Authors: Terri Reid
Bradley turned and
opened the door, letting Mary outside before he followed her. He pulled the
door closed behind him, muffling the sobs of despair.
“Bradley?” Mary
asked, turning to him.
“Give me a minute,
Mary,” he said. “Then we can talk.”
They walked down
the street together in silence. Bradley opened the door for Mary, helped her in
and then entered on the other side. Mary sat quietly, watching his internal
struggle, and waited for him to begin the conversation. She’d seen this kind of
reaction before when she was a cop in Chicago. Sometimes when a crime was so
horrific or hit too close to home, an officer needed a few minutes to process
it. They needed to get past the anger and the rage, to tamp down the
frustration, and be able to professionally get their minds around the crime
without letting emotion compromise their judgment. Mary had experienced the
feeling more than once, especially in cases of child abuse. She needed to step
back and remember that she wasn’t the judge and jury. She was an officer of the
law, and she had to work within its guidelines.
They drove back
down Highway 20, but just before the bridge, Bradley turned to the left and
drove through the side streets to a small park on the bank of the Mississippi.
He pulled into the parking lot, put the cruiser in park, and turned to Mary. “I
need to tell you something before I answer your questions,” he said.
“Sure, whatever you
need,” she said.
He turned and
looked out the windshield watching the river flowing past them. “The reason I
knew about re-homing wasn’t because of new laws against it,” he said, “although
Wisconsin is working on laws to make it illegal. It was because of the increase
of child trafficking on the Mississippi.”
“What?” Mary asked.
“Child trafficking here in the Midwest?”
He nodded. “The
Mississippi offers access to two different borders, a number of major highways
and a number of large cities. Beyond that, there have been an increased number
of websites that feature child pornography or live-streaming sexual child abuse
throughout the Midwest.”
Bradley leaned
forward, placing his head on the steering wheel for a moment, and then he
turned back to her. “Mary, some of these kids who are being sold for sex are as
young as three years old,” he said. “There is no limit to the sickness that is
out in the world today. The streaming websites don’t only show child sexual
abuse, but in many cases they also show the child being violently abused.”
He pounded his fist
against the steering wheel. “And people pay money to watch it,” he said, his
voice thick with anger. “There are sick people, really sick and unbalanced
people out there, and these people, the
Larsons
, gave
a little girl away like you would give a puppy away.”
“How bad is it?”
Mary asked.
“It’s estimated
that there are between 100,000 and 300,000 children in the United States at
risk for commercial sexual exploitation and one million children exploited
by the global commercial sex trade each year. The average age of these kids is
twelve. Twelve years old, Mary. And Liza was only five.”
“Is that why you
were so harsh with the
Larsons
?” she asked. “To be
fair, we don’t know that’s what happened to Liza. She could have just been
abused by someone. We can’t know she was trafficked.”
He sat back in the
chair, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your description of what happened
to Liza reminded me of a victim’s report I read,” he confessed. “I made a
couple of calls and discovered that another young girl was found floating in
the Mississippi with marks similar to those on Liza. I also discovered that
soon after her death, a porn video showing the young victim being abused was
shown from an IP address coming from outside the United States.”
Mary felt sick to
her stomach. “Was anyone arrested?” she asked. “Do they know who did it?”
He sat up and met
her eyes. “The agency looking into this believes that it started as a streaming
event,” he said.
“What? People
watched it real time? They saw a little girl being abused, and they didn’t
report it?”
“They not only
didn’t report it, they paid to watch it,” he explained. “It was streamed live
and recorded and then sold from an international distributor. Mary, people make
a lot of money catering to the depraved people out there.”
“So, whoever we’re
looking for,” she said, “whoever killed Liza, could potentially be running some
kind of pornography operation?”
“Yes, and as the
money increases, so does the danger,” he said pointedly.
She saw the look in
his eyes, and she was having none of it.
“Oh, no.
Don’t tell me you want me to give up on this case,” she said.
He studied her for
a moment and then shook his head. “No, I won’t do that,” he agreed. “But I want
to work with you on this one. I want to be in on everything. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course,”
she said, and then she placed her hands on her abdomen. “What kind of world are
we bringing our baby into?” she asked quietly.
She felt his hand
cover hers, felt the warmth and reassurance. “Hopefully a better one,” he said.
“So how was your
day?” Clarissa asked Mary as they set the table for dinner.
“It was very
interesting,” Mary said, trying to inject some normalcy into an otherwise crazy
day. “How was your day?”
“It was great,”
Clarissa said. “Mrs. Brennan told us about Friday the 13
th
and how
it can be lucky or unlucky.”
“Really?”
Bradley asked from the kitchen where he browned hamburger in a cast iron pan.
“I thought it could only be unlucky.”
Shaking her head, Clarissa
placed a napkin next to a plate. “One thing you can do is wear red underpants,”
she said with a giggle.
A knife slipped
from Mary’s hand and dropped to the floor.
“Red underpants?”
Mary asked, bending over and picking it up. “Are you teasing me?”
“No, I promise,”
she laughed. “Red underpants are good luck, so you should wear them on Friday
the 13
th
.”
“I guess I’ll have
to go out tomorrow and get us all red underpants,” Mary said, putting the knife
in the sink and getting a fresh one from the drawer.
“Are there any
other things we can do?” Bradley asked. “I’m not really a red underwear kind of
guy.”
Clarissa thought
for a moment. “Oh, yeah, you have to get out of bed on the right side of the
bed,” she said.
“Which side is the
right side?” Bradley asked.
“The side that’s
not the left side,” Mary replied.
“Oh, that kind of
right side,” Bradley said. “Well, that’s my side anyway. So I don’t know if it
will be luckier.”
“Well, you’re not
supposed to clean your house on Friday the 13
th
,” Clarissa added, “because
holding a broom is bad luck and so is doing laundry.”
“We’re having the
party here on Friday afternoon,” Mary said. “Do you think using a vacuum
cleaner is okay?”
“I guess,” Clarissa
said. “She didn’t say anything about that.”
“Well, we don’t
believe in superstitions anyway,” Bradley said.
Reaching across the
counter, Bradley’s sleeve caught on the salt shaker and it fell over, spilling
salt on the table. He righted the shaker and automatically picked some of the
spilled salt up and threw it over his left shoulder.
“Why did you do
that?” Clarissa asked.
“What?” Bradley
asked.
“Why did throw salt
over your shoulder?”
Mary grinned at
him. “Yes, Mr. We-Don’t-Believe-In-Superstitions-Anyway, why did you throw salt
over your shoulder after you spilled it?”
Shrugging, Bradley
sent an
embarrassed
smile to both of the ladies in his
life. “Well, we don’t believe in all superstitions,” he amended.
Mary winked at
Clarissa. “So, what size would you like those red underpants to be in?” she
called to Bradley.
“Funny, Mary, very
funny,” he replied.
Clarissa climbed
into her chair and Mary sat next to her. “Do you think
it’s
bad luck to have the baby’s party on Friday the 13
th
?” she asked.
Mary leaned over,
hugged her and placed a kiss on her forehead. “No, I think by bringing everyone
we love together to celebrate the new baby we will have greater power than bad
luck, and we will turn Friday the 13
th
into a lucky day,” she said.
“Besides, Rosie will be making the food for us, so how can it be unlucky?”
Nodding, Clarissa
leaned towards Mary and lowered her voice. “Yeah, but Daddy will be grilling,
and he burns stuff,” she said.
“I heard that,”
Bradley called, walking over to the edge of the counter. “And I don’t always
burn things. Sometimes I serve them raw.”
“And sometimes
they’re burnt on the outside and raw on the inside,” Clarissa added.
“Well, that takes a
pretty talented cook to do that,” Mary said, winking at her daughter. “Wouldn’t
you agree?”
Giggling, Clarissa
nodded. “Yes, really talented,” she agreed. “Is that what Stanley means when he
says it should be a crime what Daddy does to a steak?”
“Yes,” Mary replied
quickly, grinning at Bradley. “That’s exactly what it means. The meat is so
good, it’s a crime.”
“Stanley sure is
funny,” Clarissa said.
“Yeah, he sure is,”
Bradley muttered.
“As funny as a broken bone.”
“Um, Bradley,” Mary
said, trying not to laugh.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I think the
hamburger is burning,” she said, biting back a smile.
Bradley turned to
see smoke rising from the cast iron frying pan. He hurried over to the stove,
picked up the pan and carried it to the sink. He turned on the cold water
faucet, and they all heard a loud hiss as a puff of steam encased both Bradley
and the sink.
A moment later,
Bradley walked around the counter and sat at the table with them. Sighing, he
pulled out his phone and turned to Mary and Clarissa. “So, do you want pizza or
Chinese?” he asked.
Gigi Amoretti
walked back to the ancient outbuildings behind their home. She had the option
of taking an underground passageway between the house and the outbuilding, but
the idea of walking down the dark, narrow tunnel always made her squeamish.
Instead, she preferred the star-studded, evening sky and the cool, evening breezes
carrying the scent of field corn.
Like a silent
behemoth appearing in the darkness of the night sky, the barn stood with faded
paint, broken windows and rotted planks of barn wood that indicated a building
that had stood in disrepair for too long to be salvaged. She lifted up the
metal latch that held the Dutch door closed and then looked over her shoulder
before pulling the door open and slipping inside the dark barn.
But that darkness
lasted for only a moment until Gigi reached over and pressed the high-tech
touchscreen panel embedded in the wall. Suddenly, a large array of fluorescent
bulbs flickered to life, flooding the area with light. Brightly enameled walls,
looking nothing like the inside of an old barn, reflected the light onto a gray
concrete floor. A crisscrossed pattern of scaffolding suspended several feet
below the twenty-foot-high ceiling held movable wall partitions, green screens,
backdrops, high powered lighting and remote controlled cameras. Thick black
cables snaked from the equipment across the ceiling. It looked like a Hollywood
soundstage complete with a small editing and control booth in the corner.
Her high heels
echoed loudly as she crossed from the door all the way across the building to the
door of the control booth. She flipped on the light switch to the room and made
her way to the control bank in front of the large, picture window. Sitting on
the leather chair, she pressed a button that illuminated the control panel,
including a small computer.
She looked up to
her left where a television screen displayed closed circuit security camera
views for the front of the house, the road, and the front of the barn. Noting
that no one was nearby, she flipped another switch. A loud, mechanical rumble
nearly shook the building as a portion of the roof opened, and a satellite dish
on a hydraulic stand raised up to above the top of the barn and the tree line.
Once the dish was in place, Gigi checked the connection speed and smiled.
“Perfect,” she murmured.
Flipping another
switch on the panel, a large screen ascended from beneath a hidden panel in the
next room. The screen copied the view of her computer monitor. Adjusting the
switch labeled “Camera One,” she maneuvered the camera until the same screen showed
up on the camera feed on another monitor in the control room. She watched until
the clock was at 7:59, and then she began to type.
DUE TO
CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND OUR CONTROL, TONIGHT’S WEBSTREAM IS CANCELED. AS PER YOUR
BUYER’S AGREEMENT, YOU WILL NOT BE RECEIVING A REFUND; HOWEVER, YOU WILL
RECEIVE VIEWING RIGHTS TO OUR NEXT PRESENTATION. THANK YOU FOR YOUR
UNDERSTANDING.
She watched the words from the keyboard
appear on the monitor, the screen, and finally the camera. Almost immediately
the phone in front of her rang and she picked it up without hesitation.
“Yes?” she asked
casually, tapping her fingers on the aluminum panel. “I understand you’re
disappointed. No more than we. But sometimes things happen that we cannot
control.”
She waited while
the caller spoke, her eyes narrowing and her lips thinning. “May I remind you
that I have maintained a client list of all transactions made with this
company?” she stated. “And should that list ever fall into the hands of the
authorities in your country, I dare say that even you, in your lofty position,
would face certain consequences. People are so funny about having their elected
officials partake in sadomasochistic voyeurism, especially when children are
involved.”
She smiled
triumphantly and nodded. “Yes, of course I understand that you were merely
overwrought,” she soothed. “And because you are one of our very best clients, I
will be happy to send you a free DVD of the next event so you can relive the
thrill at your leisure.”
She listened for a
moment longer, yawning quietly as he spoke. “Of course, we are searching for a
replacement as we speak,” she promised, “someone even better than previously
advertised.”
She nodded again. “À
bientôt
,” she said, hanging up the phone.
She sat back in the
chair, tapping her fingers on the panel, and waited to see if she would be
receiving any more negative feedback. One thing she had learned, you had to
keep the customers happy and coming back for more. Sometimes it required a
reminder of their vulnerability, but usually it just required a production that
satisfied all of their peculiar cravings.
As she waited, she
opened another screen on the computer, accessed the re-homing forum and started
to read down the lists. She quickly discarded any posts about infants; they
were too much trouble and no use to her. Although some of her clients’ tastes
did run to children that young, they could go elsewhere for that kind of
entertainment.
Finally, she found
one that interested her and reread it with growing delight.
Ursula is ten years old. She is a beautiful
girl from Portugal, and we adopted her six months ago. She has only been able
to learn a few words of English in the time she has been with us. We believe
she may be mentally slow and will need special help, which we cannot afford. If
you are interested in meeting Ursula and speaking with us about re-homing,
please private message us.
With a satisfied
smile, Gigi logged into the forum under her username “
pastorswife
”
and started to type her response.
You are an answer to our prayers…