The Traffickers

THREE

3519-A North Broad Street, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 9:56 A.M.

Dr. Amanda Law had just paid for her usual morning double cappuccino with nonfat milk at the Cup O’Joe’s Internet Caf? location across Broad Street from the Shriners Hospital for Children.

She stepped outside and looked up at the morning sun and smiled. Her cellular telephone chimed once. She looked at the screen and her smile became larger.

The box showed the first two lines of the message. It read: matt how?s your day going?

And she thought, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have someone thinking about me.

And being genuinely affectionate.

Amanda slid her left thumb across the bottom edge of the big glass of the computer-phone and the touch screen lit brightly. Now she could clearly read the box that had popped up in the middle: matt how?s your day going? just had an interesting development in the case… need to postpone lunch (frown) sorry… i?ll make it up to you… promise!

She thought somewhat sadly:

And so that begins, or continues…

But I can deal with it.

She tapped out:

I?m still fine.

Same as the last time you asked-what? — a half hour ago? (wink) And that?s fine about lunch. I have a busy day, too.

Besides, I told you I know how your days can go.

So, be safe! — A Then she hit SEND. She had no way of knowing that it would be some time until it would be received and read.

Dr. Amanda Law took a sip of her coffee and prepared to cross the street and enter Temple University Hospital.

She looked left, checking for southbound traffic. There was a package delivery truck, a big boxy brown one, accelerating down Broad. She glanced right, trying to judge the northbound traffic, wondering if she could go after the delivery truck flew past her at the hammers of hell.

A block south, the traffic light had all the vehicles on Broad stopped in both directions. A taxicab was parked in front of the hospital, and behind that a beat-up old black minivan was rolling to a stop. She saw a skinny dark-skinned man in baggy jeans, a zipper hoodie sweatshirt, and a wife-beater T-shirt get out of the sliding door on the far side, walk to near the front door of the hospital, and stop to look back at the minivan.

Suddenly, there was the enormous sound and wind of the delivery van blowing past. It went so fast it left a huge wake. Amanda caught herself clutching at her phone and coffee, afraid she’d drop one or the other, or both.

Then all was calm again. She glanced left and saw that no other vehicle was coming, and stepped off the curb. Just shy of halfway across, she glanced to the right. The taxicab was now rolling forward. It made the right turn onto Tioga just as Amanda stepped around its rear bumper.

As she stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed movement to her right.

The black minivan, too, was rolling.

And the man in the T-shirt was moving away from the front door of the hospital.

Then all of a sudden the minivan accelerated and was right behind her.

And the man in the T-shirt was running right at her. He charged into her, his right shoulder hitting her just above the stomach, at the same time wrapping his arms around her, like a football tackle. It knocked the wind out of her.

The impact also caused her to squeeze and crumple her cup, the hot coffee spilling on her and her attacker, and she dropped her phone on the sidewalk.

As she slowly went backward, Amanda Law began anticipating hitting the hard concrete sidewalk.

But the next thing she knew, she was down, and it hadn’t been hard concrete. It had been a softer landing. Then she realized that she was now on a blanket inside the black minivan, its sliding side door still locked in the open position.

There was no middle or backseat in the van, only open carpeted floor.

She tried to scream or yell, but the wind knocked out of her left her gasping for air.

She heard the driver, a male, yelling: “Phone! Get the fucking phone!”

The driver had been yelling at the man who’d tackled her, because with a grunt he pushed off her. He ran back to the sidewalk and retrieved the phone.

She tried to sit up and make a try for the open door. But then she painfully felt a hand grab her hair at the back of her head. It pulled her back down.

She heard some woman’s voice on the sidewalk yell, “Stop them! Someone call the police! Stop!”

Then the man who’d tackled her jumped back into the minivan and onto her. The hand let go of her hair. And the minivan roared away from the hospital, wind rushing in through the open sliding door.

Some three or four blocks later, the minivan stopped. The man in back slammed shut the sliding door. There was the sound of tape being ripped from a roll. Despite her desperate attempts, Amanda Law very shortly found her wrists bound with duct tape, then her ankles. Then a strip of the tape was placed over her mouth, and finally a pillowcase pulled over her head and held there with a wrap of tape around her neck.

Amanda Law, her head still covered by the pillowcase, knew that she was in some sort of house not too far from the hospital. She had tried to track the direction and distance the van had driven her since she’d been abducted, but had become pretty disoriented after the first four or five turns. On two of the turns, the driver had taken them so fast that she’d rolled around on the open back floor, and that had really thrown off her sense of direction.

The distance had been easier to track only because it had not taken long at all to reach the house. It had been maybe eight, ten minutes at most before the driver had stood heavily on the brakes, then bumped up over a curb.

Someone-it must have been the skinny dark-skinned one in the T-shirt-had gotten out the front passenger door, and there had been the sound of a chain being pulled from around a metal pole, then of a metal gate dragging across what sounded like rock. The van had eased forward, its tires crunching on the gravel. And the gate was closed and locked.

One of the men had then picked her out of the back of the van, thrown her over his right shoulder, and carried her into the house. There, in what smelled like the kitchen, she had been put into what felt like an old wooden armchair. There came a tugging at her duct-taped wrists, and she realized after a moment, when the pressure of the wrap began easing, that her hands were being released.

But only for a moment. As she flexed her fingers and wrists to get the feeling back in them, someone grabbed her left wrist, and there came the sound of more duct tape being torn from a roll. Her left wrist was then taped to the left armrest of the wooden chair, and it was repeated on the right. Then her ankles were taped to the bottom of the chair’s front legs.

She could hear the sound of someone walking across the room, the door of a refrigerator opening, the clanking of what sounded like beer bottles being removed. Then the door closed and bottles were opened with a pffft sound.

And then the clanking of glass bottles again.

They just toasted the success of my kidnapping! Amanda Law thought.

What the hell is going on?

What do they want with me?

Is this… is this it? “So, Dr. Amanda Law,” a male Hispanic voice said.

He knows me?

How the hell does he know who I am?

That’s the same voice as the driver, who shouted about getting the phone…

There was the sound of a newspaper being opened.

The voice then said, “ ‘ The cowards who carried out these killings are despicable’-”

Despite the tape covering her mouth, she suddenly gasped.

He’s reading that from the front page of the paper!

The voice went on: “ ‘ Shooting a helpless patient as he lay unconscious in his hospital bed is a vile act… I would personally like to stare these evil people in the eye and see that they suffer real justice.’ ”

There was a long silence. It ended with the sound of a glass bottle being put heavily on a table.

“That bastard Skipper wasn’t helpless, Dr. Law. Same with that Jamaican bastard in the market. No, no. And I would think someone as smart as you would know things are never as simple as they appear.” He took a sip of his beer. “So maybe now you do. Too bad it’s too late.”

These are the killers…?

Dear God…

Then she heard another male Hispanic voice: “It’s busted a little, but still works.”

“Give it to me,” the first male said.

Amanda could hear the click-click-click sounds the computer-phone made when the touch-screen buttons were tapped.

“Well, look what we have here. Dr. Amanda Law has a new boyfriend sending her texts. Looks like his name is Matt.”

Oh, no! What happens now?

Especially if they find out Matt’s a cop…

“Wonder if the boyfriend will pay to get Dr. Amanda Law back. And how much more to get her back safely?”

The other man grunted.

“Well, only one way to find out,” the first said.

Amanda heard a different clicking sound, like the pushing of a button.

That’s not my phone.

Then she heard the terrifying sound of the screams of a young girl and the shouts of a young boy.

That’s a recording!

Of somebody being-what? — tortured!

Then there was another click. The recording stopped.

“Here we go,” the first man’s voice said.

She heard the familiar clicking sound of her phone.

Then quiet.

Then one more click.

“I’ll be damned! It went into voice mail,” He added bitterly, “What’s the matter, Dr. Law? Doesn’t your boyfriend take your calls? Maybe this bastard Matt won’t pay to get you back! How is that for your justice?”

Amanda felt a sob welling up. She fought it back.

“Well, what the hell. We’ll just leave the boyfriend a message.”

There came the clicks, then she could hear the male breathing heavily.

He’s getting some sick satisfaction out of this!

It sounds almost sexual!

Oh, God help me!

Then she heard, after enough time had passed for Matt’s phone to answer and roll the call into voice mail, the man shout: “We have your girlfriend, Matt!”

Then came the audio recording of the teenage boy’s terrified shouts of “Stop! No!” and the girl begging, “No! Don’t!”

That went on for maybe five seconds.

Then the man shouted: “Do as I say, and you get your Dr. Law back alive! No cops!”

Then there was the sound of more clicks.

And then the kitchen was terribly quiet.

Except for the soft sobbing of Amanda Law.