Rick Mofina - In Desperation

“Did you call him?”

“Yeah, but he’s not answering-maybe his phone or BlackBerry’s not working.”

“Could be-I don’t know. I sent him an email Friday on the new shipment deadlines for Zone Five. I need an answer by this afternoon, so if you hear from him tell him to call me. I gotta run. I’ll see you later.”

Cora drew her hands to her face and exhaled. Through her fingers she saw Lyle’s empty office across the hall and went to it. She scoured his calendar, his notes, anything for a clue. She searched his trash bin but the weekend cleaning staff had already recycled everything.

Her cell phone was ringing in her office.

Cora ran back to her desk. Please be Lyle. The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“Mommy!”

“Tilly!”

“Mommy, please help me!”

“I will! I love you! Are you okay? Where are you, sweetheart?”

The phone was shuffled.

“So you got free?”

“Yes. Don’t you hurt her!”

“Where are you? Did you find him yet?”

Cora recognized the voice of the man who had invaded her home.

“I’m at the office going through his desk! I’m doing all I can! Let her go! Please!”

“Find Lyle Galviera or we’ll release your daughter in pieces.”

The line went dead.

Cora stared at the phone, sank into her chair, dropped her head to her desk and sobbed. She hadn’t slept. She couldn’t think. She didn’t know what to do, or where to turn.

What if they killed Lyle? What if he was dead somewhere?

She fought to keep herself together.

There had to be something she could do. Someone who could help her.

She stared at her computer screen, vaguely remembering an item on drug wars in Mexico. It was a newswire story. She scrolled through the website. Here it was-from the World Press Alliance, a feature that profiled the people victimized by one day of violence in Ciudad Juarez.

She studied the byline.

Jack Gannon.

She knew him, yet she didn’t .

He was from Buffalo, just like her. For years, wherever she’d lived, she’d followed his byline. She’d visited the web editions of the Buffalo Sentinel before he left for the World Press Alliance, a big wire service.

Now that he was with the WPA, Cora saw his stories everywhere. It was like he was always near . Just knowing how he was doing had been so important, she thought, biting back her tears. Her fingers traced his name on the screen. She considered the letter she’d written to him a million times but never sent.

She never had the guts.

Cora thought of Tilly and shut her eyes to deflect her agony.

If ever there was a time that Cora needed to reach out to Jack Gannon, this was it.

His email was at the bottom of the article.

Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

Startled from sleep, Jack Gannon was trying to grasp why he’d awakened and where he was when the bedside phone rang again.

Hotel. Mexico. Still in Juarez.

He answered.

“ Buenos días, Señor Gannon. As requested, this is your wake-up call. Your breakfast will be delivered shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Groaning, he hung up and reached for his cell phone to check for messages. Was there anything from Isabel, the other WPA bureaus or headquarters in New York?

Nope. Nada.

He shaved, showered and had just finished dressing when his breakfast arrived at the same time as his cell phone rang. Gannon set the tray on the desk, gave the server a tip and took his call.

“Jack, this is Isabel Luna. I’ve learned from a good source that a power struggle is going to explode within one of the major cartels and that assassins may be used.”

“Do you know where or when?”

“Not for a few days at least. I’m trying to get more information. Can you meet me at El Heraldo at 9:00 a.m.?”

Gannon glanced at the bedside clock. He had time to do some work.

“I’ll be there.”

This could be the key to getting access to a cartel assassin, but he decided against alerting his editor in New York.

Better hold off until he had something nailed down.

He switched on his laptop and took a hit of coffee. As he ate his toast, sliced bananas and oranges, he reviewed the WPA’s summary for the pickup of his last story. His profile of Juarez’s drug war victims and the morgue was used by some two thousand English-language newspapers and websites in the U.S., Canada, the U.K., Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, parts of Africa, Europe, Central and South America and the Caribbean. The Chicago Tribune, Dallas Morning News, Vancouver Sun , Irish Times, Sydney Morning Herald and South China Morning Post were among those who gave it front-page play.

Not bad, he thought, checking his email box for the address tag at the end of his story. Most reporters hated this feature because, while much of the spam was filtered, what you mostly got were emails from religious nuts, political zealots, scam artists, idiots and nutcases. A story rarely yielded a solid lead to another story, but it did happen.

You had to check.

Typically for Gannon, an article would attract about a hundred emails. He was adept at getting through them. Like panning for gold . He’d sorted about half, flagged three to consider later. Before continuing he reached for his coffee and locked onto the subject line of one email:

Your Sister Cora Needs Your Help Now.

He froze.

Cora? After so many years?

He set his coffee down, swallowed, then opened the email.

Dear Jack:

Reaching out to you like this is extremely hard, but above all I want you to know that in my heart for all these years I thought of you, Mom and Dad every day since I left Buffalo. Losing touch with you was one of the most painful mistakes I’ve made in my rocky life. You don’t know how many times I came close to calling you but I couldn’t find the strength.

I told myself I was stupid and as time went by I wanted more than anything to call you, to try to make things right with my family, to be sure you knew everything about me before it was too late. I had planned to do that once I started to get my life together and in the last few years I was getting things together, I really was.

Jack, I can never make up for hurting you or the lost years and I understand if you hate me and ignore my plea for help.

But I pray to God you won’t.

I’m in trouble, Jack. It’s an urgent matter of life and death and I believe you’re the only one who can help me. This is not a hoax. I am your sister, and I’ve been following your reporting career for all these years. I was the one who told you to follow your dream, took you to the library and got Mom and Dad to buy you that old Tandy computer so you could write. And now you’re with the World Press Alliance traveling the globe. I’m so proud of you but I need your help.

Jack, I’m begging you to contact me as soon as possible.

God bless you.

Your big sister,

Cora

Gannon felt the little hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

Cora.

It had been more than twenty years since she had walked out of their lives. Anger, love and unease swept through him as he looked at the contact information she’d left: email, cell phone, home phone, office phone and home address.

She was living in suburban Phoenix.

Well, to hell with her, he thought. It was too late. Mom and Dad were dead. They’d died brokenhearted. The wounds were too deep. Besides, she probably wanted money, or an organ, or something .

Call her .

Because there was a time he’d loved her with all his heart. It didn’t matter that she had left his life; the truth was she’d had an effect on it. The truth was, no matter what, she was his sister.