TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel

by Peg Brantley

  —Evidence Technology Magazine, from an article written in 2008

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ALEXIS

  The plane touches down and I want to barf. I have a horrible feeling I’m about to go from bad to worse. Right now I’ve got to seriously dig for a backbone. Planning revenge against Donny won’t keep me strong for whatever comes next.

  I take a breath.

  The private jet hasn’t stopped yet. No one cares about whether or not I have my seatbelt fastened. That my tray and seat are in the upright and locked positions. That if I had baggage in the overhead compartments, it might have shifted. No one cares about my safety because Macho Man is yanking me from my seat.

  As I walk down the ramp to the tarmac, I search for a clue. Any clue.

  Where am I?

  It’s not a major airport. Not even a minor one. This is a private airstrip. But where? I know for sure it’s not Colorado. Aside from the hours I was on the plane, the air is humid, and while there are mountains, they’re definitely not the Rockies.

  Macho Man drags me to a stretch limo and tosses me in. As soon as he closes the door I hear the locks engage and the car moves off. I want to talk to the driver but the privacy partition is up and I can’t see a way to bring it down. I knock on the window. Nothing. Harder. Still nothing. Pounding doesn’t even make the driver look in his rear-view mirror. He’s like a Nazi. Just doin’ his job.

  It hurts to breathe. All I want to know is where the hell I am. Can it get any more basic than that?

  At one point I thought I might be able to use my dad’s money and influence to buy my way out of this nightmare. Now, with all the muscle, the private plane and airstrip, the limo, and the obvious determination to get me here at whatever expense, I’m thinking that even if I could contact him, Daddy couldn’t get me out of this mess.

  Someone went to a lot of trouble and expense to get me here, including what they paid for me. I must have value to this person. Maybe that’s something I can use.

  We’re not on the road too long before the driver turns off onto what I assume is a private drive. It’s paved, but the headlights show only a narrow strip. The plants along the roadside are generic. They could be almost anywhere.

  Except Colorado.

  What I want to do right now, more than anything else in the world, is curl up in the corner of this bench seat and bawl my eyes out. But I’m already smart enough to know that wanting something isn’t always the thing that’s gonna keep me alive. Wanting something, like taking a hot poker to Donny’s balls—even if I got it this instant—would not guarantee that I won’t be dead when the sun rises tomorrow. It could be my value is for a psycho who wants to torture me before his final kill.

  I’ve seen the movies.

  And then what good would Donny’s skewered balls or me sobbing hysterically possibly do?

  I feel like I’m losing my mind.

  The car rolls to a stop and a small man in a tidy uniform opens my door. “Welcome, Miss Alexis.”

  I sit and don’t move a muscle.

  “Please, Miss Alexis. Be welcome to here.”

  I look at him and see the pleading in his eyes. He wants to stay buried, unnoticed, but events are conspiring against him. While I want to kick and scream, if I can’t cry in a corner, I don’t want to make someone else’s life more miserable than it already is.

  I put one leg out of the limo and the uniformed man noticeably breathes.

  “Please, Miss Alexis. Follow to me.” He bows and waits for me to exit. He bows again.

  “Please,” he repeats. “This way.”

  There is an armed guard on either side of the massive entry. I wonder if the small man I’m following is armed. Probably.

  Everyone seems to be Hispanic, but that doesn’t mean I’m in Mexico. How can I be in Mexico without my passport? Maybe this is California?

  I keep my eyes directed in front of me but am acutely aware of things in my peripheral vision. I’m looking for a clue. Where the hell am I? Is there a way out?

  The ceiling is at least two stories high, maybe three. And the walls are covered with amazing art. Not Donny’s apartment quality art. Screaming-amazing-quality art. Most of it is contemporary but interspersed, in brilliant ways, I recognize works of the masters. There’s a Titian, and one I swear is a Vermeer.

  The Denver Art Museum docents had become my mentors over the last two years. When I couldn’t stand staying in my cold house or doing something stupid with greedy friends, I’d head to the DAM and spend hours learning about great works. I wish there was someone I could tell about what I’m seeing.

  Not sure where I am geographically, but damn… there’s serious money involved in this place.

  We move to the left and there’s a sweeping staircase that begins with risers that are at least ten feet across. When we get to the top we turn left down a wide hallway and enter the first door on the right.

  “Please, Miss Alexis.” The man swept his arm gesturing to the expanse of the room, bright sunlight pouring into the space. “This you.” He walked over to the closet and threw open the doors. “This you.”

  Inside the closet are three garments. One looks like something my little sister, if I had one, would wear grudgingly. A second looks like something my mother would wear. Stylish but stuffy. And the third is straight out of casting for Xena: Warrior Princess.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Please, Miss Alexis.”

  God help me, if he doesn’t stop with the “please-miss-alexis” I’m going to have to hit something.

  “Here.” He gestures to a door in the far corner that opens onto a luxuriously appointed bathroom. “Two hour. You be ready two hour.”

  This is more like it. I kick off my shoes and turn to look at the man. I am not going to waste this opportunity. “You can leave now.”

  I follow him as he scoots through the bedroom and out the door. When he leaves I lock it, surprised there even is a lock, throw the deadbolt, which is also a surprise, and for good measure, shove the chair from the desk under the knob.

  Yes!

  Back in the bathroom I find three separate choices for shower and bath gels. One is a bubble bath with the picture of a fairy princess on the front, another is Shalimar, something my mother or even grandmother would use, and a third is something called Carnal Flower. I unscrew the top on that one. Easy choice. A luxurious-looking bathrobe hanging on the back of the door prompts me to touch it.

  I strip and lay my clothes on the bed. They’re not in terrible shape and by far my first choice regarding what I’ll be wearing when I walk out of this room given my options hanging in the closet. My plan is to take a quick shower to get the grunge off and wash my hair, and then go in for a long hot bath.

  In two hours I’ll have answers, and maybe be on my way home.

  Suddenly the normalcy of the room rises up. It’s not so much the smell, but the lack of smells, the odor of filthy and fear-riddled bodies from only hours ago, that takes me to my knees. I lose the strength I’m barely holding onto in the desire for something I can’t have—home. I want to go home.

  Please, Miss Alexis wants to go home.

  * * *

  I step out of the bath and wrap a huge fluffy towel around me. I spent so much time in the tub that only the tips of my hair that had dragged in the tub-water are still wet. I’m clean now. Refreshed. Ready to take on whatever situation I’m in.

  Not being a complete idiot, I know what’s happening to me. Bastard Donny thought he could make a few bucks by selling me to another bastard. Donny should’ve just held me for ransom, because once this new guy figures out he has the daughter of Steven Halston, managing partner of an international law firm, he’ll be happy to add a few hundred thousand, maybe even more, to his coffers.

  Daddy will pay. Daddy has always bought me out of problems. And this is a big one.

  But will Daddy’s money mean a thing to someone who has this much?

  I dismiss the idea I might never get
home and make a firm mental note to load up on Carnal Flower when I get there. It smells fabulous. It’s like a promise.

  I will get home.

  How long was I in the bathroom? A soft gray-tinted light filters through the windows, replacing the bright sunlight from earlier. The silly soldier man told me I had two hours. Probably close. I loosen the towel from around me and drop it on the floor then turn to the bed to get my clothes.

  They’re gone.

  The chair is still under the doorknob. Did I put them somewhere else? I spin around the room.

  My clothes are gone.

  A chill crawls up my spine and I grab the towel and pull it back around me. Someone got in my room.

  My room? Really? Like I chose it.

  After I disengage the chair I check the locks. They’re exactly the way I left them. Even knowing it’s apparently useless, I tuck the chair back in position, then slowly do a survey of the room. Everything looks normal. Seamless.

  Then I get to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Tug out a couple of books at a funky angle and wait for the door to swing open like in the movies. Nothing happens. But when I put a book back into place, there seems to be some give in the wall.

  I apply pressure. Yeah. Definitely. There’s a give. I press harder and the bookcase splits, pushing in like a folding door. It leads to a dark hallway.

  No wonder they have locks. Locks don’t mean a damn thing.

  I take a step into the hallway behind the bookcase and hesitate. If they’ve got all of these details figured out, from the costumes to the enticement of the bathroom to the useless locks on doors, what else do they have figured out? I need to think about this a bit more.

  I review the clothes hanging in the closet. I have a decision to make.

  In San Antonio, the Heidi Search Center often finds out that the person who is reported missing has fallen into the grasp of sex traffickers.

  Dottie Laster, the Heidi Search Center’s executive director, said when she looks at the victims’ social media activity, “I find someone has been grooming, luring, recruiting them and now they’re missing.”

  —Super Bowl known as ‘largest human trafficking event,’ by Jesse Degollado for KSAT 12, February 2, 2017

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I look in the mirror and swing side to side before deciding to tuck the sheet in tighter.

  Not bad.

  There is a pair of sandals in the closet (probably meant for the little girl dress) and after I get over being freaked out that they are not only a perfect fit but are also used, I put them on.

  The toga look. Greek goddess. I feel like I’m taking back control. Making my own decisions.

  There’s a light knock on the door. Right, I think, let’s pretend that there isn’t another way into this room.

  I move the chair back behind the desk, release the deadbolt and throw the door open.

  The slight uniformed man takes one look at me and visibly pales. “Oh, no. Please, Miss Alexis. Please.” He rushes over to the closet. “Here. This you. This you.” He thrusts his hand over and over and over again at the hanging garments. Sweat appears on his forehead.

  He plucks out the little girl dress and points to the sandals I’m wearing. “Here. This you. Please!” He thrusts the dress at me. Because he looks so damn desperate I gently accept the hanger, then rehang it.

  “No. This me.” I use my own hand to waft the air in front of my sheet. Calm. In control. Ready to bargain my way out of here and get home. If Daddy doesn’t have enough money, surely he knows someone who does.

  The small man begins to shake. Seriously shake. I stand it for as long as I can and then I touch his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m happy with what I’m wearing. You can save the other things for someone else.”

  He looks at me with those sad eyes for what feels like minutes, then looks down to the floor and sighs, holding perfectly still.

  At least he isn’t shaking. What is with this guy?

  Finally he nods. “Okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Follow to me.”

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  He ignores me as he leads me out of the room.

  “You know my name. What’s yours?”

  “Mi nombre does not matter. Muerto. Finito.”

  “Dead? You’re dead? Finished?” I tug on the corner of the sheet under my arm. “I don’t understand. What is your name? I want to know.”

  The man looks at the floor. “Miguel. Mi nombre es Miguel.”

  “Okay, Miguel, we’re simpatico, right?”

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps walking. A miniature military step, like in March of the Toy Soldiers. There is nothing casual about the steps he takes.

  Something tells me not to press the issue. I mean, in the context of things, how important is knowing his name? Or knowing we’re simpatico? Even though somehow that would make me feel better. Maybe even make me feel safer.

  After walking a bit we descend some steps. Actually, a lot of steps. At the bottom, we emerge into a room of breathtaking beauty. The floor is shining hardwood, the boards deeply dark and wide and perfectly laid. The walls, equally shining, are of a dark reddish wood. They stretch at least two stories and feature feathered lighting both up and down in an enticing way. If simply left to the wood, this room would be special. But the added art leaves me drooling. I would swear anything that I’m looking at original Monets and Renoirs and a contemporary Jenny Saville that simply terrifies me.

  We move through the gallery and emerge onto a stage. The lights are too bright for me to see what, or who, is in the audience.

  “We have a problem.” A deep voice speaks from the darkness beyond the stage.

  “Yes, sir,” said Miguel.

  “Did you explain to Alexis what would happen if she didn’t wear one of the three choices?”

  “No, sir. That forbidden.”

  “Well done.”

  “We need to talk,” I direct my words to the area the voice. “My father has a great deal of money and influence and I’m sure he would—”

  “I didn’t give you permission to speak,” said the voice.

  I’m shocked into temporary silence. First that he interrupted me and second that he said I needed permission.

  “Look,” I try again. “I don’t want to start a fight, but if you listen to me this could all be over and we can all go away happy.”

  I hear a throaty chuckle. “What makes you think I’m not happy now?”

  “I meant—”

  “Why are you wearing bed linens, Alexis?”

  “Because someone stole my clothes.”

  “Stole?”

  “Okay, maybe not stole. But they’re missing.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing one of the outfits I personally selected for you?”

  “Because I didn’t personally like any of them. Where are my clothes?”

  “You don’t get to ask questions.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  Silence.

  “I want my clothes back. I want to leave. You have no right to keep me here.”

  Silence.

  “Miguel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Explain to Miss Alexis what would have happened had you told her our rules about her clothing options earlier.”

  “You kill my family.”

  I can’t believe he said that. “Kill his family? Because I won’t wear a goddamn costume?”

  “And what happens now because you weren’t persuasive enough to get her to wear one of the options I’d so thoughtfully provided?”

  “I lose.”

  “Lose what?”

  “Finger.”

  A man rolls a butcher’s block out onto the stage, a brick and a gleaming knife on its surface. A bucket containing towels, antiseptic, bandages and tape hangs from a hook on the side.

  Miguel approaches the table and places a finger of his left hand on the brick. For the first time I notice he’s already missing two fingers from tha
t hand.

  He knew this was going to happen. It has happened before.

  My heart is zinging in my chest. Mouth dry. This can’t be happening.

  “Who must cut your finger off, Miguel?” The voice sneered at the same time it dripped with boredom. Like a tired teacher talking to a slow-learner.

  The small man swallowed. “Miss Alexis.” He can’t look at me. Instead he looks at a spot on the table. A blood stain from another time?

  “Fuck this. Fuck you. I’m not cutting anyone’s finger off.”

  The man who’d rolled the butcher’s block out reappears and lays some photographs on the table. I resist looking at them. I don’t want to know.

  “Please, Miss Alexis.” Miguel gestures with his head toward the pictures.

  I look at his sad, sad eyes. What might happen to him or his family if I don’t do as I’m told? I wonder how in the world he found himself in this position? What happens when he’s down to a thumb and one finger on his left hand? Does he offer up a finger on his right hand the next time?

  The photographs are catching reflected glare from the lights and I can’t see them from my angle. I’m going to have to pick them up.

  There are three of them.

  The one on top is a shot of my parents at an event. It’s time-stamped and I know it must have been a press conference about me. I look at the drawn and haunted faces of my parents and my heart breaks. We might not have been the best family on earth, but I can see from this photo they love me. My father might be traveling ninety-three percent of the time and my mom might be dulling her senses an equivalent amount of time, but my going missing has obviously caused them pain. Tears pour into my vision.

  The next two photos have more current time stamps. My guess is within hours. One is of my dad sitting out by our pool, phone in hand and gesturing like he always does. Was he talking to someone about me? Or was it business? Hard to say.

  The other is a picture of my mom, blurry, obviously taken with a telephoto lens. Her head is nesting in her arms that are folded on top of the desk in their bedroom. I can’t see her face but I can read her shoulders. Dejected. Afraid. Lost.