Katia ignored the question.
“I just don’t want her to worry about you, that’s all.”
“Nobody’s going to worry. And besides, I told you, my mother’s not there.”
“So you did. That means she’s still down in Colombia?” This was what Emerson wanted to know.
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“That’s where you said she was.”
“So?”
“So you don’t care where your mother is? That’s not very nice.” Emerson was trying to appear casual, drawing her out as he studied one of the photographs through a magnifying glass.
To Katia, the constant questions about her mother, and Emerson’s obsession with the photographs, were becoming a major annoyance.
At first she’d been excited to come to the United States. Getting a visa to the U.S. usually took months, that is, if you could get one at all, but not for Emerson. He invited her to visit his house in San Diego on a Monday. Tuesday, he filled out some papers and had her sign them. By Thursday, he had gone to the U.S. embassy in San Jose and returned with the visa. To Katia, anyone who could do this could probably spin gold from straw. If he had those kinds of connections, perhaps he could help her get into an American college or university.
Her only initial concern was that her name on the visa was not complete. Pike had filled out the application in the American style, first and last names only. He had omitted her mother’s paternal name. Katia was concerned that because the visa did not conform precisely to the name on her passport, it might be a problem. But it wasn’t.
Thinking back now, she should have been much more worried about other things. Coming here with him was a mistake.
She watched him as he sat behind his desk looking like a miser counting his money. There were coins spread across the desktop, some in clear plastic envelopes, others lying naked, the yellow gold glinting under the light of the lamp. Emerson had a meeting in the morning with an investor. He was supposed to be assembling a selection of coins to show the man. Instead he was looking at the pictures again, this time with a magnifying glass.
The pictures did not belong to him. They belonged to her, or, more correctly, to her mother, who had borrowed Katia’s camera for one of her recent trips to Colombia. The photographs showed her mother’s relatives or friends, Katia wasn’t exactly sure. They were people Katia had never met. She had long realized, since childhood, that her mother had some family skeletons in the Colombian closet, people she never talked about but visited on occasion. When Katia met Emerson her mother had been in Colombia again. The pictures had been left on the camera’s digital chip. Emerson had asked Katia about her family and where her mother was, in innocent conversation, or so she thought. She saw no harm in showing him the pictures.
She never realized that the family skeletons might be more serious until Emerson printed the photos and started obsessing about them, asking her questions and constantly pushing for details. He knew something she did not.
“You look tired. You should go to bed,” she said.
He was yawning at the desk every few minutes now.
“I have work to finish.”
“You could do it in the morning.” She lay out, nearly horizontal in the grip of the drapes wrapped around her body, and bounced a little, testing the elasticity of the cashmere and the strength of the rod. This little act, r la Cirque du Soleil, was intended to annoy Emerson and catch his attention, getting him to think about things other than work.
It didn’t. He ignored her, his focus directed through the magnifying glass at the photographs.
She fumed. Her mind began to work. They had been living together now for nearly three months, first in Costa Rica and now here. Each night they slept together in the same bed, but he never touched her. By the end of the first week in the States, she began to suspect that the only reason she was in the same room with him at night was so he could watch her. The old man was a light sleeper. Every time she stirred or went to the bathroom, she noticed he was instantly awake.
There were also other little things she noticed. Whenever they were out in public and he saw police in a car or walking, it seemed that he would always steer Katia in the other direction. She wasn’t sure about this. So she tested him. In the mall one afternoon, she saw two cops patrolling on foot. She decided to approach them for directions to a shop in the mall. Before she had gone three steps, Emerson had grabbed her by the arm with such force that it left pressure marks on her skin.
Then ten days ago something had happened that told her she must leave-and soon. Periodically Emerson gave her money to send home to deposit for the support of her mother. Katia had left her part-time job when she came to the States. It was a kind of unstated understanding when they left Costa Rica. They would send it by Western Union online to a friend of Katia’s in San Jose who would deposit it for her in Katia’s bank account. Emerson would use one of his credit cards for the transaction.
But though cash went south, Emerson never gave Katia money to spend while she was here. The most she ever had in her purse was twenty dollars, this in case of an emergency or to buy incidentals. Emerson knew she didn’t have a local bank account or a credit card, so he had to know she had no money. Perhaps he didn’t think she needed much cash; after all, they were always together.
Emerson had bought her some jewelry and without telling him, Katia had sold it. She did her best to conceal this from him. She had pawned it downtown while he was seeing a client. He always left her to sit in the car or go window-shopping by herself for an hour. But she used the time to pawn the jewelry. A couple of days later Pike saw the pawn tickets in her purse.
At first she was afraid he would be furious. But he wasn’t. He didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, it was almost as if he’d expected it.
It was what happened next that unnerved her. He took the cash she had gotten from the pawnshop. Then he allowed her to send an equal amount by Western Union on his credit card to her family back home. She was, of course, grateful, but extremely puzzled. Why wasn’t he angry? He certainly didn’t need the cash. He would always spend lavishly on her whenever they went shopping, in some cases paying thousands of dollars in an afternoon. She had netted just a little over six hundred dollars for the jewelry. So why had he taken it away from her?
The more she thought about this the more uneasy she became. The only reason she could think of was that Emerson thought she might use the money to run, to fly back to Costa Rica. It planted the seed, the gnawing notion that grew and now blossomed, fully formed, in her mind. She did not dare raise it with him, not directly, for fear of what he might do. At the moment she had the run of the house. He would take her to town whenever he went. He allowed her to call home. In fact, he insisted on it. If she confronted him, all of that might end. Her growing suspicion could suddenly become fact, that she was no longer Emerson’s guest, if she ever had been. For all intents and purposes she was now a captive. Katia had heard stories of young women who traveled to Asia and the Middle East with wealthy men, women whose families never heard from them again. It happened. She knew it.
After Emerson took the money from her, that night she gathered her passport and visa, and put them in a small overnight bag with some clothes and other personal items. She hid the bag under the bed in one of the guest rooms just down the hall from the master bedroom. This way, if he searched her luggage, he wouldn’t find the travel documents. Without these she knew she could never get home.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight. What’s going on behind those beautiful eyes?”
His question startled her. Perhaps he could read her mind. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just relaxing.”
“I know you’re bored. Sometimes I’m not a very good host. Tomorrow I’ll make it up to you.” He yawned again. “Excuse me. I don’t know what’s going on with me tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go somewhere, have some fun. After my meeting in the morning.”
“If you like.” For a man his age Katia marveled at his stamina. On the other hand, he’d had two cups of black coffee. She had been hoping that by now he would be headed to bed. She pulled herself back up and adjusted the bodice of the black evening dress.
As she did this, Emerson’s sleepy fingers slid one of the photographs from the stack in front of him under a magazine on his desk.
Katia didn’t notice.
