The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  Did I say something wrong?

  Did I open a wound, one of those things that caused that pain in her eyes?

  Jesus, her silence is killing me.

  And that’s the part of text and e-mail conversations I absolutely hate—the silence of no reply.

  In person, if they’re silent you can read the eyes and face. On the phone, you can pick up on their tone of voice.

  But e-silence is e-fucking deafening.

  And if I send another, it might annoy her more.

  That is, if she’s annoyed.

  How’s that saying go?

  “When you find yourself in a hole, Payne, stop with the damn digging.”

  Matt thought that the message had been pretty simple and straightforward.

  But women are always trying to read between the lines.

  What could she possibly read into mine?

  Or maybe it was too simple . . . it’s damn hard communicating emotion in a text or e-mail. Even a missing comma can have a huge impact.

  “Let’s eat, Grandma” changes a helluva lot without the comma.

  Then it’s “Let’s eat Grandma”—who probably won’t willingly come to the table.

  He scrolled back in the string of messages and reread what he’d sent, which simply had repeated part of the earlier text:

  you never answered . . . why the change of heart?

  Maybe that’s it. I’m pushing. . . .

  Then suddenly his phone vibrated.

  And his heart automatically began beating faster.

  When Matt looked at the text message, he was at first shocked at its length.

  Jesus! It’s a tome.

  What in the world did I trigger?

  That’s what took her so long.

  It’d take me days to thumb-type one that long on my phone.

  Then he remembered seeing her cell phone at Liberties.

  It was one of those really new ones, actually more of a small computer that happened also to be a phone. The computer-phone was one and a half times the size of a playing card, and damn near as thin, and if you tapped the icon labeled TEXT, a window with a facsimile of a typewriter keyboard popped up. It was a qwerty one, like a real full-size keyboard only smaller, and allowed for much faster writing than most cell phones.

  Phones such as Payne’s.

  He read Amanda’s text:

  609-555-6221

  Hi . . .

  I have to be honest. (If only because without that, why have a relationship?)

  Didnʹt get much sleep last night, what with all this running through my head.

  See, I was—maybe still am—afraid of getting close to a cop.

  I remember, not exactly happily, all the sacrifices my father made to be a cop. How hard it was on our family, especially my mother, seeing him every day walk out the front door for work and not knowing if that would be the last weʹd see him alive.

  And then dad got shot.

  Matt, I didnʹt want that again.

  But then I saw what that bastard did at the hospital.

  And what you did! Wow! How you were all over that guy without a second thought.

  We canʹt have people like that loose on the streets.

  And to do that, we need people like my dad and you.

  And I think I need someone like you . . . (smile) -A

  Payne just stared at his phone.

  There was a lump in his throat that felt like the size of a Lincoln SUV.

  He thought he might cry.

  How do I reply to that?

  My God!

  No wonder she took so long to reply.

  “You okay?” Harris said, looking askance at Payne.

  Payne tried to clear his throat. The Lincoln SUV budged a little. He was about to reply, but didn’t trust his voice. He simply nodded.

  Then his phone vibrated again.

  It was another text from Amanda:

  609-555-6221

  Something else I need to get off my chest.

  Recently Iʹve lost a couple of people who were very close to me.

  That made me rethink a lot of things.

  Plus, my specialty can be kind of rough on the psyche.

  Especially seeing the kids across the street at shriners. Anyone who thinks they have a tough life hasnʹt taken a walk through a pediatric burn ward and visited with those poor kids.

  Anyway, all that made me pretty introspective.

  And so I promised myself that iʹd do what my friend—Carl Crantz was his name - said before he passed: to live every day like itʹs the last.

  Sorry. You asked . . . (smile) -A

  Now Payne was crying. He turned his head so Tony Harris wouldn’t see.

  And how the hell do I respond to that?

  What a wonderful woman. . . .

  After a moment, he thought, Well, when in doubt, tell the truth.

  He texted:

  iʹm speechless.

  that, like you, was beautiful.

  thanks for sharing. -matt

  A second later, his phone vibrated:

  609-555-6221

  Matt?!? Oh no! Wrong Payne!

  I thought I was texting my therapist!

  Just kidding (smile) I meant it for you. -A

  He grinned. Then he had a thought and really grinned broadly as he typed:

  cute.

  just so you know, my favorite part was where you mentioned your chest . . . (big grin)

  609-555-6221

  Youʹre so bad!

  I share my soul and thatʹs the thanks I get.

  Some sexist caveman comment on my anatomy.

  Next thing you know, weʹll have our first argument. (smile)

  no chance of that. for one, i could never argue with you.

  for another, iʹve been told that there are two theories to arguing with a woman.

  and neither work. (smile) so why try?

  A minute passed, and there was no reply.

  Harris said, “What happened with your phone? You finally break it? You’re pounding that thing with your thumbs like it needs life support.”

  Payne looked at him and shrugged.

  He looked back at the phone and thumbed:

  oh . . . and nice story in todayʹs paper!

  you looked terrific.

  how is your day going?

  609-555-6221

  Thanks. That was a difficult press conference. But, it explains why I was out of sorts at the bar later.

  And my day is great, thank you.

  We still on for that lunch?

  Lunch? We never planned lunch.

  Oh! “Lunch, dinner, cottage.”

  Payne thumbed and sent:

  yes! thatʹll knock lunch off the list.

  one down, two to go. (grin)

  let me get back to you in just a bit.

  He sent the text just as Harris pulled the rental Ford in behind Chad Nesbitt’s BMW.

  Harris, Payne, and Byrth stood at the painted metal door of the row house at 823 Sears Street. Payne knocked loudly with his knuckles three times.

  They could hear on the other side of the door the sounds of feet approaching. Then, a moment later, there came the banshee wail of a woman. Followed by the sounds of heavy footfalls pounding away from the door.

  On the stoop, the three exchanged glances as they heard a woman’s Latina-accented voice. It cried out, “La Migra! La Migra!”

  And then they thought they heard a back door slam shut.

  Payne and Harris looked at each other, then at Byrth.

  “‘La Migra,’” Byrth explained, “is a Spanish pejorative for immigration enforcement officers.”

  They nodded their understanding.

  “Can probably thank The Hat for that,” Payne said, and chuckled.

  A moment later, they could hear two male voices on the other side of the door, having an animated discussion. Finally, there came the sounds of the three locks on the door being turned.

  The door swung open.

  Paco E
steban stood there. Chad Nesbitt was behind him.

  El Nariz’s eyes fixated on The Hat.

  “Thanks for coming, Matt,” Nesbitt said, then looked between Harris and Byrth and added, “Gentlemen.”

  Nesbitt saw Payne looking at Paco Esteban.

  “Paco,” Nesbitt said, motioning in Payne’s direction, “this is my friend the policeman I told you about.”

  Then Byrth spoke up. “I’m not La Migra, Paco.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. And I’ve come after the man known as El Gato.”

  El Nariz looked at the Texas lawman warily. He shook his hand and said, “Mucho gusto” without much gusto at all.

  But there seemed to be some relief in his eyes at the mention of El Gato. It told him that maybe this authority wasn’t after anyone in his home.

  Payne introduced Harris and himself.

  “Come in,” Esteban said.

  Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV felt the bile rise in his throat one more time. He was on his knees, his expensively tailored slacks now soiled by the dirty floor of the bathroom in Paco Esteban’s basement. His fine silk necktie was loosened and the collar of his custom-made French-cuff dress shirt unbuttoned. There were wet spots of vomitus on both garments.

  Just outside the door, on the closed white door of the horizontal Deepfreeze, Paco Esteban had opened the black plastic bags containing the severed head of Ana Maria Del Carmen Lopez.

  He had peeled back the bloody white towel with which he’d wrapped her head.

  And there Harris, Byrth, Nesbitt, and Payne had had their first look at the face of what once had been a pretty seventeen-year-old Honduran.

  Now, however, her light-brown skin was blotched and bruised, her long straight black hair matted, her dark eyes glassy.

  Nesbitt had lost it when he noticed her soft facial features had what had been cute little freckles across her upper cheeks and pixie nose.

  “What’s that?” Payne said, pointing toward her left ear.

  Esteban turned the head slightly.

  They saw there on the neck, at the hairline, a small black tattoo. It was a gothic block letter D with three short lines.

  “El Gato and his whiskers,” Byrth said.

  Payne shook his head in shock. “What’s the D about?”

  Byrth shrugged. “Maybe, probably Dallas.”

  Then Nesbitt shared the information about El Gato’s girls and the house on Hancock.

  What a helluva break! Payne thought.

  And then he thought, Amanda and lunch!

  He began thumbing:

  howʹs your day going?

  just had an interesting development in the case . . .

  He pushed SEND, but then his screen flashed with ERROR—NO SERVICE.

  Dammit!

  Must be because we’re in the basement.

  He looked at the signal strength. None of the five bars were present. He also noticed that the battery was almost drained.

  That’s not good.

  Worse, I’m not sure I have a charger in the rental car.

  Payne walked across the room. The smallest of the five bars flickered on, indicating the weakest of signals.

  He hit SEND again. And a second later the screen flashed MESSAGE SENT.

  Then his phone chirped twice. And its screen went black.

  Fuck!

  What if Amanda tries to reach me?

  [THREE]

  3519-A North Broad Street, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 9:56 A.M.

  Dr. Amanda Law had just paid for her usual morning double cappuccino with nonfat milk at the Cup O’Joe’s Internet Café location across Broad Street from the Shriners Hospital for Children.

  She stepped outside and looked up at the morning sun and smiled. Her cellular telephone chimed once. She looked at the screen and her smile became larger.

  The box showed the first two lines of the message. It read:

  matt

  howʹs your day going?

  And she thought, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

  I’d forgotten what it was like to have someone thinking about me.

  And being genuinely affectionate.

  Amanda slid her left thumb across the bottom edge of the big glass of the computer-phone and the touch screen lit brightly. Now she could clearly read the box that had popped up in the middle:

  matt

  howʹs your day going?

  just had an interesting development in the case . . . need to postpone lunch (frown)

  sorry . . . iʹll make it up to you . . . promise!

  She thought somewhat sadly:

  And so that begins, or continues . . .

  But I can deal with it.

  She tapped out:

  Iʹm still fine.

  Same as the last time you asked—what?—a half hour ago? (wink)

  And thatʹs fine about lunch. I have a busy day, too.

  Besides, I told you I know how your days can go.

  So, be safe! -A

  Then she hit SEND. She had no way of knowing that it would be some time until it would be received and read.

  Dr. Amanda Law took a sip of her coffee and prepared to cross the street and enter Temple University Hospital.

  She looked left, checking for southbound traffic. There was a package delivery truck, a big boxy brown one, accelerating down Broad. She glanced right, trying to judge the northbound traffic, wondering if she could go after the delivery truck flew past her at the hammers of hell.

  A block south, the traffic light had all the vehicles on Broad stopped in both directions. A taxicab was parked in front of the hospital, and behind that a beat-up old black minivan was rolling to a stop. She saw a skinny dark-skinned man in baggy jeans, a zipper hoodie sweatshirt, and a wife-beater T-shirt get out of the sliding door on the far side, walk to near the front door of the hospital, and stop to look back at the minivan.

  Suddenly, there was the enormous sound and wind of the delivery van blowing past. It went so fast it left a huge wake. Amanda caught herself clutching at her phone and coffee, afraid she’d drop one or the other, or both.

  Then all was calm again. She glanced left and saw that no other vehicle was coming, and stepped off the curb. Just shy of halfway across, she glanced to the right. The taxicab was now rolling forward. It made the right turn onto Tioga just as Amanda stepped around its rear bumper.

  As she stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed movement to her right.

  The black minivan, too, was rolling.

  And the man in the T-shirt was moving away from the front door of the hospital.

  Then all of a sudden the minivan accelerated and was right behind her.

  And the man in the T-shirt was running right at her. He charged into her, his right shoulder hitting her just above the stomach, at the same time wrapping his arms around her, like a football tackle. It knocked the wind out of her.

  The impact also caused her to squeeze and crumple her cup, the hot coffee spilling on her and her attacker, and she dropped her phone on the sidewalk.

  As she slowly went backward, Amanda Law began anticipating hitting the hard concrete sidewalk.

  But the next thing she knew, she was down, and it hadn’t been hard concrete. It had been a softer landing. Then she realized that she was now on a blanket inside the black minivan, its sliding side door still locked in the open position.

  There was no middle or backseat in the van, only open carpeted floor.

  She tried to scream or yell, but the wind knocked out of her left her gasping for air.

  She heard the driver, a male, yelling: “Phone! Get the fucking phone!”

  The driver had been yelling at the man who’d tackled her, because with a grunt he pushed off her. He ran back to the sidewalk and retrieved the phone.

  She tried to sit up and make a try for the open door. But then she painfully felt a hand grab her hair at the back of her head. It pulled her back down.

  She heard some woman’s voice on
the sidewalk yell, “Stop them! Someone call the police! Stop!”

  Then the man who’d tackled her jumped back into the minivan and onto her. The hand let go of her hair. And the minivan roared away from the hospital, wind rushing in through the open sliding door.

  Some three or four blocks later, the minivan stopped. The man in back slammed shut the sliding door. There was the sound of tape being ripped from a roll. Despite her desperate attempts, Amanda Law very shortly found her wrists bound with duct tape, then her ankles. Then a strip of the tape was placed over her mouth, and finally a pillowcase pulled over her head and held there with a wrap of tape around her neck.

  Amanda Law, her head still covered by the pillowcase, knew that she was in some sort of house not too far from the hospital. She had tried to track the direction and distance the van had driven her since she’d been abducted, but had become pretty disoriented after the first four or five turns. On two of the turns, the driver had taken them so fast that she’d rolled around on the open back floor, and that had really thrown off her sense of direction.