It’s just that the elders are always getting on my back for not locking up.” He scratched his head. “We had a robbery a few years back.”

  “Oh.” I bobbed mine in response, feeling my cheeks flush with nervousness. I glanced at the service schedule posted on the message board.

  “Would you rather sit outside in the reflection garden?”

  I shook my head. If I couldn’t trust a minister…

  His face softened into a cloud of tenderness. “You have every right to be antsy after what you have been through. Come, tell me about it. It’s all confidential, as you know. I promise I won’t write a book and make a million dollars, okay?” He cocked his head. “Though it is tempting...”

  What a great sense of humor and keen sense of understanding. I liked him. “Yeah, the press would love you for that.”

  He waved his hand to brush my comment away. “So would the IRS―and the Church Council.”

  I smiled back. Yes, I liked him very much indeed.

 
CHAPTER SIX

  We sat in the church kitchen and munched on chicken salad croissant sandwiches, ambrosia, deviled eggs, and gooey chocolate brownies, then washed it all down with sweetened peach tea. Rarely had I been so ravenous. In fact, I had been eating bird-like for weeks. That cleansing cry must have helped.

  He listened, I talked. I told him everything, blow by blow. He didn’t judge even when I got to the part about what happened in the office at the garage in the middle of nowhere. He only stopped to occasionally comment in trained therapeutic sympathy. “I see. Please, continue.”

  He kept his eyes fixed on me, until I told him about the faked rape in the van. At that, his poker face of impartial counsel cracked—just a bit. He took a sip of tea, twisted his neck muscles, and said, “Go on. What happened next?”

  Finally, I finished my tale, ending with my midnight ride in the private plane. The clock on the back of the oven read 2:35. Pastor Jake leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.

  I drank more peach tea and picked at the last brownie.

  His gaze went to the ceiling then, after a moment, came back to zero in on my face. He leaned forward, hands folded across the table. “Do you believe God is in control?”

  I stared, wide-eyed. What?

  He peered into my face and patiently waited for my response. I had none to give.

  Pastor rubbed his hands together and spoke in a low, evil, mad-scientist tone. “I won’t unlock the door until you answer me.”

  I snorted a nervous laugh, then looked down at the faint white stripe around my left ring finger.

  The minister leaned in. “What are you thinking about?”

  I tugged at my lip with my teeth. “Why I haven’t replaced my wedding ring. The drug lords stole it.”

  “Perhaps because you don’t know if you should. Do you really believe your husband’s dead?”

  “I don’t know.” I shoved both lips into my mouth and clamped them shut.