Dark Before Dawn

by Monica McGurk

  “Now what?”

  “Allow me.” I reached around and pushed the door. “Please.”

  We walked through into what could only be loosely called a garage, icy air blasting us in the face. It was dark, packed with detritus, reminding me of the warehouse where I’d revealed my real identity to Hope all those years ago. Rorie stopped short, shifting from foot to foot as she tried to avoid the cold slab of cement.

  I pushed the wave of nostalgia back to answer Rorie. “I can’t touch you. You’re too valuable to hurt. Too valuable to be visibly damaged.”

  Swiftly, I snaked my hand around to grab her about the wrist. Before she realized what I was doing, I’d snapped one end of a pair of handcuffs around her birdlike bones. I clamped the other end around a piece of exposed pipe.

  “Your punishment is to stand out here all night. Stand out here and suffer while you imagine what I’m going to do when I walk back in there and deal with your friend.”

  A heartbroken cry tore from her lips, accentuated by the puff of steamy breath that floated out into the freezing night with it. She lunged for me, but I just stepped back, barely out of range of her impotent, swinging fist.

  “Oh, yes. Your little noble impulse is going to do you no good. Now you’ll both be punished.”

  I watched, amused, as she slumped to the hard floor.

  “Goodnight, Rorie,” I whispered, moving to the door. I flicked the lights off, plunging her into darkness as I went back inside.

  seventeen

  HOPE

  The angels and I pulled into Williston during rush hour and promptly got stuck in an hour’s traffic jam.

  Chen had called it a boomtown, but I hadn’t realized what he meant, not truly, until we saw the towering rigs and construction sites emerge out of the flat prairie and rolling hills. We found ourselves trapped in long rows of dump trucks and tankers and semis, looking out at the sprawl of gravel pits and tanks beyond. It was a jarring scar against the vistas of grass, a wound upon the earth, a symbol—if Chen was right—of the festering rot that was taking over the town. In the dawning light, smokestacks belched writhing clouds of waste, and surges of flame rose from a few of the derricks, licking the sky as if trying to burn out the stars.

  “Welcome to hell,” Raph muttered from the backseat.

  As we crawled along, I pressed my face to the window, taking it all in. Here and there, endless compounds of anonymous RVs and campers, packed in tight, crowded the road, alternating with whole fields of stark, modular housing: rows and rows of identical boxes, barracks-like, stretching as far as the eye could see: the man camps Chen had mentioned. Used condoms, liquor bottles, food wrappers, rags, clothing, and other human debris filled ditches and fouled fields, sometimes so deep they drifted like snow. Signs outside of cheap motels advertised rates of $200 per night. Decrepit apartment complexes—the few that showed vacancies—were listing two bedrooms at $4,000 per month. New York City rates, here in the middle of nowhere. And everywhere, the rumble of trucks hauling water, hauling gravel, hauling machinery and tools, hauling men to feed the endless extraction of oil from the earth.

  Mother Nature had already dumped her first snowfall on the wretched town. Stubborn tufts of prairie grass poked their heads through, defying winter’s onslaught. The snow was stained with exhaust from the steady stream of traffic and had mixed with dirt to cover the roads and sidewalks with gritty grime.

  “We need to stop and get gas,” Michael said, easing into a turn lane for a truck stop. The four of us tumbled out, stretching our bones after having been cramped on the overnight drive, and strode into the convenience store. Even though I’d changed out of my suit into clothes more suitable for traveling, my body ached.

  It was a local business—not one of the big chains you could find anywhere—and you could tell. Folksy, hand-lettered signs— the kind you might find in a kindergarten classroom—were tacked up on a bulletin board right inside the door. The board was covered in paper, mostly advertisements seeking to rent a bed, to sell a vehicle, things like that. The notices were layered inches thick; nobody bothered to take down the old papers. I lifted up one and read the typed flyer: a warning about skyrocketing AIDS and chlamydia cases, offering walk-in clinic hours. One next to it offered the hours of the local domestic violence shelter; another advertised jobs at Walmart. My eyes popped at the wages: $17 an hour for a cashier, $19 for a lube tech. I let the papers fall back into place and walked on.

  “We might as well get breakfast while we’re here,” Enoch suggested hopefully.

  Michael shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  We walked past the rows of coolers, and I gaped at the prices. Eight dollars for a container of milk. The restaurant, one of those all-day-breakfast kind of places, was packed. We sidled up to the counter, snagging some stools, and looked at the menu.

  Raph sniffed. “I guess if we want something fried, there are plenty of choices.”

  I shot him an annoyed look. “If you want to go wait in the SUV, be my guest.”

  The man down the counter from us commented: “You must be new here. I’d stay away from the liver and onions. Probably too early for it, anyhow. Can’t go wrong with a stack of pancakes.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him, appreciating his advice. “Right now, anything sounds great, so long as it comes with a whole pot of coffee.”

  “That they’ve got. But if you want the high-test stuff, the fancy stuff like a latte, you’ll have to go to Boomtown Babe’s. Just down the road here,” he said, pointing outside. “You drive all night?” he asked, shrewdly taking in our rumpled clothes.

  “Yes,” Michael jumped in. “From Colorado.”

  The man nodded. “Thought so. You got a place lined up already?”

  “A place?” I asked, confused.

  “To stay. Even before a job, you got to have a place to stay.” He looked us up and down again, puzzling over Enoch’s hippie getup and cane, Raph’s ascetic style, and the mishmash of clothes that Michael and I had managed to pull together. “Though maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you aren’t here for jobs.”

  I made an indistinct sound in the back of my throat, not sure how to answer his implied question, and let him continue.

  “A lotta people just get fed up, jump in their trucks and drive like hell, thinking they’ll figure it out when they get here. But there’s not a lotta open spaces in Williston. That’s how you end up with people living in shipping containers. Whole families living out of their cars. You look in the back of the parking lot outside. You’ll see ’em. Some of ’em have been there for six months. They’ve got jobs, they’ve got money. They just can’t find a place to live.”

  My heart fell. Of course, we hadn’t thought through that part. I smiled weakly. “We didn’t, really. But I think we’ll only be here for a short while.”

  He shook his head. “That’s what they all say. Then they get addicted to the money. A hundred thousand a year will do that to you. Me, I wasn’t able to break in. Especially with the slowdown in the oil market, you need contacts, and it could take six months even to get a shot at a roustabout job on a rig. I’ve always been a trucker, so it didn’t change much for me. Just bumped my pay up some. Who knew hauling water could be worth so much money? But then again, here I am assuming that’s why you’re here,” he said, scanning us once more. “Maybe you’re just passing through—for some reason.”

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Michael said, extending his hand in an attempt to divert his line of questioning. “I’m Michael Boyd.” While he made the introductions all around, I surreptitiously texted Tabby: Urgent. Need hotel room. Motel. Anything within 20 miles.

  “Clint Rogers,” the man responded when it became his turn, clenching Michael’s hand in his. Even from two stools away, I could see the stains on his hands, the dirt under his nails—signs of a true working man. “Pleased to meet you and your friends.”

  The waitress, coffee pot in hand, interrupted us. “You folks know what you want?”

>   After a hasty round of ordering and ample pours of coffee, she departed, leaving us to question Clint, who was enthusiastically stabbing at a plate full of pan-fried steak and eggs, sunny side up.

  Michael lowered his voice. “Clint, this might seem like a strange question, but you sound like you’ve been here a while, know your way around. If I were looking for a runaway, a young girl who might have come here to Williston, where would I look?”

  Clint sat back a little on his stool, emitting a low whistle. “Now that’s unfortunate. This girl is someone you know?”

  I nodded, mentally urging him to continue.

  “How young?”

  “Only twelve or thirteen,” Enoch offered, eyeing Clint’s plate of food.

  Clint dragged his rough hands over his day old stubble.

  “And from the looks of you, not used to this kind of rough and tumble environment, I’m guessing. That’s tough. A runaway that age, real tough. Not a lot of options. If you’d said even sixteen, it’d be easy to find her. You’d just go to the strip clubs and the bars. Now, don’t get me wrong,” he added hastily, “I don’t mean to imply anything. But unless this friend of yours had somebody to take care of her, that’s most likely where she’d end up. Working the bars, trying to make a quick dollar. Heck, those strippers are probably clearing $160,000 a year. But girls that young …” I could see him considering carefully how much he wanted to say to us. “Well, they’re hard to find out in public. The young ones won’t be out in the bars; nobody here would risk hiring an underage girl and losing their license. So the young ones will end up with pimps. They’ll be kept hidden. They’re here, to be sure. But they get sold out in private transactions. Everything behind the scenes, using the Internet. Your best bet would be to watch the pimps and the johns in the bars, maybe scan the Internet ads, and see if you can track her down. Be careful, though. Those guys are nasty. Sure wouldn’t want to get caught in a tussle with them unprepared.”

  “Couldn’t she be in a shelter? Couldn’t she have found a place to stay temporarily?” I asked, almost pleading with him to give me an alternative.

  Clint looked at me sympathetically. “Honey, I hope she did. But the shelters here have been packed to the gills for two years. There’s honestly nowhere for somebody to go. Why do you think those people are living out of their cars?” He shook his head. “It’s a shame. It truly is. But as long as there are people willing to take advantage of these young girls, it’s gonna happen. Nothing we can do about it.”

  “Should we go to the police?” I asked, hopeful.

  Clint shrugged. “With all the other troubles they’ve got to deal with, I doubt you’d get their attention.”

  The waitress returned, rows of plates lined up on her outstretched arms, which she spun out like a Vegas dealer, passing out cards for a hand of poker, to where we sat. I stared dispiritedly at my meal—a heap of greasy hash browns and scrambled eggs—and wondered what we should do next.

  Clint waited for her to leave, and then pushed his plate away and stood up.

  “Sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. I really do hope you find this girl, whoever she is.” He slapped some money down on the counter. “Your breakfast is on me.” He clapped Michael on the back as he left. “Welcome to Williston. Good luck.”

  Just then, Tabby texted me back.

  Can’t find a single room! Crazy!

  BTW you picked a real vacation garden spot. Violent crime up 120%. 200% increase in domestic violence. Sex trafficking, heroin use, suicides. All up double to triple digits.

  My gaze trailed Clint as the door swung closed behind him.

  “We’re gonna need that luck,” I said.

  eighteen

  RORIE

  I remember when I was little, and Michael and Hope took me to the beach. It was a makeshift beach that someone had constructed on the shore of the artificial lake created by a new dam. Hope spread out her blanket, basking in the hot sun, letting her body sink into the sand underneath. She didn’t notice when I decided to wade out to Michael. He didn’t, either. I’d wanted to go to him so badly that I didn’t stop, not even when the bottom of the lake sank away and the water rose bit by bit over my head. I kept walking as best I could through the murky water until somehow he spotted me, and his strong arms gathered me up to his chest.

  I sputtered against him, coughing and wheezing, while he scolded me and held me close. Hope hovered over me, anxious, until I blinked at them both and declared that I wanted to do it again. They laughed at my audaciousness, praising my courage.

  What would they say now?

  It’s cold.

  No, that is stating the obvious. That is second-grade vocabulary, Aurora. You can do better than that, I chide myself, willing my brain to remain sharp.

  It is arctic, benumbing, biting, bitter, bleak, brisk, chilled, crisp, cutting, frigid, glacial, hyperborean, nippy, piercing, polar, snowy, stinging, wintry. Every word carefully chosen, arrayed in alphabetical order.

  I sag against my chains, biting the inside of my cheek, clinging to my vocabulary triumph as if it mattered. And it does. It matters.

  I must not fall asleep in this cold.

  I refuse to give him the satisfaction of dying.

  I refuse to give him the satisfaction of anything.

  I giggle, thinking of the absurdity of it all. He is going to shoot me up full of drugs, just like he did to Macey, and sell my body to the highest bidder.

  Just like Macey, I must not care. But unlike Macey, I cannot let it crush me. I am more than my hymen.

  “Hymen,” I giggle, thinking of the Our Bodies, Ourselves book my mother had thrust upon me only a few short years ago. “A fold of mucous membrane partly enclosing the external orifice of the vagina of a virgin.”

  He is auctioning me off. He said that because I am a virgin, I am somehow more valuable.

  I shrink against the chains and want to cry.

  But I can’t. I won’t.

  I strain against the cuffs, the metal chafing the tender skin of my wrists as I twist and turn, trying to reshape my hands into something that can slip through the bands that hold me. But there is no give. Frustrated, I sink to the ground, the chains scraping against the pipe in protest, the piercing sound of metal on metal echoing out into the empty shed.

  I tuck my knees under me, trying to take up as little space as possible so that the filth and cold of the cement cannot touch me.

  Hope and Michael didn’t tell my mother what had happened that day at the lake. As if by solemn pact, we three kept that story from her, knowing that it would send her careening in fear for me. Even as a young child, I could sense her anxiety, even if I couldn’t name it, even if I didn’t know its source.

  My knowledge of what had happened to Hope and my father in the years before I was born was sketchy, but somehow, I knew that I was the happy patch that covered up the old hurt so she could heal.

  I was strong and happy so she could be strong and happy. Maybe that was my purpose, even. Sunny Rorie, the one who made it all better.

  Out of instinct and habit, I reached for the agate pendant that usually hung from my neck, my arm heavy with the weight of the chains. My fingers closed on nothing as I felt the disappointment, again, of realizing that it was lost. I breathed out, a tremulous wisp that puffed into the darkness, forming a cloud that quickly dissipated into the frigid air.

  I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t afford myself the luxury of self-pity.

  How could I, when I had been surrounded all my life by people who loved me? Not just my mother, Hope, and Michael, but Tabby, who taught me how to whistle and how to sneak out of the house wearing a second outfit hidden under the clothes my mother had carefully inspected for propriety; who encouraged me to explore who I was, who told me that I could be anything and anyone I wanted to be and, in doing so, had taught me to see the people whom others could not see. Or Arthur, whose solid presence had been a comfort to me, kissing my skinned knees as he taught me to ride my bike, pl
aying knights and dragons with me and allowing me to be the knight as he gamely put on a princess crown and cried out to be saved, telling bedtime stories about a brave girl who conquered the evil in the world before she went home for dinner.

  Each of them taught me to be strong.

  No, that’s not quite right. Each of them taught me to find the strength in myself.

  But Macey had nobody to teach her.

  The unfairness of it all convulsed me, again, and I strained against the chains, determined. I forced myself to my feet, trying to ignore the stinging in my toes and the encroaching numbness as the night air sapped away my body heat.

  I am strong. I will be strong. If not for them, if not for me, then for Macey.

  I decided it was time for a rousing singalong on the theme of coldness. Brace yourself. I’m gonna own this.

  nineteen

  HOPE

  I looked at the green awning over the windowless door. Whispers, it read in fanciful script. We stood in a small knot a few yards away from the entrance, watching men in work clothes or jeans go in and out of the building.

  “This is what passes for classy in North Dakota?” Raph queried, disdain dripping from his voice. “What kinds of human trash are we going to have to wade through in this place?”

  I sighed. Being here wasn’t doing anything to elevate Raph’s perception of mankind. But after hours of debate, Michael had convinced us all that our best bet was to do as Clint had suggested and stake out a strip club. We’d picked this one after reading reviews online. Its website had boasted of Russians and Ukrainians, Mexicans and Bolivians. While the presence of a large number of foreign women wasn’t a sure sign of trafficking, it was our only lead.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Michael asked, gripping my elbow. Even through the heavy fabric of my sweatshirt, I could feel his heat. I resisted the urge to melt against him, reminding myself that we were here for strictly business reasons: to track down my sister and her friend.