“Abusive?” The detective glances up from his perusal of the sheets of text messages I've printed out as evidence. “How so?”
“He . . . well he hits me and he rapes me—“
“Rape? He's your husband.”
“I know, but—“
“Ma'am, when you got married, you vowed for better or worse, correct?”
“Well, yeah, but—“
“Your husband has sexual rights to you.”
I sit up straight in my chair and narrow my eyes. “Excuse me? Is this the eighteenth century? I know what the law is. I've done my homework, and spousal rape is considered a federal offense. Actually, I'm very uncomfortable with your view on this, and I'd like to speak to someone else to file a report.”
“All in due time, miss, all in due time.” He sits forward and cackles—he actually cackles!—as he sets the sheaf of papers on his desk. “I'll be right back.”
I can't believe this man. And to think that he is the detective in charge of missing persons is worrisome. I chew my nails as I wait. Simply coming here and presenting this information is nerve wracking. While I wait, I text Solei, asking if she wants to meet for lunch. She responds immediately and we confirm a time and place. I grin as I type a quick response.
See you there! Oh, and you're NEVER going to guess who I literally ran into yesterday!
I know. He told me ;)
I feel slightly jealous that Sam and Solei seem so close. Over the years, Solei has told me nothing about him. Okay, so she's basically respected what I asked of her, but still, I do wish she would have slipped me some tidbits about him.
Fifteen minutes later, I've mulled over my lot in life to feel sufficiently sorry for myself. A knock sounds on the door and the detective peeks his head around the edge. “Follow me, miss.”
I stand, gather my purse, and follow behind him. “Where are you taking me?”
“The deposition room. So you can give your statement. This way.” He heads down a long hallway toward the back of the building, and disappears around the corner. I quicken my pace so I won't lose him.
I pause at a flight of stairs heading down to the basement. The only other door is the exit to the alley, so this is the only way he could have gone. My gut tells me to turn around and walk away, but the door at the bottom cracks open and I see the detective again.
“Keep up,” he says briskly, holding the door open for me.
I walk down the cement stairs, then pass the detective, murmuring my thanks for the held door. Ahead is another long hallway with strings of closed doors on either side. A guard stands at the far end of the hallway.
The detective pulls out keys and unlocks the first door, and alarm bells start ringing in my head. Are these holding cells? I quickly turn to the door leading to the staircase, but just as my hand closes on the doorknob, his hand fists into my hair and I am dragged into the room. He forces me face down onto the cement floor and pulls my purse off my arm.
What is happening? My heart is racing and I'm having difficulty drawing air into my lungs from his weight on top of me. He lifts me to standing, then throws me against the wall. My head connects with the tiled surface, and I fall right back down to the ground. After he takes my purse, he closes the door behind him, leaving me in darkness.
I don't know how long I'm left in there, but hours pass as my knocks on the door and calls for help go unanswered. My stomach rumbles from hunger, and my bladder is nearly bursting. Finally, I locate a drainage hole on the floor and squat over it to pee. I pace back and forth, prowling the space as my anger boils. There will be some lawsuits in this precinct's future, of that I'm certain.
When the door opens, the cell is flooded with light, and I'm momentarily blinded. A rag is stuffed into my mouth and my lips are sealed with duct tape. I'm pushed to the floor, and my arms are twisted behind me as cool metal snaps around my wrists. What the hell? Handcuffs?
The detective drags me up the stairs and to the exit door at the top. It's dark outside when the door opens, and I am in disbelief at who is waiting.
My husband's car idles in the alleyway. The driver side door opens and he gets out, then opens the back door. I'm shoved inside, and the door slams shut behind me. The men speak in low, heated tones, but I'm able to hear most of their words.
“ . . . don't care what you have to do . . . rid of her.”
“I can't just . . . I'll be the first person they look at . . . figure something else out.”
Following their exchange, the detective goes back inside the police station.
Adrian slides into the driver’s seat and pulls off. He starts talking immediately. “You couldn't mind your business, could you?”
I make unintelligible noises as I try to speak through my gag.
“I've kept my hands clean all this time, and now you gotta mess it up.”
He gets on the expressway and heads north. After we're away from steady traffic flow, he pulls off to the side of the road, then turns around and rips the duct tape off my mouth. I spit out the gag, but say nothing, trying to gauge his mood. He stares at me in silence, then leans forward and brushes my hair back from my face. I flinch away, not wanting to be touched by him.
The flash from his phone is bright as he snaps my picture, then starts typing into his phone. He then turns his phone to me so I can read what's on the screen. There is a message, sent to ten recipients, that says:
Caucasian female, auburn hair, brown eyes, 19 years old, $400
I shake my head violently. “You can't do that to me, Adrian. Please don't do that,” I beg. “And besides, they're not going to like it when they find out I'm not nineteen.”
“They'll never know. No one really cares anyway.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“You need to disappear forever. I'm not a killer. And you won't last long. You think I was bad?” He laughs. “You have no idea. You're going to die a very painful death.”
“Why did you marry me?”
“Out of all the things to say, you ask that?”
I nod. I don't know why, but I need to know.
“My father said I was an irresponsible bachelor and not suited to lead his business endeavors. So I took some college classes, bought a house, and got married to a nice girl. Immediate promotion.”
“What about my mom?”
“It wouldn't look good if I stop paying for her living facilities. I've got it all planned out. Don't worry, honey, I'll be reporting you missing in the morning. I'm even going to organize and lead search parties to find you.” He chuckles.
Adrian's phone buzzes, and he reads the message, then grins. “We got a buyer, baby.”
“Go to hell, you sick bastard,” I hiss.
He stuffs the rag back into my mouth, and I manage to bite him hard enough to draw blood, before he punches me in the face and secures the tape over my mouth. A makeshift blindfold is also wrapped around my head. He buckles his seat belt and starts driving.
I lean against the door and slowly manage to shift the blindfold so I can sneak the smallest view out the window. Only stars light up the vastness of the night sky. Those luminaries seem so tiny; many only weak pinpricks to the naked eye, but together they manage to bring light to the darkness that would otherwise drown out everything. At least with the embers of starlight, I can make out the shadow-tinged edges of clouds, landmarks, and the shapes of trees. The blackness reduces from a fearful sort of mystery to a temporary shroud that will soon be burned away by the rays of the faithful rising sun. Dawn will always come, but until then, starlight will have to do.
I think of the blessings and love I've experienced in my life: my parents, my sister, Solei, Sam, and my beautiful baby Arabella. Even though I've suffered loss and experienced hardship, I'm satisfied with the starlight that lit my dark existence. It's been enough.
An hour later, a rest stop comes into view and Adrian pulls off. Semi-trucks line the entrance and exit ramps, and fill a lot on the side of the building. Apprehension
builds in my chest as he maneuvers toward the lot filled with trucks, and parks next to one.
As he pulls me out of the car, he removes my blindfold, but holds me in place by holding onto the links of my handcuffs. I quickly glance around, looking for some type of rescue, somewhere I can run to, but it's impossible to see anything beyond the towering tractor trailers. A man climbs down from the cab of the truck and walks toward us.
“Open it,” Adrian tells him.
The driver climbs up the back and unlocks a padlock holding the doors of the trailer closed. When the doors open, there is nothing visible in the shadows.
“Grab one of them.”
The man disappears in the darkness. I hear scuffling, a slap, then he reappears with a young girl. He lowers her to the ground and she stays put, eyes lowered, and arms wrapped around herself. Adrian hands me over to the man, then walks up to the girl. He grabs her long, dark hair and forces her head back, then presses the tip of a pocket knife to her throat.
“Oh God,” she whimpers.
“I'm your god now,” Adrian says. “And she”—he gestures to me—“will be either your savior or your sentencer. How old are you?”
“Th-thirteen.”
“What's your name?”
“Evie.”
“Evie. Cute. Wish I had the time to break you in myself.” He briefly fondles her breast, and her face crumples as she squeezes her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. Adrian addresses me next. “If you scream or try to run, I will stab my knife into Evie's throat, you got it?”
I nod.
He throws a set of keys to the man behind me. The cuffs are removed from my wrists and the tape is ripped off my mouth so I can pull the gag out.
“Get one thing straight, Tula. You will die. Might be tonight, might be in a month or two. From now on, you belong to a man named Nikolai, and your job will start tonight. Get in.” He points to the truck.
I put one foot on the rung then turn back to him. “You better hide, you disgusting bastard. Change your name, sell your house, but hide. Because when I survive this, I'm coming for you first.”
15
THE TRAILER IS PITCH black, and smells of urine and fear. After the driver lifts Evie into the back, he closes the door, shutting out the little bit of light and fresh air from the outside. I grab her by the hand and we sit on floor.
“Where you from, Evie?”
“Boise, Idaho.” She sniffles.
“My name is Tula. I'm going to do my best to take care of you, okay?”
She makes a small sound of agreement, and then I hear a cough from further back in the trailer.
“Are there other girls in here?” I whisper to Evie.
“Yeah, there's about fifteen of us so far.”
“So far?”
“We been here all night. They keep opening it up and putting girls in.”
“How'd you get here?” I ask softly.
She whispers her reply. “I ran away from home a week ago. My momma caught me making out with my boyfriend. She said I couldn't see him no more cuz he's too old for me and I'm just a child.” She scoffs, “I ain't no child.”
I interrupt her. “How old was he?”
“Only nineteen. So she grounded me, but I ran away and went to his place. Duke said he loved me. It was great for a few days. We smoked weed, drank, and he had sex with me a couple times, but then his girlfriend showed up. She said I owed them money for rent, food, weed, and beer. And I was like, I ain't got no money, but she said I could make money other ways. Some of Duke's friends came over and he told me to have sex with the guys, then him and his girlfriend left. I told them no, but the guys said that they paid good money for me.” She inhales sharply, her breath catching on a sob. “There was four of them. They beat me and raped me one after the other. Duke was my first so I was still really sore from that. I cried and begged for them to stop but they wouldn't. It was like I wasn't even human to them. And then the next morning, Duke told me he was taking me home, so I took a shower, ate some breakfast, and got in the car with him. I fell asleep in the car because I didn't sleep all night. When I woke up, we were here.”
I put my arms around her, and her shoulders shake as she begins crying.
“I just want my momma.”
A rough, toneless female voice comes from the other side of the trailer. “Shut the hell up, or we all gonna be in trouble.”
I remain quiet and hold Evie until she exhausts her tears. What can I say? I can't promise she won't have to go through that again. More than likely, gang rape is in my future as well. An hour passes in silence and then we hear brakes squeak as a car comes to a stop next to the truck.
“Here comes another,” a voice murmurs softly.
Evie and I get up and instinctively move to the back of the trailer. Warm bodies crowd together. I smell intense body odor, telling me that many of these girls haven't washed in a few days, and the fishy-bleachy scent of semen, meaning many of them have been through the same thing as Evie. I try to mentally prepare myself for whatever my future holds, because I'm hell bent on survival, but how do you prepare yourself for rape? Easy, my inner voice says, don't fight it and then it's just sex. No. No way can I let it happen like that.
The door opens and two more girls get put inside. Shortly after the door closes, the truck rumbles to life. Once the truck is moving steadily down the highway, one of the girls speaks up over the noise.
“Ladies! There is a bucket in the far left corner if you need to pee. I suggest y'all get some sleep, cuz when we get to where we're going, there'll be no rest.”
* * *
THERE IS NO SENSE of time in darkness. I'm not sure how long we stay on the road, but by my guess it's well past midnight when the truck stops and its doors open. The girls obediently file out, and I stay near Evie.
Three plain white windowless passenger vans are parked nearby, and men get out of the driver’s side of each. The girls are divided up, without any apparent order, and are herded into each van. Evie is sent into a different van from me, and I wonder if I will ever see her again.
Including myself, there are a total of five girls in our vehicle. When the doors close, we're in complete darkness. Thirty minutes later, the van comes to a stop. As the doors open, the pitch black is flooded with the fluorescent lights of a gas station. It's well lit and a few cars are parked at the pumps. There's an excellent chance at escape here, and a nervous excitement builds in my belly at the prospect. The driver climbs into the back with us, and immediately crushes my hope.
“For those of you who don't know the drill yet, you are to wash yourselves up here. Keep your head low and don't talk to no one. These three will go first”—he gestures to the ones closest to the door— “and if we have any problems or any of you go missing, I will kill these two girls, and we will find you in the end anyway. You have fifteen minutes.”
The three girls get out and walk inside the gas station, leaving the van door cracked open. They don't look out of place at a glance, maybe a little dirty, but they only appear like a group of girls fueling up in the middle of a road trip. If one were to look closer, they'd notice the girls aren't acting the way you'd expect teenage girls to behave. There are no giggles, one of them is limping, and another uses her hair to curtain the side of her face that is swollen and bruised.
As we wait, the driver openly inspects me and the other girl. She is maybe sixteen years old, very petite and slender, with long black hair.
“Can't wait to take you for a spin,” he says to the other girl, giving a loud laugh. She ducks her head down nervously. He then slides his gaze to me. “Or you. Mmm. Decisions, decisions.”
I resist the urge to spit in his face. It's nauseating to sit here while a man appraises me as if I'm nothing but a head of cattle.
He directs his attention back to the other girl. “You know what we call a little girl like you? A spinner.” He cackles and spits on the ground at her feet. “Put you on my cock and spin you like a top. Yeah.” He no
ds his head decisively. “I'm getting you first.”
She sniffles softly, trying to hold back her tears, and in the darkness, I find her hand and grip it with mine. He continues to describe, in sordid detail, what he plans on doing to her, until the door opens and the other girls climb in one by one.
“You two next. Remember what'll happen if you draw any attention to yourselves or try to run.” We start climbing out, but he notices the other girl's bare feet. “Wait. One of you”—he addresses the other three—“give her your shoes.” One of the girls slips off her ballet flats and hands them over.
We keep our eyes downcast until we reach the bathroom. I feel some desperate need to connect to someone, anyone, in this lonely, soon to be traumatic, experience.
“I'm Tula, and you?”
“Willow,” she responds.
“What's your story?” I try to smile encouragingly.
She heads into a stall and begins using the bathroom. “I'm an orphan. I hated my foster home. My adoptive parents had seven kids, all younger than me. I was like a slave and babysitter to them. So I ran away. After a couple weeks living in the street and begging, I was just cold, dirty, hungry. People would say the meanest things to me. You don't even feel human anymore, it's just . . . existence, filled with discomfort.”
“Then what happened?”
I hear a flush and then Willow comes out to wash her hands. “Well, a man found me sleeping on the street. He said he could tell how pretty I am, even through all the dirt. It felt good to have someone say something nice. He was straight up. Offered a hot shower, a meal, and a place to spend the night in exchange for sex. At that point, I didn't care. It wasn't like I was a virgin or anything. I had no dignity left. It was basically sex for survival.”
I nod, empathetic. I'd never been on the street before, but I do understand desperation, and the way it makes you willing to do almost anything to escape your present situation.
She continues. “Well, in the morning, after he had sex with me again, he told me he had some good news. He said he found somewhere I could stay. I'd be fed, clothed, and have a place to sleep. All I had to do is what I did last night. I said no, then tried to leave. Waiting outside the door was another man. He gave the guy I stayed with some money, and said it was good doing business again, then he took me away to that truck we were on.” Willow leans against the wall and hugs her arms around herself. “I'm so scared.”
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