Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  His foot twitched. “I told you. So I could keep an eye on you and keep my distance. Because, Jen, like you said, you’re a vulnerable widow.”

  I threw out the bait. “Or, because Robert didn’t trust you with me. He was there at the coffin. Admit it. You knew he wasn’t dead. He’d faked it himself just as you two planned.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “Jen. Give it up, okay?”

  “But I keep hearing Robert. I thought I heard his voice in the coffin room. Then, when I left to meet Mae Lin, I sensed him there. Then, at the shack, I thought I heard his voice.” I bore into Tom’s eyes searching for truth.

  His jaw twitched...again. His eyes dashed to the bedspread.

  I slapped my hands to my hips. “That’s why they let us go, isn’t it? Robert told them to. That’s why you took us there.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, Jen.”

  “I did hear him. Tell me, Tom. Tell me. Robert knows the white Jefe, right? He’s trying to bring him down. He just couldn’t acknowledge me because he’s undercover.” My pursed lips pleaded for it to be true.

  Tom’s face screwed into an even more painful look. His eyes reddened. “Please believe me, Jen. Your Robert is gone. Don’t keep trying to think he isn’t. It’ll drive you nuts.”

  I pivoted and slammed my hands onto the cheap lowboy dresser that half served as a mini kitchen with microwave and dormitory-sized fridge. I stared at Tom’s reflection in the dusty mirror. I willed the tears not to edge into my eyes with what little backbone I had left. It all seemed so unreal, yet way too real. Besides, I was dead tired, traumatized, and my feet stung like mad.

  “I’m so sorry, Jen. About all of this. Taking you there was a mistake. Just let it go, okay?” He swallowed hard and looked to the window.

  “And admit he’s dead.”

  Tom’s head bobbed quickly several times. He swung his feet to the floor and stared out the curtains.

  The air thickened between us.

  He was right. It was time I let it go whether I believed it or not. Which also meant, if Tom was being truthful about ‘all of this,’ my marriage had been a lie. The Robert I thought I’d known really was dead because he never existed.

  If that was the case, I had to move on, gathering whatever pieces of my life this Greek man had torn apart. I might never have the whole picture, but the bits Tom offered were my tools to process this whole thing. Maybe it was best I didn’t know more. This much hurt enough.

  I willed the quest for the whole truth back into the pit of my stomach and prayed for it to never again be refluxed. Some things should stay under the rock where they had slithered.

  * * *

  Rain pelted at the window as thunder rumbled through the canyon. I watched a flash of lightning through the half-drawn curtains and then turned my attention back to Tom. “So, what now?”

  He came to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I frankly don’t know. I disobeyed orders. I escaped from Mae Lin with you. That kinda complicates things.”

  “So, now we’re running from two organizations.”

  Tom scrunched his shoulders. “Well, if you count our Hispanic drug and human trafficking friends who are making sure we don’t go to the police, then three.”

  “Great.” I kerplopped onto the edge of the bed, simultaneously with a shuddering clap of thunder.

  We both jolted at the sound.

  The curtains moved back and forth to reveal a small spider-webbed hole in the glass. A chunk appeared in the opposite wall past the beds in a puff of drywall dust.

  “Duck!” Tom grabbed my hands and pulled me to the floor between the beds.

  We crouched on our knees, facing each other.

  “Okay,” Tom whispered. “That wasn’t thunder.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He crawled over me and grabbed the motel phone’s cord. The phone clunked to the ground. A faint high pitched hum hit my ear. Then three short tones in rapid succession.

  I scooted aside. “What are you doing?”

  Tom cupped the phone from his mouth. “Dialing 911.”

  “The police?”

  He gave me a frustrated look. “That’s usually what people do when they’ve been shot at.” Then he released his hand. “Yes, my name is Travis Walters. We’re at the Buffalo Inn. Room 115. Someone just shot at us through the window.”

  I watched as he nodded, repeated yeses, and gave terse bits of information into the receiver. I noticed he’d used the name on his fake ID. Or was it fake?

  He hung up. “The cops are on their way.”

  “Shouldn’t we have done something else? I mean the drug guys said not to...”

  “Something else? I am unarmed. We have no IDs. I am not Jason Bourne, okay? This isn’t the movies.” He scooted around to lie sideways facing me. “Just stay down, shut up, and wait.”

  “You gave them the name of Travis.”

  His face was expressionless. “It’s my real name, hon.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, for all intents and purposes, that is.”

  I groaned, then buried my head in the musty carpet.

  * * *

  Within minutes we heard the siren, then the screech of tires. Tom, er, Travis, poked his head above the bed when the knock sounded at the door. I straightened from the floor. He waved for me to stay put, then eased past the end of the bed and rushed, bent low to the door. He rose, peered through the security peephole, then nodded back to me as he opened the door.

  “Officer, please come in.”

  A man resembling an actor out of an old TV Western entered. He must have been six-six easily, and almost as broad as the door. He tipped his Stetson to me and flashed his badge. Actually, that was a protocol courtesy. His uniform and the .45 caliber pistol holstered to his hip were enough credentials for me.

  “You two report shots?”

  Travis—maybe if I said the name enough times I’d get used to it— pointed to the wall. “Yeah, it hit over there.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes and swaggered over to examine the white indentation in the sienna-painted wall. He picked at it, then nodded. “Ah, there it is.”

  Travis edged over, but the officer put out his hand.

  “Stay back. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back with an evidence kit.”

  We watched Officer Juarez, or so his badge stated, exit the hotel room, turning slightly sideways to get his frame and the police paraphernalia on his belt through the opening.

  I asked in hushed tones, “If you’re Travis, who am I? Jen, or Debbie?”

  My partner in crime gave me a quick smirk. “Who do you want to be? Both are traceable.”

  “I prefer my own name.”

  He frowned a bit then nodded. “Okay. Do so, then. Probably less chance to get facts wrong.” He thrust his finger at my nose. “But remember, you’ve been reported as dead.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  Officer Juarez returned with a baggie, gloves, and tweezers. He was talking on his cell phone. “Yeah, definitely looks like a rifle. Maybe a .22. Want me to question them here or bring them in?” He craned his head to look back and forth at the two of us. “No. I doubt it. Okay.”

  He pocketed his phone then scratched his head. “Folks. I think it would be wise if we went to headquarters and let you tell your stories there, okay?”

  “Sure,” I volunteered.

  Travis shot me a look, then sighed. “We’ll have to ride with you.” He screwed his mouth to one side. “No car. It was stolen.”

  I looked away. Lies.

  Officer Juarez gave us a blank stare. “That’s usually how it works, son. We take you. But first, let me get your names.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a notebook and pen.

  The man who once was Tom didn’t even flinch. He spoke with the sincerity of a saint. “Travis. Travis Walters. I told them that on the phone when I called.”

  The policeman shifted his gaze to me. “And you?”

  I took a
step forward, an old habit from being called on by the teacher. “Jennifer Westlaw. Mrs.”

  He raised an eyebrow at my emphasis on my married status. He moved his pen back and forth between our chests. “Not, uh, related?”

  “No. Coworkers.” Travis smiled. “And friends. I mean, I was with her husband.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s deceased. Car accident.”

  Each time I’d heard someone say it, it seemed false. He’s not dead, just gone, I’d tell myself. Now maybe it really was false. Especially since I kept hearing his voice. Didn’t matter. He was still gone. Tom was right, let it go.

  I slumped onto the bed with my arms laced around my waist. Officer Juarez cleared his throat. “Sorry, ma’am. Recent?”

  “Last April.” I croaked out the response. Or so I’ve been told.

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  I set my jaw and bit down hard on my tongue to keep from voicing how I felt about that saying. So many people spouted the hollow, politically-correct sympathy phrase in the first few weeks after the funeral, I swore I’d puke if I heard it one more time.

  The officer cleared his throat. “IDs?”

  I gave Travis a “now what?” look.

  He caught my eyes, then released them and looked straight into the policeman’s. “Stolen. Along with the car. By drug dealers. In New Mexico. They held us for one, no…two days in a shack, then shoved us in a camper truck...”

  “With other illegals,” I added.

  Travis’ eyes widened as he locked onto my face. Evidently, I’d said too much.

  The officer’s narrowed. “Other illegals?”

  “I…I mean we guessed they were.” The cat was out of the bag. Well, I was glad to at least tell the officer something I knew was true. Besides, maybe the law could help find Monica and Marisol. “There were two Hispanic teens.” I rushed to the officer then stopped just short of his personal space. “Marisol and Monica. They were being held against their will, and well…” I cast my eyes to the rug. “You know. Trafficked.” I looked up again. “One was barely pregnant. Still had morning sickness. I doubt if either was over fourteen or fifteen.”

  He held up his hand. “Whoa. Let’s go down to the station and figure out who you are first. Then we’ll talk about drug lords, teenage illegals, human traffickers, and who the heck might be shooting at you.”

  I stepped back into place. “Yes, sir.”

  Travis gathered the motel key and loose change from the dresser top and shoved them in his pocket. “Okay. Let’s go, then.” He shot me a sharp look.

  Led by Officer Juarez, we formed a mini-parade for the few spectators who’d gathered on the sidewalk or dangled overhead from the second floor breezeway that ran the length of the motel rooms. Obviously, we were the most excitement in Canyon in quite some time. I felt one pair of eyes dig into my back, and turned to see the manager standing stiff with his arms crossed. He didn’t seem pleased. I wondered where I’d be laying my head tonight.

  * * *

  I’d only been to the headmistress’ office once in my entire parochial career. Not that I was a goody-two-shoes. Okay, I was. Detention hall for smoking or saying a curse word was the extent of my crimes. My father had been a city councilman, so it’d been engraved in my conscience that every move I made was being observed. My grandparents hammered the point into me—if I did anything to tarnish his reputation or our standing in the community, even after his and Mom’s death, untold Irish ancestors would swoop down on me in my sleep. So, riding in a squad car to police headquarters sent my sweat glands into overdrive and my heart palpitating. Tom must have seen the havoc this played with my psyche. He squeezed my hand.

  “Just tell them the truth, Jen. All of it. It’s the best way. Don’t worry about me.” His voice was low, but I could still hear him over the hum of the squad car’s engine and AC.

  “But If I tell them everything...”

  He shifted to face me, his hip pressing into mine. He squeezed my knee. “Don’t leave anything out. They’ll know if you do, Miss No-Poker-Face.” He tapped a finger across my nose and winked.

  Tears welled in my eyes again. Why did I want to protect him? He’d yanked me out of my mundane mourning, then set me on a fast-moving roller coaster ride of drugs, guns, and lies. Part of me admitted it had been great. I had longed for the unexpected to yank me from the grip of grief. What we’d been through in the past few days held a certain dangerous, and almost romantic, thrill. I almost hated to see it end. I hated to see us end before we began. “Will I ever see you again?”

  He leaned over and pressed his lips against my cheek. “Can’t say, my dear. I wouldn’t think I’d be assigned to you anymore. If I get out of this.” He nodded toward the front of the police car.

  I didn’t like the finality in his voice. It sounded as if he’d never be assigned to anyone again—ever. I had an image of his body being dumped in some remote river, weighed down by cinderblocks. They would naturally be the gray-green color of the ones in the bathroom down the hall from the room where he’d first held me in as captive—uh, protected. A sort of poetic justice.

  “Tom?”

  “It’s Travis, remember?” His lips curved into a soft smile.

  “Whoever you are—stay alive.” I leaned in and pressed my mouth on to his, tasted its sweetness, then scooted away to stare out the car window. I blinked back tears, not wanting to see his reaction or for him to see mine.

  I heard him breathe in and then whisper in an exhale. “Ah, geez, Jen. Why now?”

  * * *

  At the station, we were escorted into a room typical of most police stations. I couldn’t spot a two-way mirror like I’d seen on TV crime shows, but the interrogation area was just as bleakly sparse with four walls, a door and an undecorated window with burglar bars. The only furnishings were a chipped wooden table in an oak stain, and four institutional-styled oak chairs, as uncomfortable as they looked. On the wall was a calendar from a local bail bondsman and a poster from TxDOT with a slogan to remind everyone to not text and drive.

  Officer Juarez brought in a stenographer with a laptop and introduced her as Grace. Another officer named Mercedes brought Travis a cup of coffee and a cup of water for me. I almost laughed at the pun of the two girls’ names, but no one would have understood. But truly, to have both Mercy—which is what Mercedes means in Spanish—and Grace around me right now made me think perhaps there was a God who cared.

  We hit a snag when they asked me for my name, date of birth, and social security number. Grace entered them into their database, knitted her brow, and scooted the laptop to Officer Juarez’s viewpoint.

  Travis slunk into the chair and sighed. “Here we go.”

  Grace and Officer Juarez looked at us, then each other.

  Travis splayed both his hands on the table. “She’s not dead. Obviously. I helped set it all up to protect her from the mob.” He looked at me then back to the policeman. “She had no idea I’d done it.”

  Officer Juarez leaned in, eyes glued to Travis’ face. “Wanna explain that?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he held out his hand, still staring at Travis. “I want to hear his explanation first.” He then turned to Mercedes. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Westlaw, or whoever she is, to the break room? You two can have a nice long chat in there.”

  She nodded and grabbed my arm.

  Officer Juarez added, “Oh, and take really good notes.”

  As I was escorted out, I turned to lock eyes with Travis. His expression told me volumes without him opening his mouth. “Goodbye. Don’t worry. I love you.”

  I blinked back the tears and walked with Mercedes down the hall as Grace closed the door. That was the last time I ever expected to see Travis, or Tom, or whatever my savior-captor’s name really was, alive and free.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I jerked my elbow from Mercedes’ grasp. “Where are you taking me?”

  She looked me in the eye. “We have a lot more questi
ons. Officer Juarez feels you’d be more likely to answer them truthfully if you are not in the same room as that—” She pressed her lips in disgust. “Man.”

  “That man,” I hissed, “has been protecting me from drug lords, from thugs, from the desert heat, from people shooting at me.”

  She gently shoved me forward. “Yeah, right. Come on.”

  “Am I going to get to go back to the motel?” I thought of the rest of Chuck’s wad Tom had stashed inside the Gideon Bible while he unpacked our haul from Walmart.

  Her regulation shoes clunked along the linoleum floor in purposeful long strides. I shuffled to keep up. Her vise grip on my elbows began to sting.

  “Going back to the motel is out of the question. Your things will be delivered here to the police station.” Mercedes motioned to a nondescript door. “In here.”

  Inside was a typical break room. A worn Formica table and khaki-brown folding chairs with worn, avocado-colored vinyl cushions, obviously from the 1970s, reflected the sterile coldness. The room smelled of burnt coffee and leftovers scrunched into the trash can from someone’s garlic-laced lunch.

  Grace came in. “You wanna a Diet Coke?” She yanked on the handle of the harvest gold fridge. It opened, bottles and jars tinkling in response. She held up a can, popped the tab, and handed it to me before I could answer. I took a chug. The cold fizz felt good in my throat. I nodded a thanks.

  She returned the nod, and then grabbed two—one for herself and one for Mercedes who now straddled one of the chairs.

  I spent the next hour talking to the two of them, telling them all I could remember. My brain hurt, my body was exhausted, and my temper simmered just below the surface. Finally, after six pages of notes, Mercedes stood. “We’ve got what we need.” She nodded toward Grace and left.

  Grace said, “We’re supposed to wait here. It won’t be long.”

  I nodded. Right.

  * * *

  The clock’s long hand on the wall moved a half hour more. Grace chatted about safe topics—the weather, the sports teams, all about Palo Duro Canyon. Officer Juarez entered, his frame filling the doorway. “Is she ready to sign?”