by B. D. Riehl
When he finally got it all out, he remembered how Wally had laughed.
“Come on now, boy. You know that stuff is just part of the lifestyle, don’t you? You’re in Thailand, in the known Sex Capital of the world.”
Kiet nodded. “Just here, though, right? That only happens here?”
Wally popped the bite of dough into his mouth and crossed his arms on the table, clearly annoyed. “Of course.”
But Kiet could tell he was lying. He felt sick. “I can’t be part of that, Wally. I can’t. My mother is from here. I can’t imagine if she would have been forced to be in this world as a young girl. I can’t be part of something like this.”
His mentor had exploded, custard dripping on his chin while he yelled around the half chewed Thai donut, “Your mother was a prostitute, Kiet! How do you think your father met her? It’s just part of the culture, something people do to get by. Everyone has a job and everyone is happy. Boxing plays a part, sure, but it’s pouring money back into the economy.”
Kiet felt shivers race across his cheeks, down his back. His skin tightened and his knuckles turned white as he fought the urge to lay Wally flat out for talking about his mother in such a way. He locked his jaw and stared past the angry man before him.
A little monkey chattered in the trees beyond them, watching Wally’s plate, waiting for an offer of food or the chance to snatch it away. It dipped upside down, tilting his head in curiosity as Wally continued his diatribe. “You understand that, don’t you? Now quit wasting my time with this Boy Scout stuff. You need to get going. There is a lot riding on you tonight.”
Something about how Wally had said it had penetrated deep inside Kiet. He thought back to the night before: the big TVs, men standing around calling out numbers and writing things down. He had been so distracted by the awful realities of the prostitution; he hadn’t thought much of it.
“You mean gambling? They’re betting on me today?” Of course they were.
Wally shoved another patongo in his mouth and grease shone on his lips while he’d pointed a finger at Kiet.
“Boy, you just focus on the match. You are on the verge of world championship. Do you hear? Do you even understand? Just forget the things you saw. If you want no part of girls and gambling, fine. Don’t have anything to do with it.”
But Kiet knew. He was a part of it. Simply by fighting he gave cause for men to place bets. Based on the looks of the last bar, he was sure a majority of the money from the fights went directly to Walking Street—not only to the bars and the men gambling but also to all of the seedy activity within them.
Kiet clenched his jaw and looked out over the balcony. He would never forget the delicate dance of the trees as a soft morning breeze filtered through them. The chattering monkey had given up on Wally’s breakfast and hopped away to another tree in front of another balcony. There were dozens of them in this rich hotel, looking out over lush trees and greenery, where beyond, just a few miles away, the streets were full of filthy, desperate people—people working in beds and alleys to keep up the lives of the rich to appease those that sat stuffing their faces with delicacies while those in the ditch fought for their daily bread.
Kiet had stood, looked Wally in the eye, and told him he didn’t want any part of it. Ignoring the man’s indignant threats, Kiet strode to his own room and retrieved his Mongkol. Before he could change his mind, he had taken a tuk tuk across the city to Chanarong’s training compound.
“He wins,” he had told Chanarong’s Kru. “I forfeit.” With trembling hands from regret or anger, Kiet wasn’t sure, he handed the stunned trainer his Mongkol on and strode away.
Wally was furious when he found out. When he confronted Kiet in the younger man’s hotel room, spittle formed in the corners of his mouth as Kiet packed his things.
“You have gone mad! Do you even understand the repercussions of this?” He paced Kiet’s room, mumbling, shouting, running his hands through his hair. When Kiet stood firm on his decision, Wally had turned to him, full of hate.
“You’re nothing to us. You’re dead to us. Find your own way home.” He slammed the door behind him.
When Kiet called home, his mother had pleaded with him to change his mind. He heard the fear in her voice and, for the first time, realized that he was messing with an organization beyond his understanding. When she began to babble incoherently in Thai, his father took the phone.
“Son, I can’t get to you right away. Do you still have money?”
When Kiet had said yes, his father instructed him to flee to Chiang Rai. “Go now, Son. Go before anyone knows what’s happened.”
Kiet desperately wanted to ask his father about Wally’s accusations, but knew better than to burn the only bridge he had.
He fled to Chiang Rai, found a quiet motel, and stayed there. His future had been bleak and empty before him. It was weeks later, after he had become brave enough to venture to coffee shops on the outskirts of town, the ones without televisions, that he met Paul, and his life changed.
But Chanarong had never forgotten that he’d not been able to fully claim champion status. He had tried numerous ways to get Kiet to fight: money, use of his own trainers, a job managing one of Chanarong’s karaoke bars, but all offers had fallen on deaf ears. Kiet had the Lord as His shield, Deliverance was His organization and He had called Kiet to work with them; what was money or position to him? Almost three years later it was obvious Chanarong had privately kept watch over Kiet, waiting for him to reveal his weakness. Finally, Chanarong had found something Kiet was willing to fight for.
Lydia.
Kiet stood in the middle of Walking Street, the crowds flowing in a constant stream around him. He had a choice to make. He could fight to free her, with the guarantee more money would be put into the coffers of the bars that organized trafficking rings, completely working against all he fought for these three years: the freedom of trafficked girls. He could go against the promises he made to the Lord when he entered a covenant relationship with Him.
Or he could do nothing and let a sister in Christ be murdered. Or worse: sold into the same awful world that had opened her eyes to Christ’s contrasting light. The place that was so dark she had no choice but to turn from it to His glorious love and light.
He stared hard at the drunken masses; people taking advantage of a poor, desperate country. He looked to the blacked out windows on the second and third stories and thought Lydia could be in one of those rooms, even now. The pressure built around him, sounds and lights, twirling with increased speed and rhythm until he felt he would spin off the earth altogether.
He grabbed the roots of his hair in desperation and knelt in the middle of the street.
“Jesus…” he whispered, “Jesus.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Kiet woke the next morning with a headache. Heartache. Soul-ache.
He and Paul had gathered the group from Idaho together the night before and told them everything: about Kiet’s aspirations before he became a believer, about his first introduction to the sordid world they were dealing with, about Lydia’s abduction and the reason for it.
“You know, folks,” Paul said somberly, “we want to show you a good time when you volunteer with us. We want to show you how beautiful Thailand and her people are. We want to immerse you in the culture as much as possible. But we understand you’ll have some dark days. The introduction to real-life poverty at Rubbish Mountain in Cambodia was one. Walking Street was another.” He looked into the eyes of Mike and Patsy and Luke and Michelle. All were tired, worn from their travels and culture shock, in the final days of a mission trip gone horribly wrong.
“We didn’t expect this kind of dark day. This is the reality of what we’re up against. This boxer wants Kiet to fight and he’s wealthy enough in this poor country to snap his fingers to make it happen. No matter how callous it is.”
Patsy spoke up, her voice scratchy with emotion. “What can they do to her? Is Lydia in danger of being trafficked as t
hese girls are?”
Michelle interjected, “Of course not, Patsy! They can’t do that. She’s just a tool, right? All Kiet has to do is fight, and she’ll be free, won’t she?” She looked to Kiet, implored him with her eyes to agree, to erase the fear.
Kiet took a deep breath and held it, unable to answer. The group tensed as the silence stretched on.
Michelle shook her head and strode toward Kiet. “No.” she said, firmly. Her finger poked his chest. “No. You are going to fight and get her back. You have to.”
Kiet, full of turmoil, could only shake his head. “It’s not that easy, Michelle. It’s not.” He ran his hands through his dark hair, exasperated. “These people don’t play nice. They’re dirty. Can’t you see that? This is a dirty trick. And for what? For a boxing match? Fans of boxing will be momentarily entertained, but Chanarong and the others will benefit from this fight for years to come. Money will pour in from all over—directly into the pockets of everyone and everything we’re fighting against here.”
He took her hand gently and looked past Michelle, into the faces of all the volunteers that had come so far to change the world, only to be thrust into the heart of darkness. He hated the despair and helplessness they displayed in their eyes. Lydia had worn that same haunted, hungry look when he first met her.
Last night Lydia’s eyes had danced with joy and elation. Hope. She had been lit from within. What were they doing to her now? What would she be like when—and if—she were ever free again? Kiet thought of the hundreds of horror stories that came pouring out of the delivered ones over the years and his heart clenched.
Oh, God. Why test her so soon? Why now when she is so full of new precious hope in You? God watch over her. Be her rock. Protect her, Lord. Oh, please. Please. Jesus.
Paul had done his best to encourage the group to pray, to be on their knees before God for Lydia’s sake. He’d given them the choice to go on to Chiang Mai as planned or go home in light of the kidnapping. They unanimously agreed to proceed to Chiang Mai in honor of Lydia. They would be a mess, but each felt the need to do something, even if it meant digging ditches at Deliverance headquarters in the mountains. Mostly, they all wanted to be near her as long as possible.
Kiet admired every last one of them.
***
Kiet sat up in bed and held his aching head in his hands. He slithered to the floor, felt around for his Bible, and held it in both hands. Too soul weary to focus on the words, he held it against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees, and prayed. He prayed more than he had for anything.
In his years with Deliverance, Kiet had been in many dangerous situations. He had been in dark alleys, smoky clubs, and techno infused karaoke bars. He had been confronted, shot at, threatened.
Delivered.
From every foe, every threat, by God’s grace, he had always come on top victorious.
Until now.
Kiet knew deep in his gut if he fought, he would win. He would be victorious in this fight and a failure in the one that mattered: the fight to free those that had been tricked, sold, lied to, abused, trafficked. His victory would prove fatal to thousands of children locked behind closed doors. Any way that he helped the scum that owned them, he might as well be raping them himself. He couldn’t fight. Wouldn’t. He had promised the Lord long ago, and knew God expected him to keep his word even now.
But Lydia.
Lydia.
Lord God, what about Lydia?
***
She couldn’t see a thing. She sat on a hard floor; she thought it might be wood, but couldn’t be sure. She could feel bass pumping through the floor. Pulsating, bumping, and shaking the walls of the room. The air was thick, and she could picture the mass of sweaty bodies below her: writhing, jumping, undulating to the music, creating a sauna that rose to hit her in the face and suffocate her. Just like the masses she had briefly glimpsed on their tour of Walking Street just days ago. Could that be where she was?
Her heart had leapt in her throat when the men crashed through the door. But she was so fired up, so angry about that little one in the lobby, she turned to face them rather than cower. When they grabbed her and yelled at Michelle, she tried to resist, but the barrel of a gun in her back held her still. She would never forget the cold pressure of that weapon against her skin. The realization that one twitch, one slip of a finger, and death would careen out of that barrel, shred through her heart, and it would all be over. She still felt the fire of that reality in her back, poking her, mocking her.
They had driven for a long time, but she knew it could have just felt that way. She could be in another country or across the country or even on Walking Street just blocks from where they’d been staying.
It sounded like it. Her head pounded in rhythm to the pulsating music.
Her hands were tied together against her chest, under her chin.
Her legs, tied at the ankles, were attached to her wrists with a long rope that had been run through the binds at her ankles and wrists to keep her from stretching out fully. Her muscles cramped. Oh, how she ached.
She was numb with fear, but could not stop thinking about the girl in the motel lobby— could not get that young voice out of her head. It rose above the music, over and over, a taunting call for help, a simple question that would haunt Lydia forever:
“Mistah, what our room number?”
Just a child forced to ask a question of a man like that.
Lydia choked back a sob. They hadn’t bothered to gag her; no one would hear her screams over that music. She wanted her father. Her strong police officer father that could kick down doors, make a sweep of the place with his weapon and arrest every child molester in the place after he rescued her.
If she dared, could he hear her screams above the music and across the ocean? Would he even want to come if he could? After the way she’d acted in recent years, he might be relieved, tell the mob of men that seized her “Good Luck!” with that smirk of his when he thought he was being funny.
Her heart tightened in pain.
Would she get to show him her new hope? Make him proud the way a daughter should?
Lord, I’m new. I’m new to this. Is it too early to ask for the big stuff? Too early to question what in the world You’re doing? Too early to ask for a quick rescue? Right now I’m just trying not to slip back into my old thinking. But I do wonder if You’re here? If You’re aware or concerned with this situation at all?
Her tears and the close air made her nose run. She lifted her wrists together to wipe the moisture away and felt the abrasive scrape of the small beaded bracelet against her nose.
And she remembered… No ifs. No doubts. Just believe.
Even here?
She sat in darkness, surrounded by the bass and thick air, scared and alone and heartsick for a little girl she couldn’t forget. What else did she have but to trust Him now?
Even here, Lord. Even here.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Charlotte and Sam were with Stacey and Bryan when the call came…
After the park, Charlotte called her mom and offered to bring sandwiches from Fat Guys Deli. Her mother agreed and soon the meal was spread out on the kitchen table.
Charlotte laughed with delight when the big girls sampled Bryan’s corned beef and preferred it to their stacked peanut butter and jelly.
“What can I say,” Sam had quipped when Bryan grudgingly surrendered his meaty sandwich for the sticky one, “our girls have taste.” He leaned over to Charlotte and sniffed at her loaded BLT, but she shook her head. “No way, Dad. This baby’s all mine.”
Charlotte and Stacey cleared the table while the men took the kids to the basement to watch a movie. The women worked in contented silence, re-wrapping sandwiches, fitting lids on potato salad and coleslaw containers.
Stacey dipped a washrag in soapy water and wiped crumbs from the table. “You’re a good mom, Charlotte,” she commented. When the younger woman didn’t answer, Stacey turned to find a misty-eyed C
harlotte next to her.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” her lower lip quivered. “I have been awful to you, and I’m so sorry.”
Stacey left the soapy rag on the counter and turned, leaning back against the cabinets. “Charlotte, what on earth are you talking about?”
Her daughter sniffed, and Stacey glimpsed the little girl that had been.
“I have been so hard on you. I blamed Lydia’s behavior on your parenting and judged you for it. That was wrong and extremely unfair. Will you please forgive me?”
Stacey hesitated, the thought of Lydia’s journal entry fresh in her mind, along with her discussion with Bryan and their late night surrender to the Lord. She slowly reached out to grasp Charlotte’s upper arms. Instead of arguing, she squeezed Charlotte’s arms. “You’re forgiven. All is forgiven. I love you. And you are a wonderful mother.”
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, her eyes bright with emotion. “So are you, Mom. I thought for so many years that you had been careless with us. That I had gotten lucky, but because of your absence and desire to work, Lydia had been hardened and ruined.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and Stacey was reminded again of the child she once knew. Charlotte continued, “But now—now I see that no matter if we hold tightly or loosely, God is still here in control.”
Stacey spoke up, “Char, I agree that we haven’t done right by Lydia.”
Charlotte looked at her mother questioningly and started to shake her head.
Stacey gestured for them to sit at the table. Once situated, she reached across the table to hold her daughter’s hand. “You’re right when you say we have affected Lydia with poor parenting. Your father and I have realized some things this week that we had ignored in the past.” She thought again of the revelation of Lydia’s journal. That was information she would discuss with her youngest when she was home, but she would not betray her trust by sharing that with Charlotte. “Our most serious mistake wasn’t my decision to go back to work.” She hesitated, and then told Charlotte, woman to woman, about her fears from years ago, her misunderstandings.