Misery Bay

by Chris Angus

  A moment later, Lonnie got back in the car.

  “Okay,” he said. “He started out saying he didn’t know anything about Kitty Wells. But I … pressed … him and he finally admitted he’d spent time being interviewed by her but then she left. He said she might have decided to go interview a Madame Liu for a story on prostitution. He said he warned her it was dangerous but couldn’t dissuade her. I don’t believe that part. If that’s all that happened, there would have been no reason for him to deny spending any time with her in the first place. He would have told me straight off. If I had to guess, I’d bet old Lloyd delivered Kitty to Madame Liu himself. I asked him, hypothetically speaking, what Madame Liu would do with Kitty. He said if the woman liked what she saw, she might try to sell her, probably to someone at the oil company.”

  “Global Resources?” said Garrett. “What for?”

  “I don’t think that is open to a whole lot of interpretation, Gar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Lloyd sold Kitty to Madame Liu and she turns around and sells her to some guy in the oil business … well … what do you think?”

  Garrett stared at him. “I don’t believe it. You’re saying they kidnapped a television anchorwoman and sold her into prostitution? Are they nuts?”

  “Not prostitution. Sexual slavery. From what Lloyd said, it’s common enough with young girls. He actually began talking like he’d done research on the subject, all in the interests of helping his young charges, of course. He suggested the anchorwoman thing would be icing on the cake, that the titillation factor would make Kitty extra valuable. He said Liu would get a fortune for her—if his assumptions were correct.”

  “What about the helicopter?”

  “He didn’t know who was on it, but he said if Kitty were actually a prisoner, she might be taken out to the oil rig. Evidently, Global has a nice little sideline with girls brought in to entertain potential foreign investors. That was how Lloyd put it. All stuff he said he found out through his research.”

  “I can’t believe you got him to tell you all this just by squeezing his arm,” said Garrett.

  “There was a lot more to it than that. He knew who I was. I told him if I found out he was holding back on me, I’d find him. Evidently, he believed me.” He drummed his enormous fingers on the side of the car and stared up at the distant speck of the chopper now disappearing out past George’s Island. “So. You think DeMaio’s on that aircraft?”

  “Be my guess.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Garrett shook his head. “I’m not sure. Tuttle would probably get me a helicopter if I asked for it, but outside of Canadian waters, we have no authority.”

  “Another midnight kayak ride?”

  “I don’t know. I need to talk to some people about this. About the law on the high seas. The people at Global are going to have influence at very high levels. Sure as hell, more than I have.”

  “You can waste a lot of time looking into the legality of all this, Garrett. Time Kitty may not have.”

  “You know how much trouble Tom and I had sneaking up on the bad guys’ boats? It can only be that much harder to sneak up on an oil rig. I don’t want Kitty shipped out by chopper as soon as we appear on the horizon. We might never get another shot at her. She’s been in their hands for several days and it’s probably already too late to save her from some pretty nasty stuff. I just hope I can figure something out in time to save her life.”

  Garrett pulled out the card he’d been given by the two government men at the press briefing. He took out his cell phone and dialed the number. A neutral voice answered and asked his business.

  “I’d like to speak to …” he read the name on the card. “A Mr. Alfred Nichols.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Another secretary answered. No more expansive budget than the intelligence services. This woman was more cautious, however, asking the reason for his call and who he was.

  “I’m an RCMP officer,” Said Garrett. “Special Constable Garrett Barkhouse, out of Halifax. You can verify that through the Deputy Commissioner if you wish, but this is a matter of some urgency and I would appreciate being able to speak with Mr. Nichols immediately.”

  Evidently calls like Garrett’s were not uncommon in the fluid and rapidly changing world of intelligence. After a series of clicks during a pause of almost two minutes, probably while Nichols was told the situation, a voice came on the line.

  “This is Alfred Nichols,” said the man. “I’m speaking to an RCMP officer?”

  “Yes, sir. I got your number from one of your agents attending the press briefing given by Global Resources just an hour ago. We appear to have a mutual interest in a man named DeMaio. We’re following up a missing person, a prominent one; a television reporter who we believe may have been kidnapped by DeMaio.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Nichols swore. “I don’t mean to be obstructionist, Officer Barkhouse, but we’ve been watching DeMaio’s movements, taping his conversations, and investigating him three ways from Sunday for the last six months.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Let’s just say we have reason to believe he’s connected to some pretty big organized crime elements.”

  “Does this have anything to do with international sex trafficking?” Garrett asked.

  Nichols hesitated. “You appear to be well informed, officer. We believe there may be an international trafficking operation that is run through Global Resources, but it’s a tricky situation. I can’t tell you all the details.”

  “I may know more of those details than you imagine,” said Garrett. “I think we’re on the same side here. The woman we’re trying to rescue may be in immediate danger. And as I said, she’s high profile. We have reason to believe she may have been transported to one of Global Resources’ offshore oil rigs for the purposes of sexual slavery.”

  Nichols said, “I want to help you, officer. I really do. But we’ve been trying to build a case against DeMaio for almost a year. We can’t compromise that work on the chance you know where your girl is. If you’ve been involved in prostitution then you should know how difficult it is to build a case for trafficking. Hell, human trafficking wasn’t even a Criminal Code offense until 2005. There have only been a couple dozen people charged with trafficking in all of Canada to date and only a handful of convictions.”

  Garrett knew the statistics. Gang members and pimps had figured out that they could make more money with less risk dealing in girls instead of drugs. The average trafficked woman could make her pimp hundreds of thousands of dollars before he used her up. Some girls had even been sold for sex through Craigslist.

  “And I might add,” Nichols said, “if she’s outside the twelve-mile limit, we have real constrictions on what we can do. That’s one reason we’ve been slowly building up a file on DeMaio. He travels all over the world and most of the time is outside our jurisdiction. His public press briefing today was the first time we’ve been able to get close to him in months.”

  Garrett thought quickly. “So you’re saying that if she’s being held outside the twelve-mile limit, there’s nothing we can do to save her?”

  “No. If you had some sort of real proof of what was happening on that rig, we might be able to take action. Legally, there’s an exclusive economic zone that extends from the outer limit of the territorial sea … that’s the twelve-mile limit … to a maximum of two hundred nautical miles from the territorial sea baseline. A coastal nation has control of all economic resources within its exclusive economic zone, including fishing, mining, oil exploration and any pollution of those resources.”

  “I’d say trafficking in young girls twenty miles offshore might qualify as pollution,” said Garrett. “Moral pollution.”

  Lonnie grunted. The side of the conversation he could hear did not seem to be going well.

  “Again,” said Nichols, “It’s a matter of proof. The exclusive economic zone cannot prohibit passa
ge or loitering above, on, or under the surface of the sea that is in compliance with the laws and regulations adopted by the coastal state in accordance with provisions of the UN Convention. Last time I looked, escort services were a legal enterprise in Canada, sleazy though they may be.”

  “We’re not talking about an escort service. This is kidnapping, sexual slavery, and trafficking,” said Garrett. “I’ve dealt with this stuff for twenty years, and there is nothing legal about it. I don’t care how hard it is to get a conviction. We’ve had five young girls killed here in the past two weeks.”

  He could hear Nichols breathing, then the man covered the phone and Garrett heard muffled voices. When he came back on the line, he said, “I appreciate your efforts, Officer Barkhouse. I can’t tell you not to continue your own investigation. If you find the proof I’ve spoken of, I’ll be ready to offer you the direct assistance of the Canadian Navy. Until then, I wish you and the woman you seek luck.”

  The line went dead. Garrett stared out the window. Lonnie’s silence next to him finally forced him to look at his cousin.

  “We on our own?” he asked.

  “Until we get some sort of ironclad, foolproof evidence that Kitty is where we think she is.”

  “Bloody intels aren’t worth the money we give them.”

  “You don’t give them money,” Garrett said. “You don’t pay taxes.”

  “Most moral thing I do,” Lonnie said. “What’s the plan?”

  Garrett sighed. “The plan is to rescue Kitty Wells. I just haven’t worked out the details yet.”

  40

  KITTY STARED AT DEMAIO’S SLEEPING form. They’d had sex half a dozen times over the weekend, always in the same manner. He seemed to have endless sexual energy but very little imagination.

  Rather than growing more docile and accepting with each instance, her anger had grown. She felt like a puppet, at his beck and call. If he said bend over, she had to comply. It was the most degrading experience of her life. She no longer exhibited the red flush, for she had ceased to find what was happening to her the least bit erotic. She wondered if this was how prostitutes felt after conditioning. Numb.

  The disappearance of the flush annoyed DeMaio, as though it were some reflection on his prowess. The whole thing was ridiculous, and Kitty was ready to try anything to escape. His sleeping form presented the opportunity she’d been waiting for.

  The door to her room locked automatically when he left. No key was necessary. But he always used a key on a ring that he kept in his pants to open the door when he arrived. This was to be their last time … at least for now. He’d made a big deal about how he had to leave this evening by chopper for a meeting in Halifax. Kitty wondered if he was tiring of her already.

  She slipped silently into the small bathroom, which was where they usually disrobed. He liked to start with a joint shower. Gradually, she had formed her plan. She intended to take his key. She’d been thinking about it since the first time, but of course he would miss it the next time he came for her. So it would only work the last time. With luck, he wouldn’t notice that it was gone until long after he’d left the oil platform.

  She found the key and detached it from the rest, slipping it under the edge of the carpet. Her heart almost stopped as she heard him rouse and call for her. She went into the other room instantly. She was still naked and he motioned her over. He sat on the sofa and buried his head in her stomach, his hands gently stroking her thighs.

  “All good things come to an end, Kitty,” he said. “I won’t be back, but I won’t forget our time together.”

  “What happens to me now?”

  He sighed, got up and went into the bathroom, then returned with his clothes and began to dress. He dropped the pants and as he picked them up, the key ring fell onto the floor.

  Kitty’s heart was in her mouth as he reached for them. She tried to distract him from examining them too closely.

  “I enjoyed it too,” she purred and went over and pretended to smooth out his trousers. “I’ll miss you.”

  The bastard was such an egomaniac he actually believed her. How could he not satisfy a woman … any woman?

  “I don’t see any point in lying to you, Kitty,” he said. “I’ve got to move on, which means so do you.”

  She stared at him. “You’re sending me someplace?”

  “No. But it’s time for you to expand your duties. A number of foreign businessmen are coming to spend the next couple of nights. Your job will be to see that they are happy and content. Think of it as a business assignment. These men represent a consortium that’s going to buy three of our oil rigs. They’ll be paying a fortune for them and so we’re offering them a little bonus. You.”

  So. It was starting. She could hardly grasp what it would be like to be handed off from one man to the next. DeMaio had been cold and demanding, but he had been only one man, and he was generally only good for a single rape at a time. Soon, she would understand precisely what it meant to be conditioned. Soon she would know what it was like to be a full-time sex slave.

  She felt her stomach turn. Her face must have looked bleak, for he put a hand up and stroked her cheek. “Don’t fight it, Kitty,” he said. “It will only make it harder. Do what they ask. You’ll get used to it.”

  Then he was gone, out the door. She heard him try the knob to make sure it had locked. She went over, turned back the carpet, and took out the key. She sat on the sofa and waited until she heard the helicopter take off. She had no idea how long it would be before the group of new men arrived, and she had no intention of waiting to find out.

  What she would do once she got out of the room, she had no idea. That it was just the first step, she was all too aware. She’d still be alone on an oil rig twenty miles from shore. It seemed hopeless, but anything was better than waiting to be handed around from one man to the next.

  As the sound of the chopper disappeared in the distance, she got dressed. Her clothes were not terribly warm and she knew it would be cold and windy outside. But there was nothing she could do about that. Maybe she could find a coat somewhere. She was about to unlock the door after listening at it for several minutes to try to determine if anyone was outside, when the lock clicked.

  She froze. Someone was coming in. Had DeMaio realized what she’d done and come back? No. He’d gone on the chopper. It had to be someone else.

  She stared as the door opened and one of DeMaio’s men entered. It was the short assistant who had introduced his boss at the press briefing. He was alone and smiled at her as he took off his coat.

  “No reason for just the top SOBs to have all the fun,” he said, looking at her. “Besides, what difference does one more make to you?”

  He pressed himself against her and she felt his hands all over her. Something snapped inside of her. She wasn’t going to let this little prick use her for his amusement. She stepped backward and he sensed she was backing up to lie down on the sofa. She put her arms around him and pulled him with her.

  He was breathing heavily, completely focused on her. Kitty backed up more and whispered in his ear.

  “Let me take your clothes off,” she said. He stood back from her so she could undo his pants. He was already fully aroused. She pulled his pants down and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Turn around,” she said. He complied, completely under her power, as she slipped the shirt off and ran her hands down his sides. He shuddered as they reached his bare hips. Then Kitty reached back and picked up the small lamp on the side table, whirled it around, and smashed the base as hard as she could into his scrotum.

  He screamed and fell to the floor. She had to shut him up or the noise would bring others. She lifted the heavy lamp base again and brought it down on his head with every ounce of her ninety-eight pounds.

  The screaming stopped as if a TV had been turned off. She stared at him. There was no question. He was dead. A portion of his skull was depressed and blood pooled out onto the floor.

  She didn’t wait around
to take his pulse. She felt not a smidgen of regret. His warm coat was an unexpected bonus. With the collar turned up, she might not be immediately identified by anyone seeing her from a distance.

  She closed the door to the room and stood in the carpeted hallway, listening. She could hear the wind outside but no sound of voices. It was after dinnertime and starting to get dark out. She took DeMaio’s key, inserted it into the lock, then broke it off flush. That would slow them down a little. They’d have to break the door down and it was a solid, heavy door.

  She moved down the hall, looking into rooms. Most were empty bedrooms. Then she opened a heavy metal door and found herself outside. She was on a catwalk. All around were pipes and strange-looking masses of machinery. The place was an absolute maze and she had no idea which way to go.

  Keeping as low as possible, she skirted along one catwalk after another. She crossed the empty helipad and dashed down a set of circular stairs to another level, back into what appeared to be living quarters, then outside again. So far she hadn’t seen a soul, but she knew her luck on that front couldn’t last.

  The sea was relatively calm, but here, a hundred feet above the water’s surface, she could feel a strong wind. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, a huge, magenta ball she’d have thought beautiful at any other time. Now, it only meant she would soon be stumbling around in the dark. There were lights on the rig, of course, but not knowing anything about how the place was organized, she might wander right off into oblivion. She had no illusions as to how long she’d last in that cold water.

  She tried to think. Where would they be least likely to search for her? If she could just hide, Garrett might eventually come looking for her. But no. No one knew where she was. Hiding would do no good. As soon as they realized what had happened and that she’d killed one of their men, they’d search the place thoroughly. They knew the rig much better than she did. They’d look in all the likely places.

  It was hopeless. Then she heard voices coming toward her.

  She turned and ran down a long grated steel platform and up a flight of metal steps, then stopped. Above her was what looked like a small room about ten feet square. As she stared at it, a door opened and two men came out of the room. She shrank back into a depression on the catwalk that appeared to be some sort of dead end facing an electrical grid.