SO THIS WAS DEATH.
I longed for my parents. I remembered a night two years ago when we were stationed with the Al-Hajaya tribe of Bedouins in the harsh desert of Jordan. We slept in goathair tents that protected us from the harsh conditions in the vast wasteland. I stirred slowly one morning, hearing the braying of nearby animals, my eyes blinking open to see my parents staring down at me. Mom and Dad stood together, both sporting dorky parental smiles—you know the ones, all dewy-eyed and goofy and embarrassing as a smile can be—and now I would pretty much give anything to see those dorky smiles. I’m remembering that moment so clearly now and I’m wondering—if this is indeed death— will I see my father’s dorky parental smile when I open my eyes?
But wait. If I were dead, why did I still ache from the beating Derrick gave me? My head felt as though someone had surgically implanted a jackhammer into my skull and left it running on high. Do you feel that in death? I doubted it.
I slowly opened my eyes and yes, I did indeed see a face. But it was not my father’s.
It was Derrick’s.
His eyes were open, unblinking, staring at nothing. A neat, perfectly circular bullet hole sat in the middle of his forehead, still leaking a little blood. There was no doubt about it. Derrick was dead.
I tried not to panic. I didn’t move. I kept my head still while my eyes darted about my surroundings.
Dead Derrick and I were in the back of a van.
“Nice to see you awake, Mickey.”
I looked past Derrick toward the man who spoke. The first thing I noticed about him was the tattoo on his face.
“Recognize me?” he said.
“You’re Antoine LeMaire.”
Something flickered on his face—doubt maybe—but then he smiled at me. “In the flesh.”
I tried to fight through the pain, tried to figure my next move. Could I go for the van door behind me? Suppose it was locked. I was debating what to do when Antoine said, “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let Derrick shoot you.”
“You,” I said, trying to sit up a little. “You killed him?”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you” didn’t really seem to fit. I remembered Candy’s words about Antoine and this van.
“Someone told me,” I said, “that once people get into this van, they’re gone forever.”
Antoine smiled. He had a nice smile, straight teeth and almost toothpaste-commercial white. He was either lightskinned black or darker Latino, I couldn’t tell which. “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s mostly true.” He gestured toward Derrick’s dead body. “Especially in his case.”
“And in mine?”
“No, Mickey. Or at least, I hope not.”
“Where’s Ashley?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I was looking for her too, remember?”
“So you could sell her into white slavery?”
“Ah,” Antoine said, and the smile was back. “You’ve heard the rumors.”
“Are you telling me they’re not true?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Mickey?”
“I saw you on that videotape.”
“Not from that.”
I hesitated. There was something familiar about him, something distant, but the more I tried to see it, the more it stayed out of reach. “What then?”
He sighed, rolled up his shirtsleeve, and pointed to his forearm. I squinted at it, and my world, already reeling, took another major hit. I started shaking my head, lost yet again, but there it was:
The same butterfly tattoo.
“You . . . you’re one of them?”
“Wouldn’t ‘one of us’ be more accurate?”
“I don’t get it.”
“I think you do, Mickey.”
And just like that, I realized that he was right. Without warning or even much thought, the pieces started to fall into place. The Abeona Shelter. Abeona was the goddess who protected children. From the days of Elizabeth Sobek in the 1940s, through my father’s work, up until right now with Ashley, that was what they did—rescued, protected, and sheltered the young.
“Buddy Ray is the evil one,” I said.
He nodded.
“He starts the girls dancing at this club,” I said, “and then, well, it gets worse.”
“Much worse,” Antoine said. “You have no idea how depraved he can be. Ashley’s mom . . . her life was not a good one. She ended up down here, dancing and more for Buddy Ray. Ashley was the only thing in her life that mattered. She protected her daughter as best she could, tried to find her a better way of life.”
“But?” I said.
“But she died. Women like her . . . they don’t last long. And when she died, Ashley had no one. Buddy Ray said that she owed him money. He told Ashley that she’d have to pay off the debts.”
“What about Ashley’s dad?”
“She never knew him. It wouldn’t have mattered. Buddy Ray thinks the girls belong to him. He uses threats and violence. He holds the girls prisoner. If they don’t escape, they eventually end up like Ashley’s mom. But if Buddy catches them trying to run . . .”
He just left the thought in the air.
I felt my mouth go dry, but it was suddenly so clear. “So you rescue them,” I said. “You pretend to kidnap girls like Ashley and sell them into white slavery. But actually, you’re doing the opposite. You’re trying to save them.”
Antoine said nothing. He didn’t have to.
“You relocate them, like you did with Ashley. First to some place close and then you move them out to someplace more permanent. But something went wrong. Ashley’s picture showed up in the paper. Buddy Ray or one of his people saw it.”
“That’s one theory.”
“You have another?” I asked.
“A teacher at your school,” he said, “might work for Buddy Ray.”
“Who?”
He didn’t reply. I tried to put it together. “Even Ashley doesn’t know your role, does she?”
“No. We grabbed her and kept her in the dark. We gave her an identity and explained what would happen next. She’s responsible for herself after that.”
“So when she ran scared, you didn’t know where she was. You went looking for her too.”
“That’s right.”
“You tried her locker, but that was empty. Then you beat up Dr. Kent to see what he knew.”
“No, that was Buddy Ray and Derrick. They figured that since she was using that name, Kent might know something. I got there in time to save him. When his wife came home, she only spotted me. That’s why she identified me to the police.”
Antoine paused and studied me for a minute. “Do you feel all right, Mickey?”
I didn’t know the answer. “I guess.”
“Because you have work to do.”
“Me?”
“I can’t save Ashley. It would blow my cover. You need to do it. If you call the cops, Buddy Ray will slice her throat and make sure the body is never found. If you go to your uncle Myron—”
“Wait, how do you know my uncle?”
“I don’t. But you can’t go to him for help. There was a reason your father never told him about the Abeona Shelter.”
I took a sharp intake of breath when he mentioned Dad. “You knew my father, didn’t you?”
Antoine LeMaire took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I knew you too. But you were very small. And you knew me as Juan.”
My mouth dropped open. “My dad,” I said. “He wrote you that resignation letter.”
“That’s right.”
“He wanted out of the Abeona Shelter.”
Juan’s gaze flicked to the right. “Yes. For you.”
For me. My father made that choice for me—and how did that work out? He died, the man I loved like no other . . . he died for me. So I could be spared any discomfort or an abnormal upbringing. For that, my father came back to the United States and died.
And what about my mother? She must have realized the truth—that her husband died because of her son. No wonder she ran away from me. No wonder she ran to a needle instead.
A pain so unbearable, a pain that made Derrick’s beating seem like a light tap on the shoulder, started clawing inside me. I looked up at Juan.
“Bat Lady said that my dad’s still alive,” I said, my vision blurring with tears. “But he’s not, is he?”
Juan’s voice was almost too tender. “I don’t know, Mickey.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Do you want to help us?”
I blinked the tears away and met his eye. I wondered what my dad would want, but maybe that wasn’t even important anymore.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I want to help.”
