by Sandra Hill
Another man slapped that man on the back and chastised him, “You don’t speak to a nun that way, brother. What would Mama say to you, disrespectin’ one of the sisters?”
A third man volunteered, “This is the Truck 88 Repair Depot, not the Shipping Depot. Where you comin’ from?”
“Baton Rouge,” Sister Mary Michael said, stepping out of the bus, which caused the men’s eyes to widen, whether it was at her size or yet another nun on the site, Fleur wasn’t sure.
“How many of you holy wimmen in that bus?” yet a fourth man asked.
“Just us three,” Fleur said.
The men were all dark-skinned and spoke with Mexican accents, including the first man who told Sister Carlotta with much politeness, “You’re about five miles off course, Sister.”
“Can you help us find our way?” Sister Carlotta asked.
“We don’t have time for this shit!” someone said. Another slap, followed by, “Sorry, Sister.”
But then, engines of three vehicles suddenly came to life and moved quickly to block the exit, the two commercial vans and the farm truck. At first, the bad guys were frozen with shock. A melee ensued in which the priests and Aaron were yelling, “Drop your guns! Drop your guns!”
At the same time, the white shuttle van driven by John LeDeux with his partner Tank in the catbird seat peeled out, up and over a berm, and out of the parking lot.
In the midst of the chaos that followed. Running, punching, random gunshots fired, someone coming up behind Fleur, yanking off her veil and wimple and putting a knife to the front of her neck. “I should have known you would be involved in this, puta,” Miguel said against her ear in heavily accented English. In surprise, she tried to turn, but he had a pistol pressed against her back with his other hand.
He began to frog march her away from the others, right past Sister Mary Michael, who was not yet aware of what was happening, busy as she was with hog-tying another of the Mexicans with his hands tied behind his back and then roped to his bound ankles. The whole time the man was crying out long streams of curses in Mexican. “Shush! No taking the Lord’s name in vain,” the nun said, and none-too-gently stuffed a huge watermelon rind in the man’s mouth.
The others were busy, too, engaging and incapacitating the enemy. Luckily, none of the gunshots fired a few moments ago had hit anyone, far as she could tell. But unluckily, Miguel had already maneuvered her into a somewhat darker area, heading toward the open driver’s door of the semi.
But then, Aaron noticed her. He handed off to Brother Jake the guy he had pinned to the ground with a knee in his back and rose, slowly.
“Take it easy. Don’t give the tango an excuse to do something stupid,” Brother Jake cautioned. “Let me handle this.”
“Fuck off,” Aaron told the priest. “Let her go,” Aaron said to Miguel in a voice cold as arctic ice.
“I don’t think so, gringo. Me and Fleur here have a long history, don’t we, baby?” He pressed the knife tighter to her neck, drawing blood.
Aaron inhaled sharply.
She wanted to tell Aaron to be careful, that Miguel also had a gun, which he might not have seen yet, but she couldn’t speak with the knife pressed against her neck.
“This sweet piece of ass is gonna take a little ride with me. In that big old semi there. Any objections, fuckface?”
“Actually, yes, and that’s Mister Fuckface to you. Miguel Vascone, I take it,” Aaron said, inching closer. “You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
As if sensing the connection between her and Aaron, Miguel laughed and said, “This one, she has been trouble for me ever since I first fucked her lily-white ass. But the men liked her, especially those with a taste for—”
Aaron suddenly pulled a sharp knife from his back pocket and flicked it at Miguel’s crotch. A direct hit. Miguel screamed and his leg buckled. His gun and knife fell to the concrete where they both bounced away. Fleur managed to slip out of his grasp.
The danger was not over, though.
The hit must not have been as direct as she’d thought because Miguel quickly yanked it out, righted himself, and managed to tackle Aaron. He still had Aaron’s knife in his hand.
The two men rolled on the ground, first one on top, then the other. Fists flying. But then, Miguel was on top, and he had his knife poised to attack.
Fleur didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the gun off the concrete and raised it. At the same time, Aaron managed to grasp Miguel’s wrist and, with sheer strength, pushed the hand with the blade up from his chest. In that split second, Fleur pressed the trigger, aiming for Miguel’s back, and, simultaneously, the knife twisted in Miguel’s hand and somehow landed in his own neck. Miguel slumped, blood gushing from both wounds.
Fleur was shaking as she walked closer. Aaron shoved Miguel off him and took Fleur into his arms. He was also shaking, but she suspected it was more from his fear for her than himself. In any case, it was clear that Miguel was dead, or close to it. What was unclear was who was responsible, her or Aaron. At this moment, it didn’t matter.
Brother Brian knelt over Miguel and murmured some words, making the sign of the cross. If he was still alive, now would be the time for the sinner to repent. But, no. Miguel was gone, and Fleur had a good idea of his final destination.
“Let’s get this show on the road, folks,” Brother Jake yelled. “Go, go, go!”
First off, they had to get the two dozen women off the truck and into the small bus and two vans. Most were under eighteen. They’d been drugged and the truck reeked of vomit and urine. Who knows when they’d been put in the vehicle? Maybe this morning. Some were crying, but most of them were hardened after years of the life, and they probably figured they were being shuffled into some other brothel.
They randomly separated the group into three parts. A dozen in the short bus, and six each in the two vans. The bodies of the four men lay on the ground, at least one of them dead. They would be left for police to dispose of.
Just then, there was the loud honking of a horn and the screech of brakes. Another of Miguel’s gang? Or some of the Dixie Mafia alerted to the aborted exchange?
But, no, it was a big lavender convertible which swerved to avoid hitting the semi, shot over the berm which John had used earlier as an exit, and then came to a screeching stop in front of Fleur, Aaron, Brothers Brian and Jake, and the two nuns, all of whom had mouths gaping open.
Inside the convertible sat two nuns, the tall one in the passenger seat clutching the dashboard with whitened fingers, and the shorter one who could barely see over the steering wheel.
Aaron released Fleur from his embrace and went over to help his Aunt Mel free her fingerhold and step out of the car on wobbly knees. “I’m sorry, Aaron. But I couldn’t let her come alone.”
Sister Lulu, on the other hand, wasn’t at all repentant. “Oh, heck, did we get here too late?” She was carrying a rifle. The kind used by big game hunters.
“Old lady, didn’t you hear me say that we’re a nonviolent group,” Brother Jake sputtered out. “I must have said it a hundred times.”
“Pff! I dint know you were talkin’ ta me. Everyone knows us Cajuns doan listen to no one when it comes ta our guns.”
Brother Brian burst out laughing then, and they all joined in. The perfect stress reliever to a successful mission, although the two dozen rescued girls probably thought they were all crazy.
They were. Cajun crazy.
Chapter Fourteen
A little gratitude would be welcome . . .
The two pilots made a quick turnaround to Dallas and Mexico and back, and were in the rental car with Brother Jake by three a.m. on their way back to Bayou Rose. Along the way, they got updates on the outcome, rather progress thus far, of the mission.
All hell was breaking loose in Lafayette where John LeDeux and Tank Woodrow had delivered the twelve recently kidnapped girls to their superiors. They claimed ignorance of the dead or wounded or restrained bodies in the depot parkin
g lot. Said they’d just got an anonymous tip that there was a shuttle van full of crying girls over there, and this is what they found. They had no idea what that empty eighteen-wheeler was doing there.
The news media was all over the story, and the FBI had been called in, too. John and Tank were being grilled like crazy. Aaron hoped they held up. He was pretty sure they would be okay. John LeDeux was notorious for pulling off crazy operations, within the confines of the law. Besides, Tante Lulu would never allow anything to happen to her favorite nephew.
Fleur was safely back at Bayou Rose with the busload of a dozen other girls. How this would all pan out, Aaron had no idea.
“I’m getting too old for this crap,” Aaron said with a sigh as he hunkered down, half lying across the back seat. “I don’t know how you guys do this all the time.”
“Once your heart starts beating lower than the speed of sound, and you pretty up your wounds, you’re ready to go again,” Snake told him.
“Just like the military,” Brother Jake added. “You go where you’re called. Except our commander has a bit more clout.”
“It’s like childbirth. You forget the pain after the delivery, and feel real good about what you produced.” This from Snake, who hadn’t a clue about actual childbirth. At least, Aaron didn’t think he did.
“Speaking of which . . . have you heard from your brother?” Brother Jake asked.
“He was at Bayou Rose when the girls arrived. So, I assume that he and Samantha are still in a holding pattern,” Aaron told them.
It was five a.m. and not yet dawn when they got back to the plantation. The cottages were dark, except for some dim lights, maybe lamps, and only a few rooms were lit in the mansion, the kitchen, and one of the salons. None of the bedrooms, as far as he could tell. He didn’t see Dan’s car among the three or four that were there, presumably the social worker and other volunteers. Even the bus was gone.
“I’m going to see if there’s any grub in the kitchen before hitting the sack for a few hours,” Brother Jake said.
“You know there will be,” Aaron said, “especially with Tante Lulu in the house. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her waiting up for you.”
Snake yawned widely. “Me . . . I need sleep more than food. See you both in a few hours.”
“I’m going to check on Fleur,” Aaron said, and he didn’t care if the two priests objected.
They didn’t.
But first, Aaron felt the need to wash away the muck of this night. He went over to his pickup truck, which was still parked in the driveway, and pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of boxers from a gym duffel bag. He didn’t bother to go to the garçonniére, but instead used the rain forest shower in the mansion. Within ten minutes, he was on his way to the third floor and Fleur’s bedroom. He was barefooted, so hopefully he wouldn’t awaken Sister Mary Michael, who was in the other bedroom up here in the attic.
He didn’t bother to knock. Again, not wanting to awaken the nun next door. Instead, he eased the door open. To his surprise, he could see by a dim nightlight that Fleur was sitting up in the bed, wide awake. She opened her arms to him and said in a whisper, “I thought you’d never come.”
He could have made a joke with some double entendre, but he was too happy to be home. Yes, home. And the time for jokes was over.
The terrible trouble was over . . . or was it? . . .
Aaron was still sleeping when Fleur slipped out of bed at seven a.m. He was lying on his stomach, nude, with his head resting on his folded arms.
What beauty God created when he first made man! Fleur thought as she looked down on him. Adam could have been no more perfect in his heavenly design.
Aaron was long and lean with wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, nicely curved buttocks, and black-furred legs. He was muscular, but not overly so. Frankly, she could have stood and admired him for hours. But she was already late, and there was much work to be done downstairs.
Not for him, though. Aaron had endured a hard night, even harder than she had, and she didn’t just mean the already purpling bruises on his arms and ribs and thighs, even his face. And his stress level had been higher, too. The risk of flying those girls to Dallas and back into Mexico had posed all kinds of dangers, especially when Miguel’s group failed to report back to their bosses. If human flesh equated with money, they’d probably lost at least a million dollars, between the two mafias.
As Fleur dressed quickly in capris and an oversize tunic which she belted at the waist, she considered the dilemma she now faced. One of many. Miguel had been killed tonight, by one or both of them, despite all of Brother Jake’s admonitions about nonviolence.
She wasn’t sorry the man was dead. It would have been either him or Aaron in that last struggle. But the Bible said that people had to forgive their enemies. She wasn’t sure she was ready to do that yet. If ever. And that fact certainly put an exclamation mark on her religious aspirations.
The thing she felt most guilty about was that Aaron now bore the burden of Miguel’s murder, too, and it had been almost solely on her behalf. So, either way, she was responsible for a man’s death.
It was a moral question soldiers had to handle all the time. Killing for a good cause. If Brother Brian hadn’t left yet, perhaps she could talk to him about it. But then, he would probably want to hear her confession, and her face heated at what she would have to disclose.
Ah, well, these were weighty issues to be resolved later.
She’d been up herself until three a.m. When she’d returned to the plantation, around one-thirty, she’d helped to process the girls that she and Sister Mary Michael had brought in, with the help of Mel, Tante Lulu, Sister Carlotta, a social worker, a St. Jude’s Street Apostle volunteer, Dr. Alphonse Dorset from Alabama, his medical assistant, and Daniel LeDeux.
Surprisingly, Tante Lulu had been the one most successful in calming the girls down, all of whom were now wearing St. Jude medals on chains around their necks, whether they were Catholic or not. The energy of Tante Lulu was remarkable for a woman her age. She’d still been awake when Fleur had gone to bed, even though, in the end, it had been decided that the best thing for everyone was sleep.
It had been a restless sleep for Fleur, though, as she worried about and listened for Aaron’s return. He had called earlier, when he’d returned to the airport following his flight to and from Mexico, but still she couldn’t be sure of his safety. She didn’t hear the sound of the rental car until five a.m.
When she’d lifted the sheet for him to come into bed with her, he’d shucked his shirt and shorts with amazing speed, the grin on his face promising big plans. But he’d cuddled up to her, spoon-style, whispered against her neck, “I love you, Fleur,” then fell instantly asleep.
She couldn’t complain. In fact, sleeping in Aaron’s embrace had been as satisfying as his lovemaking would have been, in its own, different way. He would have scoffed at that idea. Still, there was no doubt about it, she had fallen for the man.
On that thought, she traveled downstairs to find the two priests in the hallway outside the now-cleared dining room, dressed for travel in the normal garb of their profession. Actually, Fleur had seen some of the Street Apostles in the brown hooded robes of monks on occasion, but she imagined they would be uncomfortable in this heat and for traveling. No, what they wore now were short-sleeve black shirts with white clerical collars tucked into belted black slacks. What a switch from their attire of last night! Still, these two priests would turn heads at the airport, where Ed would drive them shortly for the short jaunt to Dallas. Many a woman would sigh as they passed by and wonder why the “best ones” were always either priests or gay.
“You’re leaving already?” Fleur asked.
They both nodded.
“Our work is done here,” Brother Brian said.
“Others can take over now,” Brother Jake added, then laughed. “I know Sister Mary Michael will be glad to see me gone. I heard her tell that other nun that I have a Patt
on complex, whatever that is. I don’t think it was a compliment.”
Fleur smiled and said her good-byes to both men, a bit embarrassed by the background yapping of “Holy shit!” coming from that infernal bird nearby in one of the parlors.
But Brother Jake just laughed and said, “No respect for God’s disciples!”
“Rather humbling, isn’t it?” Brother Brian mused. “Reminds me of—”
“Spare me, Lord! The man is going to start spouting Irish proverbs again, all the way to Dallas. As silver is tried by the fire and gold by the hearth, thus the Lord trieth this monk’s faith. See, I know proverbs, too. That was a proverb, wasn’t it?” Brother Jake was still rambling on as they picked up their carry-ons and walked toward the front door.
Fleur noticed that all of the animals had come to say good-bye to the Irish priest, too. And, bless his heart, he leaned down to say a special word to each of them.
The kitchen was empty when Fleur got there, but she could hear Tante Lulu and Lily Beth talking, back in the laundry room. Fleur was able to get a mug of coffee and grab a sweet beignet before going outside and up the lane toward the cottages.
It was hard to imagine that these twelve girls were the same ones she and Sister Mary Michael had transported last night. Scrubbed clean, wearing normal teenage clothes (shorts or yoga pants with T-shirts), they looked almost normal. Which they would never be again, not quite, Fleur knew.
Fleur found Mel in the first cottage with the social worker, both of whom were on phones, whether to parents or agencies that might help them, she wasn’t sure. In one of the cottages, she found two of the girls lying in beds, needing medical attention from the doctor who was still there with his assistant. Daniel had left last night—rather, early this morning—when it appeared that none would need hospital admissions.
Sister Carlotta had arranged several girls in a circle in another cottage, and they appeared to be praying. Fleur noticed that one of the rescuees was clutching a plastic St. Jude statue.
