ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (2 page)

Jennifer stood on the balcony, watching the crowd
and listening to the cacophony of sound that seemed to envelope her. People
laughed, music blared and the crowd cheered as the parade passed by. Beads,
coins and candy were being tossed from floats.

She wanted so much to be a part of it—a part of
anything for that matter. She draped her thin frame over the banister to get a
better look.

“What the
hell’re
you
doing out here?”  Leon’s gruff voice startled her, for a second she
thought she’d lose her balance and go crashing two stories to the street below.
She almost wished she had.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he growled, “Get
inside”.

Jennifer knew better than to sass him. What Leon
wanted, Leon got. She went into the hall off the balcony and headed to her
room.

“I catch you out there again, and you get to go
you know where. Understand?”

Jennifer nodded, “Yes, I’m sorry. I just wanted
to see what was going on.”

“I don’
wanna
hear your
shit. By now you should know all’s that’s important round here is
what I
want
. Got it?”  When she didn’t respond, he cuffed her and repeated,
“Got it?”

“Uh, uh, yes, I got it.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Leon.”

“Who loves you?”

“You do.”

“Who feeds you, gives you a warm place to sleep
and clothes to wear?  Who?”

“You do.”

“Damn right. And what’ll happen if I decide to
stop?”

“I’ll starve.”

Jennifer knew the routine by heart and was
careful to make the correct response to his questions. The results of a wrong
answer or a sullen expression would mean either a beating or another week in
what Leon referred to as the bunker. She headed back to the place she called
“her room”.  A tiny hole-in-the-wall kind of place, it held an iron
bedstead with its lumpy mattress and threadbare blanket, and a three drawer
bureau—a far cry from the sunny room she’d had growing up.

Startled from her thoughts upon
hearing footsteps coming down the hall, she turned around as the bedroom door
swung back and hit the wall with a loud
thunk
.

Leon stood there looking at her, a
strange expression on his face. Then without a word, he pushed her down onto
the bed.

Jennifer started to protest, but he
put his hand over her mouth, “Don’t even try. There’s no one here to help
you—unless you count the dog.”

With one quick yank, he pulled her
shorts and underpants down. His knee holding her firmly in place, he slipped
his trousers off and positioned himself on top of her. He made what to Jennifer
sounded almost like the groans of an animal as the metal bed creaked
rhythmically up and down.

Tears streaming down her cheeks,
she took refuge inside her brain. How long had it been since she got here and
where was she anyway?  This was certainly not the Midwest. She could tell
by the palm trees outside her window, it was someplace down south.

Why hadn’t she obeyed her
mom?  She’d said to stay home and do her homework. But, no-o-o, she just
had to hang out at the mall. Her mother wouldn’t be any the wiser. She worked
all day, while Jennifer went to school. That day, however, school was closed
for teacher conferences and at fourteen she was too old for a baby sitter.

So she’d walked the two miles to
the shopping center. Despite their parents and teachers’ disapproval, that’s
where all the kids hung out. What was the big deal?  She now knew what the
big deal was, and it was too late. How would she ever get back home? And what
was Leon planning to do with her?

“Now, wasn’t that fun,” Leon said pulling up his
pants. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Besides, we have to start getting you
ready. You can’t live off me forever, you know.”

Jennifer’s dark eyes widened, “What do you
mean?  Get me ready for what?”

There was pain between her legs from Leon’s
forcible intrusion into her body. She tried to ignore it, but it hurt.
Gingerly, she propped herself up on the side of the bed.

“Don’t act so innocent, you know exactly what I’m
talking about.”

A wiry man, around five ten, Leon had a swarthy
complexion, thick black hair and a day-old beard he seemed to think looked
sexy. His piercing black eyes were the first thing most people noticed. They
were almost hypnotic, seeming to hold the promise of violence.

Jennifer began to tear up, “No, no, I really
don’t. Leon, why can’t I go home?”

“Let’s not start that again. I told you your ma
don’t want you. You hung around the mall spending her money. She couldn’t
afford it, so she gave you to me. Remember?  I explained how I took you
off her hands. You have nowhere to go.”

Jennifer trembled. “I don’t believe you. Mom
would never do a thing like that.”

“Calling me a liar, you little bitch?”  With
one swoop of his muscular arm, Leon hit her across the face, making a sharp
cracking sound. Jennifer’s head snapped back. She involuntarily gasped and let
out a small cry. He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall.

“Please Leon, don’t, I’ll be good,” Jennifer
said. “Don’t make me go down there.” The bunker was stifling and smelly.
“Please.”

“Then shut the hell up and do what
you’re told.”  Leon shoved her toward the bedroom. “I’ll be back later to
begin your lessons.”

Downstairs, the dog was barking again.

Invigorated
by his session with the girl, Leon Donatello headed downstairs to get some
coffee.  Aside from Tiny, his rottweiler, the only one in the house right
now was Jennifer, pretty, scared little Jennifer. She’d fetch a good buck for
sure.
Seymour'd
be pleased.

That
messy business with the other one was unfortunate. There’d been no need for all
that drama. Shooting herself like that? What a goddamned mess. It’d taken hours
to clean it up. How she’d managed to get hold of his gun in the first place was
beyond him. He’d have to be more careful from now on.

He rubbed
his left wrist. He always knew rain was on the way when that twinge of pain
began. The injury was a souvenir left over from his childhood and the beatings
he received from his screw-up older brothers. Well, look where they were now: one
was six feet under, compliments of a shotgun blast from a rival gang and the
other was doing twenty- to-life in Statesville.

He
touched the scar on his left cheek compliments of another youthful altercation.
The odd-shaped mark gave him a bad-boy look, making him appear tough—at least
that’s what the girls in class used to say—that is when he bothered to go. As
he’d passed from middle school to high school he went less and less often and
then dropped out. That’s when he joined the South Side Vipers thinking they’d
provide what was lacking in his life. What that something was, he didn’t know.
He’d felt a longing for family connections other kids took for granted, but it
hadn’t worked. The Vipers simply replaced his brothers with their own brand of
brutality.

Leon
poured scalding water over the instant-coffee crystals. The distinct smell
wafted up his nose. He blew on the cup, then took a sip, burning the roof of
his mouth. He didn’t care. Caffeine was his drug of choice; it energized him,
giving him an instant pickup. Oh yeah, he’d experimented with drugs. There was
cocaine, weed and the occasional bit of ecstasy, but even though he’d sold the
stuff, he didn’t care that much about it. No, coffee would do him just fine.

Tiny
whined, hoping for a morsel of food. Leon kicked him in the ribs, no sense
spoiling the mutt. He was here for one reason and one reason only—to control
the product and keep nosy neighbors away. The rot had been Seymour’s idea. Leon
wasn’t a “dog”
kinda
guy and would just as soon have
done without one. Damned dog barked at all hours, course the neighbors don’t
say much, just gave him the evil eye. Guess they finally got the message: if
they knew what was good for them they’d keep their pie-holes shut. So, maybe
Seymour was right. The damned dog was good for something after all.

Boss
never came around. Wouldn’t want to get his carefully manicured nails dirty. He
wasn’t like that when they were both in the Vipers. How’d he get so high and
mighty anyhow? Now the man just “directs and collects”. Makes Leon take all the
risks. And if he got caught? Seymour wouldn’t be around to catch his back,
that’s for damned sure.

Leon sat
by the window and looked out. It was a pleasant enough house. At forty, he was
glad to have a roof over his head even if it didn’t belong to him. But he
couldn’t help wondering how long Seymour planned on keeping him around.

A few
weeks back Leon had confronted his boss with the fact that his risk was far
greater than Seymour’s, and that he should get a bigger cut. After all, he
controlled the “product”—young girls and women intimidated through beatings and
rape. And managed sales with the customers Seymour sent his way.

His boss’
reaction hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. Said guys like Leon were a dime
a dozen and totally expendable. He’d pointed out that the girl’s suicide had
jeopardized the whole operation, implying it was Leon’s fault—which it really
was, since it was his gun the girl used to kill herself.  Leon shuddered
realizing
Seymour’d
retire him—permanently, if it
served his purpose. He knew only too well what happened when someone failed to
deliver.

Wonder
how the
press’d
react if they knew Mr. Seymour
Cottingham, the respected mortgage broker and philanthropist was not only a
former gangbanger, but a money launderer and one of the powers behind the
biggest human-trafficking rings in the country. It was worth considering.

Leon
finished his coffee, yawned and stretched. Got to brand the product before the
customer arrives. Let me see now, guess it’ll be I-4. He chuckled.
Cops’ll
go nuts trying to figure out what the mark on that
dead girl means, that is if they ever find her body.

Branding
the product was his way of tracking sales. It was like the bar codes stores use.
He kept a ledger hidden under a loose floorboard in which he recorded the dates
of the product acquisition and sale; the product’s code number: state of origin
and number and the buyer’s name and address. That way he had a complete history
of the transaction. Sounded cold, but after all—business was business. How else
would he know if Seymour was being straight with him?  Leon knew the
ledger had to be kept out of the wrong hands, but then who would ever figure
out what it meant anyway?  It looked perfectly legitimate.

Too bad
he’d never made it through school. He had a good brain and a nose for business.
If it had been a legitimate product, he could’ve started his own company, even
offered shares on Wall Street. He would’ve been an entrepreneur.

Leon sighed.
Instead of high society, he was forced to live on the seamy side of life,
staying in the shadows, carefully hidden by the hypocritical bastard whose
bidding he did. He was only a puppet. It wasn’t much different from life in the
gangs or at home with his brothers, for that matter. Seems like he was always
under somebody’s thumb.

Jackson sat in the edit bay; his hand cupped his
chin as he stared at the monitor. The tape was paused at the point in his
Gasparilla coverage where he’d panned down the street and zoomed in on a girl
watching the parade from a balcony. He stared intently trying to figure out
what he was looking at. Was that girl simply a recalcitrant teen being
disciplined by her dad, or was it something more sinister? 

Recently he’d been reading about human
trafficking—mostly women from third world countries lured to wealthy nations on
the promise of better lives, only to be forced into slavery—everything from
prostitution to sweatshops—even servitude in private homes.

Surely that wasn’t happening here, not in front
of his very eyes. That girl seemed young, couldn’t be more than thirteen or so.
He took a closer look. His imagination was probably running wild as usual. He
told himself to forget about it. Nothing unsavory was going on. Not in a
beautiful place like Tampa.

He took a final bite of his cheese and baloney
sandwich and a swig from a bottle of ice water. Several stray drops fell onto
his blue standard-issue shirt with the station’s logo on the front. He wore
khaki pants and jogging shoes.

Izzie poked her head around the corner. “Hey
Jackson, I’m
headin
’ out for lunch. Want something?”

Jackson shook his head and gestured to the
half-empty sack on his desk. “I brought my lunch, thanks.” A baggie with three
chocolate chip cookies and an apple were all that remained. He was disappointed
not to be able to take his reporter up on her rare display of kindness,

Izzie Campbell was attractive in that annoying
“Aren’t I just the prettiest thing” way many beautiful women have. Intelligent
and stuck-up, she apparently thought a year of broadcast journalism made her an
authority. Her slim, five foot five figure, sapphire-blue eyes, long blond
hair, milky white skin and a generous smile—the rare times she chose to use
it—resulted in Miss America quality beauty, a fact upon which she too-often
capitalized.  

Self-absorbed and overconfident, Izzie didn’t
seem to realize cameramen like Jackson, made her look good. She often treated
him as though he was little more than a mule, schlepping heavy equipment around
for her benefit. Jackson sighed. Working alongside people like that came with
the territory.

“So what ’cha looking at?” 

Jackson looked up, surprised to find she was
still there. “Just something I caught on the shoot yesterday.”

“What?” Uninvited, Izzie leaned over, touching
Jackson’s shoulder. She wore a short blue skirt, a crisp white blouse with a
gold pendant and gold hoop earrings. Her black heels were low, styled for
comfort. Jackson got a whiff of her perfume. It was the same stuff his mom
often wore.

She squinted, sending vertical lines between her
eyes.

“See that girl,” Jackson put his finger on the
screen and pointed at the balcony. “Now watch.”  He advanced the tape a
frame at a time. They watched as a man came out and forced the girl inside.

“So?  Maybe he’s her dad and she was
s’posed
to do chores or homework and disobeyed him.”

Jackson faced his partner. “You notice the look
she gave him?”

“Play it again,” Izzie said.

He cued the tape and they watched, their faces
close to the screen so they could catch every nuance of the unwitting
performance being played out before them.

“I see what you mean. She looks scared.”

Jackson didn’t know if she really thought he’d
caught a crime in progress or was merely humoring him. “So what do we do?” he
said.

“Do?  I don’t know,” Izzie shrugged her
shoulders. “What can we do?”

When Jackson didn’t reply, she added, “Let me
grab some lunch and I’ll think about it. Our next shoot’s not till two. We’ll
talk about it then. I’m starving.”

Jackson turned back to the screen and decided to
dub a copy to VHS. He’d review it at home. Maybe there was nothing amiss. It
wouldn’t be the first time he’d let his imagination run away with him. It had
gotten him in trouble before, so he didn’t want to go off half-cocked yet
again.

He finished his package and had a few moments to
relax before his next assignment, so he decided to go online and see what more
he could find out about human trafficking.

After twenty minutes, what he learned sickened
him. According the Polaris project website, modern-day slavery run by
multinational crime networks is the second largest and fastest growing illegal
trade in the world. As many as nine hundred thousand victims a year are
enslaved through fraud or coercion. And the United States is a major
destination country for as many as fifty thousand.

My God, it’s happening under our very
noses.  The problem’s so hidden we don’t even know
it’s
happening.
Victims are broken down, “groomed” by beatings and rape, and
imprisoned in dog cages, even kept in the trunks of cars. They’re forced to
work as laborers, sex slaves, even beggars and are so intimidated they fear
reporting it. People around them aren’t even aware that it’s going on.

Could that young girl be the victim of such a
hideous crime?
The prospect horrified Jackson. He couldn’t get it off his
mind. He simply had to make certain she wasn’t a slaver’s victim.
But how to
find out?
  His mind began to churn out ideas: most of them bizarre and
some downright illegal.