“Yes, they allow you to actually pick a girl from a list of profiles and request them as your companion. After that, you get to have a one-time meet-and-greet chat—for free—and see if the two of you hit it off enough to proceed. If you do, you pay a boatload of money—bitcoin only, of course—and the charade starts. It will last as long as you’re willing to pay. Billed weekly.”
“What’s bitcoin?” Lance asked.
Leah sighed. “We don’t have enough time for that.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, if you don’t really care about having a girl act like she’s into you on a romantic level, you can also choose to just have the customizable experience. Which is basically—again, after paying a boatload of money—you can submit a form detailing exactly what sort of sexual fantasy or situation you’d like to have played out on-screen, and they’ll do it. Anything you want, except for a very, very short list of banned suggestions. Basically anything short of killing somebody or causing extreme physical harm.”
“How considerate of them,” Lance said. Then he asked, “So why the soda cans and the special code? Seems like a pointless effort.”
“I did some research on that. They don’t actually mention any of that on the site itself, so I did some Googling. Turns out it’s all part of the boutique process. By adding this extra level of effort, or, well, mystique to the process, they are essentially duping these customers into thinking this is an even more private and tailored experience. Like they’re part of some secret club. I found a few message boards online dedicated to tracking down which cities have girls selling the codes, and where to find them. It’s like a game. There’s even speculation—which I don’t believe—that certain cities have better codes that lead to hotter girls. It’s crazy the amount of time people have spent on this. There’s user-created maps online, showing which spots in the cities have been known to have girls selling codes, what time of day they’re usually there, everything. Seriously, who has time for this sort of thing?”
Lance was quiet for a moment, then he said, “People who are lonely, I guess.”
“That’s so sad,” Leah said.
“It is,” Lance agreed. “So, is that everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay,” Lance said, “That helps. Thank you, Leah. I’m sorry you had to look at all that.”
“It’s okay,” she said, again thinking about how she needed to run her antivirus program, just to be sure. “What else can I do?”
“That’s all for now, I think.”
“And you still don’t think this has anything to do with the kids committing suicide?”
A beat, then Lance said, “I don’t see how. No.”
“So, what does it mean?” she asked. “I mean, while the whole thing is gross and sad and all, it’s not exactly illegal, right?”
“No, I guess not,” Lance said. “But, honestly, I’ve got somebody right in front of me now that can probably help me figure that out.”
Leah sat up in her bed. “One of the girls is with you right now?” she asked, marveling at the small twinge of completely irrational jealousy she felt stir in her gut (but hey, all those girls she’d seen online had been so pretty).
“Yes,” Lance said. “So, I should probably go.”
“Okay,” she said.
“And, Leah, thank you again. I’m sorry I had to involve you in this, but I really appreciate the help.”
They ended the call, and Leah sat quietly on her bed for a long time, thinking about a lot of things. Lance had said the suicides were not related to the webcam girls, and he was probably right—he did have a knack for this sort of thing. But Leah was still curious. And even if the two things weren’t related—the girls and the suicides—it didn’t mean she couldn’t maybe find some more information online that could help. The problem was she didn’t know where Lance was, which would make the Googling tougher to execute with any valuable results.
But then she remembered the online message boards. The ones with the lists of cities documenting where the webcam girls were selling their codes.
“He’s in one of those,” she said out loud. Then she opened her laptop and started to search, trying not to think about whether or not Lance would disapprove.
23
Lance flipped his phone closed, sliding it back into his pocket after his conversation with Leah. He looked at Diana across the table from him, her smooth skin, sparkling eyes, and blond hair all striking. There was no denying she was very pretty, and now Lance wondered how many men had scrolled across her picture on the website, had a similar thought (although with much more deviant intentions), and clicked to select her to fulfill their fantasies. But then he wondered if Diana was even on the website. Maybe there was some sort of hierarchy. Maybe you had to start low on the totem pole, sell the sodas on the street, doing the grunt work before you could earn your way to bedroom and…
Diana looked back at him, those eyes tainted with sadness.
I work and John pay. That was what she’d said to him, and now he understood more than he wanted to.
John.
John Doe.
Anonymous.
The men who visited the website paid their fee for the service provided. So why…
“Why did you say that if you go back to the house, the people there will make you pay more? You work for them, right? And the men online, they pay for the, uh, work you do? So, aren’t you the one getting paid, at least a portion of it?”
If Diana was curious as to how Lance suddenly understood what it was she did for a living, she either didn’t care or didn’t feel they had the time for more questions. Instead, she said, “We go now? Leave from here? Please.”
Lance shook his head. “No, not quite yet, I’m sorry. I will do my best to protect you, I promise, but you have to give me something.”
At this phrase, Diana’s face fell again, her eyes looking down with disappointment.
“No, no, not like that!” Lance said, waving his hands. “I mean, you need to tell me more information. Help me understand what’s wrong. Why are you so afraid of the people you work for, and why did you have to run away in the middle of the night?”
Diana was quiet, fiddling with one of the used paper towels.
Lance reached across the table and took her hands in his, an act he performed gently, and was disappointed when he received no flash of memory, no instant download of events from Diana’s past. He said, “Diana, tell me so I can help you.”
Diana stared at Lance’s big hands wrapped around hers and then looked up to meet his eyes. She must have seen something there, must have felt his honesty and kindness, because all at once Lance felt as if the air in the room had shifted, as if a bond of trust had finally been solidly formed.
Diana nodded once and started to tell him everything.
It was a story so sad, Lance wished he could go burn the house with the security cameras to the ground.
* * *
Though the story was sad, it was not an uncommon one, Lance was disheartened to realize. A tragic tale of one desperately seeking a better life, a happy home. Though her English was broken, and her story seemed to lack certain details Lance would have liked to have, he got the gist of it all.
Diana’s family was poor, living in a country being torn apart by war and civil unrest. People were fleeing where they could, entire families uprooting and packing up what few possessions they had or could manage to take with them and heading off for anyplace that might be better than home. It was dangerous, and many were killed or turned away at borders, forced back to a life of poverty and potential death.
Diana’s father was employed—one of a lucky few who’d been selected for factory work in the city—but the wages were small, and while his job did afford his family a small amount of stability in the uncertain times, it was only marginally better than others, and he dreamed of a better life for his family—particularly his daughter and wife.
One day at work, he learned of a new
option. The grandest dream of all. Life in America.
He heard about a business (a scam was what it really was, though due to the man’s excitement at the prospect, Lance thought, this didn’t enter his mind, or he chose to not believe it) where a family could have their children smuggled out of the country, off to the safe haven that was the USA, and once there, the children would get a job and work, paying off the debt incurred for their transport, and also work to pay for the safe transport of their family at a later date. The only stipulation stated was the child must be at least fifteen years old.
(I know it illegal, Diana had said at this point, Coming into country this way. But I not care. I just want to get away. Bring family with me. I would work to get them here.)
There was an application process, a form to fill out with a picture attached. Diana had been selected, and her family had cried with their happiness, the excitement of her getting out and one day bringing them, too. They all just had to survive a little longer.
The night she was to leave arrived, and she and her father went down to the docks in the city to board a boat—one of many on which she’d end up during her long journey across the Atlantic—there was a quick, forced goodbye as the men working hurried her along, below deck to join the others.
(I think Papa knew something bad then, Diana had said. But it happen so fast.)
And when she got below deck, clutching her one small bag she was allowed to bring, that was when Diana knew there was something bad, too.
All the passengers—all the children who’d been selected—were female.
And in a few weeks’ time, each and every one of them would arrive on the shore of America and be forced into sexual servitude. Forced to continue their work with a threat that was twofold: not earning enough to bring their family to the Land of the Free, or being turned over to the police as an illegal and tossed in jail or deported back to their war-torn country, where they would live a life of poverty—if they lived at all.
They were slaves, plain and simple.
* * *
“But they lie,” Diana said, her face flushing with anger after she’d finished her heartbreaking story. “They no bring families. Never. Nobody pay back debt. Always work.”
Lance figured this much was the case. This was human trafficking, happening right here on US soil. These poor girls were sold by families duped into believing they were helping their children gain a better life. And they were likely never heard from again. And what choice did the girls have, once they discovered the truth? They were prisoners in a country that was not their own, threatened by things they didn’t fully understand. And who could they turn to without fear of persecution?
“I don’t know if my family still alive,” Diana said, her voice growing quiet. “I think … I think it easier for me if I think they dead. Or … or if they think I dead. I never see them again.”
Fresh tears welled in the girl’s eyes, but she shook her head and held them back, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the paper towel.
Lance wanted to say that she shouldn’t say things like that, that he was sure she’d see her family again. But he couldn’t. It would be wrong. Deep down, he knew she was likely right. He couldn’t help her with any of that. For now, all he could do was keep her safe and away from her captors.
“I’m so sorry,” Lance said. It was all he could come up with.
Diana sniffled once, swallowed, and then looked at him with a face that was now extremely tired. The adrenaline of her escape from the house was apparently subsiding, and now it seemed as though she were drained of all her energy. Her shoulders slumped as she slid slowly down into the seat, her eyelids growing heavy.
“We go now?” she asked, her voice low.
Lance wished he could say yes. Wished he knew where to take her. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
“No,” he said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep. Get some rest and then we can figure this all out tomorrow.”
She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes suddenly cautious again.
Lance held up his hands. “You’re safe here,” he said. “I promise.” Then he stood from the table and held out a hand. Diana looked at it, and Lance could see her still debating whether any of this was some sort of trap. “You can trust me.” Lance said. “In fact, I may be one of the only people who will ever say that to you who you can truly believe.”
Lance didn’t know if it was his words, or just Diana’s exhaustion finally winning her over—how long has it been since she’s had a good night’s sleep?—but she did reach out and take his hand, letting him lead her up the staircase. At the top of the landing, Lance was hit with a small dilemma. He at first contemplated leading Diana to one of the other vacant rooms, giving her a space of her own, but he ultimately decided against it. He didn’t want to abuse Loraine Linklatter’s hospitality—he was, in fact, only paying for a single room—and on top of that, if Loraine discovered Diana in a room other than his own, that would only lead to more questions being asked, and Lance wasn’t sure what he would be able to say as answers to any of them. He had to protect himself, and he promised Diana he would protect her as well.
As they stood there, Lance in the throes of his indecisiveness, another thought occurred to him. He thought again of the house with the cameras, the fence. He asked, “Diana, how did you get away? How did you escape?”
Diana’s face showed no emotion. She simply said, “I did what had to.”
So Lance, accepting this as all he needed to know, pushed open the door to his bedroom and led her inside. She did a cursory glance around the place, and Lance thought he saw a flicker of awe, an appreciation of fine surroundings. He pointed to the bed and said, “You can sleep there. But if you don’t mind, I might steal a pillow so I can sleep on the floor and not have to use a stack of books.”
He smiled, but Diana acted as though she hadn’t heard the joke. Instead, she looked at him, then pointed to the bed. “Me?”
Lance nodded. “Yes. You. The bathroom is right down the hall that way”—he pointed—“if you need it.” But when he turned back, Diana was already across the room and standing next to the bed. She began stripping down, kicking off her shoes and socks and peeling off her sweatpants and sweatshirt, leaving her in nothing but her bra and panties. “Oh … okay,” Lance said, looking away to give the girl her privacy, though she clearly didn’t care. When he looked back, she was fully under the covers, her blond hair splayed across one of the pillows and one arm tucked beneath her head. Within seconds, she was asleep, the sound of her breathing becoming slow and steady.
Lance stood by the door and stared at her for a long time, his mind reeling as it tried to figure out what he was going to do.
“She’s very pretty,” Daisy said, suddenly standing next to him.
Lance, not surprised to see her, now that there was a new visitor, nodded his head. “She is,” he said. “And she’s had a very hard time.”
Daisy looked on, seeming to think about this. “How?”
The innocence of children. Unafraid to ask questions. “Some people lied to her and took her from her family. They made her do a lot of things she didn’t want to,” Lance said, keeping things as G-rated as he could.
Daisy nodded her head, as if she understood everything. “That’s sad,” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
“I hope she doesn’t end up like the other ones. I like her.”
Lance felt ice water rush through his veins. He spun and looked down at Daisy, who was looking back at him with wide eyes.
“You hope she doesn’t end up like who?”
THEM
(III)
If they’d driven all the miles they’d added to the Element’s odometer in a straight line, headed in one direction—north, south, east or west—they’d have crossed several states. But they hadn’t gone in one direction. Instead, the Reverend, acting much like a bloodhound hot on the trail, had followed what few traces he could pick up from the boy, doing his
best to give directions to the Surfer that would ultimately lead them to their prize. Because of this, they’d ended up zigzagging and backtracking and circling around to meaningless locations that might have been nothing more than where the boy had changed busses or stopped for a bite to eat.
The woman—the former Miss Sheila—had been a crucial piece of their puzzle. Not only had she verified the fact that the boy had been there—something the Reverend found suspiciously few people actually willing to do (he had a theory about this, something he figured the Surfer knew as well—opposing forces at work at a much higher level)—but because the boy had used his abilities to such an extent during his confrontation with the woman, the Reverend was able to pick up the scent much more clearly than he’d been able to for quite some time. Not since the night the boy’s mother had died, followed by the town of Westhaven, which they knew had been his first stop.
But the boy was smart. He was not staying in one place for long, and if you tried to look for a pattern to his travel routes, you’d end up with something looking like one of those corkboards you always see in detective movies with pieces of string connecting various clues and leads—nothing but a spiderweb of confusion.
It had taken them weeks to finally leave the state of Virginia. But once they’d crossed the state line, the Reverend, while usually very patient, had perked up in a way that even the Surfer had noticed.
“Catchin’ some good rays, man?” the Surfer had asked, leaned back in his seat with one tanned and muscular arm stretched out, gripping the wheel with loose fingers.
The Reverend had said that he was, in fact, catching some good rays, and had his partner take the next exit. They drove on in silence, which was both of their preferred way, the Reverend only speaking over the next few hours to tell the Surfer which roads to take. They left the interstate and bounced across a couple different highways before the Reverend took a deep breath and sat up straight in his seat.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 14
