“You bet. Unless you have something for me now.”
“I always give you the child stuff, Livia. No one else wants it, anyway.”
Almost no one who had kids, or even nieces and nephews, could handle the child cases. It was too much to bear. But everyone knew that for Livia, it was a crusade.
“Just asking.”
Donna nodded. “By the way. Word from the chief. There’s a guy coming in. Homeland Security. Something about a joint anti-trafficking task force. They’re looking for the right personnel, and it sounded up your alley. You interested?”
“Maybe. Any other intel?”
“That’s it. You know the feds. All very hush-hush. But if it’s DHS, it’s safe to say there’s an overseas component. And maybe some kind of terror angle, I don’t know.” She paused, then added, “I don’t know if it’s about kids. Certainly could be.”
Overseas… right now, she didn’t want anything that would distract from the Hammerhead funeral. Or from Weed Tyler, whose release was imminent, who was the only possible key to what had happened to Nason. Livia nodded and said, “Can I think about it?”
Donna took a sip of coffee. “I don’t even know when the guy’s coming in. We’ll learn more then.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Roll call was the usual-an hour of updates on what had happened the night before; discussion of changing policy and procedures governing the use of force; information-sharing on open cases. Just before dismissing everyone, Donna glanced at her tablet. “Oh, look at this,” she said. “Seems one Billy Barnett has met his maker.”
Some of the assembled detectives raised their eyebrows. Others glanced around, looking for clarification. Outside Sex Crimes and the Gang Unit, Barnett was hardly a household name.
“Hammerhead soldier,” Donna said. “And twice-convicted sex offender. Got himself strangled in a park up in Marysville. Just released from Monroe, too. Terrible loss for humanity.”
“Marysville PD like anyone for it?” That was Suzanne Moore, another good cop who, like Donna, had early on taken Livia under her wing.
“Yeah, about a hundred different people. Barnett wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity. One theory is he tried to rape the wrong girl. But more likely, Hammerhead itself did the hit. Barnett’s last trip to Monroe caused them a lot of headaches. Good chance they decided they didn’t want any more of his bullshit.”
Suzanne laughed. “Always good when the garbage takes out the garbage.”
There was a generalized murmur of assent to that. Then Donna said, “There’s a third possibility, and it’s one we need to be aware of. Another gang might have been behind this. If so, there are apt to be reprisals. So work your CIs. If there’s going to be trouble, we want to spot it in advance. Speaking of which, Barnett was a Texas native, but G thinks Hammerhead is going to bury him locally, at Crown Hill. If so, all of Hammerhead’s going to be there. Now, the G guys will be all over the periphery-high profile, as a deterrent in case Deuce 8 or the East Union Street Hustlers or whoever decides to show up looking for trouble. But we’ll want to look sharp, too. A Hammerhead white power funeral is like a full moon on a hot, humid night. It just gets people riled.”
Livia raised her hand. “If there’s going to be a funeral, Lieu, I wouldn’t mind swinging by. Check out a Gossamer, get a little intel about who’s who. We know Barnett didn’t always rape by himself, and most of his vics were afraid to come forward once they learned they were dealing with a gang. I want to know who he was close to. With Barnett dead, if there’s another Hammerhead rape, chances are it’ll be one of his good buddies.”
The Gossamer was a handheld cell phone tracker that could place a mobile phone to within less than a yard of its actual location. SPD had a half dozen of them, all purchased with a grant from the Department of Homeland Security. The public knew about the location-tracking function, of course, but what wasn’t as widely understood was the technology’s versatility. The devices could track dozens of phones simultaneously, and could be programmed to key on the proximity of any two cell phones, or five, or ten. The G-unit used them to head off gang battles, setting their Gossamers to sound an alert if phones known to be carried by members of rival gangs were converging in a way that suggested a street fight was imminent. Narcotics used them to map the movements and associations of known traffickers, and to eavesdrop on their conversations. And High Risk Victims used them to uncover networks of pimps, their suppliers, and their customers.
Because of the DHS grant, inventory was monitored closely. But Livia had thought of a way around that. She’d only been waiting for the right moment to act, and if Barnett’s funeral was going down in a day or two, the moment was now.
Donna nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll send the paperwork to the Tool Shed.” She took a moment to look around at the assembled detectives, then said, “All right, everyone. Let’s go get ’em.”
Livia’s expression remained perfectly neutral-a routine request, a routine permission granted. But inside, she felt the familiar stirring. The heat. The power. The dragon.
Go get ’em, she thought. Oh yes, I will.
8-THEN
Every night after, it was the same. The second time was nearly as bad as the first. But by the third time, Livia at least knew what to expect-what the men wanted, and more or less when and how it would be over. The men must have loved curry, because they always stank from it. And when they smelled like alcohol, too, they were rougher with her, like they were trying to hurt her, and they laughed when she gagged or threw up. But she was able to endure it because she knew doing so was protecting Nason.
After that, time didn’t pass so much as it blurred. She sat in the box with the other children, and knew it was day from the light coming through the airholes, and knew it was night when the light faded and they needed the blankets to stay warm. The only breaks in the monotony happened each morning and evening, when the men brought food and water and changed the buckets. After each evening feeding, Livia would go outside the box with the men and numbly do the disgusting thing, then come back and hold Nason, allowing herself to cry noiselessly only after Nason had fallen asleep.
By now, she knew there were no “jobs.” As hard as she searched for a way to explain it away or alter it, she couldn’t deny the essential truth. She and Nason… their parents had simply sold them, the way they would sell a chicken or pig.
One night, the alcohol smell was especially strong. Livia’s stomach sank at the realization that outside the box it was going to be even worse than usual. But there was nothing she could do. She would have to endure it for Nason.
When she had finished her food, she stepped toward the door to go out with the men. But Skull Face smiled and said, “No. You stay.”
Livia watched him, uneasy. It would be a relief to not have to do the disgusting thing. But she sensed something dangerous in Skull Face’s smile, some trick.
“Why?” she said, hating that she had to ask, but needing to know.
“You no fun anymore. We want new fun.”
Livia felt heat spread from her stomach to her limbs. Was he talking about one of the other children? Surely he couldn’t mean-
Skull Face pointed to Nason. “Take her.”
“No!” Livia screamed, in her panic reverting to Lahu. “No, no, no!”
The other two men moved forward. Livia shoved Nason to the back of the box, as far from the door as possible, then turned to face the men, blocking Nason with her body. “No!” she screamed again, in Thai this time. “You say, you promise!”
Skull Face laughed. Livia turned so her arm would be hidden, then slipped the can top from her back pocket. She would slice the first man who tried to get past her to Nason.
Skull Face was laughing harder. He took a bottle from inside the jacket he was wearing and began to unscrew the top. The alcohol, Livia realized.
And then a vivid image flashed inside her mind: the way they killed snakes in the village. Not by cutting off the tail.
By cutting off the head.
Skull Face raised the bottle to his mouth and tilted his chin up to drink. Livia took an enormous breath and raced forward, screaming with all her heart and lungs, the piercing wail of it exploding within the confines of the box like a thunderstorm. The men flinched. The children covered their ears.
Skull Face saw her coming and tried to move away. But before he could reach the door, Livia leaped, her free hand grabbing at his jacket, the other hand swinging the can top down and around like a tiger claw, slashing it across his eye. Skull Face shrieked and staggered back. Livia crashed into him and they both fell to the ground. Livia tried to slash his face again, but his hands were up and she succeeded only in cutting his arms. She darted her head in, got her teeth around the meat under one of his thumbs, and bit as hard as she could, bit the way she’d imagined doing every time they had made her do the disgusting thing, and Skull Face howled and jerked his hand free and she slashed at him again, trying to get past his arms to his face and especially his eyes. There was blood in her mouth and on her face and she felt a savage excitement at the smell and taste of it, the awareness that she was hurting Skull Face, maybe killing him.
And then she was being pulled backward, and she twisted and slashed with the can top and cut one of the other men across the cheek. He yelled and she tried to slash him again, but the other man grabbed her arm and pulled it behind her back. She felt a jolt of pain in her shoulder, and the bloody can top was pulled from her fingers. The man threw an arm around her stomach, jerked her high into the air, and slammed her down onto the metal floor. Livia saw stars and the breath was knocked out of her.
After that, everything was confusion-Skull Face rolling back and forth on the floor, wailing, his hands covering his face; the other men trying to help him; the children retreating to the walls of the box, screaming and crying. Livia tried to yell at them to run, run! But she couldn’t breathe. She watched, agonized, as the other men pulled Skull Face to his feet and dragged him through the door. The children could have easily rushed past them, but none of them tried, not even Kai. They all just sat and cried, their backs to the walls, their arms around their knees.
Then the door slammed closed and the box went dark. Livia heard the bolts scraping into place, the clank of the lock closing. And then there was nothing but the sound of the children’s tears and the sharp smell of the men’s blood.
Amid the other children’s sobs, she heard Nason crying, “Labee, where are you? Labee?”
She managed to draw a breath and sit up. Her shoulder hurt from the way the man had jerked her arm. She swallowed to wet her throat and said, “I’m here, little bird.”
“Where?”
“Follow my voice. I’m sitting in the middle of the box.”
She kept talking, and it was almost like one of their games. A moment later, Nason stumbled into her, then collapsed into her arms, crying. Livia stroked her hair and whispered to her that it would be all right, it would be all right.
“Why you did that?” she heard someone call out in Thai. “Why?”
It was the Yao boy, the coward. Livia considered not answering, but then said, “Why you no run?”
“Run? Run where?”
In fact, it wasn’t an unreasonable question. Livia didn’t really know what was out there. A boat, yes, but beyond that she barely had any idea. Were there other people? The boat was so big, there must have been. But where were the people? And would they help?
“You want stay here?” she said. “Like chicken in trap?”
“Yes!” the Yao boy said. “In here food. Water. What if now men don’t come? What if men mad now? No bring food! No water!”
A low, collective moan of terror filled the box. But Livia didn’t feel frightened. She felt rage-rage at the Yao boy’s cowardice, and even more that he didn’t care what she was being forced to do to keep the men happy while he cowered in the box, warm and safe and well fed. If the men hadn’t taken the can top from her, she would have found the Yao boy and slashed him with it. Well, she didn’t need the top. She could hurt him with her nails, and her teeth.
But no. She had to take care of Nason-that was what mattered. So she said, “You could run. But you no run. What happens, you did, not me.”
She wanted to believe that. But she didn’t. She knew she’d wounded a tiger. And that the tiger was going to come back.