Hush in the Storm Read online

  “Where are you cut? Show me.”

  His tone sounded sharper than the pain in my heel. I uncurled my foot and held it out. He lifted my leg, flopping me back to the floor again. His thumb pressed into the sore.

  “Ouch!” I jerked, and pulled myself upright, but he held my ankle tight, turning it toward the light. I squeezed my thighs together, remembering my knee-length pencil skirt. He concentrated on my heel and didn’t appear to notice.

  “Okay. Could be worse.” He laid my foot down in a slow, tender motion. “It’s not a deep slash. You’ll be fine. No stitches needed, thank goodness.” He perched on his haunches. “I don’t have a first-aid kit here.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  Tom humphed. “Don’t be stupid, Jen.”

  Stupid? His words might as well have been a slap to my cheek. My Irish temper began to rise. “You locked me in a pitch dark room with no light.”

  “I know. It was night.”

  “For hours. Hours.” My voice quivered. The knot in my throat twisted tighter.

  “You were supposed to be sleeping.”

  “Oh.” I wiped the residual tears from my cheeks.

  Tom nodded toward the tray. “I’m sorry. I thought it’d take you a long time to sleep it off. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He rose and extended his hand to me. “Come on and eat.”

  The beckoning aroma made my stomach growl. Still, I planted my rear end to the cold concrete. I glanced away to the darkened corner of the room where the spider web had snagged me. “There are spider webs in here.” My hands ran up and down my arms. I looked at him, my eyes hot with fresh tears.

  He pulled back his hand. With his feet slightly parted, he folded his arms like Mr. Clean. His Adam’s apple moved. “Sorry. I’m not that great at housekeeping. Do you have a phobia to spiders? It wasn’t in your portfolio…”

  “I cried out. You didn’t answer.” I swallowed the urge to melt into sobs again.

  His cheeks reddened. He waved at the tray. “I didn’t hear you. I went to get breakfast.”

  My hands dropped to my lap. “Oh. Right.”

  He took two steps toward me. I scooted back two on my rump.

  “I’m not mad, Jen. Honest. It’s all right.” His voice became calm, comforting. “I’ll clean up the glass and the spider webs in a minute, okay?”

  I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth again it would open the tear ducts as well.

  His voice softened. “Please, while it’s hot? I’ll sit here with you while you eat. Then if you need to use the, uh, john...well—”

  His words reminded my bladder it had been ages since it was emptied. But hunger won out. I got to my feet and hobbled toward the couch. Then I remembered the glass, the water, and the drugs. A chilly splash burst across the crown of my head and cascaded down my spine. “Is it safe?”

  “Probably not. It’s take-out.” He remained stone-still, staring at me. Then his lips curved into a smirk.

  I stared back, trying to decide whether to trust him.

  He blinked. “Oh, for goodness sake.” He reached down to the end table, grabbed a point of toast, and jerked off a piece with his teeth. In between chomps he said, “There. See?” He tossed the half eaten slice back onto the tray, then mocked a gag, and grabbed for his throat.

  “Very funny.” My temper gauge inched higher. He’d scared me out of my wits, and now he made fun of me? I glanced at the shards of glass on the floor. Part of me wanted to slash him with them and dash out of there. A bigger part wanted the rest of the toast.

  Tom’s eyes must have followed mine. I turned to see his face harden. His foot swept the glass across the concrete to the spider-webbed corner with several swift kicks.

  I shuddered off my anger and pulled the tray onto my lap. My eyes scanned my cage, less ominous in the pale light which emitted from the hallway. No more than eight feet by another eight or nine, and solid concrete. See Jen, it isn’t a trunk or a mausoleum. Just a room. Or was it?

  Through the dim illumination, I could make out the furniture in the room—couch, end table, and a straight back wooden chair to the far left of the door. Normal enough. But no light fixtures hung from the ceiling. No lamps. No electrical outlets interrupted wall space. No light switches either. And, as I suspected, no windows. I looked to my right. The sliding steel door was retracted into the wall. An incandescent light bulb encased in wire above the door was the only light source for the room, but it wasn’t on. The walls were institutional greenish-gray. Institutional?

  I wiped my palms, which had begun to sweat again, and swallowed the creeping angst with a sip of coffee. “Where are we?”

  Tom shot me a sympathetic smile. “A safe room.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere in Fort Worth.” His tone indicated that was all the information I was going to get.

  His weight sunk next to me. Our hips touched. I bit my lip. His arm swooshed over and behind me. He rested it on the sofa back, a little too close to my neck. With his other hand, he wiped the hair from my eyes. I flinched at his touch.

  What was he going to try now? Was this when the rape part began? I curled my arms around my waist. My fists clenched, pumping attitude back into my soul where fear had invaded. I got ready for a fight. What could I use as a weapon? Hot coffee. I could throw the hot coffee in his face.

  He must have sensed my thoughts because he reached across my lap for the Styrofoam cup on the tray. “Don’t even think about it. Trust me.”

  “How can I? You kidnap me, drug me, trap me in the dark, and don’t come back for hours.”

  I expected him to lash out, but instead he placed the cup back into my hand, rose to his feet, and walked a few paces. His voice became gravelly. “I’m not here to hurt you, Jen. Really.” He stretched out his arms. “This is all for your safety. We have to keep you out of sight right now.”

  “We?”

  Tom huffed into his collar. “Never mind.” He scooted the wooden chair toward me. Straddling it backwards, he shielded himself with the spindles. Yet, his body language oozed confidence. He draped his elbows over the curved top rail. With a nonchalant, limp-wristed gesture he motioned toward the tray. “Go on. Eat.”

  If I could have grabbed one thought off the merry-go-round in my brain, I’m not sure what it would have been. Fear? Anger? Hunger? Gladness…to see him? Another slurp of hot caffeine slid past my vocal chords and became liquid courage. I straightened my shoulder blades and met his eyes. “If you’re not going to tell me where I am, at least tell me why I’m here.”

  He stretched back in the chair, like a cat studying his wounded prey. “I could. But the less you know, well… it’s for your own good, Jen. And as far as where you are, it’s an old bomb shelter in a basement of a building. Probably built during the Cold War days in the 1950s. That’s all I can say.” He motioned to the tray. “Now eat, or I’ll take it away.”

  Ticking him off wasn’t the way to win him over to my side. I dropped my eyes to my plate. To make him think he’d won this skirmish, I shoveled eggs into my mouth. I pointed with the flimsy, plastic fork. “I have to admit these taste great. I was famished. Thanks.”

  He released himself from the chair and walked to the door.

  “Wait. Leaving already? Didn’t you promise to stay while I ate?” Another forkful of room temperature eggs slid into my mouth.

  He stopped at the threshold, but remained facing out into the hall. “Don’t play coy with me, Jen.” He tapped the door jamb but stared straight ahead. “I am on your side in this.”

  Was he a mind reader? A shiver touched my neck.

  “You’re here because I’m supposed to protect you. The best way right now is to keep you out of sight. I wish you’d believe me. It’d make this all a lot easier.”

  I poked at the remaining nibbles of my breakfast. “Convince me.”

  With a sigh he pivoted to face me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

  I looked to see if his eyes held any trut
h.

  His face became less crimson and, after he inhaled deeply through his nose, his tone flattened. “Look, you obviously need some more time to sort this out.”

  My eyes widened. Oh, no. Don’t leave.

  “I’ll let you eat in peace.” In the shadow of the hall light, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll be back in a little while to take you to, you know, the toilet.”

  “Wait! Turn on the light.” The door swished shut, cutting off my reply.

  Too late. One click of the locking mechanism and the blackness returned. So did fresh tears. Fear gripped at my chest once more. I was alone...in the dark, again.

  I blinked back the urge to cry out and swallowed more coffee—creamed, sweet with a hint of aspartame bitterness. A tightness clinched my throat. Tom knew how I took my coffee. He really had been watching me closely at work. The cup shook in my hand. I slammed it onto the tray, except I missed. Hot coffee splashed onto my wrist. Ouch. Dang it. I sucked my hand to ease the singe of pain.

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Why? What is this about?” I screamed to the low ceiling, which didn’t bother to enlighten me with a response.

  Neither did a booming voice from Heaven. Not that I expected a miracle. I was hardly like one of the saints in the Bible. Still, a part of me wanted to be, so I’d be close to God. Especially now. Who else could I turn to? Everyone I loved was dead.

  A sob shot into my throat again. I shoved the tray off my lap, got up, and paced in front of the couch, ignoring the sharp twinge in my heel. I ran my hand over my head in an effort to calm down.

  I closed my eyes, breathed, then opened them again, recalling what the room looked like. Seeing its shadowed corners made it less scary. I calculated the dimensions. Perhaps this was a bomb shelter left over from the Cold War era when everyone was afraid the Russians would invade. Yes, of course. That would explain the metal door. But how had he found it, and why put me here?

  Tom’s words echoed. “To protect you.” From what? From whom?

  My brain ached from thinking, and my bladder cramped. Where was he? I felt my way toward the door to pound on it, then my big toe stubbed into hard wood. He’d left the chair in the middle of the room.

  First my heel, then my shoulder, my wrist and now my toe. “I hate this dark. I hate you.” Hot tears filled my eyes.

  I shoved the chair out of the way with every ounce of frustration in my body. It screeched across the floor and slammed into the wall. The echo bounced into my ears.

  Nature called—hard. The sharp pressure only magnified my helplessness. My fortitude waned. I willed my body to wait. “He said he’d be back.”

  He needed to, soon. I scrunched in my stomach and tapped my teeth together. Hurry. Hurry.

  After an eternity, the door swooshed open and Tom’s form filled the threshold. I squinted my eyes in the sudden light.

  “Ready?”

  “Two hours ago.” I grumbled and brushed passed him into the hall. Grayish-green, like my room. Cold and void of any adornment. One bare light shone from the ceiling. The place reminded me of Alcatraz.

  “Sorry. I was, uh, delayed.” His tone sounded almost genuine.

  “Where?” I jiggled my legs.

  “Straight ahead.”

  I quickened my pace.

  “Wait.” He grabbed my left hand and pinned it to the small of my back. “I need to escort you. Sorry. Protocol.”

  “Uh, how am I supposed to...?”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  Right. Anger bubbled inside me, shoving down the fear. How is humiliating me going to protect me?

  Tom pushed me forward. I stutter-stepped, then found my stride.

  “Keep going.” His voice was flat and all business again. Had I made him angry? Had he heard me toss the chair or scream my hate for him? Was it the cause of his sudden streak of meanness?

  I stopped. “Tom? I’m sorry. Thank you for coming back.”

  He nudged me forward again. “Sure. Turn left at the end of the hall. First door on the right.”

  He held the door open for me and leaned against it. The room held only a toilet. No sink, no shower, no window. Grayish-green painted cinderblock lined three walls. It reminded me of road-stop restrooms, without the privacy of a stall. At least it smelled better.

  The commode was industrial steel. No tank. Prison like. No porcelain lid with which to whack him up the side of the head. He’d thought of everything.

  A package of baby wipes lay on the chipped, green linoleum floor. He picked it up and wiggled it at me. “Can you, you know, with me here?”

  I clamped my teeth hard together in fury. “I’ll work it out.”

  He laughed. “Okay, Missy Hardhead. I’ll avert my eyes.”

  Thank goodness, he actually did. He opened the package, pulled out two baby wipes, and waved them in my general direction while staring at the ceiling. I strained my arms to grab them.

  Then I tried. But my modesty—or was it pride?—overruled my bladder. “Tom, I can’t do this.” I don’t know what I despised more, the sheepishness in my voice or him for putting me in this predicament.

  Eyes still averted, he stepped two paces outside. “Okay, I’ll be right out here. Holler if you need help.” His voice was droll, echoing in the bare hallway. “Tough girl for trying, though. Robert said you would be, once I hit your Irish-temper button.”

  I stomped my foot. “You’re lying. You never knew him.”

  “Oh, contraire. I knew him long before you did. He worked undercover for the Feds, too. But you probably didn’t know that.”

  Right. My bladder finally loosened. I responded loudly to cover up the sound. “Convince me. Tell me a story about you two.”

  “Very well.” I heard his feet shuffle. “When he confessed he’d fallen for you after the NIOSA dance, I told him he was nuts and to break it off immediately. Spies aren’t supposed to fall in love.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand. He knew about how we’d met.

  * * *

  That dance.

  Fiesta Week is the yearly San Antonio version of Mardi Gras, except it commemorates Sam Houston’s rag-tag troop’s defeat of Santa Ana’s forces on April 21, 1836. Night in Old San Antonio, NIOSA to the natives, lasts all week. Always a crowd-hater, I’d gone on a Thursday evening only after three days of persistent pestering by two fellow teachers. The lively beat of Greek music in the pavilion, and fabulous Gyro smells, drew me to the door.

  Robert swished by, grabbed my hand, and propelled me into the communal kicking, shuffling, and twirling to the beat of lyras, mandolins, and zilia. His musty-green eyes sparkled behind lush, dark lashes against olive-colored skin and a Mediterranean nose. His touch oozed warmth. Perspiration magnified his cologne and mystified my endorphins.

  We danced for what seemed like hours. I’d never had a better time in my life. I clung to him for tutelage in the moves, a habit which continued through our courtship in multiple ways.

  * * *

  Tom’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “I tried to talk him out of it. Told him to never call you. I even destroyed that piece of the program you’d scrawled your phone number on. But alas, he’d committed it to memory. Your hooks were already imbedded in his heart.”

  A tear dripped over my cheekbone. Oh, my gosh. How did he know Robert had memorized it? For the first time in my life, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I’d given a strange man my phone number. On our second date, he’d rattled it off to prove his interest. That impressed me more than any sweet nothings he could have said. Six weeks later, we posted the wedding bans at St. Sophia’s Church per Greek Orthodox protocol.

  Oh, how I missed Robert. My legs felt as limp as Ramen noodles as I pulled myself back together. I shut the lid, plopped onto the john and sat there, fully dressed. A new sob bounced in my throat. I sucked in a few deep breaths to shove the memories back into the deep hiding place between my heart and my mind. You have to concentrate on the present, Jen.

&nb
sp; “You okay, Jen?”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t, but I’d never admit it to him. I flushed the toilet to signal I was done.

  Tom led me back to my captivity without any argument from me. I padded along, numbed with renewed grief. We reached my cell. “Here we are. Home sweet home.” His tone was a touch sarcastic.

  I stood in the middle of the darkened room. A sudden wave of loneliness rolled over me. Unable to face him, I whispered, “Please, don’t go.”

  Tom’s grasp loosened. He brushed the hair off my neck, sending icicle prickles down my spine. His fingers fell softly on my nape. He leaned into my ear, his breath hot on my skin.

  “Sorry, hon. Have to. But I’ll be back in two or three hours. Try to hang in there, okay? ” His lips softly pecked my forehead.

  I felt his warmth drift away and heard the door close and lock.

  The darkness returned. A growing storm of emotion, past and present, swirled like a tornado threatening to form. I fell to the floor and sniveled in the blackness. Why was he playing this game?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I rocked back and forth. Then an idea popped into my head. The glass shards. I might nick my hands picking a large enough piece, but I could have some sort of weapon to defend myself. Just in case his mood turned foul. In micro-moves, I felt with the palms of my hands. Nothing. I scooted to the right. No glass.

  I made it all the way to the corner, then crammed my tailbone against it. When did he clean it up? He was with me the whole time I was in the john, or so I thought. Then I vaguely remembered two voices when I first came to. Was there an accomplice? Robert? Was it really his voice I kept hearing? Could it possibly be? No, Jen. You buried him. But then again, the funeral home director had adamantly refused to let me see the charred body…

  I bopped my forehead with my palm. Don’t be ridiculous.

  In the dark silence all I could hear was my own out-of-breath puffing. The storm inside me brewed again. I closed my eyes to the room and willed the emotions to go away. Buck it up. Fear never did anyone any good. You’re a grown woman. The two male influences in my life, though both dead, hounded my thoughts.