Ridley Pearson: Choke Point

As her fingers hit the keypad, all that changes: she’s transported into a digital realm that both absorbs her and fascinates her. She is in control, despite the vodka. Her eyes stray over to Mr. Smear-n-Off—the digital gates open before her like she’s marching on Troy. She’s through three barriers and onto the corporate network, marching with her army of education, training and experience and pushing her horse through with its belly full of surprises.

The investment firm has thousands of clients—tens of thousands—and she’s trying to find just one. No name. No account number. She’s exhilarated. Electric. Part of it is the voyeurism. Part of it, the excitement of exploration. Part of it, superiority. All she has is a number and a date, and the chances are the number has been broken into smaller numbers. But that’s part of the fun. So it’s down to the date in sorting through hundreds of deposits, knowing the mistake that’s always made is the cents. She’s hunting for fifty-four cents. Over three hundred thousand dollars stolen and she’s going to find it with just fifty-four cents.

With any luck, that will just be the start of this. She suspects the three hundred thousand may be only the tip of the iceberg.

Mr. Smear-n-Off moans and rolls over but isn’t even close to REM—he’s not coming around anytime soon. Her eyes are to the right of the decimal point, the numbers scrolling in what to others would appear a blur, and there it is like a flag waving: FIFTY-FOUR CENTS . Her index finger skids the scroll to a stop. She has to back up a page to find the actual entry, but it’s there. A date that makes sense. The alcohol helps her to make a joke just for herself. It makes cents. She chuckles. She captures a screenshot almost automatically, saves it to the external drive and deletes it from the laptop. As a hunter she has raised her bow, but is far from firing. This smells of the game she pursues, but only time will tell. And the amount is small: forty-seven thousand, two hundred, eighty-three and fifty-four cents , leaving much more to find. Possibly much, much more.

The LED on the external drive stops flashing, the cloning complete. She’s all efficiency of motion as she packs up, wipes down the desk and laptop and makes for the door. She can almost move herself to feel sorry for Mr. Smear-n-Off.

Almost.

The air in the room hangs heavy, snowflakes of wool lint mixed with tobacco smoke swirling beneath the rows of arched skylights. An occasional deep-chested cough interrupts the quiet. Four girls to a rug, sometimes six. Ten to twelve rugs. Feet tucked under the girls’ bottoms to ward off the cool concrete floor. Maja, a “local,” ties at station three with two “residents.”

It is a joyless space. A place of deep concentration—mistakes are not tolerated. Furtive looks are exchanged between the girls; they share a language of minute gestures, undetected by the watchers. These messages and warnings travel from station to station as the girls attempt to protect one another. A team of nameless strangers, yet some have known each other for years. Some go back only a few months. Five of the girls arrived less than two weeks ago.

A warning flashes across the room, carried by a dozen hands.

“Inspection!” a watcher cries out sharply.

The shop is a place of routine and schedule. Most of all, it is a secret place. No one leaves—not even the watchers—once the door is closed and locked. The sound of the door coming open means only one thing: Him.

The girls continue their work, shoulders hunched with dread and anticipation.

More frightening than the dog is the man who leashes him. The leader. His face looks like it’s been through a shredder. But it is his deliberateness that terrifies Maja. His calm covers a churning machine inside. He may not exactly enjoy punishing the girls, but he has no problem doing so. He makes the watchers look like nannies.

The clicking of the dog’s nails on the concrete and the animal’s rapid panting send chills up her spine. The inspections are like Russian roulette. Sometimes the girls pass muster, sometimes not.

The leader’s running shoes squeak as they flex. The timing of the inspections, every two to three weeks, is unpredictable. What the leader is searching for remains unclear. Electronics? Forbidden. A camera? Forbidden. Candy? Gum? Forbidden.

The minutes stretch out interminably. Maja is restless. She works furiously at her rug. Even from a distance, she can hear a watcher take a drag on his cigarette and exhale. She hears a gob of dog drool splash on the floor next to her. She does not pause.

The beast is upon her, its nose active. The dog snorts and huffs as it circles her head, her back and pauses at her bottom. Despite her being fully clothed, she’s embarrassed. The animal works around to her crossed legs and stuffs its nose into her crotch. Still, she cranes forward, continuing to tie.

The dull rattle of its choke collar signals that this time she has passed. The dog is led to the girl to Maja’s left. The process begins again.

The dog growls roughly.

Why? Maja wonders.

“No, no! Please!” the girl cries. The leader coils the girl’s hair around his hand and lifts her straight off the floor. Maja doesn’t even know the girl’s name.

“Too slow!” the leader calls out.

But she is one of the most efficient of them all. Surely one of the watchers will defend her! But nothing is said.

Maja’s partner hangs by her hair, tears streaming down her cheeks. The girl bites down on her knuckles, not daring to scream. It would only get worse for her. They would beat the soles of her feet with the sock—a knot of rocks tied into the toe of a white Reebok athletic sock.

“You dare look at me like that?” the leader spits at the crying girl. “This one!” he tells the nearby watcher. The leader passes the girl by the hair. The watcher lets her settle to the floor and drags her off.

“Faster!” the leader shouts.

All heads are trained down. All hands are busy.

Ten minutes later there’s a ruckus at station nine. “Sloppy!” the leader says in Dutch.

This girl cries out and is slapped repeatedly. She settles into a blubbering sob.

Maja knows better than to look. A moment later, the leader leaves. Two girls are gone, never to return. Taken to where, Maja doesn’t know.

Her fingers twist the length of red yarn. Grab, tuck and pull tight. If they see her tears, she’s in trouble.

Sonia Pangarkar’s newspaper article haunts him as he makes the call to his brother. The reporter was interviewing doctors at a local clinic about the cost of immigrant health care when an emaciated, unkempt girl arrived at the desk, feverish from a festering ankle wound. The writing is excellent—too good for Knox; too many well-crafted images left swimming in his head. Now he wishes he hadn’t read it. They had to include a photo because what would the article be without some nausea to go along with it? A girl of nine or ten, her face all bone and eyes. Pleading. Helpless. These children are used for their small fingers. Their knots can be tied tighter and more quickly. It’s efficiency, at any price. But now it’s their turn to pay the price, whoever’s behind this. Dulwich has his mission; Knox has his own.

Before calling Tommy, Knox tries to settle himself. His brother knows him way too well, and in an uncanny, telekinetic way, his condition—whatever name they’re putting on it this week—allows him nearly insight to where he can penetrate Knox even over a phone line, discerning his mood or state of mind. Knox will use the new job offer as an excuse to delay his scheduled visit; it’s not the first delay, nor likely the last, and he doesn’t want Tommy seeing through to the truth—whatever that truth may be; it continues to elude him. Knox has been focused on Tommy’s financial health for so long that he’s beginning to see himself as avoiding the realities of his brother’s physical and emotional health.