Atone (18 page)

I stand outside the conference room door like a fucking guard because I can't be away from Vera and I can't be with her. I'm thoroughly and completely fucked in every way.

Her world has incomprehensible rules that change constantly. Just when I think I understand how it works, she throws in a twist that turns everything around, inside out, and backward. She's a fucking survivalist, navigating shifting terrain. Kill or be killed. I understand something of that mentality from prison. The fucked-up shit that went down in there…Another place with fucked-up rules and fucked-up people who don't give a fuck.

I understand why she did what she did. I really do. I just can't get past it. Maybe there's something fundamentally wrong with me. Some defect that only lets me see things in black and white, right and wrong. Yes, that fucker should be locked up. He's a fucking sick bastard. But he should be locked up for the sick-ass crimes he committed, not the one he didn't, because that means that the real killer, Javier, still walks free. It also means the councilman skates on having sex with underage girls and helping to cover up his wife's murder. A shit-ton of wrongs don't make a shit-ton of rights.

I wish I could see it the way Vera does. She used what little power she had to affect a small change for girls who were younger than her, but she never really
changed
their situation. Javier going to prison for murder…that would've affected a fucking
truckload
of change. I'm naïve. I know. Even after everything I've been through, I fucking hold on to justice prevailing, even though justice bent me over and fucked me in the ass.

And I'm hurting her with it. She called it a punishment.
Fucking hell.
What is
wrong
with me? Why can't I get past it? Why can't I shrug it off and take the win where I can get it, like Vera? We're alike in so many ways except this fundamental one. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair.

Cora finds me at my lowest, most pathetic, standing outside Vera's door. Her face creases with worry.

“Am I wrong here?” I ask her. “Sam French is a kid-fucking bastard, yet I can't justify him going to prison for a murder he didn't commit.”

She starts at this new information. “He's a
what
?”

“Vera says he liked the little girls. She was glad to put him away. But me? I don't fucking know. How can I not fucking
know
?”

She glances at the closed door. “I can't…She
said
that?”

“Saving those girls from one sick fuck didn't save them from all of the other sick fucks who paid to rape them. I'm expecting too much here, aren't I? Tell me I am.”

“You are. You fucking are. And you're not. I didn't think. I didn't imagine. Where she comes from is not right. The way she talks about it…Beau, she's my age. I keep going over in my head the things she said. I didn't believe them at first. She says them like she's relaying something she heard from someone else. Like they didn't happen to
her.
That's fucking messed up.
She's
messed up. How could she not be?”

“See, that's the thing. She is and she isn't. Sometimes she's the most sane, most logical person I've ever met. Not sometimes,
most
of the time. I can't explain it right. Uugghh.” I thunk the back of my head against the wall in frustration. “There's so much more to her than what she shows. I don't have words for what she's done for me. I
owe
her.”

“That's not all you feel about her, is it?”

“No.” I can't help being depressed about that.

“You care about her.”

“Jesus. You
care
about passing a test. You
care
about being late for work. You
care
about your favorite TV show. What the fuck is
care
?”

“Oh, Beau.” She sounds both miserable and glad. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Not a fucking thing.”

“Well, that's stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

She taps my forehead. “Figure it out, asshole.” Then walks away. Just
walks
away. Like I'm supposed to understand what she means.

“What the fuck?” I mutter.

I stand at the door until my legs get tired and I slide down the wall to sit on the floor. Savannah's passed me three times, giving me odd looks. Cora came out of her office, looked down the hall at me, shook her head, and went into the file room. She repeated the process on the way back to her office. I know I'm fucking pitiful. I brace my arms on my knees and rest my forehead on my hands. I'm waiting for something. A miracle, maybe. I don't know. There's nothing to do. We're at a place where we've gathered all of the information we can and now we're hoping it's enough for the authorities to want to take over. Wait. Wait. Wait. I was never good at it as a kid, and I suck at it even more as an adult. Prison was one giant fucking wait.

The conference room opens and Vera comes out. She jerks to a stop when she sees me. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“I don't know.”

“Where's the bathroom?”

“Around the corner, on the other side of reception. There's a hall. I'll show you.”

“The office isn't that big. I can find it.”

I get to my feet.

“What? You think I'm going to dive for the door as soon as your back's turned?”

“Just come on.” I lead the way and wave her toward the ladies' room.

When she comes out she rolls her eyes at me, then goes back into the conference room and closes the door. I take up my position outside again.

Mr. Nash finds me there almost an hour later. He shakes his head at how pathetic I am. “Get up, son. Let's go tell Vera the good news and the not-so-good news.”

When we enter the room Vera is asleep in her chair, her head tipped to one side, her bangs falling over half of her face. My heart takes a hard knock at the memory of the last time I saw her sleep and how different things were between us then. Mr. Nash gently wakes her. When she first sees me there's pure joy on her face for half a second before her memory wipes it away. What I wouldn't give to get it back.

“I talked to my friend. He wants to meet with you. He spoke to his boss about your conditions. They want you to come down to their office. They're promising federal protection if your story checks out. They can bring you through a side entrance and take you straight to the SAC's office. My friend is on his way to pick you up right now. I want you to know that they're taking you very seriously. My friend didn't give me any details, but they've been aware of various sex-trafficking rings in and around the San Diego area, including the one you were drawn into. If it's the same guy they're looking at, you could be invaluable to their investigation.”

“Do I have to go alone?” Vera asks.

“Beau and I will follow behind you.” Mr. Nash looks at me for confirmation and I nod. “Technically, you're going to be in federal custody. We won't be able to go into the interrogation room with you. But we'll be waiting just outside.”

“So basically once your friend comes and picks me up in his car they can do whatever they want to me. Charge me for stealing that car, prostitution, whatever they want, whatever I cop to during the interrogation. Yippee. I love being at the mercy of strange men. It always works out so well for me.”

Mr. Nash clears his throat. “I also called a friend of mine who's an attorney to meet us at the federal building. She'll be with you in that room. It's the best I could do.”

Vera lets out a breath and sits back in her seat. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. They're going to want the thumb drive and anything you can tell them about the organization and the murder of the councilman's wife, including the crimes committed against you.”

“ ‘The crimes committed against you.' That's the most polite way I've ever heard it put.”

“Cora and I have some things we're putting together for you. The work Beau did was stellar. It builds an excellent picture that backs up everything you've said. The more of that we can gather, the better.” Mr. Nash rises and checks his watch. “He should be here in about twenty minutes.” He closes the door after him, leaving Vera and me alone.

“If you give me your motel room key I'll pack up your stuff for you,” I offer.

She pulls the key card out of her bra and slides it across the table. That trick of hers catches me off guard every time. The only other time I've ever seen anyone use their clothing to store things was in prison.

“You should probably give me your guns and other weapons.”

She pulls pepper spray, brass knuckles, and a Taser from her bag and drops them on the table. She stands, propping a foot on a chair, and slides her skirt up. She unhooks her thigh holster and drops it on the table. Lifting her blouse, she removes the knives tucked in her waist. The blouse goes higher still, exposing the cups of her bra, so she can unclip the holster between her breasts. I try real hard not to stare and totally fail. Next comes the gun at the small of her back, then the switchblade from her panties. Last is the knife strapped to the inside of her thigh. I'm sweating by the time she finishes.

She stares longingly at her little pile of weaponry. Even naked, she always had a knife or gun within reach, strategically placed and easy for her to get to. It's going to be hard for her to give up the ability to defend herself. Crossing her arms, she looks to me for direction.

“Are you hungry or thirsty?”

She sits down. “No.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No.”

Her walls are back up. I'm shut out. Just like when I first met her. She's looking at me like I'm an annoyance, a mosquito she wants to flick off. And yet I see it. That spark, that tiny little flame for me she can't turn off any more than I can turn off mine for her. I hold on to it. I have a feeling I'm going to need the hope it represents. And so will she.

I'm taken to a room with a table and some chairs. It looks sort of like the conference room at the agency, except a lot nicer. The chairs are beefy leather and glide like the floor is buttered. The table is a thick, shiny slab of wood. There are a bunch of flags in the corners. The only ones I recognize are the California and American flags. There's a TV hung up high in one corner and a whiteboard spans the width of one wall. The blinds-covered window looks out on a hall. The slats are open enough that I can see people walk past. Most of them don't look in, but occasionally one or two will. I look for any familiar faces.

I've been told we're waiting for my attorney. The one Mr. Nash set me up with. Mr. Nash's FBI friend, Special Agent Carter, sits at one end of the table, babysitting me. He's not so bad. At least he didn't cuff me and make me ride in the backseat of his car. Beau and Mr. Nash are waiting for me in the reception area. They weren't allowed to come back with me. I'm relieved about that.

Agent Carter gets a phone call. There's not much talking on his end, nothing to give away what the call could be about. When he ends it he tells me that my attorney will be here shortly. Sure enough, a petite black woman in a fire-engine-red suit with matching shoes, lips, and nails enters the room. She breathes confidence the way fish breath water. Agent Carter gets to his feet. They whisper to each other and then the agent leaves, closing the door behind him.

“You must be Gwendolyn,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

I haven't been called that name in so long it takes me a few moments to respond. I take her hand and she gives it a couple brief pumps.

“I'm Shayla Reese. You can call me Shay.” She takes the seat next to me and tosses her briefcase on the table like she doesn't give a fuck if she dents it.

“Nice to meet you.”

She opens her case and pulls out a couple files. “Ed gave me copies of his files for my records and copies for me to give the FBI. I'm fairly up to speed on what's happening here.” Stacking her hands on the files, she turns to me. “But I want to hear it from you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. The condensed version. The Feebs are hungry to get in here and grill you.”

I give her what she wants. She asks a bunch of questions for clarification. All the while she takes notes. She smells like a fashion magazine. When I was about twelve I'd go to the pharmacy down the street from my foster home and rub the scent strips from the magazines on my wrists, dreaming of the day when I could buy perfume that smelled like that—expensive, beautiful, desirable. The kind of scent that would make men want me the way the male models in the ads seemed to want the females. That was when I used to dream of such stupid things. Huh. I hadn't thought about doing that in a long, long while. It feels like forever ago.

Shay takes out her laptop and fires it up. She holds her palm out. “The thumb drive.”

I hesitate. Not because I don't trust her, but because this is the final step off the cliff. I'm really doing this. I'm really putting Javier's nuts in a vice. I'm really becoming witness number one at his trial. I'm really giving up control of my life for the foreseeable future, maybe forever. I'm really giving up Beau. That last realization strikes a blow. My chest hitches and I can't feel my hands as I reach into my bra and give the thumb drive to Shay.

It's done.

She plugs it into her USB drive and clicks the file open. I know what's on it. I pretty much have it memorized. It looks like gibberish at first, until you know what to look for. Then it's like ripping the curtains wide open on the fucked-up world of underage sex trafficking.

He has us listed by the names he gave us—Cherry, Bunny, Kitty, Angel, Cinnamon, Porsche, Mercedes, Lexus, Diamond, Pearl, Crystal, Jasmine, Misty, Bambi, Brandi, Desiree, Scarlet, Ariel, Lola, Candi, Rain, Chanel, Lucky, Amber, Ginger, Jade, Star, Paris, Dallas, Tawny, Roxy, Coco, Trixie, Fantasy, Heavenly…and Eden—the name he gave me. Thirty-six girls from ten to seventeen years old. Older than that and you got downgraded to truck stops and strip bars.

There's a price list per act, from blowjobs to anal to threesomes to BDSM. The more perverted, the higher the price. The younger the girl, the higher the price. The riskier the behavior, the higher the price. Bareback cost extra, and guys had to show they'd been tested to get on the special list. One positive AIDS test and both the guy and the girl were out. If I have anything to be grateful to Javier for, it's that rule.

I walk Shay through every bit of it, right down to the bank account numbers and password codes. Those are likely useless now. He would've changed everything once he realized that the thumb drive and I were gone. But the credit card numbers—how his clients paid—those can be easily traced back to their owners. Javier billed his clients using the fake company name Opentech. It was generic enough to sound like almost any kind of business on their credit card statements. The clients can provide the money half of the equation and where it all goes. They can also give up the houses where the girls are kept. I tell Shay everything…including the one thing I couldn't tell Beau.

When I'm done, she sits back in her seat with tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she whispers.

“Don't, okay? I don't need that from you or anybody else. What I need is Marie back safe and sound. And I need Javier to not get tipped off by that fucker right there,” I say, pointing out the window.

Shay follows the line of my finger to where two men in suits stand in the hall, talking.

“The one on the right snorts and grunts like a pig when he fucks. Sweats like one too. About eight thrusts in and he's done. Comes like a fucking freight train, though, blowing and puffing. Plain old missionary for him. Always under the covers, which didn't help the sweating. Being under him was like being in an acid-rain storm in the goddamn rainforest. Didn't give a fuck if I got off or not.”

As I'm talking, Shay gets up and discreetly closes the blinds, blocking the men from looking into the room.

“Some of them did, though,” I continue. “You'd be surprised how much fucking effort they tried to put into it too. Mostly I faked it so they'd just
stop,
because come on, really? You're paying for underage sex and you want to try to make it about
me
? Who the
fuck
are you kidding?”

She sits back down next to me. I can see she's trying real hard to keep it together, but she's shattered. Her hands and lower lip shake. She blinks back the tears I told her I didn't want. I have to look away from her while she tries to collect herself. I slide one of the files Mr. Nash gave her off the stack. She lets me. Beau's neat handwriting stares back at me, and suddenly I'm struggling just as hard as Shay is to get my shit together. I push the file away and stand to pace the room.

To give myself something to do, I pick up one of the markers in the tray of the whiteboard and start drawing. I draw the layouts of both of the houses I was kept in, including where Javier's office was. I list the names of the assholes who guarded us as best as I can remember. Some of them are nicknames the guys gave one another, but I write them down anyway. I draw the layout of the councilman's house and mark an
X
on the spot where his wife died. I give up every last piece of information inside me, including the name of the artist who inked my tattoo.

When I'm done I drop the marker in the tray and turn around. Shay is on her feet, her eyes wide. She motions for me to step to one side so she can snap pics with her phone.

She tucks her phone into her bag and then moves toward me. Before I know what she means to do, I'm enveloped in a hug so fierce all the air is forced out of my lungs. I self-consciously hug her back. I'm not good at this stuff. She pulls back and smooths the hair out of my eyes. This close, I can see she's older than I thought she was. Maybe my mom's age, if my mom hadn't gotten herself stabbed by one of her johns.

“We're going to burn that mother
fucker,
” she says, shocking me with her language. “You and me. We're going to take him down and all those assholes in this building and anywhere else in the world who ever laid a hand on you. You stand behind me from now on, got that? I'm between you and whatever comes at you. You're mine now, and I'm glad to have you.” Her gaze sweeps over the whiteboard. “Yes, indeed. We're going to burn that motherfucker to the
ground.
”

She squeezes my arms, her eyes dry, her grin as big as her face. “Are you ready to turn the FBI on its ass?”