The Lights of Tenth Street

by Shaunti Feldhahn

  She looked around at the others. “Everyone go back to your posts, if you can, or stay in the break room.”

  The crowd began to break up. Maris caught Tiffany’s eye and pulled her aside, her face tight, her manner hurried. “Can you go tell the other staff—the cooks, the other dancers, the waitresses—what’s happened? Make sure no one leaves?”

  Tiffany could only nod her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. She set off for the kitchen, pulling out her cell phone with shaking hands, starting to gasp with great sobs. She had to find Ronnie. Ronnie had to come.

  The second man emerged from Tiffany’s bedroom, having thoroughly searched both the computer for the file and the room for the disc. He shook his head, and both men made quick work of the second bedroom. Nothing. It wasn’t here.

  And now they had a second girl to worry about.

  The first searcher made a quick call on his cell phone and received authorization to abandon the search there and head to the club; their colleagues might already be there. They had to beat the cops there and find the girls at all costs. Neither must be allowed to escape.

  Ronnie waved good-night to the Turners and Woodwards standing in the doorway and headed home. How strange but how nice that these two respectable couples would care about her. And how much pain she could have spared herself by returning the Woodwards’ calls months ago.

  The offer of a “safe haven” had again been made and again politely declined, just as she had also steered away from the delicate subject of her job. Her hosts had seemed to accept the redirection, even though Sherry had said—only half-jokingly—that she was a persistent sort and wouldn’t keep letting Ronnie off the hook that easily.

  Ronnie was surprised that she didn’t mind the questions, didn’t mind the obvious desire of these people to draw her away from her life at the club, to educate her about their faith. They were naive but sincere. In her life, she was used to the opposite.

  She pulled onto the highway, ambivalent about taking the night off. Tiffany had probably made a boatload of money without her there to siphon off the best tips. Maybe she should go in, after all. It was only nine-thirty or so, plenty of time to still rake in some cash.

  As she drove through the security gates of the apartment complex, her cell phone rang. She held it awkwardly against her shoulder as she pulled into a parking space.

  “Hello?”

  “Ronnie! Ronnie, O God, Ronnie!”

  “Tiff! What’s wrong?”

  “Marco’s dead! The police just called the club. Some kind of accident! Oh, Ronnie, can you come here? You’ve got to come!”

  Ronnie felt herself backing out of the parking space and retracing her path out of the complex, hardly aware of what she was doing.

  “Are you sure?” Ronnie pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, feeling the floodgates pressing against her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not sure! Are the police sure it was Marco? What was he doing away from the club?”

  “Maris said he had to run to a last-minute meeting.” Tiffany was crying now, her voice distorted. “Please come, Ronnie. I’ve got to make a couple more calls.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Ronnie hung up the phone, feeling great tears leaking down her cheeks. She remembered Marco’s face, just a few nights ago in that church parking lot, the unaccustomed vulnerability, the few moments of softness. Then the gates had come down again with a clang. But she had seen him as he really was, inside, beyond the bluster and the cold business dealings. Behind the hardened man who hadn’t protected her, had abandoned her on the train platform that night. She grieved for him, for the man he was and the man he never got to be.

  Is that where I’m headed? Ronnie felt the question rise up in her spirit. To where I can suppress who I really am, become scarred by what I’ve chosen to do? Is that the end result?

  She sped toward the club, wiping tears from her eyes, her mind in turmoil.

  A shining team went with her, surrounding her, their faces fierce, their orders clear.

  The saints were still praying, her mother and friends still on their knees for the young woman, though they did not know why.

  Loriel led the way, his thoughts racing with the plan now in motion. The timing was going to be tight, and it would all depend on the next few minutes.

  He looked down at the girl in the car, leaking fresh tears every few minutes, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. A shining being was in the car with her, speaking to her, trying to get through to her softened heart.

  Loriel laid his plea before the throne of grace. This little one would be the key; the saints would be the key. But her life would be in mortal danger, might—in the end—be required of her. The night could end in great triumph or tragedy … or both. The Spirit had not revealed what was to come; only what the battle would be. The heart-searching by this little lost lamb, the intervention of the saints of God, might in the end save a nation, but they could not—in themselves—save a soul.

  The Lord desperately desired her love, her submission … her surrender. But in the end, it would be her choice. With these wayward children, Loriel had seen even those with soft hearts be unwilling to lay down their will before the Way, the Truth, and the Life, unwilling to accept their need for forgiveness, unwilling to give up their independence. He had wept as they had chosen to descend, with pride intact, into eternal darkness.

  Loriel desperately prayed that in all the coming battle, in all the conflict for so many lives, that the conflict for this one beloved soul would not be lost.

  A thought struck him and he straightened, giving thanks for the inspiration as he called over another cadre of angels. They listened a moment then sped away, flying low, attracting no attention, heading back the way the little lamb had just come.

  “So what did you think?”

  Doug and Vance were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

  “It’s hard to know,” Doug said. “She seems like a nice girl—very normal. You’d never know she was a stripper.”

  “Yeah.” Vance gave a barking laugh. “That absolutely floored me. But it explained—partly anyway—why I had such a burden to pray for her, to reach out to her at school. It was the Lord, trying to get through.”

  The two men continued their task in silence. Doug found himself moving more and more slowly as they neared the final dishes. There seemed to be a weight on him, a growing concern, an urgent call forming in his mind.

  Vance, too, stopped slotting plates into the dishwasher. It was almost as if he was listening to something.

  The urgency blossomed and grew in Doug’s mind until it was like a shout. He looked over at his friend. Vance, his eyes wide, stared back at him.

  The men closed the dishwasher and headed into the living room.

  They were met at the doorway by their wives, the same urgency in their eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Sherry finally blurted out.

  Doug took her hand and led her back into the living room. Vance and Jo followed, and the four saints fell to their knees on the soft carpet. And suddenly, the words began pouring out … prayers for Ronnie. Prayers for protection, for salvation, for God’s purposes to be accomplished. All four were gripped by something they did not understand, beseeching—for the second time that night—the throne of grace on behalf of one little lost lamb.

  It was growing late … they had to get the kids to bed … they had things to do. But suddenly nothing was more urgent than hearing the voice of their Lord and praying with His heart.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Maris let herself into the locked office, almost shaking with haste, and ran to Marco’s computer. She pulled out her Palm Pilot and laid it on the desk by the computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

  Three words from the police phone call resounded in her head—words she hadn’t shared with her coworkers.

  “… under suspicious circumstances…”

  All her training told her this could mean only one thing—someone had taken him
out. And why now, after all this time? She recalled Tiffany’s face looming in the doorway, Tiffany who had overheard something she couldn’t possibly have understood. But you didn’t have to understand something to repeat it to the wrong ears … and Tiffany had been leaving to go meet Wade and who knew who else. Happy-go-lucky Tiffany, clueless Tiffany, must have said something … and someone had understood it.

  And that meant they would be coming here. Looking for her.

  Within seconds, she found the file she had discreetly copied to Marco’s hard drive while helping him with the CD. All her instincts were telling her this little audio file was now critical, was worth discovery, was worth any effort to get it out of here, to get it to safety. She set up her Palm Pilot and beamed the file via wireless connection straight to her hand-held device, watching the download proceed with fevered eyes.

  It was taking too long! This file was too large for her hand-held device to e-mail out. She would have to get the Palm Pilot itself out of the club and find a better e-mail connection or, better yet, bring the Palm Pilot straight in.

  Maris looked at her watch, practically sick with haste. Three minutes. Too long … too long! They might be here any minute—might be here already.

  She heard the soft beep and checked the face of the device: “Wireless download complete.” She yanked the Palm Pilot off the desk and hurried for the door. She did not notice that the screen of the computer bore the same message.

  Ronnie came running into the club. She found Tiffany in the dancers’ room, and the two friends hugged and cried for a few minutes.

  “Where is everyone else?” Ronnie looked around at the sparsely populated room.

  “In the break room, probably. Maris said the police asked everyone to wait.”

  Ronnie looked in the mirror and grimaced at her reddened, mascara-streaked eyes. She dumped her car keys on the makeup table. “I look awful. I’m going to go splash cold water on my face.”

  Tiffany gave her a dull nod. “It’s not like any of us are looking too great right now.”

  Maris took a few breaths to settle her pounding heart, then stepped out into the hallway.

  Almost immediately she was accosted by staffers. Where had she been? What did the police say? Would they still be paid tomorrow?

  She tried to reassure everyone, answering their questions, urging them to wait in the break room until the cops arrived. Her brain was screaming at her to bolt for the back door. But there were so many people with questions, she couldn’t move five steps without being accosted.

  The young hostess tugged on her arm and told her two men were out front looking for her. They were talking to Brian, the bouncer. She thought maybe they were the police?

  “Are they wearing uniforms?”

  “No, just—you know—clothes.”

  “Tell them I’ll be right there.” She set off down the hallway toward the break room. Just shy of the door, she jerked to a halt, listening.

  “Where is Maris, the waitress?”

  The voice was unfamiliar. She heard one or two people say they hadn’t seen her. Maybe she was in Marco’s office?

  “Go check.” A different voice issued a curt order.

  She heard heavy steps heading toward the break room door, and she set off down the back hallway, timing the paces in her head. She’d never make it to the exit … never make it.

  She heard the heavy footsteps rounding the corner just as she pulled even with the ladies’ room. She hurled herself against the door, ducking inside, and heard the man pounding on Marco’s office door, just down the hall.

  Trapped! She should call in, should at least tell her team what was going on. But her cell phone and other gear were in her locker in the break room, as inaccessible as the moon.

  The pounding turned to kicking, and she listened to Nicks familiar voice approach the man, his tone alarmed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stay out of it.”

  “Hey, listen, you—”

  The man’s voice changed slightly. “I’m conducting an official investigation, and time is critical. I need to find the waitress, Maris.”

  “I’m sorry … I think she was in the office a minute ago.”

  There was a heavy thud, and the crack of a door giving way.

  “Hey!” Nick sounded angry.

  “Like I said—official business. Stay out of it!”

  Maris started to pull open the bathroom door, every muscle tensed to spring down the hallway toward the exit.

  Suddenly, someone pushed on the bathroom door from the outside, and she gasped, jerking back, her hand raised to deliver a blow.

  Ronnie shrank back against the wall, her reddened eyes wide. “Hey!”

  Maris shouldered past Ronnie and peered out as the door began to swing shut.

  Good. The hallway was clear, the man—or men—still in Marco’s office. Poised to move, she turned her head toward the back exit.

  There was a sudden noise, and the heavy exit door was wrenched open from the outside.

  Maris jerked back into the bathroom, letting the door silently swing shut.

  “Maris?” Ronnie’s voice quavered. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  Maris held up a sharp hand for silence, straining to listen through the closed door.

  There was a male voice, talking so low that she couldn’t capture all the words.

  “… still be in the building … car’s still here.…”

  A second voice was a bit louder.

  “The PC was compromised. Someone had just downloaded something—and not to a disk. To a hand-held device of some kind. That bartender says she owns a Palm Pilot. She must have the file.”

  The first voice swore. “Find her. Search every inch. No one gets in or out.”

  “They say the cops are on the way.”

  “Better hurry, then.” The voices began moving away, and Maris could hear them calling someone to stand guard over the back door. “And one other thing …” the voices were growing faint “… those other girls …”

  Ronnie realized that Maris was staring at her long and hard. She looked back, puzzled, then Maris pulled her away from the door and into the large handicap stall at the back of the bathroom.

  Ronnie tried to resist, her voice rising with alarm. “What’s going on?”

  “Shhhh!” Maris closed them into the large stall, locking the latch behind them. “For pete’s sake, I thought you were smarter than that!”

  “Fine! Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “If I told you, it would take all night. They’ll be in here any minute.”

  “Who will?”

  “Just listen!” Maris hissed. “I can’t explain. But I need you to do something for me. Will you do it?”

  Ronnie looked in her eyes and glimpsed something she’d never seen before. Something … fierce. Determined. Something beyond the snappy Bronx waitress she’d always known.

  She took a breath. “Okay.”

  Maris pulled a Palm Pilot out of her apron and handed to Ronnie. “I need you to hold this for me for a little while, to hide it on your person.” She brought out a pen, tore off a scrap of her order pad, and scribbled a series of numbers on it. “If anything happens to me, call this phone number. Give them this code, and you’ll be connected to the right people. You’ll need to get them this Palm Pilot immediately, if I can’t. I just downloaded a critical file.”

  Maris showed her the long series of numbers, then tucked the torn slip of paper inside the Palm Pilot’s leather sheath. Ronnie looked at the hand-held device as if it would bite her, her brain still ringing with the words, “if anything happens to me …” She looked back up at Maris.

  “Who would I be calling, exactly?”

  “The local branch of the FBI.”

  “The FBI!”

  “I don’t have time to explain. I need to get you out of here before they search the bathroom.”

  “Who is they? What’re they looking for?” />
  “ ‘They’ are some very bad people, Ronnie. And they want what you’re holding in your hand. They won’t suspect you; they’ll just think you were using the bathroom. But if you think they’re suspicious of you—run. Don’t look back. Get out of here immediately, and call this number.”

  She gripped both of Ronnie’s arms and looked her straight in the eyes. “Ronnie, I wouldn’t ask this under other circumstances. I don’t want to involve you. But there’s much more at stake here than you can possibly imagine—an issue of national security. Tens of thousands of lives could be at stake. Ronnie, this Palm Pilot—this file—must make it to the FBI.”

  “But what about you? What will they do to you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Suddenly, both girls heard voices outside the door, loud voices, heavy steps.

  Maris whirled and hissed at Ronnie. “Climb up on the toilet and hide that Palm Pilot! Do it! Do it!”

  Ronnie clambered onto the toilet seat as Maris whipped out of the stall, hurrying for the door.

  With fumbling fingers, Ronnie untucked her shirt and slipped the Palm Pilot in the back waistband of her jeans. Then she crouched so her head wouldn’t be visible over the top of the stall.

  She heard Maris open the door, heard the sounds of discovery, heard men rushing in, someone being pushed up against a wall.

  “What are you big lugs doing?”

  Not ten feet away, Ronnie listened, shaking, as the men explained in graphic terms just what they were doing, what they were looking for. She heard Maris being bashed up against the wall, heard her choking with pain. Ronnie covered her mouth to keep from crying out.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Maris again, weakly protesting. “I do have a Palm Pilot, but I left it behind the bar. It’s down on one of the shelves where we stash our things.”

  “Show us.” More pushing and scuffling noises, and they were out the door, voices raised, calling someone for assistance.