by Louisa Luna
She poked her head up and peered through the glass of the car door. Caplan was on a table, but she couldn’t see his face. He wasn’t moving. Rafa had a gun out and fired into the windshield. He was a big boy—six four without shoes—and looked like he’d lifted pretty regularly.
She held the Springfield just above the window of the car door and fired, aimed for his legs, got a thigh. He screamed and fell to the floor with a crash. Then she stood up and walked quickly toward him. Fired with the Glock into his other leg. He screamed again and moved his hands instinctually to the newer wound.
The Glock was bigger than Vega’s gun and kicked back in her hand a little but she held it steady and then fired once more with the Springfield into his foot. He convulsed with the pain and tried to reach for the injured foot but couldn’t seem to make it, cried out as his hands curled in front of his stomach, his head twisting on his neck.
Vega put her guns away and ran to Cap. His eyes were open and blinking rapidly. He had an electrode patch on his head and his mouth was open an inch. Vega could see a solid bulk of white against his teeth.
“Caplan,” she said, reaching her fingers into his mouth.
She pulled out a mouth guard and tossed it to the floor. Then she carefully unpeeled the patch and dropped it, let it swing from a wire attached to a box the size and shape of an old VCR. There was a pink burn on Cap’s left temple where the patch had been.
“Caplan,” she said again, quieter.
She held his face in her hands. He was looking at her, his eyes searching her face, but he didn’t speak. Muscles were twitching, his lips, arms and fingers, feet. His head shook toward his shoulder.
“Can you hear me?” she said.
He tilted his chin up in a sharp nod. She took his hand and bent his arm at the elbow, as if they were about to arm-wrestle.
“Can you squeeze my hand?”
He squeezed. It wasn’t strong but it was there.
“Move your feet,” said Vega.
He moved them, pointing the toes. One, two.
“Now your whole leg. This one,” she said, patting his left thigh. “Just lift it off the table a little.”
Cap blinked heavily at her, as if he didn’t understand the command at first, but then he did it, hovering his leg over the table about an inch.
“How about the other one?”
He lifted the other one. Hokeypokey.
“Okay,” said Vega. “I’m going to pull you up.”
She leaned close to him and kept her hand tightly clasped around his, then put her other arm around his back and pulled him upright. She could feel his biceps and flexors working. She let go of his hand. Without her telling him to, he swiveled his whole body to the side so his legs hung off the table, like he was at his annual physical.
Vega stood next to him, took his hand, and pulled his arm around her shoulders so they were side by side.
“On three,” she said.
He nodded.
“One. Two. Three.”
She lifted him, and he stood at the same time. They began to walk, Cap’s feet not stepping too far off the ground. Vega’s side began to ache again. They walked around Rafa’s twitching body, past the wreckage of Vega’s car, through the hole in the wall of the shed, out into the light.
13
vega had stayed with him as long as she could.
Now she was in a hospital room on a bed wearing a gown, saline fluid and a bag of blood dripping down into a spike in her hand while a doctor, sitting on a stool next to her, stitched her up. She’d taken the shots of lidocaine in the cut, so she didn’t exactly feel the point of the needle now, just the dull pressure from the threading back and forth through her skin.
Her phone had no reception either.
She shut her eyes and saw it all—the girls, the ambulance, Otero, Cap leaning most of his weight on her, cobbling together words like a foreigner. Head, feels funny, girls, Otero, Nell, Vega. Vega.
We’ll speak later, Otero had said kindly as he shuffled her and Cap into the back of the ambulance. At that point, Vega had begun to feel faint. Smudgy, was how she thought of it, as if someone had pressed his thumb on her and blurred out her senses, thought processes. She’d tried to argue with Otero, what about the girls, where are they going, where’s the girl sprayed with blood. She watched them file into a small bus. It didn’t say DEPT OF CORRECTIONS anywhere but there were crisscross bars on the windows. Then the doors of the ambulance closed, and she sat next to Cap, who lay on the gurney while the paramedic took his vitals, his speech still sounding like clipped ransom note words.
“He’s been electrocuted,” Vega said. “A thousand volts. He needs a CT scan.”
She’d been pressing her hand against the cut in her side, hadn’t realized she’d begun to shiver so hard she was sporadically biting the insides of her cheeks.
Now the doctor took his time, threading in and out. He had orange hair with a baby face, his skin pale and freckled; it seemed to Vega like he should have been licking an ice cream cone instead of providing any medical service.
When they’d arrived at the ER, they were separated, Cap pushed away on the gurney and Vega in a wheelchair. She’d tried to stand but felt her head go cold and her eyes cloud over the second her knees locked, so she sat back down and let them take her to Triage. She struggled to keep her eyes open, losing feeling in her toes and fingertips, and finally let her lids fall as the nurses moved her to a bed.
She had no idea if Cap was still in the ER, getting an MRI, if they’d let him go, or if he was in bed in the room right next to her, unconscious.
“Hey, are you almost done?” she asked the doctor.
“Just about,” he said. Then, with some amusement, “Is there somewhere you need to be?”
“Yeah, there is.”
“You’ll have to wait until you get the full pint,” he said, pointing up to the blood. “Your screens haven’t come back yet so it’s hard to tell how much you’ve lost.”
He continued to stitch slowly, tugging the thread after each pull like a grandma with a needlepoint canvas.
“You don’t want to get light-headed again,” he added.
Vega propped herself up on her elbows.
“Not light-headed anymore,” she said.
“It’s tricky,” the doctor said, not looking up. “You might feel okay now, but then, an hour or two passes, you’re more confident…” A mild cast of derision crossed his face, as if he disapproved of the behavior he was describing.
Vega glanced at the bag of blood, almost half-empty.
“How much longer will that take?” she said.
“Between thirty and sixty minutes,” he said, not looking at it.
Vega picked up her phone once more from the tray table attached to the bed. No new messages, texts. Still no reception.
“Okay,” said the doctor with an air of finality. “Come back to us or your personal physician in two weeks to take these out,” he said, snipping the edges of the black thread with scissors.
He pressed a strip of gauze over the wound and sealed it with medical tape, then held up a roll of each to show Vega.
“I’m going to give you these,” he said. “Change the bandage tomorrow, then every day for a week. Bleeding seems to be under control but if that changes, call us or your doctor.”
“Thanks,” said Vega, sitting straight up, feeling only the slightest burn from the wound.
The doctor stood.
“Take it easy,” he said, holding his hand out as if to stop her, his tone a little too dictatorial for Vega’s taste, especially since he looked about nineteen. He might have also realized it because then he broke into a smile. “You don’t want to pass out again, do you?”
“I’m feeling better,” she said. “I’ll get dressed while I wait.” She nodded up to the blood.
>
The doctor smiled.
“Okay, then. Take care.”
He turned to leave. Vega swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared at the empty hanger and hook on the door. She glanced at the yogurt-colored chair in the corner, the air-conditioning unit under the window. The doctor opened the door.
“Where are my clothes?” she said.
The doctor stopped for a moment and looked back at her. His eyebrows were so fair Vega couldn’t immediately tell their position on his face; it neutralized his expression. She didn’t know if he was surprised, confused, something else.
“They’re not here?” he said, peering around the room. “Huh. They must have been left in Triage. I’ll have someone go take a look.”
He gave her one more curt smile before leaving. Vega stared at the door after it closed. She waited a full minute, then stood up and went to the door, pulling the IV stand with her, the toes of her socks slipping on the floor a little with each step.
She opened the door. There, in the hallway, was what she expected. Two cops, uniformed officers in the hall, one black, one white, both young.
“Can we help you, ma’am?” said the white one.
“Just looking for my clothes,” said Vega, her volume low.
“Someone’s gone to find them,” said the black cop. “You should sit tight while you wait. You’re probably really wiped out.” He smiled broadly.
All they were missing were open-plain twangs and cowboy hats to tip in her direction. You sit tight now, little lady.
She paused a moment before smiling back along with a nod of acknowledgment. Then she retreated into the room and shut the door. She tapped her fingers on the surface, too light for the cops to hear. And for once the voice in her head wasn’t Perry’s. It was actually McTiernan’s, a direct quote from the day before: Something. Ain’t. Right.
* * *
—
Cap didn’t exactly come to; it was more a gradual process of awakening. He thought he’d been conscious the whole time, from the house in Salton to the shed to the ambulance to the ER, to the booming cracks of the MRI machine. But a series of black tape redactions spread through his memory. Was it Vega in the ambulance with him, or Nell, or Jules? Was there actually a car with the hood smoking inside of the shed when he left it? Was it day or night? Did he sit on the lawn with the girls, and did Missy, the girl he’d gone downstairs with, hold his hand and lean her head against his shoulder while Vega talked on the phone next to him? Was Vega bleeding?
All results of shock, he knew. Foggy memory of the events immediately surrounding the trauma was normal and expected. It would all come back, he told himself hopefully.
Muscles in his body twitched one by one—feet, legs, arms, and he began to feel more awake. He took a brief inventory of his surroundings: standard hospital room, socks on his feet, gown and boxer shorts on his body. IV dripping clear fluid into his hand.
The door to the room was open but Cap didn’t hear anything. No chatter, no nurses’ intercom, no oxygen canister gasps, no bells, no beeps. California, he thought in an attempt to convince himself this was normal—apparently they produced even fewer sick people.
He examined his hands, which looked fine. He knew there was something he should be holding but couldn’t quite identify what that should be. A gun, another hand, a phone. Phone, he thought definitively. He needed to call Nell. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her everything this time. Could he get away with that, he thought, withholding being the same as lying—hadn’t they had that conversation?
He saw his phone lying on a tray table next to his bed, alongside a plastic pitcher of water. He picked it up and swiped and saw there were no messages, no texts, no voice mails. Then he saw why. No service.
“No reception, Mr. Caplan?”
Cap looked up. There was a dark-haired Latino man in the doorway.
“Nope,” said Cap.
“Me neither,” said the man, holding up his phone as if Cap could see the lack of bars from ten feet away.
The man stepped inside the room and approached Cap’s bed. He extended his hand and said, “Deputy Chief Armando Posada.”
“Max Caplan,” said Cap, shaking Posada’s hand, noticing one bulky gold ring on his middle finger.
Posada pulled up one of the visitor’s chairs and sat next to the bed. He had a deep triangular scar right above his chin.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Caplan?” he said, a slight accent in his voice.
His face was earnest and weathered. He looked to Cap like he’d spent a lot of time in the sun and may at one point have been a smoker though Cap could not smell it on him now. His clothes were impeccable and seemed too pressed and creased for a cop, even a deputy chief. Gray suit pants and a white collared shirt. Gold cuff links, no tie.
“Strange,” said Cap. “But okay.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Posada. “We can find some food for you.”
“No thanks, not quite yet,” said Cap. “Deputy Chief, do you know where my partner is? Or Commander Otero. I’d like us all to talk, give a statement and whatever you need so we can move this forward.”
Though he hadn’t discussed it with Vega, Cap thought the best course now was to assume they would all work together, since they had found the girls, after all.
Posada held his hand out gently. Cap had the feeling he would have patted Cap on the head if it weren’t totally weird and unprofessional.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” said Posada. “Ms. Vega has actually lost quite a bit of blood, so she’s receiving a transfusion.” He paused, then added: “In another ward.”
Cap flipped through the patchy images in his mind. Blood on her arms, on the hand in which she gripped her phone. Dripping from her side, just above her belt, onto the strands of dry grass where she sat.
“She got hurt,” said Cap, remembering. “What happened?”
“She was stabbed,” said Posada evenly. “But they tell me no organs were harmed, so that’s a good thing.”
Cap stared at Posada while he tried to absorb the information. She was hurt.
“Is she awake? Is she conscious?” said Cap, connecting the words quicker than before.
“Yes, yes, don’t be concerned,” said Posada. He seemed close to chuckling. “She’ll be fine.”
“I need to speak with her,” said Cap, a little more forcefully.
He pushed the nurse call button, which buzzed. There was no response, so he pressed it again, for longer.
“Mr. Caplan, I was hoping we could speak first, you and I.”
“Shoot,” Cap said, finally releasing the button.
The news of Vega getting hurt had pulled him out of the last of the fog. He sat up straight in the bed.
“I wanted to thank you personally for your part in solving this case.”
Then Posada just smiled kindly, generously, and didn’t say anything else.
“You’re welcome?” Cap said, a little unsure that was the response he was looking for.
“I’m sure you’re eager to get back to your life. Where was it, Philadelphia?”
“Yeah, more or less,” said Cap. “Once we get those girls back to their families and find out who’s behind the whole operation. Devin Lara, Ben Davis, someone else—where’s all the money going, right?”
Posada sat up and back in the chair. Less conversational, Cap noticed. More like an interview. Or an interrogation. He didn’t speak right away.
“Right, Deputy Chief?” said Cap.
“Maybe these girls don’t have families anymore,” Posada finally said.
He seemed a little sad about it but mostly resigned.
“Maybe,” said Cap, growing impatient. “But they have been trafficked—that’s pretty clear.”
“We don’t have much to go on,” said Posada, his eyes wandering up t
he walls. “So we will keep investigating until we know.”
“Uh-huh,” said Cap.
He could detect the scent of being purposefully misled, a little sleight-of-hand action. And he knew for certain Posada wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Or possibly no truth at all.
“I’ve spoken to Commander Otero and Agent Mackey. We’ve agreed no charges should be brought against you or Ms. Vega for interfering in a police investigation.”
Cap coughed out a laugh, unable to contain it.
“What a relief,” he said.
Posada continued, as if Cap hadn’t said anything: “Impersonating a police officer, multiple counts of aggravated assault and battery, disturbing the peace.”
He flicked all of his fingernails against the tips of his thumbs, like a magician presenting the big finish. Poof.
“Gone,” he said.
“That’s really something, Deputy Chief,” Cap said, struggling to control the edge in his voice. “For you all to be so magnanimous, seeing that you asked us to work the case in the first place. And seeing we located ten missing minors and, possibly, probably, found the killers of your two Janes.”
Cap heard his voice rise and was heartened by it—it felt familiar and sharp; if he could grab it, it would slice up his hands like a broken bottle. Posada remained narrow-eyed and unruffled by Cap’s anger, which made Cap want to shock him into responding.
“We’re so thorough my partner got herself stabbed with your goddamn murder weapon,” he uttered through clenched teeth. “So again, appreciate you letting us slide.”
Cap reached over and pressed the nurse call button again, tugged at the IV tube.
“Are you in a hurry, Mr. Caplan?” said Posada.
“Just ready to leave. As much as I love hospitals.”
“You’re still waiting for the result of the MRI, I believe.”
“They can email it to me,” Cap said, swinging his legs off the bed.
“Don’t stand up too quickly now,” said Posada, scooting his chair out of the way. “Don’t want you going down. Are you understanding me, Mr. Caplan?”