Obsession

by Buchbinder, Sharon

  Were the thugs so bold that he had to lock the police station to keep the criminals out?

  He dragged her through an unmarked door. The sight of a chair with manacles attached to it caused her breath to catch in her throat. Despite years of using drugs, she’d never been detained in a police station as a perp in her life. How ironic that her first arrest was a false one. She turned and found Raul way too close for comfort. Sweat slicked his brow.

  He shoved her shoulder and pushed her further into the windowless chamber, smaller than most bathrooms she’d used, even in Mexico. The tiny space reeked of the cop’s acrid body odor and garlic-laden halitosis.

  “What—?”

  The cool metal of the chair bumped into her bare legs. Her hands were cuffed, but her legs were free. She tried to slide to one side, using an evasive move from karate, but he moved faster than she thought possible. He slammed her into the wall, unsnapped one end of the cuffs and slapped it onto a metal bar bolted on the wall with a clang. She yanked at the manacles. The metal dug into her wrist, and a thin crimson line trailed down her arm and snaked under the sleeve of her white blouse.

  Still trying to use her one and only connection in Mexico, Angie repeated, “Isabel Ramirez isn’t going to be happy about this.”

  He gave her a slow, lecherous grin, undid his belt and tossed his trousers and holster onto a hook on the wall by the door. His dingy white boxer shorts did little to hide his erection. A musty smell that spoke of poor personal hygiene filled the tiny space, fighting for dominance over his bad breath.

  Her stomach lurched, threatening to bring up hours old eggs and coffee. Angie yanked at the metal cuffs to no avail. Her gaze darted around the hot, smelly room. No windows, door locked. All she had going for her now were her wits and a good set of lungs. She tried reasoning with him. “You don’t want to do this. The Ambassador won’t take kidnapping and rape of an American citizen lightly.”

  He laughed and slapped her so hard her teeth rattled. Tears welled up in her eyes and rage filled her chest. She literally saw red. “You think you’re going to get away with this?”

  Raul ripped her white blouse open. Buttons flew across the room and pinged as they hit the metal table. His filthy hands touched her breasts, his dirty fingers yanking and pulling at her brassiere, until the front clasp broke.

  “Muy bonitas.” He licked his lips and twisted her nipples so hard she yelped in pain.

  The thug hee-hawed like a jackass, his erection tenting his dirty drawers. Unable to watch, she closed her eyes and bit her lower lip hard. She welcomed the pain, embraced it, made it the focus of that moment in time. At last her mind cleared and she could step outside of her body and think.

  This wasn’t her first time at the sadism rodeo. Thanks to Daddy Dearest, she’d been tied up, starved, and beaten before. She’d learned how to dissociate her mind from her body, separating her true self from the woman tied to the bed with ropes. Determined never to be a victim again, Angie had undertaken a rigorous training program of martial arts and down and dirty street fighting. She could almost hear her instructor snarling at her. “Are you going to let this smelly pig torture and rape you? Or are you going to use your discipline and training to protect yourself?”

  There had to be an opportunity for escape. She played everything back in her mind in slow motion freeze frames from the moment she entered the interrogation room to the second he snapped the handcuffs to the metal rod. His pants. They touched the ground. If she could slide closer to the end of the metal rail, she might be able to reach a trouser leg—and that humongous gun.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the beast attacking her. More depraved than any drug addict she’d ever met, this so-called cop clawed at her waist band and fumbled with the metal buttons of her jeans. His filthy ragged nails scratched at her soft belly. She’d rather be torn apart by wild animals than have this senseless brute paw at her skin. She wouldn’t cry out, wouldn’t give him the pleasure of watching her weep and wail in pain. He was not going to get away with this. She worked up a glob of sputum and spat into his sweaty, panting face.

  “Puta!”

  This time she was prepared for the slap. She blocked his hand with her left forearm and ran across the wall, sliding on the metal rail toward the door. He slapped at her arm and shoulder, finally connecting with the side of her head. Her ear rang with the force of the blow—but she was two feet closer to his pants.

  As she twisted away from his grasping paws, she thought she heard a muffled pounding. Hope combined with desperation, filling her lungs. Her voice boomed like an opera singer. “Help me!”

  Cursing, Raul struggled with her pants, tried to yank them down, but she kept her butt glued to the wall. He stepped back, pulled his hand back to slap her again and in the split second just before he brought his palm back down, she blocked his hand with her arm and snap-kicked at his crotch.

  Raul shrieked and fell to the floor, his groin clutched in his hands. Fearing he’d grab her leg, she resisted the urge to kick him in his buck teeth.

  The pounding grew louder. The door. Someone was at the door.

  “In here! Help me, please!”

  His pants and the attached holster were within reach of her fingertips, if she could just get her arm to the other side of the door. Hugging the wall with her back, she stretched her right arm as far as she could—despite the pain of the metal grinding into her flesh. Leaning as far left as physically possible, she flailed at the pants—and missed.

  She glanced at her enemy and screamed. “If someone’s out there, please get in here soon. He’s gonna kill me!”

  Raul was up on his knees, grunting in pain and swearing.

  Angie focused on the pants, reached again, got a piece of cloth between her second and third fingers. Millimeter by millimeter, the cloth finally came into her grasp.

  Raul roared as she yanked the pants off the hook. The holster and sidearm flew across the room. A stream of putrid curses, only half of which she understood, poured from his lips like venom. If he got his hands on her, he’d kill her first, then rape her.

  As clear as if he stood next to her, Angie’s martial arts instructor’s voice spoke to her. “Use your environment to your advantage.” She faced her abuser.

  Face twisted with rage, the cop rushed at her with a roar.

  She grasped the metal railing with both hands, swung her legs up and connected with his chest. He stumbled backwards and fell over the metal chair. She sucked in huge gulps of air and tried to gauge his next move. Her body shook, and the manacles rattled on the metal bar. How much time had she bought? How soon would the vermin be back up on his feet and at her throat?

  The center of the door exploded, spraying chunks of wood throughout the room. An enormous hand reached in and unlocked the door.

  Raul’s spew of invectives stopped, and his voice suddenly stripped of rage, turned apologetic. “Tio, no! Lo siento, lo siento!”

  The biggest man Angie had ever seen in her life broke down what was left of the door. Bald head shining, a mask of rage twisting his face, the Goliath took one step into the small room and grabbed Raul by the throat. A flood of Spanish poured out of the giant’s mouth as he shook the cop like a rat. Her would-be rapist’s eyes bulged, his florid face turned purple, then blue. Just as Angie was positive the colossus was going to kill the man, someone barked out a command from behind the wall of muscle.

  “Alto, Tio!”

  The huge man dropped Raul face down on the floor. The cop turned his head, his face now bloodied, sputtered, and regained his normal florid coloring. With his underwear half off and his chubby, sweaty butt crack showing, the man looked like a skid row bum. Still, he managed to spit out one word before he passed out. “Puta.”

  The giant shrugged and stepped outside of the room.

  A tall man with a dark, well groomed beard and ponytail strode through the door and locked pale eyes with Angie. Without saying a word, he found Raul’s pants, dug out a key, and uncuffed her.


  Legs buckling, Angie fell against her rescuer’s chest. Uncontrollable tremors overtook her. His hands hovered in the air over her shoulders, heat from his body suffusing her breasts.

  Her breasts!

  She regained her balance and stepped back. Flushed with acute awareness that her breasts were exposed, Angie crossed her arms over nipples, and tried to stop shaking, to no avail. The stranger removed his shirt, fixed his gaze above her head, and helped her slide her arm into one, then the other sleeve. He buttoned the oversized shirt, taking great care to avoid touching her skin. Perhaps more than anything else, those small acts of kindness which allowed her to keep her dignity intact, broke through her walls of defense and made hot tears spring to her eyes. Trembling, Angie stood several inches shorter than the man, and felt a bit like a child. Unable to lift her gaze to his eyes, she focused on the deeply sculpted muscles of his naked chest. Covered with a vee of dark hair tapering down to the waist of his denim jeans, his well-toned abdomen spoke of years of training. It also bore evidence of his violent lifestyle. Alongside a large scar, a tattoo of Santa Muerta, a skeleton draped in robes and carrying a scythe, grinned at her.

  “Th-th-thank you.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper, and her teeth chattered.

  Saying nothing, the stranger took her hand, and they both stepped over the unconscious police chief.

  Angie was tempted to kick the slimy creep while he was unconscious, but she could barely lift her feet to walk out of the room. Her muscles quivered, and she had to fight off the urge to lean against the one sane person she’d met in this hell hole.

  The giant stood outside what had been the door to the interrogation room. A fire extinguisher lay on its side next to the threshold. Piles of shattered wood were strewn throughout the station. The man with the pony tail jerked his thumb back toward the interrogation room and spoke in rapid Spanish. The giant nodded, grinned, and rubbed his hands, glee dancing on his face.

  Her rescuer held her elbow. The warmth of his large hand seeped through the cotton shirt and infused her with a sense of security. His calm, quiet demeanor told her he was in charge, and she was safe with him. She blew out a long breath and allowed him to lead her through the demolished office and out onto the street. In the middle of the dusty road, a small crowd clapped and cheered. If she could have raised her hands, or her voice, she would have been there with them. Right now she just wanted to know her liberator’s name.

  “Who are you? Who is that giant? What did you say to him?”

  The pony-tailed man flashed a grin, the smile reaching his sky-blue colored eyes, giving him an appealing boyish look. “The big guy’s name is Tio. I told Tio to truss Raul up like the pig he is and to bring him to Isabel Ramirez. She’ll know exactly what to do with him.”

  “Who are you?”

  The movie-star handsome man stopped, bent down until he was eye-to-eye with Angie.

  “I found your passport tossed onto Raul’s desk, Angela Edmonds from the U.S. of A. I like that name. You look like an angel.”

  She shook her head and the street twirled. “I’m no angel.” She steadied herself on his well muscled, naked arm. Rather than creeping her out, the skin on skin contact with her rescuer reassured her that he was a real human and not an angel conjured up in fevered religious delusion and desperation. “You sound like an American. You haven’t answered my question. What’s your name?”

  “Torres.” Still holding her ID, he strode to the driver’s side of the car, hopped in and flashed a dazzling grin. “You could call me your hero because I’m taking you to see the woman who can help you find your son. My name is Alejandro Espinosa Santoyo Torres. But most people just call me Alejandro.”

  Chapter Two

  Zeke Edmonds admired the panoramic view from atop a flat rock that rivaled the size of those at Stonehenge. Positioned at the pinnacle of a cave-riddled, terraced ridge of the Sierra Madre, the aerie enabled him to see for miles in every direction. Half a dozen turkey vultures circled in a sapphire-blue sky speckled with cotton puffs of clouds. Below, just as he had seen in his visions, a sparkling river undulated like a thin silver snake. His legs quivered with fatigue, his breath came in short puffs, and his pulse pounded in his ears—but his soul rose above his physical distress and sang with ecstasy.

  This was no aura, no harbinger of his seizures and spells. No. Pure unadulterated joy filled his heart and dizzied his mind. He gazed at the rugged landscape and thanked the good Lord for giving the congregation’s planning committee the wisdom to settle here. No one would ever find them, not even the evil spies of the United States government

  “Brother Aaron,” he waved to a muscular middle-aged man and indicated that he should join him.

  Aaron clambered up onto the rock and snapped off a smart salute. “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re not in the military now. I’m your spiritual leader.”

  With a horse shoe of hair remaining on his balding head, Aaron reminded Zeke of a monk—his monk—willing to do whatever it took to prepare for End Days. A former colonel with the US Army Corps of Engineers, Aaron had proposed situating the colony in the Sierra Madre.

  “Tell me about this beautiful place.”

  As if reporting to his superior officer, Aaron rattled off details. “Four-thousand feet above sea level. One of the most rugged, remote, and inaccessible areas in North America. Isolated from cities likely to be bombed in a nuclear war. Other than the Chihuahua al Pacífico Railroad and the Gran Vision paved road, there’s been so little development, the Army Corps of Engineers’ maps from the Mexican and Civil wars are still useful.”

  “Water and food?”

  “In the rainy season, we collect water in barrels and store it in cisterns. Apples, beans, corn, and squash. Our agricultural committee brought some cultivars and seeds they thought would be suitable for this part of the world. We’ve been living off our own plantings for the last six months.” He held his hands a foot apart. “Brother Nathan grew the biggest butternut squash I’ve ever seen.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “Goat manure.” Aaron grinned. “We use portable corrals, pasture them where we plan to plant, and let them fertilize plots of land.”

  Zeke guffawed. “Where did you get a notion like that?”

  “From the Indians.”

  Aaron loved to play practical jokes on new recruits. Did he have the balls to try to put one over on his spiritual leader?

  “Indians? You pulling my leg?”

  “Nope. They’re around, but you won’t see them much. They’re not fond of outsiders. Chabochis in their tongue.” He waved his hand toward the panoramic view. “Some live in caves without electricity or running water.”

  “Threat potential?”

  Surprise crossed Aaron’s face. “They’re shy. Call themselves the Rarámuri—the runners. I’ve been told they can chase a deer to death.”

  Zeke unclenched his fist and smirked. “We ain’t fawns, and we ain’t running away.”

  Aaron glanced away and took a deep breath. “There was one among us who did.”

  “Who?”

  “Brother Jim.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’d been acting a little—weird. I caught the man whipping his back with a knotted rope. I took it away from him, told him that wasn’t the way of our community. He said he only listened to you, not me. I figured he’d get over it. Next morning he was gone.”

  “Do the others know about this?”

  Aaron nodded. “We think he wandered out into the desert and died.”

  Zeke blew out a long breath. “Well, I’m here now, just in time, it seems. Doubt is contagious. Our congregation is like a group of children. They need us to be strong and give them firm guidance, not boogey men to fear.” He dismissed the man with a curt nod.

  Time to stir up the troops and put on a show. He knew just how to do it, too. Zeke spread his legs on the altar and raised his arms to the heavens. A thousand followers flattened
themselves on their stomachs on the ground, their arms outstretched in surrender to their leader, their father, their Lord and master. He liked the sounds of that: their Lord and master.

  “Dear God, we come to you in humble awe of your goodness to us. Thank you for this beautiful citadel, which we will defend as your people did at Masada. We pledge our lives and souls to you and will serve you as you have asked.”

  The air was so crisp, the silence of the crowd so profound, that the chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee of a black-capped chickadee shattered it like crystal. Over the birdsong came the unmistakable wail of a baby. The child was the real reason everyone had sold their homes, handed over their life savings to the church, abandoned jobs, and in some cases, their families. The congregation pinned their hopes and dreams for a better world after End Days on the youngest Caulbearer. It was time to introduce Jake to his followers.

  “Bring me the little one.”

  Miriam, who’d been standing on the sidelines holding the child, climbed two steps on the ladder and handed him up to Zeke.

  Jake wailed and cried, “Mama, mama, mama!”

  Zeke held the child on high. “I command you all to look upon the Chosen One.”

  Heads lifted, gazes locked onto the infant, and people wept.

  “Did I not prophesize this to you? Did I not say he would be born with a caul? Did I not say you would know him when you saw him and you would shout with joy?”

  An elderly woman, drawn and pale, beseeched him, “Father, help me, please. I have cancer. I’m in so much pain, please. Heal me.”

  How awkward. His usual tricks weren’t set up yet. Miriam always assisted him with the healings, bringing cancer-ridden victims to the front of the church. Using the old magician’s trick of distracting the crowd with his wife’s ecstatic movements, Zeke would pound on the petitioner’s back, shouting for the cancer to come out. Miraculously, the stricken would cough the “tumor” into Zeke’s hand. Miriam would then parade the rotten chicken livers around the church to show proof of the Reverend’s “cure.” Unprepared and out of poultry parts at the moment, he’d have to improvise.