The walk is making me tired and my wound is beginning to flare. I need to sit. The bar we stop at is this dingy underground thing. It’s packed despite being the middle of the day, and when we enter everyone inside looks at each other like they’re protecting a secret of something shocking that happened fifteen years ago. We order a few beers and some nachos from the bartender then find a seat near the door.
‘Once we caught a girl who had fled from the man who purchased her. As punishment one of the runners at the time, a particularly cruel Italian named Nico, burnt her face with an iron. That night as I covered the wound with makeup, she told me about the man she escaped from. He was an American oil executive living in Mexico City. To everyone else she was his live-in maid, but every morning, after his wife went to work and his children left for school, he would enter her bedroom and bind her arms with padded rope so she wouldn’t bruise. Then he would read her passages from the Bible before he raped her. He said she should be proud. She was saving his young daughters from his ungodly desires. As time went on, he invited his friends to join in. One day, a friend brought a large dog with him. They forced her to do the most humiliating things, Jerry. She was only fifteen.’
LaRouche’s face is stoic. She fiddles with the silver cross on her neck.
‘The next day Nico put the girl on the street again. But because of her burned face she only had one customer. Nico was furious. That night he assembled all the girls in the basement. He made the scarred girl bite the edge of a concrete stair. Then he kicked the back of her head. Her teeth went everywhere. I’d never heard someone scream like that before.’
I feel my teeth with my tongue and my stomach is suddenly sick. I look away from LaRouche, as if doing so will wipe the girl’s image from my mind.
‘Nico wasn’t finished,’ she says, meaning neither is she. ‘He dragged the girl to the middle of the room and held her up by the hair. She was wailing so loudly. Her teeth were jagged and pointed in every directing. Blood poured from her mouth. Nico told all the girls to listen and watch. He said if any of them looked away, the same would happen to them. Then he slit the girl’s throat. That’s when I knew I had to get out.’
My stomach knots. ‘This guy, this Nico, whatever happened to him?’ I say. ‘Did he get caught? Is that how you got out?’
LaRouche laughs. ‘No one gets caught, Jerry. He runs the ring now.’
‘So, what? They just let you go? Just like that?’
She shakes her head, like I’m just not getting it. ‘All this – the girls, the smuggling, the payoffs – it’s a business, Jerry. It may be all about sex on the client side, but on the distribution side it’s all about profit. These men owned me, like a person owns a dog. In order to leave I had to pay back what they decided I was worth to them, and when you have no say in the price, they can set it as high as they like.’
‘Then how’d you pay them back?’
‘By helping arrange a sale,’ LaRouche says. ‘A powerful and wealthy man wanted a beautiful little virgin – a clean, untouched, child. He wanted her no older than twelve so she would last many years. He wanted dark hair and fair skin.’ LaRouche’s eyes appear to sink farther into her skull when she recalls this, and for a moment she’s silent. ‘I put the order out. Our people in Russia sent me photographs they took of girls on the street; girls at playgrounds; girls leaving school. When I saw Hanna’s photo I knew she was the one. In the picture she was chasing a ball in a park. She was a fiery little girl with deep-black hair and the face of an angel. I placed the order for her that night.’
LaRouche finishes her beer and orders another.
‘When Hanna was brought to me I didn’t see a girl – I saw my freedom. The men who came by, they all wanted to sleep with her, but I couldn’t allow it. I would make her watch, or make her love another girl, even force her into oral sex, but her virginity was top priority.’
When the barman returns with her drink, LaRouche goes quiet and doesn’t speak again until he leaves.
‘In spite of this,’ LaRouche continues, ‘I began to worry. It had been months and she still resisted whenever we educated her. Even the strongest girls could only hold out a few weeks before they accepted their fate. But Hanna, she was different. I started to believe she would never break. I began to fear for my life. If I messed up a sale, Nico would kill me without thinking twice – and he would make sure I felt pain before I died.’
LaRouche takes a sip of her beer, not so much because she’s thirsty but as if she needs to collect her thoughts.
‘One day, I called Hanna by name,’ she says. ‘She didn’t reply. I called her again, but again she didn’t reply. I grew angry and slapped her with a leather belt on the back of the head where her hair would hide any marks. She cried and asked what she had done wrong. I told her, “You must always answer me when I call you, Hanna”, and I raised the belt again. It was then that she looked up at me, tears streaming down her face, and asked, “Who’s Hanna?” That’s when I knew she was broken. She had become the product the client ordered, ready to be delivered.’
An odd felling springs in my stomach. It’s just a scrap, but even being so small I still recognise it as a hint of sympathy for Epiphany.
LaRouche takes a drink. ‘So, I arranged the sale of Hanna to the man. He paid twice as much as any other girl had ever made us. Nico was pleased, and he thought I was used up anyway. Hanna bought me my freedom.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ I say.
LaRouche takes a long drink, sets the beer down and only answers when she is ready. ‘Hanna is requesting something of you, so I thought you should know something of her. Sometimes people are misunderstood. Sometimes they’re too aggressive. Hanna, in particular. She is so focused that she doesn’t understand that the people she needs to help her might be more willing if they knew the maths – if they knew the reason for what she does.’
‘Maths?’ I laugh. ‘There’s nothing logical in what Epiphany does;’ an ironic smile forms on my face. ‘She’s insane.’ My wound flares and I realise how hot I am with fever. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s a touching story. Really. Little Hanna is abducted, loses her mind, becomes Epiphany, and, twelve years later, believes that I can help her on some fucking quest. All of it’s unfortunate, but none of that changes the fact that she’s framed me for murder.’
LaRouche stiffens at how loud I’ve said ‘murder’, and I know that that tension in her eyes signals my best opportunity to get what I came for. ‘There’s a package she mailed you,’ I say.
She doesn’t reply.
‘Listen to me,’ I demand. My words come out with such force, LaRouche looks genuinely startled. I bite my lip before continuing. ‘I get that you were a person who was stuck between a rock and a hard place. You had to do what you could to save yourself.’
LaRouche looks down at her root-like hands.
‘But Epiphany killed a man I worked with because she was trying to get to me,’ I say. ‘She’s framing me for his death. She’s blackmailed me into coming here because she thinks she needs me for some insane mission from God.’
The harder I breathe the more my ribs hurt.
‘Did you know that?’ I say. ‘You beat her so silly, she thinks she talks to God.’
And I would think that would underscore just how crazy this whole situation is, but LaRouche remains silent. So I say, ‘I mean, why are you even helping her? Is she blackmailing you, too?’
LaRouche doesn’t answer. Instead she rubs the cross hanging around her neck.
Then she says, ‘We all need our chance at redemption for the sins we’ve committed.’
My jaw drops.
‘You have to be kidding me. You actually believe God is talking to her? That this is your chance at redemption for all the bad shit you did?’
‘Yes.’
My frustration causes my wound to burn that much more. ‘Listen: God’s not talking to her,’ I say. ‘She’s fucked up in the head. You want to redeem yourself? Help me. Please.
’
‘Please,’ I say again. Then I swallow and shallow my breath before I show all my cards. ‘There was a videotape in that package, wasn’t there?’ And before she can deny it, I say, ‘The one she mailed you.’
LaRouche begins to speak, but stops herself.
‘I need that tape,’ I plead. ‘I need my life back.’
She still doesn’t speak.
I say, ‘Please.’
Nothing. She just sits there.
I can’t even breathe without hurting now. I feel tears coming. I grab LaRouche’s hand. ‘I just need the proof that I didn’t do it. I won’t turn her in. I won’t tell anybody where she is. Please, LaRouche,’ my voice trembles, ‘please let me have the tape. Please don’t ruin another life to fix a mistake you made a long time ago. I never did anything to her. I don’t deserve this.’
It takes me a minute before I realise how hard I’m squeezing her knotty hand. I release it and LaRouche takes a breath. ‘I don’t have it,’ she says. And she can tell I’m about to lose it because she raises her palm, signalling me to hold on. ‘She asked for the videotape back last night when you were passed out.’
I shake my head. ‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m telling you the truth, Jerry. She had me give it to her last night before she left.’
‘Left?’ I say. ‘Left where? Where is she?’
She reaches into a small purse and slides something across the table. ‘She’s in Veracruz. You leave tonight.’ And I see that the something she slid across the table is a ticket.
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not going anywhere else. No way,’ I say, avoiding the ticket as if touching it would teleport me to Epiphany instantaneously. ‘Why should I believe she’s even brought the tape with her?’
Then LaRouche, she leans towards me. ‘Look rationally at your situation, Jerry. You’re in a foreign country, illegally. You don’t speak the language. You have no money. You’re wanted by the police in your own country. You’re practically a trafficked person yourself.’ She almost laughs. ‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter what you believe.’
My whole body feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. I want to deny what she’s said, but when I slump back in my chair my wound surges with fresh pain, as if reminding me, She’s right, Jerry. You’re Epiphany’s bitch.
LaRouche says that I was meant to travel to Veracruz with Epiphany today, but something happened. Epiphany attracted the wrong kind of attention; she had to get out of town, but I wasn’t in any position to travel. She tells me it’s a long bus journey (great), and that Epiphany will arrive in Veracruz before I do. Epiphany will meet me at the bus depot and from there we’ll meet with a man who will give us transport to Porto.
‘Porto?’
‘It’s in Portugal,’ she tells me.
LaRouche reaches into her purse again and hands me a large wad of pesos. She says it’s the equivalent of two hundred dollars. On a note she’s scribbled down the name of some medicine I should pick up to keep my infection in check.
She also tells me to buy some new clothes and a pair of sunglasses, ‘Just in case.’
She tells me, ‘Buy food.’
She tells me not to get off the bus until it reaches Veracruz. Not even to pee.
‘Just in case.’
She tells me that, after I buy the food and the sunglasses and the clothes, I should meet her at the apartment. She’ll have some euros to give me. ‘That will make it easier when you reach Portugal,’ she says.
I ask her why, why are we going to Portugal? How on earth does Epiphany think either of us is going to get on a plane with our fake passports? They don’t scan. They don’t even feel real. But LaRouche isn’t bothered by those minor issues.
‘Then at least tell me,’ I say like I’m begging for bread crumbs, ‘tell me why I’m here? Why did Epiphany drag me into this? It’s not just for the passports.’
And for a moment LaRouche doesn’t speak. Then, as if taking pity on me, she leans in. She leans in and says, ‘Because, Jerry, Hanna believes you’re the only one who can help her get to the person she’s looking for.’
‘Who?’ I say, at the end of my rope. ‘The man who abducted her? The man who bought her?’
I say, ‘Nico?’ and I sense the air in the bar stiffen.
‘Don’t say that name so loudly,’ LaRouche snaps.
‘Well, who?’ I say. ‘Matthew Mann?’ and LaRouche doesn’t budge.
‘Who, dammit?’ I practically yell. ‘Who is Epiphany looking for?’
And a reflection of light finally gleams from LaRouche’s silver tooth. ‘Her daughter.’
19
Teeth
‘Jerry, I promise I’ll give you the tape after we reach Mexico. What? Oh, no, I meant Portugal,’ Epiphany says in my mind.
I’ve been roaming the red-light district near the place where I got stabbed ever since LaRouche and I separated. I’m hoping I don’t run into the Jamaican. Before I left the bar I tried to pry more information from LaRouche about Epiphany’s daughter, but all she said was she’d already said too much, and that if I ever wanted to see that videotape I’d better get moving.
In my mind, Epiphany says, ‘Jerry, I promise. We just need to go to Russia, and then it’s all yours.’
In the red-light district there are beautiful girls in window after window, but it’s the men I’m looking at. The men that walk like zombies. The men who own the girls. The men who sell the drugs.
‘Jerry, I swear. China is just around the corner…’
And finally I find him. He mumbles as I approach.
If I go to Portugal with Epiphany, what then? I have no guarantee this will ever end.
‘Coke. Guns. Heroin,’ the man mumbles.
‘You see that glowing orb in the night sky, Jerry? Once we get there, I’ll give you the tape. I promise with a capital P.’
No. The only way this is going to end is if I stop it.
‘Coke. Guns. Heroin,’ the mumbling man repeats.
‘Gun.’
It’s small and black and looks like a toy. The gun is wrapped in a brown-paper bag and slips easily into my back pocket next to the bus ticket and my fake passport. I spent most of the money LaRouche gave me on it so I can’t afford to buy the medicine or the food or sunglasses or clothes. I’ve picked up a cheap postcard from a newsstand though. It has a picture of a beach and palm trees and says ‘I love Mexico!’ in red, bubbly letters.
It’s nearly impossible to write a goodbye letter without sounding cliché, but I give it my best shot anyway.
Dear Mom, I know how bad things look. I know how everyone – even you – thinks I did it. But all I can say is, I didn’t. And I’m about to get the proof I need. If I should fail, if something were to happen and you don’t hear from me again, know that I’m sorry for everything. And know that I forgive you for not telling me about Roland. Love, Jerry
PS: Is it possible Matthew Mann abducts and rapes little girls?
I drop the postcard in the mailbox after I scratch the last line out, even though it’s something that’s been disturbing me ever since LaRouche told me about Epiphany. If what she said is true, could Matthew have been the one who bought Epiphany? He would have had the money to. Is that why she believes God says she can kill him?
I return to the apartment as dusk is settling over the neighbourhood. The dusty street is imprinted with marks from a soccer match the children played earlier in the day. A few of the kids are still outside, but most have gone home for dinner. I hope to see Ana Lucia. I feel like I should say goodbye, but she’s nowhere to be found.
As I grasp the doorknob it occurs to me that I haven’t thought of an excuse to tell LaRouche when she asks why I didn’t buy the things she told me to. Too late now, I’ll just have to make something up on the fly.
And through the crack in the door I see a red backpack and money scattered on the kitchen floor. Then my chest goes hollow. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. Blood drips from short ruts gouge
d into the edge of the wooden kitchen counter. LaRouche is on the floor, flat on her back, her red hair fanned around her head. Her mouth gapes open, clogged with blood, like it’s a bowlful of tomato soup. Her teeth are cracked and jagged. Her lower lip, ripped.
I feel weak and stumble backwards to grasp the counter for support, but I pull my hand away as something pierces my palm’s flesh. Embedded next to the bloody ruts gouged into the kitchen counter is a misshapen piece of metal.
It’s shiny and small.
It’s a silver tooth.
20
Headlights
A little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair.
A little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair. Talks to God a lot.
A little girl. Pale skin. Raven hair. Talks to God a lot, and has a sliced ear.
I’m sitting on the bus on its way to Veracruz imagining what Epiphany’s daughter looks like. The best I can do is picture Epiphany shrunk. Mini-Me’d.
I’m trying anything to keep my mind off LaRouche’s face. When I close my eyes I see her jagged teeth encircling that lake of blood in her mouth. Her gums were split open like the peel of an exploded orange where her silver tooth had been ripped out.
After I found her, after I grabbed as much cash as I could and threw it into the backpack, I ran to the bus station. I was on autopilot. The faster I ran, the more I sweat, the colder I felt. At first I thought Epiphany had done it, but LaRouche had said that she had already gone to Veracruz. It wouldn’t make sense anyway. She was helping Epiphany and, if the two of them trusted each other as much as it seemed, Epiphany had no reason to kill her.
And her mouth – it’s like what she described that trafficker doing to that girl who escaped all those years ago. LaRouche had said that Epiphany went early, without me, because she had attracted the wrong kind of attention. Did the traffickers see her? Would they recognise her? Do they know who I am? Is that why LaRouche told me to buy sunglasses and clothes ‘just in case’? To disguise myself?
Epiphany Jones Page 13