Furious (16 page)

T
WENTY
-N
INE

Whenever Faith couldn’t sleep, she got on the computer and immersed herself in the world of human trafficking. As she clicked through various websites, she found another victim’s account of her experience. She read it slowly, looking for clues that might somehow help her find her kids.

I was transported to Sacramento and immediately taken to a run-down house and locked in a small room. The windows were boarded up and I couldn’t get out. When my boss returned a few days later, I was cold and hungry. He told me I would be working as a prostitute. I told him he had the wrong person and that I had only come to serve food and drinks at a restaurant. He said I owed him for transportation costs and I needed to work off my debt before I could leave. I fought him, and he beat me. Every day after I was physically and verbally abused. There were other girls, too. The guards abused us if we argued with them. If we refused to be with a customer, we were beaten. If we adamantly refused, they brutally raped us, one after the other, to teach us a lesson. We worked seven days a week, twelve hours each day. Our bodies were bruised and swollen. If anyone became pregnant, we were forced to have abortions. The cost of the abortion was added to our never-ending debt. The torture continued for six months; other women were enslaved for much longer. The enslavement ended when law enforcement raided the brothels and rescued us. I don’t understand the people who do this to us—the recruiters, the pimps, and worst of all the johns, businessmen who come from all walks of life, monsters in suits who keep the nightmare alive and well.

The next day as Faith sat in the passenger seat of her sister’s car, she couldn’t get the young girl’s story out of her head. She always thought things like this happened somewhere else, somewhere far, far away. To think there were thousands of girls and boys trafficked in America every year boggled the mind.

After Jana dropped her off at Firestone, a restaurant in Midtown, Faith thanked her and then reminded her that Rage would be picking her up.

Inside, Faith found Marion Carver, an advocate for antitrafficking, sitting at a booth by the window. Faith introduced herself before sliding into the seat across from her.

“I’ve seen you on the news recently,” Marion said. “I’m hoping for a speedy return of your children.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t we order and then get started? I have to be back to work shortly.” Marion called the waitress over. After they ordered, she said, “So, you’ve met my daughter?”

Faith nodded. “She’s a smart young woman who’s very proud of her mother.”

“Thank you. Emily has a way to go, but I’m doing everything I can to get her the help she needs.” She sipped her water. “What is it exactly you would like to know?”

“Emily told me the story about her abduction, and I was hoping you could shed some light on sex trafficking in the area.”

“First off you should know it’s rare that traffickers risk going into one’s home to remove a child.”

“But it happens.”

“Yes, Emily is proof of that. Did Emily mention the young woman who befriended her at school?”

Faith shook her head.

“The woman was a recruiter—about twenty years of age although she did her best to appear much younger. She knew enough about Emily to know that my daughter was vulnerable. Her father and I were fighting back then. He’d moved out of the house at the time, and Emily wasn’t happy with either one of us. When Emily failed to meet with the young woman as planned, she, along with a male friend, came to the house and took Emily right from her room.”

Marion reached across the table for Faith’s hand. “If your children were taken by human traffickers, it’s my opinion that the people who took them had a personal vendetta against you or your husband.”

The money,
Faith thought. They had come for the money. “I must find my children. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Faith looked into Marion Carver’s eyes. “The truth is, I was hoping you might know the names of some of these pimps and the men they work for.”

Marion rubbed the back of her neck. “I wish I could give you a list of names, but unfortunately the names and faces are constantly changing. We catch one and another pops up. These guys are always rotating, always moving. They stick together for the most part, and we have no idea who they’re working for. That’s why many of us focus on helping the victims.”

The waitress brought their food. After she left, Carver said, “Sacramento has definitely become a hot spot for trafficking. It’s convenient for traffickers to transport their victims along Interstates 80 and 50.”

Faith nodded. “I’ve done some research. It seems to be out of control.”

Marion wiped her mouth with her napkin. “It’s become so lucrative that gangs are joining together in order to maximize profits made purely off selling young women.”

“How do you stop these guys?”

“One recruiter and one pimp at a time. Prop Thirty-Five increased penalties for traffickers, and it’s a good start, but it’s not enough.” She reached into her case and slid a list of statistics across the table toward Faith.

No longer hungry, Faith read it over while Marion ate. The United States was one of the top three destination points for trafficked victims; it was estimated that sixty thousand men and women were being held in underground brothels, which didn’t take into account sweatshops or other domestic slavery positions; the average age of a trafficked woman was twelve to fourteen. The list was never ending.

Faith looked at Marion. “If there’s even a slim chance that they have my kids, I need an idea of where they might be right now.”

“They would be in lockdown,” she said matter-of-factly. “Probably in a commercial establishment with security or an isolated location. The persons in charge usually operate under the guise of any number of establishments—massage parlors, escort services, restaurants, adult bookstores, bars, and strip clubs.”

Faith’s heart dropped to her stomach. At times like this it all felt so overwhelming, like searching for a lost ring on a long stretch of beach.

“Keep doing what you’re doing. Talk to the media whenever you can. Keep the focus on your kids.” Her cell phone buzzed. “Looks like my time’s up,” Marion said. She tried to pay the bill, but Faith wouldn’t let her. Marion pushed herself out of the booth and said, “I’d like to talk to you further and offer additional resources. Maybe you can come to my office.” She handed Faith a business card. “Whatever you do, don’t ever lose hope.”

Faith exited the restaurant. As planned, Rage sat in an old Jeep parked across the street waiting for her. She looked at her phone, hoping to see a return call from Joe Henderson. She’d called his house more than once and left a message with his mother-in-law and his brother, numbers she’d found on her computer contact list. She opened the passenger door, climbed in, and buckled her seatbelt.

“How did it go?”

“Marion Carver is an amazing woman.”

“But?”

“But I have to wonder how they’ll ever put a dent in trafficking, let alone put an end to it. One pimp at a time . . . it seems so damn imposs—”

“What is it?” Rage asked when Faith didn’t continue.

As Rage pulled out of the parking space and into traffic, Faith noticed a dark sedan three cars back, the same car she’d spotted when she’d first exited the restaurant. “I think we’re being followed.”

“Where? Who?” The car weaved slightly when Rage tried to get a good look in the rearview mirror.

Faith’s heart beat faster. “There’s two men. I can’t make out the license plate number, though. What if they’re armed? What should we do?”

“We need to stay calm,” Rage told her. “I’ve done ride-alongs with Beast and his dad. I have an idea. Get ready to take a picture using your phone. I’m going to pull over, and when they drive by, take a photo.”

Faith rolled down her window, then reached inside her bag and fumbled around with the phone until she finally had it ready. “OK, I’m ready.” Her heart was racing.

Rage pulled over to the side of the road.

The car sped past them. The driver looked their way.

Click. Click. Click.

“I think I got him.”

Rage waited a few minutes before she merged back onto the road. Driving steadily, she got onto the highway and adjusted the rearview mirror.

“Do you see them?”

Rage peered into her rearview mirror. “I do. They must have pulled over and then followed us onto the freeway.”

Faith leaned closer to the side mirror, trying to get a good look at the men.

“Do you recognize them?”

“No. They’re too far away.”

“Use your phone to get directions to the nearest police station.”

“Good idea,” Faith said. According to the app, the closest station was downtown. “You need to take the next exit. We’re going to have to circle back the way we came.”

Rage did as she said, and then, without warning, she made a sharp right. The wheel hit the curb, jolting them forward before she made a wide, yet efficient, U-turn into a car wash. She sped past the ticket stand, pulled into the semidarkness of the washing tunnel, and hit the brakes. An automated voice told her to back up, but Rage ignored it and stayed right where she was.

“There they are!” Rage said. “It’s a green Chevrolet Impala. First three digits are 6MB!”

“S2,” Faith added. “That’s all I could see.” Frustrated, she pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from her purse and quickly wrote down
6MBS2
. “We’re missing two numbers.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Faith looked at the pictures she’d taken. “Damn. The photos are blurry.”

“Let’s go visit Beast at home,” Rage suggested.

Faith raised a questioning brow.

“He and his dad are bounty hunters—remember? They have connections.”

“What about heading for the police station?”

“We’ve lost them. No reason to go there now. Beast and his dad will know what to do.”

T
HIRTY

Miranda’s legs felt as if they were on fire, every muscle and joint aching. She didn’t know what else to do, where else to look. She’d spent most of the day walking along the bamboo, grasses, and oaks that lined the Sacramento River where she and her mom had lived on and off for months. Groups of homeless people, denizens of the riverfront, still huddled together here and there, but it was as if Mom had vanished.

“Rita . . . Rita Calloway, is that you?”

Stunned that anyone might recognize her after her makeover, she didn’t dare turn around. She kept on walking, waiting to feel the sting of a bullet in the back of her head.

“Rita, it’s me, Calvin!”

Calvin?
When she and her mom had no choice but to live on the streets, it was the old man Calvin who had shown them the safest place to sleep and where they could find food.

Miranda whipped about. It was the first familiar face she’d seen in forever. Tears streamed down her face as she ran straight into his arms. He wrapped warm arms around her and held her close. “Where have you been?” he asked. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Calvin, my God, it’s been a long time.” She stepped back and used the sleeve of her jacket to wipe her eyes. “Where’s Mom? She didn’t sell me to those people, did she?”

“What people? What are you talking about?” He looked worried.

“A woman offered me a job and brought me to a farmhouse and wouldn’t let me go. It’s a long story,” she said as she looked back toward the people huddled near the river. “I’ve been to hell, Calvin, but I escaped. And more than anything, I need to see Mom.”

“Oh, dear child, I guess you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Your mom done passed away.” He shook his head. “Two short weeks ago.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Passed away? How? What happened?”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk. They’ll be serving brown beans and sausages at the shelter today. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Miranda and Calvin sat at one of many long, rectangular tables set up to feed the homeless. There was a cacophony of sounds: the honking of horns outside, pots and pans clanging together in the kitchen, people talking all at once, kids playing chase.

Calvin ate and talked while Miranda listened in a daze, pushing the beans around on her plate. She’d known her mom was sick—she’d been sick, it seemed, for as long as she could remember. But dead? It couldn’t be true.

“I don’t know what this is you heard about your mom selling you to the devil, but I can tell you it’s not true. That woman was sick as can be, but that didn’t stop her from going in search of you, every single day, morning till night, until her legs couldn’t carry her another step.”

Miranda wiped her eyes. Caroline, Mother, and even Jasper had robbed her of being with her mom in her final moments. She would never again have the chance to tell her mom that she loved her. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. She felt dizzy with emotions.

How could she possibly move on with her life?
What now?

She thought of Adele and Jean and all the other girls she’d left behind, then remembered the flyer. She retrieved it from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table.

“Are you gonna eat that?” Calvin asked, pointing to the food still left on her paper plate.

“No, you go ahead.”

He put her plate on top of his empty one and dug in while she stared at the piece of paper in front of her.

MISSING: Lara and Hudson McMann.

The little boy had a mop of brown hair and freckles across his nose. She hadn’t seen any small boys at the farmhouse, and there was nothing familiar about his face. Her gaze swept to the right-hand corner where a little girl with long, blonde hair stared back at her.

It was Jean.

Sitting quietly for a moment as Calvin ate, she realized she would have to push her grief aside if there was any hope of keeping her promise to Jean and helping her and the other girls escape. She needed to find a phone and make a call.

“I’ve got to go, Calvin.” Leaning over, she wrapped her arms around him. “Thanks for being there for Mom when she needed a friendly face.”

“One more thing,” he said before she left.

“What is it?”

“There were people looking for you, asking about Rita Calloway. In fact, that’s the reason I recognized you with that new hair of yours . . . because I was sort a keeping an eye out for you.”

Her pulse accelerated. “Did you recognize them?”

“Not at all. They didn’t belong here—I can tell you that. Nicely dressed, cologne, expensive watches.”

“Did they give you a name or tell you where they could be reached?”

He shook his head. “Just asked a group of us if we’d seen a girl named Rita Calloway.” He tapped a dirty fingernail against the table. “I was sittin’ right here at this very spot.”

Her gaze shifted, darted around the room. Her heart thumped against her chest. Nobody stood out. Whoever those men were, they could be anywhere, and most likely they were close by. Reaching into her pants pocket, she pulled out a twenty and slipped it into Calvin’s palm. “I gotta go, Calvin. You take care of yourself.”