A curious chill ran down Kit’s spine. “David, I …”
“You need to talk to her.” David opened Kit’s door.
When Kit walked into her apartment, Piper looked triumphant. “Sit down.”
Kit took an armchair, giving the couch to David and the Hispanic woman. How old was she? Twenty-five, maybe? The sorrow around her eyes aged her, Kit thought.
Piper couldn’t stay quiet. “I volunteer with a women’s shelter, you know?” she said to Kit. “One day, they brought Patricia to me. When I listened to her story, I decided to bring her home.”
“What kind of shelter?”
“A shelter for women and children who need to be away from, you know, from abusive partners or … or other stuff.” Piper glanced at Patricia.
“Like what other stuff?” Kit asked.
Piper took a deep breath. “Like forced labor.”
“Here? In Norfolk?” Kit looked quickly toward David to see if he was catching this.
“Yes!” Piper’s eyes were an odd light blue and right now they were shining like ice chips. “They bring them in from all over. Some of them end up in massage parlors near the Navy bases, others in private homes, and the rest … well, we don’t know where they’re headed.”
Kit blinked. “Go on.” She could tell the rescuer in Piper was engaged.
“I’ve learned a lot. Here’s the way it works.” Piper sat forward in her seat. “They come here to be domestic workers, or so they’ve been told. You know … maids or nannies. They get here and their ‘employer’ takes their passports and forces them to work for pennies. It’s human trafficking, the new slavery!”
Kit’s mind raced. Could some of the ag workers be part of this scheme? She looked at Patricia, who twisted a tissue in her hands.
The Latina had been sitting quietly. She looked quickly at Piper and began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Kit heard the word “ice”—ICE—and realized the woman was asking Piper if she, Kit, was an immigration agent. When Piper responded in the negative, the woman visibly relaxed.
David moved forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He said something in Spanish to Patricia, then turned to Kit. “I’ve asked her to tell you her story.”
The woman began, speaking in broken English, her large brown eyes shifting between Piper and Kit.
“I am from Mexico,” Patricia said. “My family very poor. One day I meet a woman at the market. She say she get me work in America. I am nineteen years old then, the oldest of six children, and my mama says ‘Go. Make yourself a life. There is nothing here.’ So I go.
“This woman, she takes me to a house, very bad smelling. She gives me to a man. He was not nice. He put me in the back of a truck with twelve others, men, women, and two children. We drive for a long time. It is so hot, I think I die. He gives no water, no food, nothing. Finally, the truck stops. We get out. It is night. I ask where we are. ‘Hickory,’ the man say.”
“That’s Hickory, North Carolina,” Piper explained.
The Latina continued. “Some people go there. Me and one other, we get back in truck. Then we here, in Norfolk.” She took a deep breath. “The man, he take me to a house, a big house. Very beautiful. He tell me if I work hard, I could live like that someday. This is America. He tells me if I leave the house, the ICE will get me. Put me in jail forever. He scares me very much.
“The people in that house, the ones I am to work for, they not nice. I work twelve, fourteen hours every day. Hardly no food. At night, they lock me in a tiny room in the basement. No light, no windows. Nothing. I am very afraid.
“I work there a long time, cleaning, cooking. The wife, she beat me. She think her husband like me. I stay there long time … two, three years. Then one night, they not lock my door. They are drinking, smoking … and they no come down and lock door. I wait … and I wait … and when all is quiet, I run. Where I go? I hide in the woods. I am very, very hungry. For two days, I walk. Then I see a priest. I run to him …”
Piper interrupted. “The priest brings her to our committee meeting, and voila, here we are. Meanwhile, I’m thinking this is a great story. Then I get sent up to Chincoteague to cover the body on the beach. And you know, I’m thinking there’s a connection.”
“What connection?” Kit said.
The reporter shook her head. “I dunno.”
“Just because the boy was Hispanic?”
“Look. I’m willing to bet he wasn’t on vacation. Yeah, maybe he was out fishing with his illegal dad, but that doesn’t make sense, you know? How many illegals have the money to do that? All I know is, I’m giving you the lead. It’s your job to connect the dots.”
“How long ago was all this?” Kit asked.
“Patricia’s been here a month. At first, she felt terrified all the time. So afraid the people would find her. She’s much better already.”
“Are there a lot of trafficked workers in Norfolk?” Kit asked.
“I don’t know how far the problem goes. We know there are some people here as domestics, like Patricia, who live in virtual slavery. There are others who are in brothels, like I said. But another thing I’m interested in is migrants. You know, we have a lot of migrant workers up on the Delmarva Peninsula, and I’m wondering, are they all there voluntarily?”
Kit’s heart was drumming.
“Patricia, have you heard of people being brought into the U.S. by boat?” David asked.
The Latina looked puzzled, so David said it again, in Spanish. “No,” Patricia said, shaking her head.
“But remember, she’s been locked in a house for over three years,” Piper said.
“What were their names?” Kit asked.
“Who?”
“The people who held her. What were their names and where do they live?” Kit pulled out her notebook and pen.
“Patricia only remembers their first names: Robert and Rhonda. And part of a house number: 167. She can’t get past that.”
David looked skeptical and Kit had to agree with him. Patricia knew more than she was telling. She looked at Piper. “What do you want out of this?”
“A career-changing story. I’m ready to blow this joint. Try CNN or something.”
Kit looked at her curiously.
Piper sighed. “All right. A little justice would be nice, too. It blows my mind that people can treat others like that. I feel sorry for her, and I don’t know what to do next.”
All the way back to Chincoteague, Kit’s mind whirled. Human trafficking. What were the odds? And it was a hot-button issue at the Bureau. Could she make the connection? Was her beach child being trafficked? And what about the people hanging off the gunnels of those darkened boats at midnight?
They were driving over the bridge to the island and David was asking about dinner when her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and she pulled it off of her belt. She looked at the caller ID and felt a twist of pain. She set her jaw. “Hello?”
Kit glanced upward in frustration, tears welling in her eyes at the sound of his voice. “I’m fine.” She turned her head to the side so David wouldn’t see. He negotiated the turns in the little town, steering the Jeep to the back side of the island while she listened. “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”
But she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand at all! A dark fury rose inside her, a fury coupled with panic, edged in despair. David pulled into her driveway. She forced a response. “No, Eric. I won’t be able to. I’m busy that weekend. Yeah, OK. Well, good luck!” And as David slid his SUV into “park,” Kit snapped the phone shut, threw it onto the floor of the Jeep, opened her door, and raced into the house, tears streaming down her face.
9
KIT LEFT THE DOOR AJAR. DAVID PUSHED IT OPEN AND WALKED IN. KIT stood in the middle of the great room sobbing. She looked at David through a blur of tears and said, “Eric’s getting married again!”
The words came out like a convulsion. Her hands balled into fists and her stomach twisted in knots. “He’s getting married! He t
old me he didn’t want to be married, that he wanted to concentrate on his career. And now … he’s getting married again? That fast? What was wrong with me? Why didn’t he want me?” She sobbed—great heaving sobs that captured her breath and made her heart shudder.
David put her cell phone and her bag down on the counter and walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not you, Kit. Don’t even think that. It’s him. He’s a jerk.”
She pulled away, too angry to be comforted. “He said he wanted to be single. Not be tied down. And now, he’s getting married? Oh, God. What is wrong with men? I hate him!” she cried out. “I hate him!” She buried her face in her hands.
She sensed David near, heard his breathing, felt his arms brush hers as he began to embrace her again.
“Shh, shh,” he said. “He isn’t worth it.” His voice sounded gentle and kind.
But Kit flung her arms out, pushing him away.
He took a step backwards, shocked. He ran his hand through his hair.
Kit’s face felt hot. “He’s marrying a student! She’s twenty-two. ‘Fresh out of college’ is the way he put it. Oh, God!” She pressed her hands to her temples. “I can’t believe this! I’m the one who put him through law school! I’m the one who helped him with his dissertation! I’m the one who supported him so he could study, get those stupid degrees, have that stupid career!”
“Kit, this isn’t about you … it’s about him …”
“It is about me! He does want to be married—just not to me! And he has the gall to invite me! What a jerk!”
“He’s a user. A self-centered user. And that twenty-two-year-old girl is too young to see it.”
“He betrayed me, broke our vows …” she glared at David. “I don’t get it! I did everything the way you’re supposed to and this is what I get?”
He cocked his head.
Kit felt her face grow hot. “Of course you don’t understand! How could you? For one thing, you’re a man. For another, …” She threw up her hands.
“Come on. Talk to me. I want to help.”
“You can’t help! You can’t! Listen: I don’t want to talk any more. Not to you, not to anybody. Can you go, please?”
He hesitated.
“Get out!”
His eyes widened and, for a moment, she thought he was going to retort in anger. She turned her back. She heard him sigh deeply, and say, “I’m sorry, Kit.” She pressed her lips together, heard his footsteps as he moved to leave, heard the cottage door shut behind him, heard the sound of his SUV starting, heard the crunch of its tires on the oyster shell driveway … and then he was gone. Gone!
And she cried out in anguish, “God, how could you do this to me?”
Kit had originally come to Chincoteague on an emotional retreat, a vacation, and so she had brought with her a box full of things from her marriage: pictures, theater stubs, UVA football tickets, a menu from Milan, the restaurant where Eric had proposed, and, of course, their wedding album.
Exhausted from her anger and grief, she went back into the bedroom and pulled that box out. She sat on the bed going through it, touching each item, fingering it, studying it like an archaeologist at a dig, as if she were looking for clues in a case. She placed each artifact on the white chenille bedspread. Soon, the entire surface looked like a scrapbook project. Where had it gone wrong? Where had she gone wrong? Why had God allowed this to happen?
She’d followed all the rules. Carefully chosen a man who said he was a Christian. Studied all the books. Tried to be a good wife.
Despite all that she’d been betrayed, abandoned, rejected … and not just by Eric. By God, too … at least, that’s what it felt like. How many times in a lifetime should that happen to one person?
First her mother, then Eric. Her mother had left when she was eight—just walked out on her, her brother, her dad.
Her mother had a new family, now Eric would, too. She, Kit, apparently wasn’t good enough for either of them.
Not good enough for God either, no matter how hard she’d tried. She couldn’t measure up. Now, he’d left, too. She could feel it.
“Oh, God!” she whispered. “Why did you let this happen to me?”
The tears dripped down onto the pages spread before her. Then one by one, she put every artifact on her bed in the trashcan, except for one. Goodbye, she thought, goodbye. And she finally fell asleep, cradling her wedding album in her arms.
David left his own rented house, crossed Main Street, and walked through the motel parking lot toward the dock. The sky was black, the horizon dotted with the lights of moving cars on the causeway. He couldn’t stop thinking about Kit. Two days after her explosion, he still felt confused and, he had to admit, frustrated.
Why had she rejected him so abruptly? What had he done wrong?
Part of him wanted to write her off. Yet another flaky woman.
The other part remained locked in a deep longing for her.
Crossing the motel parking lot, he looked, out of habit, in the window toward the front desk. Maria was not there.
He continued out onto the dock. His boat shoes, which he wore without socks, made soft sloughing noises as he walked. He took a deep breath, inhaling the salt air and the marsh smell.
He found Kit an unusual woman. Strong. Smart. Driven, but in an attractive way. Not beautiful, but pretty. Her tears over her ex-husband’s phone call only deepened his attraction to her. She’d shown her vulnerability, and his heart had responded.
It had been a long time, many years, since he’d felt so drawn to a woman. But why had she pushed him away? Was she messed up because of her divorce? Worth bothering with?
On their trip to Wilmington, while she slept, he’d listened to some of the podcasts on her iPod—sermons, mostly. They raised questions in his mind, made him squirm at times, raised up a resistance within him that he didn’t realize was there. But some of what they said was interesting, and seemed to plug in some of the holes he’d been wrestling with. He had resolved to ask her about them, to find out if what they were saying was true. He’d wanted to find out what she believed. He’d been looking forward to getting to know her better.
Now, he wasn’t sure that was going to happen. It seemed like the door had been slammed shut. Was it worth trying to open it again?
Frustrated, he kicked a shell off the dock and walked back toward the house. Outside the motel office, a man David recognized as the manager stood catching a smoke. “Hey,” David said.
“How’s it going?” The man was in his forties, dark-haired, and grizzled.
“You taking a shift?” David said, nodding toward the office window.
The manager spit out a small piece of tobacco. “Got to.”
“I haven’t seen Maria lately.”
“That makes two of us.” He squinted at David. “You know her?”
“Just from walking out onto your dock.” He frowned. “She quit?”
“Didn’t even finish her shift. I came in to do some paperwork and the place was empty.”
David’s law enforcement brain kicked in. “When was that?”
“Five days ago.”
“What time of day?”
“Around 8:30. The schedule had her on duty until 11. I came in early. Figured I’d get some work done before I had to take the desk. Came in … and she was gone.”
“You have contact information, right? Did you call her?”
“Phone number she gave me was bogus. Address, too. Somebody told me she ran off with her boyfriend.” The manager spit again. “You can’t trust ‘em. Not these Mexicans. She’s the last one I’ll ever hire.”
David walked on, mulling over the manager’s words over in his mind. Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Maria never mentioned one and to David she definitely seemed like a woman on the hunt. He walked up the front stairs to his house and opened the door. Something wasn’t jiving with him.
Overnight, a thick layer of gray clouds had filled the sky. Kit could hear a steady rain beginnin
g to fall as she padded to the kitchen in her pajamas. She looked in the cabinet, rejected the only box of cereal she had, opened the fridge and closed it again. Then she went and sat down on the couch, propped her chin on her knee, and reviewed Eric’s desertion all over again.
“There’s no peace in this,” she muttered, frustrated, and she got up, retrieved her Bible. Hadn’t she found comfort there before? She turned to Psalms: “Vindicate me, O God, and defend my cause against an ungodly people. From the deceitful and unjust man, deliver me!”
Could she really call Eric “deceitful and unjust”? Or her mother?
“… For you are the God in whom I take refuge; why have you rejected me?”
“Yes, why, God?” she said aloud, and fresh tears began to flow.
David called. He asked her if she wanted to go out for breakfast. She said no.
“We need to talk,” he said.
But she refused. Later, she wrote in her journal: How can I continue seeing him? Frankly, he’s too attractive. My feelings are taking me down a wrong path. I messed up once with Eric. And David isn’t even a believer! I am not getting involved again. No way. I took my best shot before and look what it got me. I’ve got a case to solve and a life to live by myself, on my own … I don’t need anybody. I don’t want anybody.
Her boss, Steve Gould, asked her to come in to Norfolk for a meeting and for once, Kit felt glad to be pulled away from Chincoteague. When she entered his office, she saw a dark-haired Latino-looking man in a navy blue suit and a crisp white shirt already there. He was wearing cufflinks … cufflinks and Italian leather shoes. His hair was stylishly cut and his jaw strong. If she had to pick a poster boy for the FBI, he would be it. He looked spit-shined, slim, fit, and very, very much in control.
“This is Chris Cruz,” Steve Gould said. Steve motioned for her to sit down in a side chair. “Now talk to me.”
She did, outlining the direction of the investigation she’d been pursuing.
“Tell me why you think your dead boy was a trafficking victim,” Steve said, moving papers around on his desk.
Kit cleared her throat and told him about Patricia.
Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) Page 9
