Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(14)

I spend another three hours with Jackie, going over every detail; I show her photos of Izzy, and, because I want Jackie to be sure herself about this, I also show her photos and videos of the girls in compounds—not just Mexico, but everywhere else, too—and the things that happen to them. Jackie doesn’t want to do this—it’s all over her face—but money is The Great Negotiator, and one million is hard enough for a rich man to pass up, much less a woman who lives in a trailer park and drives a 2001 Acura with a huge dent in the driver’s door.

“Physically, you’ll be fine,” I tell her. “You’re considered too old to be kidnapped and sold in the slave trade, and my ex-military guys who’ll be going with you can protect you from the occasional horny idiot who might try to have his way with one of the rich buyers. But I doubt you’ll have to worry about that, even. They don’t usually mess with the buyers; but keeping your story straight, and being able to prove you are who you say you are is the most important job. You play the part, and I’ll prove it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure my story will be backed-up if they try to verify who I am?” she asks.

“Not if,” I say, “but when. They always do background checks. You just play your part, and don’t worry about the rest. I wouldn’t send you in there if I didn’t have that part under control.”

“OK.” She can’t keep eye contact with me anymore; her eyes stray everywhere else.

“Jackie”—I place my hand on her knee—“are you sure you can do this? You can’t go in there with that look on your face.”

She straightens her back and forces a believable smile easily enough.

“I’m sure I can do this,” she says. “And I want to. I’ve always wanted to shake things up a bit in my life”—she laughs under her breath—“didn’t exactly envision doing anything like this; I’d always dreamed of being an actress and going to Hollywood parties where I felt important”—she looks right at me; her nervous smile becomes something more confident—“But nothing ever happens how we envision it, does it, Nik?”

“No, it really doesn’t.” I laugh a little, too.

“What did you dream of being,” she asks, “before your life took the road it took?”

Free, I think to myself. Free to be…just like you, Jackie Young.

I never answer her question.

I fuck her before I leave, and I head straight for the bar where I’ve been living in a room upstairs, the same bar where I met her. And I don’t sleep—too much shit on my mind—but I just stare at the ceiling until night becomes day, and I can’t help but wonder if Izzy is already dead, and that none of this really matters anymore.





The Red Lotus


Hours. Five hours twenty-one minutes. Airline employees are talking amongst themselves about the strange, detached woman sitting on the same chair for over five hours. She moves nothing but her head; her eyes follow people as they walk by, rolling suitcases pulled beside them, briefcases clutched in hands, carry-ons hung over shoulders.

A man approaches her, dressed in his airline uniform; other employees behind the ticket counter watch from afar.

“Ma’am,” he begins, uneasiness in his voice, “What flight are you waiting for?”

The woman raises her eyes; she sees the tiny hairs stand up on the side of his neck as she looks at him blankly, unblinking. She tilts her head, studying him, as if he were an intriguing specimen of sorts.

After a moment, and no answer: “Ma’am?” The employee takes a small step backward, needing more distance between them.

And then…she smiles.

The man blinks, confused by the strange woman.

“I am waiting for a flight returning from Mexico,” she answers kindly.

The man nods. “Do you know which one? I could help you; looks like you’ve been waiting for a long time.”

Another smile, subtle, more around the eyes than her mouth; her movements are still few, but she appears less threatening to the man than before.

“I came early,” she says. “I didn’t want to miss it, so I came early.”

The man nods again; like most people, he instinctively knows something is off about this woman, but also like most people, he ignores it. Because she is being kind. Because she is pretty. And small. And seemingly harmless. Because she is a woman.

Finally, he smiles in return. “Well, is there anything I can do to make your wait more comfortable? Would you like something to drink? A coffee maybe?’ He glances down the wide walkway toward the café.

“No, but thank you.” She folds her dainty hands together on her lap.

“OK, well, just let me know if you need anything.” He nods toward the ticket counter. “I’ll just be over there; at least until my shift is over in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” the woman says.

The man begins to walk away, but the woman stops him.

“Sir.”

He turns around.

“Would you…like to have a coffee together?”

His posture shifts. He pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and checks the time.

“I guess I can take my break early,” he says and slips the phone back into his pocket. “Let me tell them what’s up and I’ll escort you there.” He smiles.