“¡Y esto que escuchaste es lo nuevo que llega hoy, aquí en tu estación, K-F-W-B, La Mera Mera nueve-ochenta AM, dondesuena lo mejor de la música regional Mexicana y tus éxitos favoritos del momento!”
Keeping her eyes on the road, Thelma fussed with the radio dial, attempting to get back to the familiar #1 hit that had haunted the stations for a while.
Trumpets flourished over the stereo. Thelma winced, splitting her attention between the radio and the possibility of other cars suddenly appearing before her. For a moment, she forgot where she was driving.
“¡Permanece sintonizado para más de tus artistas preferidos como Banda MS, Calibre 50 y Gerardo Ortiz… ¡aquí, en La Mera Mera nueve-ochenta, tu estación completa!”
“I don’t speak Spanish…” Thelma gave up, looking out both her window and the passenger side. All she saw was gray. Gray, blackened dense fog that sent a terrible chill down her spine, despite her coat and handkerchief.
As a very upbeat instrumental track played through her radio, Thelma attempted to keep it together, hoping that she wasn’t too anxious to make it to the market parking lot. Heck, she’d be happy to make it therealiveat this rate!
Something appeared before her. She slammed the brakes, shrieking.
It was a man in khaki pants, a black windbreaker, and holding some kind of device up to his head as he approached Thelma in her Impala.
Lights shone on her from every direction.
More men in the same outfits, carrying the same devices, surrounded her.
Giant black vans. Police cars. Some unmarked.
Bright red and blue flashing lights.
Thelma’s gloved hands flung off her wheel, covering her face as she held back a primal scream of fear. The men—and women?—in their frightening outfits chattered to each other, somestaring at her Impala and writing things down in notepads as others put up caution tape up and down the street.
Gradually, the fog faded. The lights remained.
And so did the people, with one man coming up to her driver's side window and rapping his knuckles on the glass.
The only reason Thelma rolled down her window was because she recognized the big yellow letters emblazoned on his windbreaker:FBI.
“Turn off the ignition, please!”
Thelma gaped at the man with a clean-shaven face and a large flashlight in his hand. He shook it in her direction, the bright light occasionally shining directly in her face and blinding her in ways the fog had not.
“Ma’am!” He pointed to her wheel. “Ignition! Off!Please!Comprende Ingles?”
Even Thelma knew his Spanish accent was atrocious, but what else could she do? She had to turn off the ignition and hope that any of this made sense!
As the Mexican music suddenly cut off from the so-called KFWB station, Thelma kept her hands on the steering wheel and stared up into the imposing features of a man she could not quite place.
Helookedlike an FBI agent. Or, at least, she thought he did. But there was something off about him.The glasses.In a single moment, she glanced between his plain eyeglasses and the material of his jacket. And the gun at his hip! She had never seen anything like it!
Her adrenaline was peaking. Whatever was going on, Thelma knew her life was changed.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
Another man—a younger agent—came up beside the first and leaned against the roof of the Impala. Thelma still didn’t quite feel safe, but she relaxed a little, a lump still in her throat.
“Th… Thelma.” She swallowed. “Thelma Van der Graaf.”
“You got any identification on you, Ms. Van der Graaf?”
She fished for her purse, which remained in the center of the passenger seat. “It’s missus,” she muttered. When she turned around, wallet in hand, she realized the younger man had disappeared.
“THELMA VAN DER GRAAF!”Her name echoed across every person in the distance.“CAN I GET A MISSING PERSON’S ON THELMA VAN DER GRAAF? 1958 CHEVY IMPALA!”
“This is all I have,” she softly said as she handed over her paper driver’s license. “Is something wrong, sir? I was just on my way to the market, and…”
