“She’s emerging out of it. Let’s take her vitals and wheel her upstairs.”
The masked face appeared again inches from my nose. “Jen. You’re in the hospital. You’ve had surgery. You’re going to be fine.” She lifted away from me. Another voice chanted. “BP is 92 over 67 and rising. Temp 98. Pulse 87 and strong.”
Something pulled my body backwards and spun me. Dizzy. Stop. Then I jerked and travelled forward. Lights in the ceiling flashed above me. Faster, faster. I realized what I was lying on moved, not me. Two people, dressed in paper robes and masks trotted on either side. “We’re getting you to your room. You’re doing great.”
I tried to nod. But all became fuzzy. It still hurt to breathe. The ping of an elevator vibrated in my ears. They bumped my gurney into the lift. Up we went. Ding, ding. One of the masked voices called out, “Third floor. House wares. Women’s lingerie.”
I willed my mouth into grin. Someone gently laid a hand on my shoulder. “Almost there, Jen.”
They wheeled my gurney into a room, and at the count of three, half-lifted, half-rolled my body onto a bed. An orchestrated chaos of transferring IV tubes and blood pressure monitors ensued. My sight became clearer and the tunnel effects diminished. I noticed Tom. He leaned against the windowsill with one leg crossed over the other calf.
“Hey, you. Welcome back.”
I strained to rear up on one elbow, but the pain shot through me like an icy-hot fire. I groaned as hands lowered me down.
“You need to stay still. We’ll raise the bed a few inches in a minute.”
Sheets fluffed around me and the whir of the bed vibrated under me. My head and shoulders lifted. Blankets were tucked near my legs and hips. One of the masked attendants handed me a button on the end of a long tube. “Punch this if you need anything. Your nurse is Patsy. She’ll be in to check on you in a little bit.”
Feet shuffled out and the commotion subsided. Only the soft beeps continued. I shaded my eyes with my arm. Tom’s face appeared above me.
He took my other hand. “You’ve been shot. But you’re okay. Don’t worry. Do as they say. Rest.”
He planted a kiss on my forehead. Tears floated in his eyes.
I bobbed my head as little as possible but still enough to register it as a response. My eyelids became heavy again. I let it all fade.
* * *
The next day lucid moments came more frequently. The normal surgical recovery routine continued to progress without a hiccup. But no Tom. I kept eyeing the door when it slid open, only to reveal yet another member of the hospital staff. I noticed a policeman on watch outside. His blurred image shown through the frosted glass. He read a newspaper.
A doctor and a nurse came in. His expression was somber. “I’m here to discuss your injury.”
I eased the bed mechanism forward and up, but then felt a cringe of pain.
“Not too far. We had to cut into your abdominal muscles. Sitting and moving needs to be very slow for the next six weeks.” He cleared his throat and shot a glance to the nurse who hovered at my side. “Jen, there is more. The bullet path caused quite a bit of damage to your intestines, but also to your uterus. Beyond repair. We had to remove it.”
I stared at the nurse as she reached for my hand. “What do you mean?”
“Jen, we had to perform a uterine hysterectomy. You won’t be able to bear children.”
I shook my head as tears flooded my face. “No, no. Dear, God no.”
* * *
As the sun began to set, Niamh came in, armed with a bouquet of daisies and carnations. Behind her DCI Blake trooped and his underling de jour. Niamh stopped at my bedside, a warm smile easing across her lips. “Hey, Jen. Doing better?”
“Yes. So are you it seems.” She was dressed in a simple cream-colored sweater shell and cardigan accented by dark slacks. She wore minimal makeup, which allowed her natural beauty to glow in her cheeks.
“Almost back to the straight and narrow. Thanks to you.” Niamh set the vase of flowers on the window sill and angled them for the best view. “There. Sort of cheers up the place, right?” She rubbed her shoulders and whispered. “I hate hospitals.”
I smiled. “Who doesn’t?” I propped my head on the pillow, eyes towards the bouquet. They should have cheered me up, but they didn’t. I managed a half-smile. “They’re gorgeous. Thanks.”
The DCI coughed into his fist. “Jen, are you up to a talk?”
I punched the controls to inch the head of my bed up a few notches as I held my breath to thwart the pain. “Do you know who did this to me?”
He reached in his coat and produced one of the little black notebooks. I noticed his underling had an I-pod and stylus. “Yeah. Mac. A local thug and all around pain in the...” He paused, thinking of an inoffensive word. “You-know-what.”
Niamh folded her arms with a humph. “She knows who the slime is.”
The DCI scratched his temple with his pen. “Right. He led you to Niamh’s location, correct?”
I nodded. Niamh turned to me. “He got angry because he missed out on the money I generated for him, I guess. All he ever cared about.”
The DCI’s mouth curled into a short smile. “Well, he’ll be missing out on a lot for the next ten to fifteen, I’d say. Seems they nabbed him trying to catch the ferry to France about a half hour ago.”
“Why would he shoot at us?”
“So you or Tom wouldn’t testify, we guess. He’s not talking much at the moment. Lawyered up, now didn’t he?”
Testify? Of course. The inquiry. Maybe that’s why Tom hadn’t come around. Not because he knew… “It’s today, right?”
“Twas this morning, yes.”
“Oh.” I folded my hands over the sheets. “How’d it go?”
He leaned in with his elbows on his knees. “Didn’t need your statement. Had the dowager’s and Niamh’s here. By the way, the judge exonerated your friend. Self-defense. Also cited as an outstanding citizen for protecting three women from mortal danger, especially the Dowager of Greenwall and her granddaughter.” His gaze jumped to Niamh with a wink, and returned to focus on me. “He’ll get a certificate or medal or something from Her Majesty’s.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. Thank you, Lord. I squinted one open and asked, “When do I go home?”
“Well…” He ran a hand down his face.
Someone finished his sentence. “That’s what we need to discuss.”
I turned to follow the familiar female voice. Glenda stood with a huge smile plastered on her ruby lips. Freshly applied, of course.
“Hello, Jen.”
I stared in unbelief.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been exonerated for my naivety in trusting Andrew. Lesson learned. All’s forgiven as they say.”
She approached on the opposite side of Niamh and DCI Blake. “The NCA, in all their wisdom, has decided that since we have a history, I get a second chance. Guess I’m your handler as long as you’re on British soil.” She patted my arm that didn’t have IV’s hanging out of it, per normal Glenda gesture. “Let’s concentrate on you getting stronger so we can relocate you again, eh?”
I threw my head back on the pillow and groaned. When would this ever end?
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
My body continued to heal, but my emotional state deteriorated. I became grouchy, short-tempered, and bordered on rude. I cried at the drop of a hat. The rest of the time I resembled a zombie and felt listless. I went through the motions but had no gumption to get well. Why bother? What did life hold for me, anyway? Enter WITSEC. Move every six months. See the world. Whoopee.
The next afternoon I’d turned to the window, tears soaking my pillow. Tom eased in and sat on my hospital bed. “Talk to me.”
“You know, don’t you?”
His chest swelled and then deflated. “Yes. I know.”
His image blurred through my tears. “Where does that leave us?”
Tom ran his hand down my cheek and leaned in. “Right wh
ere it was before you got shot. I love you, Jen. Nothing is going to change that.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m tired.”
“Of?”
I sighed through my nose. “Of lies, Tom. I’m tired of being scared, drugged and injured. Sick of danger.” I whipped the pillow from under my neck and tossed it. It flattened against the wall and flopped to the floor. I punched my eyes with my fists. “He’s dead. Yet even in death he has hurt me. When will it ever stop? Dear God, haven’t I been punished enough?”
Tom grabbed my wrists and pulled my hands away. “Hon, if you don’t get a grip they’ll order a psych eval. You’ve been through more than any woman should. We all understand. But you’re strong. You have Christ as your strength. And you have me.”
He let go. I reared up on my elbows despite the twang of pain and looked him firm in the eye. “I don’t want your sympathy, Tom. And I don’t want you sticking around out of some misplaced guilt. This was not your fault.”
He sat on the edge of my bed. “Nor was it yours. But it’s happened, and I want to help you deal with it.” He kissed my cheek. “Hear me, okay. Really hear me. You are still a wonderfully desirable woman to me.”
My lip quivered. Tom slipped his arms behind me and drew me gently into a hug. He held on as I drenched his shirt with tears of relief. But, deep down there still laid the one lie I couldn’t reveal. Not here, not now. I wiped my eyes with the corner of the sheet as he gingerly laid me back on the bed.
“I want to go home, Tom. To Texas. I want to hear everyone drawl, watch football on Friday nights, and gorge myself on tacos and guacamole. To smell bull dung and taste the dust of a rodeo when its 102° outside. I even want to stomp on a cockroach the size of a field mouse. And”—I gulped—“I want Pastor Jake to pray over me.”
Those lapis blue eyes stared into me. I bit my lip. Suddenly he roared back his head and laughed. His arms went up in the sign of a touchdown. “She’s okay, folks. Just homesick.”
Two people with clipboards dressed in scrubs and white robes appeared. Tom rose off the bed. “Tell them, Jen. These doctors are the ones who can make your dreams come true, so play nice. Be honest with them, but mind your manners, lady.”
I grinned.
He patted my hand and leaned in. “And as Ruth said to Naomi, ‘Whererst thou goest, I shalt go, too.’” He pulled up a bit and cocked his head. “If, you’ll let me.”
“You’re my one true friend, Tom. The only one I trust.”
His eyes dulled. His jaw tightened. “Right, Jen. And I will always be that for you.” He inhaled a long sigh and rose to leave.
I’d just crushed his heart. I knew because I’d smashed mine as well. But until he learned the whole truth, I didn’t dare hope for more than his friendship.
* * *
Ten days later, we sat on a plane headed for the Bergstrom Airport outside of Austin. A cabin on the Perdenales River in the Texas Hill Country had been booked for a month. It had three bedrooms, two baths, and a living room wrapped by a screened-in porch on a bluff overlooking the river.
When we approached I noticed a for sale sign jammed into the caliche. The agent explained. “The family is selling, but not until the end of the summer.”
Tom peered out over the bluff. “I gather they have a buyer already lined-up. A place like this wouldn’t be vacant for long. The views are amazing.”
I sighed. “Well, Hill Country property doesn’t come cheap.”
It came complete with a maid/cook who worked from 8 to 6. Other than that, the cabin was occupied by me, Tom, and a female chaperone who favored Broom Hilda in jeans and boots. Actually, she was a federal marshal and really named Hilda. Sometimes, God does have a sense of humor.
The Feds explained as long as we were mending, we fell under their protection. It also gave them time to gather intel to make sure there would be no cartel retaliation. Not that anyone expected it to happen. The cartel leaders more than likely wished to distance themselves from any possible connection with the late Robert Westlaw. However, precautions were taken in case one felt the need for revenge.
The first thing I did was dye my hair back to its natural color, and buy cosmetics. We both went into town to the general store to buy Hill Country appropriate clothes. A team of home health agents and a physical therapist had been hired to treat us both. I spent long hours basking on the porch and walking by the river. Often Tom joined me, but he kept a guarded distance, both physically and emotionally. He told me he understood I needed time to heal in more ways than from a slug in my gut. I figured he had some to do as well. Robert had been his wartime buddy. Those bonds held tight.
Good news. Our cook excelled in authentic Tex-Mex, and a rodeo happened every weekend in Stonewall outside of Johnson City. Being back in Texas was the best therapy ever. But it made me miss ol’ Tom Cat. I wondered whatever happened to him and prayed he had a good home.
* * *
One Saturday, as I napped on the porch, the screen door slapped. Sandy-colored hair and a godly grin appeared. I rose to my feet. “Jake.”
Hilda appeared, eyebrows knitted into an arch.
“He’s my old pastor.”
Jake handed her his card and slipped his thumbs into his belt loops. “Thought Jen might need some spiritual counseling.”
Our federal marshal gave a short cough and excused herself to go into town for groceries.
Jake took my hands. “I hear I needed to make a house call. I brought you anointing oils for healing.” He swiveled his head. “Tom, too.”
Tom wandered up and leaned against one of the screen’s posts, his arms folded over the “Don’t Mess with Texas” written on his T-shirt. I kept my gaze on Jake. “Later. I need to talk with you first.”
Tom pushed off from the wall.
“No. Tom. I want you to stay. This is for you to hear as well. There is something neither of you know about me. And I want you to.” I gulped a surge of anxiousness back into my belly. “God’s telling me it’s time.”
Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Okay.” He pulled up a chair, flipped backwards, of course. He straddled it and leaned his elbows over the top.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m going to sob my way through this so bear with me, okay?”
I closed my eyes and prayed for the Holy Spirit to guide my tongue and their ears. With one more cleansing lungful of air, I proceeded to tell them the whole truth about my relationship with Robert, and the horrible choice I’d made six years ago to the day.
God is in the details, isn’t He?
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
“I got pregnant out of wedlock. Robert was the father.”
Both men stared at me, but I noticed their eyes dart to each other for a second. Jake nodded. “Go on, Jen.”
The story rushed from my lips before I had time to hesitate. “He didn’t want the baby. I was afraid I’d lose him. So I agreed to…” I inhaled. “…have an abortion. They gave me two pills. One to kill the baby and loosen it from the placenta, the other two days later to push it out. I screamed in pain until the fetus erupted from me in a bloody mess. Robert stayed through it all, then gathered it up and took it to the clinic in a specimen jar they’d provided to verify the medicine worked. I had cramps and bleeding off and on for over a week.”
There. Out in the open at last. My sin lay between the three of us. Exposed. My pulse exploded against my chest over and over again. I finally voiced the one question that had wrenched my gut since I awoke in the hospital. “Do you think God punished me by having me shot?”
Pastor Jake swallowed so hard the tiny, embroidered polo player on his shirt moved. Tom’s face washed of color. He cleared his throat, stood up, and screeched the chair several inches. He paced the area of the screened-in porch where we sat in short, firm steps as he rubbed the back of his head. At last, he stopped to glare at me with reddened eyes before he slammed through the screen door down the path to the river bank below.
“I’ve lost him.” It came out in a shaky croak.
I drew my knees to my chest and buried my head in my arms.
“Give him time, Jen. This is quite a lot to take in.”
I wiped my eyes with the butt of my hand. “Jake. Do you forgive me?”
The pastor, my contemporary, suddenly appeared as a wise, old sage. “I am not the one you’ve hurt, Jen. But, if you’ve asked God to forgive you, He has. Being shot and having the hysterectomy was not His punishment. God wants to love you and walk you through to complete healing. It’s time you let go and gave all of your pain and guilt to Him. ” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “It also appears to me, dear Jen, you need to work on forgiving yourself. Otherwise, you are telling me Christ died on the cross for only small boo-boos and nothing more.” He reached over and held my necklace in his fingers. “And if that’s the case, this cross you wear is really rather insignificant, eh?”
I whimpered a “yeah.”
“One bad decision doesn’t negate the fact you’re a good woman who loves her Lord, Jen. In time, Tom will realize it for himself.”
“I pray so.” I pinched my lips. My face quivered as tears threatened again. “I don’t want to lose him.”
Jake got up. “I almost forgot. I brought something to welcome you home. I’ll be right back.”
He went to his car. I gazed out over the water. Its gentle ripples glistened in the sunlight as if tiny diamonds blinked and bobbed on the surface. Tom stood straddle-legged at the bank’s edge. My heart wanted to join him, but my mind feared what he’d say if I did.
Was this really the end for us? Would any man ever love me if I told him my ugly secret? Maybe I needed to bury it down so deep, it never surfaced.
Who’d want to be friends if I told the truth? A scenario to recite over cocktails or social hob-nobbing emerged in my imagination.
Hi, my late-husband, now deceased at the hands of a spy I fell in love with, was a human and drug trafficker wanted in two countries. I was kidnapped several times, drugged, held against my will, oh, and I’ve had an abortion. And, what do you do?
Legitimate Lies Page 28
