Elevator, The (20 page)

With her suitcase in hand, Isabel followed Juana up the Jetway, then stepped to the right in the airport gate. She moved to an empty seat and unzipped her bag, pretending to look for her passport while the other girls mingled with the tourists, businessmen and grandparents on their way to visit family in the United States.

When the last passenger had exited the Jetway, Isabel pulled a stick of gum from her bag, then zipped the case and walked toward the bustling hall where the others had disappeared. Though she had been perspiring all day, she felt suddenly slick with the clammy sweat of fear. So many people, and all of them in a hurry! How would she be able to tell the good people from the bad?

Ernesto’s New York contacts would be watching from the customs exit. Though she had never seen them, a vivid picture rose in her mind—they would be a darkly handsome, narrow-eyed group standing with their arms crossed and their jaws tight while they silently counted heads. When they realized one of their sheep was missing, they would question the waiting girls. Juana and the others would be so intimidated, in a matter of minutes the men would have Isabel’s name and description. They would send someone into the airport, and they would search for her. They might even tell the customs officials to watch for Isabel Juanita Alvarado.

They would not be happy.

Though Isabel was so nervous her teeth clicked like castanets, she had decided not to join the other girls. Ernesto’s contacts would be furious, they would post a guard and watch the airport for days, but endless hours at the cotton mill had taught Isabel patience. She would wait them out, she would pray for her
mamá,
and she would keep her baby safe.

Ernesto would not believe she had run. He had killed Rodrigo to frighten her into submission; he had been sure she would obey his commands and come shivering back to him.

But before she’d left for the apartment where she would have to swallow the cocaine capsules, she had placed a briefcase under her mother’s bed.
Do not call the police,
she’d written,
but leave Monterrey at once. Do not look for me. Take this money—it is enough for travel, but not so much Ernesto will come after you—and go to a city where no one knows us.

I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused.

Te quiero, Mamá. Vaya con Dios.

Mamá
and Rodrigo had been right about Ernesto; she had been wrong. She had already lost her brother, but she would not lose her mother.

If doing penance for her sin meant never seeing her mother again, she would sacrifice that love as an act of contrition. She would leave Monterrey and never return to
México.

A brave woman would stand up to the drug dealers; she would find someone who could be trusted, and she would tell him everything about the girls who were carrying cocaine into
los Estados Unidos.

She was not a brave woman. She did not deserve a new life in America, but her baby deserved more than a father like Ernesto.

3:00 p.m.

U
nable to resist a wave of curiosity, Gina watches as Michelle leans toward Isabel, her face set in lines of concentration. “So…what did you do?”

Isabel wipes her tears, then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I swallowed the drugs and came to New York, but instead of meeting Ernesto’s men, I hid
en el baño.
”

Gina looks at Michelle. “What did she say?”

“The restroom, I think,” Michelle answers, her eyes soft with sympathy. She turns back to the maid. “Didn’t they think to check the restrooms?”

The girl’s dark lashes shutter her eyes. “Too many people around for the men to come in. They sent one of the girls in to look for me, but I gave her money to say she did not see me. At night, when the cleaners came in, I would move to a gate and pretend to wait for a plane, but in the mornings I would get something to eat and go back to the restroom. When I thought it would be safe to leave, I covered my head with a sweater I found on a bench. I wanted to be sure Ernesto’s friends would not know me.”

“What, um, happened to the cocaine?” Michelle asks.

Isabel swallows hard as a flush mottles her neck. “Down the toilet.”

Gina barks a laugh. “I’m surprised her thugs weren’t hanging out at the sewage treatment plants.”

“They weren’t her thugs.” Michelle tosses the comment over her shoulder, then focuses again on the maid. “How long did you stay at the airport?”

“
Cinco días.
Five days.”

“After that, you came to Florida?”

When Isabel grimaces, Gina wonders if the girl is struggling to remember…or wishing she could forget. “When I was ready to leave, I had only two thousand pesos. Some of it was Ernesto’s money, but most of it was mine.”

Gina stretches her legs into the empty space at the center of the car. “You should have been fine, then.”

Michelle scowls. “That’s not even two hundred dollars. You can’t get a decent hotel room for that in the city.”

“I had one hundred eighty-eight dollars,” Isabel says. “I changed the money behind the security gates. When I thought the men might have stopped watching for me, I went through customs and took a cab to the
estación
—” She looks at Michelle, her face twisting. “You know the name? A big
estación?
”

“Grand Central?”

“No, Greyhound
de autobús.
I gave the man all the money I had, and he said it would be enough to get me to Charlotte. So I bought a ticket and got on the bus, but when I sat down and looked out the window, I saw—” A shudder shakes her.

“What?” Michelle asks. “What’d you see?”

“Ernesto.” Isabel’s voice thickens. “He had come from
México,
and he had someone watching for me at customs. That man couldn’t catch me before I got on the bus, but he called Ernesto so they could follow. Ernesto talked to the man at the bus station and knew when I would arrive to Charlotte. He knew everything.”

The wind continues to moan in the shaft above them, but now Gina scarcely notices. Staring at Isabel, she realizes the Mexican girl would have been about seventeen when she landed in New York—the same age as Mandi. How would her daughter handle that situation? Mandi isn’t involved in any kind of drug abuse, thank goodness, but despite all the precautions a parent might take, one never knows who a teenager will encounter at a party or a friend’s house….

Her daughter, she admits with great reluctance, might be just as susceptible to the charms of a handsome young man. But she’d never submit to emotional blackmail; if she found herself in a situation like the one Isabel faced, she’d come home, pour her troubles into Gina’s lap and wait for her mother to make the world right again.

And Gina would. No matter where they lived, she’d grab a rifle and go hunting for drug lords before she would let her daughter serve as human camouflage for some snakeskin-booted lowlife.

She would also arrange a quiet abortion for her daughter. She would do anything to erase the situation from Mandi’s memories, to pretend none of it ever happened.

And yet…all of it happened to Isabel. The girl has lost everything, been driven from her country and borne her tormentor’s child. Mandi would crumple under such pressure, maybe even consider suicide.

Gina has to admit the Mexican girl has courage.

“Ernesto stood outside the bus and stared at me,” Isabel says, her body rigid, her fists clenched. “He couldn’t get on, but I knew he would follow.”

“You could have slipped off the bus at any stop,” Gina says, folding her arms. “You could have left that miscreant behind.”

“I didn’t know what to do.” Isabel’s soft voice is tinged with terror. “I felt trapped, so I sat in the seat and cried. That’s when Carlos saw me. He sat beside me and by the time we reached Raleigh, I had told him everything.”

When Isabel lifts her head, the clear light of devotion shines from her dark eyes. “In Raleigh, Carlos got off the bus, walked into the office, and called
la policía.
Ernesto and three of his men had been following in a car, waiting for me to come off the bus, but they drove away when
la policía
came. While they were gone, Carlos bought me another ticket and walked me to another bus. We came to Tampa and got married before Rafael was born.”

“Do you ever worry?” Michelle asks. “About Ernesto finding you?”

The maid’s answering smile is frayed around the edges. “Every day.”

Gina clears her throat. “Sounds to me like you might be here illegally. Did you get a green card?”

Michelle turns and gives her a black look. “Cut the girl some slack. She was running for her life.”

“I don’t have anything against her personally, but it’s a legitimate question,” Gina insists. “Our borders are being overrun with these people—they’re taking jobs from Americans—”

“I work the graveyard shift, emptying trash cans, dusting shelves and washing windows,” Isabel interrupts. “Nobody else wants this job. And Carlos is an American citizen. We did not marry for a green card—we married because Carlos loves me. I don’t know why, but he does.”

Gina nods, less interested in the woman’s employment situation than in the loving look that lights her eyes whenever she whispers her husband’s name. Did Sonny ever love her like that? Would he have married her if she had been penniless, on the run and pregnant with another man’s child?

Not likely. Gina has given up everything for him, yet the biggest sacrifice Sonny’s ever made for her was forfeiting his golf game on the Saturday she gave birth to Samantha.

Shifting to sit on her bent legs, Gina moves closer, tightening the circle of conversation. “Your situation was rough, but you escaped that danger and now you’re happy with your husband. I can see how much you love him, and I’m happy for you. Now…imagine how you’d feel if you discovered that your beloved Carlos has been having an affair.”

Her secret hangs in the air—revealed, spoken, pent up no longer. The maid acknowledges Gina’s confession with a grim nod, and the look in Michelle’s eyes shifts from irritation to sympathy.

Gina lowers her gaze as the shell of her bravado cracks under the pressure of their eyes. “After twenty-one years of faithful marriage, what do I have? A cheating spouse who steals from me and my children. A man who has opened offshore bank accounts because he hopes to hide most of his assets before he visits a divorce lawyer. A man who wouldn’t know poetry from a platitude. Some reward, huh?”

Lines of concentration deepen in Michelle’s forehead as she groans. “That is truly awful. I’m so sorry.”

Gina smiles a silent touché. “I don’t want pity—I deserve a medal. Let me tell you, being married to Sonny is no picnic. I helped him start his business on our kitchen table, did I tell you that? I worked my rear off helping him make a name for himself. He’s a bigwig, powerful and well-known in Tampa. We’re invited to all the right parties, we live in a good neighborhood and drive nice cars, but all I ever cared about was our kids. Well, yesterday a private investigator delivered proof—my husband’s been spending a fortune on some sweet tart of the month instead of investing for our children’s future. When he didn’t come home last night, I decided to do something about his philandering.”

Gina looks up to find Michelle studying her with a slightly perplexed expression, as if she’s considering a question she lacks the courage to ask. The girl really needs to develop some courage. If they’re going to be trapped together in this steel cage, they may as well be honest with each other…well, almost. As much as she’d love to tell the world what she intends to do to Sonny, that plan won’t succeed if anyone knows her true intention.

Avoiding Michelle’s eyes, she straightens her spine and presses it against the unyielding wall. “This morning, after I found the passbook for the offshore account, I decided to ask for a divorce. I was coming to the office to break the news when—” She gives Isabel a crooked smile. “Well, you know what happened.”

The maid shakes her head. “I am sorry for you.”

“Don’t be. I think Zsa Zsa Gabor had it right—husbands are like fires. They go out when left unattended.” Gina pulls her raincoat to her chest until the comforting weight of the pistol rests on her breastbone. “I’ve had it with Sonny. The marriage is over. As soon as we’re rescued, I’m going to give him the news and call the best divorce lawyer in town.”

Michelle leans toward her, concern in her eyes. “Are you sure about this? I know you’re upset, but twenty-one years is a lot to throw away. You have to think of your children.”

“I am thinking of my children.” Too drained to explain further, Gina closes her eyes. “After you’ve invested the best years of your life building a man’s family and career, maybe you’ll understand. I still have feelings for Sonny, but what I’m feeling isn’t love.”

“Maybe,” Michelle says, “you’ll feel love again tomorrow.”

Gina ignores the comment. “Passion is passion, I suppose. The man has always been able to drive me crazy.”

Maybe she should amend that—men have always driven her insane. Sonny, Matthew and even Sonny’s father have, on occasion, tied her heart into knots. The greatest loves of her life have also brought her the most pain.

Beginning with her dad.

Gina threw down her hairbrush and frowned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was impossible—the wrong color, the wrong texture, the wrong length. She’d asked the stylist to give her a look like Farrah Fawcett’s, but the girl hadn’t cut the bangs right. They’d looked okay when Gina had left the salon, but now the stubborn fringe wouldn’t cooperate.

She opened the bathroom door. “Mommmmm!”

Her mother’s face appeared at the end of the hallway. “What?”

“That girl at your salon didn’t know what she was doing! My bangs won’t feather like they’re supposed to.”

Mom came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. “Your hair looked lovely when we left. Maybe you’re not holding the brush right.”

“I’m holding it just like the girl did.”

“Honey, you can’t expect to get the same results as Joanie. After all, she’s a trained stylist and you’re seventeen—”

“I know what I’m doing, Mom, and nothing’s working.” Gina retreated before her mother’s patient smile, then sank to the edge of the bathtub. “Bruce is coming over in an hour and I’m not ready.”

“You want me to try and fix it?”

Gina didn’t think a woman who’d worn the same style for the last twenty years would be able to help, but she didn’t complain when her mother picked up the brush. She caught a section of hair at Gina’s forehead, wrapped it around the boar bristles, and turned on the blow dryer. Ever so lightly, she waved the appliance over the circular brush.

Gina drew a breath between her teeth. Why was her mother always so gentle? You had to be tough to wear Farrah hair; you had to pull it and curl it and bend it and fluff it. At this rate, she was never going to be ready in time.

“Never mind,” she said, taking the dryer from her mother’s hand. “That’s not right—it’s going to look ridiculous.”

“It’ll look fine.”

“You don’t know a thing about it, Mom—you wouldn’t understand.” Gina snapped off the dryer, then looked in the mirror and blew out a breath, lifting the limp hair over her brows. “We don’t have what I need, so I might as well call Bruce and tell him not to come. I won’t let him see me looking like this.”

Her father would have told her to stop being so melodramatic, but her mother placed a delicate hand on Gina’s shoulder. “What do you need?”

Gina whirled to face her. “I saw this commercial for a new shampoo called UltraMax. It’s supposed to prime your hair for blow drying and make it more manageable.”

A corner of her mother’s mouth rose in a half smile. “You really think shampoo is going to make a difference?”

“Haven’t you heard their commercial? ‘It’ll go the way you want it to, lift the way you want it to, drift the way you want it to…’”

Mom caught Gina’s hand and squeezed. “I get the idea.”

“Please, Mom, will you run up to the grocery and get me a bottle? If you leave now, I’ll have time to wash and dry my hair before Bruce gets here.”