A Walk Across the Sun (47 page)

On Sunday morning, Thomas awoke to the sound of birdsong and the whisper of the sea breeze in fronds of palm. He turned over in the bed and saw that Priya was gone. Her absence gave him little cause for concern. At home she had often risen early to greet the day. He rubbed his temples. They had been out late the night before, enjoying the gaiety at Palolem Beach. He had ordered one drink too many—enough to leave him with a pulsing headache.

He listened for the sound of the shower but heard nothing. She must have gone for a walk. He went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn't shaved in four days, and the stubble had begun to turn into a beard. He took out his razor and cleaned himself up. They were heading back to Bombay on the midafternoon flight. He wasn't looking forward to returning, but perpetual holidays were a thing of fantasy. Work was the way of the world.

He crossed to his duffel bag and threw on a pair of swimming trunks and a T-shirt. They still had the morning yet. There was no use rushing to the airport. He turned around and walked toward the door, expecting to find Priya on the beach. It was then that he saw his BlackBerry sitting on the breakfast table, a sheet of notepaper beneath it. He stared at the note, and his eyes went wide with shock.

In her scrawling hand, Priya had written, “How could you?”

He picked up the phone. The device was in standby mode. He hit a button on the keyboard, and the screen came alive. At once he saw the e-mail and everything fell into place.

Tera had written:

Thomas, I know why you left. I had a hunch, but I didn't have proof until now. They gave you an ultimatum, didn't they? They needed a scapegoat. God, I can't believe they did that. But it makes sense of everything. You're wondering how I know: A few days ago, the cleaning crew caught Mark Blake with a paralegal in his office. The firm asked for his resignation. I asked around and found somebody who would talk to me about what happened. There's no need to run anymore, Thomas. The air will clear, and memories will fade. I've realized since you left how much I want to be with you again. Please don't leave me in silence anymore. We understand each other.

He threw the phone on the bed. How
dare
Priya read his e-mails? How
dare
Tera snoop around in his private affairs? How
dare
the world screw him over so royally? His love for Priya was genuine. He had come to India with mixed motives, yes, but his interest in reconciliation was pure. The past few days had not been an illusion. They had talked of the
future
, for God's sake. Tera had been a grave mistake in judgment, but it was understandable under the circumstances and he had tried to sever his ties with her.

He grabbed the phone again and stomped out of the hut, making long strides to the beach. The shore was largely deserted when he arrived. A humid wind blew steadily off the sea, tossing up whitecaps. He saw her sitting near the waterline. He trudged toward her, trying out words in his mind. All were misfits, destined to turn him into a fool or a boor.

She saw him from a distance and stood up. She began to run away from him. She was fast, but he was faster. He caught up to her only paces away from the boulders where they had shared the first kiss of their reunion.

“Get
away
from me!” she shouted, yanking her arm away when he touched it. “How
could
you, Thomas? I
trusted
you.”

She took off again.

“Stop, for God's sake,” he said, planting himself in her path. “Let's talk about this.”

“There's nothing to talk about!” she said. “You lied to me about Tera and you lied to me about Clayton. That's just about everything.”

“This weekend hasn't been a lie,” he pleaded.

“This weekend is the greatest lie of them all. I made love to you. I started to believe in the future again. And now?” She shook her head. “All these years my father was right.”

Thomas was stunned. “How can you say that? How can you possibly say that? Fellows Garden wasn't a lie. Our wedding wasn't a lie. Mohini—”

“Don't
say her name,” Priya cried, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don't
you say her name, you bastard.
I
was the one who gave her life.
I
was the one who took care of her while you were slaving away for that five-hundred-dollar-an-hour self-promoting circus you call a law firm.
I
was the one who watched her grow while you were having the time of your life in Tera's bedroom.”

He clenched his fists. “I wasn't sleeping with her, Priya. I told you the truth. I had nobody to talk to. You were catatonic. Tera was there when I needed somebody to listen.”

She took a step toward him and pointed her finger at his chest accusingly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you never slept with Tera Atwood.”

The guilt in his eyes betrayed him.

“I knew it!” she raged. “I knew it all along. That's why I read your e-mails. I knew you were lying to me.”

“You read my e-mails because you were paranoid!” he said, giving full vent to his own anger. “I didn't sleep with her until after you left me to go back home to Daddy.”

She threw herself at him and pummeled his chest with her hands. “Get away from me!” she said. “Leave me alone!”

They stepped back and faced one another.

“You know,” he said, reining himself in, “it's a shame, because I really love you, Priya. I've made mistakes, but I came here in good faith. I wanted to move on. Tera sent me that e-mail because she hasn't accepted the line I drew in the sand. I can't resolve her delusions or make her go away, but she's on the other side of the world. I'm here in Goa with you. I've been happier this weekend than I've been in years. I want the future we talked about. But I guess that isn't good enough.”

Priya looked toward the ocean, her dark hair billowing in the wind. His profession of love had pierced her defenses, he could tell. But she had no interest in surrender.

“You are so full of yourself, Thomas Clarke,” she said. “To you an apology is nothing more than an admission of imperfection. You disgust me.”

“So you want me to leave?” he asked, putting out his hands.

She shook her head sadly. “I don't care. I just don't want to see you anymore.”

He stood there until he was sure she wasn't going to change her mind.

“You win,” he said, turning away and starting back toward the bungalow. The anguish of the moment washed over him.

“You always win,” he whispered to himself.

Chapter 28

Heaven's mercy and its justice turn from them. Let's not discuss them; look and pass them by.
—D
ANTE

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Sita dozed through the night and woke every time the girl nearest her moved her feet. She didn't know how many hours had passed when the fat woman opened the door to the crypt. The woman handed over bags of apples and a jug of water and then closed the door again. As with the sleeping arrangements, the girls fought over the food. Sita's stomach growled, but she wanted no part of the combat. She waited quietly in the corner, hoping that one of the girls would find it in her heart to share. None did.

More time passed. The girls talked only when necessary to air a complaint. Sita wanted to ask if they knew where they were, but she was afraid to speak. Eventually the woman returned and allowed them to use a filthy bathroom beneath the basement steps. The toilet didn't flush, and the bowl was nearly overflowing. Sita plugged her nose and did her business, hoping she wouldn't send the vile mixture over the edge.

The light in the basement gave her a better look at her companions. Four were black; three were white. A number of them were pretty, but all of them looked unhealthy. Sita guessed that the youngest—a fraillooking child with pasty skin and stringy red hair—was thirteen and the oldest—the strong voice from the night—was eighteen.

After the red-haired girl finished her turn at the toilet, the fat man came down the stairs and took her by the arm, leading her back the way he had come. The girl hung her head and followed submissively. The woman gave them an angry look. One of the girls shifted her feet. The woman turned on her and slapped her across the face.

“I didn't say anything,” the girl cried, touching her cheek.

“Don't talk back to me, bitch!” the woman screamed. She rained down blows on the girl until she wore herself out. Panting heavily, she sat on the steps and waited until the red-haired girl returned to the basement. The girl walked slowly, staring at the floor. She retreated to the back of the crypt and buried her head in her hands.

“Get in there, goddamnit!” the woman yelled, shoving the girls toward the entrance.

Sita scampered away just beyond her reach and sat down next to the red-haired girl. The others crowded into the room, and the woman locked the door in place, leaving them in darkness. Sita put her arm around the girl and embraced her. The girl wept for a long while and then grew quiet.

She placed her hand on Sita's and left it there.

Sometime later, the door opened again, and the woman ushered them upstairs. The fat man stood at the top of the steps, and the chain smoker waited for them at the rear bumper of the panel truck. The girls climbed in and sat down. Sita had no idea of the hour, but it was dark outside. The fat man muttered something to the chain smoker about having to drive all night. Sita looked around at the faces of the girls, wondering if they knew their destination.

The oldest one said, “Here we go again.”

The truck came to life and the chain smoker pulled the door shut. The red-haired girl sat beside Sita and held her hand. Emboldened by the girl's friendship, Sita began to ask her questions. She spoke just loud enough to be heard over the engine.

She learned that the girl's name was Elsie, that she was fifteen years old—not thirteen as Sita had supposed—and that she came from a small town in the mountains west of Pittsburgh. Her story was the stuff of nightmares. Her stepfather had molested her for years with the knowledge of her mother. When he started on her younger sister, Elsie threatened to go to the police. Her father waved a knife in her face and said he would cut her if she spoke a word to anyone. She ran away the next day.

“Where did you go?” Sita whispered.

“I got a bus ticket to New York City,” Elsie said. “You know the show
Top Model
?”

Sita shook her head.

“Anyhow, they were looking for talent. I figured I'd give it a shot. Maybe not right away, you know, but I figured I'd make some friends and they'd help me out.” Elsie choked up and she squeezed Sita's hand. “I got stuck with Rudy …”

Rudy, it turned out, had struck up a conversation with her outside a convenience store. He'd promised her a job in modeling. She went with him to a warehouse, where he raped her and videotaped the act. He told her he would send the tape to her parents if she didn't do what he said. Rudy took her to his apartment and raped her until he grew tired of her. Then he sold her to a man who took her to a house some distance away and locked her in the basement. There she met three other girls. Men came to the house late at night to have sex with them.

A few weeks later, the girls were moved to another brothel. Every two weeks, they were moved again. Occasionally girls were added and others were removed. Sometimes they were forced to pose in the nude and perform sex acts before the camera.

Sita flashed back to Vasily's office and shuddered. “What did they do with the pictures?”

“Probably put them on the Net,” Elsie replied. “My daddy looked at pictures all the time when I was little. He showed them to me, too.”

In the past year, the trafficking network had taken her all over the eastern part of the country. She was never afforded a break, even when she was sick. And though the customers paid between $40 and $120 for her services, she never received any of the money. There seemed to be an endless supply of customers. They loved her because she was young and had pretty eyes, or so they told her. She had been a lot lizard at the Harrisburg truck stop once before, but she couldn't recall the exact date.

Sita asked where the men were taking them.

Elsie shrugged. “Could be anywhere.”

They drove for hours and hours, stopping only for gasoline and once in a pasture to allow the girls to urinate. Elsie asked Sita her own story, and Sita told her about the tsunami and her journey from India.

“You speak English damn good for an Indian,” Elsie said.

“We learned it in school,” Sita replied, “and we practiced it at home.”

“Why not speak your own language?”

“Because the whole world speaks English,” Sita said.

Elsie nodded. “That's because America's the best country on earth.”