One Safe Place (38 page)

Psalms and his crew had to be done and out in thirty minutes. Suzy Q was fast. She yanked a tooth from The Duck's mouth—the same tooth pulled from this hired assassin—and super-glued it in his hand. She made it clear if he or any of his people came after Gabrielle, they would get to him, his family, and friends. She also didn't take her time as Psalms and Mintfurd did whenever they injected a pain bullet. She was heartless as she injected a pain shocker near The Duck's spine. His muffled scream could still peel paint off a wall.

Another shot of sleeping gas and The Duck dozed, but would wake up in terrible mouth pain, and pain near his spine where a bomb of non-reversible deadly toxins had been planted. The message: no one is untouchable.

• • •

The Duck woke up naked and in extreme pain that night in the Rio Grande, five hours away from where he was originally abducted. He had a note pinned to his skin:

DON'T TOUCH OUR PEOPLE.

Of course the news, and mostly the FBI, thought the note was from a terrorist or Mexican drug cartel warlords.

Psalms and the crew had pulled off a masterful plan. Even the CIA was most likely applauding the skill and the precision. Not one single trace of evidence was found. Psalms, Suzy Q, EL'vis, and Mintfurd all believed there would be no more problems coming from the real terrorist.

I
've been pinned up for weeks under tight security. One saving grace is that the workout room here in Psalms' condo helps me to relax and burn off some tension. The tinted glass allows me to see outside, but people can't see inside. I see ferry boats crossing with cars and people walking carefree along the beach; I wish I could be that free. I see the shuttle that carries people going up and down to the Space Needle, even if it is a tourist trap rip-off. I wish I was free to do the same without a team of security.

I'm working out with the ladies. Lois Mae is on the treadmill. Damn, she's always on that treadmill, working it out. As short as Darcelle is, that girl can lift some weights. When you look at her in her tight body suit, you see a brick house. Velvet, bless her soul, is not really into the gym thing. She is talking a lot of mess as she works out with me. I think she's working out the need of a man working her out. Well, she talks about it often enough. Meeah is here and a young girl is with her. She is the half-sister of Meeah's grown daughter. Vanessa, Coach Sparks' wife, has joined us. I love her style. She drove up in a pretty 1967 Mercedes-Benz convertible. Her husband rebuilt the Benz for her, and she is one happy woman: you can tell by how she carries herself. Yes, I am envious. There are a few other women here whom I met on the ferry that night of entertainment. We are doing Zumba with Coach Toni who's
doing a private session with us.

The music is '70s and '80s dance music. She and the music are damn near killing us, except the young girl, who is putting us to shame. I'm up here trying to kick my leg up to Chaka Khan's “I'm Every Woman,” and I'm hurting, but it feels good at the same time.

Most people thing I'm living the life. Flying here and there on someone else's dime, sleeping in expensive hotels with fine wine. Most would ask, why am I complaining?

It's hard to explain to the average person that when your name is well-known, you live your life in a bubble. Depending on what your name is known for, that bubble can be life or death. I knew that before, but until you feel the pain in your soul and on your body, you cannot walk in my shoes.

I have a better understanding of the soldiers who wake up on the battlefield and pray they see the end of the day. The man who was protecting me on the day I was shot—his life is forever changed.

I have a better understanding of what I want in life, knowing now that tomorrow is not promised.

“Damn, Toni, how am I supposed to keep up?” I ask. “This song is too long.”

She switched the music to Graham Central Station's “The Jam.”

“Thanks a lot, Toni, for another long-ass song.”

“You can do it; breathe and work it, gurl.”

Psalms has me under strict security, and as I watch the news I see why. I am watching a report on The Duck and what has happened to him. Some suspected terrorists or the Mexican drug cartel ambushed his convoy. They kidnapped The Duck and tortured his ass.

The Duck tortured, that's funny, and me shot by a sniper's bullet, leaving imprints on my breasts…not funny. That's all that's been on the TV for the last month. The news stations and newspapers
have sold millions in commercial time. My story was just now starting to die down and here's The Duck, kidnapped and tortured; this will start a new news cycle: same story, different name. If there was an earthquake somewhere in America, it would be the last news story of the day. I know The Duck put those marks on my breasts; that bullet was inches away from taking my life. I have no proof that Psalms and his people are behind what is on every news station, but I believe he went at The Duck to get even.

None dead…I can't help but laugh. The whole security team would be dead if a Mexican drug cartel had done this. The Duck would be on video, damn near beaten to death, begging for mercy.

I doubt the CIA has a team that can do any better than Psalms and his crew with their training, intelligence, and cleverness. I know this. Psalms will never tell me this is his work I'm seeing on TV. I will never ask.

I'm breathing eeeeasier. I'm breathing with renewed understanding of my life, and of my life's purpose.

But I'm not physically breathing easier right now. Coach Toni doesn't know how to give a sistah a break, and my breasts still hurt a bit. Now she's jammin' The Blackbyrds' “Rock Creek Park.” I need some water; I step out for a minute, and Coach Toni gives me a playful evil eye. I hold my finger up as if I'm excusing myself during church like back in the day.

I pray that this ordeal is over. I have personal apprehensions about what is next in life for me. Not drinking has been easier physically than I thought, but as time goes on, I will find out how I react to stress. I wonder what I will do. Will I want a drink and give in? How do I find ways of dealing with stress, and how do I learn to relax without pouring a gin and tonic? I've come to understand that I was just looking for an excuse to drink, and the stress on me manufactured one in my mind.

I've amplified some issues. I've turned up the volume in my head and I've tried to drink the noise down—you know, a “making a mountain out of a molehill” kind of thing. In life, we can be our own worst drama and call it someone else's. My therapist has helped me trace back to when I started down the road of negative responses. My reaction to what I have been a part of when it comes to politics, the loss of my father, my mother's current mental state…I have reacted by pouring a drink…drinks. I have reacted poorly to my sister's issues and have treated her as less than an adult, when in actuality, I made adult decisions while inebriated.

On the day I was shot, just twenty minutes earlier, I gave EL'vis permission to eliminate my sister's ex-husband. Kill him! I made a calculated decision to take a life to promote a personal agenda, and I was under the influence of too many wrong things and thinking. I was wrong. Maybe having someone aim for my heart and almost losing my life is, in part, why I understand how wrong I was.

My nephew and niece would have had their whole lives torn apart. Was I thinking my love for them could replace someone they love? Yes, the man ripped my sister's heart apart. But, broken hearts and broken families can and do survive. As an individual, like many people, I have appointed myself as the judge and jury for other's lives, thinking I know best. I was wrong, and I am sorry. I can never say I am sorry to my sister about what I was about to have done, but I owe her and my nephew and niece.

I join back in Zumba, mainly because the music has slowed down. The Stylistics' “You Make Me Feel Brand New” soothes my soul and body. Coach Toni has us stretching in slow motion.

I have to realize that being smart, and doing smarter things with people I want close to me is more valuable than what happens around the world. If I'm indeed a smart person, I have to find ways to make the lives of those I care about better, and not by taking
someone's life. What a fool I was. Every time I swallow the thought of what could have happened, my breasts hurt where the bullets seared my skin. It has to be my mind playing tricks on me, but the pain feels real.

Psalms has lost trust in me. I believe he has forgiven me, but he has reason to fear the decisions I make out of his sight. I pray I have a lifetime to find ways to rebuild that trust in him as well in myself.

He, too, is one of my problems when it comes to my future. I have told him so. He seems to understand, but we have a journey. My therapist is helping to bring clarity to many parts of my life without telling me what to do. She is not painting one thing as wrong, and one thing as better. She is doing as a therapist should do.

I'm becoming aware that as a woman, I need to know where I stand in a man's life. I need to know as any woman would want to know, where I fit in when it comes to the long term. I need to know where he and I go as man and woman, as lovers, and when sooner or later we'll go our separate ways. Will I always be a secret? Will I be hidden in the clouds as in the deeds he does for the welfare of others?

I am clear though, I cannot demand, command, beg, or give ultimatums to Psalms or any personal relationship. I must develop an open dialogue that is not threatening. Why would I want to force my wants on someone if they are not ready? I must learn to communicate without treating it as if it is debate, contract, or a negotiation. I know that's the world I once worked in, but my personal life must be kept separate.

One great thing about being around my people of color is we listen to music so few hear or understand. Coach Toni finished kicking our butts, and the cool-down music is Bootsy's “Hollywood Squares.”

Maybe the shooting, in a strange way, confirms to me as a private citizen that anyone can be a victim of violence. I can live or die like anyone else. Have I believed that it is worth it to keep my private life secret because of what people will say? Before I die, I want whole and complete companionship. I have the man I love, and I have my joy of being in love. I have to find another way to live with that love, and I have asked Psalms to work on what that shall be.

To my surprise, he has had no problem with the subject; it all came down to how I approached it. I'm learning now that my mind is getting clearer and recovering brain cells that wine and gin were killing.

One cannot compare oneself to others in anything we do. That thought brings a smile to my face as I look at the young girl whose world is ahead of her. I have to be an example, not only in achievement, but also in living.

Ooooh . . .The Spinners' “We Belong Together.”

“Thanks, Toni, and see you next week, if you have not hurt anything else over here on my body.”

I want what other women have. Lois Mae found and married Coach Sterlin, and she said it was no cake walk getting there, but he loves her as if she saved his life.

I want to drive home through maybe maddening traffic, and have that unique somebody there to greet me with a long, loving hug. I want that single, long kiss on my forehead. I dream of that special somebody taking me by the hand to the bedroom, requesting I remove my clothes as he watches. I want the special somebody to touch me and take my pain away, even if just for a few minutes. I want to lie next to him and be offered the crook of his arm and chest to lie upon and listen to his heart beating a love
song to me, telling me I'm his baby.

Right now, as it stands, I don't have that soul waiting to make me feel valued when I get home. I have to fly in week after week, and month after month. Is it going to be this way in years to come?

I need a social life. I need to start doing things with people that are not connected to politics as a part of my normal life. I've invited all the ladies up for a healthy brunch that I'm having catered. I'm making changes.

P
salms had always kept his previous work friendships intact, and they came in handy when he needed to know a few things. He could call friends he made as a Navy SEAL and Secret Service agent with questions like, “Hey, what's going down? What's with all the craziness; are we doing anything? Are we moving in on someone?” He made calls to feel out what, if anything, someone knew. People with secrets like to tell secrets. A best friend has a best friend, who has a best friend.

It appeared nothing was happening, only pure amazement at the precision of The Duck's abduction. The FBI was puzzled, not believing that a Mexican drug cartel did the job, and The Duck didn't reveal any helpful information.

Psalms listened intently to all the people he spoke to. He listened with a different kind of ear. Liars have lies in their voice, whether they are in front of your face or not. He was exceedingly adept at keeping a straight face when someone was lying to him. He was as proficient when listening over a phone line.

He had learned from Gabrielle when she was on the world stage, and staring down world leaders. She was skilled at dealing with liars. Most liars, she said, simply want to one up you or outdo you in a lie. She told him her best approach was acting as if she was interested in a world leader's lie, and then giving them misleading information to see how they would react.

Psalms felt comfortable with the information that came in; he considered it solid. He slept like a baby back in his bed, feeling Gabrielle's body curled in his. In the middle of the night, he turned his back to her, and she curled into his body as tightly as she could with her breasts still being tender. She held him, sensing he needed baby love.