by Judy Alter
And if they didn’t call, they didn’t need me, did it mean she was dead? I kept a lock on my emotions and silently climbed into the van without a chance to speak to Mike or tell him my mantra, “Be careful.” I suspect he was just as glad.
Spadolo introduced me to two men inside the van—one, Victor, was to drive and the other, José, to operate the complicated control board. For once I did not rush in with “Oh, I have a good friend named José.”
José indicated a seat next to his control panel where I was to sit and gave me a pair of earphones. “We’ll keep it silent, just in case,” he said. “At least until they’re in.” The side door of the van swung shut, and José, who I guess was in charge, said, “Okay, let’s go.”
We drove a surprisingly short distance. On this overcast night, with the few windows in the van darkly tinted, I could see nothing and could well have been in a foreign land. My overwrought mind immediately jumped to how captives felt in Afghanistan or other Middle Eastern countries as they were whisked through the night to who knew what fate? And then of course my thoughts jumped to the captive who most concerned me—Sheila. How had she felt as Nick drove her from Fort Worth to San Antonio? The drive had been long and tense for Mike and me. What must it have been for her?
We stopped, almost abruptly, and José said, “For the time being, we’ll use earphones. Don’t want to alert someone out walking a dog. We’ve parked by a small piece of public land, so an unfamiliar van shouldn’t cause alarm to any neighbors.” He gave me earphones, showed me how to adjust them, and we sat back to wait—another interminable wait.
Finally a soft voice—Sam Spade, probably—said, “Everyone’s in position. Let’s go.”
Within seconds, through the earphones, I heard commotion, shouting, and the loud sound of an alarm system that cut off almost as soon as it began. Then I could begin to make out conversation. From time to time I glanced at the camera screen but it was a blur, and I got more from concentrating on my earphones.
“Nick? Where’s Nick? You can’t do this! It’s a home invasion. I’ll call the mayor, the San Antonio mayor!” Hollister sounded hysterical.
Spadolo’s voice was calm. “I don’t report to the San Antonio mayor, sir. We have here a warrant to search your house for your wife or any signs of her.”
By now, Hollister was almost screeching, and I wanted to pump my fist and shout, “Yes!”
“You already searched! I told you she’s not here. If I knew where she is, I’d go rescue her myself. Nick? I need Nick!’
More mumbling, and finally a man’s voice said, “Caught him trying to run out the back. A bit of a chase, but we ran him to ground.”
“Cuff him to that chair,” Spadolo said gruffly.
Hollister broke in. “You can’t treat him that way. He’s my employee. Release those handcuffs this minute.”
I could picture him, perspiration running down his face, a nervous hand disturbing the perfect waves of his usual hairdo, his eyes bugging out in hate…and fear.
Nick spoke laconically, just loud enough to make it to the earphones. “Shut it, Hollister. I told you you’d get caught.”
Hollister apparently ignored him as he saw men head for the second floor. “Wait! You can’t go up there. Those are my private quarters.”
“Cuff him too,” Spadolo said.
While the men were upstairs, Hollister, now apparently cuffed to a chair next to Nick, said, “This is all your fault. If you’d done what I asked you…
José was taping all this.
“Shut up, you jerk,” Nick said. “I’ll be out of here by midnight, and I’m leaving you to stew in your own juices.”
How, I wondered, did he expect to be out of there so quickly? My vision was that he would rot in a Texas jail, for murder, assault with a deadly weapon, arson, who knows what else.
José saw my puzzled look, and moved his mike down just enough to say, “He’s got connections.”
I could figure out the rest myself. Nick had connections in the professional criminal world—mob connections if you will. Whereas Hollister was strictly an amateur at doing dastardly deeds. Donald Kenner wasn’t likely to have the wherewithal to bail him out—and maybe not the desire.
Just then I heard Mike’s voice—I’d know it anywhere—from a distance, shouting, “We got her! She’s okay!” And then he added, “Sort of….”
Chapter Nineteen
What did that mean? I jumped from my seat, but José had a restraining hand on my arm. “They’ll call for you in due time. Keep listening.” He was fiddling with controls on his panel and adjusting camera angles remotely.
Mike’s voice, this time louder and clearer, commanded, “Someone call an ambulance. And get my wife up here pronto.”
Words I wanted to hear! José nodded, and we drove two minutes. What once was a quiet, dark scene was now filled with police cars, flashing sirens, strobe lights, and alas, the first gawkers. I spotted at least one network cameraman.
I stood up to open the side door, but José stopped me again. “They’ll come for you.”
The ambulance roared up—it must be for Sheila. No one else was hurt. What if they didn’t know they were to wait for me? “Are you sure?” I asked.
“Let me check.” He spoke into the mic right in front of his mouth. “Ms. O’Connell is getting antsy, afraid the ambulance will leave without her.”
He listened a moment and then said, “Your husband’s coming now.” At almost the same time, Mike slid back the van door and held out a hand. As I took it, I turned to Victor and José and said, “Thanks for putting up with me.” They flashed thumbs up signs and big grins.
“Let us know how she is,” Victor said.
And that was the anxious question I turned to Mike with.
“I think she’s okay, but she’s been drugged. She’s like a drunk now—not an angry one, not a silly one, just sleepy. She doesn’t make much sense when she talks.”
“Drugs might hurt the baby!” I exclaimed.
“That’s why they’re taking her to the ER. I want you there to reassure her in any coherent moment she has. And make a list of what she needs—hospital will supply gowns, but she might want sweats, shoes, toothbrush, stuff like that.”
“I can get some of that from the hospital gift shop. Where are you going?”
“Back to work the scene with Spadolo’s guys. I know you didn’t much like them, but they’re good guys, did a super job tonight. No bloodshed, no bullets, a clean rescue.”
I’d feel better about it when I saw Sheila, which turned out to be in about three minutes. I was told to climb into the back of the ambulance, and there she was, lying perfectly still on the gurney, a blanket covering her from toes to chin. She seemed to be sleeping, so I sat down on a crate-like thing and took her hand. You know what they say about sleeping like the dead—she did, and I would have panicked, except that I could see a reassuring rising and falling of her chest. She seemed to be breathing normally.
The ambulance didn’t roar away as I expected. Instead, we sat for several minutes, with the doors still open. Long enough that I got to see Bruce Hollister and Nick escorted away in handcuffs, and I could hear Hollister crying about “My ministry, my ministry.” I wanted to put my hands over my ears to blot out the sound. I let go of Sheila’s hand long enough to text Keisha a brief message that we had Sheila and were on our way to the hospital and Bruce and Nick were under arrest. Seconds later, a message came in saying, “Good guys always win! Praying for her.”
Finally an EMT climbed in with us, and they banged the doors shut loud enough to wake that proverbial dead, but Sheila slept on. The EMT didn’t seem inclined to talk, but I asked him about her vital signs, and he said “All okay. She’s just sleeping off some drugs.” I asked if the drugs would hurt the baby, and he shrugged. “Beyond my expertise. Doc will have to say, but the cops will search the place to see if they can find what she’s been given.”
When we got to the hospital, Sheila was wheeled into a c
ubicle, and I was called in to provide information. Did she have insurance? Why is that always the first question, even before her name? I said yes, but the proof was in Fort Worth and I’d have it faxed to them tomorrow. Then I gave name and everything else I knew. When they asked about nearest relative, my mind flashed back to Lorna lying on the floor, and I said “None.” Then I added, “Except her husband, and he’s in jail for doing this to her.”
The attendant gave me a puzzled look and continued down his list of questions about medical history. I didn’t know the answer to most of the questions, and he didn’t know the answer to my drug question. Nor did I know how long she’d been this way, though I hazarded a guess that it was probably since early Thursday morning. Without expression, he noted that on his chart. Three days in a drugged coma worried me.
I was allowed to stay when a doctor came to examine Sheila. The ER doctor was a young woman—too young, I feared—but she seemed quite competent and in retrospect I was glad to have a woman since a big part of the problem, to me, was the pregnancy.
When I asked, the doctor sighed. “I don’t know what kind of monster does this to a pregnant woman, but it might just be a blessing. She apparently wasn’t traumatized. We’ll have to see, if we can, what drugs were used—we’ve done blood work, and the cops have searched the premises. I believe they brought in some pharmaceuticals. But in the long run, you—and she—will have a long six months of waiting until you know for sure. And then it may be a couple of years to see if there is developmental impairment.”
Developmental impairment sounded more detached than brain damage. I asked how long she’d sleep.
“Probably another twelve hours, maybe less, maybe more. Will you stay? We’ll put her in a room, and you can have a recliner chair.”
“I’ll stay,” I said firmly.
It was almost exactly twelve hours later when Sheila stirred, opened her eyes, and looked groggily around her. Finally she focused on me and asked in an uncertain voice, “Kelly?”
“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“So sleepy, and the room’s spinning big.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”
And she did for another two hours. Mike came during that time, looked exhausted and unshaven.
“Have you been to the motel?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We’ve been interrogating Hollister all night.”
“What about Nick?”
“Bonded out by two o’clock. Some hotshot lawyer came, and Nick’s last words to us were, ‘Tell Hollister I told him I wouldn’t go down with him.’ I imagine he’s in New York by now.”
“How did that happen?”
“He’s got connections. Apparently he was what you might call work for hire, no connection or loyalty to Hollister, and whoever rented him out bailed him out. He’ll face charges here in Texas, but they’ll have to get him back from wherever in the East. He may just disappear. I bet in the long run he walks.”
“That’s not right,” I screeched.
Mike put a hand over my mouth and nodded at Sheila. “How is she?”
So I told him all I knew, and then I asked about Hollister. “Cried like a baby, told us everything, kept saying it was all about his ministry. Never once said anything about loving Sheila…just that she’d ruined him. His lawyer won’t come near him. I talked to Donald Kenner on the phone, and he admitted he sent you the note. Said his conscience could only stand so much, and Hollister had pushed him too far. He’s thinking of giving up the law, if this is what it led him to.”
“Donald?” Sheila’s voice was faint but she suddenly sat straight up in bed. “What about him?”
“Nothing, Sheila. Don’t worry. Donald’s your friend. He helped save you.”
She sank back down. “I knew he would. I knew he wouldn’t let Bruce ruin me.”
Mike and I exchanged long looks, but Sheila sank back in her bed and went to sleep again. Mike went off to sleep a bit, and I curled up in my chair for another nap. My sleep last night and today had been a series of naps, and I was beyond tired, longing for home and my bed.
Sheila woke that night about eight, clear-headed for the first time. She demanded to know what happened, and Mike and I told her, bit by bit. Parts of it came back to her, and she asked,
“My mother? That Nick person pushed her down hard when she tried to pull me from him. Is she all right?”
I shook my head. “No. She died that night, never regained consciousness.”
Instead of immediate sobs, she stared off into space. When she spoke at last, she said, “I waited all my life to find my mother. I’m glad we had the time together that we did. I’m sad knowing she died trying to protect me, but I think she was okay with that. She hated Bruce.” And then tears rolled down her cheeks, but we never did get the great sobs we expected.
Mike left for home that night, and I went to the motel to shower and have a good night’s sleep.
Sheila remained in the hospital until Tuesday, She was then completely alert, but we left with the doctor’s warning that she might show withdrawal symptoms from suddenly stoppage of barbiturates. It was doubtful, however, since she’d been on whatever drug it was only three days. She was restless as I drove a rented car to Fort Worth, and if I were a doctor I might have diagnosed a mild level of anxiety, but basically she was all right, and we were headed home.
She didn’t talk much, and I didn’t push her. I figured what she needed to get out of her system would come out over the next weeks, maybe even months. Meanwhile, I was headed home to my husband and girls and the life I loved, and Sheila was headed toward a new life. I was optimistic.
****
Six Months Later
Sheila gave birth to a baby girl, in just less than six months after the kidnapping. She named her Lorna Stephanie, after her parents. Little Lorna had a head full of dark hair, rosy cheeks, and dark eyes.
“Where did the dark hair come from?” Sheila asked. “My dad was a redhead, though I guess I don’t know about my mother. By the time I met her, she was gray.”
I laughed and told her that hair would probably all fall out.
“She’ll be bald?” A look of horror came over her face.
“Maybe for a while, but when it grows back in, it may be red.” I thought she secretly wanted her baby to have red hair.
By then, a lot had happened in our lives. Sheila bought a small Craftsman bungalow in Fairmount and had spent months decorating the nursery. The house had been authentically renovated, so she had little to do but move in.
Donald Kenner moved to Fort Worth. “My practice in San Antonio was really just Bruce, which taints me in that town. I want to get away from those memories, from everything that happened. Besides, Sheila is pretty persuasive.”
They were “keeping company” as Keisha called it, and both looked happy. In spite of being called back to San Antonio to testify at trials, they seemed to have put Bruce Hollister pretty much out of their minds. Donald testified for the prosecution and turned down attempts by the defense to coerce him into testifying on behalf of Hollister. He would have been disbarred except he had helped to save Sheila. Investigation showed he had never given Hollister illegal advice and had refused some requests.
Nick disappeared and didn’t answer a summons back to Texas. Whoever paid the bail forfeited it—and probably didn’t mind. Sometimes I picture Nick on a Brazilian beach soaking in the sun with babes bringing him drinks. The image makes me mad. Every time I read about a sniper shooting for years after I wondered if it was Nick behind the rifle, having sneaked back into the States.
Bruce Hollister was convicted of conspiring to kidnap, sentenced to forty years, and fined. Hollister cried during the trial but no one felt sorry for him. What was left of his possessions went to Sheila in the divorce settlement. He did not appear in the divorce court and was represented by an appointed lawyer.
Hollister’s ministry continued at first under one of his associates, but it soon lost ste
am. Hollister’s charismatic personality had made it grow. Much of his congregation, disgusted with what had happened, turned away from his church; a few loyal followers sat through every minute of his trial, and two were character witnesses for him. Their testimony was ineffectual, to say the least.
Sheila sold the San Antonio house and almost all of its furnishings, preferring to furnish her new home with antiques that she picked up here and there—garage sales, consignment stores, and, of course, Old Home Supply.
She offered us first dibs on Lorna’s house, but after we talked and talked, Mike and I decided against it. We would go ahead with the addition of a master bedroom on our house.
“Thank goodness,” Em said. “I didn’t want to live in that big old sad house.”
“That’s dumb, Em. It would have been a happy house if we lived in it.” Maggie was at the stage where she thought everything her younger sister said was dumb, but I suspected she was right this time—it would have been a happy house and would be again with another family in it.
Anthony worked for months as general contractor renovating the house. He did much of the work himself but had to hire another carpenter and subcontract electrical and plumbing work. We held an open house when it was complete, and the house was everything I knew it could be, with gleaming wood floors, fresh paint, and a new kitchen. All signs of the fire disappeared, and Anthony added a covered patio to the back of the house. For a moment, I had second thoughts about our decision, but I didn’t have long to worry about that. The house sold in two days for the original listing price.
Didn’t happen often in the life of a realtor, and the commission would give us a start on our addition. For a tale that began in deception, things worked out pretty well.
Elisabeth Smedley reappeared at my office one morning, every ounce of her old self-confidence back. Triumphantly, she waved a wad of papers at me. “I finished it!”
Took me by surprise. “Finished what?”
“My mystery. For creative writing. Got an A on it.” She thrust the papers at me, so that I had no choice.