Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Within forty-eight hours of my posting the flyer, I was notified by S.F.P.D. that a young woman, probably a teenager had been found beaten to death in the City.”

“But it was not Robyn?”

“Thank God, no.”

“And you wanted to come on television this morning and give Antonio Peña a message; is that right?”

My heart lashes my chest. My mouth is dry as gypsum. The camera nearest me glides towards me with the stealth of a hungry panther. I face it head on.

“Antonio Peña, BLU BOY, whatever you call yourself, I want you to know that I will rescue my daughter away from you. No matter what it takes to do so. In conjunction with Crime Stoppers, I am now offering a fifty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can give me information leading to the safe rescue of my daughter, Robyn Skinner. Regardless of whether anyone comes forward or not, no matter if it takes me the rest of my life, I will rescue my daughter.”

Ross lets out a nervous laugh.

“I think it prudent to mention that we are not advocating vigilantism here, folks.”

He mumbles something about law enforcement and notifying the proper authorities. But I am not listening; instead I sit back and breathe out a sigh of release. It is of no concern to me what Ross McGowan says; the gauntlet has been thrown. I will hunt BLU BOY down like the dog that he is. And when I find him, I find Robyn.

“I’m really glad you called,” I say into my cell phone.

It is Freddie; he is about to board an airplane to visit his mother, who lives in Dallas, for the Thanksgiving holiday.

“You doing anything special?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Rob’s still asleep but he told me that holidays are ground zero for relapses and that he’s got to spend all four days in meetings to protect his sobriety.” I sigh. I don’t get into the fact that I didn’t even bother to buy a turkey this year. There just didn’t seem to be any point.

“You sound lonely,” he says, sympathy in his voice.

“I miss Robyn,” I say. “I really thought that going on TV and offering a reward would lead to something.”

“You don’t know that it won’t,” he says. “Sometimes it takes people a while to work up their courage to do the right thing.”

“I guess,” I say, peering out the kitchen window at a pallid sky.

“They’re getting ready to board now; I have to go.”

“Have a great holiday,” I say, envious of his capability to hop on a plane and leave his real life behind.

“I’ll call you when I get back into town next week,” he says.

We say goodbye and then I toss the cell onto the kitchen counter. It skids across the surface, stopping under a week’s worth of mail that I still need to sort. Already it’s nearing noon and I haven’t gotten my shower. I sough out a breath of discontent, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and grab my cup of coffee, preparing to head to the bathroom when I hear pounding on the front door. I can’t imagine who on earth it could be. I set my coffee cup back down and walk to the living room.

Staring through the peephole I see a face that can only mean trouble. I open the front door.

“Jenny,” I say of Robyn’s troublemaking friend. A look of hysterical panic is in her eye.

“You’ve got to help her,” she says, her voice wild. Her eyes fill with tears.

Terror instantly invades my body.

“What’s wrong?” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Is Robyn okay?”

“He said something about you having to choose. He’s never been like this before,” she says.

“Who?” I demand.

“He always said he was our friend and that he would take care of us! But now-”

“Choose what? What are you talking about?”

Jenny is openly crying now.

I seize her by the forearms.

“Jenny!” I yell. “Get a hold of yourself! Now tell me what is going on!”

She wrenches free.

“It’s Peña! He says you got one hour and then he’s gonna kill her if you don’t choose. I don’t know what he’s talking about.” She digs into one of the front pockets in her jeans. “I wrote it down. This is where she is. He wants you to go there.” She hands me the note.

On a scrap of paper is an address in the City. From the street name I recognize the address: Robyn is in the Tenderloin.

“He says if you call the cops he’ll kill her.”

In my mind I’m already calculating how long it will take to drive to San Francisco. One hour is cutting it very close. Immediately I am thinking about whether or not to try to reach Rob at the Alano Club. There’s no time. I’ll leave him a note.

“I have to go,” I say, leaving Jenny standing at the front door.

In the bedroom I survey the floor for clothing. I bounce out of my pajamas and into the nearest pair of pants I can find. I jerk an old sweatshirt over my head and slip on a pair of nearby flip-flops.

I grab my purse and fly out the door.

The sky in the City is a cadaverous grey. The air, frigid.

I ease the Corsica onto Sacramento Street. I look at the map again. “Okay, Polk should be coming up after Franklin,” I say to myself.

Apartment buildings are sandwiched together one after the other with an occasional market or liquor store squeezed in between. Traffic is light because of the Thanksgiving holiday.

Sure enough, I see Polk Street and flip the turn indicator on just as I make the right turn. I reread the scrap of paper that Jenny gave me again. “It’s gotta be right here,” I say under my breath.

Across the street, on the corner of Sacramento and Polk stands a boarded up storefront covered in black soot. On the top is a dingy sign half obscured by carbon smudges; I can make out the name Bob’s. A recent fire has obviously nearly destroyed the building. From the looks of it, Bob’s was probably a corner grocery market. I can’t make out the address. But just past the burnt out hull of a building, I see it. The blue BMW, front license plate advertising its owner: BLU BOY.

I lurch the car to a stop and yank the gearshift into park. Cars are parked up and down both sides of the street. To hell with wasting time trying to find a parking space. People can drive around the Corsica.

I hop out of the car and sling my purse strap over my shoulder.

I look at my watch; fifty eight minutes have elapsed since Jenny delivered her message.

Although the storefront has been boarded up, near where the brick and what used to be a large glass window meet, about waist high, I catch sight of a small opening where one of the wood planks stops short. It looks barely big enough for a cat to get through. I’m not sure I can squeeze through, but I’m damn sure going to try. I stick one leg into the opening, bending nearly in half, as I wedge myself into the narrow fissure. I feel like a contortionist, jamming my body into the small gap. I have to stuff myself rear end first and then at last, the one foot on the inside finds solid ground. Turning sideways, I hop backwards inch by inch, as first one shoulder and then the other shoulder presses through the breach, wringing my flesh as I drive myself through to the inside of the burned out store.

Inside, I am immediately overcome by the acrid, sour stench of burnt plastics and wood; a miasma of toxic stink. It is pitch black inside, save only for narrow glimmers of light that bleed in between the planks of wood on the outside of the building. I know I don’t have a flashlight in my purse, but my hand drops inside anyway, my fingers searching for their prize: the Colt.

“Robyn?” I whisper. I listen for a moment, but don’t hear anything.

I take one tentative step forward. My foot lands on something already broken. The crunch of the glass muffled beneath my shoe. As my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, I can now make out frameworks of shelving units that used to hold food. Nearly all of them have been destroyed by fire. The floor is littered with burnt boxes of cereals and crackers and dented, half burnt cans. Most of the structures look more like skeletons of shelves than actual shelving.