The first man pulled me away by the elbow. “No. You two stop. Later, when she’s clean, sí? Then Jefe have her. Maybe we watch.” He laughed and shoved me, then motioned to start walking.
Jefe? Their chief. I turned to Tom, who winked and whispered, “It’s okay. I know him. You’ll be safe.” He nodded for me to go ahead, but not before I saw his jaw set. What was he not saying? He dropped back to walk behind me, followed by the second gunman.
I was taken to the first dilapidated wooden shack. The elements had stripped away most of the paint, the exposed wood dusty gray with flecks of white and green. Outside I stood like a statue as I was stripped of my opal ring, wedding band, and gold-stud earrings. Then, the gold toothed, tobacco-stained smile of my frisker widened.
A grubby, tan hand reached down the neck of my T-shirt and pulled out the small gold cross dangling from a slender filigree chain. My mother had given it to me for my thirteenth birthday. She and Dad had been killed in a private jet crash a year later on the way to the Yucatan for a week-long missionary trip. That day I stopped talking to God. But I never took it off. It kept her close to me.
“No.” I grabbed it back before he could jerk it off my neck. My eyes swam. “Por favor. Este de mi madre. Está muerta.” (Please. It’s from my mother. She’s dead.)
His look softened for a second, then he grunted. The man whipped me around and shoved me in the back with the gun toward the door of the shack. “Allí. Va.” (In there. Go.)
Then, I was shoved inside. I glanced at Tom and saw his brows knit into one line across his face. The door slammed shut and I heard a piece of wood slide across it to lock it. The room was dark, dank, and somewhat cooler. A dirt floor was littered with four woven hay pallets. Faded Indian blankets lay crumpled on top. Two other women crouched in a corner. The only light was what eked through the loose-planked walls.
I inched over in the dim lit room, they backed away. “¿Hola?”
No response. As I drew closer I saw they weren’t women, but girls. Neither looked over fourteen. My heart sank, wondering if they were the children of the gunmen, or their playthings. “¿Su mama o su padre está aqui?” I asked them if their parents were here.
One sniffed and shook her head. The other looked down at her lap. No parents around here. I’d guessed right. They were playthings. “Yo soy Jen.” I patted my chest.
One volunteered their names as she handed me a half bottle of warm water from behind her mat. “Soy Monica.” She nodded to her roommate. “Y, está es Marisol.”
I took the water, and gave them both a piece of jerky from my jeans pocket. In broken Spanish, a hint of English, and a bit of sign language, we talked in hushed voices. They’d come to America to be maids or nannies. They’d traveled for six days in trucks and on foot. Both had been prostituted repeatedly, first to raise money for their passage, then by a white man they called Jefe when they got here. He’d have one of them with him each night to teach them how gringos liked it and how to speak English. Marisol was sure she was now pregnant. She’d been throwing up for a week.
An old pang hit my heart. I remember seeing the plus sign on the wand. Giddy because I had wanted kids, I showed it to him. But Robert said he wasn’t ready to be a father. He hadn’t yet asked me to marry him. After several tearful arguments, I gave up trying to persuade him and agreed to take the medicine which would end my pregnancy. Maybe if he’d let me have that child my loneliness would have ached less. I’d still have a bit of him, of our love. Now, I had only emptiness and regret. Another reason I quit praying to God—out of shame.
Maybe it was what drew me to Marisol. This poor girl, way too young, had nothing but trouble ahead of her with an unwanted child in her belly. In a way, her shame was forced on her, just like mine was on me. Life was cruel and unfair.
The door opened and an old woman entered, then three tin plates of food were set in front of us. I thanked her, then took the bottle of water she handed me. The seal had been broken, the water a bit muddied. It had obviously been refilled from the Black River or a nearby stock pond. She nodded and tossed me a tampon, wrapper torn, from her skirt pocket. I guess my story had worked.
I took it and nodded. “Gracias.”
She began to back out the door. I stopped and grabbed her skirt. “Un minuto. ¿Donde está mi amigo?” (Wait a moment. Where is my friend?)
The woman smirked and left.
Monica said Tom probably was all right for now. They might rough him up a bit to show him who’s boss then hold him for ransom, or use him in a drug trade as a shield.
I prayed for my savior-captor, hoping he’d have the wherewithal to come out unscathed, then whispered, “Amen.” The other two made a sign of the cross on their chests. One kissed a rosary she took from her pocket. In silence, we ate our beans and rice with our fingers.
The sun set and the air cooled rapidly. We wrapped the dusty blankets around our shoulders, talked a bit more, then crawled onto our pallets. Weariness overcame me and I fell into a deep chasm of dreamless sleep.
* * *
During the night, in my sleep I heard hushed, angry voices. One was Tom’s. The other…but it couldn’t be Robert. The loneliness, the memories all this had conjured up, even my growing feelings for Tom all were playing tricks with my mind. Again, I shoved the idea to the back of my brain and told it to go away. Two pairs sets of footsteps shuffled further away from the shack, the slam of a wooden door echoed through the night. In minutes, the crickets began to sing again. I let myself drift back to sleep.
Later, the door opened and Monica was escorted out by a man with a flashlight. She crossed herself and went silently without struggle, already knowing her fate. I heard Marisol’s soft weeping and the clink of prayer beads.
The wooden door whammed shut and the shuffle of feet distanced. I bit my lip to thwart my own tears and held tightly onto the cross around my neck.
For the second time in one night, I prayed for someone else besides myself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In the morning, Monica returned with tortillas and watery oatmeal, definitely the instant variety. We were each given a bottle of water about the same color as the oatmeal. I spent the day teaching them Tic-Tac-Toe in the dirt and Rock-Paper-Scissors with our hands. Occasionally we’d hear men’s voices outside the hut. None of them sounded familiar and all spoke Spanish. Marisol would cringe, Monica stiffen her back. I craned my neck, ear poised to detect Tom’s voice. But I never heard it again. Nor did I hear the voice that haunted my dreams.
In the early evening, when the sky was splashed in a purple haze behind soft hues of peach, we were led from the hutch into a closed-in camper truck. Three men already waited in the bed. One had blue eyes. I rushed and sank next to him, clinging to his chest as one of the captors hopped in and closed the latch.
“Keeping up the act, hon?”
I didn’t answer.
He wrapped his arm around me and whispered, “You okay? They didn’t do anything to you?”
I shook my head. He stroked my hair. I heard his chest heave in relief. “Whew. That story of your period was brilliant. When I told the Jefe, he laughed...”
I arched my eyebrow.
“Um, never mind. I’m glad you’re okay.” His voice cracked as he squeezed my waist.
I raised my head to study his face. His slashed cheek was crusted over and the eye swelling had gone down. His day old beard, now two, was less prickly to the touch. “You’re unscathed, too, I see.”
He leaned in. “For now. We aren’t out of the woods yet. We know a lot.”
“Silenció.” One of the gunmen poked us with his automatic rifle. I scooted to sit opposite of Tom, my spine flattened against the backside of the truck. I placed my feet against his, in an attempt to hold on to him. He smiled.
The seven of us were stacked in like a cord of wood. The air was stifling, mixed with bad breath and body odor. But then, I doubted I smelled like a rose.
We rode in silence through the night, catch
ing tidbits of sleep in between bumps. Once, we were let out to find a bush, then given sips of stale water. Monica and Marisol appeared relieved to be given the night off. Tom eyed them cautiously as we stepped back into the camper shell. “They’re only children,” he hissed. “I had no idea they took them so young.”
I looked at him. “They’re being held against their will. Told they’d be nannies or maids. Now they’re...you know.”
He lowered his eyes. “I know.”
I kept my voice as low as possible. “Tom, we have to help them.”
“Sshh.” His voice vibrated in my ear as he lifted me into the bed of the truck. “We have to help us first.”
We scooted to the back and propped against the cab, knees scrunched so everyone could sardine back inside. His feet found mine again as we sat opposite each other. The truck’s engine choked and sputtered, then decided to turn over and run once more. We jostled back to the unpaved road. Small clouds of dust penetrated the camper into our nostrils.
Tom shifted his weight and exhaled a slight cough. A few minutes later his breathing deepened and slowed. Why is it men can fall asleep at the drop of a hat? I tried to do the same.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Our guard shoved his gun into my ribs. I squinted.
“Gringos. Arriba. Vámonos.” (Get up. Let’s go.)
Tom shook off the mental cobwebs, then looked at me. The camper door was open, the truck stopped. Edges of dawn were lightening the shadows of the brushy land. The other men, Monica, and Marisol were already outside. We scooched our way out as our guard backed up, his barrel aimed in the vicinity of our chests. Tom exited first, then turned to help me down the back bumper.
Another Hispanic man with a gold chain around his neck came around, gun also pointed at us. “Because you did good for us mí amigo Travis, Jefe diga, er, say, we let you go.”
Tom nodded and shook his hand. “Gracias.” The two men exchanged looks.
I scanned our surroundings. Where were we? Dry prairie brush stretched out endlessly from all sides—no trees, no hills, flat. The road was paved. A sign with a black silhouette of Texas on it and white letters identified the road as FM 1062. We’d crossed the border.
A bottle of dirty water was shoved into Tom’s hands. His partner’s grungy ones slid down my hair to my breasts. “Jefe tiene buen gusto en las mujeres. Pero ahora él elige los más jóvenes.” Both men laughed.
I picked up on the Spanish words for good, women, and now, but could not decipher the rest. What had he said? Whatever it was, it must not have been nice. Tom’s face turned pale then hardened. He pulled me to him.
“Cálmate. She goes with you.” The gold chained man laughed. “Jefe says he already has those two.”
Whoever this Jefe was, he was in the shadows or giving orders over the phone. He obviously did not want us to see him. I figured it was for our own good so we could not identify him to authorities. What I couldn’t figure out was why they were letting us just walk away. “Will they shoot us in the back?”
Tom’s eyes softened into a smile. “They wouldn’t chance it. Don’t worry.”
“What did that one say?”
Tom gulped. “That their chief used to like beautiful women like you. Now he likes young girls.” He looked away, to something over my shoulder. I saw his eyes take him someplace. I didn’t have a clue where, but it seemed painful.
The gunmen pushed the others into their designated positions as the truck revved up dust. As the camper door closed, I caught Monica and Marisol’s gazes. Their pleading eyes stung my heart. I nodded farewell. They returned the gesture. In a silent bond I swore to them, God and the world, I’d find them again. I’d find them and set them free. My eyes bore the promise into theirs as they rode away.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Tom eye me, then watch the truck leave. We waited until it was a speck enclosed in a dust mite on the horizon, then simultaneously turned to each other.
“I know you want to help those girls, hon. But...”
I blinked back a tear. “I know. We have to help ourselves first.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist and patted it. “Yes, we do.”
I turned toward the sunrise, which had yet to fully form, and peered into his face. “What did they mean, you were good?”
Tom looked around, anywhere but at me. “I ran an errand for them. Cocaine, I guess.”
My hands grabbed his shirt. “What?”
He pushed them down. “I was the only one seen. I made sure of that.”
“By?” I shielded my eyes to the rising orange-yellow disc over his shoulder. The rays haloed his head.
“The authorities. See, now I am wanted criminal.” He flashed me a brief smile. “So, I’m not going to run to the police and tattle.”
I looked at him, trying to read his expression. “I guess you have slithered on the edge of illegal before.”
Tom grabbed my elbow and motioned to walk east toward the dawning sun. “Yes, and crossed that line a bit as well. I think we are somewhere outside of Amarillo.” He took the bottle of water, swigged it, and swished the liquid around in his mouth. Nodding, he swallowed. “Don’t think it’s drugged. Take only a swig. We’ll need to use it sparingly.”
My voice quivered. “I was sure they were going to kill us.”
He winked. “I had a long talk with Jefe. He told them, ‘No.’” He strode a few more steps then turned and winked back at me. “You can thank me later.”
* * *
We walked in silence for a good while. No cars traveled the road which stretched out in a shimmery ribbon ahead. The sun inched its warmth up my back. My T-shirt stuck to my skin. Beads of sweat slid down my cleavage and the back of my neck. Oh, how I wished I had a scrunchie to put my hair in a ponytail. I stopped, then yanked a piece of Johnson grass stalk growing near a barbed-wire fence post. Winding my hair into a figure eight, I slid it through, bent it, and weaved it back again. I grabbed another and did the same higher up.
Tom’s eyes widened, his smirk returned with a smug curve which seemed to wane between fascination and approval. I cocked my head and said “What? I’m hot.” Then walked ahead.
“Yes, you are.” It was no more than a whisper, one I chose to ignore as we passed a green highway sign which read “Canyon 16 miles.” I hoped it was a town, not a landmark. I wanted a hot bath, a cold Diet Coke, and a juicy cheeseburger.
To steady our pace, we talked, about nothing and everything. He kept jamming his hands into his jean pockets, then taking them out to wipe his brow on his T-shirt. It was as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Was he nervous for some reason?
Thinking it was better if I didn’t ask, I told him tidbits about my childhood when prodded by his seemingly innocent questions. He revealed almost nothing about himself other than that he was raised in Chicago by an elderly Irish-Catholic aunt. His dad had left his mother early on, then she left when Tom was seven. “Went out on one of her dates and never came back.”
He shrugged off my concerned look before I had a chance to comment and kicked a small rock in the road with the side of his foot. Then, he continued. “I joined the Navy right out of high school and went into Special Forces training in Virginia. That is where I met Robert.”
His story fit. Robert had been in the Navy Seals—the 6th. An ounce of trust rose in my heart again.
From behind us I heard a mechanical chug. We turned to see a blue Chevy pickup heading in our direction. Tom pulled me to his side and held out his thumb. The truck slowed, brakes objecting. The windows were down and the radio blasted a Patsy Kline oldie. A man in a dingy Texas Rangers baseball cap leaned over the cab seats and peered through the passenger side at us. “You lost?”
“We picked up a hitchhiker. He did this.” Tom pointed to his cheek. “Then stole our car, our money, everything.”
I looked away, hoping the driver didn’t see my reaction to Tom’s lie. I hated lies, no matter how legitimate they seem at the time.
The ma
n sized us over. He pointed to the bed of the truck with his head. “Okay. Hop in. I’ll take you as far as Canyon up the road. You can see the chief of police there about it.”
Ah, so Canyon was a town. Good.
Tom reached out and, in what I guessed was a manly fashion from the set of his jaw, shook the man’s weathered hand. “Bless you. This is Debbie. I’m Travis.”
I wondered why he used our Mae Lin given names, but added, “We’re mighty grateful.”
We climbed into the back of the truck, empty except for the pungent odor of manure and hay. A silver tool kit splayed across the back between us and the cab. Our rescuer had the sliding window open. Patsy continued to serenade our journey.
Tom latched his arm around my waist to steady me over the bumps, I supposed, as we edged back onto the highway. Not that I minded. His hip bone pressed against mine. I handed him the water bottle, with maybe two remaining swigs. He motioned me to drink first.
The breeze coming off the truck bed felt marvelous, cooling my sweaty skin, though after a mile, the Johnson grass clips gave up the ghost. My hair whipped my face and Tom’s. I grabbed most of it, twisted it, and held it with my hand.
He slipped his arm away, then he scooted to the right and looked off across the prairie. A slight sense of abandonment etched the corners of my emotions. I blinked it away and turned to look out my side of the bed. I refused to fall for this guy. I still loved Robert. I stared at the white circle around my left ring finger. I wouldn’t betray his memory, even if my wedding band was gone.
Ten minutes later, we entered Canyon, population a little over twelve thousand according to the census sign that zipped by. We pulled off onto 11th street, then turned onto 3rd. In front of City Hall, our benefactor found a parking space. He tapped on the cab window. “Here ya go. Betty at the information desk right inside there will tell you who to talk to.”
I looked at Tom. He gave me a hush signal with his finger to his lips then motioned for us to get out. We walked around to the driver’s side. Again, firm Texas handshakes were exchanged.
Hush in the Storm Page 12
