by Merry Jones
“Yes, positive. Now, tell me what happened. Everything.”
I closed my eyes, not ready yet.
Susan yawned, rubbing her forehead. “What a night. When you didn’t show up for Molly, I called the police and waited up. I baked a poppy-seed cake and washed the floors in the kitchen and bathrooms. Then finally, about six, Ed called and said they’d found you and brought you here, so I came right over—I’m dead, Zoe. I haven’t slept in like thirty-six hours.”
“Go home,” I told her. “Sleep.”
“Are you serious? I can’t sleep until you tell me what the hell happened. All I know is somehow you got locked in Harry’s van with a ton of handcuffs and chains, and oh—by the way—Harry’s and Tony’s dead bodies. What were you doing there? Who killed them? How did you get out?”
“Oh, God. Susan.” I grabbed her arm. She didn’t know; nobody did. But I had to tell her. She deserved to know. “Swear you won’t tell anyone. Nobody. Not even Tim.”
“What?”
“Swear.”
She eyed me doubtfully. “Okay. I swear.”
“I’m serious. You have to keep this completely between us.”
“Fine. Tell me.”
I lowered my voice, eyeing the crack of open space between white curtains that wouldn’t quite close. “There weren’t just nineteen. There were twenty.”
“Say again?”
“Women.”
“Women?” She’d become an echo.
“The van,” I enunciated carefully. “Harry’s van had twenty sets of handcuffs, room for twenty women.”
“Twenty?”
“Yes. One lived. One got away.”
“A floater? What are you saying? One escaped?” Susan’s voice was way too loud.
“Shh.” I scowled. “One got away. The twentieth woman is alive.”
“My God.” Susan gaped, absorbing the concept. “But …how do you know? Oh, shit. That’s how you got out? You saw her?”
I nodded, explained that she’d been dumped in the river with the others and now seemed to be going after the slave traffickers, killing them one by one, marking them with three parallel lines, the trademark of the cartel. First Agent Ellis, the crooked FBI agent. Then the people disguised as Sonia and the priest. Now Harry and Tony. She’d killed them and set me free.
Susan tilted her head, confused. “But that doesn’t make sense. I don’t think she killed Harry and Tony.”
“She had to—they were just like the others. They had three lines cut into their faces—”
“If she killed them, Zoe, why’d she leave you in the van all night?”
“She got me out as soon as she—”
“Zoe, you were in the van until morning. Harry and Tony were killed last night.”
What? “uh-uh, couldn’t be—” “Zoe. They were strangled last night.”
“Strangled?” How could that tiny little woman have strangled two strong men?
“Yes. That’s what the preliminary coroner’s report showed. And it said they’d been dead for more than six hours.”
“But they couldn’t have been.”
“If she killed them the night before, why didn’t she let you out right away? Why would she leave you locked in the van all night?”
Susan was right. She wouldn’t have. Harry’s keys had been right there in plain sight; the woman had used them to let me out.
If she’d been there the night before, she’d have unlocked the van then, freeing me right away.
And there was more that wasn’t right. The woman was killing deliberately, following a pattern, leaving a consistent signature. Even if she could have, she wouldn’t have strangled Harry and Tony; she’d have killed them the way she had her other victims. I pictured Agent Ellis’s blood-drenched body, remembered the newspaper articles about Sonia and the priest. All of them had had their throats cut. None had died by strangulation. No, the woman who’d rescued me hadn’t killed Harry and Tony. Someone else had.
SEVENTY-FOUR
I SPENT THE NEXT HOURS TELLING MY STORY TO THE POLICE.I explained how either Harry or Tony or both of them had shoved me into the van and chained me up. How I had no idea who’d killed them. How a young woman had released me in the morning. The detective taking my statement seemed uncomfortable, maybe overtired. Maybe his hemorrhoids were bothering him. He shifted his substantial weight repeatedly, constantly running his hands over his crew cut.
When he took a break to refill his coffee I closed my eyes, trying to piece facts together. What was it Tony had said? “How about the fucker who left the shipment at the wrong location?” He’d aimed that barb at Harry. Harry’s water-ice van had doubled as a transport vehicle for human cargo, but apparently Harry had messed up; he’d let nineteen people die inside and dumped them into the river.
What, then, had been Tony’s role? He and Harry must have both been small change in the cartel, not too high up in the hierarchy. Maybe Tony was the one who was supposed to pick the women up and deliver them to buyers. Lord. What jobs were involved in slave trafficking? Did they have titles like ordinary businesses? Were there drivers and deliverymen? Dispatchers? Salespeople? Regional managers? Bookkeepers?
And what had Tony been? A hit man, maybe? I doubted it; he was too jumpy, not nearly steely enough. Still, he’d killed Coach Everett, shot Nick and tried to murder me. He’d been working for the cartel in some capacity. The papers were the key, had to be.
What exactly were all those encoded names and dates? The buyers’ names? Delivery deadlines? When the detective returned, I asked him if they’d gone over the papers yet, if they’d figured out what they meant.
“Papers?” He leaned forward and looked up at me, his elbows resting on his knees. “What papers?”
“In the plastic bag. The papers I found in the hatch of Coach Everett’s boat.”
“Oh.” He relaxed. “You mean the passports.”
Yes. I nodded. There had been passports there, too.
“We found them in the van, a plastic bag full of fake passports.”
“But wait,” I told him. “There were other papers there, too. Lists. Names and numbers. Like Rob Roy Cowboy seven fourteen. Or Widower, Ebony six twelve. They sounded like codes, maybe of orders and shipping dates—for the slave cartel.”
He eyed me askance. “I don’t know about that. All we found were the passports.” He took out sheets of photos. “Recognize anybody here?”
Twenty Asian women stared out from the pages, the faces of the dead. I searched their eyes for shadows of doom, for awareness of what was to come. But their expressions, blank or falsely hopeful, nervous or grave, told me nothing about what they knew. They were young and some were beautiful; all I could tell about them was that they had died too awfully, too soon. Except, of course, for one.
Even in her photograph, she looked petite. But her eyes burned intensely. Fiercely.
“Shu Li” was the name on her passport. But the passports were fake; had that been her real name? I remembered her touching my lips, insisting, “No say Shu Li.”
And so, deliberately, trying to look sincere, I shook my head. “No,” I told him. “Nobody.”
He accepted my answer without question or surprise.
“Maybe”—I changed the subject—”whoever killed Tony and Harry took the other papers.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about any other papers.” Again he rubbed his hand over the bristles on his head. Then he stood, lifting his bulk off the faux leather chair. He thanked me for my time and input and reminded me to call if I thought of anything else. And then, wishing me well, he left.
I sat there, sore and increasingly weepy, bones aching with fatigue. I was alive and safe, but the sense of impending danger hadn’t left me. I longed to reconnect with my daughter, my life, and, as if it were a lifeline, I picked up the phone and dialed Nick’s room.
When he said my name, his affection warmed me, massaged my nerves. He said he was getting stronger, and he sounded sturdy, almo
st normal. Thank God. Nick was going to be okay. He asked how I was feeling, and suddenly I fell apart. unexpected tears ran down my cheeks. Letting them flow, I sniffed and blew my nose, so that, in the end, I didn’t have to lie to him. I sounded nasal and drippy, just as if I’d had a cold.
SEVENTY-FIVE
THAT NIGHT, MOLLY AND I DINED ON CANNED TOMATO SOUP and grilled cheese sandwiches. We snuggled and watched a DVD of The Lion King. We colored a get-well card for Nick and cuddled up and read Amelia Bedelia books until she fell asleep on my bed, and I let her stay there all night, comforted by her steady, trusting breath.
By the next morning I’d talked myself into a better mood. Despite everything that had happened, I had to keep a perspective. I was lucky; my life was basically fine. I had a good career, close friends like Susan and Karen, a home, and my health, a few bumps on the head notwithstanding. Best of all, I had Molly and Nick. And Nick had asked me to marry him. With Tony and Harry dead, the local branch of the slave cartel seemed to have wiped itself out; it would probably not surface again, at least for a while. When I closed my eyes, I tried not to feel the coldness of chains or to recall chill bodies in black water; I shifted my thoughts to wedding bouquets and ivory lace. And as soon as I had dropped Molly off to play with Emily, I rushed to see Nick.
“You come to take me home?” he greeted me grumpily, his mouth full of graham crackers. “How’s your cold, better?” He swallowed, frowning. “I told them I was hungry, and this is what I got. Cardboard wrapped in cellophane.”
“Ask the nurse for Jell-O,” I suggested. “They always have Jell-O.”
He grumbled. “I’m never eating Jell-O again. It’s not food, it’s water. Until this morning, all they gave me was forty different flavors of water. Jell-O, broth, water ice, tea. Now, it’s all bran. You should have seen breakfast. Branflakes, bran muffin, bran pancakes. I swear they’re trying to kill me here.”
Obviously, Nick was much improved. He complained that the nurses had refused to let him go home, or even to detach his IV. I took his hand and kissed it sympathetically, then bent over and kissed his mouth. His lips were warm, familiar, vulnerable and needy, and I lingered there, delivering mouth-to-mouth, feeling his tensions ease, his muscles relax.
“If you’d convince them to let me out of here, we could do a lot more of that.” He stroked my cheek.
“In good time.” I straightened up too quickly and, suddenly dizzy, bent over again to get my balance.
“You all right?” He’d noticed. “You seem a little wobbly.”
“Just clumsy.” I sat beside him on the bed, looking him over, realizing how pale he was. It was my fault that he’d been shot. “Nick, about our fight—”
“What fight?” He half-smiled. “We never fight.”
“I’m serious. If not for our fight, you wouldn’t have been shot.”
“Zoe, don’t even think about woulda-coulda-shouldas. Besides, you saved my life. You rescued me.”
“But if I hadn’t read your e-mail, we wouldn’t have fought, and if we hadn’t fought you wouldn’t have gone out in the middle of the night, and if you hadn’t gone out, you wouldn’t have seen the launch or gotten shot.”
He started to sit up, then stopped, grimacing with pain. “Damn. Goddamn.” He caught his breath and took my hand. “Zoe, I need to take a little break, okay? Just forget about it. We were both out of line that night. Let it go.”
I sat beside him as he pressed the button that released his painkiller, watched him as he settled back, staring glassy-eyed at the television. As he dozed off, even as he slept, I held his hand, assuring myself that we were and would be okay, that the nightmare that had almost killed us both had passed.
SEVENTY-SIX
I SPENT THE EARLY AFTERNOON GREETING HIS VISITORS, PLAYING hostess to cops and rowers, listening to stories about Nick. Nick as a sculler; Nick as a cop. Stories of his taking dares and derring-dos, of his audacity and ingenuity. I heard about sides of Nick I didn’t know, saw admiration and fondness in the eyes of people who knew him. And gradually I began to feel optimistic. Nick was healing fast. People cared about and supported him. He—we— would be all right. And I was determined to make us be.
When I went to get Molly, I thanked Susan for taking care of Molly all weekend and being there for us, but I turned down her invitation to dinner. I didn’t want to impose anymore, and couldn’t bear to hear any more theories about slave traders or assassins. It was time to be independent again, to take control of my life. My wounds were still prominent, but they were mending, and I needed to put the slave cartel behind us. I focused on the future. My daughter. My engagement to Nick.
Besides, Molly had just finished kindergarten. Her graduation was in two days; we had a major occasion to celebrate. Maybe I was in denial or experiencing a manic high. I wasn’t sure, but I rode a surge of something like happiness. Molly and I went out for an early dinner, just the two of us. I wasn’t supposed to drive yet, but Chinatown was only a few miles away; I could manage that. We took Nick’s Volvo to Chinatown, and Molly and I went to Tsi Wang’s, our favorite restaurant, and ordered too much food. Wonton soup, spareribs, dumplings, spring rolls, Moo Shu Pork and General Tso’s Chicken, lychee nuts and ice cream. Molly dipped noodles into duck sauce and chattered as I sat across from her in wonder, relieved to be out among people, feeling like a normal family—or part of one again.
As Molly took the cherry from her Shirley Temple, I told her that Nick was getting better. She kept eating without comment, reluctant to talk about Nick. Of course she was. She’d been terrified that he’d been shot, must be too upset to talk about it.
“He asked about you, Molls.”
“uh-huh.”
“He misses you.”
She nodded. “I miss him, too.” But the comment was casual, reflexive. “Can we have a party for my graduation, Mom?”
Okay, she was avoiding the topic of Nick and the shooting. That was normal. They were disturbing and scary.
“I don’t know, Molls. It’s definitely an occasion for a party, but parties take time to plan. And I’ve been at the hospital all day—”
“The zoo would be fun. We could take my friends to the zoo.”
I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t begin to plan a party, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Maybe,” I said. “After Nick gets home.”
She pouted, and I thought she was going to complain. Instead she asked, “When’s that?” “In a few days, I think.”
“You think? You don’t know?” Her eyebrows furrowed.
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know it’ll be a few days, just not exactly how many. Nick’s going to be fine. You can come visit him tomorrow.”
“I can?” Her face brightened. “Is there TV in his room?”
“Yes.”
“Can we bring him a present? Maybe candy. Or balloons. Or maybe a Good-Luck Bear. Can we?”
Luckily, the waiter interrupted, bringing our appetizers; Molly reached for a sparerib and began to chew.
“So,” I approached the subject gently. “What would you think about having Nick live with us?”
“You mean, for good?” I nodded.
She shrugged. “It’s already like he lives there.” “Well, this would be different.”
She stopped chewing. Her eyes widened with understanding. “Wait… Are you getting married? Oh, man. Can I be flower girl?”
The family at the table beside us turned to look. “Molly, slow down. I’m just asking—” “So, wait. Would Nick be my dad, then?” I smiled. “Would you like that?”
She thought so, she said. But her eyes were guarded. Molly had never had a dad; it had always been just us. I wondered what the word “father” meant to her, couldn’t imagine.
“So will you guys have babies?”
Babies? She was way ahead of me. I was, after all, fortyish. “I don’t know. Would you want us to?” “I’d like a baby brother.” “Really. Why a brother?”
; “Brothers are more fun. Girls are so … , you know… girlie. Can I get one?”
Oh dear. We’d have to discuss the birds and the bees soon. “It’s not entirely up to me, Molls.”
“Nick wouldn’t mind.” She was quiet, chewing the rib. “Ask him. If he really wants a girl, I guess it would be okay.”
Barbecue sauce covered her mouth, and she was so earnest, I wanted to squeeze her. “Molls, we wouldn’t really get to choose. Some babies are boys; some are girls. You get what you get.”
She frowned. “But you chose a girl when you got me.”
“Well, yes. I chose you because I wanted to be your mom. But you’d already been born. And your birth mother didn’t get to choose what you’d be; you just happened to be a girl. And this baby… I mean, if we ever have it …wouldn’t be adopted. I’ll be his or her birth mother.”
Oh, Lord. What had I done? Somehow, I’d opened a barrel of confusing definitions and major issues, and I’d gotten tangled up in them. How would Molly react if I had a baby? As an adoptee, how would she feel about a sibling her mom had given birth to? Would she be jealous? Resentful? Insecure? Would she feel less loved or less part of the family?
Molly took a long drink of Shirley Temple. “Can we name the baby Oliver, Mom?” She grinned devilishly. “I love that name.”
Maybe I’d been thinking too much, creating problems where none existed. I grinned. “Let’s wait and see, Molls. Oliver wouldn’t be all that great for a sister.”
Molly laughed and attacked her spring roll. By the time the entrees came, she was full. She leaned on her elbows, staring at her Moo Shu. I offered to show her how to use chopsticks. When we had Chinese food, I always offered; she always refused. This time, she opened the packet of chopsticks and speared a piece of General Tso’s Chicken, lifted it to her mouth. It wasn’t the way most people used them, but it worked.
We finished dinner and read our fortune cookies. Molly’s advised that real wealth lay in friendship; mine cautioned that financial decisions should be carefully considered. On the way to the car, Molly and I held hands. The night had become breezy, and thick clouds covered the sky. The air smelled of an approaching storm. Good. The heat wave that had smothered the city might finally break. At Nick’s car, I helped Molly fasten her seat belt and tousled her hair, telling myself that even the weather was about to get back to normal.
