Without Faith (21 page)

In the brief time I was with RiChard, in our many constant travels, there was only one trip that we made together that could be counted as an actual vacation. In the midst of village hopping on his quest for revolutionary social justice, we paused one day to go on a safari through the massive African bush and wild lands. We saw elephants, herds of zebras, giraffes. However, there was one animal that struck me the most, simply because it was the single one about which RiChard commented.

The cheetah.

Specifically, we saw a mother cheetah and her cubs, which made RiChard lean in close to me and say, “Don't mess with momma cheetah. She is one feline who stays with her cubs until they are a year and a half, parenting by herself, teaching her young ones how to survive and protecting them from predators. Mess with her and she will go from zero to sixty in three seconds and, believe me, you are not outrunning her.”

In retrospect, perhaps RiChard did talk about the other animals. More than likely, knowing how much he seemed to enjoy flaunting his knowledge about nearly any and everything, he'd probably shared facts and tidbits about the other wildlife that appeared oblivious to our passing vehicle.

But it was his comments about the cheetah that stuck with me, implanted somewhere in my consciousness, and made an imprint in my brain.

In recent years, I'd forgotten about the cheetah, her inability to roar, her exhaustion after a high-speed chase. Now, her maternal mission was front and center and reflective of my resolve.

To protect.

To survive.

To run down threats and attack and defend like life and death depended on it.

My drive had taken me to Charles Street, to the historic Mount Vernon area where the nation's first architectural monument to George Washington stood tall and lit in the darkness on a large, park-like island in the center of the road. As I circled the monument, the cobblestone street rumbled under the wheels of my car, startling me, waking me up from the daze of a distant memory, a faded daydream.

“Where am I going?” I shook my head, determined to fight back tears, tiredness, and despair as I contemplated what power I had in finding my son. “I guess I first need to go get some gas.” I was nearly on ‘E,' Leon's generosity from earlier that day almost depleted. I pulled up to a small gas station hidden in a narrow, unkempt space between two old, tall office buildings. Not my first choice to stop at nearly twelve-thirty in the morning, but I decided it made more sense to stop there than to run out of gas again in the empty darkness.

I parked at a pump and got out of the car before realizing my mistake.

I had not been home all day to get my purse, which had my money, credit cards, and phone charger. Without any coat on, I had no pockets to check for loose change. I searched through my car for any stray coins, pulling out the ashtray, sticking my hand between the seat cushions, turning over the floor mats, checking everywhere that I could fit my hands. Even as I did so, I knew my search was pointless. The gas station did not appear to have any attendants at the window to accept cash payments.

A part of me wanted to laugh, another part wanted to scream. I settled for an anguished cry as I debated how to get myself out of this new predicament. I was not sure that I had enough gas to get back to Mother Sprigg's home, and I had no phone access to call for assistance. The seventy-nine cents I scrounged up in change offered no help.

For the first time in a long time, I wished phone booths were still around. At least I could have made a collect call.

“This is hands-down the absolute worst week of my life,” I spoke aloud. “God, I don't know what you are doing, but there is nothing else I can do right now but ask for your help and trust you.” I thought of Mother Sprigg's last words to me before I'd pushed myself out of her house. “I won't lose my faith, Jesus,” I whispered, shutting my eyes as I leaned against my car door. I was so intent, so focused on praying, that I did not notice the screeching set of wheels that pulled into the station. As a car door opened and sharp footsteps punched the ground, I was forced to open my eyes to see what had pulled up beside me.

A red Lexus.

“Jenellis!” I gasped. My confusion deepened as a second door opened and a man got out of the passenger side. Not Brayden, but David, the young man who had escorted me to Silver's hideout two days before.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded as both marched toward me. Jenellis's hands were thrust deep in her coat pockets and her expression remained blank as she approached.

I didn't have time for any of this foolishness, whatever it was they were up to.

And she knew it. She could see it in my eyes. She came prepared.

“Now,” she commanded David, and before I could protest, protect myself, or prevent it from happening, a sharp needle pricked my shoulder, piercing right through my blouse. I remember wondering if wearing a coat would have helped my situation as blackness began to envelope me and my legs began to give way. I was being led, guided, forced to her car, and felt myself being thrown into the back seat, powerless to stop the attack.

As a groggy darkness finished taking hold of me, drawing me deeper into a blacked-out state, I heard Jenellis say, “Get rid of her car.”

I heard my own voice whimper, “My son . . .” Felt my last bit of power being sucked away from me.

I still have power.
My last thoughts before succumbing completely to the darkness.

The power of faith.

God could work even when I couldn't.

I forced my eyes open, willing myself to come out of the darkened, trance-like state I had been in.

Years ago, when I needed a minor outpatient surgical procedure, my doctor had administered some type of anesthesia that put me in what she called a “twilight sleep”: not completely unconscious, but sedated enough that I had no awareness or memory during the operation. I remembered coming to and feeling woozy—and also feeling like only seconds had passed and not the full hour that the doctor said she'd worked on me.

I was having the same sensation at that moment.

My senses were awakening and the smell of something burning overpowered my nostrils. Still feeling flighty from whatever had been jabbed into my shoulder, I willed myself to focus, to concentrate.

To try to figure out what in the world was going on.

I was in some type of industrial kitchen, I concluded, as my eyes came into better focus. Large stainless-steel vats with stirring mechanisms, multiple ranges with burners, and warehouse-sized refrigerators filled the large room. One of the burners was lit with a high flame and a large pot sat on top of it. Thick, smoke-like steam rolled out of it and I concluded that was what I was smelling.

Burning food.

I was looking up at everything. The burners, the refrigerators, the vats were all taller than me.
I must be on the floor,
I decided, becoming aware that the entire left side of my body, from the side of my face, to my arms, to my legs felt cold.

I was lying left side down on a cement floor.

I tried to move my arms, my feet, but realized every part of me was tied up, and whatever had me bound also had me attached to a four-inch-thick pipe that ran along the length of the kitchen floor.

“Oh, God,” I tried to pray, but my tongue, my teeth, were tangled up in what felt like a steel wool scouring pad stuffed into my mouth.

Pieces of memories—the gas station, the red Lexus that had pulled up beside me, Jenellis, David—started infiltrating my consciousness. But none of the pieces fit together, made sense. And honestly, I did not care that they did not. Only one thought, one recent memory mattered most to me in that minute.

Roman.

I was on a mission to somehow rescue my son, and this woman and whatever foolishness she had going on with her had interrupted me. Tears filled my eyes as my sense of helplessness turned to horror. Nobody would know where I was, or that I was even in any danger. I had left Mother Spriggs's house, demanding to be alone, so who knew when anyone would even think to begin looking for
me?

What time was it? Was it even still the same day? As my senses and consciousness continued to register, a thousand and one questions began filling my mind. I tried to move, but whatever had me bound had no give.

I shut my eyes as the tears continued to streak down my cheeks, stinging, pooling on the cement floor next to my face. My nose started to get congested and I gagged for breath, my mouth a blocked airway.

A calm, still voice somewhere in the inside of me spoke out and my eyes opened again. I did not have time to sit there and cry. Falling apart was not an option. I had to get out of there. I had to at least try.

The pot on the top of the burner seemed to be rattling, as if whatever inside it that was boiling and slowly burning had a life of its own, and was seeking its own escape.

Someone would be back to check on this food, I realized. I did not know who that someone was or when they would be coming.

I could not wait to find out.

First, I tried to spit the scouring pad out of my mouth. Try as I might, it did not budge. I looked at what was binding me.

Thick, green, industrial-strength garbage bags, rolled up into tight ropes, crisscrossed over my arms, legs, ankles, and midsection, knotted to the pipe. The heavy green plastic looked like a rope of convenience, what had been on hand.

This had been an impromptu undertaking, not a carefully planned attack. That gave me an advantage as I just needed to outwit a hastily formed strategy. It also warned me of imminent danger. Having me here bound up was seen as an immediate necessity and spoke to desperation. Though I did not have a clue as to why, I knew that such desperation could very easily turn deadly for me.

I studied my wrists, tied up tightly with the rolled-up bags. They reminded me of plastic wristbands at a state fair.
That's it,
I decided, thinking of how Roman would always refuse to let me cut wristbands off of him following carnival or ER visits. He would always pretend to be an escape artist and manage to wriggle them off. Most of the time he succeeded. It was thick, heavy plastic that bound my hands, but plastic nonetheless. Using the bottom corner of a cabinet nearby, I willed myself to imagine my hands being smaller, to believe that I could somehow roll the tight bands off my wrists. The pain was torture as my hands turned red and my fingers turned white from the blockage in circulation, but millimeter by millimeter, I worked that plastic until it was over my thumb knuckles, past my palms.

Then free.

Working quickly, I took the scouring pad out of my mouth. The rest of my body was still entangled in tied knots, still attached to the metal pipe. I used the steel wool to begin scraping the knots down and within seconds I was free from the pipe, though my legs and ankles were still tied. The knots down there were bigger, thicker, tighter, as if whoever had bound me had more time to work on them and had sped through the knots that had tied down my upper body. I pulled myself up, attempting to hop and half slide through the kitchen. I got to the end of the aisle where I had been hidden, seeing that the massive kitchen was made up of several rows separated by racks and cabinets, workspaces, ranges, and storage areas. The pot that was burning, boiling away, was at the end of my aisle. I noted a chopping board on a counter near the range. Quartered potatoes and celery stalks spilled off of it.

There has to be a knife nearby,
I decided, and quickened my hops and slides to the counter where the cutting board lay.
Almost there!
I put my all into one last hop to round the corner, but instead of landing back on the concrete floor, I tripped, stumbling forward, began falling forward, but I caught myself, grabbing on to a metal drawer handle, and holding on to the side of a refrigerator.

“Oh, Jesus!” I screamed as I realized what had tripped me.

A white tennis shoe attached to a foot attached to a man who lay lifeless on the floor. He had been out of my view on the other side of a large refrigerator, which was on the other side of the still-burning pot. He had a slight olive hue to his otherwise pale skin, which, together with his dark curly hair, spoke to a possible Mediterranean ethnicity. He lay on his back, his eyes and mouth open as if frozen forever in a look of utter surprise and horror.

A tall white chef's hat was off to the side of him and I saw the knife for which I was looking. It was covered with blood, and the bright red stain trailed from the silver blade to several brutal wounds in the man's chest. A pile of unpeeled potatoes lay scattered between his hat and the knife.

I was dealing with a straight-up, cold-hearted killer.

The air went out of my lungs and the room began turning black as my body threatened to pass out again.
No!
I told myself as I reached out to grab what I could to maintain my balance and stay alert.

I grabbed the wrong thing, and a stack of plates, and utensils, and glasses began crashing to the floor in a loud clatter.

With all that noise, it would just be a matter of time before someone came running in there, I was sure of it. There was no point in trying to stay quiet as I began tearing open drawers, opening and slamming doors to find something to cut the rest of the knotted bags off of me. Finally, I came across a pair of kitchen shears, scissors that had five blades on it that probably were usually used to cut through fresh herbs, but were now being used to trim off the rest of my knotted garbage bag binds. Within seconds I was free.

Common sense told me to hold on to the ultra-sharp blades as I took off running toward a green exit sign. I could not tell if my imagination or my ears were hearing footsteps coming from the opposite direction.

I was not going to wait to find out.

I pushed through the swinging door and gasped. After leaving such a scene of pure evil and violent brutality, I had not expected to walk into the total opposite: awe-inspiring beauty and breath-taking opulence.

I was standing in an atrium filled with all manner of flowers, luxurious draperies, candles, and chandeliers, most of which were in varying shades of red. Round tables were set up with elaborate centerpieces, real linens, covered chairs. The floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded the expansive room showcased gardens and manicured courtyards as far as the eye could see.

I was clearly at some type of estate, a scenic mansion or lavish banquet hall suited for weddings, receptions, romantic dinners, or the like.

Of course. Had to be. Though I had never followed up with my plan to research the name of the place where Jenellis and Brayden were to wed and Brayden/ Kwan was to go on his fantasy date with Silver courtesy of
The Soul Mate Show,
my high school French class memories told me the name translated to “the Red Room.” Almost everything in that room was red.

A loud crash coming from somewhere in the kitchen reminded me that this was not the time to figure out the connection. I needed to survive.

So I could get back to finding my son.

The windows of the atrium made it hard to figure out where any doors were, as the entire room was surrounded with glass. I began running down one side of the room, pressing constantly on the clear glass until one of the panels finally gave way. I dashed out into the courtyard, knowing that I was still too exposed in this venue of glass and open space. There was a stone pathway that led away from the courtyard and I had no choice but to follow it around the side of the atrium toward a red brick building that sat behind it. The area that looked like it was probably the kitchen from where I escaped connected the two buildings, and I recognized this red brick building as the restaurant that had been in the still shots of the grand prize of the dating show.

Were Silver and “Kwan” supposed to have their fantasy date this weekend?
I wondered, still trying to make sense of my circumstances.

I pushed open a door, and was not sure whether to be comforted or alarmed that the restaurant was empty. Continuing with the theme of red, the restaurant was darker, more intimate, smelled of older wood and history than the grander atrium. A black marble fireplace was the focal point of the romantic space and dark cherry wood paneling covered the walls. Red velvet drapes, fringes, and feathers made the place feel more like a burlesque establishment than a restaurant of fine dining. I imagined a ragtime piano and an exotic beauty singing and dancing on the small stage I spotted near the back of the room. I thought about Silver and her line of work.
How is all of this connected?

My eyes adjusted to the dimness as I stayed along the walls, trying to figure out where to go, what to do, hoping to at least find a phone somewhere to call for help. I found a hallway instead that took me to a set of doors. The wood in the hallway was even darker, older, nearly black, compared to the dining area. The stairs led me to what looked like an administrative wing, I guessed. My hopes rose as I considered that a phone would definitely be in one of the offices. I entered the first one and did a double take at what I saw.

Portraits on the wall told the story of African American management. That wasn't what shocked me; rather, the pictures themselves. A group of men posed in large portraits, obvious business partners who must have taken over the property, in what looked like—I squinted to read the placard beneath—the year 2000. The man in the middle of the group had a square head, an uneasy smile, and the name Sheldon Long.

Jenellis's first husband.

Her
dead
first husband.

I looked at the picture and studied the four other men who surrounded him. Their names and faces meant nothing to me, but I figured that even split five ways, the value of the La Chambre Rouge and its continuing income was still a pretty penny for each of the investors.

And, of course when considering a dead businessman's monetary value, there were always life insurance policies in addition to other liquid assets. As I thought about the article I'd read about Sheldon Long's death, how he had been found lying next to trash cans, stabbed repeatedly, my imagination ran wild. Throw in the abuse both Jenellis and Silver acknowledged occurred, there was plenty of reason to believe that there was more to Sheldon's death than what was showcased on that short news clip I'd found on the Internet.

My mind was working as fast as a calculator, adding two and two, subtracting the excess. I recalled my first conversation alone with Jenellis. She had said her first husband died of natural causes. Why would the widow of a victim of such a violent crime claim his death to be natural?

If I was on the right train of thought, and I had every reason to believe that I was, then it would make sense that Jenellis would be reluctant to tell Brayden how she obtained her wealth. It had been Sheldon's, a man who was murdered. A man
she
had murdered.