The house comes alive with activity. Twenty tattooed Snakehead gang members run to remove furniture, carpets, and trash. Sister Chi supervises the loading of the two semitrailers that pull into Captain Hobartson Avenue in front of the impressive old home. Seven of the biggest and strongest men cart the heavy items into the first trailer, and four specially picked women and men move the girls out to the second van and place them on futon mats on the floor. There are pots to hold night water and night soil, and a tub of plastic water bottles. In an hour, the floor is packed with sleeping girls still dressed in their best party dresses.
“Please to be most careful with that one,” Sister Chi says pointing at Brigit O’Hanlon. “A Brunei prince already reserved her. He is crazy excited because he saw all the pictures on the TV when he was in France. Has to have that one. Nobody touches her.”
She looks directly at Senping Bo as she orders, “You make sure she is still intact when she get to Brunei. Worth half a mil, American, intact, and only about a thousand a pop if not. Terrible loss and waste. Bad business. Bad joss. And very bad for you if she not in good shape. You understand me alla way, Senping?”
He nods. Besides his fear of the infamous and secretive Snakehead leader and her reputation for death by special Chinese tortures, he will get a two percent bonus from what the billionaire pays for the beautiful and angelic child. Maybe, once he is done with her, Bo can have a try. Sometimes it happens, he remembers. Can’t be hasty, though. Not with Sister Chi and all her spies.
Both truck-trailers are blank grey, except for letters on the side advertising: “WONDER BREAD, Builds Strong Bodies 8 Ways.” The trucks with their out-of-date logos were chosen for the very fact that the company went bankrupt in 2004, and there is no way to trace these semitrailers left in a postbankruptcy holding yard. The license plates are for Virginia, and were stolen from trucks parked in an interstate truck service center in Maine. Sister Chi thinks of everything. By four in the morning, both trucks are fully loaded, and Sister Chi and Zhuoru make a final inspection of the house. It is spotless.
“Sure there is no possible fingerprinting left, Zhuoru?” she asks.
He turns to number three—Ping Hui Lian—the intense and now sweating older woman who serves the Snakeheads under Sister Chi as the science expert. She is in charge of removing all forensic evidence and for the medical care of cargo, such as the seventy-eight virgins, for whom she now has primary responsibility. She is not one for many words.
“Is clean,” Ping says. “Girls ready to go.”
Before five—while it is still almost pitch dark—the two semis and Sister Chi’s 2020 Mercedes-Benz GL Class SUV pull across the Carroll Crossing Bridge and on out of Red Hook. It has been a flawless operation; and, for all the risks, it promises to be most lucrative. Sister Chi is pleased.
The route from New York City to the Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal docks in Newark, New Jersey, has been meticulously planned. Two Snakeheads have practiced the route dozens of times over the past ten days to be sure there are no hitches. Sister Chi’s only concern is that the ship’s captain is not one of hers—just a Fujian businessman whose family now resides in Fuzhou—the capital and largest city of Fujian—under the loving protection of the Snakeheads. That gives the captain, Shi Ning, of the Golden Traveler—built in 1961 and traveling under Panamanian registry—a strong incentive to maintain security, take care in the delivery of the delicate cargo, and remember who controls him.
Once he leaves the PNCT [Port Newark Container Terminal] where the ship is berthed, he will travel a circuitous route to the Quanzhou Port in the southern Fujian province, People’s Republic of China. The port faces the Taiwan Strait and was anciently the starting point of the Maritime Silk Road. Once there, the Wednesday’s Children—like thousands before them—will disappear into the teeming oblivion of the mysterious east. Quanzhou is a very important transport hub within south eastern Fujian province. Many export industries in the Fujian interior cities transport goods to and from Quanzhou ports. Quanzhou is called “The Most Charming City in China,” which, of course, will not apply to the girls. From the interior of Fujian province, they will disappear in all directions to serve sex vacationers from Europe and India, slavers and panderers in Muslim countries, and in brothels in China’s islands, Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam, and finally as drudges and receptacles in filthy cribs in Eastern Europe. Most of them will be addicted in a year and dead before they reach twenty-five. No matter, they will be replaced on a regular basis.
Sister Chi’s caravan makes its way out of Saint Mary’s Parish through winding streets to create confusion for anyone who might possibly be observing them. They make a stop in the parking lot of the Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help on 59th Street in Brooklyn, check on how the girls are doing, then drive northwest toward 5th Avenue and turn onto the 6th. The drivers communicate by cell phone. They all believe they are free of observers, then they turn onto Erik Place and merge into the early morning traffic onto I-278 West headed towards via Staten Island and New Jersey.
The dragon lady has thought of everything. During the planning stage of the kidnapping, she dispatched a female Snakehead operative—Wang Feng—to buy toll road passes; so, the semis would not have to be bothered at toll booths. They breeze through and make good time.
The ever-wary Sister Chi begins to become a bit paranoid as daylight begins to suffuse the sky.
“Pull into the big Exxon truck stop on 28th and go around to the back. I’ve got a bad sense about traveling in these trucks during the day. We’ll wait there until dark,” she orders.
The drivers comply knowing that it will be a long, boring day; and the girls will likely start to awaken and could become noisy. But when Sister Chi gives an order, nobody balks.
To avoid drawing attention, Sister Chi has her minions wash the trucks and take turns getting food and drink for the Snakeheads. It would draw unwanted attention to them to obtain enough food for the girls. They can go a day or two without being fed. Won’t hurt them a bit. Western girls are too fat, anyway.
Brigid O’Hanlon is the first of the girls to begin to arouse from her stupor. It is confusing. All she sees are the bleak walls of the semitrailer at first. As the cobwebs clear, she becomes aware that she is lying on a mattress on the floor; and all of her thirteen-year-old girl classmates are lying there in serried rows as well. The sights and smells of the semi and the throbbing of the traffic on the outside of the semi do not compute at first. She should be waking up in her bed in the nice Chinese lady’s house. What is going on?
It is nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and Brigid realizes that she is hungry. Her mouth is dry. It is frightening. Where is Sister Ophelia? Where is the sweet pygmy girl who tucked her into bed? Where are we?
By late afternoon, all of the girls are awake, and many of them are crying. Unfriendly Chinese men tell them to “shut up,” which is a word they are forbidden to say; it is impolite and is referred to as the “s” word. The nuns are insistent that the girls are too polite to use the “s” word, but now they are hearing it over and over again.
Brigid is braver than the others.
She asks one of the Chinese men, “We’re hungry. Can you get us some food?”
His reply is a terse, “Shut up.”
She starts to sit up and tries to stand. Her legs feel unsteady. The Chinese man—the one covered with ugly tattoos—pushes her down.
“Stay in your place, or I’ll smack you,” he says with a threatening grimace.
Brigid feels like crying but does not want to give him the satisfaction. She lies back down and tries to think.
After several hours of darkness, the trailers begin to move again. It is uncomfortable on the floor, and the girls are crying and snuffling. They have learned better than to ask for anything from the adults. They are mean and uncaring. Brigid starts a whisper chain from her futon trying to reassure the other girls. She is now very hungry and knows that all of them are feeling the pangs. She is
now awake enough to realize that all of this is wrong. Although it is completely outside her life’s experience, this is ugly. And there is a word for it—she has been kidnapped. Instead of succumbing to panic, Brigid tries to think of how to escape. She knows she needs to occupy her mind with useful thoughts; so, she can help herself and the other Wednesday’s Girls. What would Sister Ophelia do?
They travel all night in what seems to be circles with many turns, stops, and jerky starts, which bounce the girls around uncomfortably. They stop again. Brigid reckons that this must be Friday—maybe even Saturday—since she is unsure how long she was asleep that first night and half a day at least. There is another long stop, then the rear doors of the semis open and let in a blinding flash of sunlight. Many of the girls are humiliated because they could not hold their bladders or even their bowels. The truck is beginning to stink. Many Chinese persons carrying guns herd the girls out of their trucks and into different ones. Brigid notices that the trailer they are leaving has a sign saying it is for some kind of bread she never heard of—Wonder Bread. The semitrailer into which they are being herded is older, smaller, and has no sign on its side. She tries to memorize the license plate numbers but is being pushed along so quickly that all she can do is to see that the next set of semis carry Delaware plates.
“We’re hungry, and we have to go to the bathroom,” Brigid says. She is sure her bladder will burst, and she will not be able to hold it.
“Shut up,” she hears and feels a gun barrel hit her hard in the back.
Then something strange happens. The Chinese lady walks up to the man who hit her and strikes the man across his face with a black police wand.
“No marks. Especially on this one,” the Chinese lady says. “Too valuable a piece of property. You unnerstan’, fool?”
Then the shy little girls are herded out of the trucks and out into a field where they all have to squat in front of each other.
The new trucks and their human cargoes drive out of the huge busy K&T Conoco truck stop and onto I-278. It is raining and visibility is limited, which Sister Chi considers to be a plus.
“Take the I-95 North exit on the left—the toll road,” she orders, and both semis leave the interstate and merge onto I-95 N.
“Now, take exit 13A.”
“To Newark Liberty Airport/Elizabeth Seaport?”
“Yes, watch for it. The exit is only half a mile.”
They merge onto New Jersey-81 going north and once again pay a toll. Having to slow down or even stop at each toll booth annoys Sister Chi and causes her concern about the potential to be recorded on web cams.
“Take exit onto North Avenue E,” she orders.
The drivers keep right and move slowly through the downpour onto Avenue E.
“Keep left at the fork.”
The drivers follow the signs for Ikea Drive.
“Keep on the Elizabeth Seaport-North Avenue E.”
Sister Chi has done her homework and directs them unerringly towards the port.
“McLester Street, then almost immediately take a left onto Rangoon Street.”
“Half a mile, then go off onto Corbin Street and take the next right—Tyler Street.”
“Good boys. Now, make a quick right onto Tyler Street, then immediately turn right onto Mohawk Street.”
The girls are being bounced around on the bed of the trailer, and a dozen of them begin to vomit from the many twists and turns of the semi. The stench in the trailer is becoming almost unbearable. Brigid holds the littlest girl, Ingrid O’Malley, on her lap as she cries from the pain of retching, the hunger pangs, the frightening thirst, and the psychological trauma.
“This too shall pass,” Brigid says, remembering what the sisters always say when a child has a bad day.
“Turn right onto Calcutta Street and look for the container terminal. It’s 241 Calcutta Street.”
“Got it,” say the two drivers almost at once. “What do you want us to do?”
“Find the Golden Traveler.”
Early light is beginning to appear and the rain is slackening, which makes Sister Chi more anxious. Exposure is becoming more likely.
“Hurry it up, you slackers,” she demands.
“There,” the lead driver says. “Third one—the rust bucket.”
Captain Shi Ning and his first mate are standing on the dock in their bright red 66° North Odin Heavy Duty Rain Bibs and jackets, feeling miserable waiting for Sister Chi and her cargo. The nasty weather conditions have insured that no one from the Port Newark Container Terminal building has paid the trucks or the activity down by the Golden Traveler any mind.
Sister Chi issues orders. To her chief lieutenant in the Snakeheads, Zhuoru Guo Meng, she says, “Get the brats chained up and into the ship’s hold.”
He takes four men, and they enter the semitrailers. They are very efficient, owing to years of experience. Each girl is forced to stand even though several of them require assistance from the other girls due to their weakened condition. The Chinese carefully attach a metal ring collar around each girl’s neck and lock it into place. The girls are linked with chains attached to welded rings on the collars and marched off the trucks and into the ship’s hold in groups of twelve. The collars are wound with foam rubber and silk to avoid marking up the little girls’ necks. Can’t have that. Brigid and six other older and larger girls each help support a smaller, weaker, and sicker girl to save them from blows from the Chinese. The girls are herded into the cavernous hold—half of which is packed with large metal cargo crates—and relieved of their neck shackles
“Sit,” Zhuoru orders. He explains about the buckets for holding the girls’ excretions and orders, “Not to spill. Makee bad mess. Get beating.”
Several of the girls have begun to menstruate and have nothing to care for themselves, which adds to the misery and smells of urine-soaked dresses and body odors.
Brigid faces the possibility of being beaten and asks, “We are starving … dying of thirst. Give us something. Please, we beg you.”
“Shut up,” Zhuoru responds. “You troublemaker. Better you not make trouble. I get good MREs and some water bottles. You not talk more.”
It takes two hours, but at last, servings of precious water and cold, dry MREs arrive. Thirteen-year-old girls are resilient, and the food and water revives them. They are left alone in the dim light of the ship’s hold because the slavers are certain that there is no escape.
Chapter Ten
June 4–8, 2020
Detective First Grade Martin Redworth and Candace Bailey are all ears when Mildred Franklin—the secretary of the Carroll Gardens Saint Mary’s Star of the Sea Church on Court Street—begins her description. She is one of the women who helped set up the party for the girls at the Captain Hobartson Avenue mansion four days previously and is determined to be of help as soon as she hears about the Amber Alert.
“I was hoping you would come and see me, Detective. I’m glad you are involved in the search, too, Mrs. Bailey. Good to know that we have good Catholics on the job. I think I can give you some information. I do so hope it will be useful to bring back our precious girls from Saint Anne’s.”
“What did you see, Mrs. Franklin?”
The elderly woman is surprisingly lucid and coherent even though she is excited by the police and activity.
“I don’t sleep well now that I have gotten older, Detective. I was awake at my usual time—about three or four in the morning. I was just about to take an Ambien to see if I could get another four or five hours of sleep.”
“What day was that, Ma’am?”
“Last Wednesday … the first or second I think.”
“Wednesday was the third, Mrs. Franklin,” Candace says.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. But, actually, what I saw that could matter was in the very early morning of fourth then. I don’t know if that is important. Anyway, what I saw was two big trucks—the kind with trailers on them.”
“Semis?” Martin asks.
&nb
sp; “Yes, sir. They were Wonder Bread trucks. I remember that because it has been ages since I have seen an ad for Wonder Bread. I used to love that bread. My husband used to call it ‘goo-bread,’ and I recalled the kind he liked, ‘cardboard.’ Sorry, I’m getting off track. Old age, I guess. The trailer things were white—kind of a dirty white—and I remember the Wonder Bread sign because it had those cute balloons as part of it.”
“About what time was that, again, Mrs. Franklin?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but it was between three and four. What I do remember was that there was a big crew of men—maybe Chinese people—loading something into the back. I checked my clock. They drove away at exactly five minutes after five.”
“That was good. Did you, by any chance, catch a license plate number?”
“I feel real bad. I didn’t think to do that. But the licenses were from Virginia. I thought that was strange, this being New York and all.”
“Anything else you saw or that you remember?”
“Seeing the Chinese people that night made me think that the lady who owns the house … Mrs. Chin … no, Mrs. Chang—that’s it—is Chinese. Maybe she knows something about all of this.”
“Maybe she does,” Martin says. “Think you could give our police sketch artist an idea of what she looks like?”
“Oh, dear, do you think she has something to do with our missing little girls, Detective?”
“Not sure. But we have to check out everything.”
“You go right ahead and get one of them sketch artists, just like they do on TV. I will do my level best.”
Redworth calls Mary Margaret at 1 Police Plaza and tells her what he and Candace Bailey have learned. She dispatches a sketch artist to Mrs. Franklin’s house and starts a search on AutoTrack to try and find leads about Mrs. Chang at the Captain Hobartson Avenue address. That proves to be a complete loss. There are more Changs in the New York phone book than there are Joneses. Nothing comes of that lead, but then Mary Margaret did not really think there would. The sketch of Mrs. Chang, along with one that comes from the DCIA’s daughter, Cerisse, and her husband, Drake, is printed by the bale; and the Catholic legions start a blitz of getting the posters out into every neighborhood, shopping center, church, and on almost every telephone pole in the five boroughs.
Wednesday’s Child Page 6