Randy White - Night Vision

“Tula Choimha,” Emily said. “Is that how you pronounce it?”

I said, “The girl… she’s a very different sort of thirteen-year-old. Religious, but religious to a degree that borders on hysteria. You know what I mean? For the wrong sort of egotistical asshole, she’d be an inviting target. Humiliate the saintly little Guatemalan girl. There’s a certain breed of guy who’d stand in line to do that.”

“That’s a volatile age. For girls especially it can be a nightmare,” Emily said, sounding like she had lived it. “Fantasies range from sainthood to whoring. A scientist from Italy published a paper that gives some credence to what’s called poltergeist activity. You know, crashing vases, paintings falling from the walls-all caused by the turbulent brain waves of adolescent girls. Which all sounds like pseudoscience to me, but who knows? Maybe there’s a grain of truth.”

I had stopped tracking the conversation when Emily mentioned poltergeists. I was reviewing what Tomlinson had told me earlier on the phone. He had returned to Red Citrus, but Tula was nowhere to be found. Her few personal possessions were still in the trailer, untouched since the night before. But it looked as if her cot had been slept in.

Tomlinson had called and asked me to join in the search. But, at the time, Emily and I were stuck at the necropsy site, waiting for the medical examiner’s investigator. So he had driven his beat-up Volkswagen, hopscotching from one immigrant haven to another searching for Tula, but no luck.

“Did he stop at churches?” Emily asked me now, regaining my attention.

“Tomlinson didn’t mention it. You’re right, that would’ve been smart. Maybe the girl was afraid of something. Or someone. And ran to the nearest Catholic church for protection. She couldn’t risk turning to the authorities.”

The woman said, “Please tell me your friend contacted the police, right? Her safety’s more important than her damn legal status.”

“Of course,” I said. “I called, too. Tomlinson insisted.”

“Because he was afraid the police wouldn’t take him seriously?”

I said, “It wouldn’t make any difference. The state has a whole series of protocols that go into effect when a child is reported missing. Illegal immigrant children included. There’s a long list of agencies, from cops to the Immigrant Advocacy Center, that get involved. Tomlinson thinks they’re going to issue an AMBER Alert tonight, if they haven’t done it already. It’s the best system in the world for protecting kids. But it’s still an imperfect system.”

I continued, “The problem is that people at her trailer park-the family Tula lives with?-they don’t believe the girl’s missing. At least, that’s what they told the cops as recently as this afternoon. They say she goes off by herself for hours at a time. Police will do more interviews tomorrow. We may not like it, but that’s the way it is for now. An AMBER Alert, of course, if it happens, will change everything.”

Emily asked, “Do you think she was kidnapped? It’s a possibility, I hate to say it. The coyotes, the things men like that do to young girls and boys… I don’t even want to think about.”

I said, “She left behind a family photo that she’d carried for three thousand miles. That bothers me. There was a book we found, too. And some clothing. So, yeah, I think something happened.”

“A book?” Emily asked.

“Not a Bible,” I said. “It’s a book of quotes from Joan of Arc. I took a close look. A lot of dog-eared pages and fingerprints. Some underlined passages. She kept it with her for a reason.”

“Joan of Arc,” the woman nodded as if that somehow made sense to her.

I gave it some more thought. “A church could be the answer,” I said. “It’s plausible. She got scared and ran. There were cops all over the place, so she probably scooted off to the nearest church so she wouldn’t be questioned.”

I wasn’t convinced, though, and neither was Emily. Why hadn’t church authorities contacted state authorities if they had a runaway girl on their hands?

“Doc?” Emily said. “If you’re going back there tomorrow to check the churches-let me come with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Your friend was right. I think I can help.”

I found it interesting that she seemed to intentionally avoid using Tomlinson’s name. Was it to reassure me that she had no interest? Whatever the reason, I found it endearing.

From my pocket, I took a little LED flashlight. I clicked it on, took Emily’s hand and led the lady down the mangrove path to the boardwalk that crosses the water to my house. When we got to the shark pen, I switched off the underwater lights and pocketed the flashlight.

We stood for a moment in the fresh darkness, listening to a waterfall of mullet in the distance, seeing vague green laser streaks of luminescence thatch the water.

“Enough talk about coyotes and kidnappings, and every other dark subject,” I said, putting my hands on the woman’s shoulders.

I felt Emily’s body move closer, her face tilted toward mine. She was ready and smiling. “Is that why you turned off the lights? To brighten the mood?”

“No,” I said as I slid my hands down to her ribs. I took my time, stopping just beneath her breasts, my index fingers experimenting with a warm and weighted softness.

“I was starting to wonder if I’d have to make the first move,” Emily Marston said-said it just before I kissed her.

Late Wednesday afternoon, Laziro Victorino was sitting at Hooters in Cape Coral with a tableful of wings and low-level Latin King brothers when the news lady came on the television, reporting from a swamp near Fort Myers Beach, about a dead alligator that had a human hand in its belly.

Probably a woman’s hand because they had also found a wedding ring.

Victorino recognized the place immediately. It was Red Citrus trailer park. Hell, most of the Indigena who lived there, he’d personally arranged for their transportation to Florida and jobs, which meant that he owned those people.

He’d probably also owned the woman the hand had belonged to.

Victorino wasn’t the only one paying attention to the news lady. One by one, his Latin King pandilleros turned to look at him, not staring but letting him know they weren’t stupid.

In the last few months, Victorino-the V-man-had mysteriously lost three, maybe four, chulas, and, goddamn it, it had to stop. Next, his homeys, his pandilleros hermanos, would do more than just stare at him. They would be laughing behind his back, making jokes that the jefe had lost his balls.

Victorino had suspected for months who was stealing his girls. Maybe selling them, maybe starting a prostitution business, maybe killing them, too-not that he cared, not really. There were always plenty of immigrant girls to choose from. But he couldn’t tolerate a public display of disrespect, and the bony hand of one of his dead chulas on the six o’clock news was as public as it could get.

This bullshit had to stop. Laziro had worked too hard building an organization, recruiting soldiers, disciplining his Indigena girls, sometimes even his pandilleros when a soldier got out of line.

Yes, it had to stop. And Victorino knew exactly who to see to make that happen.

He stood, dropped a fifty on the table from a turquoise money clip, then threw his homeys a hand sign before pushing his way to the door-two fingers creating devil horns. He paused for a moment to confirm the nods of deference he deserved. Then he drove his truck to Red Citrus trailer park, where he expected to find Harris Squires. The gringo giant was all muscle but no backbone. V-man had bullied the shit out of the dude more than once, so no problem. He was looking forward to cutting this white boy down to size.