The Schwarzschild Radius

by Gustavo Florentin

  “Five official, but there are a lot of freelancers.”

  “Get in touch with the dispatcher of every taxi company and find out who drove this girl and where.” He handed over a photo of Achara.

  A half hour later, the sergeant came back. None of their drivers had taken her.

  Tong opened the second pack of cigarettes for the day. She was either here in Doi Lo or had traveled somewhere else. She had no relatives here that he was aware of. From here, she could have traveled to several small towns. He was going to spend a fortune paying off all these police to search for her.

  Where did she get the money for the long taxi ride? The customers tip a little, but Tong made sure to get all that money, too. He searched the girls’ rooms for any money they could use to escape. She had done a good job of earning his trust―coming straight back with the beer, always had the correct change. It killed him that she had outsmarted him.

  “Question the pawn shops near the brothel, she would need money. Also check all the Western Unions in case someone’s helping her.”

  Achara looked at the time on the taxi’s dashboard. It was just past one in the afternoon. The flight was for 6:30 p.m. She had to check in by three to go through security. And she had to get her passport stamped with an entry date of two weeks ago. Now she began to dread this part. Would sixteen-hundred dollars be enough to get someone to stamp it? Just a little stamp, but they could get in trouble over this.

  Signs for the Chiang Mai Airport began to appear.

  “You said Arrivals, right?” said the driver.

  “Yes, Arrivals.” This was one final precaution in case this driver was questioned. She didn’t want him to see which airline she was going to. Once in the airport, she could use the free shuttle buses to get to the Departures terminal.

  “Thirty-two hundred USD?” repeated Tong.

  “Yes.”

  “USD?”

  “Yes, here is a copy of the receipt.” The sergeant handed it to Tong.

  Who the hell was sending this sixteen-year-old girl over three-thousand dollars? He looked at the name on the transaction record. Lisa Barino. Who the hell was Lisa Barino? The amount was shocking. It was a year’s pay for the average Thai. Who would want her that badly―an American trafficking ring? Achara had started out beautiful, but was looking like shit recently. In the beginning, she commanded four-hundred baht for a screw; now she was down to one-fifty. She’d be down to five baht after he got through with her.

  He lit another Lucky Strike and took a deep drag. What would she do with that kind of money? Maybe she had a sick relative who needed an operation? It was enough to get her out of the country, but she had no passport. She wouldn’t need one if she was traveling inside the country.

  He looked at the map again. They were right next to Route 108, which led straight into Chiang Mai Airport.

  chara entered the Arrivals Terminal. She had never been in an airport, but she had read about it online. In her email, her sister had told her that it would look strange if she had no luggage for such a long trip, so she would have to purchase a bag of some kind in the airport and take it with her on the plane. Not check in.

  At the information counter, she was told which bus to take to the Singapore Airlines terminal. Now time was going faster. Airplanes were taking off all around her.

  The shuttle had open windows and the warm breeze caressed Achara’s face. There was so much open sky. She wanted it to receive her. All this time her hand hadn’t left the passport and e-ticket receipt in her pocket and she could take them out now for the first time without fear. Olivia’s face was beautiful. Looking at it now for the first time in daylight, she could see the holographic ghost of an eagle hovering over the face. She needed that eagle to protect her now.

  The clock showed 2:10. There was no one standing in line at the Singapore Airlines ticket counter. Achara rushed up to the agent, ready to present her papers.

  “I’m leaving on this flight,” she held out the paper. “What do I do?”

  “Check-in is not for another hour.”

  “And who stamps my passport?”

  “Immigration Police.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “After you check in, you go past security upstairs, then they stamp your passport.”

  “Where are the shops? I need to buy a suitcase.”

  “At the end of this hall, make a left. That leads to the restaurants and shops.”

  She got onto a moving conveyor and was dazzled by the jewelry stores, the leather goods, and the restaurants. All the names she had seen on TV were here. Chanel, Gucci, Rolex, McDonald’s. She got off at a place that sold luggage. In the ladies’ room, she took the cash out and put a little in her left pocket, so she could pay without drawing attention.

  The prices were so high. She settled on a knapsack for thirty-eight dollars. Now she needed something to put inside it. A chicken sandwich, a chocolate bar, and a bag of peanuts would sustain her for the long journey. In the window of a souvenir shop, she saw the most beautiful vihara. It was made of dark teakwood stained with oil. She went inside and stood before it without touching it.

  “You can pick it up,” said the sales girl.

  Achara looked at her hands, which were dirty, and didn’t want to touch something so beautiful.

  The sales girl handed it to her. The price was thirty dollars.

  She had to make a leap of faith. She had to believe that she could put the vihara in a place she could call home and invite the gods in to reside there. That she would be free.

  “How much for the small one?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Sixteen. I can’t take less than that.”

  She paid and put the vihara in the bag. After some window shopping, it was time to return to the ticket counter. She got off the conveyor, turned the corner, and stopped short. Tong was talking to an agent at the Singapore Airlines counter.

  chara turned her back and darted into the ladies’ restroom. In a stall, she shut the door and started to sob. She couldn’t believe he had tracked her here after all the precautions she took. Was it her destiny to go back to the brothel? Wasn’t there anything else for her in this world?

  Before, she had time to kill, now time was running out. Check-in for the flight started ten minutes ago. There was a long line now and she would be out in the open. She couldn’t stay here. If that flight left without her, she might as well go back to the brothel herself.

  She washed her face. It wasn’t going to help to look upset or suspicious. She went outside and bought a pair of sunglasses and a large brimmed hat. Tong was gone and Achara got in the line.

  “I’m flying to New York.” She handed over her passport and e-ticket receipt. The lady drew the passport across the reader, then returned it to Achara. This just checked her name against a database of wanted felons and no-fly passengers. She had to remember that her name was now Olivia Wallen.

  “Any bags for check-in?”

  “No, just this carry-on.”

  “The flight leaves at 6:30 from gate forty-seven. Up the escalator to your left.”

  “This is the ticket?”

  “That’s your boarding pass.”

  “Thank you.”

  The glasses went back on and she went up the escalator. She had never been on an escalator.

  At the security checkpoint, she started getting nervous. She handed the first official her passport and boarding pass. He perfunctorily looked at it and waved her on. Next, she took off her shoes and put her bag through the X-ray machine. After passing through the metal-detector, she picked up her knapsack and started walking.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “May I see your passport, miss?” The official leafed through it with practiced speed. “Come this way, please.” The girl followed him to the far end of the security area where there were three more guards. This is no good, tho
ught Achara. She had to get one of them alone to offer him the bribe. There wasn’t enough for all four.

  “This passport has no entry stamp,” said a female officer.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “When did you enter the country?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “You are a US citizen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re from here. How long have you lived in the USA?”

  “Seven years. I just got my citizenship.”

  “And your name is Olivia Wallen?”

  “That’s my American name.”

  “You’ll need to correct this before you can fly.”

  “How can I do that quickly? My flight leaves in less than an hour.”

  “Where did you enter the country?”

  “Chiang Mai Airport.”

  “Please report to Room 519, 5th Floor, Old Building, Immigration Bureau. Bring a copy of your original flight ticket, boarding pass, or other travel document to show the date of entry and flight number. The officer on duty will make the necessary entry in your passport.”

  “Where is Old Building?”

  “Outside the terminal, all the way down to your left. You really don’t have much time.”

  “I need to talk to the officer on duty about stamping my passport,” Achara said to the secretary.

  “He’s occupied. Take a seat.”

  “My flight leaves in forty minutes. I really need to speak to him to correct my passport. Can you please tell him this is an emergency?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s with another person. Please have a seat.”

  Achara sat down for one minute, then got up and began pacing across the doorway of the office. After fifteen interminable minutes, the man sitting opposite the officer left.

  “You need to see me?” He waived her inside.

  “I have a serious problem and I hope you can solve it for me,” she sat in the low chair. “My flight leaves in less than a half hour and I don’t have an entry stamp on my passport.”

  “You have the ticket or boarding pass you used to enter the country?”

  “No, I don’t have those with me.”

  “Can someone get them for you?”

  “No, I don’t have those.”

  “You need proof that you entered the country.”

  “How can we solve it?”

  “By getting the boarding pass or plane ticket.”

  She took the money out of her bag and put it on the desk. “I can give you this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A gift for you if you help me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I really need your help. I need the entry stamp. Please help me. It’s sixteen-hundred dollars.”

  “I don’t work that way. I know everyone else does, but I don’t.”

  “But I need to get to America. Only you can help me.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Please, I have a family waiting for me in America.”

  “I have a family, too.”

  “That’s why it’s sixteen-hundred dollars.” She tried to control her voice, but it was no use. Passengers were already boarding the plane. Soon the door would close. “It’s just a stamp. It’s just a stamp.”

  “It’s not just a stamp.”

  Achara’s world was collapsing as she faced the one man in Thailand who could not be bought. She knew from the beginning that it all depended on this moment, that all the planning and all the hope hinged on the corruptibility of a man she had never met.

  “I have to get to America.”

  “Please. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” He handed her back the passport. “You should go home now.” Those final words descended from the high chair like a death sentence. He was getting up. He walked past her to open the door.

  She looked at the name plate on the desk. “Rangsang Wattana, if I don’t go to America tonight, then I go back to a brothel.” He paused. Her hand reached into the bag again.

  “You can have this too.” She held out the vihara. He took it in his hand, briefly, then returned it. For a moment, he just stood over her, then he reached out and took back the passport. After stamping it, he put it on top of the money and gave it all back to her.

  She fled the Immigration Bureau and caught another taxi to the Departure Terminal. There were only nineteen minutes before takeoff and the door may have already closed.

  Again, she went through the security checkpoint. There was a line of people for other flights. She ran to the front and looked for one of the officers who had stopped her before.

  “I have it stamped, please let me go ahead. My flight leaves in ten minutes.”

  He waved her through and she placed her shoes and bag in the scanner. She passed through the metal detector and waited forever for her shoes and bag to advance the five feet. Now to find gate forty-seven.

  A voice came over the PA system.

  “Yui Ho and Olivia Wallen, please come to gate forty-seven immediately. Your flight is leaving.”

  She was desperate. There were four directions she could go. She saw a sign for gates twenty-three to fifty-two. Jumping on the conveyor, she ran past all the restaurants full of people sitting leisurely, shopping for souvenirs, the ads of beautiful girls selling Chanel and Omega watches.

  “Olivia Wallen, this is your final call. Please come to gate forty-seven immediately. Your flight is leaving.”

  She saw the sign for gates forty to fifty-two. An immense length of stores, people, and departure gates before her. She ran past Rolex and Longines, Coach and Louis Vuitton. They stopped calling her name. She would have traded all the riches in this place for one more minute of time.

  There it was in the distance. Her lungs were bursting. She could see it. She ran past gate forty-four, forty-five, forty-six. Into the waiting lounge of gate forty-seven.

  There was no one there.

  nce inside the van, Rachel’s hands were bound behind her back and her screams were muffled by Gorilla tape. A hood went over her head. The full magnitude of it all now set in―the simplicity of the trap. She had traced Olivia’s steps all the way to death. She wailed at the top of her lungs.

  The vehicle stopped at the booth to pay the parking fee, and Rachel desperately kicked the sides of the van to get someone’s attention. But the transaction was quick and the car sped off.

  Once on the highway, her abductor finally spoke.

  “You violated me. And you have to pay. Where we’re going, they’ll never find you. And I can dispose of a body, so it can never be identified. I’ll drill out the pulp in your molars, so they can’t DNA it.”

  She took deep breaths, recapturing her heartbeat, dispelling the miasma of chaos in her mind. There was no hope of escape while the car was moving; with her hands behind her back, she would surely die even if she had a chance to roll out of the car.

  Her cell phone was on her belt. If she could get it out of the holster and managed to make two keystrokes, it would dial 911. She couldn’t talk, but police could track her with the built-in GPS once they were alerted to a problem. Her wrists pulled at the plastic strap, testing it, but they only dug deeper into her flesh. Groping with her foot for a weapon, she found none.

  She tugged at her belt, sliding it around her waist, but the cell phone got stuck at the first loop. Rachel tried to get to the buckle of the thin belt and undo it. She could then pull the belt off her waist and the phone would fall off.

  They got onto a highway. It could only be the Belt Parkway. Were they heading east or west? The van didn’t stop for any lights. Sliding the belt around her waist to access the buckle was harder than she thought. Getting the buckle past each belt loop was a struggle. Twenty minutes later, Rachel still had three more loops to go. Then she heard the unmistakable steel roadway of the Queensborough Bridge under them. There was no pause for a toll and the metal grid against the tires made a whirring sound. This led to the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the bridge on the Manh
attan side. Then the car would slow as it negotiated the streets and traffic lights.

  But that’s not what happened. There was no slowing. The car veered sharply right in a U-turn which meant the FDR Drive. North or south? North led to the Bronx and the Hutchinson River Parkway toward New England. South led to lower Manhattan.

  There was no stop and go. They were traveling at highway speed for twenty or twenty-five minutes after they hit the Queensborough. And now they stopped. They were still in New York City.

  He parked the car and they were silent for ten minutes.

  The tape came off and sunglasses went over her eyes. The insides of the lenses were painted black.

  “Don’t scream. Don’t run,” said the voice. “I’ll split you in half.” Rachel felt the flat side of an endless knife travel across her throat. He tore the cell phone from her waist.

  The passenger door opened. “Out.”

  He slung a jacket over her shoulders and took her by the arm.

  They ascended the incline, stepping over discarded tires. He opened a metal door and pulled her through, closing it behind them. A crossbar followed and a padlock. Now there was silence. Now they were alone. He pulled off the sunglasses.

  “Please…” Rachel fell to her knees crying. She had found what she was looking for. This was the killer she had danced for, whom she had deceived. But the deception was on her.

  She begged him to release her and vowed she would never help the police find him. Her tormentor had been uncharacteristically silent since they had exited the car. Could there be people nearby who might help her?

  She let out a scream that seemed to come from the throat of the tunnel itself. The sound echoed for several seconds. The man didn’t react. They were alone.

  Rachel began to pray. Engage him in conversation. Find a particle of reason in him.

  “Let me go now―I still don’t know where I am. I’ll never help them find you.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly where you are. You’re under the Major Deegan Expressway.”

  “No!”

  “This place has quite a history. In 1913, the Interborough Rapid Transit Company blasted a subway tunnel for thirteen blocks from Sedgewick Avenue to meet the city’s Jerome Avenue line. This was a busy area when there were baseball games at the Polo Grounds at One hundred and Fifty-Fifth Street. A little before your time. In 1958, the top of the el was cut off and the Major Deegan was built over it. The tunnels were abandoned, but you can still get to them through a portal. The portal we just walked through.”