by JB Salsbury
We leave Bastilla’s office and find the children in a holding room, huddled in a corner and surrounded by empty water bottles and snack wrappers. Philomena is close, slumped on a couch, looking small and worn out.
My mind takes me back to that place, and I wonder how many more are in need of rescue. How long will it take until someone gets out there to save them, and for some, will it be too late?
MOST OF MY life, the concept of time was irrelevant. My life consisted of dark and light, and that was how I measured my days.
Time meant nothing then, but now time means everything.
I watch the black clock hands tick in a slow circle, each click of the minute hand seeming to take twice as long as it should.
Laura sent social services to us shortly after she hung up. A nice woman named Miranda brought us clothes and tried to ask us questions that Milo made very clear we would not answer without a lawyer.
Dom was less friendly when he met with Miranda. He pressed his body against the wall as if he was hoping it would swallow him up so he could disappear. Milo had to coax him into slipping on a baggy shirt and a pair of sweatpants, bribing him with a Snickers bar.
Philomena and the little angel are now asleep on the couch, and if it weren’t for their messy hair and dirty faces, they’d look no different than any other American kids in their T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flop shoes.
Something tells me Dom’s recovery is going to be much harder than the girls’.
Milo is asleep in the chair next to me, his chin to his chest, eyes closed, and the sound of his soft breathing fills the room. Our hands are clasped, and his fingers twitch with whatever dreams he’s having that make his eyelids jump.
“Open that door immediately or I will have you arrested!”
I rise to stand at the sound of Laura’s voice.
“Those are my children in there!”
My feet are moving before the door opens, and the moment Laura rushes into the room, I throw myself into her chest. She doesn’t hesitate, and her arms come around me so tightly I wheeze out her name. There are no tears from either of us, just a sweet reunion surrounded by tension and so many unanswered questions. I expect Laura to reprimand us for running away. I know she’ll demand answers, and I fear she’ll be disappointed by the ones she’ll get.
She pulls back and cups my face, her eyes searching. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and that seems to be enough to satisfy her. She doesn’t release me, but looks at Milo and holds out one arm for him to come close. When he’s close enough, she pulls him into an embrace that sandwiches me between them.
“Milo, I’m so happy you’re okay.”
He pats her back then pulls away much sooner than either she or I would like. He clears his throat and nods solemnly. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Laura blinks and looks around, her gaze settling on the kids. Dom looks at her from the floor with wide eyes like a spooked animal about to run and hide. Philomena blinks tired eyes, and the little angel is still sound asleep in a tangled ball of long, skinny, sunburned arms and legs.
“Holy crap,” Laura whispers.
“Yeah,” Milo says.
“We found them.” I turn fully to the kids and try to give them my most reassuring smile, even though I’m terrified of what the future means for them. “And we believe there are more.”
Laura moves forward, and Dom skitters back to his corner, coiled and alert. She squats where she is, a good distance away, and smiles that warm, welcoming smile that worked so well to set me at ease when I woke up strapped to a table. “Hi, I’m Laura and I’m here to help you.”
Dom looks at Milo for confirmation.
Milo squats next to Laura, all six feet of him becoming small and non-threatening as he speaks softly to the child. “This is my . . . mom.” Laura sucks in a quick breath, and Milo continues. “She’s here to help us. To help you.” He turns to me, and when he does, Dom’s eyes follow. “She helped Mercy, and me and my brothers who aren’t much older than you. I promise you, Dom, you can trust her.”
“Is that your name? Dom?”
“I . . .” The boy looks at Milo again, who nods for him to continue. “I am called Demonio.”
Laura jerks her gaze to Milo, who frowns, his jaw ticking. “We call him Dom.”
“Dom,” Laura says with a kind smile. “I like that.” She must sense that Dom is in need of a break, because she turns to Philomena. “Hi, I’m Laura. What’s your name?”
“I am called girl, but Angel . . .” Her cheeks flush under her already sunburnt skin. “Mercy calls me Philomena.”
“Mercy is smart to call you that. It’s a strong name for a very brave girl.”
Philomena stares at Laura as if she just told her she has a third leg.
“And who is this?” Laura says quietly, probably to keep from waking the little angel.
“That is Angel.” I try to keep the anger from my voice but fail.
Laura reads my hostility and backs off, standing back up and turning toward us. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“We do.” I look at Milo, who quickly grabs my hand and stands at my side, so close our bodies touch from shoulder to interweaved fingers.
She doesn’t seem at all surprised to see us united and supporting each other. “Then let’s get started.”
Milo
THE SAN YSIDRO motel doesn’t have five-star luxury bedding, but you’d never know it from looking at the sleeping faces currently curled up in the beds. Laura and Mercy in one, angel and Philomena in the other, Dom on a roll-away, and me on a couch that’s about two feet smaller than my body. Not that the comfort matters much. I can’t sleep anyway.
We told our story—almost the entire story, leaving out Mercy’s necessary homicide. The authorities asked us to stay in town for the night, and because Laura is a certified foster parent and because she’s dealt with the fragile and unique situation of Mercy’s history, they gave temporary custody of all three kids to her. They want us to stay close until they raid the house of horrors, which they were gearing up to do even before we left the border office.
Eight hours later, I’m staring at the sunlight slicing through the slit in the blackout curtains, but my restlessness has nothing to do with the raid.
I’m looking for the Saints. No doubt Sancho and everyone else from Esteban’s crew has been commanded to find me. When they do, I can’t be caught off guard. I don’t want anyone in here getting hurt.
I decided late in the night I’d go willingly rather than force Mercy to watch me get gunned down—or worse. There’s no telling what they’d do to witnesses.
A shiver of terror slides down my spine.
I’ve been pissing off Esteban for so long, I’m sure he’ll get satisfaction from taking me out. If he’s man enough to do it himself. There’s a good chance, like my Mom, he’ll send one of his gamberros to do it. Keep his hands clean.
Coward.
A soft hand slides over my bare shoulder before Mercy appears at my side. Her long hair falls down the front of her body in a cascade of pure white as she rounds the couch and squeezes onto it with me.
I welcome her into my arms, the warmth of her skin seeping through her T-shirt and onto my bare chest. Her legs are between mine so that she’s practically lying on top of me, and her weight is like a warm blanket. I bury my nose in her hair. Even though it smells like cheap motel shampoo, her underlying scent is enough to soothe me. She nuzzles my neck and I groan softly, tilting my head to give her all the access she needs.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Her breath ghosts across my collarbone.
I want to kiss her, like really kiss her, but I can’t the way I want to in a room full of people, so I squeeze her tighter to me.
When I don’t answer, her back muscles grow tense. “Is it the thing you needed to talk about? The stuff you mentioned before that I might not like?”
How much longer can I string her along with half-truths and evasions? I’m tir
ed of the deceit. Exhausted really. “Yes.”
She props herself up on her elbows. Her gaze bores into mine. “What is it?”
“We should go outside.”
She nods, and I help her off the couch before putting on my loaned T-shirt and quietly slipping outside. I squint into the late morning sun, thankful the air is still cool. I point toward a bench in a shaded part of the motel that isn’t near any windows. We sit down, and she angles her body to mine.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling a million years old. “I’m sure you figured out the work I was doing for Esteban wasn’t exactly legal.”
“I knew you were secretive, but . . . legal?” She shakes her head. “There’s still a lot I don’t understand about life.”
Fuck me if that doesn’t make me feel like the biggest asshole-prick ever.
“The night I came to get you”—God, was that only two nights ago?—“Esteban made me choose. You or an important job.”
“You chose me?” she says, even though that’s pretty fucking obvious.
“Of course I did. It was never a choice for me.”
“So he’s mad at you? Is that why you didn’t want to call him for help?”
A long breath seeps from my lungs. “He’s more than mad. He threatened to . . .”
Her eyes widen. If she weren’t so burnt, I know her face would drain of what little color she has. “He’s going to kill you?”
“He said as much.”
“Milo . . .” She grips my knee. “We need to tell the police. We have to—”
“My only option is to run, mi alma.”
“Then I’ll go with you—”
“I’m not doing that again.” I grip her face with both hands and rest my forehead on hers. I instantly calm despite discussing my own impending murder. I close my eyes. “I won’t put us through that again.”
“But if he finds you . . .” Her voice isn’t shaking, it’s firm, as if she’s gathering facts to make a deductive decision.
“I don’t want to know what’ll happen when he finds me.”
Her body stills, even her breathing, as if she’s holding her breath. “You said when, not if.”
I pull back and drop my hands from her face. “I’m sorry.”
Her crystal-clear eyes fill with tears that seem to surprise even her as she blinks and bats the moisture from her cheeks. “There has to be a way to make him happy, to get him to leave you alone.”
I shake my head and brace my elbows on my knees. “He’ll never leave me alone. I gave him my loyalty, and in return he gave us somewhere to hide. I’m indebted to him for life no matter what, and there’s no way around it.”
“You are not indebted to him. He saw your weakness, me, and used it as an opportunity to manipulate you.” Her hands fist in her lap and her jaw gets hard. “He manipulated me too.”
Everything in my body stills. As if all my internal organs are on a temporary shutdown.
“He threatened to kill you and throw me on the street if I—”
“When did he do that?”
A door slams nearby, and a couple glares at me while they walk to their car. I take the interruption to suck down a quick, calming breath.
“Before we went to the beach that weekend.” She shakes her head as if none of this matters.
Well, it fucking matters to me.
“He threatened to—”
“What if he dies?”
I flinch at the matter-of-fact way she suggests someone’s death as a logical answer. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not a murderer—”
She frowns and shakes her head.
“That was different!”
“It’s not different. Out here, it’s kill or be killed. If we get to him first, he can’t get to you.”
“No, stop talking like that. Listen, I’ll figure it out, okay?”
I won’t. There’s nothing to figure out. Esteban has never made a threat he hasn’t followed through with. My mom is a perfect example of that.
“I’m not going anywhere okay?” A lie. I pull her into my arms and hold her tightly. “I just got you back. I’m going to fight to keep us together.” Another lie. “I’ll never let the LS or Esteban near you again.” I’m going to have to go to them. “You’re safe now, and those kids in there need you. I’ll do whatever I need to make that happen.” That is the truth.
“THIS TASTES FUNNY.” Angel licks her sticky fingers courtesy of a pre-packaged cinnamon roll from the mini-mart on the corner.
After considering all our breakfast options once everyone woke up, I decided rather than bringing the kids out, it would be better for me to bring something in. Thankfully the mini-mart had a wide variety of overly-sugared breakfast items that are now spread out like a poor man’s picnic on the scratchy white sheets.
“Here, try this.” Mercy hands her a carton of milk. When Angel can’t figure out how to open it, Mercy shows her then hands it back.
I look toward the door Laura stepped out of a few minutes ago, my curiosity going nuts with who called her and why the call needed to be taken out of young kids’ earshot. The look on her face when she answered has my muscles tensing. I go back to watching the kids eat as they stare at the television, mesmerized by an old Looney Tunes cartoon.
Dom is on his second package of chocolate mini donuts, and Philomena makes a sour face with every sip of orange juice.
“So I guess the food they fed you guys was pretty bland, huh?” I ask.
They blink toward me absently then turn back to the television.
Mercy smiles. It’s small, but does huge things to my insides. “Yes. Mostly broth with noodles and some kind of boiled meat. And only ever water to drink. It took me a while to get used to the stronger flavors on the outside.”
Maybe I should’ve grabbed a few boxes of Saltine crackers. “I can run back out.”
“It’s all right. They’ll have to get used to it eventually anyway.” Mercy sips on her chocolate milk that leaves the sweetest milk ‘stache on her upper lip.
The mechanical lock on the door gets all five pairs of eyes in the room. Laura steps inside, her Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, and her face is unreadable.
“What is it?” I say under my breath as she passes me.
She stops, turns toward me, and takes a deep breath. “They’re asking us to go back to the station. They want to see if the kids can identify any of the people they got from the house.”
“They got them?” Mercy says.
Laura’s smile is soft and caring. “They did.”
Why would they want to question the kids? Do they think they were in on whatever illegal shit was going down in that place? “These kids were never subjected to whatever else was happening in that house. Why are they asking for them to be involved? They’re traumatized minors.”
Laura peeks at Angel, who seems very interested in what we’re talking about. Dom has gone back to his donuts, and Philomena looks almost guilty.
“We’ll go.” Mercy eyes me before I can protest. “We could be helpful, and the kids need this for closure.”
Philomena picks at the label of the orange juice. “What if they send us back? What if they lie or, I don’t know, we get sent back?”
Laura squats to her eye level. “No one can take you away from me, do you understand? I won’t let them. The State of California won’t let them.”
Something heavy passes between the two women, and Philomena stands. “Let’s get this over with.”
Milo
THE DRIVE BACK to the border only takes a few minutes. Mercy and I are squeezed into the front seat, allowing the kids and Philomena to take the back. Laura’s old school sedan has a middle seat up front, but I keep Mercy on my lap, my arms wrapped firmly around her waist and my nose buried in her hair.
We dodge the line of cars headed into Mexico and veer off to the parking lot of the border patrol station. Everyone has been quiet since getting the news that we had to come back here. Even as we exit the car, the air a
round us is thick with tension and fear.
Mercy keeps close to my side, waiting until everyone passes before moving through the sliding glass doors.
I grip her hand and whisper in her ear, “You did nothing wrong.”
She looks at me in disbelief, as if to say there is nothing more wrong than murder.
I pull her in close and kiss her temple. “It’ll be okay.”
Laura lets the receptionist know we’re there, and soon we’re all escorted down a long hallway with secure looking rooms on either side. We’re led to a room where three people are waiting—Mr. Abram, our lawyer; Mrs. Tumali, a representative from human services; and Detective Roth from the US Human Trafficking task force.
Dom and Angel are tucked close to Laura, and Philomena shifts restlessly on her feet. My hand is locked around Mercy’s, and her palm is damp with sweat.
The door opens, and Chief Bastilla comes in looking as if he hasn’t gone home yet since we were here last night. “Have a seat.” He motions to the plastic chairs that line the walls.
Too on edge, none of us sit.
“We’ll stand. Can we get to this over with?” I ask.
Laura’s gaze comes to mine. I expect them to be reprimanding but only find solidarity. No one wants to subject these kids to memories of the hell they left behind any longer than is necessary to put the right people behind bars.
The chief crosses his arms and frowns. “We managed to get inside the building easily and searched it from top to bottom.” His eyes fix on Mercy’s. “I want to apologize for not finding you when we raided the place years ago. Thanks to your tip, we managed to find all the hidden passages where we believe most of the men and women were hidden when—”
“Men and women?” Mercy says, her voice haunted and hollow as it echoes off the four walls.
“Yes.” He holds her gaze. “We’re going to need to see if you can identify any of them. We found a pharmacy worth of prescription drugs. From what we understand, those were used to make the inhabitants more compliant. We figured, if you’re comfortable, we’d like you all to take a look and see if you can give us information, IDs, whatever you’ve got.”
