Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Mercedes shrugged, the edges of her lips curled down a bit. “Maybe so. Sometimes these nutcases suck other low-lives into their vortex of deceit. You have to admit his story is a bit, well, fanciful.”

  “But someone did shoot at us. A bullet was wedged in the motel room wall.”

  “Maybe it was the drug lords giving you two a warning.”

  “So you all believe that part. About the shack in New Mexico. And Travis protecting me in the desert to get me to safety.”

  She shifted in the seat and looked out the car window. “All I know is I’m to get you on a bus. Perhaps, by the time you arrive in Fort Worth, the Metroplex investigators will have some answers.”

  She obviously didn’t want to continue this conversation. It would be a long ride back to Fort Worth if I pursued it further. Maybe the authorities in the Metroplex would be more open to believe what Tom had said and done. I had to admit his methods may have been unorthodox, but I couldn’t doubt his motives. Forget the Stockholm Syndrome garbage. He had cared for me, and I for him. I already missed him horribly. Sorry. Robert, but you were the one who lied to me. Not Tom.

  I switched subjects. “Promise me you’ll will try to find Marisol and Monica.”

  She glanced at me, her head wobbling to the rhythm of the car’s tires over the road. “I wish I could. Needle in a haystack. Maybe, if the one you say is Marisol delivers a baby...” She shrugged, leaving her thought to dangle.

  “But that could be seven months or so from now. She could be anywhere by then.”

  She gave me an uh-huh look.

  I blinked back tears and stared out the squad car window.

  After that, our conversation was sporadic and sparse. Mercedes had not lived up to her name in my book. But I silently swore to the Almighty and creation, as soon as I got my life straightened out, I’d do everything I could to find Monica and Marisol. Then I’d track down Tom.

  * * *

  All the way back on the bus, my thoughts solidified into one goal. I’d spread the word, however I could, to whoever would listen, about the plight of these young immigrant women. I knew it happened every day. That didn’t matter. In fact, it made me even more determined to stop the other Monicas and Marisols out there from getting into the same mess. Maybe Robert, if he was alive at all, was somehow involved in it all. Maybe he was undercover, trying to stop it, too.

  In the din of the bus’ engine as it traveled toward Fort Worth, I made a vow to God. I whispered, “You put me through this for a reason, right? This human trafficking has to stop. Show me how, Lord. I’ll be a better believer. I’ll go to church and read the Bible. Just show me how.”

  A strange peace washed over me. It was more than an aftermath calm, now that I’d been released from the whirlwind storm and was headed back home. No, this was something deeper, more permanent. I wished I had the Bible Tom had given me in the concrete room. I wondered where it was now, and the rest of the things in those backpacks. I prayed God would let some needy soul find them.

  I closed my eyes and pushed my head against the back of the scratchy Greyhound seat. For the first time in a long while, a sense of purpose coursed through my veins. At last, I’d found a hush in the storm, a ray of hope piercing through the thick, ominous clouds of grief which had encompassed me for so many months.

  I’d discovered the ability to love once more, and to begin to forgive—Tom for manhandling me in the beginning, Robert for lying about who he was. Now, I had to forgive myself for the intense feelings I had for them both. Perhaps they were cut of the same cloth. Maybe I had been suckered in twice. But there it was. It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was I could now reach out beyond my little hunched up world and possibly make a difference. And I had only one person to thank for that. This mystery man named Tom, or Travis, or whoever he was, who’d jumpstarted my dead heart. He’d heard my silent screams.

  I felt like a chick bursting out of an egg. I now had something to live for—a goal, a reason to propel myself beyond my next breath and reach beyond my personal sorrow to help someone else on this planet. The dirt had been cleared off of me. I no longer crouched two stories underneath the world. My life had begun, again.

  I prayed with all my might Tom’s wouldn’t end anytime soon. I owed him that much, and more.

  PART TWO

  Life After Death

  Jen begins a journey to find the trafficked girls. But in the process she finds something else — a secret which further endangers the girls’ lives, Tom’s, and hers.

  As Tom once told her, she must first save herself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  An Igor-like voice whispered in my head, “We have ways to make you talk.”

  I stood on the threshold of a sterile room, deep in the bowels of the Fort Worth Police Department downtown. The space contained only a small sink, metal cabinet, stool, and examining table. My mind leapt to forensic examiners, surgical instruments, and syringes.

  On the table was folded the way too familiar blue and white dotted robe, one-size-fits-none. My story had already been examined inside and out through two hours of questioning. Now they were going to examine my body?

  The female police officer, her badge said Washington, cleared her throat. “Take your clothes off and put on the robe.”

  “All of them? Now? With you here?”

  She wedged herself between me and the door, legs straddled and arms crossed. “Uh-huh. Protocol, part of the job.” Her face softened into a semi-smile. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve seen it a thousand times before.”

  I’ve never undressed and robed so fast in my life.

  I shut my eyes and tried to find my breath, dreading what was going to happen next. Frisk me? Probe me? Truth serum? I squirmed onto the table and wrapped the robe further around my knees. My feet felt like ice cubes. A shiver ran from them all the way to my shoulders.

  Officer Washington turned my clothes inside out and shook them, felt the hems, and then hung them on a hook. She shot me a grin but didn’t move another muscle until there was a tap on the door. Then she opened it and moved aside.

  A doctor entered. Thank goodness she was a woman, too. “The police have assigned me to examine you.”

  “Why?”

  She took the stethoscope from around her neck and put the ends in her ears as she gave me a curious glare. “To make sure you’re okay, of course.” She nodded to the officer, who then slipped out the door.

  She was too thin. Her hair appeared a bit unruly, as if she permanently lived in between chaos and sleep deprivation. But her eyes were warm. I wish I could have said the same for her medical instruments.

  She was silent as she tapped and prodded, other than stating matter of fact commands such as, “Breathe deep. Again. Cough. Does that hurt?”

  I returned the favor with my own one word responses.

  She touched my feet, eyed me with curiosity again, and tenderly treated them with Betadine antiseptic, antibiotic ointment, and fresh bandages. Then she brought over a syringe and a vial of liquid. I scooted back and drew my legs in.

  “It’s a tetanus shot, just in case.” She winked at me as she filled the syringe tube. “It won’t hurt much.” She edged over to my left side and raised the robe’s sleeve to my shoulder.

  Right. I turned my face to the wall as she dabbed my arm with alcohol and plunged the needle into my flesh.

  At last she stopped punching and probing, scribbled a few notes, and then peered at me through her reading glasses. Her face etched into an empathetic expression. “You can expect to feel out of sorts. You’ve been through some rather harrowing experiences.”

  I shook off her comments and squared my eyes to hers. “I feel fine. Really. In fact, I actually feel better than I have in...”

  She held up her hand. “Nevertheless, you need to take it easy for a while. Let the dust settle.”

  I gave her a “whatever” look.

  She leaned toward me. “You’re pumped up on survival adrenaline. You have n
ot eaten right. You haven’t slept well. You’re still showing signs of dehydration.” She extended a bony finger for each point she made. “I recommend your primary doctor do a complete lab work-up on you. Check for parasites, bacteria. Not to mention fungus and vitamin deficiency.”

  Her words slapped like ice water on to my face. I swallowed hard and nodded. My thoughts returned to the oatmeal-colored water I drank in New Mexico during my brief encounter with the drug lords.

  Then, Marisol’s and Monica’s faces materialized in my mind. I saw them disappearing in the back of that truck, pleading for me to take them with me. What medical care would they ever get? I squinted my eyes and looked at the ceiling to control my emotions.

  She patted my knee. “Promise me you will make an appointment in the next few days.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded rapidly. “I will. Promise.”

  “Good. You can get dressed now.” She turned to leave the room, stopped, and then added, “You will probably have nightmares. That’s normal. Your mind has a lot to process.”

  I blinked and stared at the floor. “I know. It’s all still a whirr.” My voice squeaked as I gulped back tears.

  The doctor pulled her hand from the doorknob and walked back to the examining bench. She grabbed a pad. “I’m going to give you a prescription for fifteen anti-anxiety tablets. Just in case. I suggest you fill it and have it handy. These things have a tendency to surface suddenly. If you get dizzy, feel your chest tighten, or become short of breath, take one. If you get no relief within fifteen minutes, call your doctor or 911. Don’t take two.”

  I nodded. Her voice softened. “Look, don’t let them push you, okay?” She motioned with her head at the door. “If they want to talk to you any more, tell them I said not for a week or so.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “And they’ll agree to that?”

  She shrugged, whipped off a sheet of paper from her prescription pad, and wrote on the back. “Here, take this.”

  I took it and saw it was a phone number. I knitted my brows. “What’s this?”

  “It’s my cell. Call me anytime.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I mean that, okay? Any time.” She emphasized the word “any” with another squeeze.

  I tapped the piece of paper across my palm. “Thank you. I think I’m okay, but if anything begins to bubble up...”

  She winked. “Good. Take care.”

  She slipped out of the room. I dangled my bare legs off the examination table and stared at the speckled linoleum, then the bare walls, and dark brown rubber baseboard. Part of my mind agreed with what she’d said would happen and I needed to prepare for it. But the rest of me refused to believe it. Tom had given me the gift of feeling alive again. Marisol and Monica had provided me the gift of purpose. God? Well, I figured He was in it all as well, calming the storm just as He had done in the Bible.

  I whispered under my breath as I stared at the sterile room. “Where are you, Tom? When will I see you again?” I swallowed hard. I needed him, but so did those girls. I prayed, “Lord, help me find Tom, so he can help me find them.”

  There was a knock on the door, then it cracked open. “Mrs. Westlaw?”

  I grabbed the examining robe close to me. “Yes?”

  Officer Washington entered. “I’m afraid I will need to escort you out of the building.”

  “Why?”

  She leaned against the door and heaved her chest. Her badge flickered in the fluorescent light. She snorted. “Because the reporters have descended like vultures.”

  I slid off the table. “What reporters?”

  She crossed her dark muscular arms. “Honey, you’re front page news. Dead yesterday, now alive.” She waggled a long finger at me. “That doesn’t happen every day.”

  “Guess not.”

  She stared at me, one eyebrow cocked. A few uneasy moments of silence passed. Finally, I uttered the obvious. “I need to get dressed.”

  Her lips raised to one side. “Uh-huh. That would be a good idea.” She shifted her weight and planted her feet to the floor, her body blocking the exit.

  “And you are supposed to stay in here with me again?”

  She tapped her temple. “Smart lady.”

  I turned my back to her. My hand shook as I tried to clasp my bra. I pulled on my panties, jeans, and T-shirt in three seconds flat.

  Officer Washington escorted me by my elbow down the hall to the police garage. Another officer waited by a squad car. He looked very young and his nervous mannerisms screamed rookie. I scoffed. “I hope he has his driver’s license.”

  Officer Washington’s lips curled to one side. “Yeah. Got it last week from what I heard.”

  My shoulders relaxed a bit as I shot her a grin. She had a lot more wit and spunk than Mercedes. Things might be looking up.

  To my left I could see the reporters huddled like racehorses waiting for the starting gates to open. Bulbs flashed, lights flicked on and a hundred voices all began at once.

  The policewoman pulled me to her and yelled in my ear. “Ignore them. Don’t make eye contact. Just get in the vehicle.” She opened the door, placed her hand on the top of my head, and pushed me down into the back seat.

  I sat, my hands laced in my lap between my knees as the din of voices continued, hardly lessened by the steel walls of the squad car. Officer Washington slipped in beside me and tapped on the black, webbed metal cage separating us from our rookie driver. “Go.”

  The reporters stormed the car as soon as the engine started, a sea of microphones and eyes pressed against the glass. I turned my face away and closed my eyes.

  “Go!” Officer Washington said again, her tone more terse. With a screech of tires, we were off.

  As the car left the garage, I looked back. Several of the news media dashed after us. One still had his hand on the door handle. Eventually, they all dropped away. I slammed my back against the upholstered leather and breathed.

  I heard a chuckle. “Get used to it, girl. They aren’t going away for long.”

  She was right. When we pulled into the gated community where I lived, even more of the press lay in wait. I saw news vans from all three local stations. Their twisted antennas stretched high into the air. Several men had cameras hunched over their shoulders.

  “What’s the gate code?” the male officer’s voice bellowed from the front seat. Those were the first words he’d spoken.

  “Huh?” I thought for a moment, racking my brain beyond the past few days. It seemed at least a year had passed. “It was 9333 star. I guess it still is.”

  His window lowered. Immediately, crews and reporters rushed forward, their questions battering me. The officer waved back microphones with his hands. He cursed at them to move away. A few did.

  Officer Washington jerked off her jacket and covered my head. She pulled me down on to the seat, my head in her lap. “Lay low.”

  The car jerked ahead. Then I heard the bump of the tires over the gate track. The jacket’s liner stuck to my mouth and my nostrils. It smelled of musky perfume.

  “Whew. That was insane,” the driver’s voice called back to us. The jacket came off my head. I combed my fingers through my hair and peered over the front seat. “Turn right, then go to the third building. Mine’s in the first entry, second floor.”

  We pulled into the section where my unit was located. Everything looked normal. A girl walking her dog stopped, jerked the leash, and turned abruptly in the opposite direction. Two guys leaning over the bed of a truck stopped their conversation to stare at the cop car.

  Officer Washington opened the door for me and the two of them escorted me upstairs. They tapped on my door and another uniformed female opened it. She was petite with a plastic grin.

  “I’m Federal Agent Bonita Hernandez. Welcome home.” She motioned me inside.

  I entered and looked around. Everything was in order, yet it wasn’t. It looked almost too neat and tidy. Then it hit me. I swung around to Agent Hernandez. “You’ve searched the place?”


  She closed the door and stood straddle-legged in the foyer of my tiny living room. “The FBI did. Dusted for fingerprints, too. But I’ve cleaned most of it up.” From her proud smile I knew it was considered above and beyond the call of duty.

  I gave her a weak grin and rubbed the back of my neck. “Thanks.”

  “You rest. We’ll get what’s left of it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Are you coming back?”

  Officer Washington coughed into her hand, and then handed the agent a clipboard. She nodded, flipped through the papers and signed off on the police forms. “That should do it, then.”

  The black policewoman retrieved her paperwork, turned back to me, and winked. “Well, I’m outta of here. Good luck, honey.”

  With that, my first protector disappeared out the door. I felt a quiver wiggle up from my toes, like when my mother left me at daycare for the first time. Wait—how silly. This was my apartment. My refuge I thought I’d never see again. I turned to the Fed. “Well?”

  Agent Hernandez flipped the deadbolts to the locked position and planted her feet into my carpet. “I’m staying. No arguments.” Her tone meant business, and she had a gun.

  “Fine, stay a while. I am too tired to argue.”

  “Oh, I’m staying for more than just a while.” She motioned to my tan couch. “Have a seat. By the way, your answering machine has been going nuts.”

  I turned to look on the side table. The red light flashed twenty-six. My box was full of messages.

  “Go ahead. We’ve already heard them all.”

  “We?”

  “Your government, who has assigned me to be your bodyguard until everything calms down.” She shoved a thumb at the front door.

  I snatched the pad and pen I always kept by the phone, inhaled a deep breath, and pushed the button. My heart wanted there to be a message from Tom, but my brain knew better.

  Some were well-wishers I barely knew. Six calls were from the office. More from local news anchors. Five were requests for my appearance on talk shows. “Already?”

  My guardian smirked. “Oh, trust me. It has only just begun.”