Traffick (25 page)

“I didn't want my mother

to know where I was, so I gave

Walk Straight a made-up name

and told them my parents were

dead. Eventually, though, I had

to come clean. I'm a horrible

liar and besides, the people

at Walk Straight are so good

to me, I couldn't risk them

getting in trouble on my account.”

Okay. Two: I understand this

Jerome fellow assaulted you.

What about Ruenhaven himself?

I could make something up to

implicate him. If I don't, he might

just walk. Still, I can't lie. “Not

sexually, no. But he was completely

responsible for the isolation,

and lack of water, food, and

opportunity to use the bathroom.”

When she asks how I know

that, I tell her, “Because he was

very clear that he had personally

written the Tears of Zion rule book,

and deviation meant punishment.

He straight-on informed me that

my parents sanctioned whatever

actions he saw fit to provide,

and let me know they didn't want

me to come home. They still don't.”

Okay, then. I'll type this up

into a formal complaint and

have you sign it. One last

question before I do. Why

choose to come forward now?

“Because they sent my little

sister there, too. She's only

fourteen, and doesn't deserve

to be hurt the way I was. I need

you to help me save her.”

Marlene winces, and I know

she's thinking the same thing

I have over and over for the last

eight months: How could any

parent do this to their child?

What the outcome will be,

but I leave reassured that,

at the very least, Nevada

law enforcement has Tears

of Zion on its radar. Marlene

swears that's the case. “Also,”

I add, “my counselor did some

independent research. Samuel

Ruenhaven has had charges

brought against him personally

in Idaho. That's Sarah, waiting

for me, in case you want to talk

to her. I mean, I know you'll be

thorough and all. . . .” Come on,

Eden. Don't irritate her now.

But she's not mad. In fact,

she laughs.
I promise our

investigators can dig deeper

than Sarah can, but thanks

for the heads-up. And, Eden?

I know you're worried about

your sister. We'll do everything

we can to make sure Eve's safe.

The Elko County DA is a good

friend of mine. Try not to worry.

But that's all I can do at this

point. I despise feeling helpless,

can't stand spending every day

being reactive. How do I change

that? How can I become proactive?

On the ride back to Walk Straight,

I broach the subject with Sarah.

“I believe Marlene is on my side.

But how long will it take before

we hear something from Elko?”

Sarah's sigh could sink a life

preserver. Not a good sign.
Longer

than you'll want it to, I'm afraid.

Bureaucracy, you know. One

hand has to wash the other.

It's good that Marlene knows

the DA personally. That will

help speed up the process some.

And any extra time between now

and when this thing blows open

will benefit your emancipation.

Once your parents sign the papers

and they're filed, it won't be easy

for them to change their minds.

Hopefully this stays quiet till then.

We decided emancipation

is the best way to go, for

the very reason that once a judge

agrees, no one can decide otherwise

except the court itself. Walk

Straight is instrumental to my

qualifying, as they've “hired” me,

so I have a job that includes room

and board plus necessary transportation.

But Mama and Papa have to agree.

Riling them up now could be bad.

“You mean because my mother

might decide to get even.”

That revenge trumps disowning

her demon-possessed daughter.

She seems like the type, yes.

I'm expecting the notarized

papers any day now. Once I get

them, we file the petition and

secure a hearing date. Then

we still have to serve notice

on your parents, and that's before

you even see a judge. It's not really

complicated. It just takes time.

But don't worry. We'll make it happen.

Everyone keeps saying that,

but nobody tells me how

to make myself quit. Every

facet of my life is stressful.

Thank God I've got such great

support at Walk Straight.

Without this place and these

people, especially Sarah,

where would I be living today?

Would I even be alive,

let alone have a solid chance

at a decent future? Which

brings me back to Boise and

Tears of Zion. Because if

Elko County closes it down . . .

“Question. What happens

to Eve if Father packs up

his disciples and moves on?

She'd go home, right?” Yeah,

and if she does, then what?

I'm afraid that would be up

to your parents. As I said before,

usually parents are clueless

about what actually

goes on at these facilities.

It would be very hard

to prove they knew what

went on at Tears of Zion,

and even if you could, it

wouldn't be enough to make

the state step in and take

custody of your sister. Not

unless they actually took part

in the activities, or somehow

inflicted physical abuse.

But let me ask you a question.

Are you absolutely certain

your mom and dad
do
know?

Did you talk to your mother

about it when she was here?

“She never gave me the chance.

You don't talk to my mother.

She tosses words at you,

or in my case, insults. Besides,

no way would she admit it.”

Sarah shrugs.
Probably not.

But you never know, and I'm

big on communication, if

for no other reason than to

let the bad thoughts escape.

I've got around an hour

to kill before Andrew

is supposed to arrive.

I spend it helping Sarah

file paperwork. Earning

my paycheck, and letting

the bad thoughts escape

through mindless office

activity. I can hardly believe,

after this long, I'll see

my Andrew in just a short

while, and I keep watching

the time.
Click. Click. Click.

The hands of the old-fashioned

wall clock barely move at all,

then suddenly it's twelve

thirty, the appointed time.

But no Andrew.
Click. Click.

Twelve forty-five.
Click.

One o'clock. He's not coming.

I keep working, pushing

back tears. 1:10. 1:20.

And suddenly there's a male

voice outside the office.

The door opens, and . . .

At each other for several long

seconds. Oh my God. It's him.

It's really him. “Andrew.”

He opens his arms, and I'm in

them, and he picks me up,

spins me round and round

until my head is spinning, too.

Now he stops, looks down

into my eyes.
My beautiful

Eden. I finally caught you.

Our kiss is tentative at first,

and not just because he's wearing

a beard, but then it's like our lips

remember, and no amount of

facial hair can interfere with

this connection. It's sweet. And

passionate. And soaked in love.

It lasts for a very long time, until

finally I have to say, “Oh, Andrew,

I love you. Don't let go of me.”

He keeps his arms wrapped

tightly around me.
I'll never

let you go again. Can this

really be you? I thought I'd lost

you forever.
Tears fill his eyes.

I can't bear to pull away.

I lay my ear against his chest,

listen to his heartbeat, which

sparks delicious memories of lying

together under the Boise sky.

That scene fades into another,

out on his ranch, inhaling alfalfa

green while we made love for

the first—and only—time.

And that makes me think of Mama.

I extract myself from his arms,

reach up to touch the hair curling

softly around his chin. “You

grew a beard. I like it. Makes

you look so Idaho rancher.”

He smiles and his eyes glisten.

That's what I am, ma'am. Or, I

should say, miss. Have to remember

polite talk. I spend an awful lot

of time alone. Not anymore, though.

“Oh, Andrew, there's so much

to talk about. Some of it's good,

some I'm scared to tell you. But

I'm strong enough with you here.”

It's a three-hour conversation.

Just don't happen, no

matter how important

they are.

You

keep putting them off—

let's talk tomorrow, Cody,

or next week or next year—

because, think as hard

as you're able, you

don't

have the right words

to launch them. Or,

you withhold pertinent

facts because you don't

know

how the person across

the table might react.

But sometimes,

despite everything,

what

must be conveyed erupts

from your mouth

like a geyser you dare

not cap, and once that

happens, there's nothing left

to say.

Transferring myself from bed

to wheelchair and back into bed again.

The first few times were pretty damn

lame. Without Federico on my ass

to show me the ropes, I never

would have figured out the trick,

which has to do with weight shift

and lean, and compensating for what

my legs have lost with the strength

of my arms and core. Both were in

miserable shape until I decided I'm not

going to lie around grieving for the rest

of my life. Screw that. So I asked

for weights I could use in bed, and I'm

looking forward to time in the gym.

Tomorrow I move over to the rehab

hospital, where I'll work my butt off

every day, gaining what I can. If I wind

up back in Kansas, something I'm real

determined not to let happen, I want

to be the strongest wheelchair jockey

around, in case I need to kick some

farmer's ass for hitting on Mom or

something. I mean I could always use

a gun instead. But where's the challenge

in that? The game would be two viable

limbs conquering four. Not great odds,

but that's where the bluff—playing

the disabled card—comes in. Once

a gambler, always a gambler, I guess.

I'd probably be a better gambler

in the sticks, too, playing poker with

country boys. In Vegas, everyone knows

the rules of the game. Just, please God,

if there is a You, don't let me go back

to Kansas. “Hey, Jack. You up there?”

I hiss out loud. “Could you please put

in a good word for me? And if you

happen to be looking down, check this out.”

I pull the wheelchair over, very close,

angle it so I don't have to push up

over the wheel. Lean forward, scoot

my butt back, which puts my weight

forward. Feet flat on the floor, arms

close to my sides. Grab the bed frame

with one hand, the chair with the other,

and lift . . . The wheelchair rolls back

and in one sudden motion, fuck! I find

myself on the floor.
Did someone forget

to put on the brakes?
Federico sweeps

into the room.
How many times have

I told you to do that first? It's the most

important part. Oh, well. Why not