Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“It’s okay,” I say. “Don’t try to talk.”

“BLU BOY…” Chevy begins, and then stops. Her body slumps back into the mattress of the bed, exhausted. Her face is slack, emotionless. She is out.

“Shhh,” I whisper between tears.

I wipe my face, swallowing hard. A hopeless, helpless despair quakes through my body. I grit my teeth against what my life has become, against what this world has become. I fight back the tears, but it’s no use. They come, freely. I bow my head and give in to my emotion, my teardrops silent witness to my overwhelming anguish.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Sister Margaret gives me a reassuring squeeze.

“Let’s go.”

Sister Margaret leads me to her old, battered truck and takes off, and soon we pull up to a curb. I peer out the window at a large imposing building; a church.

“Come on, dear.”

I slide across the seat out the driver’s side door, numbly following the nun. Outside the air is frigid. Chevrons of wind serrate the night, making me hug my arms to my body for warmth. We walk round to the back of the building where an old wooden door lies hidden between the shadows of statues and brush. Sister Margaret produces a key and unlocks the door.

St. Dominic’s is massive. Incense and history and candle wax braid the air and in spite of my despondency, I feel a measure of comfort. The only light comes from a bank of small electric candles off on the side wall. Above the candles is a large framed picture of a woman clothed in blue and white garments. A single red candle is lit at the very front of the church next to a large gold box. Also at the front, is the altar and above it, an enormous crucifix.

“Jesus is here,” Sister Margaret says quietly.

She motions for me to follow her to one of the pews towards the front of the church.

“Oh Sister, I don’t know about-”

She grips my arm, propelling me forward.

“Come,” she says.

“But I feel like there’s no hope,” I say, trying to stifle my tears.

“Giving up hope is a dysfunctional coping mechanism,” she whispers. And then, “As long as Robyn is alive, there’s hope.”

And then we are kneeling in one of the pews. Sister Margaret’s head is bowed; she is praying quietly. The crucified Jesus is looking down on me; his eyes seem to be staring into my own. His pained face is everything I feel and all I can do is weep. I rest my elbows against the pew in front of me and bury my face into my hands.

I can no longer cope. I want my daughter home, my family intact. Rage and frustration churn within me and rail against the ineffectiveness of the police, Rob’s earlier admission tonight, and my own personal sense of uselessness. I see a kaleidoscope of events: Sunday dinners, birthday parties, opening Christmas gifts beneath a bushy, green tree, all explode from view. As if I will never get those things back. A heavy blackness overshadows me, and for a single second I understand why people commit suicide.

Then, in the middle of my despair raddled thoughts a glint, nearly imperceptible and absurd at the same time, worms its way into my consciousness. If I did have hope, what would it look like? A movie image suddenly intrudes. In my mind’s eye I am seeing Mel Gibson in Ransom in that TV studio in front of all that money, challenging his son’s kidnappers; taking them on, as it were. And I think to myself, why couldn’t I do the same thing? Why couldn’t I be the aggressor in all of this mess? An image fixes itself in my mind. An image of me, taking my daughter back by force, to safety. Why couldn’t I? What on earth is stopping me? And for the first time since this horrible nightmare began I feel a glimmer of something. I am afraid to call it hope, yet I dare not call it by any other name.

I am going to rescue my daughter.

I inspect my provisions: a large canvas bag containing a small box of crackers, a few bottled waters, Rob’s old binoculars, and a blanket. Though I am perspiring freely now, I know that once I’m in the city it will be cold, especially after dark.

I check my watch, almost eight. Rob should have been home a couple of hours ago. He hasn’t shown up nor has he called. I swallow my disgust over his absence and replay yesterday’s conversation with him.

I told him of my intention to stake out the Tenderloin until I found Robyn and then drive her to the treatment facility in Newport Beach, and after his initial skepticism, he seemed to be on board with the plan. I told him we should plan on leaving around 7:30 so we could get to San Francisco just before dark to begin our surveillance.

And yet, here I am, alone. I look around to see if there might be something else I should take with me and my eye rests on the Peaceful Acres brochure still lying on the coffee table. I scoop it up and shove it into my purse.

Yesterday’s conversation with John Simpson went well. After confirming coverage of the health insurance for Robyn’s stay, his voice positively dripped with encouragement, even offering a free plane ticket for Robyn and myself to Southern California. Since I have no idea how Robyn is going to react to her rescue, I told Mr. Simpson that I would be delivering her by car within a day or two. He assured that they would keep a place reserved for her and reminded me that the sooner Robyn got there, the sooner she could begin her rehabilitation.

I look at my watch again; nearly eight thirty. I sigh. It looks as though I will be doing this alone. I do not know how on earth I will be able to get Robyn into the car with my compromised physical condition, but I remember being in the church. I remember the feeling that swelled in my heart, like watercolor paint seeping across paper in an ever larger circumference. Is it Providence? Naïveté? Only God knows for sure. I only know that I am going to save Robyn. I draw in a resolute breath, a sort of psychological girding of loins, and hoist the canvas bag to my shoulders, along with the blanket and a smaller sack containing magazines, and being careful not to engage any stomach muscles, open the front door.

“Hey.”

“Bart!” I gasp in surprise.

On the porch stands Bart Strong and another man, smaller in stature, dressed all in black with a gorgeous jet black moustache.

Bart gives me a sheepish smile.

“I got your message,” he says. “Glad you passed the lie detector test.”

I give him a look.

“Something tells me you’re not here just to congratulate me,” I say.

I’d left a message on Bart’s answering machine this morning after my visit with Pittsburg P.D., telling Bart that I’d passed the test and of my plan to snatch Robyn from the streets of San Francisco.

Bart smiles.

“Technically I’m not here at all.” He tosses his head in the direction of his partner dressed in black.

“This is Freddie.”

Freddie gives me a swift nod but says nothing.

“Does Freddie have a last name?”

“Uh, the less you know the better,” Bart says.

Behind them, at the curb in front of the house is a large, dark blue non-descript van.

I give both men a questioning look.

“Let’s go get your daughter,” Bart says.

“Ma’am,” Freddie says. He gives me a chivalrous look as he relieves me of the canvas bag, blanket, and sack.

I crawl inside the van, sitting gingerly on the backseat behind the driver’s side and motion Freddie that I’m ready. As he muscles the sliding side door closed I catch the Venetian blinds of my neighbor, Mrs. Cotillo, flutter closed. I sigh and make a mental note to avoid Mrs. Cotillo the next time I see her.

As the two men take their seats and fasten their seatbelts, I look around me at the van’s furnishings. Behind me are a variety of plastic lattice-sided crates filled with equipment. Some things I recognize; flashlights, a camera with what looks like a telephoto lens. Farthest from me, close to the back doors, is a large, black canvas bag. There are also a couple of silver ribbed metallic cases of varying sizes whose contents are a mystery.