The Overseer

by Conlan Brown

  “And the other?” she asked.

  “The doctor’s appointment where they confirmed that I’m dying,” he said with a morose edge, “so I guess it’s all tied together.” He forced a smile. “Now, I have a car for you two— silver, midsized sedan. Just the way you like, Devin.”

  Clay stood. “I did some checking,” he continued. “The sale information got updated. It looks like your product might already be sold. The girls may already have gone to a different buyer.”

  Hannah stood. “No,” she said, incredulous.

  “I told you things might not go so well.” Clay shrugged, then reached into his pocket. “This is an address. This is where pickups are supposed to take place—where buyers get their girls. That’s what my visions say, if you trust them. I don’t know what you’ll want to do with this information, and maybe I don’t want to know, but here it is.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah said, nearly tearing up.

  “And,” Clay continued, taking out another piece of paper, “this is the information for a bank account. There’s thirty thousand in there. My sources say that should be about enough to buy back three girls from these people.”

  Hannah accepted the piece of paper, looking over the routing number and its associated information. Without thinking she threw her arms around Clay’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. She let go and stepped back.

  “And you,” he said to Devin. “I really do think that John Temple has the information you need.”

  Devin went to speak, surprise on his face.

  “I know,” Clay continued. “I never expected John to get anything like this right either. Now, you had best be on your way,” he said, leading them to the door. “And Godspeed.”

  Chapter 16

  JOHN SAT ON the hotel suite’s couch, hunched over the coffee table, sketching as fast as he could, trying to remember every possible detail of what Dalton and the others had discussed— the layout of the hotel’s lobby and the security station they were going to try to cut off. The escape routes—possible or otherwise. Even the monorail train. Were they serious? How could they escape on something that moved that slowly, with that much glass and that little cover? Maybe the plan could be more intricate than he realized.

  The harder he thought, the faster he scribbled. The faster he worked, the more quickly it all seemed to slip from his mind— one piece at a time, all of it slipping. He had to get it out. He had to get it on the page. Devin would need the information to stop the assassination, and he needed to do this for himself— and for God. There was always something more he could give to God, he told himself. There was always something he could do better, faster, with more virtuous intentions.

  Yes, what Dalton planned was evil—but that didn’t eliminate the power of his advice, or the overwhelming sense of conviction that had flooded John at hearing Dalton’s words. As far as he was concerned, Dalton had been speaking on behalf of God. Sure, he had his priorities all wrong, but his understanding of God was spot on. It was what John had embraced for so many years in the mission field. It was what he had lost and forgotten as Overseer. Maybe he’d let people like Devin influence him too much.

  His best, he told himself. He had to do his best. His firstfruits were all that God deserved—and if he could please God, then maybe, just maybe, God would spare…

  Trista sat down next to him. She put a hand on the back of his head, running fingers through his hair. “Are you going to be OK?” she asked.

  He stopped, noticing her fingers in his hair for the first time. John nodded quickly and emphatically. “I just have to do this. I can’t cut corners. I have to get this right.”

  John turned back to his pad, pencil lead pressing hard against the stationery. Then he stopped. That was it. That was all he could remember and re-create. After that there was only blurry recollection, and John had never been good with the past.

  Trista lay her head on his shoulder and his eyes closed, his body crackling as every muscle relaxed in a ripple that moved from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Whatever she was doing, it was a distraction. “Trista, I—”

  “Shh.” She hushed him gently, taking hold of his arm.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, letting his head rest on hers. “I thought you couldn’t be near me.”

  She nuzzled his arm. “Maybe,” she mused, “but right now I think we need each other.”

  “I can’t let anything distract me from—”

  “I know,” she interrupted softly, “but let’s just pretend for a second that you can.”

  He felt her push him gently back into the couch, and he rested there, her head on his chest. It was everything he could have hoped for. Everything he had hoped for, and yet there was something that wasn’t right in his mind—real or imagined.

  John breathed deep and let it out.

  Some part of him couldn’t help but relax at the feel of her touch. Something kinetic and elusive. Something felt so perfect and yet so perilous.

  And then he felt something else—something beyond himself. Like his visions of the present. But this was something else. The future. The same way he had seen the events of the other room while holding Trista’s hand. She could feel it too; he knew it. A shared sense of what was to come.

  Trouble. Difficulty. Struggle.

  John waited for Trista to say something. But she didn’t. Instead they closed their eyes and pushed it into the back of their minds.

  Time passed. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. But eventually, there on the couch, they drifted into sleep.

  Devin drove the car down the streets of Las Vegas—away from the Strip, into the suburbs. The places where life was “normal” and the people with families lived to keep their kids as far away as possible from the bright lights and dark alleys of the city of sin. The city sparkled in the distance—the night sky giving contrast to its thousands of bright bulbs.

  “Take a right here,” Hannah said, looking at the laptop. They’d stopped for directions, pulling up the route from the airport to the sales location on the Internet. She’d unplugged the computer, and they were a long way off from any kind of Internet hot spot, but the map and its directions were still on the screen. Hannah was in the passenger seat next to Devin, finger moving along the screen, presumably following the list of directions. “It’s up here,” she said. “Right-hand side of the street.”

  She gave him the address again, and Devin watched the street numbers approach, lit up by the headlights, until he saw the one they were looking for.

  “This is it.” Hannah pointed.

  It was a suburban house that looked identical to every other home in the neighborhood. Like cracker boxes, Devin thought to himself. The color was unique: a sage green, compared to the brighter-colored houses surrounding it. There was a lawn, but it looked sickly despite the rotating sprinkler in the yard. A squatty palm tree grew up out of the middle of the brown grass, a yard gnome at its base. For the most part, the house looked, for lack of a better word, normal.

  Devin pulled up in front of the house, putting the car in park and killing the engine. He looked the place over one more time. “You’re sure this is the place?” he said.

  Hannah checked the screen again. “Yes. This is it.”

  Devin breathed, nodded, then reached for the pistol at the small of his back. FN Five-seveN, gray, with a rounded back end. The underside of the barrel had an accessory rail where things like tactical flashlights and laser sights could be attached. The rail was jagged and looked to Devin a bit like saw teeth. A full magazine of twenty bullets was locked into the grip.

  He pulled the action back just far enough to see the brass casing of the bullet lodged in its proper place, but not so far as to run the action the way people always seemed to do in action movies—a behavior that would eject a perfectly good bullet. Devin let go of the slide, allowing it to snap back into place. It had been drilled into his brain years ago that proper gun safety was to treat every gun as if it were loaded. He had also l
earned that basic gunfight safety meant treating every gun as if it were empty—and double-checking before putting yourself in a situation where an unloaded gun could be a disaster.

  He turned to Hannah. “I’m going in to speak with these people. I think it’s best if you stay in the car.”

  “Why?” she asked without hesitation.

  “Because,” he said, eyes on the front door, “the nature of this business makes you a potential commodity, which could make rescue of others difficult. Stay here and keep your eyes open. I put another of the handguns in the glove box in case you need one.”

  She opened the glove box and looked at the gun: dark metal with a short barrel that tapered up toward the muzzle.

  “That’s a Sig Sauer,” Devin instructed. “Do you remember how to use a pistol?”

  She nodded, checking the action the same way Devin had with his FN Five-seveN. “I do.”

  “Good. Now stay put, and be ready to make a move if something goes wrong.”

  She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded in acknowledgment. Devin didn’t worry. Hannah Rice wasn’t the type to go back on her word or do something reckless. It simply wasn’t in her nature. He returned the FN Five-seveN to its place at the small of his back. “What was the name of the man you made contact with—the one with the dragon tattoo?”

  “Dominik,” Hannah replied, not hesitating.

  Devin repeated it to himself. “Dominik.” Then he climbed out of the car and stepped lightly across the crackling lawn to the front door. He rang the doorbell.

  There were several long seconds of silence, then the sounds of someone approaching the door, which opened after another moment. An overweight, middle-aged man with a craggy face stood in the threshold. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Alex Smith,” Devin lied. “I’m an associate of a man with a dragon tattoo, goes by the name of Dominik. He said that I should speak to someone here about making a purchase.”

  The overweight man looked Devin over, slightly aloof, then motioned with his head for Devin to follow him into the house.

  Devin looked back at Hannah in the car, sitting perfectly still. He really hoped he wasn’t going to need her. Then he turned and followed into the house.

  A television blared noisily from a living room that Devin was led into, passing through a curtain of beads. The place was not well maintained and had a distinct 1970s look, with brown shag carpet and wood-paneled walls.

  “Mr. Scarza,” the overweight man announced, “this is Alex Smith. He says he’s a friend of Dominik’s.”

  Mr. Scarza was a man in his late twenties—probably good-looking, except for his bloodshot eyes, scraggy beard, and unkempt hair. He wore a paisley bathrobe and slippers, a gold chain around his neck. “Yeah?” he said with a slight New Jersey accent, confused. He sat on a pea-green couch, watching television a moment longer before he picked up a remote control, pointing it at the television and muting his overloud show. “How do you know Dominik?”

  “I was involved in some things he had a hand in around the New Jersey area,” Devin said without missing a beat. “He recently picked up some girls in that area. Three of them. These three,” he said, pulling a computer printout from his pocket, “to be exact.”

  Scarza took the printout without getting up, rubbing his eyes as he looked it over, wiping a running nose with the back of his sleeve. The man was obviously high, probably cocaine. He looked at Devin through bloodshot eyes. “What did you say you wanted again?”

  “I want to buy these three girls,” he said with the same businesslike demeanor he would bring to any deal.

  Scarza eyed him, obviously trying to think through some kind of chemically induced haze. His look shifted to the overweight man. “I’m going to have my friend Scud here search you, OK?”

  Devin nodded, lifting his arms. “I have a handgun in the small of my back,” he announced. Scarza’s eyebrow lifted. “Just thought you should know.”

  The man called Scud reached into the small of Devin’s back, removed the gun, and handed it to Scarza, who in turn set it on the coffee table between them. Scud continued to pat Devin down, checking him twice. He was getting sick of being searched today.

  Scarza lifted a pack of cigarettes off the table and pulled a cylinder from the box. “How come I’ve never heard of you?” He tucked the cigarette between his lips and reached for a shiny lighter, cupping it in his hands as a flame flashed to life.

  “I’m new to this part of the business,” Devin said.

  A long drag on his cigarette pulled the glowing embers a visible quarter of an inch down its length. Scarza blew out a lungful of smoke, setting down the lighter. “How come Dominik has never mentioned you?”

  Scud stepped away, finished with his search, and Devin put his hands in his pockets. “Are you worried I’m a cop?”

  A shrug was all Scarza gave before taking another drag. “That would make more sense than anything. Even though cops don’t tend to worry about this kind of business.”

  “The human trafficking business?” Devin asked pointedly.

  Scarza tapped the ash off his smoke into a crystal tray before sitting back. He eyed Devin, one arm resting on the top of the couch. He seemed to fight some kind of internal debate, then spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t?” Devin asked, feeling the whole venture melting around him. “You aren’t aware of the fact that Dominik—the man with the dragon tattoo—works in picking up girls and making a profit off of selling them?”

  The cigarette collapsed like an accordion as Scarza crushed its ember. “This has been a really interesting meeting, Mr. Smith, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. So, it’s time for you to go.” Scarza turned his attention back to the television, handing the FN Five-seveN to Scud. “Give that back to him once you’ve escorted him off my property.”

  “I can pay,” Devin interjected, trying to get Scarza’s attention, who said nothing, reaching for the remote control. “I have thirty thousand at my disposal right now, and I can get more.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Smith,” Scarza said with a flippant wave of his hand, pointing the remote at the television.

  “I’m good for the money,” Devin assured.

  Scud grabbed his arm. “Come on.”

  Devin made his move, twisting Scud in a way he wasn’t expecting, dropping to his knees, the FN Five-seveN in Devin’s hand in an instant. He kicked Scud in the chest and came at Scarza fast. “Where are they?” Devin shouted, the pistol thrust toward Scarza. “Where are the girls?”

  Panic covered Scarza’s face, blitzed out of his mind with drugs, and scared out of his wits with fear, his hands lifted, nearly climbing out of the couch and up the wall.

  “Where?” Devin shouted, grabbing the lapel of the paisley robe, gun in the nape of Scarza’s neck. “Where are you keeping them?”

  “I don’t have them. They’re not here,” Scarza stammered.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t have them. They’re not here!” he blithered like a mantra. “I don’t have them. They’re not here!”

  “If they’re not here, then where are they?” Devin shouted, angry, teeth bared. A fleck of spittle hit Scarza’s cheek, just below the eye. “WHERE?”

  “Ukrainians,” Scarza stuttered. “People Dominik used to work for. They have an operation going through Mexico. They bring Ukrainian girls here, usually, but they had a deal with a client out of the Middle East. They wanted an American girl—young, that was their order. Under sixteen. Blonde. Nonprofessional. Virgin.” Scarza was nearly crying. Whatever drugs he’d been taking were screwing with his mind, turning him into a blubbering mess.

  “What about the other two?” Devin demanded, jamming the pistol roughly into Scarza’s chest.

  “The Ukrainians—same operation.” Scarza whimpered, trying to pull away, bound in place by Devin. “They needed American girls—maybe for private buyers, maybe for the circuit. I don’t know what
for, but they bought from us!”

  “Are they OK?” he demanded. “Did you hurt them?”

  “What?”

  “Did you rape them?” Devin shouted, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  “No!” Scarza assured him. “Not them. First-timers can bring a lot of money, and the Ukrainians were specific.”

  “Why did you cancel the auction?”

  “What?” Scarza asked dumbly.

  “The auction, of the girls—why did you cancel it?”

  Scarza was starting to calm down. “We were only doing the auction because it looked like our order with the Ukrainians might fall through, but they pulled it together last minute.”

  Someone—Scud—grabbed Devin from behind, ripping him backward, away from Scarza. Devin hit the floor, landing on his back. Scud flashed a gun, yanking it from his belt. Devin pulled the trigger, blasting him—the big man flailed back and hit the floor. Scarza reached for the end table—a gun of his own. A second shot from Devin’s pistol and Scarza slammed back into the couch—a bullet in the side.

  A split second of silence passed between the sound of the last gunshot and the sound of Scarza shouting hysterically, hands groping at the wound. The man shouted in pain and fear as he pulled open the top half of his robe, looking at the wound. A hole the size of a dime punctuated the smooth surface of Scarza’s skin as he tried to put pressure on the wound. Blood poured out of the puncture, drenching the robe and the couch.

  Devin pulled himself to his knees, then stood. He checked the Five-seveN; he hadn’t fired it before and had worried in passing about its ability to perform. Devin took his finger off the trigger and walked toward Scarza. “Where did the girls end up?” he asked again.

  Scarza’s hysterics deteriorated to a kind of macabre giggle. “They’re gone. They’re long gone. They’re all gonna get fed to perverted strangers who are going to violate them in ways you’ve never dreamed of.” A shudder ran through Scarza’s dying body.

  The front door came open fast. “Devin,” Hannah’s voice said from behind him, “I heard shots. What….” She trailed off, apparently taking in the carnage of the scene.