Down Among the Dead Men

41

For the next several minutes (hours?), she drifted in and out of consciousness, voices hovering somewhere above her.

Jesus, you really smacked the hell out of the bitch

You still got your pelotas, white boy?

Fuck you.

She felt hands on her body, patting her down, checking the pockets of her jeans, and she tried to resist, but the darkness was pulling at her again.

She was gone for a while, then:

How much?

Hundred twenty bucks

Shit

Better than the last one. At least she’s got some credit cards, too

Then she was gone again, only to be awakened by hot breath in her face, a hand squeezing her right breast, finger flicking the nipple.

Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check, sweet stuff

She wanted to scream, but then the darkness came again and she floated there for a very long time.

T HE SUN WAS down when she awoke.

Her head was pounding.

She lay there a moment, trying to get her bearings, not sure where she was, then suddenly remembered the alleyway and Emilio’s Cantina and the two men who had attacked her.

Meat Without Feet.

Bringing her hand to her chest, she discovered that her blouse had been ripped open and her bra was askew.

Oh, Jesus.

She patted the rest of her body and found that her jeans were still fastened, which meant (at least she hoped it did) that she hadn’t been raped. She also didn’t seem to be leaking anywhere. No blood or other fluids.

Another good sign.

But none of this kept her from feeling violated, and she started to cry.

How could she be so fucking stupid?

She dealt with victims of violent crime every day of her life and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself fall prey to these bastards.

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she pulled herself upright and looked around, half-afraid they might still be nearby.

But they were long gone.

She was alone in the alley, the sounds of the city like some distant familiar tune filtered through a throbbing membrane.

She slowly got to her feet, wobbling slightly. Straightened her bra, buttoned her blouse.

She looked around at the grimy alley floor. It was dark in there, but there was enough light from the adjacent street that she could see that her purse was gone, along with her money and credit cards. The only thing they’d left behind was Jen’s passport, which lay near the trash cans.

She crossed to them, bent down, and picked it up, then opened it to the photo page and stared at Jen’s smiling face.

Had they gotten to her, too?

Was that why she had disappeared?

Was she lying in an alleyway like this one, unconscious or worse, unable to call for help?

The police.

Beth had no choice but to go to the police.

Head still pounding, she moved out of the alleyway and searched the street, seeing nothing but parked cars.

The gangbangers were gone.

She headed toward the lights of the main drag, its sidewalks teeming with tourists. And when she reached the top of the block she saw one:

A blue and white police car, parked near a taco stand.

She moved toward it, waving her hands, signaling to the officer for help.