Wicked Girl (THE FIRE Book 1)

by Mcebo Michael Metfula

  I picked up the payphone and squinted around as if I was a thug guilty of something horrible. Luckily, there were no people close to me. The mall was still deserted. Even the huge parking lot had a few dozens of cars gathering the falling snow.

  I dialed the number slowly, questioning if the call wouldn’t jeopardize Grace’s precious life. Or get her moved to a location I would never know. The phone rang. A cold sweat broke in my left armpit and meandered on my ribcage, down to my waist. No one picked up. Again. I scanned the instructions on the paper Sophie gave me and thought I should call her. Yes, that would put her life at risk by a thousand fold. She had asked me to call her at exactly eight. She said she also needs my help. But eight felt like decades away. I replaced the receiver, pondering what I could do to wait the entire hour?

  I stared at the rushing cars on the highway, then at the heaps of snow around the mall. I walked along the front of the mall trying to figure out how the hour could vanish faster. Next to the main entrance that leads to Price Chopper and many other shops, I saw a coffee shop. I went in and ordered some coffee over the long counter stacked with chrome espresso, frothing machines, and blenders.

  “Plain or milked?” the young lady asked.

  “Milked please,” I said, noticing I was extremely hungry. The scent of espressos, acrid burned coffee, warm chocolate, fresh-baked cookies, and muffins pushed lots of saliva down my throat.

  In no time, she was done. I said, “Thank you,” and took the hot paper cup and the warm small box. I picked a white two-seat table with lime leather chairs, close to the giant, glass window. Watching the parking lot and passing people at close proximity always enhanced my moods.

  I was the only one who was interested in using the seats after all. Most people took their breakfast to their cars and rushed to work or church. Their lives were uninterrupted – they were fully on track. Even the staff was happy, processing and calling out orders with great enthusiasm and laughter.

  I enjoyed the sweet coffee and fresh muffins. But I almost smashed my cell phone when I realized the time was 7:19.

  I heard the “Missing Women” phrase and a warm sensation cut through my stomach. It had come from the television mounted close to the ceiling. Swiftly, I looked up and saw the faces of the three missing women. Grace was still at the center, still smiling.

  The reporter said something that made me stop chewing and breathing. “It is sad to announce that one of the women has been found dead in a jungle in New Jersey.”

  I jumped to my feet and hastened to the screen. The ladies in the coffee shop stared at me like I had acted weirdly. “Her name is Monica Edwards,” the reporter proceeded.

  I resumed breathing and held my pounding chest.

  At the counter, a young, naive couple dressed up for church said mean things about the missing women on the screen. I gazed at them.

  I stopped gazing when I realized I was already walking to them without recognizing it. I thought that if walking to them couldn’t be realized and registered in my head, probably, even beating the hell of out them wouldn’t be realized either. Perhaps, even killing them wouldn’t be.

  Again, I found myself glaring at them but I forced my eyes back to the news update for I was walking again. I hated that they associated a decent lady like Grace with throwing herself at men – sleeping with strangers who happen to be human traffickers. Again, I was walking towards them. They gazed at me, still uttering their stupid comments. Unfortunately, I failed to control my eyes and body. Even my brain. Their naive brown eyes heaved me like a magnet. I stood a punch away from them, scanning their eyes. The young man said, “What? How can we help sir?”

  Trying my best to hold my horses, I pointed at the screen and screamed. “She is my wife. My wife. And she is not a whore!” The staff and customers waiting for their orders stared at me, frozen. Not even a soul talked or moved. But I couldn’t care less. “She doesn’t throw herself on men. She is not a bitch as you claim. She is missing.”

  I squinted at the staff and customers staring at me. I walked to the door when I saw the young man’s face drawing even closer and closer, yet, he was drifting backward.

  “Sorry,” the young lady said when I moved out. The young man couldn’t say anything; he couldn’t even breathe.

  I contemplated calling Sophie even though it was ten minutes before eight.

  7:59 AM

  At exactly ten seconds before eight, I dialed Sophie’s number. However, when her cell phone began ringing at two seconds after eight, I saw the mean couple in the parking lot, carrying their breakfast, opening their white ford fiesta. They saw me walking to them and banged the doors and sped off with a squeak of the tires. I felt awful they saw me walking to them when I didn’t realize I was approaching them.

  “Hello. Hello,” Sophie said in the receiver hanging from the payphone a few steps behind me.

  I hurried back. “Hello, Sophie.”

  “I’m glad you called Elijah. I knew you would. We don’t have much time though.”

  “No problem. I called the number at the back of the photo. Whose number does he write at the back of the photos?”

  “It’s usually his client’s number.”

  “Client?” I said disappointed I went through all the trouble to get Karen’s secret number.

  “Elijah, listen. I need your help.”

  I said nothing.

  “Elijah. Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I said I need your help desperately.”

  “Ok. My help?”

  “You know, Rodger is not my husband. He is like the slave master who bought his slave after test driving her.”

  Sophie’s slave, test driving stories irritated me. I couldn’t even understand what she was talking about. She was grossly delaying me. I had to think what to do at that juncture. Whether I divulged my findings to Detective Howell and he investigates and arrests Karen or I break Karen myself.

  “Elijah. Are you there? Please, talk. We don’t have time. He will be back in ten.”

  “Yes, I heard the slave thing. What’s that?”

  “Elijah, my real name is Njeri Bukasa. I was trafficked to the US from Nairobi, Kenya. The lady who recruited us promised a masters degree scholarship. Since I had a BSc already, I was taken. I ignored all the red flags and came to the US illegally. When I got here, I was forced to sleep with men. I resisted, but they threatened to shoot me. In the end, I gave in to save my life. I had seen other girls from Russia shot for resisting.” She began crying. “I gave in, Elijah, and slept with dozens of men every day. My virginity was taken by a man I don’t even know and didn’t love.” She cried louder. “I had kept my virginity for the man who would love and marry me, not exploit me.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this Sophie…Njeri. I feel bad you were a victim of these fools,” I said, unsure of what to think about Grace. I feared she was also a sex slave somewhere.

  “But you have a husband. How does this thing work?”

  “Rodger used to be a client who always wanted to sleep with me. I mean he came every day, but only for me, not the other girls. He only wanted me. After some months he talked with the evil people who owned us. They agreed on a price, and he bought me for five thousand dollars.” She broke into tears again. “Only five thousand dollars, Elijah. That’s how much I’m worth. Back at home, there are people who consider me priceless.”

  “Sorry, Njeri. I’m very sorry. But…but you have children with this guy. How did you give birth if you don’t have the proper paperwork to be here?”

  “Elijah, I will tell you the details later. I now have the U.S citizenship. Rodger faked it for me. But Elijah, I want to be free; please help me. I want to go back home.”

  “I get you. But how can I help? Everything seems complicated. I mean you even have kids with this guy.”

  In the interest of time, Njeri didn’t cry but sobbed. “It’s really messed up, Elijah. I have these two kids I don’t know whether to love or hat
e.” She sobbed louder. “But, but maybe you can tell a detective who will understand my situation. Someone who will not look at me as this African girl who ran away to the U.S to sell her body and charge me with all sorts of immigration crimes. I didn’t run away here. I was trafficked and exploited limitlessly.”

  I felt numb. Njeri’s story was numbing and scary as my mind quickly connected it with Grace’s ordeal. I feared Grace had fallen into the same trap. And she was sleeping with dozens of strangers every day. It made sense that probably, Rodger had decided to use her to make money before killing her. It was a win-win arrangement for him.

  8:17 AM

  I returned to the coffee shop still unsure how to handle the crossroads. I felt down. I also feared I would terrify the ladies at the counter.

  Indeed, my fears were confirmed when I moved in. The two of them hesitated to run away. I placed my order at the one I had used earlier. She tried her best to give me excellent treatment like she did earlier, except her hands were shaking and some droplets of sweat broke on her forehead. When our eyes collided by accident she grinned and said, “I…I… I’m sorry for your wife. I hope they find her. If we see her around here we will tell the police.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for your concern. I greatly appreciate it.”

  She sighed, clearly relieved. Then it became easier for her to wait for my brownies and coffee order to be finished. Even her colleagues eased up; they began chatting about how the police service had improved over the years.

  I loved their chat and even smiled unconsciously. It was sweet; the ladies crafted it to enhance my hope and indirectly show love and support for me. When they glanced at each other and then at me, I realized I was smiling at their conversation. “Sure, they have improved in the past years,” I said.

  They nodded and said, “A lot,” simultaneously. They laughed. I joined in too.

  The tension came back when our small talk ended. The one attending me looked stressed; she couldn’t come up with something to say until she apologetically said, “Oh, sorry we cleaned up. We thought you were done.”

  “Cleaned up?”

  “Yeah. I mean earlier you left some coffee and muffins on the table. And we cleaned thinking you weren’t coming back.”

  I smiled. “Oh that. Don’t worry. I never expected to find that coffee. I mean it’s probably cold by now.”

  I had too much on my plate to care about some $10 coffee. My head buzzed with unbelievable flashes: Grace screaming, resisting sleeping with strangers; Grace rotting in the woods, wrapped with some black refuse bag; Grace –

  “Here is your coffee. Sorry for the delay; the muffins were still in the oven.”

  “That’s okay; I love them hot.” I took my order and gave her a $40 dollar tip.

  She and her friend’s eyes bulged. “Wow! Thanks a lot,” she screamed.

  I also wanted to give her friend $20 but told myself they would share. After all, I didn’t have lots of money myself but I was moved by their love and concern. They really boosted me.

  I picked the same two-seat table and ate. Initially, I had told myself I would eat elsewhere but the girls made me change my mind.

  The hot coffee and hot brownies were great, but I had no appetite. I ate to fill up my stomach.

  When I glanced at the television there was some kids program like Sesame Street. I took out my cell and called Detective Howell.

  “Mr. Turner. Making a follow-up?” he said.

  “Hmm, yes,” I said just to please him. I had called to help out Sophie lest I forgot everything entirely.

  “Our investigations are ongoing. We are doing everything possible. Currently, we’re investigating one of her co-workers. But of course, I can’t give the details for now.”

  “Last time you mentioned her boss, Mr. Travis Wright.”

  “Yes, we were told he is out of the country. We will talk to him as soon as he comes home.”

  “Okay,” I said, vividly hating Mr. Wright’s investigation. Everybody respected him as a kind and generous businessman. Going after him was clearly a waste of time. Deep in me, I was glad I started my own investigation.

  Detective Howell cleared his throat, reminding me he was still on the line. Probably, he had recalled some amnesia episodes I had given him. “Yes, as I said Mr. Turner, I will update you as soon as we get something more promising.”

  “Sure. There is something else I wanted to report. Not about me, but probably it could be related, I don’t know. Some girl from Kenya. She was trafficked to the U.S. She was promised a scholarship but was forced into prostitution.”

  “That’s bad. Is she still alive?”

  “Yes, she is. I talked to her just now.”

  “Okay great. Let me do this. Let me talk to the chief. He will send detectives to you. Tell them everything about this girl.”

  “Ok Detective.”

  “It’s kind of you, Mr. Turner. Here you are concerned about other people’s lives whilst your wife’s issue is still pending.”

  “Thanks.” I cut the call and went to the pay phone again.

  8:44 AM

  I picked up the payphone receiver and dialled the number. Again, it rang without being answered. I called again. After some time, someone said, “Hello.” It was a woman.

  “Hello,” I said, not sure what to say to her. It wasn’t even Karen.

  “Who is it?”

  “May I talk to Karen? I’m looking for Karen.”

  “Karen? Who is Karen? Sorry, we don’t have Karen here. You called a wrong number I guess.”

  Some lady next to her spoke just before she dropped asking her who she was talking to. Her voice sounded familiar to my ears. I thought of calling again, but figured they might become suspicious and probably move Grace. I would lose her forever. I replaced the receiver.

  But since the number was a landline number, I gave myself hope that I could use it to get their address.

  The other lady’s voice replayed in my head, “Who is that? Let’s go. We will be late. We can’t keep a man like that waiting.”

  “Excuse me, sir. May I make a call?” an elderly woman said behind me.

  “Oh sorry,” I said, gazing back at her. Regrettably, there was a queue of five people behind her. Anger beamed through their eyes at me. “Sorry, I didn’t notice they’re people behind me.” I walked away, still trying to come up with some sense of the voice I heard. A part of me wanted to put the finger on Karen. To some extent, she sounded like her. But at the same time, I wasn’t thoroughly convinced it was her. On the other hand, I couldn’t make sense why strangers would want to harm Grace. Or was it some ladies she worked with? Ladies she crossed paths with. I couldn’t understand that bit too. Grace was not confrontational at all. Unless, they just hated her for her beauty and golden personality.

  The human trafficking thing also crossed my head as I passed the coffee shop. I punched the air several times. I hated any thought about Grace being raped by dozens and dozens of men – every day. Unfortunately, when I glanced inside the coffee shop, I noticed that the girls who had attended me saw me punching the air. I felt small that the positive impression about me must have evaporated from their heads. Probably not. They grinned at me when I passed. The one I tipped with forty dollars even waved. I was relieved, at least, they could tell I wasn’t a lunatic. I was a decent man only going through a very rough phase. Or probably, they were only appreciative of the money; otherwise, they saw a psychopath in me.

  A brilliant plan crossed my mind and I hastened to the bus stop. I had to go home, go online and find the physical address of the telephone number. I was confident it would lead somewhere. After all, I had even heard a voice I know. But one thing that disturbed my peace was what the familiar voice said, “Let’s go. We will be late. We can’t keep a man like that waiting.”

  I kept thinking where they were going and if they would come back to that address again. The worst part that drove out all confidence and courage to remain on my feet was what if they were g
oing out to meet Rodger. Who was the man they would dare not keep waiting? I suspected they were going to meet Rodger to pay him to finish Grace.

  They were dozens of people waiting for the bus at the bus stop. They looked at me expecting a “Good morning,” but I couldn’t do it. It was only my body standing with them. My mind was far away and my heart was ill. It became worse when I saw Grace and the other two missing ladies in a newspaper read by some man next to me. When I gazed at his newspaper, he looked up and grinned. I turned and faced the cars rushing on the highway.

  My heart became sour when I recalled that the other lady was already confirmed dead. She was found in the woods buried under a huge heap of snow by skiers. It was extremely difficult to convince myself that Grace was still alive. After all, even my lead wasn’t strong or clear. I feared it was a dead end for it seemed even the landline I called belonged to an irrelevant woman.

  I changed my mind and called a cab. The bus seemed to be taking forever, yet, I itched to boost my hope by at least finding out the name of the owner of the property I had to investigate.

  9:24 AM

  I Googled and found a People Finder website. It promised to provide me with the name and physical address if I supplied it with the telephone number. Hastily, I supplied it with exactly that. A spinning wheel showing it was still searching appeared and worried me. I never expected a “still searching” moment for it was not searching a worldwide database, only New York City numbers. I feared it would say “address does not exist” and my dead end fears would be confirmed.

  Chloe came to the dining table and sat next to me, staring at the laptop. “People Finder? So you are getting some leads at least.”