We cancelled our trip twice until in exasperation, my son exclaimed, "I’ve stretched my working hours so I can spend a few days with you; you cannot be calling me to say that you’ve postponed your trip – again?"
When I told him of our uncertainties including the others that were fed to us, he laughed and said, "Mom, when your time is up – it’s up! Whether you’re at home, at the tiangge, eating bagels, drinking coffee or stringing beads!"
He was right. After all, I’ve lectured him so many times on kismet (fate) and the law of probabilities so why should this trip be any different? Coyly, I called up the travel agent, woozy from all the spinning we had done to our itinerary, to make a final, no-more-amendments, booking.
Why the high anxiety? It is not as if we were visiting a troubled spot in Kabul, Tel Aviv or Baghdad; we were in fact off to visit our son who was working on the East Coast in freedom-loving USA.
Except, it was on the East Coast where three states had been the focus of attention of the media and the world. Virginia, Maryland and Washington DC had been the target of carnage of a gun-toting, trigger-happy sniper on the loose!
He had shot, killed or maimed 11 victims and the thought of him reaching number 13 with my head as his easy target sent chills down my spine. For the first time, thousands of residents were caught in a web of terror leaving them vulnerable and defenseless. The sniper chose his victims as randomly as his deranged mind allowed.
Still, my son’s viewpoint prevailed.
On a stopover in Los Angeles, news broke that victim No. 12 was struck down. "Okay. That’s it. We are staying put in LA!" exclaimed my husband. As if on cue, the phone rang. It was our son ringing from Washington DC, full of excitement and anticipation. We couldn’t find the heart to tell him that we were just about to retrace our steps and/or succumb to our jelly nerves!
Our son booked us on the domestic carrier, Jetblue, all new, therefore safer than most, boasting a fleet of spunky aircraft with facilities like wide and soft leather seats (ah! smell that genuine leather), individual TV monitors with a choice of 15 channels, big and spacious lavatories and a lean but efficient flight crew who served a variety of drinks and gourmet snacks without losing their sense of fun and humor.
The handsome Dulles Airport in Virginia was busy. Everybody seemed to move as normally as possible – at least those were the vibes that I felt. Although my son kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel, I knew that his ears were tuned to the radio, alert for any late-breaking news. When he offered to take us to one of his "watering holes" for supper, we quickly agreed.
Over hot soup and a big heap of salad and gnocchi pasta, my son asked, "What do you want to see first, Mom?" Hesitantly, I replied, "Ah, can we go to Michael’s?" My son’s reaction was curt and snappy. "No way!"
I was pushing my luck, of course. Michael’s was the nationwide hobby and craft store that figured prominently in the sniper attacks. The first victim was standing outside a Michael’s store and the initial profile of the sniper made reference to his distorted penchant for targeting victims near or next to Michael’s.
Can you imagine the havoc that created on the store’s sales, projected and actual? The store was moving stocks and inventory for Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas and they needed a sniper like a hole in the head! Everyone avoided a Michael’s store, literally for fear of life.
Virginia, Maryland and Washington DC boast beautiful homes in quiet, peaceful, friendly neighborhoods full of those cookie or macaroni and cheese-baking residents. Houses were not bolted. Most had open, manicured lawns with the front door in full view. Gardens were gaily decked with pumpkins, goblins, witches and scare crows, all set for Halloween and the only ones they were meant to menace were the wild squirrels out on the yard.
There was, however, a heightened sense of caution and nervous whispering. Self-service gasoline stations were deserted. Playgrounds, parks, school grounds, any open space for that matter, felt eerily quiet, like witnessing a bomb scare; there was a marked absence of activity, life and people. Although grocery stores were busy, shoppers were not leisurely checking for bargains but doubling their steps to finish their list to get back home. If one were outdoors, there was a conscious effort to take cover but not without making a sweeping, upward gaze towards tall buildings and glass windows. The sniper could be in any one of those windows. And worst, he could be aiming his high-powered rifle on any one of us!
"The sniper strikes every 10 or 13 days," I heard someone say. I made a harried calculation. If he followed that timetable, he would strike any time now!
A slow, steady stream of electrical pulses rushed through my head giving me a surreal, ballooning sensation. It was that grip of fear. My mother described it as a feeling of lumalaki ang ulo, or the head figuratively expanding twice or thrice its size, ready to burst from the surge of stress and tension.
The sniper left a telephone number and in a studied and calculated show of daring, the police chief made a public announcement for the sniper to communicate with them. A sign that in this area described in Time magazine as "scarred by terrorist attacks," little has been spared in the search for the killer.
The authorities were stealthily gathering evidence, conducting surveillance and comparing assault and criminal data.
In a dramatic photo of a dragnet, the shadowy figures of a tightly-assembled line of policemen were seen scoring a portion of a Virginia gas station, inch by inch using flashlights, each man doggedly serious about gathering the minutest evidence or clue.
One thing was certain: the noose was tightening on the killer.
Unavoidably, my son had to gas up, leaving us no choice but to drive to the nearest petrol station. We kept all the windows pulled up and locked, mindful of any unusual movement, any loud bang or explosion. No one stayed outdoors longer than necessary. Every second that my son "exposed" himself, I matched it with seconds spent in silent prayer: "spare him, protect him." Much as it was easier to condition the mind for the worst, there was also an inner voice that provided comfort in the recitation of Psalm 91 – "Safe in the Lord."
Back in my son’s flat, I was busy preparing sandwiches in the kitchen when the 13th victim fell. He was a school bus driver who stood outside his bus waiting for the next shift. He didn’t even finish his steaming cup of coffee.
One more night of being petrified made us security and bullet-paranoid weary. I swear we couldn’t keep this up much longer.
An escalating fear cut through my chest as the sniper made his latest threat: "Your children are not safe. I am out to harm them!"
Luckily, my son was able to take off for a few days so he drove us to New York to unwind and literally let our guard down. It was a refreshing break. Broadway shows, shopping in SoHo and meals at Chinatown (try this delicious lychee ice cream, not sherbet, from the only Chinese ice cream factory in that area) not to mention the bargain finds at Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, Sak’s, etc. We momentarily forgot about the sniper and his diabolical methods.
While packing our overnight duffel bag, a news flash caught our attention: "Two suspects were caught in a rest stop outside Washington..."
Did you hear that? They caught the snipers (a father and an adopted son tandem)!
It took the state authorities approximately three weeks to crack the case. The reign of terror had ended. My son had no doubt that they would catch the killers.
People hung banners and streamers thanking the entire police force and the other agencies for their concerted effort. Volunteer groups like the Guardian Angels of New York all packed their bags to return home. The children can finally celebrate Halloween without looking up or behind their backs. Everybody went back to his or her normal life basking in the glory of freedom "regained."
For a visitor like me, I was also happy to exhale. More importantly, I was truly grateful that I lived to write this piece.