The Death Box(27)

“Magnificent,” I said, the hush in my voice displaying reverence. “And as a secret enhancement, the touch of cloves is perfect, Miz Amardara. You are a genius.”

“Cloves,” she gasped, framing a dropped-open mouth with her fingertips as she backed away. “One sip and the man says cloves.”

“Uh-oh, Detective R,” Gershwin said, shaking his head, “I think you just made a friend for life.”





14





Leala awakened on a mattress on the floor of the room that smelled like sweat. The clock on the floor showed 6.42 a.m. The day said SAT. She was in the basement of the discoteca, Leala knew, dark and cave-like with rooms in all directions. Some were locked, others weren’t. At the far end of the hall was a door made of thick metal fence with two big locks. You could see through the fence to the bottom of the stairs that came from the discoteca. Pipes ran along the walls and ceilings and you could hear music from above.

Is Yolanda back? her awakening mind asked.

Last night the man named Orlando entered and grabbed Yolanda and said she was going to be in a parade. When Yolanda told the man she did not want to go, he laughed and dragged her down the hall to a stinky bathroom.

“Wash yourself,” Leala heard the man tell Yolanda. “Then put this stuff on. I’ve brought a lipstick and make-up … you like playing dress-up? Tonight is big time dress-up, little one.”

The Orlando man had left the door open and Leala peeked down the hall. After a few minutes she saw Yolanda exit the bathroom, her face painted like a doll and a bright red ribbon tying her hair back. She wore a short pink dress and her feet were in pink canvas zapatas. The shoes were too large and made a clopping sound as the man unlocked the grated door and pushed Yolanda up the stairs.

With no one to talk to, Leala had fallen into quivering dreams. Dreams of voices. Of doors opening and closing. She blinked her eyes and remembered Yolanda was going to a parade.

What did that mean?

Leala tiptoed to Yolanda’s confines. There, on the bed, staring at the ceiling, was Yolanda, a yellowed sheet over her body. Leala crept inside and closed the door at her back.

“Yolanda,” she whispered, crossing the room. “What happened? What was this parade?”

Yolanda stared past the ceiling pipes and ducts and thumping music, as if she was looking for God above. Her lips were puffy and smeared with lipstick. Pieces of her hair had been pulled out. When Leala eased the sheet down her breath froze in her throat. Yolanda was covered with bite marks, some just tooth shapes, others broken through the skin.

“Oh, poor Yolanda,” Leala said. “What has happened to you?”

Yolanda grimaced and stiffened. Leala heard a rustling sound and pulled the sheet further down: her friend was passing water. It was pink and sprayed down scratched legs smeared brown with dried blood. More blood crusted at the apex of her thighs.

“Madre de Dios,” Leala said. “What caused …”

Yolanda closed her eyes and turned away.

“A terrible thing. Worn around the waist like a belt.”

“We have to escape this terrible place. We must think of a plan.”

“I cannot think now, Leala. I hurt too much.”

Leala studied her friend. She looked roto, broken. “I will find a way out, Yolanda. Then I will be back for you.”

“Remember la policía, Leala? They will put you in jail or return you to this place. That is how it works here.”

Leala pointed upstairs. “They told us that. And everything they told us has been a lie. But I will be careful. And I will be back.”

Yolanda’s eyes filled with terror. “I will not be here. They said I would soon go elsewhere to do … the work.”

Leala pulled Yolanda’s hand to her breast, bending to kiss her fingers. “I will find you wherever you are, dear amiga. Find peace in sleep and I will find us a way out of Hell.”

Leala heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She gave Yolanda’s fingers a final kiss and retreated to her room as the grated door opened at the far end of the hall. She heard two pairs of shoes approach, pause for a moment at Yolanda’s door, then continue. Leala pulled the sheet to her neck and pretended to be asleep. The sheet was stripped away as the one named Orzibel spoke with a mocking laugh.

“I hope you are rested, little slut. Today is the day you start paying your debt.”





15





On Saturday I surrounded myself with the case materials, pages and photos on floor, table and countertop. Whenever I felt about to drown in horror I’d retreat to the deck to suck down fresh air and let the sun beat some of the pictures from my brain. It worked until I shut my eyes.