Carol Steward - Shield Of Refuge

While history told her to mind her own business, the new faith she’d found in God told her this wasn’t what it looked like. God, what should I do?

She quickly replayed the incident in her mind. She realized she’d never seen an officer cover someone’s mouth. He was crazy to use a bare hand. His uniform looked like those on the costume racks in her shop: baggy enough to fit any build, light, flimsy fabric to go over a coat or sweatshirt. And he didn’t have a gun belt or radio, or any of the official-looking things Amber remembered from when police visited the dorms.

Her heart seemed to be following her racing brain, trying to keep pace. She was breathing fast. She looked over her shoulder as the police officer pulled the bubble light into the car and sped away.

Be with that girl, God. Protect her….

After several encounters with the police in her freshman year, she really didn’t like talking to the police. She had to call. But what would she say? If it was police brutality, would they even believe her, or would they accuse her of false reporting? Were the underage drinking charges, fake ID and running from the police still on her record?

Just call, before it’s too late, she told herself. She found her phone, dialed 911 and pressed the send button before she chickened out again.

I can’t let this happen. I can stop him from hurting her.

She backed out of the diagonal parking space trying to juggle her phone and shift gears, hoping she could find the car and help the woman. She glanced around. Not seeing it, she pressed the speaker phone.

“911 operator, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m outside the Victorian Inn just off the University Campus. I just saw a police officer push a woman into an unmarked car. Only I don’t think he’s really an officer.”

The woman didn’t respond, and Amber wondered if they’d been disconnected. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m sending an officer to check it out,” the woman said, slightly rattled. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t think he saw me.”

Her mind was playing games with her. Like the e-mail she’d received this afternoon with the geometric designs. The designs had been spinning like a pinwheel in a tornado, which was supposedly a sign of intense stress. The design hadn’t been moving at all.

She had blown off the psychological analysis of the e-mail as nothing more than an optical illusion.

Now here she was witnessing a crime and calling the cops. Seeing a police officer pushing a woman into an unmarked car just wasn’t right. The police were going to think she’d lost her mind. Right now, she would agree.

She started to hang up, then thought again about the girl.

Of course she was right to call the police. She’d already missed her chance to stop the assault. Maybe it wasn’t too late….

“What is your current location?” The operator pulled Amber’s attention back to the bizarre events that she’d just witnessed.

“I’m at—” she had to rethink her delivery instructions “—The Victorian Inn is on University and…Elm. I delivered a cake there,” she started to explain before realizing that wasn’t important. “The crime happened there, now the car is a few blocks ahead of me. He turned on Maple.” She pressed on the gas. “When I came out…of the inn, I mean…I heard a man ordering a young woman to get out of her car. They struggled, and then she just went limp and he stuffed her into the backseat and took off.”

“Your name?”

“Amber…” Her past mistakes haunted her. It was too late to back away now. She took off after the car. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Amber, I’m sending officers to talk to you.”

“He’s turned again. He’s heading north on…just a minute, here comes a street sign.”

“He’s moving?” the operator squeaked, forcing calm to her voice. “Are you following him?”

“Yes, I told you, he drove away, with the girl…” Amber said, struggling with whether to speed up and catch them, or keep her distance. If she caught up to them, what then?

“Amber, did you get a license number before he took off?”

She pressed the gas. “Other than it was from here in Colorado, no, but I could catch up to him. Are you saying he really wasn’t an officer?”

“We’re still trying to determine that. I’ve dispatched any available units. Give me your current location, then pull to the side of the road and stop.”

“He just turned left on…Cherry Pit Avenue.”

Amber had already entered the intersection. She slowed down to make the turn. “Where’d he go?”

She glanced right and left searching for him. Sirens warbled from all directions. They’d probably scared him. Where could he have disappeared to in a residential area like this? She searched for open garages or alleys where he could have hidden.

The sirens were getting louder. She looked up just in time to see a silver vehicle cross in front of her. She slammed on the brakes and straightened her arms, pressing her hands into the steering wheel as she heard the crunch and scrape of her van hitting the back fender.

The SUV spun in slow motion, police lights flashing, sirens screeching. Then the silver vehicle tipped up on two wheels, flipped over to its roof and twirled like a top.

Amber screamed as her van fishtailed before coming to a stop at the opposite curb. “Oh, no…. I hit him! Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, please let him be okay. Let him be okay, please. Help! 911, send help, fast!”

The woman who had hit him jumped out of her van and ran toward his police cruiser. He smelled fumes, turned and saw gasoline flowing toward him.

Hanging upside down from the seatbelt, Garrett Matthews looked out the window to see a woman’s legs in black tights and black suede fashion boots. She kicked the shards of glass aside with her boots, then dropped to the ground, a black-and-turquoise patterned dress floating over her knees.

“You’ve got to get out. There’s gas gushing out all over,” she said frantically.

He glanced at her, disoriented, then pressed the button on the mike. “Dispatch, Officer four-six-three involved in two-car rollover accident at intersection of—” he glanced around “—where are we?” he said to the woman.

“Just get out of there!” she yelled. “I’m still on with 911, they’re sending help.” She took a deep breath and coughed from the fumes. “Come on, we need to get you out.”

He turned the key to off and removed it, handing it to the woman for safekeeping. She looked at it oddly, furrowing her brows.

What was he thinking?

Tugging on the seat belt strapping him upside down, Garrett struggled with the buckle to release. “It’s jammed.” He reached for the glove box, hoping to find an emergency kit. It was out of his reach. His knife was in his belt, securely trapped under the seat belt. “I need something sharp.”

“Just a minute.” She ran to the van and returned with a ten-inch serrated knife. The woman was gorgeous. She dropped to her knees and reached inside, directing the knife to the gray strap stretched across his chest.

His eyes opened wide and suddenly the fog lifted from his mind. “Aren’t you in enough trouble without threatening an officer? Give me that.”

“What?” She backed away. “I’m trying to save your life. I don’t mean to panic you, but gas is spilling—the car may blow up.”

“The car’s not going to blow up,” he insisted. “May I borrow your knife?” She hesitated, then handed it to him. He took the handle, and with a sawing motion he cut through the mesh strap and fell to the ground, landing on his head. “Why are you carrying a knife around in your car?”