Man Hunt (24 page)

Monica's plane landed at San Diego Airport at 9:08 a.m. and seven minutes ahead of schedule, a small miracle. She was equally happy to have no luggage to wait for. Her only carry-on was a small backpack with her ID, the little leather pouch filled with cash, and a few other necessary items. When she spotted the driver holding up a white paper with her last name on it, she felt a flush of nervousness at seeing her identity so boldly out in front of so many people. Then she relaxed, reminding herself that nobody there knew her or her lifestyle from any of the other half-dozen rich folk who had Limousines or Rolls Royces waiting for them. She was safe.

She followed the driver to his car, a black Limo, not stretch, and got in the back.

"No luggage?" the driver asked after he took his seat and lowered the privacy glass between them.

"No. Just me."

"Alright then. Where to?"

"First take me to 5
th
Avenue and West Broadway. Then I need to be at San Francisco International by five o'clock tonight. It's a matter of life and death."

"Woah, you mean the airport?" the driver said, turning around to face her. "Frisco is over five hundred miles, lady. I don't go that far. Not without a booking well in advance, and even then it would cost you."

"I don't have time to argue," Monica said. "I can pay you five hundred dollars. Cash." She reached into her bank pouch and pulled out five large bills. The driver eyed them but was already shaking his head.

"You don't get it," he said. "It's still rush hour around here, and you're talking about going through two major cities. You'll be lucky to get there by
seven
. I think you better make a phone call or two 'cause there's no way I could–"

"A thousand," Monica said, and pulled out five more bills.

The driver looked into her eyes with all the seriousness that Monica so often used on the girls in her counseling room. "I'll get pulled over," he said. Monica didn't speak. She didn't need to.

"You're serious!" he finally said.

"I'm very serious, and I'm getting anxious at the time you're wasting. Can you do it or not?"

The driver took only one last moment to make his decision then pulled briskly out of the parking spot and opened the car's throttle. Monica leaned back in the leather seat and sighed out a breath of tension she'd been holding ever since Gertrude had finished explaining her desires.

Demands,
Monica corrected herself.
I've never seen her so insistent before. She'll kill me if I don't follow that girl like a shadow.

Suddenly the tension crept into her spine again and she leaned forward. "Get me there by four-thirty," she said, "and I'll throw in another five hundred." The driver tensed noticeably in his shoulders. Then he pushed down on the accelerator a little more.

Josie's plane landed at the San Francisco International Airport right on schedule. The tires chirped from somewhere below when attacked by the speeding runway. She'd always liked that sound. It was the little things she missed while on the island.

But the simple joy passed over her quickly.
Charles,
she thought.
I'm supposed to recruit Charles. God, I don't know if I can do this. I haven't even talked to him since…

She paused, realizing how little she'd thought about what happened to him after the incident. Everything had happened so quickly once she'd met Monica. The truth was Josie hadn't seen or spoken to him since, though a few times she'd found herself fantasizing that he'd made a special visit to her home the day after she'd left, intending to make amends for what he'd done.

Fat chance,
she thought.
He wasn't the apologetic type. He was more likely to pretend it never happened. Go on dating at the movies and the McDonald's and trying to get me to go bowling with him like we were still newly hot for each other. And I probably would have been too afraid and ashamed to not go along with it. I probably would have ended up giving in again. Maybe even a few times. If he was lucky, I'd even have gotten to liking it, to thinking I loved him, to pretending to myself I was happy and just where I wanted to be. Might have even gotten pregnant and then he would have either tried to talk me into an abortion or just bought some cheap ring and we would've begun
that
whole shit-fest.

Once again Josie was glad she'd come across Monica and the women of Monroe's Island. It angered her to admit it, but she'd learned more confidence in herself in six months there than she had in all of her years before. She was no girl now, ignorant of so much about life, but a woman completely in control of her own destiny.

Scratch that,
she thought, picturing Gertrude.
Mostly in control.

She exited the plane and followed her fellow passengers to baggage claim where they would be forced to wait there, impatiently hunting the carousel for their clothes and smuggled fruits. Josie diverged from the little mob, holding her brown suitcase easily in one hand and headed straight for the taxis outside.

They were lined up like reluctant ponies waiting for the next group of screaming children to hop on their backs and abuse their manes. Josie selected one with a middle-aged driver who looked particularly bored. She inhaled a moment to find that hidden courage within her, and got in.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Can you take me all the way to Oregon?" she asked.

"Not hardly. That's like 300 miles. I've got a fifty mile limit. I make too much money staying local to waste my day driving across the state and back. I can take you as far north as Sacramento."

"Well then, take me to Sacramento," Josie said just to get the tires rolling.

Behind her, unnoticed by either of them, a black Limo, not stretch, pulled out behind them and followed.

She rode in silence for ten or fifteen minutes, watching the man's thinning hair, getting a feel for him. Every man had his own special padlock of protection. Josie's job was to search for the right key. Some chattered away about the city or the weather or politics– many talked about politics– and plenty more drove as mute as they were indifferent. Sometimes this meant a harder job ahead, but usually it meant an easier one.

Finally, she said in her best fair-maiden voice, "I'd make it worth your while if you'd help me out and go a little further. Sacramento is
such
a long way from Oregon." Meanwhile she gently clutched the back of the cabbie's seat with both hands.

"You got cash?" he asked, looking in the rear view mirror for a clear passing lane but catching her eyes instead.

"Oh, I have cash," Josie said. She reached her right hand off the seat, onto his shoulder, slid it down his chest and stomach, and finally rested it on his crotch. "But I was hoping for a
free
ride." Then she gave him a little squeeze.

The cabbie shuddered and jerked his hands, swerving the car halfway into the next lane. Josie giggled and smiled warmly, letting him know she was pleased by his reaction. Then she did what she simply had to do.

It was easy, this part of her job. So few normal guys were ever approached so forcefully. Most didn't know what to do and just quickly and happily played along. She didn't even bother checking for a wedding ring anymore. It was revolting how supposedly devoted men would jump at that kind of 'opportunity.'

Only twice had she been rejected. Twice in six years. The first man had politely asked her to remove her hand. He said he was a Christian and he'd have no part in such immorality. Josie had quickly apologized and asked to be dropped off. The ten seconds it had taken him to pull over had seemed to take forever. She'd never before or since felt so ashamed of herself.

The second man had been more violent. He'd gone so far as to take her hand away himself, throwing it back over his shoulder. "Jesus lady!" he had yelled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Remembering the first man and quite frankly insulted by this one, she'd asked what his problem was– if he was a Christian or something. She didn't know why she'd said it. It just came out.

"No, I'm not Christian!" he said. "I'm fucking
married
, you whore!" Again Josie had apologized, and again she had been dropped off on the side of the road. But that second time she had been more angered than embarrassed. As she had stepped out of the car with her little brown suitcase in hand, he'd yelled at her some more. Something about decency and respect. As he had driven away she had yelled at him to fuck off and called him a loser. He'd gotten the last word, however. Through the open window in a fading voice, the word 'whore' had sailed across the highway for all to hear. It had stung and boiled her over. There had been too much truth in it.

It didn't escape her attention that on today's successful attempt and the many others like it that she
was
acting the whore, and that by the simple act of not stopping her, each man became a candidate for the island. As disturbing as those two failures had been they were, in the very least, a rare success for men and another glimmer of hope for Josie.

Some time later, she woke in the back of the moving cab. Already she was dying to get away from this pig and be on her own again. "I was afraid you'd sleep all day," the cabbie said. "We're just twelve miles from the Oregon border."

Josie looked at a passing highway sign that confirmed this. Then she saw the rear view mirror had been moved so he could look at her while she slept. "So," the cabbie mustered up, "do you want me to just drop you at the welcome station, or are you going to try to persuade me to take you to your final destination?"

Josie hid a grimace and smiled warmly at him instead. It was amazing how bold men could become once the seal of politeness had been broken. But she put on her game face again, softening her eyes. As degrading as it was, she needed to get further north, and hitchhiking was something she tried to avoid.

Besides,
she thought,
it's not like I haven't done it before and won't do it again.
Now she just had to give him what he wanted. "I lied, you know," she said. "I don't have any cash."

"I figured as much."

"But I still have my hand." She reached up to his shoulder again and gently caressed his neck. He shuddered again and she giggled for him. "You know, you
have
been so good as to drive me all the way here. I suppose I could pay you a kind of toll if you keep on driving." She slid her hand down his chest again and as she searched, she found his pants were still undone.
Gross
, she thought, but continued on.

"Uh huh," the cabbie said. He moved the mirror back to see her face again. "That seems pretty fair. Just… just how far are you looking to go?"

Josie heard the desperate wild hope in his voice and understood his real meaning, but she had no worries about being attacked. This man was not the violent type and would be perfectly happy with anything she was willing to offer. She was in complete control of him.

"Don't get fresh," she warned. "I only do hand-jobs from the back seat." This had always been true, so it was easy to put conviction in her voice. "I need to protect my innocence." And then, just for the hell of it, she batted her eyes at him. He laughed a dumb schoolboy laugh. God he was easy.

"I need to visit someone just outside of Portland. If you take me there I'll give you another one for your long ride home."

"O.K." He kind of stuttered it. He was perhaps starting to feel guilty now, but of course he'd not stop her. He'd just keep driving and thinking of who he could tell this story to.

"Good," Josie said, and continued paying her fare across the state line. When they reached a toll plaza she didn't bother stopping or hiding anything. The cabbie quickly paid and drove on, but not before the woman in the booth got an eyeful of his lap. In spite of her underlying disgust at herself and the cabbie, Josie laughed along with him as they pulled away.

Much later, with the cabbie now gone and on his way home to who knew how many weeks or months of fantasies about her, Josie washed her hands vigorously for ten minutes in the nearly scalding water of a gas station bathroom.

It always took her some time to cleanse herself internally from such episodes. Though she had never once done more than what she'd done this time, she had often promised much more and had had to endure quite a lot of pawing from eager men's hands. The trick, she'd learned, was to set a limit early on and never let him pass it.
That
, she would say, was
for later. For when we get to Hawaii.
They hated her for it, of course, but they hung around with just the promise of it like hungry dogs under a dinner table.

Monica had taught them about the dangers of aggressive men. Not the bullshit they spouted at you in after-school specials on PBS, but the real stuff like the look in his eye in the moment before he attacks, like the questions he'll ask in order to distract you from his wandering eyes or to learn your weaknesses. Like the stages of physical contact he'll test out, partially to see your reaction– timid or feisty– and partially to further arouse himself.

Monica and Rhonda and the others had taught them a lot more than that, too. The first three months on the island, a woman had but one job, and it had nothing to do with training or recruiting or hunting. It was to learn the art of self-defense, and to expand that art to the art of war. Sixteen hours a day they had trained, building muscle and endurance, learning moves and strategies. It was an intense, exhausting, and totally transformative time. Of course, even before that time had begun, she'd already been initiated onto the island and had already gone through the biggest transformation of all.

For a moment her mind slipped to that day, that horrible first day on the island when Steph hadn't even arrived yet and women like Lucy were mere novices and nameless faces to her. And in order to be accepted, Monica had said, Monroe's Island needed her–

She forced herself to kill the thought. She wouldn't think about it. She was an island woman now, and that's all that mattered.

Still, that day had also been the first time the disquieting feeling of compassion had surfaced in her mind. She had suppressed that feeling then. Immediately and hard. She had considered it a weakness in herself to have even thought it, and for years she'd successfully ignored it. Not until four years had passed had she begun to realize that that day, that moment, was perhaps more of the real Josie than who she'd been for four years. Of course, it had nevertheless taken several months before she'd had the courage to talk about it to Steph.

"Thank God she agreed with me," Josie said aloud. The scalding water still poured from the grimy sink. Steam rose from the bowl like an ominous mist on an English moor. The water hurt, but she somehow liked the pain. It was the only way to feel truly clean, and she always felt stronger the more burn she endured. She breathed the steam in, thinking again how good it was to have a friend who understood her.

But will she understand this?
she wondered.
Will she understand going back to Charles and instead of beating his face in with a hammer… letting him touch me? Letting him kiss me?

Josie abruptly turned off the water and stepped into the starlight outside the gas station bathroom. She looked at the stretch of community in front of her. This was home. Her childhood home.

She'd been born here, raised here, ignored here, and finally raped here. There were good memories too, but in the last six years her home town had come to mean nothing more than a place of degradation. Looking at it now from the perspective of such separation, it seemed oddly vacant, as if nothing of any importance had ever happened there.

Everyone in town had probably figured her for a runaway or, more likely considering her age, kidnapped, raped and murdered. How would her parents handle finding her alive again only to learn the rape had occurred right there in their own living room and that she'd left of her own accord when propositioned by someone who understood her better than they had?