Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  The last message was a Canyon police sergeant stating Travis Walters had escaped custody while being transported to Fort Worth for indictment. He was yet to be found. If he tried to contact me, would I please let them know?

  A brief smirk crossed my face.

  She tapped the machine with her fingernail. “That is another reason why you’re stuck with me for a while.” She laced her thumbs through her belt. “I am your constant companion, mija. At least for the next few days. Just in case your friend decides to get in touch with you.”

  I stretched out on the couch. “You might as well leave, then. He won’t. He told me so.”

  She shifted her feet. One eyebrow arched high, touching the wrinkles in her forehead. “Really? And when was that?”

  I refused to look at her. “Before we were taken in. In Canyon, at the motel.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re not allowed out that door”—she shoved her finger at my vestibule— “without me glued to your side. Unless you want to get locked up. Got it?”

  “Yes’m.” I rolled my eyes and rubbed my forehead.

  Déjà vu. Captured again. I wondered if she’d bring me Yogurt Tree smoothies. Doubtful. Maybe she’d at least leave the lights on tonight.

  I sat up to face her. “Is this considered house arrest? What are my charges?”

  She stood her ground. “Mrs. Westlaw. Someone kidnapped you, drugged you, took you across state lines, shot at you. You need protection right now and I am it.”

  I laid my head back and nodded at her badge. “Why the Feds?”

  “If even a smidgen of your testimony is accurate, this is beyond local involvement.”

  I crossed my legs and dangled my foot. “So, y’all think what Tom said about my husband’s, let’s say, covert activities, is true, then?”

  “I can’t tell you anything at this point.” She pressed her lips together and crossed her arms over her chest in response.

  I dropped my hands in my lap. “Right.”

  So, here was yet another person who couldn’t give me details. I was getting quite tired of being kept in the dark, pun intended. I massaged my temples. “My head is killing me. Can I have some water and Advil? A bottle’s in the kitchen cabinet near the glasses.”

  Agent Hernandez released me from her stare with a nod of satisfaction, turned and went into my kitchen. I heard a cabinet door open, the clink of glass, and then the rumble of ice cubes in the freezer bin. She called out through the pass-through. “I am assigned to you for your own protection, so get used to it.” She nodded at my kitchen window. “Besides, you’ll need me to help keep those reporters away. A few have already filtered through the gates.”

  I craned my neck to peer out the vertical slats in my sliding door’s blinds. There were cameras and about twenty people across the apartment parking lot. I got up and pulled the cord, collapsing a few of the blinds for a better view. A female reporter in a navy business suit was interviewing my neighbor, Becky. Two others were talking to their cameramen. Several were seated on the curb, legs stretched out, pounding on their laptops with cell phones cocked on their shoulders. Several apartment dwellers milled around the perimeters.

  One man looked up. His shout rang out. “There she is.” Heads turned and the small crowd rushed across the pavement. Others came out of nowhere and ran toward my unit. I heard thundering footsteps on the stairs.

  Hands grabbed me and pulled me out of view. “Are you nuts?”

  Quick bangs sounded on my front door. Voices yelled out my name. Then more pounding. The agent had her backside to my door as if to barricade me from the mob of reporters in case they broke the door down.

  It was more than I could bear. All the events of the past few days crashed on top of me. I covered my ears with my hands, ran to the bathroom, and slammed the door shut behind me. I paced back and forth a few times, and then folded onto the toilet seat. I rocked back and forth, my arms wrapped around me. Would I ever live a normal life again?

  “Dear God. How am I going to survive this? I want my solitude. I want my quiet, mournful life back.” I couldn’t believe I’d just admitted it. Impossible. I’d seen too much to go back. The vow I’d made on the bus echoed in my thoughts.

  I changed my prayer in midstream. I hoped, under circumstances of duress, it would be allowed. “God? Help me think this through. How can I find Marisol and Monica with those reporters hounding me and a federal agent watching my every move? Tom would know. But he will never come for me now. They might even evict me from my apartment if this doesn’t cease. Oh, God, then what? Please hear my prayer. Amen.”

  An idea—no, a command clear as day—came to me. It entered my brain from some outside source stronger than my own thoughts. “Use them. Use the reporters.”

  My back muscles tensed with a surge of purpose. I wiped my cheeks, blotted my lower eyelids, dabbed on some makeup, and combed my hair. I grabbed a fresh blouse and slacks from my closet, and spritzed some lavender body spray into my armpits. With one more look in the bathroom mirror, I whispered, “Okay, you can do this,” and opened the bathroom door.

  With locked shoulders, I strutted down the hall to the living room, my eyes zeroed in on the front door.

  Agent Hernandez held up her hand. “Wait. You can’t.”

  “Watch me.” I shoved her arm aside and took the deepest breath I could muster. Then, I grabbed the doorknob.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I have seen the rush of paparazzi on the news when a celebrity hits town or does something outlandishly bad. I never fathomed I’d be their victim. The onslaught was mind-boggling and threw all my senses into overload.

  The crowd of reporters had multiplied in just a few minutes like dividing cells in time-lapsed biology films. A cacophony of voices yelled at me simultaneously, crashing against my ears. Cameras flashed and clicked. The shove of humanity bumped against me, jostling me against the door. My shoulder blades ached from the pressure and I couldn’t raise my arms. At last, I took as deep a breath as I could muster while being pinned in against the crowd of bodies and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Stop!” In a nanosecond, silence reigned.

  “I have a brief announcement.” I swallowed the bile which had bolted into my throat, burning my tonsils and tongue. “I was kidnapped, yes. By a man from work.”

  Questions began again, the mob pushed forward. I raised my hands before they pinned me again. “But wait. While I was in his custody, I witnessed something heinous.”

  A din of voices and microphones were shoved in my face. I pushed them away. “Please, I’ll explain. Just, back up, okay?”

  Agent Hernandez appeared at my side, our shoulders touching. Her arm splayed across my chest in a gesture to protect me. “Back off, people.” Her authoritative bellow made it easy for everyone to hear her. “Now.”

  A few precious inches of space emerged between me and the first row of wide-eyed reporters, camera lenses, and mics. I smiled at her and nodded a thank you. “I guess I do need you here.”

  Her tensed jaw twitched. “Make it short. Don’t say much.”

  I inhaled a pocket of fresh air. “That’s better. Thank you. Now, as I was saying—”

  Immediately the questions began again as more voices pursued their own train of thoughts. “Tell us what it felt like?” “Did you know him well?” “Are you lovers?” “Are you going to return to your job?” “Did he hurt you?” “How did the police find you?”

  I stared at them, my mouth clamped shut. I remembered one of my elementary school teachers using silence to command the room. I hoped it would work. To my surprise, it did. The butting, shoving for position, and yelling stopped. Then, it was my turn again.

  “I said I have a brief statement. If you won’t let me speak without interruption, then I’m going back inside.” I pushed my hand behind me and rattled the doorknob. Again, the mob backed up in unison to give me space. Better.

  One female reporter with big brown eyes and shiny long hair smiled. “Forgive us, Mrs. Westlaw. Pl
ease, what did you want to say?” Her microphone had FOX NEWS on it.

  I stared at her, wide-eyed. “FOX News? I’ve made national news?”

  Her expression warmed. “Yes.”

  My eyes caught the CNN logo on another mic, and then MSNBC on another, as well as several of the local TV stations’ insignia. I recognized others from places like San Antonio and Houston, even Austin, the state capital.

  The faces faded into a blur. All I saw were the news logos looming at me from long, black wands and round knobs inches from my face. Everything inside me shook. My mouth went dry. I closed my eyes. My knees buckled and I slid against the door as strong arms encircled my waist.

  “Mrs. Westlaw?” Agent Hernandez’s voice echoed.

  “Give me a minute.” I croaked out the words. “This is rather daunting.”

  There was a shuffle of feet. I realized the door to my apartment had opened when my back support vanished. My assigned bodyguard linked her arm into the crook of my elbow and pulled me inside. She slammed against the door and commanded, “Breathe.”

  I inhaled three times. Each effort let more air into my lungs. Clarity oozed back into my head.

  “I repeat. Are you nuts?”

  “Agent Hernandez, I want to tell them something about those girls.”

  “Why?” She craned her neck forward, invading my space.

  My eyes locked with hers. “So maybe someone can find them. Please.”

  She knitted her brows as if the wheels were spinning in her brain. After a few seconds, she pushed me behind her and cracked open the door. “Give her five minutes, folks, to catch her breath. Then she’ll make her statement.”

  “B…but?” I stammered.

  She slammed the door and flipped both deadbolts again. She pinned me against the wall of my tiny vestibule. “Hear me. Those illegal immigrant girls? Do not mention their names.” Her finger thrust in my face. “Do not.”

  “Why?” I locked my chin.

  “Do you want them to die?” She released her grasp on my elbow and jerked her head toward the door. “Give these reporters their names and it will be plastered all over the news across the nation. The coyotes will kill them rather than face exposure. Is that what you want?”

  I stood there, hand to mouth. My eyes welled. I shook my head as one tear escaped and slid down my cheek. “No, no.”

  She backed off and stood, hands on her hips, displaying her FBI badge hooked onto her belt. It flickered in the overhead light of my miniscule foyer. “Next, they’ll come after you to shut you up. Oh, you can be sure of it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What do I say?”

  “Keep it vague. Say you don’t recall a lot of what happened. Just say you want people to be aware of human trafficking, especially of illegal teens. You want to urge people to call their congressmen and report anything suspicious to their authorities.”

  I nodded.

  Agent Hernandez pressed her hand on my shoulder. “Look. What you’re doing is admirable. Really.” A momentary softness eked through her face. “Just stay calm, state your facts, and then nudge me. I’ll yank you back inside before they maul you.”

  I laughed. “Got it.”

  Straight-faced, she jerked her head quickly for me to move aside. She grabbed the doorknob, turned to me, and whispered, “One, two, three.”

  Immediately, the din level rose from murmurs to ear-piercing. Again, I was slammed against my own door as human bodies and recording devices inched in. Then, a loud shrilling whistle came from the direction of the stairs.

  Everyone stopped and turned.

  “Let the lady speak, for Pete’s sake,” a way too familiar masculine voice boomed.

  I craned my neck, rising on tiptoes, but all I could see was a crown of curly black locks and an extended arm as it waved. The disc from a gold Rolex reflected the afternoon sun. Then he disappeared down the stairs.

  So, Tom had not only escaped, he’d replaced his watch.

  I felt my cheeks flush. My bodyguard looked at me and grinned. She knew it’d been Tom. Shoot. Miss No-Poker-Face strikes again.

  “Arrogant idiot,” Agent Hernandez scoffed, and then barked commands into her com. “Suspect spotted in stairwell. Team One, guard the complex exit. Team Two...”

  Good luck. He’ll slip away from y’all every time. Why had I worried?

  In spite of the roar of the cameras and voices, the storm within me suddenly calmed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tom’s brief presence steeled my nerve. He was alive and well, and he had found me. He’d find me again when all of this chaos of public scrutiny settled down. When the time came, my heart knew I’d leave with him without any argument. Wherever he was, that was where I wanted to be. Until then, I had a job to do, and it didn’t involve an accounting cubicle in a basement office. My attention turned back to the reporters.

  I yelled to the heads hovering around me. “I will make a statement and entertain no questions until I am through. That’s the deal.” Their attention returned to me, forgetting the brief escapade on the stairs. Good.

  A few minutes seemed more than enough to tell the reporters about Marisol and Monica. Yet, on the other hand, days wouldn’t have done their plight justice. I spoke slow and purposely, describing the shack and the conditions, but not divulging the number of women, their names, or their physical descriptions. I told them how we were let go after my coworker, Tom, had been allegedly forced to transport drugs, then how he had kept me safe and secure until we could hitch a ride into town. I also stated that he, in no way ever harmed me or mistreated me.

  A male reporter, in his early thirties from what I gathered, asked me, “Why did he kidnap you in the first place?”

  I smiled. “He said he was protecting me from shady characters whom, he was convinced, were responsible for my husband’s fatal wreck last spring.”

  “Oh boy,” Agent Hernandez said under her breath. She shifted her stance.

  I gave her a quizzical look, then immediately knew I’d just handed over the utensil to open the proverbial can of worms. The shouting hoard of questions erupted again. Black, meshed microphones shoved toward me as the pelting of new questions began.

  “He was delusional, then—is that what you are saying?”

  “Uh, no.” I shook my head and opened my mouth to explain. I was cut off by the next question which came from a woman to my left.

  “Brenda, KTXB. Were you afraid for your life?”

  “Where did he hide you?” Another reporter bellowed above the other voices.

  One reporter shoved his microphone closer to me, arm stretched to where the cuffs of his shirt looked tauter than a rubber band. I expected the cuff button to pop off any second and shoot into the FOX newswoman’s eye. “So are you saying your husband was murdered?”

  “No. I have no evidence...”

  A blonde in a tweed suit and fuchsia blouse shoved her mike in my face. “Did he sexually assault you?”

  “NO!” I screamed above the din.

  “That’s all.” Agent Hernandez stepped between the crowd and me. She shoved me into my apartment as what seemed thousands of voices hurled at us in unison. She backed in, slammed the door, and flicked both bolts. “That,” she pointed back with her thumb, “was stupid, girl. Stupid.”

  I curled up onto the couch, wasted of effort. “I know. Now. But at least I let some of the nation know what’s happening to illegal teens.”

  She straddled her stance over me. “As I said. It’s admirable, just not too wise. Wanna drink?”

  With grateful eyes I pleaded a yes. “Sherry, in the kitchen pantry.”

  The agent smirked. “Coming right up.”

  I sipped my sherry, letting the liquid warmth trickle down my gullet as my bodyguard watched the local news. Not surprisingly, a good portion of it was about me. In a surreal way, it was like watching a movie of myself. My numbed brain wasn’t really registering any of this stuff yet.

  But my heart was anything but numb. All I cou
ld see was those curly black locks disappearing down the stairs. I could almost smell his citrus-musk cologne.

  Why had he risked showing up with all of those reporters around?

  Had he telepathically heard my prayer?

  How had he escaped?

  My mind flooded with questions and my heart with resolve. I knew I had no way of reaching Tom. But at least I knew he was alive and free. He’d find some way to get hold of me later. Of that I was certain. I just had to bide my time. He certainly wasn’t going to risk another contact as long as this hunk of a female federal authority was attached to my hip, or reporters were camped out on the apartment’s common areas day and night. No, his brief appearance had just been a signal.

  He would wait it out. So could I.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, like Rip Van Winkle after a hundred-year snooze, I woke to life again. A week had passed since I last saw Tom or heard his voice, other than in my dreams. Reporters no longer staked out my home, thanks to my apartment manager’s repeated complaints. The phone had stopped ringing every fifteen minutes. My assigned bodyguards were less of a constant presence. But I knew I was still under constant surveillance by both them and the news media.

  The stray cat slithered back onto my porch wanting food and attention. I received notice in the mail that my life insurance policy had been reinstated. So had my credit cards, though new numbers had been issued. I even had a driver’s license now, as well as a settlement for my toasted Mazda for $17,582.47, which an agent deposited for me into my checking account. To the world of cyberspace and commerce, I existed once more. Dang, I supposed that meant I’d have to file my taxes.

  I never thought I’d get tired of take-out, but after seven days of it, my whole system was out of whack. Delivery was prohibited, so I had to call it in and have a federal agent retrieve it. Over breakfast tacos I pleaded, “Please, let me go to the grocery store. All this eating out is playing havoc with my digestion.”

  My latest protector/delivery person, named Shelly, nodded and patted her stomach. “I’ve enough sodium the last two days to last me six months. You write up your list. I’ll call and see if I can get permission.”