So we stay locked up till the marks go away…
Ana heard the sounds of tires climbing the curb-El Gato liked to park his SUV off the narrow street, its right-side wheels crushing the weeds growing in the sidewalk cracks-then the engine being turned off. Next came a door being opened and shut, followed by a short honk that reported a button on the remote had been pushed to lock the SUV’s doors and activate its alarm.
Ana suddenly realized that the sounds had caused her palms to sweat and that she had begun to slightly shake. She felt one of the girls, who apparently recognized the shaking for what it was, rubbing her back in a calming fashion.
Dear God, please do not let him come up here.
I told him again and again I do not know where Rosario went.
Another beating will not change that.
She next heard the unlocking of the front door, then the heavy footfalls quickly pounding up the flight of wooden steps. Finally, the bedroom door swung open.
Faint light from the streetlights up Hancock bled in through the open window, which had been wedged open to provide the room with some-any-air circulation on the hot humid night. El Gato was dimly lit in the doorway.
Maybe with my bruises almost gone he is taking me to work?
Please, no…
As El Gato approached the bed, she saw something fall from his hand, then heard it make a soft bump as it hit the wooden floor. Ana suddenly curled up defensively in the fetal position. Then, when he grabbed her by the collar of her T-shirt, the two younger girls back-crawled off the mattress to a dark corner of the room.
“No…” Ana softly said, and whimpered in anticipation of what was about to come.
Breathing heavily, Juan Paulo Delgado hovered ominously over her.
Ana smelled the alcohol on his breath, some beer probably and what had to be tequila. She could visualize his cold hard eyes in the dark even though she could not clearly see them. Then she heard him grunt-and saw his right arm in silhouette suddenly swing back, then forward, his palm finding her face. As she recoiled, her T-shirt ripped in his left hand.
“No mas! No mas, por favor!” she cried out, wishing that this all was just another nightmare. But she then felt the sting of his backhanded slap, and she understood with painful clarity that this was building to be the real thing. Again.
“You fucking bitches! Every one of you!” Delgado yelled in English, then swung again, this time striking her with a balled fist. He switched to Spanish: “I helped you, made you family, and how do you repay me?”
Ana looked away from El Gato, trying to hold her small hands to her face as protection.
“You want to see your cousin?” he went on in Spanish, and hit her again. “I take you to Rosario! I’m through with the both of you!”
Ana began to sob. She did not understand; for months now she had been doing the disgusting work for El Gato, selling her body to repay her passage debt-and now her room and board-to him. As had Rosario. And it was not Ana’s fault that Rosario had had enough and finally run off. Though Ana knew that it was futile to try to make that point now.
El Gato again cursed her, and her cousin, then hit her again.
The salty taste of sweat on Ana’s lips now mingled with a metallic one-and she recognized the warm sticky fluid as her blood.
As El Gato yelled-there was a furiousness in his voice that she had never before heard, even during the other beatings-she silently prayed, Holy Mother of God, please make him stop.
But he began striking her repeatedly, the sickening thuds of his fist on her face triggering whimpers of sympathy-or fear, or both-from Alicia and Jorgina, who were clinging to each other in the corner of the bedroom.
Then she stopped sobbing, made an awful groan, and went limp.
And Ana Maria Del Carmen Lopez’s prayer was answered; he stopped beating her.
Alicia and Jorgina, fearful El Gato would turn and unleash his fury on them, tried to silence their whimpering. They watched in the dimness as he walked back to the doorway, picked up what he’d dropped on the floor, then returned to Ana.
The sound of a strip of heavy tape being ripped from its roll came next. Delgado applied that over Ana’s mouth and nose. He then took the roll of heavy tape and wrapped her wrists behind her back, then bound together her ankles.
He threw the roll of tape back on the floor, then grunted as he dragged Ana’s limp body out the door and let it fall with a dull thud.
A moment later, he came back into the room.
Alicia and Jorgina recoiled.
El Gato walked over to them in the corner. He got down on one knee and in Spanish softly said, “It will be okay now,” then reached out with his left hand and stroked Alicia’s hair, his fingers brushing her tattoo in the process.
Then he pulled from the front pocket of his blue jeans two paper packets and tossed them to the floor by the girls. Without looking, the girls knew what they were.
Each small packet-the size of a business card-was white and had a rubber stamp imprint in light blue ink of a cartoonish block of Swiss cheese, on either side of which were three lines that shot outward-not unlike the lines of their D tattoos-and above the cheese the legend QUESO AZUL.
“If you’re good, and I know you will be, I will bring you more,” he said, then stroked Jorgina’s hair and stood and left the room.
Alicia and Jorgina heard the thump, thump, thump of El Gato dragging Ana down the stairs. Then the back door opening, then the sliding of the minivan door, then the grating of the wooden slat gate of the lot. There was a banging of metal tools in the lawn care trailer, then the slamming shut of a minivan door.
The Plymouth spun its wheels in the dirt and gravel of the lot, the tires chirping as it quickly drove off the sidewalk and up the street.
In the now eerie silence of the dirty bedroom, fourteen-year-old Alicia and Jorgina clung to each other and started crying uncontrollably.
After a few minutes, Jorgina reached for one of the paper packets. She opened the flap at the end, took the tiny straw from inside, put that to her nose, and snorted the brown powder contents of the packet.
II
[ONE] Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:10 A.M.
After Matt Payne had gently lowered the screen of his notebook computer, closing it to put it in sleep mode, he’d gotten up from the desk and crossed the room to go into his bedroom. It had been a short trip.
“Small” didn’t begin to describe the apartment, which actually was the garret of a brownstone mansion, 150 years old and recently renovated. The first three floors had been converted to office space, the current occupant being the Delaware Cancer Society. The garret had been turned into an apartment-no more than a bedroom barely able to contain its king-size bed (and nothing more, the few lamps and shelves wall-mounted), a bath not large enough for a bathtub, a kitchen separated from the dining area by a sliding partition stuck half-open, and a living room from which a small area of historic Rittenhouse Square could be seen if one stood high on tiptoe and squinted through one of its two eighteen-inch-wide dormer windows.
Payne pulled on a pair of lightweight khakis, a black T-shirt, and then a short-sleeved striped cotton shirt that he left unbuttoned down the front and the shirttail untucked. He slipped his wallet and badge into the back pockets of his pants, and his cellular phone and two magazines of.45 ACP ammo in the front ones. His bare feet went into a well-worn pair of boater’s deck shoes. Then he pulled back the tail of his striped cotton shirt. He snugged his loaded Colt Officer’s Model semiautomatic pistol-six rounds in the mag, one in the chamber-inside the waistband of his khakis so that it rested comfortably on his right hip. He felt the cold of the stainless-steel pistol through his clothing.