so close I thought I could reach out and touch them. The cold was biting, but at least I wasn’t on that damn bike.
“Come here,” Mikayla’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “Lay down beside me, body warmth will keep us from freezing.” I knew she was letting me closer than any man in many years. I was honored and also thankful for the warmth as she pulled close to me. I draped the poncho over us and we shared her rucksack pillow. Tilting my face so that we were nose to nose I ran my finger over her scar. I don’t know where I got the courage to touch her in such a personal way. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the softening in her eyes. I felt her body tense when I touched her, but she didn’t pull away.
“Who did this to you?” I whispered.
“I did.” Her voice was so soft that even in the silent desert night I had to strain to hear her. “In one summer, fourteen girls were taken from my village, taken to be sold as prostitutes. The men came with guns and KGB badges. Anyone who stood in their way was killed. They took my only sister, my father tried to stop them. He died that night. They only wanted pretty girls, so I made myself ugly.” Lifting her shirt, she showed me her bare chest. She closed her eyes, unable to watch me seeing her shame. A long jagged scar ran from her collarbone down to where her left breast had been. The scar spider webbed where her nipple should have been. “I nearly bled to death before the doctor could repair what I had done.” She shivered from more than cold as I traced the scar tissue. Her right breast was small and perfect, I wanted to kiss it, lick her pink erect nipple. I pulled her shirt down and pulled her closer.
Rolling onto her side, she spooned into me, pulling my arm around her. We drifted off to sleep like that. It was the first time in many moons that I wasn’t wracked by my bad dreams. Somehow she made me feel both safe and protective at the same time. With my arms around this strange damaged killer, I felt as if I wasn’t a bad man or a good man, I just was.
In the gray predawn, I awoke. Mikayla was sleeping in my arms. The desert stretched out around us, empty and peaceful. The pain in my shoulder had subsided into a dull ache. When I moved my arm, Mikayla snapped into consciousness. She popped her elbow back, catching me in the bridge of my nose. Rolling away, she leapt up ready to fight me.
“Whoa, Killer, it’s me, Moses. Remember?” I felt the warm trickle of blood flowing from my nostrils.
“Oh, no.” She looked at what she had done.
“Forget it.”
“I thought…” She let it hang in the air, unfinished.
“Been broken before, but never by so pretty a lady.” She looked away, stung by the compliment. The softness that had overtaken her at night was gone, her shields were up now. She looked out across the barren desertscape, her back to me.
Standing, I stretched to loosen the kinks the hard ground had given me. Wiping my face on my shirtsleeve, I removed the blood.
“Let’s ride.” I kicked over the bike. Mikayla climbed on behind me, pulling herself close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into my ear as I took off.
We dumped the bike outside of Twentynine Palms. It wasn’t street-legal, and it was hot. Not a good combination if we wanted a casual entrance into LA. We bought two tickets on the next bus to Los Angeles, and spent the next hour in a small diner eating steaks and eggs, and sharing a pot of coffee. We didn’t talk about the night before, her scars, the tenderness I felt for her. We ate instead in silence.
From a pay phone, I called Helen. Peter had arrived safely, he had then locked himself in Helen’s den and been on her computer ever since. There had been no time on the road for notes, he was reconstructing the events and attempting to write the story while it was still fresh.
Helen told me the girls were fine, a bit freaked out, but other than that, fine. She had been working the phones, calling on contacts to find out what to do with them. “There’s a group called Project Angel, out of Moscow, they have a local chapter. They work with trafficked girls. They may have some ideas,” she said.
“Sounds good. Tell Peter I’ll be around tonight, and Helen, watch your back. These Russian bastards aren’t going to be overjoyed with any of us for what we did down in Mexico.” After I hung up with her, I tried Gregor’s cell but got voice mail. His mother’s phone rang without being picked up. I knew Gregor could handle himself, but it still worried me. He should have picked up his phone.
Mikayla sank down into the soft seat on the bus. For the next few hours we were safe, there was nothing to do but try to relax and not worry about what was coming. Putting her hand on mine, she looked out the window. “I’ve never been with a man,” she said to the glass.
“Don’t think you’ve missed much.”
“I like you, Moses, but I don’t…”
“You don’t have to do anything. I’m too old to date, and too tired to fuck.” Leaning my head back, I let my eyes drift closed.
CHAPTER 17
Downtown LA IS A human cesspool. By day, it’s populated by high roller power boys of the stock market, lawyers and political creeps. At night, the art-damaged hipsters and twenty-something slum Sinatras take over. And around them all swirl the homeless, the sad, broken, forgotten men and women. Some came here by choice, others were driven by madness or addiction. This was where you ended up when you ran out of gas, looks or luck.
In the bus station, I tried Gregor again without any luck. I called Piper at home, got her machine and dialed Club Xtasy. When Doc answered, he wanted to know where the fuck I was and when I was coming back to work. Turaj was still in the hospital, Gregor was MIA and Doc was pulling doubles. “I’m not sure Uncle Manny wants me back. Now put Piper on the line.”
“She’s on stage, you want her to call you?” He sounded petulant, which isn’t pretty on a large bald black man.
“I don’t care if she’s blowing the Pope’s ghost. Get her on the phone.” I could hear him shouting for her. It was still early, I doubted if they had more than two customers.
“This better be important.” Piper was out of breath. From her tone of voice, I would have bet one hip was cocked and her fist was on it.
“It’s me, baby.”
“Mo, where the hell are you?”
“Have you heard from Gregor?”
“No, he’s not answering his cell, I don’t hear dick from him, from you. What the fuck’s going on?”
“I’m at the bus station, downtown. I need a ride. Come get me and I’ll tell you everything.”
“What, you never heard of a cab?”
“I’m broke.” It wasn’t exactly true. Between Mikayla and me, we had a small fortune in pesos. And under twenty bucks in greenbacks. It took some more sweet tough talk, but Piper finally agreed. Doc would give her a ration of crap for leaving, but she could handle him. One of her killer smiles and the big guy would be a puddle on the floor. Mikayla was watching me when I hung up.
“Do you have many girlfriends?”
“Some, not like that, though.”
“Why not like that?”
“They won’t have me.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She was looking at me as if I was some sort of interesting alien creature.
I walked up the block, hoping to find a currency exchange. Found several guys wanting to sell me chiva and a Korean man selling short dogs from a rusted shopping cart. But no one was willing to trade pesos for dollars.
Mikayla stood on the corner smoking. The sea of human sadness washed around her. She watched them without judgment. She’d seen worse places.
