Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  It was Travis. He took in the scene and moved to our side, whipped out a knife and neatly sliced the duct tape from Maria's wrists.

  The thought blazed through my head: I will never criticize men and their pocket knives again.

  Freed, Maria ripped the duct tape from her head, pulling out hair that stuck to the tape and waved about like corn silk on a husk.

  “Paloma! Mi niña! Por favor. Please! Maria motioned to the screen door at the back of the cabin. “En el hoyo!”

  Okay—I got the “Paloma” part, and I got the idea.

  Travis pulled the shaking Maria to her knees. “Is there anyone else here? ¿Cuántos? How many?”

  “Si. Seis o siete.”

  I knew those words meant six or seven. Evidentially Travis knew some Spanish too.

  He crouched, looking past me as he surveyed the room. Softly, urgently, he asked, “Sunny, are you hurt?”

  “I’m o...” before I could finish, Maria shot up from the floor and raced toward the kitchen. “She's going after Paloma!”

  Travis held me by the arm. “Hold on. Wait here while I call for backup.”

  “That’ll take too long!” I argued.

  “I’ll call, and then we’ll go together. Sunny... use it if you need to,” Travis said, pointing to the gun I’d left on the couch while helping Maria.

  I nodded to Travis, who winked and nodded back. He slipped out of the room, opening the front door and stepping over the gunman's now-inert body that lay on the doorstep with his ankle cuffed to a post that supported the porch. I watched him through the window as he passed by the dead pit, making his way cautiously back to the car, and then, I couldn't wait any longer.

  Feeling more secure with a gun in my shaking hand, I ignored Travis’s orders and quickly followed Maria. Slipping out the back door, I headed toward the only outbuilding I could see and caught up with her as she crouched behind an old well house. Kneeling in the dirt next to her, I looked into eyes that were equal parts terror and exhaustion. Fueled by desperation, Maria clutched my arm and raised her backside, preparing for another sprint.

  “Alto! Stop! Who’s the guy on the porch?” I whispered to Maria. “Quién es el hombre?” I practically flunked high school Spanish, but like most Californians, I learned in kindergarten how to count to twenty, and later, Mexican food. Then, I learned how to handle crisis calls.

  “Ramiro,” Maria said, pointing to the house. “Ramiro, mi novio.” Then she pointed at the woods, sniffling and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Paloma, my da-ter... enterrar... cementerio.”

  “Cemetery? He buried your daughter? Oh. My. God.” I gasped. Oh yeah, this was really happening. This wasn’t at all like I imagined my day would go. I only hoped that Travis had been able to radio for help out here in no-man’s-land.

  “Lord,” I looked heavenward, “please send some heavily armed SWAT angels to Paloma until we can get there.”

  Maria crossed herself in response.“Gracias,” she said. I guess the universal language of prayer is understood with the heart.

  The door at the back of the house rattled from behind. I swung around, gun extended, finger taut against the trigger just as a demonic growl told me another pit was moving up from behind. I turned back again to face a new threat, every muscle in my hand aching to squeeze the trigger and release the tension. The screen door slammed, and I spun... to see Travis stepping out of the screen door; our guns aimed at each other—just as I heard a cry from Maria as the dog scrabbled for a leap.

  Pivoting low, I fired—Bam! Bam! Bam! Three times without blinking. The air rent with the sound of gunfire and a single scream from the dog who fell, twitched, and sighed before he died. Dead silence. Blood seeped from beneath the dog. I had no doubt that the gunshots sent a warning to the men in the woods. I could only hope it had Cc’d the message to the last dog. I knew these men meant business. They would probably kill us and use us for fertilizer and then name the new strains Kop Kush or Blue Splat.

  Sickened at the sight of the poor beast lying in a growing pool of blood, I willed myself not to faint, throw up, or burst into tears for the dog that had died while doing his duty. Travis moved past what was left of the dog, squatted next to us and whispered, “God, Sunny, remind me never to piss you off.”

  Ignoring the jibe, I swallowed. “Did you get backup?”

  “911 babe. On their way.”

  We followed Maria who was heading for the hydraulic pits, left by miners in the 1800’s who had hosed down the hills in search of gold, leaving the area pocked with holes and settling ponds. Catching up with her again, we had to hold Maria back. There were no guarantees that the other bad guys were gone, so we pulled her down with us as we squatted behind a rock pile. Travis shushed us with a finger to his lips. Minutes felt like hours.

  Finally, the beat of helicopters turned the quiet forest into a military zone. The first helicopter flew toward us, then hovered overhead and radioed Travis who responded with a hand-held device he pulled from his coat pocket. A few more agonizing minutes ticked away before it landed, sending billowing clouds of dust fanning out and making us cough as it touched down on an old landing site.

  A second helicopter completed aerial surveillance, and we got the “All Clear” to move safely toward the hydraulic pits.

  “Paloma! Paloma!” Maria dashed to the closest pit, practically tumbling into the yawning hole before discovering it was empty.

  We spread out in different directions to search the other pits. Cresting a hill comprised of tailings, I froze with a sense of foreboding, stomach clenched and heart racing as I spotted a child's pink tennis shoe half buried by debris. Something else, beyond the shoe and off the trail caught my eye. It looked like a child's backpack tossed, or dropped, lying tangled in a shrub. The pack had a big purple and pink star covered with glitter that flashed in the sun like a sign pointing the way.

  Fighting an urge to run the other way, I approached the rim of an adjacent pit. I didn't want to look. I didn’t want to have images of a child's dead body trapped in my mind forever.

  I am an advocate.

  It was my duty to shield Maria from whatever lay ahead. I moved to the pit and peered over the edge.

  Paloma lay motionless at the bottom of the pit; face down, tangled hair splayed across the dirt, wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, dirty underwear, and one sad pink shoe. It was over 100º and getting hotter by the minute. Dread filled the air, filled my lungs, and weighed heavily on my heart. The squeeze in my chest made it hard to breathe, harder still to call for help.

  Oh baby, please be all right.

  “Lord...” I croaked, but had no need to finish. God knew.

  With a leap of faith, I catapulted, sailing feet first, like an Italian mobster in cement shoes, straight to the bottom. Feet, knees, and head bouncing off the rock-strewn ground, propelling me forward for a second time before crashing to a stop on the far side. It took a minute for the twinkling stars in my head to fade into sunlight. I crawled to Paloma’s side and gently turned her over and cradled her unconscious body in my arms.

  “Paloma?” I whispered, brushing her hair from her face. Her mouth quivered in silent response. Water! She needs water! Paloma didn’t weigh much. I dragged her to the shady side of the pit and whispered, “It’s okay, honey. Tu Madre is coming.

  “Here! We're down here!” I called out in a gravelly voice. No reply.

  I looked back at Paloma. “I’ll come back. I promise.

  I struggled to climb; fell back several times, tore my pants and gashed my injured knees on jagged pieces quartz. Sweat bathed my face, stung the gunshot burn on my ear, and blurred my vision. At last, I pulled myself over the lip–and into a rush of an oncoming rescue team—with Chance leading the way.

  Chance stumbled, startled. Recovered, “Sunny? What... ?” Chance tossed his gear down.

  “The pit,” I gasped, gesturing behind me.

  “You’re hurt.” He quickly assessed my injuries.

  “Go! Go!” I
gestured wildly toward the pit and he moved ahead.

  Maria was running toward us, arms outstretched. I could barely hear her cries over the deafening thump-thump of the helicopter. I didn't understand her language, but I knew what she was saying.

  It was a touching scene when Chance was hauled up from the pit carrying Paloma in his arms. Maria’s eyes shined with unbridled gratitude as she reached up and kissed Chance on the cheek. He was all strength, thoughtful and sensitive. The scene before me tugged at my heart, and I struggled to rein it in.

  I refused medical treatment so there would be room for Maria on the helicopter. That, and I wanted to show Chance that I could take care of myself. They were all life-flighted down to Enloe Hospital in Chico, and I watched them fade into the horizon with a sigh.

  CHAPTER 28

  When the air had cleared and dust settled, Travis and I began our long drive out of the hills. We traveled in silence for the most part until I gave in to exhaustion and the post-adrenalin crash. Somehow I slept through the bumps and jolts of the dirt roads only to awaken much later when we pulled up to an ornate, black, wrought-iron gate. Travis reached out and pressed the key code for the electronic gate that swung open. I rubbed my gritty eyes and squinted. Chico has some very prestigious homes and I had never been to this particular gated community.

  “Welcome to California Park,” said, Travis.

  A family of white geese drifted across the glassy surface of a large pond just as the last rays of sunset wrapped the water in a fiery hug and kissed it goodnight.

  We pulled into a beautifully manicured stone and brick home. Curious, I looked to Travis, my expression asking the question that my lips were too tired to form.

  “My place,” he said. “Come on.”

  Travis walked around the 4x4 and opened the door. I dragged myself behind him and up the winding walkway like a tired puppy. The porch light came on and I paused to admire the beautiful full-length, etched windows on either side of the carved oak door. He unlocked the door, ushered me in and flipped a switch. I stopped and stared, amazed.

  The entry pointed the way to a facing free-standing wall—only the wall was a solid upright single-cut slab of polished green and gold onyx about six feet wide—that showcased an intricate Chinese table and carved Buddha who appeared to be meditating between a pair of ornate sconces. The entire scene was backlit with a soft, golden light that illuminated through the translucent slender-cut slab and I gasped as the tranquil sound of water slid down the face of the rock, whispering its water-song through perfumed air. I felt as though I had entered a Buddhist monastery.

  Travis led me around the shrine and stepped down into a white-carpeted living room and a plush white leather sofa with green and gold tapestry pillows that stood in an orderly arrangement along the back. I sat, and he disappeared.

  More than curious, my eyes swept the room in a kind of fascination, pausing to admire the beautiful rockwork that framed a large, rugged fireplace with contrasting delicate Japanese maple and juniper bonsai trees gracing its mantel. The opposite wall featured a stunning mural of great blue herons in flight, rising from tall reeds on a lakeshore and soaring toward the high ceiling. The only other furniture was an ornate writing desk.

  This place is Travis, I thought; precision cut, serene, elegant, yet substantial and enduring all at once. It was immaculate, masculine, and very Feng Shui. The practical me that had grown up hauling ashes from the wood stove to the garden was busy contemplating the sensibility of a fireplace and white carpet when Travis returned carrying two glasses of dark red wine.

  “How do you keep the ashes from wrecking your carpet?” Even as the words left my mouth, I was embarrassed at my lack of sophistication. The fireplace was undoubtedly gas, not wood, and I blushed, feeling awkward and out of place.

  A warm smile stretched across Travis’s face as he held a glass out in offering. “Here, you look like you could use this.”

  He was right. I took a sip and melted into the soft cushions. Like everything else, the wine was perfect.

  “Travis,” I turned to look at him. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To get you out of your pants,” he said with a boyish grin that made blood rush to my face. Embarrassed that I had blushed twice within minutes, I looked away, hating that he has that affect on me.

  Travis gave a soft laugh and disappeared again, returning with peroxide, ointment, adhesive tape, and some large gauze pads. I zoomed from embarrassed to stupid in the space of a heartbeat.

  “Drop ‘em,” he said.

  What’s a girl to do? Besides, I was too tired to argue, so I unzipped and dropped my pants, left standing before Travis with my thong, torn knees, and most likely my face in coordinated shades of fire engine red. Flushing was the only protest I could muster.

  “Nice,” he said in a husky voice, trailing the word as his eyes slid up and down my legs. “You can sit.” His smile made my pulses quicken, his words were calm and reassuring. “I won't hurt you.”

  He lied. A groan started at my knees and worked its way up into a yelp as Travis the removed the grit embedded my wounds. The cuts were pretty deep and threatened to pull open with every bend of the knee as I climbed back into torn jeans.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I mumbled as he dabbed burn ointment on my ear.

  Travis gathered the first aid remnants, and I returned to surveillance.

  The house was magazine perfect and the decor serene, but it wasn’t natural. Things were missing; like an entertainment center, clock, phone, junk mail, animal dander, photographs and mementos from captured moments in time, dust. The Buddha was the showcase and central theme of his home, and I pondered this phenomenon as I took in the tranquil environment.

  Do all roads lead to heaven? Is living for here and now really so bad? After all, now is all we really have in any faith, or even in the absence of faith.

  Travis returned. “Hungry?” he asked.

  I’m sure I saw a glimmer in his eye. “Starving.”

  “Tuna okay?”

  I followed Travis, limping behind him into the kitchen with my wineglass in hand. He had set a small table for two with sandwiches and a platter of fruit and then dimmed the overhead lights.

  “No candlelight?” I teased. His eyes darkened at my question. “Just kidding.”

  He reached for his food as I bowed my head in silent prayer. I thanked God that Maria and Paloma were safe and I was alive and hadn’t gotten anyone killed. When I was done giving thanks, I asked God to bless the food and looked up to see Travis fully absorbed in watching me.

  “How long have you been a Christian?” he asked in a respectful tone.

  I gave him more details, how my parents had practically abandoned me, the years spent in Joyce’s company, and how she had ministered to me. Travis continued to gaze in fascination. Then I breezed over the events in Sturgis again. Maybe I owed my talkativeness to the wine, the exhaustion, or even a part of what God had meant by “cleaning out my closet.” It felt like a cleansing tonic until I got deeper into the story and saw Travis’s face darken. I noticed a small muscle straining and pulsing along his jaw and felt a build up of tension that was out of harmony with the environment.

  He interrupted to ask detailed questions about the motorcycle gangs, particularly the Bandido Nation and the Mongols.

  “I thought we were talking about faith. Can we just have a conversation for once instead of an interrogation?”

  “I’m sorry. Old habit. Please, continue.” He looked contrite.

  I huffed and concluded with the story of Tim, the motorcycle preacher who had brought me back to California, and how I had come to know Christ during that journey.

  “So, how long have you been a Buddhist?”

  “I grew up a Catholic,” Travis said as he continued to study me, gauging my reaction. “I was an altar boy for a time. My mother took me to Mass every Sunday and I went to confession like clockwork, but nothing in my life changed. No matter how many Hail Mary’s and Our Fa
thers I said, I still felt bad and stayed bad. Then one day it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't really such a bad person after all. Maybe it was just the church that made me feel that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Unforgiven,” he clarified. “I don’t have your kind of faith. I need more than words in a book. I need proof.” He looked into his cup of wine as if he were doing communion. “I need... I need to be an active participant in my own salvation.”

  “Do you believe in God?” I asked.

  Travis grew thoughtful. “Buddha says it is fear that drives men to the sacred mountains, trees, and shrines. When I was in combat, I heard men crying out to God when they were wounded. Those that survived went back to being jerks,” he chuckled, “a lot like I would do after going to confession.”

  Reaching for some fruit, I contemplated his words. “I don't worship mountains, trees, or shrines,” I said finally. “I worship the Creator, not the created.”

  He was quiet again and his silence felt like an invitation to continue. “So,” I asked, “do you believe in heaven or hell?”

  “I’ve seen both, and it sounds like you have too,” he offered, placing a warm hand over mine on the table between us.

  “But... you believe in an afterlife that is all-inclusive? Right?” I didn't know much about Buddhism.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” Travis said with conviction. “There are many levels of existence before reaching a state called 'enlightenment.' Unlike Christianity, a person isn't stuck in one level for eternity.”

  I could have wept. “If that’s true, then I guess Logan will be there—in your afterlife—raping me and stalking me for eternity. I mean, if he doesn't want to change here on earth, why would he want to change later?”

  We finished our meal in silence. Travis slid his chair back and walked around and took me by the hand, guiding me back to the sofa in his sanctuary.

  “What would make you think that Logan could abuse you in your afterlife?”

  “Because... if there is no black and white, no heaven and hell, then we are left with too many shades of gray. What would keep me from being raped in heaven, if heaven is just a place where everyone goes they die—the angel police?” My voice tightened. “If heaven isn’t perfect, then it’s just like earth, and it isn’t really heaven at all. And where do you draw the line, Travis? Is heaven filled with people who just tell ‘little white lies?’ Where they ‘borrow-not steal’ your stuff for eternity? Is it a place where it is okay to slap, but not punch? If there is no God and no boundaries, who the hell draws the line?”