by Merry Jones
Oh, God. The slaves. “Harry, the dead women,” I began. “The ones in the river—those must be their papers.” But Harry wasn’t listening. He was glaring at Tony.
“What the hell is this, Tony?”
Thank God. Harry was beginning to understand.
“How did Coach Everett get ahold of this stuff?”
Tony stammered. “I don’t know. He stole it from me.”
“So you killed him? Why? To get it back?” Harry scratched his head, confused. “Then how’d she get it?” He gestured my way.
What difference did it make how I got it? “Harry,” I urged. “We need to call the police.” But Harry wasn’t listening; he focused on Tony.
Tony didn’t answer. “Give it, Harry. You don’t want to mess with me.” He tried to sound firm but managed only a sickly whine.
“Let me understand. What happened? Everett stole this stuff. Then, what’d you do? Tell Everett you’d pay for this? That you had money stashed on the island and you’d pay him there?”
Tony glowered. Why was Harry asking so many questions? Why didn’t he just call the police?
“No shit. And Everett believed you? He met you on the island? Geniuses, both of you.” Harry definitely did not seem alarmed. Oh, God. Why wasn’t he?
“For your information,” Tony sneered, “Everett thought he was helping me rescue an injured woman.”
Harry shook his head “An injured woman. That’s good.”
“Harry. Give me the bag.”
“Or else what? You’re going to off me, too? How many people you gonna kill? Why bother? Don’t you know it’s too late? Everybody you work with already knows you fucked up. First you lose a load. Then you lose these papers and kill Everett and shoot a cop. Now you go assaulting this young lady, who happens to be the cop’s girlfriend. Seems to me you’re a real problem for your organization. You know, I’m betting you’re a dead man already.”
“Me? I’m a dead man?” Tony was growling, baring his teeth. “How about the fucker who left the shipment at the wrong goddamn location?”
“How about you get going while you still can? I was you, I’d run for it.”
I hunkered behind Harry, trying to follow their conversation, disturbed that Harry had grasped the situation so quickly. I told myself that Harry was familiar with what Tony had been up to; after all, he knew everything that went on. That’s why they called him the mayor of Boathouse Row. Harry stood in front of me protectively and opened the back door of his van.
“Listen.” He spoke softly. “I got a gun in there—for protection. It’s in the pocket behind the driver’s seat. Hop in and get it for me?”
I released a breath, relieved. Harry was finally going to help me. Tony—the man who’d shot Nick—had been caught. Harry and I had him.
When I turned to climb into the van, Harry was gripping the plastic bag, and Tony stood poised for combat, wearing his twisted, desperate grin, refusing to back off. After that, all I remembered was landing flat on my face and how hard I’d been shoved.
SIXTY-NINE
THE FIRST COHERENT THOUGHT I HAD WAS THAT I WAS LOCKED in. The van had become a cage. A closed, walled-up cage with light shining through only a ribbon of window at one end. Then I realized that I couldn’t move. My hands and feet were cuffed, and the cuffs were chained to a wall. And it was hot. Stuffy, without ventilation. The air was close and thick, hard to breathe.
I lay still for a while, too woozy to sit up, my head swirling with pain where I’d banged it yet again. Oh, God. I lifted my wrists as far as the chains would permit, felt my head, the place where stitches throbbed. Oh, Lord. Tony had tackled me and wrestled me, held me down and locked me up. But if he’d been able to attack me, he had to get past Harry. How had he done that so quickly? What had he done to Harry? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was chained up inside Harry’s water-ice van and I had to get out.
But wait, I thought. This couldn’t be Harry’s van. Harry’s didn’t have chains inside; it had tubs of frozen sugar water. I closed my eyes again, wishing for a cup of it, any flavor. I was thirsty and sweaty. Struggling to inhale. I gazed at the light gleaming through the sliver of window, wondering how long it would be until morning. And, in this stifling airless box, how I would survive the night.
I didn’t want to find out. Yelling, screaming for help, I pulled at my chains, twisting and yanking, tugging until, depleted and panting, I fell back against the wall. I sat there laboring on each breath, realizing that help might not come. Nobody would know where to look for me. I might die there, choking, suffocating, alone and in chains. I thought of Molly, of Nick. Of never seeing them again. And, panicking, I pulled at my chains some more, screaming until my voice was gone.
Finally I fell back and stared at the thin beam of light streaming through the crack of exposed window. I focused on it, watching tiny dust particles float through the rainbowlike ray. Don’t give up, I scolded myself. Think. Find a way to get out of here. I boosted myself up onto my elbows and squinted, peering through stifling darkness. And I saw the other chains.
Mine weren’t the only ones. Chains were everywhere. Lining the floor, hanging from the walls, connecting to dozens of handcuffs. Big handcuffs, not shiny and chic like the ones cops used. No, these were like the ones on me—thick, heavy ugly ones, the kinds slaves wore.
Oh, God. Slave chains. I stared at my wrists, the chains, the closed compartment, finally absorbing all of it. This wasn’t just an airless van; it was a slave trafficker’s vehicle. In the shadows I counted ten pairs of handcuffs, ten pairs of ankle cuffs along each wall. Space enough for twenty prisoners. Twenty slaves. Nineteen women had baked to death, locked in the hot, unventilated van. Had they been afraid? Comforted each other? Or had they passed out, unaware, too weak to think? Oh, Lord. Nineteen had died. I was one of them. I would be the twentieth.
I drew a deep breath, felt my chest ache with the effort. There was no air, and it would get much hotter once the sun came up. As the day went on, the heat would intensify, become sweltering. In the next few hours, I was going to fry. Again, I shouted for help through raw lungs. I pulled at the chains, strained at the cuffs until my wrists bled. I jerked and twisted, bit the links, rattled them, and finally, head throbbing, drenched with sweat, fell back against the wall, panting, gasping for air. Spent.
Fading, I studied the walls around me. Soundproofed, insulated. Seamless. No wonder no one had heard my shouts. I lay shackled. Baking. Slowly dying. Could death, I wondered, be this understated? So quiet? There was something, I knew, that I should be doing, but I wasn’t sure, couldn’t remember what it was. And what should I feel? Sorrow? Rage? Something? Fading, I pictured Molly and Nick, wondered if they’d be okay. But I didn’t worry. I lacked the clarity and strength.
SEVENTY
THE FLOOR SHOOK, DESTROYING THE PEACE. SOMEONE, A SLENder figure bathed in light, was shaking me, making shrill guttural sounds. Moving my arms, messing with my legs. She lifted my head, jabbering, holding a bottle of water to my lips. Oh. Now I understood. She was—had to be—an angel. A beautiful angel with a bright halo, wearing a tank top and running shorts. She kept tugging on my arms, yammering, speaking gibberish. Didn’t they speak English in heaven? Shouldn’t they be less aggressive? I reached for the water again, and she handed it back to me, letting me drink. I swallowed too fast, poured water into my throat, coughing, choking. That’s when I noticed that the angel was Asian. And that she had three curved parallel lines tattooed on her arm, just below her shoulder.
I sat up too fast, but she caught me as I fell, and she stroked my sore head, urgently telling me something that I couldn’t remotely understand. With a cool damp cloth, she washed blood from my raw wrists. Wait—my wrists? Where were the chains? They were off. Gone. I saw them, then, lying on the floor beside me, the handcuffs open, the key still in the lock. Who was this woman? She had the tattoo of the slave cartel, but clearly she was free. How had she found me? Where had she gotten the key?
�
�Who are you?” My voice was raw from yelling, sounded like a frog. “How did you find me?”
She chattered on, urgent and animated, gesturing as if to help me understand. And as she moved her arms, I noticed raw marks like those on my own wrists, the sores I’d gotten fighting with the handcuffs. Crouching beside me, she pointed to the chains, talking about each set of handcuffs, one by one, motioning by clasping her wrist that she had been once captive herself, just like me. She pointed to a pair of handcuffs, to chains along the wall. Was she saying she had sat there? That she had worn those cuffs? She sat silent for a moment, her eyes closed as if in prayer. Or remembrance.
I sat up to comfort her, but she wouldn’t allow it. Kneeling beside me, she took both my hands firmly in hers and looked into my eyes. She was young, I thought. Maybe twenty. But her eyes were tunnels, endlessly dark. She struggled to speak carefully and slowly, to be sure I’d understand.
“Yo kay now. Yo unstad?” She handed me the bottle of water. “Yo kay. Me go. Yo no say ‘Shu Li.’“
“What?” I no say Shoe Lee?
“Shu Li naw fished,” she went on. “Yo unstad?” She pointed to the chains. “Awda peepow die. Ma sestah die.”
Her sister? Her sister died? Oh, God. Her sister had been locked up in here. Had ended up in the river. I pictured the bodies floating, remembered holding one of them in my arms. Had that been her sister?
The woman tapped my arm, bringing me back. “Shu Li no die. In wodda. Wake up.” She moved her arms in pantomime, doggy-paddling in the air.
“You swam?” Instantly, I understood. “You didn’t die. You woke up in the water and swam away. You escaped.” She’d been one of them. The twentieth slave.
Of course. Nineteen bodies had been found, but the van had chains for twenty. The traffickers wouldn’t have left an empty set of shackles; the van would have been filled to capacity. All twenty were dumped in the river, but one got away. She was a miracle. I stared at her, jubilant; if I’d had the strength, I’d have hugged her.
“Me, yes.” She nodded. “Swam.” She gazed at the empty chains.
Slowly, my mind creaked into gear, and the thrill I felt at her survival fizzled, surged again as fear. This woman was considered cartel property. And she knew far too much about the traffickers. She was in major danger. I thought of Agent Ellis. Sonia and the priest. I had to help her.
“Muss go. Me go fish.” She turned to the door.
“Wait,” I began. “Don’t leave—”
“Yo kay now. No say Shu Li.” She placed a finger gently on my lips, as if to silence me, her eyes connecting a final time. Then she opened the compartment door and jumped out.
“No…wait. Please don’t leave,” I yelped.
Clumsy and stiff, I scrambled after her, scooting crablike to the door, lowering my legs, sliding unsteadily to the pavement, free. But she was gone. And my legs gave way, unsteady, unable to support me. I grabbed on to the door of the dungeon on wheels, taking deep breaths and looking into the blinding morning light, trying to figure out where I was. And that took no time. I was right where I’d been the night before. In the parking lot behind the Art Museum. In a van marked HARRY’S WATER ICE.
SEVENTY-ONE
WOBBLY, I TRIED TO GRASP WHAT HAD HAPPENED, COULDN’T quite believe it. Harry was a slave trafficker. I saw him scooping out Molly’s water ice, chatting with rowers, gossiping, selling sodas to joggers and skaters. But that same Harry had a van full of horror and chains. And, oh, God, I’d gone to him for help, run right into his arms. It made no sense. Normally, Harry’s van was stocked full of candy and pretzels, sodas and barrels of water ice. Where was all that now? And then it hit me. Harry had a second van, painted like the other one with his name and cheery logo.
But this second van was no mobile concession stand; it was a prison on wheels with room for twenty captives. It was unimaginable, but there it was. And I had to get away—Harry could be anywhere, might show up any second. I tried to run, but I was still off balance, legs rubbery and stiff. I leaned against the van, steadying myself, telling myself not to linger, to keep moving. Harry might be anywhere. Or Tony. He was in the cartel, too. Both of them were. And who else? I spun around, looking, seeing no one nearby. Some joggers along Kelly Drive. Someone walking his dog across the park, too far away to hear me yell. It had to be early, too early for rush-hour traffic, even for police cruisers. But the sun was up; it wouldn’t be too early for rowers. If I could get myself to the boathouses, I could get help there.
Take a deep breath, I told myself. Get your equilibrium. It wasn’t that far to Lloyd Hall, the start of Boathouse Row. But even getting around the van seemed monumental. I stumbled with each step, but continued, slowly making my way toward the side walk, keeping one hand on the van for support. Go on, I told myself. Keep going. You might meet a cop or a jogger on the path. Someone to lean on. Just take one step at a time.
Coaching myself, I moved forward, tottering and catching myself, taking a step, then another. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I walk normally? I didn’t know, couldn’t think, just kept edging forward, hoping that Tony wouldn’t spring at me, that Harry wouldn’t grab me. I stepped forward, thinking of the woman who’d rescued me, assuring myself that she wouldn’t have abandoned me if I weren’t safe. That Tony wasn’t around, and neither was Harry.
But I was wrong. As I came around to the front of the van, I stopped, frozen. Harry was right there, sitting in the driver’s seat, and Tony was beside him. I crouched, afraid they’d seen me. But they sat still, oblivious, facing the windshield. I watched, waiting for them to talk or scratch or yawn or shift their weight, slowly understanding why they weren’t and wouldn’t.
No longer afraid, I moved to the front of the van and looked through the window. Three curved parallel lines had been cut into both men’s faces. Tony slumped as if gazing at his lap. And Harry stared straight ahead, looking surprised.
SEVENTY-TWO
THE NEXT FEW HOURS WERE A JUMBLE OF COMMOTION. MORE police. More sirens. Officer Olsen wasn’t on duty; the policeman who showed up urged me to go to a hospital. I absolutely refused. I’d had enough of hospitals. And no way was I going to get back inside a van, even one marked AMBULANCE.
Besides, I had to go get Molly. She and Susan must be mad with worry about me. I explained all this to the officer. I said that I had to call them. And I told him about the danger—the slave cartel, the traffickers. I said that Tony and Harry had been involved with the cartel, that they’d transported the nineteen dead women, and I began to describe the woman who’d rescued me, but stopped. “No say Shu Li,” she’d told me. So I didn’t. I left out her identity, made no mention of the twentieth slave or her survival. I pretended not to know anything about my rescuer, not even that she must have killed Harry and Tony. The officer took a few notes, but didn’t seem alarmed, at least not as alarmed as I thought he should be.
An EMT wrapped the blood pressure cuff on my arm. I told her I didn’t need to go to the hospital, I’d be fine, but I needed to call my friend. She nodded patronizingly, assuring me everything would be all right, but she didn’t get me a phone. I sat beside the van, wondering why no one would listen to me. Were they all idiots? Why didn’t the EMT or the policeman react to what I was telling them? For an awful moment I thought they were all cartel members like Harry and Tony, just pretending to be police and EMTs. But if they were, there was nothing I could do. I was just one person, and I had been hit on the head too often, was dehydrated, had no strength. Weaving in and out of an exhausted haze, I kept losing focus. I had to remind myself again and again that I was safe in the open sunlight on Kelly Drive, no longer hidden away in chains. That the woman beside me was an EMT, not an escaped slave. That the lines engraved on her face represented years of smiling, not the logo of a slave cartel.
And that, despite my adamant refusals, she and her coworkers had no sinister reasons for strapping me onto a gurney and taking me into a van.
SEVENTY-THREE
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sp; SOME TIME PASSED BEFORE SUSAN SHOWED UP, LOOKING FRANTIC and haggard.
“Zoe?” She rushed through the curtain separating me from the rest of the Emergency Room. “Zoe—thank God. You’re conscious.” “Where’s Molly?”
“With Tim. You didn’t think I’d bring her here, did you? Here. Drink some water.”
Water? Why? I had an IV in my arm, rehydrating me. Still I obeyed, sipping from a cup she shoved at me.
“Don’t worry. Molly’s fine. Tim took her and Emily to the pool. Molly wants to have a party there, by the way. But I haven’t told her anything about you or what happened. When you didn’t show up, she was worried something had happened to Nick, so I lied and said you’d called to say she could sleep over.”
Oh, Lord—Nick. “How’s Nick?”
“Better. His room’s nice. Big, full of flowers, view of South Philly. I looked in on him before, when they wouldn’t let me see you. He insists he’ll be out tomorrow, but the nurse says it’ll be several days.”
Thank God. Nick was okay. “Did you tell him …does he know I’m here?”
“I told him you couldn’t come by because you have a fever and don’t want to expose him. You better call him later and pretend you have a cold.”
A cold? She told him I had a cold? Another lie. I hated lying; trust was the issue Nick and I had been fighting about before he’d gotten shot. Still, I couldn’t be angry with Susan; her lies had been kinder than the truth. Molly needed to feel safe and Nick needed to rest. Still, her lies made me uncomfortable, made me wonder if she was hiding disturbing truths from me as well.
“You’re sure they’re okay? Molly and Nick?”
