“Still trying to find my sister,” Naomi told him. She explained all they had done the past year, based on the slim handle of her memory. She told the detective how she and Jerome had combed old farm censuses, visiting dozens of strawberry fields in the Oregon farm valley. They had gone to Arizona and California to inquire after the makers of underground bunkers, seeing if there was a list of buyers. They had interviewed dozens of men imprisoned for stealing children. Her DNA had been swabbed and entered into databases to see if there was a match with unidentified bodies. They had even looked into international child trafficking. Nothing. She couldn’t even find out who she was. It was as if she had been born the day she escaped, rising from the earth.
But then one day she and Jerome had stopped at a gas station on a country road deep in the valley. A truck of migrant farm workers had pulled up. The women and children were in the back, dark and swaying from the sun. They had pulled out empty plastic jugs to fill with water from the hose. It was Jerome, polished in Spanish, who struck up the conversation. An old woman, crossing herself, said yes, she remembered such a place. It had been an evil place, near a town called Elk Crossing.
“From there it was a race,” Naomi told the detective. She and Jerome had finally found the fields, and the bunker in the forests nearby. But the rotten trapdoor was broken, the underground rooms empty. Her sister was long gone. Their captor, Naomi figured, had taken her sister away after Naomi’s escape.
“I’m sorry,” Winfield said, his voice full of sympathy. “It must have been awful for you to go down there.”
Naomi nodded, swallowing the pain. “So we went back to the task force offices, and that’s when I heard you got some missing street girls here. Some have turned up murder victims.”
Detective Winfield leaned back in his chair, put his hand on his desk. “I should have known that would bring you to town.”
“Five girls, all stabbed and found in the river,” Naomi said. “At least a dozen other street girls have gone missing according to their friends. You could have another Green River Killer on your hands.”
“I know,” Winfield said. “We’re drowning out there.” He waved his worn hand at the city outside his office walls. “You’ve seen what it’s like. Homeless all over the place. And all the ways the vulnerable get preyed upon. Trafficking. Crime. Disease. Murder. I’m up to my neck in cases.”
Naomi frowned. “What about social workers and community agencies?”
“They’re drowning, too.”
“That why you gave the case to the local FBI?”
“I didn’t give—they took.” His voice was sharp. She saw a flash of anger. “You want to help, be my guest.” His voice softened. “Look, we all care. I know you do, and so do I. But I can only do so much. I got over fifty open cases right now. How many you got?”
Stung, Naomi said nothing. She had exactly zero cases if she didn’t include her sister. It was easy for her to judge. She felt bad and said so. “I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven. If you find anything, if you need my help, you just say so,” Winfield said, looking at his watch. “Now, I gotta go. You should go pay the Feds a visit. I think you might be surprised.”
“At what?”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter 7
Celia woke to a dome covered with the hieroglyphics of their times. Graffiti saying, Sweet sickness. Dope. Death was here. Suicide?
Stoner was at the lip of the overpass, pissing into the bushes. The sun filtering in the thick foliage looked bright. Celia had no idea what time it was. She wore no watch—watches were things of the past—and she couldn’t afford a phone.
Her pockets were as empty as her eyes this morning, staring blankly out at the shimmering leaves, tipped with white shadows. Behind her Rich was still asleep, his arm thrown over his face, belly sloping against the dirt.
“Come on.” Stoner came and kicked Rich in the leg.
Rich opened his eyes. “I was dreaming,” he said.
“Don’t tell me.”
“Pancakes. A big stack of them, with butter and syrup. And orange juice.”
“Fuck you, Rich,” Stoner said. Rich rose slowly, groaning from sleeping on the hard ground. Celia shook out her dirty jeans and stomped the dust off her sneakers. Her denim jacket was as filthy as the rest of her. Sometimes she liked being dirty. It felt like she was part of the pavement, part of the city. Or nestled inside a cocoon, waiting for a brilliant birth.
She went to the corner of the cavern and lowered her jeans, pissing in the dirt. “I’m glad I’m not a girl,” Stoner said, watching her.
“You’re not?” Celia looked up, shaking her rump before pulling on her jeans.
“Ha.” He tightened his belt.
Rich took his backpack and turned it upside down, showering the ground with crumbs. “I could swear there were pancakes in here,” he said, and strapped it on his back.
Celia and Stoner picked up their empty backpacks. Celia felt her belly clench with hunger. Her stomach didn’t even bother making noise anymore. It had learned silence like the rest of her. “Anyone got money?” she asked.
The boys looked away. No one wanted to say what they thought, which was Celia was a bit of a mooch. She was always begging and borrowing off the other street kids, and hardly turning any tricks or panhandling herself. Rich thought she used her tiny size as a charm. Anyhow, everyone was getting tired of it. “Maybe we should be asking you, Celia.”
Stoner was the first one through the bushes, sending a white ray of sunlight back, piercing their night-shadowed eyes. Rich followed, and finally Celia, nursing her shame.
It always felt longer and hotter to walk back downtown in the daytime.
The street kids had to wait an eternity at the busy freeway, finally darting through the bawling cars. They walked back over the footbridge, the river below now pregnant with reflected light, the swells thick and hung with green particles of life. The smell was cold and fertile, like nature was waiting to give birth.
Nearby, in the industrial area, Celia could see the ancient docks reaching into the river. The waterfront there was muddy, torn up by cars. Johns went down there to park. Creeps, too. Celia tried to avoid it now, after seeing that scary house.
Skid row was chastened by day, empty bottles like holiday streamers in the gutter. The shelter doors were locked. They walked down to Sisters of Mercy, where it was almost time for lunch.
Celia had a powerful prayer for lunch. She wanted it to be served.
They were sweaty and tired by the time they reached the end of the line. Celia felt the hot sun melt the top of her head. It was an unusually warm spring day. Dark clouds lay in a sticky line on the horizon, promising a storm later. The air tasted like a copper penny, and Celia relished this, rolling the electric taste in her mouth.
The line moved slowly. None of the kids said anything. They shuffled. Somewhere behind them, two drunks started arguing and a man threatened to cut them if they didn’t shut the fuck up. They did.
Shuffle. Move. Celia could feel the rough sidewalk through the thin soles of her shoes. She could feel each toe pressing down, holding her to the earth. Her mouth felt dusty. Even her ears felt closed, the canals thick. She was inside herself, a contented place to be, buzzing. Butterflies, she knew, live in a world of silence. They do not have to talk.