There it was, parked in back where she’d left it. She undid the disc lock, the steering lock, and the cable lock she’d run through the rear wheel and around a signpost. She stuffed the cable lock in the backpack and pulled out a florescent vest, which she slipped over the leather jacket. Nothing stealthy about her appearance now-just a good, honest citizen and responsible rider. The kind that made cops feel comfortable. The kind they tended to ignore.
She drifted out the other side of the motel parking lot, keeping it in first, the engine growling softly. In three minutes, she was heading south on Interstate 5, the wind whipping past her, the throttle open, the bike thrumming between her thighs. She resisted the urge to tuck in and gun it, not wanting to take any unnecessary chances. Even if highway patrol might be willing to offer a little professional courtesy to a fellow cop, a traffic stop would place her in the vicinity at around the time Billy had shuffled off his mortal coil. And while she knew she could outrun and outride anyone who tried to pull her over, a high-speed chase would entail its own set of risks.
Considerations like these were always involved when she hunted down a repeat-offending, misdemeanor-pleading rapist scumbag. This time, though, there was even more at stake. Yes, this time, the rapist scumbag’s death was going to be the occasion for a big funeral, a send-off white supremacist-style, attended by the entire Hammerhead gang. And what Livia learned from that funeral would give her what she needed to go after the real prize: a senior Hammerhead named Timothy “Weed” Tyler, who was about to finish a sixteen-year prison stretch at Victorville.
The last time Livia had seen Tyler, he had been one of her captors. And he was the only person alive who might be able to tell her what had happened to her sister, Nason. Nason, her little bird, who had been missing since they had both been trafficked from Thailand as children.
3-THEN
It was the end of the rice harvest when the men came to the village and took Livia and her sister Nason. Livia was thirteen. Nason was eleven. Their parents had sold them.
It had been morning, the time the children ordinarily would have been feeding the chickens, except that this year there were no more chickens in the village, or pigs for that matter, or even dogs. The last three harvests had been poor, and everyone was hungry. Livia caught worms, frogs, spiders, even scorpions, but it was hardly enough, and the emptiness in her belly gnawed at her constantly, sometimes merely an itch, more often an angry, throbbing ache.
Their father had told them to play outside, which he sometimes did when he was irritable, so they went out to the dirt in front of the small thatched hut and pretended to be different animals-fish swimming in the river, birds flying across the sky, tigers creeping stealthily through the jungle. It was one of their favorite games, and in fact Nason’s birdsong imitations were so uncanny that Livia’s pet name for her was “little bird.” They laughed delightedly whenever Nason got real birds to answer, and the game distracted them both from thoughts of the food they didn’t have.
They were Lahu, one of the hill tribes living in Thailand’s mountainous forests along the Burmese and Laotian border. But borders, like the outside world generally, were largely an abstraction for Livia. There was a single radio in her village, used mostly for music. The only television was a tiny vintage model that, when the weather was right, displayed snowy images picked up from a Burmese station somewhere to the north. She had heard of something called the Internet, but had little idea of what it could be.
Livia spoke some Thai from the provincial school she sometimes attended, and wanted to learn more. But her parents didn’t see why anyone would need a language other than Lahu. Besides, in better years, there were too many chores to allow for frivolities like schooclass="underline" rice to be planted and then harvested; well water to be fetched; game to be hunted. By the time she was six, Livia was already expert with the a-taw-the Lahu machete used for everything from clearing a trail to felling trees to butchering a chicken; the law-gaw, the sickle used for threshing rice; and the heh hga geu dtu ve, a wicker cage in which a small chick was placed in the forest to attract jungle fowl, which could then be shot with a ka-a crossbow of ancient but effective design.
Though Nason was only two years younger than Livia, she was small for her age and not very strong. Livia worried about her. She had seen what happened to the smallest piglets in the litters born to the village sows. Denied access to their mothers’ teats by their greedy brothers and sisters, the little ones quickly weakened, and it was never long before the villagers butchered them for their scant meat. Livia hated it. She would push away the stronger siblings so the little ones could get a turn at a teat-she would even feed them herself-but it was never enough. She knew Nason needed someone to help her, too. But their parents were too busy to give the girls much attention, and their brother Zanu, fifteen, handsome, and already the topic of marriage gossip in the village, couldn’t be bothered. Livia would have to protect Nason herself.
One night, lying on the pallet she shared with Nason, separated from the rest of the hut by a curtain, she heard her parents talking in low voices about the government in Bangkok, how it was trying to stop the hill tribes from farming by their traditional method of cutting and burning. Something about the environment. Her mother was frightened. How would they eat? Her father said they would have to find the girls jobs. Livia didn’t think that sounded so terrible, but for some reason her mother strongly protested, even daring to raise her voice. But Livia’s father silenced her by asking if she would rather see her children starve.
Nason stirred. Livia handed her the small wooden protection Buddha she had carved herself, and which they both liked to keep by the pallet. Sometimes holding the Buddha helped Nason sleep. Then Livia stroked her hair to soothe her, but Nason’s eyelids fluttered open. She moaned and rubbed her stomach.
“Here, little bird,” Livia whispered, reaching into a small shoulder bag. “I saved this for you.”
It was a durian fruit, Nason’s favorite. Livia had found it deep in the forest, fallen and overlooked by others foraging for food. She had badly wanted to eat it herself, but knew Nason might wake up hungry.
“No, Labee,” Nason said, calling Livia by her Lahu name. “It’s yours. You need it, too.”
“I don’t. I had some already. I’m full.”
She knew Nason didn’t believe her. But was there anything more persuasive than hunger?
Nason looked longingly at the fruit. “We’ll share it, then.”
Livia nodded and took a small bite. And made sure Nason ate the rest, encouraging her to go slowly so it would last.
When the durian was gone, she snuggled closer to Nason and put her arms around her. And somehow, despite the hunger, despite her parents’ frightening words, when she heard Nason softly snoring again, she slept, too.
The men came not long after.
Livia and Nason were out playing, as their father had directed them. Livia was laughing at the way Nason was shimmying her body like a fish when they heard an unfamiliar sound-a car engine. Livia looked up and saw a rusting white van bouncing toward them along the rutted dirt road, a plume of dust behind it. She and Nason stopped their game and stood, watching.