Raven reached for a chip and scooped up some salsa. “Good salsa,” he said.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks,” I said.
Raven nodded, then he walked over to Eliana.
“Are you all right?” he asked. She took his hand and squeezed it. Raven nodded again.
I dipped a chip in the salsa, then sprinkled some cheese on top. I hoped that rescuing Eliana from Frank Abadi’s clutches proved the right thing to do. I didn’t want her to be the fourth body beneath the waters of Eagle Harbor. I popped the chip in my mouth. The dead women were daughters of Mexican farm workers, who may have been illegal immigrants. The women appeared to have been trapped into prostitution as a way to repay the men who had smuggled them out of Mexico. Maybe Eliana could shed some light on their murders.
My cell phone rang. Maria sounded frantic. She spoke rapidly in Spanish, and I couldn’t understand her.
“Calm down,” I said. “We’ve got her.”
She didn’t calm down, but she did switch to English. “It’s not Eliana I’m worried about,” she said. “Abadi’s men have surrounded the camp where her parents live. I’m just outside the gates. I’m afraid to go in.”
“Stay put. I’m leaving right now.”
I snapped the cell phone closed.
“Trouble,” Raven said.
“Trouble. Think you can keep Eliana here this time?”
“I won’t let her out of my sight for anything. . . . Not even to use the head.”
Eliana sat at the galley table staring into space, expressionless.
I made sure to grab my gun this time. I raced up the Gate Nine ramp to my car. At a stoplight before the freeway entrance, I called Maria for directions. I drove down the freeway like a maniac, weaving in and out of cars and trucks along the way. I raced to help Eliana’s parents, but deep down it felt like I also raced from my guilt at placing them in jeopardy to begin with.
At an exit for an outlet mall, I swung off the freeway into the dying evening sun. The cloverleaf I followed looped back over the freeway, heading east toward shadowed foothills awash in a soft, orange glow. Several miles past the signs for Gucci, Tommy Hilfiger, and DKNY, the asphalt road turned to gravel.
A mile later, I made a right turn at a huge power-line tower. The gravel road turned to dirt. Acres of farmland stretched as far as I could see on either side of the road. A mile down the dirt road, next to a small stand of cedar trees, I stopped my car behind another parked car. The door of the other car swung open and Maria Delarosa jumped out. I pushed my door open and stepped out to meet her. She tugged on my arm.
“This way,” she said.
I reached back in the car for my gun. Maria dragged me off the road behind a tree. Two buildings stood in a field half a mile beyond the trees. Maria pointed.
“The long one is the dormitory,” she said. “The small one, the latrines and the washrooms.”
I pointed to the dark green SUV parked to the side of the dormitory. “And that must be Frank Abadi’s men.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was there, outside the dormitory, when they pulled up. They asked me if I knew Miguel and Naida Morales. I spoke in broken English and told them I worked for the archdiocese, but I would ask around for Miguel and Naida Morales. They laughed, and in English called me a ‘stupid little fucking nun.’ I bit my tongue and told them I needed to be with a very ill migrant worker in another camp. Then I left and parked here, behind the trees, where they would not see me.”
“Eliana’s parents aren’t at the camp yet?”
“No.” Maria checked her watch. “With this much light, at this time of the year, they are probably just getting off work.”
“How will they arrive?”
“By truck.”
“Then we’ll stay here and intercept the truck before it gets to the camp.”
“If only it were that easy,” Maria said. She pointed toward the foothills in the distance, beyond the camp. “They’ll be coming from fields over there.”
I took a deep breath. “That doesn’t leave much time, or many options. Stay here.” I exhaled and slipped past the trees.
“Señor,” Maria called out. “What may I do?”
“If I don’t return with Miguel and Naida, call the Bellingham Police Department and ask to speak with Detective Sergeant Ben Conrad.”
I tucked my gun into the small of my back, then set out, making a wide, sweeping arc away from the camp. I followed a large overhead power line. I sank up to my ankles in the soft dirt of recently plowed fields. The sickening smell of manure grew stronger as I walked. A gentle buzz emanated from the power lines. A subtle charge of current coursed throughout my body, giving me a slight headache. Walking through this field reminded me of fighting forward through a snow-bank. I stumbled, pulling my leg out of the fetid earth. I brushed dirt from my jeans, my shirt, and my forehead, but I succeeded only in mixing manure with my sweat.
Finally, I turned at a point where the dormitory stood between the SUV and me. I slogged through the dirt toward the buildings as the orange glow in the sky faded to dark blue. Joyous sounds of children’s laughter floated through the field. Neon lights flickered on around the camp. The children played on squeaky swings and a rusting teeter-totter in a small playground close to the latrine building.
An older child saw me. He squealed, then pedaled a bike furiously my way. A group of kids ran behind him. I flipped my shirttail over the handle of my gun. The boy came to a screeching stop in front of me, throwing dirt from his tires as he braked.
He sniffed the air, then wrinkled his face. He turned and called back to the other children in Spanish. They let out a collective laugh. I put a finger to my lips. I didn’t know the word for silence in Spanish, but I gave it a shot.
I said quietly, “Silencia, por favor.” I pointed beyond the dormitory, then put my finger to my lips again. “Silencia.”
The children grew silent. I walked past the latrines. The children swarmed behind me, following me as if I were a Pied Piper. The boy on the bicycle showed off in front of the others, zooming ahead, then circling the group. When I walked past the latrine building, he got off the bicycle. He pointed to me, then he pointed to the latrines. He said something in Spanish and laughter erupted again from the group.
“Silencia,” I said.
Perhaps the children thought it a game. They joined in shouting, “Silencia,” picking up my plea as a chant. We neared the dormitory and their chanting grew louder. Across the field, a small dust cloud moved toward the camp. I pushed my back against the side of the dormitory and slid along the outside wall, past windows covered with nothing more than cut-out sections of burlap bags. Close to the edge of the dormitory, I heard one of Abadi’s men call out.
“They’re coming. Go back there and shut up those fucking kids.”
A dozen kids still hovered around me, chanting, “Silencia.” The door of the SUV opened, then closed. I looked around. I couldn’t make it to the latrine. The chanting of the children droned in my ears. I backpedaled along the wall and dived through a burlap-covered window. The kids crowded around the window, chanting, “Silencia.” Through the weave of the burlap, I strained to see outside. Abadi’s man swaggered around the corner. He waved his gun.
“Hey, what are you kids doing over there?”
Several kids turned toward the burlap and pointed. “Silencia,” they chanted.
“What’s in there?” he said.
“Silencia,” they answered in unison.
He muttered to himself, “Maybe I’d better have a look.” Then he walked toward the window.
seventeen
I looked around the dormitory. Sheets hanging from two-by-four crossbeams cordoned off the large area into smaller spaces. Several thin mattresses covered the floor nearby. Beside me, a burned candle rested on an altar, where a rosary lay in front of a framed picture of the Virgin Mary. I peeked through the burlap again. The man came closer.
Suddenly, the boy on the bicycle thrust
his way in front of the other children.
“Silencio,” he said. He put a finger to his lips. He pointed at the burlap. I held my breath. “Tomás is sick. He’s sleeping inside.”
“Kid, you speak good English,” the man said. “If he’s sleeping, then why are you all yelling outside his window?”
“When he’s well, he’s a bully. Now he’s sick, so the others bully him.”
“Hah,” the man said. “Guess the little shit had it coming.”
Abadi’s man walked away. The other children began chanting again.
“Silencio,” the boy called out.
The chanting stopped. Finally, I got it. I’d been off by a vowel with my Spanish. The boy gestured for me to climb back out the window. The truck with the workers rumbled into camp. Once outside, I leaned over to the boy on the bike. I pointed to the truck.
“I need to find Naida and Miguel Morales before those men do. I must get them away from the camp or they will be hurt.”
The boy with the bike stood tall. He patted his chest. “Not to worry, Señor, Alonzo will help.”
Alonzo huddled with the children like a coach with his team. He spoke in hushed Spanish, pointing to several kids. The truck’s brakes squealed. People filed over a gate at the back of the truck. The children ran toward them. I walked to the edge of the dormitory. Abadi’s men waited by their SUV. Alonzo walked his bike behind the swarm of children. He looked back once in my direction, winking, then subtly patting down the air with his palm.
Farm workers trudged toward the dormitory. Abadi’s men pushed off from the SUV. “Naida and Miguel Morales,” they shouted.
No one responded. The children played in and out of the adults.
“Naida and Miguel Morales,” Abadi’s men called out.
A man and woman just stepping off the truck raised their heads.
“There,” one of Abadi’s men said. He pointed to the couple.
“Naida and Miguel Morales?”
The men drew their guns. The couple climbed back into the truck.
Suddenly, Alonzo shouted in Spanish and the children turned, running toward Abadi’s men, swarming them and jumping on top of them. Alonzo waved me forward. The men fought to throw the children off their backs. Some workers ran to help the children.
“Take the truck, Señor. The truck,” Alonzo said.
I ran for the truck. I yanked open the driver’s door and a man with wide eyes held up his hands and moved out quickly from behind the wheel. In the back, a couple cowered. I cranked the ignition key. The couple moved toward the rear, ready to jump off. I turned to them.
“No, por favor,” I patted my chest. “Eliana is with me. Eliana.”
One of Abadi’s men fired a shot in the air. Miguel had a leg over the rear gate. I started driving. Alonzo rode up on his bike. He shouted to Miguel in Spanish and Miguel pulled his leg in. In the rearview mirror, I saw him wrap his arm around his wife. They hunkered down in a corner. A bullet shattered the passenger’s side window. I rammed the gearshift into second.
Dusk made finding the road a challenge. Abadi’s men needed only to jump into their SUV to catch us in this old rig. I frantically searched the dashboard with my fingers, pulling each lever I came to. The wipers turned on. The defroster whirred. Finally, the headlights lit the dirt road leading away from the camp. I jammed the shifter into third.
When I looked back from my sideview mirror, I saw Abadi’s men jump into their SUV. Then I thrust my head out the window. Alonzo pedaled frantically, in a vain attempt to catch up with the truck. He dangled something from his fingers as he rode.
“The keys,” he yelled. “The keys, Señor.” He patted his chest. “Alonzo has the keys to the SUV.”
I honked my horn twice. Alonzo broke off his pursuit.
When I got to the dirt road, Maria had her car idling. She ran to the back of the truck. After a hurried exchange in Spanish, the Morales couple climbed down. Maria led them to her car, where she opened a rear door and waved them in.
I sprang from the truck. Maria ran to me. “Take them directly to my boat at the marina,” I said.
She sniffed the air. “God, you stink.”
Then she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek before running back to her car.
WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE MARINA, I called Raven on my cell phone.
“Maria’s here with Miguel and Naida,” he said.
“You want to bring me some soap and a change of clothes?” I said.
Raven chuckled. “Shitty job, but someone had to do it, huh?”
“Just bring them to me,” I said.
After a shower, I walked back to the Noble Lady. Raven opened the back door as I stepped on. He held one hand low and out of sight, behind his back.
“Eliana and her parents are inside,” he said.
I walked through the door. Everyone gathered around the galley table. Naida clutched her daughter. Miguel sat next to his wife with his legs crossed, facing away from his family, a stern look on his face. Maria sat on the other side of Eliana. She said something to Miguel. He didn’t answer. Maria looked at me. Her eyes dropped. She shook her head.
I spoke to Maria. “Tell them they can use the stateroom if they want to be alone with Eliana.”
Maria spoke to Naida then pointed to the stateroom. Naida extended her hand to Eliana but Eliana did not reach back. Instead, she followed her mother into the stateroom like a dutiful daughter. Miguel stood up. I guessed his height at five-foot-eight. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, stained with dirt, jeans frayed at the knees, and dust-covered tennis shoes. He slid from behind the table and stood with his back against the cabin door. He looked down at the floor, then around at the ceiling and the walls.
“Tell him he can have a seat,” I said to Maria.
She spoke a few words to Miguel. He shook his head and refused to move. I slid into the bench behind the galley table, next to Maria. Raven slid in next to me. Murmurs and muted sobbing wafted in from the stateroom. Miguel turned and looked out the window onto the dark rear deck.
I turned to Maria. “What’s going on?”
“Shame. Guilt. Embarrassment. Anger. On everyone’s part,” Maria said. “Miguel and Naida are devout Catholics. Their daughter is living in the worst kind of sin. Eliana knows she’s disgraced her parents.”
“But it’s not her fault,” I said. “They paid coyotes to bring her out of Mexico.”
Maria nodded. “Which only deepens their shame.”
“So they’ll just disown her? She’s their daughter.”
“It’s sad. The few women who do manage to leave forced prostitution aren’t always welcomed home. Like I said, they’re devout Catholics. They feel tainted.”
“If they’re so devout, haven’t they heard about forgiveness?”
“Perhaps her mother could forgive her. But her father has too much pride.”
“Pride? His daughter’s been forced to sell her body, and he’s worried about his pride?”
“I’m not saying it’s right,” Maria said. “But given his life, he doesn’t have much else other than his pride.”
“So what becomes of Eliana?”
“If we can keep her away from the streets, there’s a program she can enter with other young women like her. Education. English. Help with immigration. It’s not easy, but some make it.”
I pounded my fist on the table. Maria and Raven jumped.
“You should tell them to read their Bible more closely,” I said.
Maria frowned. “What?”
“Especially, the part about Mary Magdalene in the New Testament,” I said.
Raven leaned in to our conversation for the first time. “Who?” he asked.
“The prostitute who washed the feet of Jesus,” Maria said.
“Will they at least tell us what happened after they paid the coyotes?” I asked.
Maria touched my thigh softly. “I know you want to help,” she said. “Let me see what I can do.” She slid from the bench and spoke t
o Miguel. He would not turn to face her. He answered in a voice muted by the cabin door. Maria patted him on the shoulder before walking into the stateroom.
The voices of the three women wove into and out of each other. Maria’s crisp and sharp. Eliana’s and Naida’s flat and dull. After several minutes, Maria emerged with a half smile.
“I told them that truth is the first step to redemption. And I took your advice. I reminded them of Santa Maria Magdalena. Miguel, I’m not sure about. Eliana either. But Naida said she would tell us what she knew.”
Naida and Eliana emerged from the stateroom arm in arm, with tear-strewn faces. Mother and daughter had the same dark eyes. The same angular cheekbones. The same thick, long hair, though Naida’s now had wide strands of gray in it, and she’d wrapped it into a bun. The same beauty shone through their pain and suffering. Eliana still wore the jeans that Maria had given her. Naida wore a blue denim skirt caked with dirt.
Raven and I got up from the table. Naida and Eliana slid into our places. Miguel still refused to turn away from the darkness outside the door. Eliana sat between her mother and Maria. Naida spoke while Maria translated.
“Miguel and I have been married for twenty-five years,” Naida said. “We’ve known each other since we were children.” Naida smiled for the first time. She spoke to me as she talked. Even though I could not understand her words directly, her eye contact conveyed her anguish, her pain.
“Miguel wanted to become an engineer,” Naida said. “I wanted to be a mother and a teacher.” She turned away from me and spoke directly to her husband, who muttered to the window in Spanish.
“She said she will always love him no matter what,” Maria said. “She asked him to come be with his wife and daughter as a family, even if it means overcoming his pride. He said it wasn’t his pride but his honor. Without honor what does a man have? he asked.”
“Tell him that honor in the eyes of others means nothing when compared to honor in the eyes of the person he sees when he looks in the mirror,” I said.
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