TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel

by Peg Brantley

  “What if he moved?” I ask Ginger as she follows my directions to Chris’s apartment.

  “He hasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I used to live in Denver too. I still know a few people.”

  “Denver’s your home?”

  “Honey, I no longer have a home. Denver’s just another place on the map.”

  “Do you have family here?” I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t seem to stop. My skin is tingling with memories and my eyes feed it while we drive. I’m ready to burst. I can visualize splitting with pieces of me flying off because all I want to do is find a place to land. To be safe. Or not. At least I’ll be home.

  “Don’t know much about any family.” Ginger drives up to a four-way stop and waits for the other cars to pass in front. “I have a couple of contacts who are still willing to get me some answers is all.”

  “Would you like to stay here?”

  Ginger gives the car more gas. “And do what? Apply for welfare? Fuck that.”

  “At least it would be your life. Your choices.”

  She was quiet for a long time and I worried I might have pissed her off. Maybe she’ll change her mind and not take me to see Chris.

  “Here,” I say. “This is it.” I feel clammy. I look at a drab apartment building and remember the abject horror of that night over six months ago. This structure should look evil. The red brick should’ve turned gray. There should be at least two gargoyles peering over the entrance.

  I start to shake. Tears roll down my face. Nothing makes sense. And then it hits me. It’s the very normalcy of the place, the blandness of it, that feeds my terror. How was I supposed to know? How is anyone supposed to know?

  Ginger turns into the parking lot and finds a spot. She shuts off the engine. “Are you gonna be okay? Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. I’ve got to do this on my own.”

  “You promise me you won’t run?”

  “Leah—and I mean Leah—I’ve got enough bad karma for a dozen lifetimes. I’m not gonna add to it.”

  “How much time do you want?”

  I think of my tricks and the times and fees associated. “Give me an hh,” I say, street code for half an hour. “If I’m not back in thirty-minutes come find me. There might be a body involved.”

  “I’m not down with hurting someone.”

  “Okay to run if I kill him?”

  A small smile crosses her face. “Yeah, that I could probably survive.”

  I look over at Chris’s beater sitting like an abandoned piece of junk. Apparently he hadn’t sold me for enough money to get a new ride.

  Why had he sold me?

  “See you in thirty.” I shove the door open and haul my body out. I feel like I’m fifty pounds heavier.

  I hadn’t thought about how I’d get through the security door, but a tenant was either moving out or in. The doors were braced open and I walk straight through and punch the elevator.

  So far, so good.

  As the old elevator rumbles into action, my stomach matches it groan for groan, yank for yank. I’d forgotten I used to climb the stairs. When it jerks to a stop there’s this huge pregnant pause before the doors stagger open like a drunk about to hurl. I’m right there with it. The only reason I step into the hallway is that I don’t want to stay in the elevator a moment longer and lose my cookies.

  I can see Chris’s door down the hall to the right. It looms in front of me. Since I didn’t use the buzzer I will most definitely be a surprise.

  It feels like I’m wading through a waist-deep river. One step. Then another. The water rising.

  And then I’m at his door.

  Chris. My friend. My fucking friend I was so worried about when I first woke up on that cement floor half a year ago.

  I stand there, an arm’s length away from the door. I’m welded in place. Do I really want this? Do I want to see him? What good will it do?

  My feet unstick and I begin pacing the hallway. It’s not long, and even though Chris’s door is at the end, I come close to it three times and still can’t decide what to do.

  I’m at the other end of the hallway when I hear a door open. It’s Chris’s. The lights at my end are dim and he doesn’t notice me.

  He’s so different. Slack-faced and slump-shouldered, he shuffles to the elevator and slaps a palm on the call button.

  I approach him. Instead of being surprised, he lifts flat eyes that seem to look through me.

  What’s happened to him that he’s not only given up but is so haunted? Automatically I reach out and touch his arm. The difference between standing at his apartment door and seeing him right in front of me is striking, and my barriers crumble to the ground.

  He startles at my touch in a numb and confused way. Then he looks me in the eyes.

  You might think that when a trafficking victim escapes, their life is saved. In reality, though, survival is much more complicated.

  —Why Human Trafficking is a Public Health Problem, by Margaux Gray, for the CNN Freedom Project, 2016

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  I watch as Chris realizes who he’s standing with at the elevator. He squeezes those flat, dead eyes closed and then opens them again. The shaking starts in his hands and within seconds he’s on his knees. He doesn’t utter a sound for a few seconds and then an anguished cry crawls up from deep inside of him.

  “Oh, God!” He sprawls on the crappy carpet in front of the elevator and sobs. Deep, heaving sobs.

  I join him and hold his face in my hands. His eyes have gone from listless to red-rimmed. At least there’s emotion there. A person beyond the stare.

  “Oh god oh god oh god oh god.”

  “Can we go back to your apartment?”

  He freezes.

  “Chris, I want to talk to you. Can we go inside your apartment?” I stand and offer him my hand.

  He shakes his head and forces himself to stand. Without a word he turns around and moves like an automaton down the hallway. Drives his key into the lock and throws open the door.

  I take the keys out of the lock and follow him in, closing the door behind me.

  What the hell? I think as I look around the dark, dingy and dirty place. While not a palace before, at least it had been clean with wonderful natural light coming in the now shaded windows.

  Chris stands next to the countertop he’d cleaned and re-cleaned the night my life changed forever. Only now there was a buildup of grime and styrofoam takeout containers. Dishes were piled in the sink and something smelled dead.

  “Why’d you do it, Chris? Why’d you let that person take me?”

  “You escaped, right? You’re okay now?”

  “Answer my question, Chris. I deserve to know.”

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “I want an answer. And then you can tell me what the hell has happened to you.” I gesture to the filth.

  Chris follows my arm like he’s seeing his apartment for the first time. “I, uh…”

  “Did you sell me?”

  Chris blinks and scratches his chest. “I, uh…” He rubs his face.

  “Did you?”

  “I owed someone money.”

  “How much, Chris? How much did you get?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “You sold me, my life, for two thousand dollars?” I shove him. “I thought you were my friend!” I shove him again. “I was worried something bad had happened to you!”

  I shove him again and again. He stands there and takes it. I realize I’m crying and that pisses me off even more.

  “What the hell did you think was going to happen to me?”

  “I thought it was a joke. A prank.” His eyes brighten and he looks at me eagerly. Like I’ll believe him and we’ll have a good laugh. Share a beer. Even though I’m not old enough to drink.

  “Fuck you. You knew.”

  It’s like his face turns to glass and breaks from the inside out. I feel a surge of sat
isfaction.

  “You know I confessed, right? I start serving three years next month.”

  “Like that makes it okay? It should be more.”

  “But you’re out now, right?” His nose drips and his mouth twists. Like he’s the one who was sold.

  “No, Chris. I’m not out. In fact I have to leave now. Time is money, which I guess is something you know all about.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  I turn and walk away.

  FBI personnel conducted research before and after World Cannabis Week in 2015 and noted a 35 percent increase in the number of online escort postings. Also, during this year’s event, nearly 40 percent of escorts told police they traveled to Colorado for the special event….One of the recovered minors, a 15-year-old victim, had been transported to Colorado from California by traffickers specifically for ‘420 Week.’

  —Dozens arrested in sex trafficking bust in Colorado, by KRDO.com Staff, Colorado Springs, Colorado, 2016

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  “You’re exhausted, Mex,” Cade said as they stood in front of the ticket desk at the airport in Monterrey. “Give it a day.”

  “Can’t. Every day Livvy is where she is, she’s in hell.” Mex cleared his throat. “Plus, we can’t know she’ll have another day.” He signed the credit card bill and waited for a boarding pass.

  Cade had called ahead to Rachel, the newly-minted team member who’d met with Alexis’s mother, and asked her to meet them at the Westin DIA where she’d arranged a suite. This wasn’t going to be an easy transition for anyone, and she wanted to take all the right steps.

  When Cade had called Steve Halston to let him know they’d rescued his daughter, he’d been in Europe on business. While he sounded relieved they’d rescued Alexis, the raw concern he’d expressed earlier was gone. He said he’d make every attempt to return to the states as soon as possible, but Cade got the distinct impression “as soon as possible” meant “as soon as my business here is complete.”

  Business must be pressing, Cade thought sarcastically, and the problem at home had been resolved. His daughter was safe.

  Adele Halston had been almost non-responsive, the drugs and alcohol numbing her. It wasn’t hard to get the woman to agree not to see her daughter the moment she landed. Cade’s heart went out to Alexis. Her support system was seriously cracked.

  Right now Alexis was asleep in a private room within the airport after receiving medical attention for her bullet wound. It helped having both Mex’s connections and his money.

  Darius’s contacts had been able to pin down the location of the computer Livvy’s “online love” had used. It had been opened recently and repeatedly from an apartment building in Phoenix. Darius was then able to track down a Backpage ad showing Livvy, using a pseudonym, clearly all of twelve years old, and advertising herself as that magic age of eighteen.

  While Cade hugged herself and turned away from him, Mex called the number and made an appointment with Livvy for midnight. She was receiving “guests” at a fleabag motel less than a half mile from the stadium.

  His flight from Monterrey would get into Phoenix about eleven. The motel was only about six minutes from the airport. It would give him enough time to pick up a rental car and scout the layout of the motel.

  Neither Mex nor Darius had been able to come up with any information regarding security. The three of them guessed there wasn’t much, but there was no way to know for sure.

  Cade paced away from him and then marched back. She nuzzled into his arms. “Do you promise me—promise me—not to do anything if something feels off? Do you promise me to pay attention to your gut? To pay attention to your tired, beautiful gut?” A tear slipped down her cheek.

  Mex offered a rare smile as he brushed her tear away with his thumb. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I promise. Plus, my tired, handsome gut will sleep on the plane. Everything will be fine, and we’ll have another girl home with her family.”

  “If this goes south, Mex Anderson, you’ll have hell to pay. And I’ll be collecting.”

  “And if this goes as planned, Cade LeBlanc, you’ll owe me, and we’ll both be collecting.” He winked.

  “Fuck you,” she whispered.

  “Exactly.”

  Miya’s parents soon learned from police that more than approximately 30 other girls had been approached by the same couple in that mall and in surrounding areas—the same couple, apparently, who were seen with Miya and who claimed to be recruiting models…. Within days, Miya had been moved several times, farther from home, and she said she was too scared to try to escape. “I mean, I was really far from my house, and I didn’t know where to go,” she said.—Teen Girls’ Stories of Sex Trafficking in U.S., ABC News, February 9, 2006

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  ALEXIS

  There’s a soft light in this room. The linens are fresh and a lavender scent fills the air. All meant to relax a weary traveler.

  But I’m more than simply a weary traveler. I know I’m going home but I can’t quite believe it’s happening. Every time I fall asleep I visualize the room with all of the torture equipment. I’d managed to avoid permanent physical damage, but only because someone else took the pain.

  A doctor attended to my wound. Nothing serious he tells me. I’ll be sore for a month or so fully recovered in three to six.

  The madness is over, but is it?

  Will my dad be there to greet me? My mom? A tear slips out of my eye as I realize how terrible it is to have to ask those questions.

  This Cade person seems nice. I recognize that the old Alexis would be hung up on her casual appearance, but I’m so far beyond that girl. I realize I’m no longer one to judge someone else. I feel a rush of relief when those words come into my head.

  A memory of Miguel’s sweet smile flashes, and I think of the fingers he lost, knowing his weren’t the only ones. I wonder what will happen to him now. Will he be held responsible for my escape?

  Another image slips into my head. Those used sandals from the closet when I’d first arrived at my jailor’s residence. Used by whom?

  How can I possibly judge another person ever again?

  There’s a soft rap on the door and Cade enters.

  “How are you feeling? How’s your shoulder?”

  “I’m okay. When can I go home?”

  “We have chartered a plane that will be ready to go in forty minutes.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “Yes. Darius, the man who rescued you at the party, and I will both fly home with you.”

  “Will my parents be at DIA?”

  Cade swallowed. “Your dad is in Europe, but I’m sure he’ll be home as soon as he can.”

  His only child has gone missing and my dad is still focused on business. I wonder if his business associates even know about me. Even know I was abducted. And hey, it’s not like I’m his son. His Samuel.

  “And my mother?” I ask this question even though I know the answer. My mom is the Self-Medicating Queen. After the whole ordeal of my older brother, she pretty much checked out. I don’t blame her. I might do the same thing. Who cares if there’s a new baby?

  “Your mother understands you need time to decompress. A woman is meeting us in Denver who you might feel especially comfortable talking to.”

  “Really? Was she one of Sergio Montonaldo’s girls?” I smirk. “Oh, wait. None of the girls before me lived, at least none we know about.” I’d heard more than they thought I’d heard in this tiny room with all of the law enforcement people talking. I might not know a lot of Spanish, but I know enough. I could also put together a thing or two on my own.

  How the hell can I talk about this to anyone?

  And I have the answers about my parents. No surprise.

  Why should I care what happens to me? I want to cry, but I can’t.

  They should have left me in Monterrey.

  The initiative, from Thursday through Saturday, was an intensive effort that spanned hot
els, truck stops, street corners and social media applications. The youngest recovered victim was 14 years old.

  —FBI recovers 9 child sex trafficking victims in Colorado, Wyoming as part of national operation,

  by Jesse Paul, for The Denver Post, October 18, 2016

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  LIVVY

  The sun is beginning to set. In Phoenix there’s color to sunsets but not a lot of drama. I miss my mountains.

  It’s not that I hate it here. It’s only that it’s not home.

  And my life isn’t right.

  And so yeah, I pretty much hate it here. Palming the pills Ian gives me keeps my head clear. I don’t like what I see and feel, but at least I know what’s going on.

  When I first stopped taking his “pony” pills it was hard. But at least I’m not addicted. Other girls I see seem lost, and I don’t want to be more lost than I already am.

  I’m beginning to give up on a lot of things, even without needing the pills. What hurts the most is the idea of never seeing my family again, even if my brother and sister are pains in the you-know-what. The memories I have with them slip into my dreams and make me cry. Sometimes a memory is more of a hurtful thing than a sweet thing.

  I guess it depends on where you are at the moment you get the memory. Are you in a classroom with your friends or are you in a dirty hotel room with a man who could be your dad. Or your uncle. Or your grandpa.

  It depends on where you are.

  And maybe I don’t deserve to ever see my family again. How could they still love me? With what I’ve done? With what I’ve become?

  If I can’t see my family how can I be a vet? How can I be anything?

  I think maybe a person can lose everything. And it’s not their fault. I’ll never look at a homeless person the same way again.

  Except I don’t believe that—about it not being my fault. I was the one who believed everything Ian told me. It was me. No one else.