Dragonfly Bones

by David Cole

Unlike the day before in the cotton fields, Luis and El Ratón now worked with everybody else. After two hours, one of the trucks was filled with trash bags, dead branches, some cacti leaves and stalks, and separate bags for paper and plastic litter. Luis and El Ratón jumped into the back, fixing the wooden tailgate and chaining it solid. Father Micah started up the truck, motioning Spider to sit with him. Reluctantly, she climbed into the cab.

  “Where we going?” she said.

  “End of the line. The place where we dump all the trash.”

  “How’s that done?”

  “Paper and plastic gets recycled. Brush and dirt gets processed.”

  “Processed?”

  But he’d shifted into third gear, the transmission so noisy that talking was impossible. She slouched against the door, trying to look casual, wondering if she should just open the door, jump out, and run.

  After ten miles or so, Father Micah turned onto a dirt road, slowing for fifty feet until he stopped in front of a twelve-foot-tall chain-link fence, topped with razor wire and surrounding a large warehouse building. Luis jumped down, took keys from Father Micah, and opened the gate, closing and relocking it after the truck went through. Luis jogged behind the truck to the warehouse, using more keys to unlock the main door, punching a button so an electric motor wound the door up. Father Micah turned the truck around and backed inside. The door went back down, Father Micah shut off the truck engine, and he and Spider got out of the cab.

  “Our moneymaker,” Father Micah said, gesturing at a huge machine in the middle of the concrete-slab floor.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The CBI Magnum Force 4000. Fifty feet long, weighs thirty-seven tons, cost half a million. Paid for by Pinal County, leased to Rapture Warriors Camp as part of a contract to continually clear all brush in Pinal County.”

  Luis and El Ratón unstaked the tailgate. Luis started throwing down the trash bags, the few containing paper and plastic going into a pile that Father Micah carried to huge mounds of similar trash bags in one corner of the warehouse. El Ratón started piling all the other bags at one end of the huge machine, next to a ten-foot-wide bumper rail.

  “What is this thing?” she asked.

  “Woodchipper,” El Ratón said. “Chops things up.”

  “Not just a woodchipper,” Father Micah said. “Grinds up everything into mulch, which we sell to landscaping companies in Tucson. Luis, get her going.”

  Luis walked to a far wall and threw two huge red-handled switches. The machine began whirring and groaning. El Ratón slid back a metal guard across the entrance chute, hefted the first trash bag, took out a curved box cutter, slit the bag, and emptied all the brush into the hopper. The machine started grinding. El Ratón and Father Micah emptied trash bags, while Luis beckoned Spider to the other end of the machine, where mulch started to spit out.

  “So let’s talk,” Luis said.

  “Cool.”

  “So we’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “We?”

  “Some people. Connected to the Circuit. You know what that is?”

  “Back East, some girls talked about a circuit of very exclusive houses. Only the best working girls, the best conditions, the biggest payoff. I never knew anybody that went on that circuit, though. But I heard girls made lots of money.”

  “How’d you like to meet the woman who manages all the Circuit houses in the Southwest?”

  “Sure,” Spider said with a forced smile. “What do I have to do?”

  “Well. There’s this little test.”

  “Take me to the woman. I can pass any test.”

  “Here. The test is here. Come on.”

  He led her back to the front of the machine, where El Ratón and Father Micah were tossing the last of the brush into the hopper. Luis and El Ratón exchanged looks, and El Ratón brushed dirt off his gloves, standing close beside Father Micah.

  “Most of the younger girls, they come from overseas. They don’t have to pass the test, because it’s all been arranged. Their new identities, where they’ll be assigned, everything. But girls like you, who kinda come along by chance, you have to make your bones to get inside.”

  “Make my bones,” Spider said. “Uh, if that means what I think it means, like, whoa, dude. Not me.”

  “Well, amiga, you’ve got no choice. Come over here.”

  He took her hand, the two of them coming up alongside Father Micah.

  “What’s the test?” Spider said, totally frightened, wondering if she could get to the electric door and raise it enough to slip outside and get away.

  “We’re gonna throw him in there. You help lift him, you pass the test.”

  “Test?” Father Micah said, removing his gloves, wiping sweat from his protecting eyeglasses. “What test?”

  “You don’t help lift,” Luis said, “you fail.”

  Frozen stiff, Spider tried to move away. Luis and El Ratón each clapped Father Micah on his shoulders, placing their gloved hands on his upper arms. Luis looked back at Spider for ten seconds, enough time to see that she’d made half a step backward, horror written all over her face.

  “Here’s your Rapture, Father,” Luis said.

  “What are you doing?” Father Micah shouted. “Put me down. Turn off the machine and put me down.”

  Pulling a bulky gun from one of his baggy pockets, Luis held the gun to Father Micah’s neck. Blue sparks sizzled and Father Micah’s body slumped unconscious.

  “Stun gun,” Luis said with a grin. “Lord, Thy will to be done.” He turned toward me, flicking the stun gun at me once it recharged, a small, jagged, glaring white vee of lightning that arced six inches from my forearm.

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  “It’s a test. You’re at the border, chica, you got to decide if you crossing over, if you coming to our side of the line.”

  “What test?”

  “What test,” Luis mimicked.

  “I’m not firing that thing at Father Micah. If that’s the test, I pass.”

  “He’s just another bag of trash. A heavy bag of trash. Two people can’t lift him into the chipper. You’ll have to help us.”

  “Whoa, wait, wait,” I said, my hands up in front of me, pushing the idea away. “Not me. No way…what…why are you even saying that?”

  Luis crackled the stun gun again, turned to El Ratón.

  “I think she just said no.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no, I’m doing that.”

  “You just failed your test.”

  They grabbed and lifted him.

  “Up and over,” Luis said to El Ratón, and they started to swing Father Micah between them. “One. Two. Three!”

  They tossed him head first into the hopper. The machine, running smoothly with the last of brush already processed, groaned again as Father Micah’s body passed through the cutting disks and grinding wheels.

  Luis went to check something on the side of the machine. El Ratón turned to Spider, grinned at her, and reached out a hand toward her. She kicked him solidly in the crotch, knocking him against the lip of the hopper and knocking him out. Without even thinking about it, she grabbed his ankles and flipped him into the machine. She ran to the electric door, punched a red button, screaming at the door to move quicker. When it was up a foot she reached to hit a green button, and as the door shuddered to a stop, she threw herself on the floor and rolled underneath before the door banged shut.

  Starting for the gate, she saw a green SUV heading down the dirt road. She ran to the back side of the lot, stopped at the fence, quickly pulled off her shoes and removed her jeans. She climbed halfway up the chain links, her toes finding places to grasp, and when she neared the top she tossed her jeans on the razor wire and in one motion threw herself onto her jeans, some of the razor barbs digging into her stomach and bare legs, and in great pain, thankful none of the barbs held her there, she climbed down the other side of the fence and started running.

  An engine revved behind he
r. Taking a chance at looking back, she saw the SUV slewing around the corner of the fence. She tripped over a teddy-bear cholla and fell heavily, her legs and arms laced with needles. The SUV stopped beside her. Anthony Galliano got out, removed his sunglasses, and dangled one of the side pieces from his mouth.

  “That’s gotta hurt,” he said. “But I think after what I’m going to do to you, you’re going to hurt a lot more before you tell us what we need to know.”

  laura

  28

  “I’ve got three different data sets to show you,” Don said on the cell. “I don’t see you hooked into the satellite downlink yet.”

  “Working it,” I said.

  One of the few things I’d brought from my Tucson house was a SATCOM phone device. Don gave me specific coordinates and frequencies, but I still couldn’t connect my Powerbook to the downlink. I kept hearing snorts in my earpiece, Don impatient and frustrated that I wasn’t doing things fast enough.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I said, clicking through the last set of windows.

  “Yeah. Okay. I just got pinged, we’re connected.”

  “Is this a secure link?”

  “Everything Aquitek does is secure. Okay. Here’s the first data set.”

  “Hold on. I’m going to transfer this call to a speakerphone, so Nathan can talk if he’s got questions.”

  Brittles huddled on another chair just behind me, one hand resting against my neck, his breath on my ear. A short list of names popped onto the screen, the list divided into two groups. Seven names in the bottom group, three on top.

  “Father Micah, okay, we know him,” I said. “Who exactly is Tamár Gordon? Who is Anthony Galliano?”

  “Galliano, I don’t know yet. I’ve got an idea, but I’m waiting for input. Gordon, I ran her through Coplink, out of Tucson. Took one hell of a lot of persuading, they don’t like private companies using the data. But they knew me well enough, and I called in a few favors from Justice in Washington. Tamár Gordon, which seems to be her real name, is a member of the Circuit.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Brothels,” Brittles said, his coffee breath strong.

  “Not just any old brothels,” Don said. “The Circuit has been around in some form for half a century. Thirteen of the biggest houses were just closed down, the madams—or managers, as they’re known—arrested and charged. But probably new houses have already been set up to replace the ones that closed. They use only high-class women, they have no pimps, they arrange exclusive client dates, and every few months, sometimes just a few weeks, the girls are moved to another location to keep fresh bodies in front of the clients. Rates usually from a thousand a night all the way to ten thousand once two girls are involved.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “So there are expensive whores. So what?”

  “Keep those names in your head. Okay. Here’s the second data set. It’s huge, so I’m just going to give you one screen’s worth.”

  A list of items, names, addresses, phone numbers, and credit cards.

  “From the call center?” I asked.

  “Every order or information inquiry from the last six months.”

  “How much data is there?”

  “A ton. From all fifty states. The Caribbean, Europe, Japan.”

  “What does it tell us?” Brittles asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just raw data. So how are you sorting it, Don?”

  “Ten different ways. My hunch, though, is that the sort I’m doing just for names in the Tucson area will tell us something.”

  “How long before you’re finished crunching all the data?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes. When it’s done, you’ll know. Okay. Look at this.”

  A third data set came onto the screen. I scrolled down, saw it was about three pages long. A list of names, ages, sex, addresses, and phone numbers. I saw Abbe’s name in the list.

  “From the camp,” I said. “Is this everybody?”

  “Just the residents. I’ve got a separate listing for the staff, but I’ve found something really interesting here. Wait one.”

  He manipulated the data, and my screen now showed just female names.

  “Thirty-seven girls there,” Don said. “But let me call up one more thing…okay, check this out.”

  The list on my screen now showed just eleven names.

  “Print that out,” Don said. I hit the printer icon. “Now, here’s our real Christmas and birthday present all in one.”

  Another list appeared, male and female names arranged in two columns.

  “Left side, girls and boys in the camp. Right side, the sponsor who signed them in and paid the fees. Notice anything?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Brittles said, running his finger down the screen. “And twelve. Twenty-seven and twelve. Wait a minute, wait just a minute!”

  “Tamár Gordon sponsored twenty-seven girls over the past year. Galliano sponsored twelve boys.”

  “How did you get this data?” Brittles said.

  “The camp computer had an Internet connection. For their website. I got in through a back door, a flaw in the Microsoft web server. I’ve got all kinds of data on both residents and sponsors, but these lists just jumped right out at me. Like seeing a typo in a book you’re reading, pop, you lose interest in everything else and focus attention on the typo. Now. Are you ready to hear more about Tamár Gordon?”

  “Come on, Don. Just tell us, no need to boast about it.”

  “Ah, Laura, you know I love nothing better than success with data. Okay. Gordon is the true money behind the camp. We’ve tracked her bank accounts, the accounts of the camp. Enough shifting of her money into camp accounts to leave no doubt that she’s in charge. And…she owns a big house in Tucson.”

  “Give it to me,” Brittles said. “We’ll go there.”

  “No, no, no,” Don said. “I’ve got a much more creative idea.”

  “How about Galliano?” I asked.

  “Tough nut to crack. This is totally conjecture. No records in any U.S. law enforcement database on Anthony Galliano. But in New York City there were three arrests for assault in the past year for an Antonio-Chelín Galeano. Colombian.”

  “So?”

  “That biker in your backyard,” Don said. “With the gun. He was Hispanic, no? He was young, no? Well, I traced the name Chelín Galeano to Medellín. He’s dead, murdered a year ago. One of their thirteen-year-old hit men. A sicario, they’re called. Murder squads for the drug cartels. These young boys are never sent to prison because of a government law, so they go to rehabilitation camps, spend a few months there, get back out on the streets. I talked with a captain on the Medellín drug squad. He says that somebody else took Galeano’s name a few years ago. An older man, probably in his forties. Their passport control showed that Galeano flew to the States fifteen months ago. Nobody knows where he is. My guess—”

  “Is that he’s got really good identity papers,” I said.

  “That’s right. Anthony Galliano. Somehow connected to Tamár Gordon. I’d suspect that he’s chief of her security. Handles all her dirty laundry.”

  “I want to pull my daughter out of that camp,” I said to Brittles.

  “Hold on,” Don said. “The director of the camp, a preacher named Father Micah, lives on the premises, but never came home last night. I’ve got the Florence Police Department looking into a possible disappearance. I don’t want to pull your daughter out, I don’t want to do anything that might spook Gordon and Galliano.”

  “No way,” I shouted. “I’m going up there myself.”

  “Laura,” Brittles said. “If this man is really that Colombian, then he’s supervising young kids recruited from the murder squads in Medellín. Look at that list of the boys he sponsored. Some of the Colombian kids may be in the camp. One of them may be the biker that shot up your house. If you show up, both you and your daughter could be in serious trouble.”

  The speakerphone remained silent as Brittles’s wor
ds took hold of my heart.

  “I can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen to her.”

  “Well,” Don said, “I’ve got this really creative idea.”

  “Go,” Brittles said, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Let’s rattle Tamár Gordon’s cage. If I’m right, she’s got Galliano taking care of business. Somehow, those girls that Gordon sponsored are related to her work on the Circuit. They’re probably recruits. The names all look foreign. Lots of Asians, which are in hot demand by Circuit clients. So Gordon somehow has got all she wants from this camp, and she’s got Galliano killing everybody that knows. The two men you found dead and tortured, they undoubtedly had some part in things, like that young girl. Theresa Prejean. And unless I’m really wrong, Father Micah isn’t going to turn up again.”

  “That leaves me with one real question,” I said. “What the hell does the credit card scam have to do with any of this?”

  “Whoa,” Brittles said. “I’ve got it. Don. Have your machines finished that list of people in Tucson who are in the call center database?”

  “Just done.”

  “Sort out all the men. Then, how much trouble would it be to run the list of women’s names against the actual people? I mean, can you verify that all the women are still alive?”

  Don must have been struck with the same horror and understanding that silenced me. Brittles saw my comprehension, waited for Don to talk.

  “Identity theft,” he said finally. “A whole new wrinkle on an old scam.”

  “Used to be,” Brittles said, “people who wanted fake identities just went to newspaper clippings or cemeteries, looking for names of children who’d died really young. That name would be turned into an almost hundred-proof guaranteed new identity. So if there are women on your list from the call center who are single, probably with no real family ties, maybe even new to Tucson, but women who’ve mysteriously disappeared in the last year—their identities could be given to the young girls from the camp. They go out on the circuit with names guaranteed to have no arrest records for prostitution. Absolutely clean names. Kept clean by the Circuit. Am I right or am I right?”