On the other hand, how much did we really know?
I thought about the raw anger of the man who had boiled out of that trailer. We knew enough.
I sighed then began to speak. “You never met cousin Lucas’s parents, did you?”
Sam shook his head. “I’ve only met Lucas once.”
Of course. I’d avoided Lucas since before Sam and Brenna were born. Dad and Big Bill didn’t talk, not since Big Bill went to prison, and the kids didn’t need to be around that kind of life.
“I used to spend summers there when I was a kid. Right up until the late eighties. Out in the middle of nowhere in the woods.”
Sam looked puzzled. Like he wanted to ask what this had to do with anything. All I could do was keep talking.
“The reason you never met Big Bill—Lucas’s father—is because he’s in prison for murder. Way back when, when I was in middle school and high school, he used to beat his wife up sometimes. When we were younger, me and Lucas would hide. But one time, the last time I spent the summer there, he went after her. Busted her nose, and when Lucas tried to intervene he started to choke him. I knocked him out with a baseball bat.”
Sam gasped and said, “Holy shit!”
I didn’t bother to correct his language. “By that time, I hated spending summers there. I knew I was planning to go to Georgia Tech, and the only plans Lucas had post-high school were to deal drugs. But the thing was, they were so isolated, no one ever called the police. No one ever tried to get any—I don’t know—intervention. It was a long time ago. One day in 1991, Big Bill got drunk and went on a tear. Lucas was away from home, and there was no one to protect her. He strangled her.”
By the time I finished the story, we had reached the house. I turned the engine off but didn’t open my door just yet.
Sam looked distressed.
“I’m not saying that’s what’s going to happen. I’m not saying that happens in most abuse cases. But … it’s pretty rare that abuse gets better over time. Most of the time it gets worse. And—” I hesitated to continue.
I didn’t have to. Sam completed the sentence for me. “A lot of women die that way.”
“Yeah. Too many.”
“I don’t want to lose her,” Sam said, his tone despairing. “I haven’t been close to someone like that since Brenna. But I have to. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do what I could to protect her?”
Twenty-Two
Erin
My alarm went off at two a.m. I turned over, peeking at the alarm with one eye, and pressed the snooze button. Then my eyes closed again and I drifted away.
In my dream I was walking on a dark street late at night. Moonlight reflected off puddles, and shadowy figures seemed to hover just out of sight, obscured by swirling black smoke or fog. Across the street stood a huge pile of stones, a church, with peaked towers and a high doorway with a pointed arch. The doorway was sealed shut; a double wooden door with planks nailed into it to hold it closed. The paint peeled, red and green flecks scattered on the steps in front of the door.
Tendrils of fear twisted around my spine and nerves all the way down to my feet. I approached the church and walked around the side of it, my feet knocking aside beer bottles and wrappers and paper. In the parking lot I saw a used condom. In the darkness, almost out of sight, a huge black SUV.
No sooner did I see it than I was standing at the fogged window, looking in. I couldn’t see anything at first, but then I saw the glowing green lamps of the dashboard softly illuminating the interior. Nothing … then I felt, more than heard, a thump.
My daughter appeared, hands pressed against the glass, her face in the window. She looked twelve, her hair still cut with bangs and long over her shoulders. She wore blue overalls, blue overalls that made me want to cry out and scream, because I remembered the overalls, with their High School Musical logo. She’d refused to change out of them, sometimes for days at a time.
I grabbed at the car door, trying to yank it open, but it was locked. I screamed and pounded on the glass.
A dark figure appeared from behind her. Huge, imposing, but ill-defined, more of a cloud than a man, it grabbed her around her waist and pulled her away from the glass with the ease of plucking a dandelion.
Brenna screamed and struggled, her arms and legs flailing ineffectually, and the faceless man looked out at me with nothing but a grin. The SUV pulled away slowly as I screamed, scrabbling against the metal and glass trying to tear it open with my bare fingers.
She was gone.
I woke up with a scream, suddenly sitting up, my hair gripped in my fingers. I struggled to take a breath, my hand pressed against my pounding chest, and I suppressed the whine that wanted to force its way out of my throat. My face and hair were damp with sweat.
I looked at the clock. Shit. It was 2:25. I’d planned on being on my way by now. I got out of bed and threw on clothes. I’d get a shower later. I grabbed a stack of flyers, my phone and car keys, and stepped outside. It was chilly, but not cold, and the rain had stopped. The ground was still wet, puddles in the parking lot reflecting the streetlights.
Before I let the hotel room door close behind me, I scanned the area. At the end of the row of hotel room doors, two men sat in plastic lawn chairs smoking and talking quietly. Both of them wore jeans and T-shirts, and the larger of the two had a round belly that he rested his hands on. He chuckled at something the other man said. Neither of them took any notice of me. No one else was in sight.
I gripped my car key in my hand. I’d already established yesterday that the remote didn’t work. In four quick steps, I walked to the car, my eyes scanning everywhere, especially the two men, as I unlocked the door of the car, threw my things inside, and got in. I didn’t breathe again until the doors were locked.
Neither of the men had looked up or paid any attention as far as I could tell.
My hope was tenuous. The night before I had searched through the regional discussion board on the UtopiaGuide, one of the many discussion boards where so-called mongers compared notes on sexual services, strippers, and prostitution.
Sometimes the self-righteousness and ignorance of the men on those boards filled me with rage. They called themselves hobbyists and mongers and expressed no concern at all for the welfare of the women they exploited. They shared photos of the women and stories of their exploits, all of it completely in the open on the Internet.
I had, however, gained important knowledge from the board. Several posters on the Portland discussion board had commented that recent law enforcement activity had driven the appearance of street prostitutes into later and later hours, between two and five in the morning.
I had mapped out my routes after struggling to decode the half-disguised stories of the men on the board. They were trying to tell each other where and how to find sex. I was hoping to use their information to find my daughter.
First I drove down the broad boulevard past the diner, the strip club, and the police station. Dark houses, some of them with boarded up windows, were interspersed on both sides with used car dealerships, pawn shops, dry cleaners. In the darkness on the right, overlooking a dirty parking lot, was a billboard with the words, Jesus: Your Only Way To God. Three blocks further on the left was the church where Brenna had been arrested.
Half a block before the church, across the street from me, I spied a woman walking in the darkness. From behind, all I could see was her dark shoulder-length hair. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and other than the fact that it was a time of night when you rarely saw women walking alone in the darkness, there was no indication of what she was doing.
But then it was clear enough. A car rolled slowly past her and she turned and waved. I slowed almost to a crawl as I saw the woman approach the car. Now I could see her face. She looked as if she were in her thirties or forties, with deep furrows on both sides of her mouth. Her expression was devoid of any emotion. The car slowed long enough for the driver to get a good look at her, then it sped up and drove awa
y. The woman screamed and cursed at the driver.
There was the church. It wasn’t the huge stone edifice I had seen in my dream; instead, it was a simple brick structure. I turned left, pulling into the driveway and sweeping my headlights across the parking lot where Brenna had been arrested.
No one was there. I sighed. It’s not that I had any expectation I would find her here, but maybe deep inside I had hoped it would be that simple. That I could drive here, pick her up. and take her home.
I turned around, pulling to the end of the driveway. I put on my blinker but didn’t pull out, because the woman was approaching rapidly.
As she approached, I rolled down the passenger side window.
“Hey, baby,” she slurred. “You looking for a date?” Then she got a good look at my face, and said, “Sorry…”
She must not have realized I was a woman.
“Wait.” I scrabbled for one of the flyers. “Hey, wait … have you seen this girl?”
The woman looked terrified. She started to back away, and I called out, “Wait … please! I’m not a cop. I won’t hurt you. I’m just looking for my daughter.”
She looked around. Looking for her pimp? Who knew. She approached the car and leaned close. I held the flyer out to her.
As the woman studied the picture, I looked at her. She was younger than I had initially thought. It was hard to tell. She was missing some teeth and had a nasty scar on one side of her face. A tattoo on her forearm, in stylized lettering, read Property of Poppa Jake. I shuddered. Was that her boyfriend? A pimp? Was it like a cattle brand?
“I ain’t seen her. She don’t work this area.”
I sighed. “She was arrested next to the church three weeks ago. In the parking lot.”
The woman’s eyes darted up from the flyer to me. “I’m out here most days, but not all. If she’s been working the block, she’s either new or part-time. Or an indoor ho, out here to make her quota.”
Indoor ho. That meant a girl who worked out of hotels or the Internet, not the street.
I winced at her words. “You’re sure?” I said.
“Told ya, didn’t I? Why you wasting my time?”
My heart was breaking. This woman might be twenty-five or might be forty-five. But she was somebody’s daughter. She might have been just like Brenna years ago. I said, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Or … anything?”
“Crazy bitch,” the woman muttered. She stalked away into the darkness.
I took a breath, trying to get ahold of myself. The blinking clock on the dashboard said it was five minutes after three. I took a right turn out of the church and drove exactly the speed limit. A hundred yards ahead of me, a BMW changed lanes suddenly, pulling up to the curb in front of a white-haired woman. This woman wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt and jeans … she wore a tight mini-skirt and a crop top that exposed her belly, with a bra that pushed her breasts high. She tottered toward the BMW on her six-inch heels and leaned close, speaking rapidly with whoever was in the car. Then she got in. The brake lights went off and the car took off in a hurry.
Another woman, just past there. I was almost at the police station. This woman was African American, also dressed in revealing clothes, her bronzed hair trailing all the way down to her butt. I pulled up beside her.
“Hey…” As soon as she saw me inside the car, she started to walk briskly down the sidewalk away from me.
“Wait!” I called out. “I’m not a cop. I’m looking for someone. Maybe you’ve seen her?”
“Ain’t seen nobody,” the woman said. I had to take my foot off the brakes and let the car drift forward to keep up.
“Please just take a look? It’s my daughter. Please?”
The woman stopped. She swung toward the car and held out a hand. I passed her the flyer through the passenger side window. She stared at it, a frown on her face. Finally she said, “Might have seen her. Once or twice in the last month. Never before.”
My heart started to thump. “Where—where did you see her?”
“Walking the track. She got a mean-looking pimp. White guy with lots of tattoos. I don’t know her name though.”
I took a deep breath. “Walking the track. Here?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Late night. First I thought she was a renegade, but when Mack K went to bump her, this guy come out of nowhere waving around a gun. Her pimp. Mack say she was reckless eyeballing, but her pimp don’t give a shit. I ain’t seen her since.”
Jesus Christ. I didn’t understand half of what the woman had said. Except the key point: Brenna had been here.
“Listen,” I said. “If you see her, can you give her a message?”
The girl looked annoyed. “Do I look like a messenger service to you?”
“PLEASE! Just … tell her I’m here, looking for her. I’m her mother. Tell her I’m not leaving until I find her.”
A bitter look passed across the woman’s face. “I’ll tell her. Wish my mama had come after me.” She took the flyer and folded it up, then stuffed it in her back pocket.
Then she cursed and began walking away fast. I took my foot off the gas and started to drive, but blue lights suddenly flashed in my rearview mirror.
Damn it.
I sat there with my hands on the wheel, and I wanted to curl up in exhaustion. I’d only talked to two women, and I was exhausted and didn’t see how I could continue.
I heard her say the words again: Wish my mama had come after me.
I was dispirited, and I wanted a drink. The police car behind me hadn’t moved, and the lights were still flashing. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and closed my eyes.
Almost a full minute later I heard a knock on the window. I looked up. An officer stood outside, shining his flashlight in. He motioned for me to roll down the window. I hit the button and the window slid down.
“License and registration, please.”
I reached over to the passenger seat, where the folder containing the car’s paperwork was still located. Of course I didn’t have registration, but I did have the bill of sale. I passed that over, along with my driver’s license.
The officer was standing just slightly back from my seat and still shining the flashlight in the car, making it impossible for me to see him. I knew another officer was out there, because another flashlight was roving over the interior of the car. It came to rest on the stack of flyers.
“You just purchased this car yesterday?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“Did you just move to Portland?”
“No. I don’t think I’ll be in town very long. But I needed wheels while I was here.”
“What brings you to Portland? And … what brings you out here on this street at three o’clock in the morning? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I didn’t see any point in circumlocution. I said, “I’m looking for my daughter.” I passed a flyer to the officer. He shone the flashlight on the flyer for a moment, then the light dropped down. For the first time I was able to clearly see his face. He was young … very young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three years old. He looked over at his partner on the other side of the car.
“You recognize this girl, Bill? I don’t think I’ve seen her.”
The other officer, apparently deciding that I didn’t represent a threat, walked around to my side of the car.
The other officer, considerably older than the first, took the flyer and studied for a minute. Then he looked at me. “The picture on the left is a mug shot?”
I nodded. In a quiet voice, I said, “She was arrested on this street three weeks ago.”
The younger cop’s face went through a series of expressions that were difficult to interpret. He shook his head and said, “Oh man, I’m sorry.”
The older cop looked at me with a grim gaze. “You related to her?”
“My daughter. She was abducted two years ago. We didn’t have any signs or clues until she was arrested. As soon as I heard, I flew out here.”
The officer looked
around the street. Then he said, “The odds of you finding her like this are pretty slim.”
I shrugged. “I don’t care what the odds are. Would you if it was your kid?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, ma’am. So here’s what I can advise you … first, be really careful. It’s dangerous out here, and if one of the pimps thinks you’re messing with one of their girls, they won’t hesitate to hurt you. Stay on well-lit streets. And while I can’t advise you to arm yourself, since it’s highly doubtful you’ve got a permit, at the very least get some Mace or pepper spray.”
I took a deep shuddering breath. I don’t know what response I’d been expecting, but that hadn’t been it.
“Can we take some of the flyers?” the younger officer asked. “I know some places where we can hand them out and put them up.”
A rush of gratitude flooded through me. I nodded and passed him a stack of the flyers. As he took them, the older officer took a card out of his pocket and passed it to me. “If you’re going to be out along the stretch early in the morning, you’ll probably get pulled over again. Here’s my card if you run into trouble.”
I glanced down at the card. Sergeant Bill Clayton. The younger officer—his name tag read Reynolds—passed me my driver’s license and the bill of sale for the car. “Good luck.”
They walked away from my car. Almost immediately, I began to get a bad case of the shakes. The police car backed up and then did a U-turn. As I watched the taillights recede in my rearview mirror, I put my own car in gear and began to drive. Two minutes later, I approached the diner on the left. It looked far busier than it had yesterday morning … at least a dozen cars filled the parking lot. There were a few spots left; I pulled in and took one of them.
I grabbed a small stack of flyers and went into the diner.
The diner seemed almost bright after coming in from the inky black night. But my eyes quickly adjusted to the surroundings, and restored the place to its original grubby look. I scanned the room, noting that all of the corner booths were taken. I decided to sit in the same spot as the woman I’d spoken to yesterday, because it had the clearest view of the entire restaurant. I wondered if that’s why she’d been sitting there. I made my way to that side of the diner, carefully maneuvering my way around the men and women who crowded the place.
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