Power and Empire

Pain, in one form or another, had been a constant companion since her father had died and her mother had told her to “open her kitchen.” At first the hurt had been in her heart. She’d never been her mother’s favorite. This she knew. But even in a culture where daughters often opened their kitchens to help the family, it should have been her choice. Her father had once beaten a boy who had just looked at her. He would never have suggested she do such things. Her mother, on the other hand, had said she might even learn to enjoy her work. That was a joke. She’d learned to endure the searing pain, the ache of the illnesses that were a foregone conclusion when you slept with upward of twenty different men a week. The act itself was painful enough, but the men were all so much bigger than her that it was nearly always brutal — even when the men pretended they were being nice. Her back and shoulders suffered wrenching injuries she would surely carry for the rest of her life. But even that pain she’d learned to push to the back of her mind.

She’d thought her life was bad in Costa Rica. It had taken her several days to realize that her own mother had sold her to the man named Dorian. At that point, a numbness had crept over her that left her feeling like a cardboard cutout of her former self. A spark of something inside her kept her acting the way men wanted her to act. It was just enough to keep the men who owned her from killing her — for a time, at least. If a girl gave up completely in this business, she was thrown away in short order. Men wanted a doll, but they wanted a live doll, not one who just lay there. There was a fine line between acting spirited and showing belligerence. Parrot’s belt taught his girls exactly where that line was. Some girls never learned. Parrot was more than happy to keep teaching them, sometimes beating them to within an inch of their lives. But at least he knew when to stop.

Before Parrot, Magdalena had seen girls bleed to death — or get infections so they passed out and then never woke up. Some girls got too much dope in their systems and had such bad fits they cracked their teeth. Parrot was always pissed when that happened. Girls were like cows to him. He didn’t get paid when one of them died or ruined her teeth.

Yes, Magdalena had seen a lot of horrible things in her thirteen years — sights that would have probably killed another girl her age. But the babbling cries of despair that washed under the big red door said this was far, far worse.

And then, as if thinking about it made it so, the red door creaked open and Lupe walked in, shutting it quickly behind her. The horrible woman wore her customary tube top and cutoff jeans that were so short the pockets hung down past the frayed fabric. A ring of dark purple bruises encircled her neck, testifying to the fact that even a bottom bitch was not immune to the brutality of the man who ran her life. The tattoo of a grim reaper covered the inside of her left thigh. The flesh of her right was adorned with the skeletal figure of La Santa Muerte, a patron saint of narco traffickers, and, Magdalena had discovered, traffickers in human cargo as well.

Brandishing the whip back and forth with the whistling flourish of a swordfighter, Lupe took a moment to look from shattered girl to shattered girl. Everyone cringed at the noise. Each of them had felt the sting of the awful rawhide whip. Teodora began to wail, leaning forward to cover her face. Lupe struck her hard across the back, warning her to shut up. At length, the woman’s black eyes settled on Magdalena. She skulked across the room, towering above the trembling girl while she prodded her with Ratón.

Lupe cocked her head to one side, a show of counterfeit pity. Magdalena could smell the seething contempt as the woman stood over her. “Come, little one.” She hooked a finger toward the big, red door. “It is your turn.”

15

Dr. Ann Miller perched on the edge of a smooth leather chair and shot a glance at the clunky digital watch that dwarfed her slender arm. The black plastic monstrosity was waterproof and practical in the woods, but it looked incredibly out of place among the three women and one man working at their desks in the smallish White House office. The guy was young — probably still in college and rumpled in appearance — but the women were dressed to the nines in stylish blouses and elegant if sparse jewelry — not a clunky watch among them. Compared to them, Miller may as well have been wearing a bathrobe. Her Kühl khaki slacks and oversized buffalo-plaid wool shirt were perfect for a canoe trip on the Shenandoah — but now she just looked ridiculous.