Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“Mason, no! Oh Christ, what’re you doing?”

“I’m not going back inside.”

“Mason, don’t! I’m begging you!”

The driver’s door of the car behind them opened and the officer got out quickly. “Please stay in your vehicle!” he said, keeping his hand on the grip of his holstered weapon as he trotted past them while talking into his shoulder microphone.

Surveying the situation Mason saw people in the Toyota in front of them waiting in their vehicle, then realized more people were doing the same in the line of cars and trucks that had been stopped up ahead.

Other police vehicles were blocking the intersection.

This is a choke point. Something’s going on, Mason thought.

The running officer joined the other officer in the street. Then two more cops came from behind, ran alongside Mason’s pickup truck. Their portable radios were turned up loud and crackling with transmissions as they jogged down the line of cars.

Several long moments passed. In all, about fifteen heart-pounding minutes went by before Mason and Remy saw one of the marked police units in the street drive off, its tires squealing.

One officer on the road began directing the line of cars to flow back into traffic, while other officers walked in a relaxed manner by the pickup truck.

“I think it’s over, Mason,” Remy said.

“Excuse me, Officer?” the woman in the Toyota asked one of them.

A cop stopped at the Toyota, close enough for Mason to hear.

“What’s going on?” the Toyota woman asked. “What happened?”

“A bank was robbed,” the young officer said. “The suspect was in the area. They grabbed him about seven blocks from here.”

“Wow, glad to hear it. Good work, thanks.” The woman started her car.

“Wait.” The cop stepped forward and pointed at Mason and his heart skipped.

“You folks should put your baby in the car seat before you drive off,” the officer said.

“Yes, sir.” Remy smiled and secured Caleb Cooper.

Lancaster, Texas

I was so close to Caleb at that motel.

Jenna could almost feel her baby boy, almost smell him and taste the sweetness of his cheek. How she ached to hold him in her arms again. She’d been awake most of the night in their room at the Embassy Suites, watching over Cassie and Blake and staring out the window into the night.

Caleb’s out there. Please keep him safe. I need him back. Please.

Yesterday, they’d come so close to catching that sick, scheming red-haired woman and her boyfriend at the motel. Now, in the hour before dawn, Jenna prayed with each passing minute for her phone to ring with news from the FBI, Kate or Frank. From anybody.

She’d lost her mind at the motel to fear, to anger and panic before FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn took her and Blake inside and told them all that they could.

Grogan said that the motel manager had called 911 because he was certain a man and woman with a baby, fitting the descriptions reported in the press, were guests. The Dallas SWAT team took action, but the people remained at large. The FBI’s crime-scene experts were processing the room, which would take time. It was challenging because a motel staffer had cleaned it thoroughly. The FBI was continuing its investigation.

“We know this is difficult for you, but I give you my word we’ll keep you updated,” Grogan said. “But our primary focus is taking immediate action on valid leads in order to find Caleb and return him home safe to you.”

Not long after the sun rose, Jenna was oblivious to the sounds of Holly and Garrett rising in the next room. She barely noticed Blake and Cassie getting up and dressing, then the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs.

“Jen, we got you some breakfast from downstairs,” Holly said.

“You’re not sleeping and you’re not eating,” Blake said. “Come on, hon. Have something.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I’m sad, too, Mommy. Just take one bite,” Cassie said, using a line Jenna had used on her when she fussed over food.

“Please, Jen,” Blake said before his cell phone rang and he answered. “Hey, Doug,. Yeah…thanks. We’re doin’ our best. Thanks… No, go ahead… Really? Now, today? Okay, thanks.”

Blake hung up then turned to Jenna as Holly and Garrett joined them.

“What is it?” Jenna asked.

“That was Doug Carlin, our neighbor. We have to go to our house.”

Since the storm and Caleb’s disappearance, Jenna had not been to their home. It was gone, and her attention was on Caleb.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why? Why do we need to go now?

“Doug said there are officials in our neighborhood and there are deadlines this morning for permits and insurance.”

“No,” Jenna said. “I don’t care. Without Caleb we don’t have a home. Our home is here.” Jenna jabbed her thumb to her heart. “Where we are. And we’ll put it back together when we have him.”

“Jen.” Blake got down on one knee before her. “I know. We all want Caleb back more than anything. But we have to go. They need both our signatures and there are things there we’ll want to keep, things belonging to Caleb.”

Tears streamed down Jenna’s face, then she felt the small strong warmth of Cassie’s arms around her.

“Don’t cry, Mommy.”

Garrett and Blake sat up front in the rented SUV.

Jenna and Holly sat in the back holding Cassie’s hands as they drove to the south end of the Metroplex and into Lancaster.

They lived in One Mile River estates, a family neighborhood of modest bungalows on curving kid-friendly streets sheltered by tall green ash and cottonwoods. But Jenna’s first thought when they neared One Mile was that they’d taken a wrong turn.

This isn’t it.

She couldn’t recognize the community. Everything was flattened.

A Lancaster police car and a couple of city emergency vehicles were posted at a barricade blocking the entrance to the street where Jenna and Blake lived. Beyond it, nothing but a wasteland of rubble.

“Sorry,” a police officer said. “Access is restricted. Only residents with permits can enter, or emergency people or press.”

“My wife and I are residents,” Blake said.

“Okay, then this is what you’ll have to do.”

Blake had to show acceptable proof of residency, such as his driver’s license, to a city official in a truck nearby. The official issued the Coopers a temporary permit for access to their address and advised them to assess and record the damage. Other officials in fluorescent vests emerged and directed them on recovery, noting that most insurance companies had adjusters on-site. There was talk about inspections, the replacement process, applying for living expenses, insurance forms, requirements, deadlines and all available services from groups like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army.

“There’s no gas, no water and no electricity, so make sure you have flashlights and your cell phones are charged,” one official said. “And as you see on the permit, there’s a curfew.”

Garrett had thought to bring a flashlight if they needed it. Blake had ensured they charged phones at night at the hotel. Once they were set, they began walking in but had trouble locating their home.

Their neighborhood was obliterated, street signs and landmarks were gone. The trees had been shredded, stripped, uprooted, leaving jagged pronglike branches spearing the sky, reminiscent of images found in footage of a war zone.

Cars had been flipped and crumpled, like emptied soda cans, roofs had been torn from houses; some homes were severed, exposing bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms. Furniture had been tossed to lawns that resembled landfill sites with debris everywhere. The air smelled of damp earth, garbage, backed-up sewers and loss.