Through the glass I saw Stu swing his arm and put his hand over his eyes. He ran into the meeting room and grabbed his stuff.
“I'm sorry, but I have to run to the hospital,” Stu said frantically. “It's Courtney. She's at the hospital. Apparently, someone dropped her in front of the emergency room with no clothes on. She's unconscious, and they're not sure she's going to live.”
Stu raced out the door. The rest of us sat motionless. He hadn't mentioned drugs, but I wondered if the potent tornado had sucked in another unsuspecting victim. I felt powerless. We, as a community, had been unable to stop the madness before drugs had possibly claimed another casualty. It was like covering a war. A bomb had hit one of our own. I recalled seeing Courtney at Ashley's funeral, probably thinking she was different, and could handle it.
They all did.
Chapter Eleven
I started my Accord in the newspaper parking lot, wondering how much help I could be at the hospital. For years I'd observed my old boss at J&W Technology Services, Paula, who without hesitation made the effort to visit the hospital when someone from the office had an ill family member. I knew that wasn't typical in this era of virtualization. Send an e-this or an e-that. It was all electronic. Cold and impersonal.
On the drive across town, rain pounded my car, and a thick, dark bank of clouds huddled just above the treetops. I called Marisa, who insisted on breaking free from her work at the bank to meet me at the hospital. Sweet and caring as the day is long, her compassion was another reason why I loved her. As I'd stated in my vows ten months before, she was my wife for life.
“Hey, baby,” I said to Marisa as I walked into the emergency room at the county hospital, surprised to see she had beaten me there. She gave me an assuring kiss on the cheek and hooked her hand around my arm.
“I think I saw Stu and his family around the corner, sitting in the private waiting area. They seem pretty distraught.” Marisa patted my shoulder.
I approached Stu, his wife, older son, and a couple who introduced themselves as Courtney's aunt and uncle. Stu held his wife's head, tears streaming down his face. His son's muscular arms wrapped around both of them like a protective shield. The aunt and uncle tried not to be as emotional. Stu looked up and saw me walking toward them but he said not a word. The uncle took me to the side so he and I could speak without disrupting the family moment. “Thank you for coming. I'm sure, looking back, Stu will appreciate it.” The fifty-something uncle curled his thumbs around his Texas-sized, bronze belt buckle.
“How is Courtney doing? Any idea what happened to her?”
“They say she was dumped like a piece of garbage, naked, onto the concrete parking lot in front of the emergency room around four a.m. Of course, no one knew who she was at the time,” said the uncle. “The doctors have been working on her all morning. Finally, a nurse came in who recognized her. They say it's another drug overdose.”
The uncle used his finger to snuff out another round of tears. “She's on life support, and they don't think she's going to last through the day. We have other family coming in. It's a pretty big clan. But by the time they get here, she may not be around.”
I gave the uncle reassurances of prayers, and not wanting to invade their private time of grief, I asked him to call us if we could be of assistance. Of course, I knew there was no one who could help, not at this stage.
I kissed Marisa goodbye and she headed back to work. After getting soaked running off to my car, I called Brandon to provide guidance on how to cover this story, if indeed Courtney died later today as the doctors expected.
“For now, let's keep it factual and not mention the fact that Stu is one of our own,” I said to Brandon while shutting the door to my car.
“I just can't believe the irony, Michael. Here we were discussing all the angles in this emerging drug story, and it hits Stu's family. It's like a pandemic, permeating the society so much it seems impossible to escape.”
Brandon's words hit home—a reality. In fact, as I thought more, I could almost feel the tremor of panic beginning to ripple through the community.
Professionally, Brandon and I both knew we were in a bind covering this story without our most senior reporter. I didn't want to put the cart before the proverbial horse, but the responsibility of a newspaper never ceased, even when it affected one of its own. We would have to find a way to move forward.
Another call was buzzing in, so I told Brandon I'd likely see him later.
“Thank goodness you took my call, Michael,” Arthur said hurriedly. “I just received a package. It's international, from Mexico.”
I changed direction and headed for Arthur's office. Maybe we could save one life today.
Chapter Twelve
Avoiding the slower elevators, I raced up four flights of stairs and opened the door from the stairwell, panting and bent over at the waist. Slightly startled to see me entering from that particular door, Stacy pushed up her over-sized, purple glasses and quickly motioned for me to continue jogging into Arthur's office.
“Arthur, hey, I came as fast as I could,” I said, barely able to finish the words.
“Please take a breath, have some water from my bar.” Arthur waved a hand to his right while staring obsessively at the package resting on this desk. “I don't know why, but I wanted to wait until you got here before I opened it.”
I thought momentarily about what could be in the box. My mind darted around a plethora of possibilities, some helpful, some morbid. Could it be a clue of some kind? A message from the kidnappers, perhaps? I hoped to God it wasn't a body part. Images of the human arm—Tiffany Chambers' arm—sliding out of the plastic in the dark alley a year ago entered my mind for a split second. It couldn't be that. This was different, I kept telling myself.
“Let's do this, Arthur.” I stated. “I'm sure it will be something positive.”
Arthur used scissors to carefully cut down the middle of the corrugated box along the edges of the opening. He pulled open one side, then the next, snapping the tape attached to each end. Off-white packing paper was crunched up and stuffed inside the box, about five inches deep. He slowly peeled apart the paper, both of us unsure what to expect. Arthur was methodical and thorough, the antithesis of a kid on Christmas morning.
“Do you see anything? I don't,” I said, standing, peering into the box.
Finally, a small plastic baggie, like one you'd put a sandwich in, fell out of a crease of crumpled paper. Inside, we saw a folded piece of paper and something small, square, somewhat translucent. Arthur reached in the baggie for the item. He pulled it out and his face lit up.
“This is one of Trudy's diamond stud earrings,” Arthur said without hesitation. “I bought them for her on our third anniversary.”
He clinched the diamond earring in his hand and held it to his chest. He closed his eyes, as if he expected to wake up and magically see Trudy standing before his eyes.
“Arthur, don't forget about the paper.” I handed him the baggie.
Arthur opened the baggie, pulled out the paper and unfolded it twice. He held it up and showed it to me. It was a phone number. Drained from the emotional situation, Arthur looked at my reaction to determine if this was good news.
“Arthur, this is what we wanted. Obviously, these guys have no reason to harm Trudy. They only want your money, and this is their way of telling you she's okay and to call when you have the money.”
“The question is whether we should call now or wait until I have all the money,” Arthur said, shrugging his shoulders. “Or, we could tell them I have the money?”
I thought through the options, knowing he was looking for me to make the final call.
“If we tell them you have the money and they call your bluff, they could get pissed. We don't want to give them any reason to harm Trudy.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“Frankly, even by calling, we run the risk of them getting upset, since the money hasn't been pulled together,” I said. “But I thi
nk you can try to mitigate that by telling them you've been worried about your wife and want to hear her voice, just to give you peace of mind. And that's an honest feeling for you, I know.”
Arthur dialed the international number. It rang several times. He was close to hanging up, when we both heard a muffled sound, then a voice.
“Is this Arthur Spanarkel?” a voice said, thick with a Spanish accent.
“Yes.”
“If so, what did you get in the mail?”
“I received this phone number and my wife's diamond earring from our third wedding anniversary,” Arthur replied.
“Bueno. Do you have our money, Mr. Spanarkel?”
“I'd like to talk to my wife. I'm working on the money, but as you could imagine, I need to hear my wife's voice to ensure she's okay,” said Arthur, who, thus far, was keeping it together quite well.
“Call back in five minutes.”
The phone line went dead.
I could see the stress taking its toll on my friend, who punched the button to deactivate the line, and then rubbed the temples on either side of his head.
“We're peeling the layers off this onion, Arthur. I know it's excruciating, but we're making progress.” He didn't respond, just kept rubbing the side of his head. The ticking of the antique clock on the bookshelf behind his desk grew louder over the next five minutes. Arthur put his hand on the phone and looked at me for the okay to dial once again. I nodded in agreement.
“Yes, this is Arthur Spanarkel. You said to call after five minutes,” he said with remarkable calmness in his voice.
“Hold for one second.”
“Arthur, it's me, Trudy.” Arthur's eyes opened widely, filled with fear, love, and hope.
“Arthur, they're serious about the money. You must get the money, and they'll let me go.” Trudy sounded afraid and shaky.
Before Arthur could respond, the voice returned.
“I have done you a favor. Now, you must do us a favor and pay us the taxes you owe,” the voice said sternly. “The next time you call, you better have the money. When you do, I'll give you the information on how to get us the money. Then we will release the woman, but only after we have the money. No more games.”
He hung up.
Appearing like he'd just run a marathon, Arthur grabbed the glass of water I'd poured him and chugged it. He was parched and mentally spent.
“I know that was difficult, but it was good to hear Trudy's voice, wasn't it?”
“Yes, you're right. I just can't believe all of this. She sounded so afraid.”
I pondered again whether we should bring in the FBI or some other agency, and most importantly whether to raise the possibility to Arthur. I decided against it. He'd been through enough today, and, frankly, so had I. Arthur thanked me for the support and got back on the phone with his broker to see if he could speed up the paperwork for liquidating a chunk of his estate.
I stepped outside the downtown office building. The rain had subsided into a light mist. I inhaled a deep breath and turned my face into the dripping water. Leaning my head back, I heard a pop in my neck. My emotional fulcrum had been yanked back and forth all day, concerned for those who were torn apart by another drug overdose, and anxious, yet hopeful, for another troubled friend whose wife was held captive in a foreign country. We lived in a global society. Anyone on the planet could get to us, hurt us, and those on the giving end knew it. The island of America, including the tiny spot we occupied, was no longer protected.
Chapter Thirteen
After living thirty-five years, you'd think I could put two and two together to equal four. Unfortunately, I had a tendency to be so entrenched in my own world, I could lose sight of the tree standing before me, or, in this case, the strange car sitting in my spot in the driveway outside the home Marisa and I shared. I sat in my idle car for an entire minute, pondering who it could be, inexplicably waiting for the mystery person to move his vehicle. Eventually, my stubbornness grew old, and I parked on the side of the street.
I opened the front door and immediately heard the owner of the car.
“Michael, my dear, how are you?” said my mother-in-law, Emilia, rounding the corner from the kitchen. She lifted up and gave me a kiss on the cheek, then buried her head in my chest, although her chunky arms couldn't extend around my torso. At just over six feet tall, I towered over Emilia, who probably wasn't five-two. She was built like a fireplug with crocodile arms.
Emilia always appeared to be dressed a notch above what was needed. Tonight she had on a flowing, pink skirt, with a forest green shirt that draped over her waistline, matching earrings framing her round, plump face, and two-inch heels. And she came with her own sound machine—you could hear her hosed legs rubbing together when she ambled along, shifting her weight ever so slightly from side to side.
I felt stupid for forgetting she'd planned to drive in from San Antonio today. Marisa could see as much in my reaction to her mother's welcoming.
“Hola, Mama Emilia, great to see you,” I said, acting as if I expected her visit. “No issues with the long drive?”
“All was good. Only had to stop twice. I'm getting older, so I have to make more frequent pit stops, if you know what I mean.” Her smile had only a slight resemblance to that of her beautiful daughter.
Marisa popped the cork on a bottle of wine to go with some fancy chips and homemade guacamole—a family recipe from Mama Emilia.
We settled on the couch, and the evening jabber began, covering topics like the interior decorating, or lack thereof, in our home, and the possibility of Marisa and me buying our first home. It finally landed on a theme we'd heard several times in the last ten months. “How's married life?” And that led to, "So, when are you having kids?" I preferred to have prewritten statements available to hand out to anyone who asked. "Fine, stop asking," and, "When we're damn good and ready."
Marisa took a more subtle approach to her responses.
“I know you'd like to see grandchildren running around your beautifully manicured yard, Mama,” Marisa said, “But Michael and I are enjoying our lives together. If kids are in our future, it will happen all in due time.”
“I understand, Marisa. No pressure from Grandma Emilia. Besides, you wouldn't have to travel all the way to my house. I could visit your home.” All of a sudden, our house was her home away from home? Whatever.
“So, everything on the homestead okay?” I asked.
Emilia lived in an old house in the King William District of San Antonio, the first designated historic neighborhood in the state of Texas. Her home was modest in comparison to some of the classic mansions around it, but the tree-covered property and her two-thousand-square-foot home were immaculate. She even had a black wrought iron fence around the border, and a beautiful brick pavestone driveway leading to her detached, two-story garage.
“Everything is fine. Nothing to fix at the moment. My neighbors are great, and they know when to give a lady her privacy,” she said.
For Marisa, her mother's change in lifestyle in the last several years was still not something to which she'd grown accustomed. Marisa and her parents had spent her early years hopping across several locations near the Mexican border in Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. They finally settled in Ada, Oklahoma, where Marisa had an opportunity to put down some roots, make friends, and eventually graduate high school. Her father, Edgar, died in a plane crash when Marisa was still in college. Emilia's response to her husband's death, at least from Marisa reciting the story, sounded sensible—she wanted to move closer to her sisters in San Antonio. But in the process, Emilia's way of life changed, and it really stuck with Marisa.
Prior to her husband's death, Emilia had worked as a nurse's aide. She had thought about going back to school to earn her LVN or RN degree, but they didn't have the money. The focus needed to be on saving for Marisa's college experience, her parents always said.
The Valdez family never had much money, usually just enough to get by. When her father die
d, Marisa became concerned about her mother's ability to stay afloat financially, as well as how her college would be funded. Emilia told Marisa not to worry because her father had left them some money. Once again, it appeared reasonable—until her mother moved to San Antonio.
Emilia moved into the prestigious neighborhood and scaled back her work to part-time. With a flurry of activities, she didn't have time to work, she told Marisa. It was almost like she'd won the lottery. I suggested to Marisa that perhaps her father had purchased a sizable life insurance policy. And if her mom had put a good chunk of money in the hands of a sound financial advisor, the money would grow substantially, and Emilia's lifestyle along with it. I reminded Marisa to be thankful her mother was comfortable, not asking us for money, and apparently, happy with her San Antonio life.
Interestingly, we'd only visited her home once since we had been together, and her mother recommended we stay in a nearby hotel, saying she was doing some renovation to the guest room. She even paid for the hotel.
Over dinner, our discussion segued into the major news events in our area.
“It's all so sad, and frankly, even scary, to see so many people, teenagers ensnared by the lure of drugs and those pushing it on them,” I said.
I went on to tell Emilia about the latest teenage tragedy, involving the daughter of one of my reporters at the paper.
“You should have seen Stu and his family today. They were devastated. I think they believed Courtney was just like any other teenager, going through regular ups and downs, dating and maybe experimenting a bit. But in their worst nightmares they never imagined she could be drugged up and discarded.” A lump formed in my throat as I recalled the depressing scene.
Silence fell over our dining room.. Just as we stood up to clear dishes, my cell phone rang. It was Stu.
“She's gone, Michael,” Stu said without introduction. He started to sob.
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