Deliver

by Pam Godwin

  Prayer saturated his thoughts. He stammered through his favorite hymns, filling his heart with the inspirational, joyful words. He desperately needed the power of God to overcome this and to ensure he rose whole and confident and alive.

  The walls of the box crept impossibly closer. He thrashed, uselessly. He widened his eyes beneath the mask, trying frantically to see, and met a shroud of black. So cramped, dark… His lungs panted. He needed to focus, to keep his head.

  He tried to recall the meditation techniques he’d learned at his retreat. Sucking air through a dry throat, he pictured light filtering through the box’s wood planks, spreading a glow over him, chasing away the shadows. The walls around him expanded outward. The coffin doubled in size. Oxygen flowed in. His pulse slowed. He swiped his tongue over cracked lips. Bless the depth of his imagination.

  Time stretched. Was it minutes? Or was it hours? They should’ve released him by now. What were they doing out there? Sharpening knives? Laughing about what a sucker he was? Or were they planning to move the box out back and bury it with him inside?

  No, not death. She’d said he would be sold in ten weeks. He would have to be alive for that to happen. He latched onto the hope of survival, even as the implication of his body being auctioned for money brought its own horrors.

  A violent shudder ripped through him. Purchased by what kind of person? For what purpose? He knew. He knew the answers and shoved them away, stretching his jaw to accommodate a panicked rush of breath. Heavenly Father, please help me.

  Despair gave way to anger and frustration. His prayers weakened in conviction, losing their appeal. He had put himself in this situation. God had nothing to do with it. Doubt trickled in. Doubt in His divine rescue. Doubt in himself.

  Too many terrible things could happen to him and his parents. The air thinned, and his lungs struggled against images of Mom and Dad’s bodies gutted in their bed and painted in blood. He curled his hands into fists, picturing Liv slicing off his fingernails with a razor blade. Nausea coiled in his stomach. The glaring possibility was rape. Was he strong enough to prevent Van from taking him from behind?

  His heart pounded. His virginity was his to give, dammit, not to be stolen and dehumanized. The thought girded him, even as he knew his restraints enabled them to do whatever they wanted.

  He rolled his head back and forth over the wood. What had he learned during his spiral of mistakes? Beyond his stupidity in blind trust? He was in the Two Trails Crossing neighborhood in Temple. His captors went by Van and Liv. Calm, physically fit, and armed, they posed a difficult barrier to break through.

  Besides the mention of a Mr. E, she seemed to be the one in control. Who was she? Clearly not the girl who cried a sob story on the street. Hindsight punched him hard in the gut.

  But she couldn’t be a sociopath. Hadn’t he glimpsed the real girl in his truck in her moving song? No one could fake the gravity he’d heard in her voice. What was driving her? Money was the obvious reason, but her aim seemed…more profound. Was she motivated by something deeper? Something attached to her?

  A deep-rooted sadness had flooded her eyes and creased her mouth when he asked her not to hurt his parents. Then it was complicated by that second kiss, the one she took while he was pinned in the coffin.

  Maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see? Scrambling for the only thread of optimism in his reach? Perhaps the kiss was a design to mess with his head, but it had conveyed a hesitancy the first kiss did not.

  There was nothing hesitant about Van. His composure was fortified by piercing gray eyes, so sharp they didn’t blink. Which made the calculation in his chumminess obvious—and confusing. Even as Josh had recognized it for what it was, he couldn’t deny he felt a little less tense when Van traded his steely gaze for a full-faced grin.

  And the girl, who must’ve been some kind of slave, had somehow earned a respite from restraints and supervision. A reward for good behavior?

  Sweet Jesus, one week in this nightmare and he might be drooling applesauce. He writhed in the chains, his hips banging against the sides. How much longer before they let him out of the freaking box?

  He tried again to calm himself, catching his breath, rolling his neck and shoulders through the burgeoning pangs of muscle cramps.

  There was a way out of this. Somehow. He just needed to man up and figure it out. Field experience in instructional ministry had taught him how to associate with people, how to listen to them, and guide them through tough situations. He would concentrate his attention on observing what she was hiding and hearing what wasn’t being said. He would study her face and learn her expressions. Once he discovered the heart of her, he would offer advice, befriend her, discover her strengths and weaknesses, and predict her next moves.

  What if she beat him? Raped him? What were his limits? How much could he endure before he despised her so much he lost himself in hate?

  Adrenaline burned through his veins. If he could survive the next few hours or days, he could survive ten weeks. Maintaining composure was paramount.

  A ringing sound sliced the silence. It was a consistent lonely tone, like the lingering bong of a brass bell. Was it some kind of tinnitus?

  He rolled his head side-to-side, and the frequency seemed to ripple around his ears. It was definitely streaming through the headphones. The volume wasn’t elevated enough to hurt. Just one loud, relentless blare.

  The sound continued. His fingers tingled, as did the skin around his lips. Panic and irritation robbed his ability to catch his breath. He yawned over and over, popping his ears.

  No change in frequency. No relief. He buckled down, fought the tremors in his body and the furor of emotions pushing against the backs of his eyes.

  “Make it stop!” The scream shredded his vocal chords. “Please, stop.”

  He counted to one thousand. He couldn’t calm his heart.

  When would it end? He counted to five thousand.

  All that existed was the certainty in one demanding tonality. He couldn’t focus.

  Stop, stop, stop.

  “Please…Please turn if off…Stop!”

  His throat scraped, his shrieks unraveling his hold on his mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  Liv found Van downstairs in the sitting room, reclined in the armchair, a lit cigarette drooping from his lips. She stiffened as he patted his knee in invitation, his eyes twin sparks of silver in the glow of his phablet, the room’s only light.

  The way he looked at her chilled her skin, even as his smoke-curled smile made her heart ache for things he could never give.

  Spine steeled against the brutal beauty of his face, she put one sneaker before the other, plucked the cig from his mouth, and perched on his knee. “Ready?”

  Moving his arms around her waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder and reached for the device. “Been ready since the day I met you.”

  Her skin itched where his breath touched her cheek, where his leg pressed against her ass, where his arms brushed her hips. He was both an infectious rash and a soothing touch.

  She finished the final drag on the cigarette and squashed it in the ashtray, eyes on the blank screen.

  He launched their e-mail account, the inbox empty. Empty for nine weeks. She stared at it, willing it to beep, her exhale trapped in her chest.

  A tap on the screen made the phone call. Another tap, and he switched it to speaker mode, his free arm draped over her thigh. The call connected on the first ring.

  “Any problems?” Crisp and deep, the voice dragged a shudder from her lungs.

  “No, sir,” she and Van said in chorus.

  The inbox dinged, announcing a new message with an attached file.

  “The recording is five minutes old,” Mr. E said, “and two minutes long. I’ll wait.”

  Van clicked on the video file and leaned back. She bent toward it, where it perched in his outstretched hand.

  On the screen, a woman in her late-forties sat at a table in a kitchen that had become fam
iliar from this camera angle. Wisps of gray curled through her short brown hair, her hands folded around the mug she stared into. If she glanced up, her eyes would be a deep warm brown, set in the determined expression of a woman who had birthed a child on the heels of an abusive relationship. A woman whose passion for skydiving came second to her love for her only child. The woman who said that anyone could fall; the skill was in landing.

  When she’d learned her missing daughter’s remains had been found in an abandoned house, she’d cried for weeks as Liv watched through video footage from her attic prison. But Mom knew how to land. A few weeks before Liv’s one-year incarceration as a slave ended, Mom moved on to a new job and a new home.

  The ache to find that kitchen in the video festered inside her. While she had the freedom to run errands, scout for new victims, and—not often enough—skydive, her movements were monitored. With anxious discretion, she slipped in and out of public libraries, hunting the web for Jill Reed the skydiving instructor, the pilot, the grieving mother. There were too many skydiving schools, too many Jill Reeds.

  She scrutinized Mom’s sleeveless shirt. Tepid climate in October? Could’ve been anywhere along the Gulf. Were the creases in her hair from long hours beneath a skydiving helmet? Or a ponytail holder, pulled back for any job? The print on the newspaper at her elbow was too small to read, and the blinds were closed on the window. No new clues, every recorded clip too meticulously selected before delivery.

  The sudden impulse to demand the location from Mr. E cramped her gut and heated her face. Last time she did that, he slapped her with his two-week version of house arrest. So she crushed her reckless notion behind pinned lips and traced a finger over the beloved image on the screen.

  She earned three video sessions per slave. One the evening of the capture. One after a successful first meeting between buyer and slave. And one when she made the final delivery and the funds were transferred to Mr. E’s account.

  Only once had she received a video outside of this schedule. It had arrived after she’d forgotten to take her phone on a grocery errand. Her failure to respond immediately to one of Mr. E’s texts while she was out had earned her a video of Mom’s demolished car, lying on its side in a ravine. Mom survived with three broken ribs and a shattered femur.

  Her chest tightened at the memory and squeezed harder as she watched Mom stand from the table and move out of view of the camera. The video ended, frozen on the empty room.

  Each time she watched the videos, she was reminded that she’d sold her soul and the lives of her captives to a man she couldn’t trust. Didn’t stop her pulse from strumming excitedly as her attention flew to the phablet’s notification bar. One more email would come, the video meant for her and Van.

  “I expect,” Mr. E said, “you’ll meet your next deadline. Or your future viewings will only include one of the two videos.”

  A knot lodged in her throat. It was a threat he could only use once. If he killed the only two people she loved, she would no longer have the incentive to work for him…or to go on.

  “A camera was installed in the bedroom, and the recording is three hours old.” The line disconnected.

  The lump in her throat loosened. “Did you hear that? Her bedroom, Van.” For six years, she’d imagined what it might look like.

  “I heard.” There was a smile in his voice.

  A new message alert popped up. She reached for the screen, colliding with his hand. Chuckling, he offered her the device. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned them forward on the edge of the seat, hunching over the five-inch screen. She tapped the file and the video player opened.

  Red and brown whimsical birds winged a painted pattern over the bedroom wall. White lacy curtains draped the window, the shroud of night swallowing any clues that could point to location or climate. A red-checkered quilt blanketed the twin bed and the six-year-old girl within.

  Liv’s breath stuttered, and she felt Van smile against her neck.

  The girl grinned, front tooth missing, eyes heavy-lidded with trust and love. Her smile was for the blond woman who sat beside her.

  Liv wanted to rejoice at seeing her happy and safe, but bitter jealousy was a noose, strangling her air and failing her heart.

  He gripped the back of her free hand, lifting it with his and cupping their twined fingers around the screen. Their fingers an inch from the girl’s pixelated face was the closest they’d ever been to touching her. In her mind, she’d named her Mattie.

  Warm breath flitted over the curve of her neck, his other arm a brace around her waist. At that moment, his affection was a quietude in shared happiness, their connection suspended in a twinkling of peace.

  “She’s beautiful,” he murmured against her skin.

  Dark brown hair curled from Mattie’s sweet face and fanned over the pillow. She laughed at something her adoptive mother said and rolled to her side, shut her eyes.

  Liv imagined herself a mother, saying silly things to incite that beautiful, toothy smile. She wanted to call her name just to look into her eyes. She wanted to know her real name and hug her when she cried. What would it feel like to pick her up when she fell, to help her with homework, to watch her blow out birthday candles? It would have been a complete life.

  A burn erupted behind her eyes, her fingers dragging Van’s up and down the edge of the screen. She breathed deeply, tried to swallow the choking hopelessness.

  The blond woman reached for the bedside lamp.

  “No.” A whimper escaped Liv’s lips. “Not yet.”

  Van moved their twined hands, hugging her arm to her waist. Her other hand held the device in a death grip. Mattie’s shoulders rose and fell with restful breaths, her little hand fisted in the blanket.

  The lamp clicked off, drenching the screen in black. The video stopped.

  Her heart plummeted. She wanted to restart it, tried to untangle her arm from his, but he held it pinned against her body. She balanced the phablet on her leg to punch the play button, and he snatched it away.

  “No replays, Liv.” He forged his voice in an iron tone. “You know the rules.”

  Watch it once and delete it. Their phones were monitored and swapped out each time Mr. E visited. No cameras and recordings allowed on the property. No evidence. No replays. No saved or copied files. No distractions from the job.

  The job, the job, the job. Focus on the job. Be the job. Or else. It was all she was, a mechanical, hollow nothing that did anything needed to prevent the else.

  A violent shudder snapped through her bones. As long as she lived, Mom and Mattie would be in danger. Her death would set them free. So many times, she came close but couldn’t do it. She was a weak, selfish cunt.

  She pushed against his chest. “Let me go.”

  His arm tightened against her waist. “The child will be fine.”

  The child.

  “She’s your child.” Spit flew from her lips, her voice rising. “Our child.”

  He dropped the device and spun her off his lap. Her back hit the couch, the weight of him holding her down. Her pathetic struggle ended with her arms above her head, shackled by one of his hands, his other pointing at the phablet on the floor. “She’s not our child!” His volume hiked, matching hers. “She belongs to that woman.”

  “A woman who probably works for Mr. E!” In six years and twenty-one videos, the blonde’s face had never been revealed. Mattie’s life depended on Liv. A failure during the job or a fracture in the rules promised another accident. Mom had been meant to die in that car. Mattie wouldn’t be so lucky. Only Liv could protect her, and the safest way would be to hide her from Mr. E. She could be anywhere in the world. Liv desperately needed her name.

  “Wipe that look off your face.” He pressed his hips against hers, the steel of his irises resistant and unfeeling. “Even if you could find her, you can’t take her from the only mother she’s ever known.”

  “The way you snatched me from my mother?”

  His lips t
hinned into hard lines with clenched teeth in the middle. “Back to this again?”

  “You started this when you accepted his proposal. You chose to ruin people’s lives.”

  He released her arms, standing tall and imposing, and glared down at her. “Mr. E started it when he freed me from that goddamned slum.” He stabbed a finger at the front door as if indicating the direction of his crackhaggot mother. She slung drugs in El Paso, assuming she still lived. Liv knew he didn’t care either way.

  Mr. E had freed him from his victimized life, trained him to be a deliverer, and paid him to kidnap a girl of his choice. Lucky for him, his choice ignorantly roller-bladed up to his car.

  Her chest ached, her body felt cold. “You broke his rules.”

  He’d taken her virginity not long after capture. Eight weeks later, he delivered her to the client, claiming she met the requirements of obedience and chastity. The former was accurate. Van had well and truly whipped the insolence out of her and replaced it with the trap of fear. The chastity, however, was disproved when the buyer brought in a doctor while Van waited for the exam results and the money transfer. The positive pregnancy test was a shock to everyone. Except Van.

  She sat up, unable to glance away from the scar that perforated his prominent cheekbone, his face otherwise model-perfect from his clear, round eyes and full lips to the high, smooth bridge of his strong nose. His complexion glowed so vibrantly with health, one could almost overlook the four-inch red cut. The laceration Mr. E had given him when the buyer returned her without payment. The mate to the one she’d received minutes after his.

  He watched her with a toothpick in his mouth and the harsh lines of intention etched around his eyes. “I saved you.”

  Did he save her by impregnating her before she was sold? Or when he pleaded for her life as Mr. E held the gun to her head upon her return? What did a human trafficker want with a pregnant slave? In the end, Mr. E gave Van what he’d wanted: Her.

  “Yeah, you saved me.” She clenched and unclenched her hands. “Instead of a life as a sex slave or a bullet in the brain, I got a disfigured face, my tubes tied, an illegal job, and a promise that I will never hug the only two people who matter to me.”