The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

“It’s not as easy as you think. There are companies out there, KRE, and others who-”

  “KRE?” I ask. I am toying with one of my prescription bottle of pills.

  “Kidnap, Rescue and Extortion,” Bart responds. “But they’re expensive. Nine to ten grand and up, depending on the circumstances.”

  I close my eyes. He might as well have said nine to ten million. There’s no way I can get my hands on that kind of money.

  “Abducting someone gets into a lot of fuzzy areas where the law is concerned.”

  “I don’t want her ‘abducted’, I want her rescued. There’s a huge difference.”

  “Not in my book. And not in the eyes of the law,” he says. “Besides, if you were to do this, then what? You think she’s going to stay at home and be a good little girl?”

  “I’ve found a place,” I say. “In Southern California. It’s a rehab exclusively for teenagers. The facilitator has already said that there’s a huge chance that Robyn’s got a chemical dependency issue on top of everything else and we can most likely get the insurance to pay for her stay there.”

  “Look, I’d like to help you, I really would.” I hear sympathy in his voice. “But,” he pauses. “I can’t risk losing my license.”

  I slam down the prescription bottle onto the coffee table.

  “Never mind, then. I’ll save her myself.” I hang up the phone.

  I look over the notes I’ve made on the inside flap of the phone book. Peaceful Acres, in Newport Beach, California. A lockdown facility that promises to “deprogram” youth brainwashed by cults; intensive counseling for all sorts of teenage disorders, ranging from drug addiction to anorexia. A “panoramic, natural setting resting on the beautiful Californian coastline”, John Simpson, one of the facilitators, told me over the phone.

  Waves of the hundred plus degree heat from outside weigh the air inside the house. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and pick up the cordless. I want to talk to John Simpson again. In our previous conversation earlier this week, he made it all sound so simple. Robyn would be kept to a rigorous schedule of one on one counseling and group therapy. She would have the opportunity to talk to other girls who have been through similar situations. And she’d be near the sea. How good would this be for my daughter? Just the thought makes me smile. But before I can dial his number, the front door opens. Rob is home.

  From the look on his face I can see that his mood is dark. Since our fight four days ago, we have been distant but polite to each other. He has come and gone, seemingly sporadically at times, but always dutifully returning no later than eight at night to heat me up a can of chicken noodle soup.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He tosses his keys on the table but doesn’t answer me. I can tell by his walk as he stumbles into the kitchen that he is drunk. Again.

  I hear him get a glass from the cupboard. I ease up off the couch and amble into the kitchen after him. He’s pouring himself a large glass of milk, which means he’s really drunk.

  “I hope you’re friggin’ happy,” he says, slamming the refrigerator door closed.

  “What?”

  “Cops said I was being deceptive on that friggin’ lie detector test.”

  I lean back against the counter and cross my arms in front of me. How can this be? I look down at the floor. What is there to say? I walk over to him.

  “Oh Rob,” I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

  He wrenches away from me.

  “Don’t,” he says.

  “Won’t they let you take it again?”

  “Don’t you get it?” he says. He spins around, nearly losing his balance. His hand jerks outward, catching the fridge door to steady himself.

  “I failed the friggin’ test!”

  “But you were nervous.” I pause a moment. “And probably angry; couldn’t that skew the results?”

  He turns away and tromps into the living room. I follow after him. He is in his recliner, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, head down between hunched shoulders.

  I sit on the couch facing him.

  “Rob, honey, it’ll be okay,” I offer, not really believing my words.

  He looks at me. Tears are streaming down his face.

  “No. It’s not. It’s never gonna be okay. It’s never been okay,” he says in a hushed voice.

  In all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never once seen Rob cry. Seeing his weakness stirs a mix of pity and embarrassment inside my heart. And also fear. How can he say it’s never been okay? What does he mean? Do I really want to know?

  “Just stop, alright?” I say. “We’ve got to stay focused. Our daughter is out there somewhere and we have to do whatever it takes to get her home.”

  He closes his eyes, but the tears keep coming. His jaw hangs open, slack, making him look older than he is. He huffs out a subdued breath.

  “There’s something I never told you,” he whispers.

  I feel the blood drain from my body. A stab of fear pierces my heart.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He sits up, wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “About six months ago, I came home early.” He pauses, takes in a deep breath and then continues. “It was a little after three in the afternoon.”

  “Why did you come home early?” I say, interrupting him.

  “When I opened the front door, Robyn and a man were coming out of her bedroom,” he continues, ignoring my question. “They were laughing, you know joking around.”

  I cannot believe my ears. Immediately I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t move or talk. I sit, rigid with shock.

  “When Robyn saw me, she acted real nonchalant, you know, like it was no big deal.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

  “She said the guy was one of her professors who was tutoring her; getting her ready for a mid-term test.” He looks down at his shoes. “I believed her.”

  I swallow down my rage. Screaming at Rob will help neither of us.

  “Was he Hispanic?” I ask, thinking of BLU BOY.

  “No. He was a white guy. Middle-aged. Tall, wearing a suit and gold framed glasses. He looked like a teacher for criminy’s sake!”

  “You didn’t think there might be something wrong with the fact that a middle-aged man was in our thirteen year old’s bedroom?” I bite my lip. “And you never thought to tell me about all this?” I ask, barely able to maintain my composure.

  “What do you want me to say, Margot?” He looks at me and then back down at his shoes. “Of course I thought about telling you. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that maybe Robyn was telling the truth and it was no big deal.”

  “Or was it that you came home early because you were drunk and you didn’t want me to find out?” I stand up, fists balled on my hips. “Isn’t that the real truth?”

  “No,” he says weakly, shifting in his seat.

  “ No? ” I snort out in a sarcastic breath.

  I open my mouth to let out a tirade of fury, but am stopped up short by the ring of the telephone. The cordless is still on the coffee table. Rob looks up at me with hooded, hang-dog eyes. I snatch the cordless from the table.

  “Hello?”

  “Margot?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Sister Margaret, dear. Listen, something’s happened. There’s been,” she pauses, “an incident.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s Chevy. She’s been beat up. She’s at the hospital. San Francisco General. And she’s asking for you.”

  I glance at my watch; nearly nine at night.

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  ***

  The hospital corridors are dimly lit and quiet. A helix of industrial grade disinfectant curls around us as we walk down the hall, Sister Margaret whispering quietly as we go.

  “The police found her. She’s beat up pretty bad. Some cuts and bruises, of course; also a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs and
a fractured skull. The doctors said the CT scan revealed a severe concussion.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Well, at this point, they say there’s no bleeding inside the brain, but she’ll need to be monitored for awhile to make sure no bleeding starts. She might have short-term or long-term memory loss, or both. And depending on the severity of the concussion, she could require occupational or speech therapy.”

  “Who did this?” I ask.

  Sister Margaret gives me a peculiar look and I realize that I am holding my stomach as we walk, trying to mitigate the pain from the surgery.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I give her an overall gloss about my ulcer and recent operation.

  “Should you be out of bed?” Sister Margaret asks in alarm.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really. What about Chevy? Do you know who did this to her?”

  A man with a goatee wearing a white lab coat breezes by us, carrying an armload of patient charts.

  “Chevy told the police she didn’t know her attacker, but between you and me, she admitted it was Antonio Peña.”

  “BLU BOY,” I say, more to myself than to her.

  Sister Margaret nods. “But without a positive ID, the police can’t arrest him.”

  Sister Margaret punches a large, square button on the wall and suddenly we’re inside ICU, where the atmosphere turns immediately somber. We are in front of a door, but before we go in, Sister Margaret looks over to the nurse’s station, where a petite, young woman with curly blond hair gives the nun a pointed look. Clearly, visiting hours are over as it is past ten o’clock at night.

  “Five minutes, Sister, not one second more,” the nurse says in a heavy New York accent.

  Sister Margaret smiles, giving her a nod. The nun obviously has some pull around here. I reach to open the door for both of us, but suddenly feel Sister Margaret’s firm grip on my arm. I turn and look at her.

  “Chevy’s hurt pretty bad. She could use a real friend right now-not just someone who’s using her as a means to an end.”

  “I understand that,” I say.

  “Do you?”

  I push past the nun and make my way to Chevy’s hospital bed.

  Nothing Sister Margaret has said prepares me for what I see. In spite of the guttering light I can easily see that Chevy’s face is cut and bruised. Her left cheek from chin to eye socket is swollen. She has tubes everywhere and behind the bed, a monitor pings softly with each beat of her heart. She appears to be asleep.

  As I draw closer, my heart slowly breaks as my eyes catalogue every appalling wound on the young girl’s body. A deep gash on the left side of her forehead is covered by Steri-strips stained by dried blood. Her left eye is swollen shut and is the color of eggplant. Both arms are mottled with abrasions, and her left forearm bears bruising that is visibly the shape of someone’s fingers. A jagged swath of her beautiful black hair has been razored away at the top of her head, revealing more Steri-strips and more dried blood.

  I reach out to touch her, but realize that there probably isn’t a single spot on her young body that doesn’t hurt. She stirs faintly and her right eye opens. Her lips form a nearly imperceptible smile.

  “You came,” she mumbles.

  She lets out a pained breath. Tears well in my eyes and spill onto the blanket. She looks so helpless and small in the hospital bed. A thousand thoughts ricochet through me. Does she know where Robyn is? Why does she do this? Why do girls let monsters like BLU BOY control their lives? And then Sister Margaret’s admonition about Chevy needing a friend rushes back into my mind.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m here, Chevy.”

  She mumbles something I can’t make out.

  “What?” I say.

  “ Phoenix,” she murmurs.

  “Sometimes pimps move their girls to different cities to stay one move ahead of the police,” Sister Margaret says.

  “Is Robyn in Phoenix?” I ask Chevy.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, straining with every nerve in my body to hear her response. But she only lets out a faint cry that sounds like the mewl of a kitten.

  I reach out and gently ease her hair back from her forehead. I let my hand linger, softly stroking her head. Her hair is snowflake soft, and the bones of her skull seem so small and frail. I am filled with compassion for this little girl who has risked her life for my daughter.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t try to talk.”

  “BLU BOY…” Chevy begins, and then stops. Her body slumps back into the mattress of the bed, exhausted. Her face is slack, emotionless. She is out.

  “Shhh,” I whisper between tears.

  I wipe my face, swallowing hard. A hopeless, helpless despair quakes through my body. I grit my teeth against what my life has become, against what this world has become. I fight back the tears, but it’s no use. They come, freely. I bow my head and give in to my emotion, my teardrops silent witness to my overwhelming anguish.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. Sister Margaret gives me a reassuring squeeze.

  “Let’s go.”

  Sister Margaret leads me to her old, battered truck and takes off, and soon we pull up to a curb. I peer out the window at a large imposing building; a church.

  “Come on, dear.”

  I slide across the seat out the driver’s side door, numbly following the nun. Outside the air is frigid. Chevrons of wind serrate the night, making me hug my arms to my body for warmth. We walk round to the back of the building where an old wooden door lies hidden between the shadows of statues and brush. Sister Margaret produces a key and unlocks the door.

  St. Dominic’s is massive. Incense and history and candle wax braid the air and in spite of my despondency, I feel a measure of comfort. The only light comes from a bank of small electric candles off on the side wall. Above the candles is a large framed picture of a woman clothed in blue and white garments. A single red candle is lit at the very front of the church next to a large gold box. Also at the front, is the altar and above it, an enormous crucifix.

  “Jesus is here,” Sister Margaret says quietly.

  She motions for me to follow her to one of the pews towards the front of the church.

  “Oh Sister, I don’t know about-”

  She grips my arm, propelling me forward.

  “Come,” she says.

  “But I feel like there’s no hope,” I say, trying to stifle my tears.

  “Giving up hope is a dysfunctional coping mechanism,” she whispers. And then, “As long as Robyn is alive, there’s hope.”

  And then we are kneeling in one of the pews. Sister Margaret’s head is bowed; she is praying quietly. The crucified Jesus is looking down on me; his eyes seem to be staring into my own. His pained face is everything I feel and all I can do is weep. I rest my elbows against the pew in front of me and bury my face into my hands.

  I can no longer cope. I want my daughter home, my family intact. Rage and frustration churn within me and rail against the ineffectiveness of the police, Rob’s earlier admission tonight, and my own personal sense of uselessness. I see a kaleidoscope of events: Sunday dinners, birthday parties, opening Christmas gifts beneath a bushy, green tree, all explode from view. As if I will never get those things back. A heavy blackness overshadows me, and for a single second I understand why people commit suicide.

  Then, in the middle of my despair raddled thoughts a glint, nearly imperceptible and absurd at the same time, worms its way into my consciousness. If I did have hope, what would it look like? A movie image suddenly intrudes. In my mind’s eye I am seeing Mel Gibson in Ransom in that TV studio in front of all that money, challenging his son’s kidnappers; taking them on, as it were. And I think to myself, why couldn’t I do the same thing? Why couldn’t I be the aggressor in all of this mess? An image fixes itself in my mind. An image of me, taking my daughter back by force, to safety. Why couldn’t I? What on earth is stopping me? And for the first time since this horrible nightmare began
I feel a glimmer of something. I am afraid to call it hope, yet I dare not call it by any other name.

  I am going to rescue my daughter.

  September 10, 2002

  I inspect my provisions: a large canvas bag containing a small box of crackers, a few bottled waters, Rob’s old binoculars, and a blanket. Though I am perspiring freely now, I know that once I’m in the city it will be cold, especially after dark.

  I check my watch, almost eight. Rob should have been home a couple of hours ago. He hasn’t shown up nor has he called. I swallow my disgust over his absence and replay yesterday’s conversation with him.

  I told him of my intention to stake out the Tenderloin until I found Robyn and then drive her to the treatment facility in Newport Beach, and after his initial skepticism, he seemed to be on board with the plan. I told him we should plan on leaving around 7:30 so we could get to San Francisco just before dark to begin our surveillance.

  And yet, here I am, alone. I look around to see if there might be something else I should take with me and my eye rests on the Peaceful Acres brochure still lying on the coffee table. I scoop it up and shove it into my purse.

  Yesterday’s conversation with John Simpson went well. After confirming coverage of the health insurance for Robyn’s stay, his voice positively dripped with encouragement, even offering a free plane ticket for Robyn and myself to Southern California. Since I have no idea how Robyn is going to react to her rescue, I told Mr. Simpson that I would be delivering her by car within a day or two. He assured that they would keep a place reserved for her and reminded me that the sooner Robyn got there, the sooner she could begin her rehabilitation.

  I look at my watch again; nearly eight thirty. I sigh. It looks as though I will be doing this alone. I do not know how on earth I will be able to get Robyn into the car with my compromised physical condition, but I remember being in the church. I remember the feeling that swelled in my heart, like watercolor paint seeping across paper in an ever larger circumference. Is it Providence? Naïveté? Only God knows for sure. I only know that I am going to save Robyn. I draw in a resolute breath, a sort of psychological girding of loins, and hoist the canvas bag to my shoulders, along with the blanket and a smaller sack containing magazines, and being careful not to engage any stomach muscles, open the front door.