ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE

by Joan Mauch

  Chapter 66

  The following day shortly after noon, Zac tried to control his emotions as two men loaded the steamer trunk into their van. He’d never felt more helpless and alone in his life. What if this went sideways and he never saw his brother again? How could he live with the guilt he’d feel? Or face their mother?

  He stuffed the envelope in his pocket as the van drove away. Fifteen-hundred dollars. That’s all Jackson’s life was worth to them. He’d counted it to make sure. No point discovering after the fact that they’d stiffed Leon. He wondered if he’d gotten more for Izzie.

  As the van drove away, Zac tried to get a look at the license plate, but it was covered in mud. He pulled out his cellphone and discovered too late that it was dead. So much for that plan.

  With a sinking heart, he picked up his belongings and hailed a cab for the drive to San Pedro, the island’s only town. His first order of business was to find a place to stay.

  ****

  It took some doing, but Zac found a room he could afford off the beaten track. It was more a hole in the wall than anything. He’d had a hard time convincing the taxi driver he wasn’t interested in a fancy resort. The man finally understood and deposited him on Buccaneer, just off Pescador Drive. The place was run down with peeling wallpaper, filthy curtains and reeked of cigarette smoke. But the price was right and the bed looked, well…it was a bed.

  After settling in, Zac decided to look around. It didn’t take a genius to see that San Pedro was like many beach towns: there were magnificent places fronting the ocean with lush lawns and palm trees, while a block away ordinary people eked out livings selling everything from souvenirs to daily necessities.

  The atmosphere reminded him of a bustling fishing village but with "hot spots" of entertainment. As he wandered about, he noticed wooden houses, some were decorated in Mexican style while others sported a Caribbean flavor. There were gift shops, boutiques, bars, cafes, and restaurants up and down both Barrier Reef and Pescador Drives. Zac could sense the friendliness of the people even though he hadn’t walked very far.

  Beach attire being the norm, Zac felt right at home in flip-flops and cargo shorts. The aroma of food from street vendors reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His initial fear of contracting some kind of tropical bug was quickly replaced by his gnawing hunger.

  Every variety of fried meat from recognizable items such as burgers, hot dogs and chicken to the more exotic was available. Zac chose food he was familiar with. No sense taking a chance and getting laid up for the next twenty-four hours puking his guts out.

  He had asked the cabbie where to go for a good time. He’d stressed good time hoping the man took him to mean easy sex. He’d suggested Lil’ Mo’s over on Barrier Reef Drive. The cabbie said San Pedro had around ninety ficha bars.

  When he asked what the word ficha meant the guy shrugged and laughed. Zac wasn’t sure, but he thought it meant girls were available and if that was the case, they were widely available on this island of only about 12,000 people. There were prostitutes servicing money-rich tourists, but were they doing it to earn money—or to stay alive?

  He didn’t know if Izzie and Jackson were destined to work in one of those bars or would be shipped somewhere else, in which case he—and they—were screwed big time. He also didn’t know how to go about finding them or where to begin.

  Maybe he should start at Lil’ Mo’s. The cabbie had enthusiastically recommended that place. With some ninety bars to choose from, why had he pushed that particular one? Was he getting a kickback? Zac recalled the man had said to tell the guy at the door that Rollie recommended he go there. That must be it. Mo’s was probably no different than any other bar, just more PR savvy.

  Back in his room, Zac took a shower and changed clothes. He’d have to look somewhat presentable if he was to have any luck at all. It was a little after nine when he left his room and strolled down the street. Crowds of what he assumed were tourists swarmed the area to spend the evening pursuing what in the way of entertainment local establishments had to offer.

  For Zac, the scene was more than a little overwhelming. Not only was he not there in pursuit of pleasure, he wasn’t accustomed to nightlife on this scale. Iowa roots and his small-town upbringing hadn’t included experiences such as this.

  As he stood trying to get the lay of the land, he was drawn to a place that seemed to vibrate with rhythmic drumming and chanting. He let his feet decide for him. Once inside he discovered a cacophony of sound, color and writhing bodies. Everyone seemed taken up with dancing, chanting the refrain, “Tonight’s gonna be a good night”.

  The pulsing beat found its way into his head almost forcing his participation. Lasers and a light show in the semi-darkened room added to the unrelenting celebration. In spite of himself, Zac began to sway in time with the rhythm.

  He enjoyed dancing and was tempted to kick back and join in, but he couldn’t—not now, not here. Unlike the other bar patrons, he had more important things on his mind. His was a mission that was literally a matter of life or death. He found a spot at the bar and sat down.

  “Something to drink?” The bartender, a man of about forty with dark black hair threaded with gray, gave him a friendly smile.

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  “Lager or Stout?”

  The music was deafening. He had a hard time understanding the man. He finally figured it out and said, “Lager.”

  A few moments later the bartender slid a bottle of Belikin’s Lager across the bar. The label boasted it was “Belikin – the beer of Belize”. With a slightly sweet taste and clean finish, Zac found it refreshing.

  Fifteen minutes later, noticing the empty bottle the man asked Zac if he wanted another.

  Shaking his head no, Zac said, “Where would I go to, uh, you know…?” Unused to seeking the services of prostitutes, he had difficulty getting the words out.

  The bartender’s expression said he disapproved, making Zac regret having asked. “We’re not that kind of place. You need to go down the street for that.”

  Humiliated, Zac’s appetite for the pounding music evaporated. He took his leave, not knowing where his next stop would be. Wandering aimlessly down Pescador, trying not to descend into despair, he wondered where in this seething mass of tourists he could possibly find Jackson and Izzie. And…and even if he did locate them, then what? How do you rescue a slave?

  The very word sent shivers down his spine. And yet, that’s exactly what he was dealing with. Slavery. They’d been sold into slavery and it was up to him to get them out—somehow. Maybe that was the key. If they’d been sold, he’d buy them back.

  But how? With what? There was that fifteen hundred dollars the man had given him for Jackson. He could use it to try to buy them back. They would want more and he’d be in deep shit with Leon, but he was in deep shit regardless, so it was worth a try.

  He glanced around. The bartender had said to go down the street to find a ficha bar. So that’s what he’d do. At least it would be a place to start.

  Entering an unremarkable place, Zac felt less intimidated than before. It was as different from the nightclub with its body-to-body dancers as Tampa was from Iowa. He found a table in the back and sat down. A band played with the now-familiar drummers tapping out Caribbean rhythms. Patrons here were more subdued, perhaps they were locals out for an evening. A young woman approached. She wore a provocative outfit and a plastered-on smile.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  Zac decided to stick with a now-familiar brand. “Belikin’s Lager,” he said.

  When the girl returned with his drink, Zac cleared his throat. “How would I go about, you know, getting the company of a woman for a few hours?” This time he managed to get the question out without feeling embarrassed.

  The girl didn’t miss a beat. “I can help you with that,” she said. “Take your drink and follow me.”

  She led him halfway down a long hall, stopped and knocked on a closed door
. A soft voice inside said, “Come in.”

  “I believe this is what you’re looking for,” she said. “Have a good time.” Then excusing herself, she left Zac to negotiate the details for himself.

  Not knowing what to expect, Zac felt as awkward as an adolescent at his first dance. He’d had sex many times before, but this was different. He always had at least a passing acquaintance with his partner and he’d never had to pay for it. The heat of a blush crawled up his neck and onto his cheeks.

  When he entered the room, he was shocked to see that the girl appeared to be only around twelve or thirteen. Holy crap, she’s just a kid.

  Dressed in a flimsy negligee, she reached out her arms and, with a smile that seemed painted on her face, said, “Take off your clothes, I make you happy.”

  Suddenly Zac was nauseous as he sat on the edge of the bed. The room was dimly lit, making it hard to see. “How much for fifteen minutes?” he said, holding up ten fingers and then five more.

  “Twenty dollars, twenty minutes. Take clothes off now.”

  “No, I want to talk. Will you talk to me?”

  “Pay—I do whatever you want.”

  Zac pulled out a twenty dollar bill. The young girl’s face lit up.

  “What you want to talk about?”

  Not knowing where to start and realizing there was no time to waste for fear he’d be found out, Zac dove right in. “Where do I go to buy a girl—or guy?”

  The young girl’s forehead wrinkled. “Buy? Like now?”

  “No. Buy. Take with me.” He walked his fingers across the girl’s lap.

  She thought for a minute, then as if a light bulb went off inside her head, she said, “Oh, you want to keep?”

  Zac nodded. “Yes. How do I do that?”

  “Mo’s. Go there. That’s where people go to buy.” As she said it, tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, hastily wiping away the few that managed to escape.

  “Thank you.” Zac realized he hadn’t asked her name. He pulled out a second twenty and in a low voice, almost a whisper, said, “Keep this for yourself. Don’t tell them you have it.”

  The young girl’s face was transformed as she smiled. “You buy me. I go with you. Please?”

  Zac took both her hands into his. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I have to find my friends and get them out.” When she gave him an uncomprehending look, he repeated, “You know—friends out?” He put his hand on his heart and then made a fly-away gesture. “Out.”

  She nodded then said. “Come back for me.” And mimicked his heart-gesture. “Get Josie out too. I’m Josie.”

  He got up to leave but before he reached the door, a rough-looking man stuck his head in and glanced around. “Everything all right in here? She give you a good time?”

  Zac wanted to punch the creep and keep hitting him until he was as broken and bloody as he’d no doubt left this child on more than one occasion. Instead, his fists clenched he said, “Yeah, she sure did.” He added under his breath, “Bastard.”

  As he left the bar filled with male patrons his heart sank. Josie had a long, painful night ahead of her. He had visions of grabbing her along with the other young girls in that place and running like hell out of there, but with only fifteen hundred dollars in his pocket and two special people in trouble, he realized there wasn’t a thing he could do.

  Chapter 67

  Following the girl’s advice, Zac headed over to Lil’ Mo’s on Barrier Reef Drive. Like the first club he’d stopped at, the place was hopping. He slipped inside, happy to go unnoticed. Not that anyone would have become aware of him considering that all eyes seemed to be riveted on the floor show.

  Girls were on a raised platform and one by one put on a lewd performance. It appeared to be a contest for the loudest applause. He idly wondered what the prize would be.

  A light tap on his shoulder told him to order a drink or be on his way. He knew the drill. For want of anything better, he ordered a Belikin—his third of the night. It wasn’t bad, just not his favorite alcoholic beverage. But it was cheap and money was tight, so it would have to do.

  He scrutinized the dancers, hoping to find Izzie among them and wondering if he’d recognize her if she was. He’d only seen her photograph and on the videotape Jackson had shown him. Considering that most of these girls appeared to be Hispanic, Izzie would likely be easy to spot.

  Glancing around the crowded room, he wondered if Jackson was around there somewhere. What would traffickers want with a white man? They’d probably agreed to take him off Leon’s hands as a favor. But what would they do with him? He wasn’t as controllable as some young girl and he certainly wouldn’t become one of their male prostitutes. Then what? Maybe he’d be sold to do forced labor.

  His beer arrived along with what Zac thought was a brilliant idea that just might work. As he paid for his drink, he said, “I’m looking to buy a white male to work in construction and heard this is where to go for that. Who do I need to see?”

  The server just stared at him as if he didn’t comprehend the question. Zac was about to repeat himself, when he said, “Stay here.”

  Ten minutes went by during which three different young girls had shaken, twirled and writhed suggestively. His beer bottle empty, Zac began to wonder if the server had forgotten about it, when a beefy man motioned him over.

  The expression on the man’s face said he was not one to be trifled with. Well, Zac wasn’t in the business of trifling—he was serious too, so … God, he hoped this worked.

  He followed the man to a makeshift office down the hall, well beyond the din of throbbing music and cheers.

  “Have a seat,” he said, and parked his ample body on a worn swivel chair behind a desk. “Before we get down to business, tell me about yourself.” When Zac hesitated, he added, “Yeah, I know, but in this business you can’t be too careful. I mean, how do I know you’re not some kinda cop?”

  Zac gave him what he hoped sounded like a jaded laugh. “Sure as if the cops give a rat’s ass about your business as long as they get their cut, right?”

  The man nodded. “Understood. But, look, I’m curious. It’s clear you’re not from around here. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re from the States or Canada maybe?”

  Zac nodded. “You’d be right.”

  “So, you’re trying to buy cheap labor for your construction business back home?”

  “Yep,” Zac nodded enthusiastically.

  “Mexicans aren’t cheap enough?”

  “Not as cheap as slaves, I mean, you pay for them and they’re yours, right? All I got to do is feed them and keep them out of sight and I’m home free. With immigration clamping down, it’s harder to hire illegals and besides you have to pay them, even if it is a lot less. With my profit margin, this is a better way to go.”

  The man had been scrutinizing Zac as he spoke, looking him up and down and staring him in the face as though trying to detect any hint of deceit.

  “What I’m looking for is a white guy. He’d be less noticeable, see what I mean? You have anyone like that?”

  The man rubbed his chin as if he was thinking, then said, “Actually I do. Young guy came in just today. I’ll let you have him for two thousand American.”

  Zac’s heart sank. That was all the money he had, including what the traffickers had given him for Jackson.

  “That’s too rich for my blood,” he said and stood, hoping his bluff would work. “Thanks anyway.”

  As he turned to leave, the man said, “Wait, now, don’t be in such a hurry. Let’s talk about this.”

  Zac returned to the wobbly chair and sat down.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I dunno. I’ve never done this before. How’s five hundred?” He crossed his fingers. If the man went for it, he’d have more than enough to somehow find Izzie and get them out of the country.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re not buying a used car, for god’s sake. I mean this guy’s gonna save you a bundle working for free.�
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  “Yeah but I’m taking a hell of a risk. If I’m caught I go to jail. In the U.S. they don’t look kindly on this sort of thing.”

  “You have a point. Look, the guy we got today’s a real pain in the ass. He’s gonna be nothing but trouble. I can let you have him at a loss, just to get him outa here. How’s a thousand and we call it a day?”

  “Not as good as five hundred, but you got yourself a deal. He have papers?”

  “Yeah, we got all that covered. Just make yourself comfortable and I’ll go get him.” The man pushed back from the desk, stood and shook Zac’s hand. “Nice doing business with you. By the way, I’m Mo. Come again, you hear?”

  After the man left the room, Zac wiped his hand on his jeans trying to obliterate all contact with the monster who obviously had little regard for human life. As he waited, he wondered what he’d do if it turned out Jackson was not the white guy he’d just purchased. What then?

  Five minutes later, the door opened and Jackson entered, or rather was shoved inside. Zac was astonished to see how beaten up he’d become in only a few hours. His clothes were torn, his face and arms covered with cuts and bruises. Standing there, his head down, he didn’t look up when Mo said, “Gimme the money and he’s all yours.”

  “Whoa, not so fast,” Zac saw an opportunity and decided to go for it. “You never mentioned the condition he’s in. I mean, look at him. How am I gonna get any work outa him? Looks pretty beat up to me.”

  “Those’re just a few bruises and scratches, nothing serious. He’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’ll take some time to get him in shape for any kind of construction work.”

  Mo’s eyes widened, his forehead crinkled up. “You sayin’ you don’t want him? That what you’re sayin’?”

  “Not for a thousand, not in that condition. I’m afraid eight hundred’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”

  Zac noticed Jackson’s head slowly begin to rise, his eyes making contact. Don’t react, bro, don’t screw this up. He prayed and held his breath as the man considered his offer.