Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  “New Mexico?” I scooted back and shook my head. My brain tried to absorb his words. How? I had been drugged. I had no concept of time. I could have gotten to the gas station by car, helicopter, even in a small jet.

  He clutched my arms and peered into my face. “Look, let me get you and me away from this mess first, okay?”

  I lowered my head and nodded.

  His grip eased. “Stick with me for another twenty-four hours. I’ll get you to some place safe. Then, we can have this conversation.”

  I buckled. “That makes sense.”

  He edged to the door of the van, then turned back to me. “I won’t ask you to trust me anymore, Jen. I’m telling you to. Sunrise is about two hours away. We’ll have to move fast.”

  Freedom rattled outside this van, blocked by the presence of another Godzilla and a feisty, ticked-off Oriental girl in the front seat. I ran my hand across my cheek, remembering the force of her fingernails. He’d said they’d been the ones to tether and gag me. Were these people the “they” Tom kept referring to? If so, then why had he instructed me to go with her in the first place back in Fort Worth?

  We were jostled again, shaking my thoughts back to his voice. He explained we must jump and roll. “Tuck your head and knees in, jump at an angle so you land on your side, then roll, roll, roll until you stop. I’ll be right behind you.”

  My mind flipped back to a lecture in girl’s school. Tuck and roll. How to get out of a car you didn’t want to be in because your date was drunk, or trying to do something against your will. The other girls in the dorm jeered at the female cop and muffled their giggles. For some reason I absorbed it, word for word, the officer’s gestures imprinting in my mind. Was it because somehow God knew I’d need that info now?

  I bobbed my head at Tom, my jaw set tight. “I know how to do this. Let’s go.”

  He shook off a brief disbelief. “Okay.”

  He slid open the van’s side door. The dark air blasted against my cheek. Below, lined shadows zipped by in rhythm to the thunk of the tires. He spoke into my ear. “One, two, three.” He shoved me in the small of my back and my body left the van.

  My hip hit first, then my head. I bounced then landed on my other shoulder. Pain seared through me as my face scraped the asphalt. I rolled again, into the shoulder of the highway and prickly plants. Gravel wedged into my cheeks.

  Two hands propelled me upright. “Can’t stop. Go.” Half-stumbling, grabbing for tufts of grass, I scrambled with him across the humped landscape. I felt his fingers laced through my jeans belt loops, tugging me forward.

  I slammed my feet to the ground, forcing us to stop. “I need to catch my breath.”

  He brushed residual gravel from my cheeks. “Later. Keep going.” He locked his arm through my elbow and jerked me forward.

  We took off in a fast trot through the desert brush. We ran, and ran. My lungs burned as I tried to inhale, my tongue stuck out like a panting dog. The calves of my legs cramped. My hips felt like gelatin, but on we trekked.

  Finally he released me and hunched over, hands on his thighs. His chest heaving. I fell onto my back, then curled my legs to my torso.

  He sputtered. “One minute. No more.”

  “Are...are they...” I gasped for air.

  He turned and looked back. “Not sure.” He wiped his hand across his forehead. “The sun’ll be up soon. We’re sitting ducks. Must find cover.” His sentences were chopped, forced. He nodded. “Go.”

  I scrambled to my feet. Tom grabbed my arm and set the pace. For the next hour or so we said nothing. Off to our side the predawn desert colors emerged. Purples faded to oranges and pinks, gray shadows evaporated to reveal sage-colored grass and caliche dirt. Already the sun’s temperature warmed my back. Ahead lay sheep ranchland, dotted with cacti and squatty-treed hills underneath amethyst mountains. I stopped. “Which way are we headed? South?”

  He tugged at me to keep moving. “Very good.”

  I pulled my arm away. “Wait. Mexico?”

  He slowed his pace, but continued to pull me along in his wake. “No. Not that far south. Just Loving.”

  “What?”

  Tom swallowed. “Loving, New Mexico. Not far from the Texas border. An hour or so by car to Pecos on Highway 285. I know of a place we can rest for a while. At least I think I can get you there. All these hills look alike.” He stooped to catch his breath. He swallowed then continued. “Then we’ll hitch a ride on to Odessa, maybe San Angelo.”

  “So we need to find the highway?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, Jen. We can’t take that way. Too populated. But I figure we can hitch a ride along the county roads in a produce truck or something.” He shaded his eyes from the rising sun and surveyed our surroundings. “Here, roll around in the dirt a bit more.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He got down and squiggled back and forth like a horse scratching its back. Then he flipped over and rubbed his stomach. He leaned on one side and looked at me. “Blending in. Camouflage? In case they search by chopper.”

  I plopped down next to him, rubbing caliche on my skin and shirt.

  “That’s right.” He rubbed his legs. “Dirt bath. Of course, this is useless if they have thermal scopes, which they probably do...”

  “Pessimist.”

  “Realist.” He stood and dusted his backside. Again, he flexed his hand in front of me. “Well, at least your hair matches the caliche. Come on, lady. We’ve got to keep going.”

  I sucked some saliva in my mouth and swallowed. “You keep saying so.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. And I probably will keep doing so until we reach a safe house. Ever been on the lam?”

  “No. I suppose you have, tons of times.”

  He didn’t answer. He kept his gaze ahead as he walked, and I stumbled, over the veined terrain of gullies, brush, and rocks. The slash on my heel from the broken glass in the coffin-room reminded me how deep it had penetrated.

  He wrapped my arm around his waist. “Here, I’ll lead. Hold onto my belt.”

  “Thanks.” I melted into his strength.

  He waved the thought away. “No problem. I know your heel must hurt like the dickens. You’re doing fine.” Then he returned to my question. “I’ve had survival training. Been in a few tough scrapes.” He stopped and pointed. “See those mesquite trees?”

  I cupped my hand over my eyes. “Sure.”

  “They’re clumped together. That means water of some sort.”

  I felt a surge of vigor. “Well, come on, then. We gotta keep moving, right?”

  He roared back and let loose a laugh, though a dry, thirsty one.

  A few minutes later we were crouched over a small, half-dried stock pond shooing away two buzzards. “Not today, my friends,” Tom heckled.

  Ahead was a semi-paved road. “Do you think there’s a ranch? A phone?”

  “Maybe. Don’t want to take the chance.” Tom flipped out a cell phone.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Chuck gave it to me.” He winked, then waved it for a signal. “He was also kind enough to give me this.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a money clip bulging with folded money. “Tonight may be rustic, but tomorrow night perhaps we’ll find a hot bath and bed.”

  It didn’t sound like an innuendo, more like a dangling carrot to keep me going. My eyes returned to the cell phone.

  “Won’t they be able to track it?”

  He nodded, studying the screen. “Probably. Which is why we are leaving it here. Just needed to get my bearings.” He punched up a map. “About a half mile that way should be the Black River. We can follow it to the safe place. Hmm, I’d say it’s about three or four hours away.”

  He tossed the phone into the pond with a kerplunk. One buzzard did a quick two-step backwards, then waddled away. Small ripples vibrated outward to slither into the muddied edges. With one more slap of water on his face, he stood. “Ready?”

  I stood up from my haunches. “Tom?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah.”

  I wiped my mouth. “Isn’t this a bit too easy?”

  “Mae Lin probably hasn’t realized Chuck isn’t still guarding us. But she will as soon as they stop for gas.”

  “But we’ll be at your safe place by then?”

  He shrugged. “Assuming I actually find it. The instructions were a bit on the vague side.”

  I grabbed his arm. “You sounded so confident. Are you sure we can?”

  He grinned. “Prayer will help. ‘Show me your ways, O Lord. Teach me your paths. My hope is in you all the day long.’ Psalm 25.”

  The man continued to amaze.

  Tom winked. “And the name’s now Travis. Remember that. Let’s go.” He headed up the mound back to the vast grasslands which surrounded us for miles on end.

  I had to admit, I was impressed. Perhaps one of his personas was a Bible-thumpin’ preacher. Why not? I still had no clue who this chameleon really was. Maybe I should just quit trying to guess.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We walked most of the morning, but at a slower pace. Tom had us follow a riverbed, which was low at the moment. He told me because it was September, the end of an Indian summer, so the snow-melts that swelled creeks in the spring had long evaporated. The water still was deep enough to cover our ankles…and our tracks. Its coolness eased the burning in my heel, gouged by the broken glass in the cement room. I’d lost track of the days. How long ago had it been? Evidently not very long since my foot still hurt.

  In the near distance cars zipped along County Road 720, but Tom insisted we stay off the road for now. The river bank hid us partially from view.

  “Why are we heading to Loving? Was that our destination?”

  He shook his head and grabbed at a low lying mesquite limb to pull it away from our path. “Actually, our contact is the other way, in Carlsbad.”

  “So, that’s where they will think we’re headed?” I dodged the branch as it swished back.

  He sucked a thorn from his finger. “I hope so. And we are stopping short of Loving. In the hills. Where I am taking you, I don’t think Mae Lin would ever figure I would.”

  “Then she knows this place? Isn’t that risky?”

  “Maybe, but it’s the best card I can play—and, it’s my last.”

  I knew better than to ask for more of an explanation. In time, when he thought it was right, he’d tell me. I had to trust in that, and maybe trust more in him.

  He stopped and reached down for a clump of small, yellow berries. “Here, wild Mahonia. The natives call it Agritos.” He dropped some in my hand, and plopped the rest in his mouth.

  They had a different taste. Not bitter. Not sweet. Like something you’d put in a fruit cake for someone you didn’t like very much.

  He chomped, and then spit out a stem. “You may have seen their purple-clustered cousins in gardens in Texas. Also called barberry. You know, Oregon grapes? But those berry in the spring, not the fall like these.”

  I shook my head. “Not exactly grapes.”

  “Anyway, they are edible.” He reached down and plucked some more. I followed suit.

  “Wheat farmers hate them,” he said between munches. “They’re nasty weeds.”

  I shuffled to keep up. “How do you know this?”

  He saluted. “Courtesy of the U.S. Navy survival training, ma’am.”

  I smiled. He’d definitely flipped back to savior-mode, for now.

  * * *

  The sun was high in the sky. We’d stopped to munch on other edibles Tom discovered in the desert tundra and to sip river water. “If we’re lucky,” he said between slurps, “we won’t get dysentery.”

  “Very funny, Tom, er, Travis.” I hoped he was joking. “I still can’t get used to your new name.”

  His eyes warmed. “I know, Debbie. I came to care about you as Jen.”

  My cheeks flushed with heat.

  Suddenly he grabbed my hand. “Ssshh. Wait here.”

  I heard male voices. He motioned me to stay low, then scrambled up the riverbank. He greeted them in Spanish. “Hola. Como está?”

  My Tex-Mex was rusty and the wind was blowing the other way, but the gist of the conversation was this—Tom said something about marido, which means husband. Was he telling them I was a widow? They said they were migrant workers. I imagined more like illegal immigrants. They chatted some more then I heard him say, “Gracias. Buena suerte.” That much I knew. Thanks and best of luck.

  A few minutes later he returned with some beef jerky, two tortillas, two bottles of water, and a somewhat bruised and blackish banana. A lighter band of skin, not crusted in dirt, showed where his Rolex watch had been on his now bare wrist.

  He smiled and doled out the traded goods. “The safe house is about six miles to the southeast, so I have us on the right track after all. We can stay there and rest. But I warn you, hang close. Most likely we will not be alone, but we may be the only gringos. We’ll have to win their trust.”

  “You mean a hole-up for illegal immigrants?”

  “Right, and maybe a few petty drug dealers.”

  “Oh, great. And this is the safe house you spoke of?”

  “You got a better plan?” He peeled the banana and handed me half.

  “No.” I snatched the bruised fruit and devoured it, slimy black and all.

  “Here.” He released the dollar bills from the clip, took a few ones, and then handed me the rest. “Put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  I took the cash and went to stuff it in my bra.

  “That’s the first place they’ll look. Much lower.” He pocketed the ones and turned away. I unzipped my jeans and slid the rest of the wad between my legs.

  He waded into the river, took the money clip, and shoved it under the water. Tan mush swirled around him in an ethereal dance before the water slowly turned back to green. He tramped back out again and sat next to me. “They won’t find it until the spring rains.”

  I tapped his naked wrist where his watch once sat. “You seem to be losing things.”

  He pecked my cheek. “Never you, my dear. A promise is a promise.”

  “Something tells me that watch had sentimental value.”

  “It did. Your husband gave it to me when we were in the military. I needed a waterproof one.”

  Tom raised up, ripped off a piece of jerky with his teeth, and strode downstream. It fit. Robert was always generous with his money, which meant it was hard for us to ever save any. I could tell by the tone in Tom’s voice they really had been good friends. Maybe that is why I felt this attraction...I shoved back my pheromones and followed, as I chomped on a stale tortilla and swigged the water.

  “I guess the hot bath and fresh sheets are out of the question tonight, though, huh?”

  He raised his hands in the air. “We’ll see. If your sore heel gets to be too much, I can carry you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He shaded his eyes from the sun to judge my expression. “Yes, you are.”

  I felt my cheeks warm again, not from the sun’s rays.

  * * *

  Throughout the day Tom tried to match my stride instead of vice versa, giving me a concerned look every now and then. I’d smile. I vowed to myself there would be no more complaining.

  Twice, we rested for about a half hour. The sun, which had been beating onto our heads, began to edge to the west beyond the mountains. Barely visible, through a clump of trees past the river, stood two shacks. The fellow travelers had given us good directions. By the time we reached the dirt path, my legs ached so badly I could barely lift them. My heel throbbed. The blisters on my ankles and big toes had popped about two hours previously.

  Two quasi-military types emerged from the brush, their automatic rifles cocked and aimed at us. Tom grabbed my arm and pulled me to his side. “Let me do the talking. You understand Spanish?”

  “Mas de que hablar, pero sí.” (More than I can speak, but yes.)

  He looked impressed. “Ta bueno, chica mía.” (Very g
ood, my girl.) He winked, then added, “Same story. Lovers running from your pathologically jealous husband.”

  I shoved my hand to my hip. “So that’s what you told the others. Why?”

  “So”—his voice edged with irritation—“we can stick together. Remember in the Bible about Abram and Sarai? He lied to the Bedouins or Egyptians or whoever and said she was his sister? Same thing.” He stopped. “Well, sort of.”

  “Tell me that story.”

  “Later.” He gave me an incredulous glance. “You really went to parochial school?” He clicked his tongue. “Sheesh. Didn’t they read the Bible there? No wonder you didn’t like the one I left with your breakfast. I thought it would comfort you.”

  “We did, well, some. I usually didn’t pay attention.”

  Tom shaded his eyes from the sun. “Ah, I see.”

  I suddenly felt inept. Add Bible study to the growing list of things to do if I ever got out of this mess. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Hush.” Tom raised his hand and waved. “Hola. Estamos amigos. Necesitamos ayuda.” (We’re friends. We need help.)

  Tom went through the whole story, and from his gestures, I guessed he told them about meeting the men on the road. The two remained expressionless, casing us with their eyes and the tip of their rifles.

  One grunted to the other. He dropped his weapon and began to pat me down. He stopped when he reached between my legs. Two gold teeth gleamed at me as he rubbed. I sucked in my breath, then swallowed. “Period. I’m in my, uh—¿Que dice? Tiempo a mes a la mujer. ¿Comprende? Woman’s time of the month.”

  Tom rushed him. “Hey, stop that. Alto.” The other man shoved his weapon across Tom’s chest.

  Tom continued. “Está es la mujer. ¿Comprende?” (She’s a married lady. Understand?)

  I scrunched my eyebrows. Why did he say that? My wedding band told them so. But for some reason, it made a difference. The man lowered his weapon and hissed something in Spanish to his partner, who still held my crotch. My searcher pulled his hand away, stepped back and nodded.

  Tom rushed to my side, the concerned lover. He buried my head in his shoulder. “Good thinking,” he whispered. I squeezed his side.