Snapshot (20 page)

“I doubt it,” I said. “It's not like I'd have driven her to the airport. They don't start flying out of Logan till it's light, do they?”

“I already checked that on another line. No departures till six eighteen. Not from Delta anyway.”

“She'll want Delta.”

“Should I call airport security?”

“No. I'm on my way.”

“Let me know if I can help.”

“You already have. Thanks.”

Sam was ready when I was.

“How'd you know she'd take a cab?” he asked.

“She took money from Marta's purse, and she's not dumb enough to hitch. Come on.”

I slammed the car door, twisted the key in the ignition, and floored the accelerator.

“Want me to drive?” Sam asked quietly.

“No,” I snapped. “I should have known.”

“Known what? You haven't seen her for months.”

“I haven't spoken to her for months. I saw her Sunday, spied on her. Oh, goddamn—” I remembered the envelope the beer-bellied man had passed her, the quick argument that had preceded the exchange, the aura of conspiracy. Money?

“Still—”

“She had a fight with Marta. Usual stuff, but worse. The brothers kept teasing her, she didn't have any privacy. And Marta says, ‘You're no better than the rest of us, girl. Don't complain to me.' And it goes on. And gets into the business about her dad, and Paolina says Malta's right, she's not like the rest of them. And then she says,
‘¡Nunca, jamás, volveré a verte!'”

“What's that?”

“She pulls out a bag, already packed, from under her bed. And she says to her mother, ‘I'll never,
ever
see you again.'”

“Kids say that.”

“And Marta says, ‘Wherever you go, they'll send you back.'”

“So?”

“Paolina uses the Spanish word
extradición
. Sounds pretty much the same in English, and you don't use it if your final destination is in the U.S.”

“You figure she's going to try to track down her real father? That bum in Colombia?”

There was a long silence in the car and then Sam added, “We'll find her.” He tried not to wince as I screeched a corner onto Memorial Drive.

It was sheer negligence on the part of the police that I didn't get a ticket. I flew the route at twenty miles over the speed limit while Sam hung on grimly to the chicken stick and didn't say a word, bless him. I had less than an eighth of a tank in the car. Plenty to make the airport unless the Callahan Tunnel was jammed, an unlikely event in the predawn blackness.

I shot a yellow at Leverett Circle, yanking the wheel hard to the left to bypass a truck already stopped in my lane.

“Why Delta?” Sam asked.

“They do the Miami run,” I said. “Miami's halfway to Bogotá.”

“She have enough money for that?”

Why would Paco Sanchez give her money? Why would a twenty-eight-year-old hang out with an eleven-year-old? I used to be a cop. I know there are men who steal children—especially young girls—men who spin them tales of instant movie stardom—or reunions with long-lost fathers.

“I'm afraid she might. She took sixty bucks from Marta. She's got her baby-sitting money. And there's this guy who might have loaned her some.” I didn't tell Sam any details about Sanchez; it made him seem less real.

“And she's that hot to meet her old man?” Sam murmured.

“Wouldn't you be?” I asked. “If you'd never seen him? If you'd never even known about him till you found out by mistake?”

“I'd be delighted if I found out my father was a mistake.” Sam's voice had an edge to it. It's a sore subject. He's the son of a Boston mob underboss, the kind of guy who chews a cigar on the evening news and mumbles “No comment” out of the corner of his mouth.

I fishtailed into the short-term lot at Delta. You want your wheels stolen, park them at Logan International. The professional car thief has the brains to boost from the long-term lot, but the junkies don't care.

I made sure all the doors were locked. My Toyota was going to have to take its chances.

I didn't want to alert airport security. Once you start your basic attack dog in motion, it's hard to call him off, and the last thing I wanted was a bunch of bored gun-happy guards tagging at my heels.

She'd have to buy a ticket at the counter, or, better, talk somebody into buying one for her. She'd want to stay out of sight until she could blend with a crowd. Maybe find a nice sympathetic family she could temporarily join. Paolina's a pretty good liar. If she went up to some lady with a story about how her mom had to drop her at the door with money and rush Aunt Cecelia to the hospital to have the new baby, and now the people at the counter won't pay attention to her because she's just a kid … well, you'd probably do her a favor, and take her cash, and put her ticket on your credit card, too.

If there was a cheap under-twelve fare to Miami, she'd definitely join a family. I tried to think myself in her shoes, but eleven years old is a lifetime away from thirty-odd. I don't remember eleven, except that everything—a quiz, a boy, a pimple—was life-and-death important.

The terminal was hushed and fairly empty. Cleaners bused the ashtrays where desperate smokers had stoked up before venturing into the smokeless skies. A skinny young man stared into space as he moved his linoleum polisher in widening arcs. I asked him if he'd seen a little girl hanging around and it took me a while to realize that he was plugged into a Walkman and hadn't heard a word I'd said.

“Nope,” he muttered when disengaged. “Ain't seen nothing.”

Good witness. Typical.

We tried the restaurant, the snack bar, the bookstore, the two magazine stands, the souvenir shop. There was a special waiting area with cheerful slides and ride-'em airplanes for Disney-World-bound children. Empty. Sam's leather soles smacked the linoleum. My sneakers were silent, except for the occasional hurried squeak. I remembered the elevator and thought she might have taken refuge there. She likes elevators.

The doors slid open on no one.

“Maybe we should wait by the ticket counter,” Sam said, grasping my hand.

“You wait, okay?”

“Where will you be?”

“Just make sure she doesn't buy a ticket.”

“What am I gonna do? Grab her and carry her out to the car? What if she screams?”

“Do what you have to do, Sam.”

“If I get shot by airport security, one of Dad's goons will want to know why. Bear that in mind.”

I leaned into a quick kiss, took off in the direction of the restroom sign.

There are six restrooms in the Delta terminal complex. I pride myself on knowing the location of every ladies' room in Boston—which ones have Tampax machines, which have rats and roaches, which are clean enough to use. The knowledge came in handy as a cop, especially on surveillance, and it comes in handy as a cab driver.

Two flight attendants chatted in number one. A cleaning crew was swabbing the floor in number two. Number three was empty. I opened all the stall doors, ducked into the special baby-changing alcove.

By number four I had to pee. That's what propinquity will do for you.

Number five was it. A hint of Paolina's cologne entwined with the smell of disinfectant. She doesn't wear it often, just on special occasions, and then she always splashes on too much. I waited while a woman patiently helped her daughter sit on the toilet, then washed the girl's hands in the sink and showed her how to start up one of those dumb air blowers that takes so long to use that your flight has left by the time your hands are dry.

The daughter stuck her face in front of the vent and let the hot breeze ruffle her hair. The machine had entertainment value I'd never appreciated.

After the woman and her daughter departed, I stood absolutely still for two minutes. Then I tiptoed to the one closed stall and peered underneath.

She was wearing the red shoes I'd sent for her birthday, flats with big shiny bows. I could never have had a biological sister with such tiny feet. At the sight of them I swallowed hard.

I cleared my throat. The feet tried to scoot out of sight.

I wanted to yell. I wanted to scare her the way she'd scared me. I wanted her to know that there were people in the world who'd take unimaginable advantage of her innocence.

I filled my lungs, but the scalding words wouldn't come because I was so damned relieved to see those little feet. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow.

“Paolina,” I said.

The right foot reappeared, then the left. She started to sob quietly.

“Open the door, baby.”

“Go away.”

“I can't.”

“Let me go. Please.”

I didn't make a fuss about opening the door. If I had to, I could crawl under it.

Months ago, Paolina stumbled on a family secret: she doesn't share the same absentee father as her three younger brothers. She's presumably the daughter of a wealthy man, an offshoot of one of Colombia's richest families. Her mother, a servant in the big house, never married Paolina's father, although she says he promised her marriage. The old story. Complicated by the fact that the man ran off, not with another woman, but to the jungle, to lead a revolutionary guerrilla group. Which is where—the popular press declares—he first became involved with drugs. Money for
La Revolución, La Violencia.

You've seen grainy news photos of Paolina's dad. Carlos Roldán Gonzales. A member of the Medellín cartel.

“Did you tell Paco Sanchez about your father? Did Sanchez promise he'd help you find your dad?”

Silence.

“Paolina—”

“I need to find him. I have to find my dad now.”

“Open the door, baby.”

“I can't. I can't. I can't get up. I can't leave here.”

“Honey, calm down.”

More silence, broken by huge gulping sobs. I thought about crawling under the door.

When it came, her voice seemed very small. “I'm sick, Carlotta. There's something really wrong with me, inside me. I think I'm dying.”

“What are you talking about, baby?”

“I can't get up. It's happening again. It happened before, but then it stopped, and I thought if I went to church and prayed, and if I helped at home, maybe I wouldn't die.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's happening again.”

“What's happening?”

“I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding. Down there.”

Eleven years old. Oh, my God. Eleven years old, with a mother who hadn't told her what to expect.

“Oh, honey,” I said, “please open the door.”

I'd gotten my period at eleven, too. A Wednesday, I remember, dance class in gym. How I'd hated,
hated
dance class. Flat-footed foxtrots with boys half my size. And then a sudden dampness spreading between my legs, and pointing fingers, and smothered giggles.

I'd been ashamed to ask the gym teacher for permission to go to the bathroom. I'd fled, convinced that death by embarrassment was truly possible. And then the horrific stain. The fear.

There was no hiding anything from my mom. The slightest shading in my afternoon greeting would tell her whether I'd passed the test or failed, met a new friend, lost an old one.

She'd been brusque and congratulatory. Squeezed me in a tight embrace, and taken me out for a grown-up lunch at the corner deli.

“If I stand,” Paolina said, her voice quavering, “I'll get blood on my clothes. I have blood on my pants. I can't go out. Everything's spoiled. Everything's ruined. I'll never see my father.”

“Sweetheart, just lean forward and open the door. There's nothing wrong with you, nothing at all.” I made my voice as calm, as soothing, as gentle as I could, trying to force my words through the gray steel door, will her hand to flip the lock.

“I'm bleeding,” she wailed.

“I know you're scared,” I said. “But you're okay. I'm coming in. Don't be afraid.” I sat on the floor, eased myself down on my elbows, stuck my head, my chin, under the door, and inched my way backward under the stall.

She was sitting on the toilet, her stained panties and tan pants rolled into a ball and hidden behind it.

I knelt by her side in the cramped space, put my arms around her shoulders. “Listen to me. Listen, honey. There's nothing wrong with you, Paolina. Every healthy woman bleeds like that. Till she gets too old. It just means she's healthy, she's ready. Her body's getting ready. When you bleed, it's because your body's saying that everything's in working order. Your body's ready to have a child.”

She looked up at me, momentarily startled out of her tears. “A baby? I don't want any baby.”

“Of course not. Not now. Your body's ahead of the rest of you, that's all. But someday, if you want to, honey, when you want to, you can have a kid. It's a choice you can make because your body's telling you it's in gear, it's working just fine.”

She looked up at me with red swollen eyes, the panic and the pain still at the surface.

“I'm so sorry it scared you,” I said, hugging her closer. “I'm so sorry I wasn't there to tell you.”

“I'm not dying?” she said. “I don't have cancer or leprosy?”

Leprosy. Jesus.

“You're not dying. You're just older. You're a girl turning into a woman. You menstruate, that's what it's called. You bleed.”

“But what do you do? How do you—?”

“Pads. You use pads.” There was a Tampax machine outside the stall, but I remembered from somewhere in my past that tampons weren't recommended at first, for virgins.

Paco Sanchez. No. I wouldn't think about it. I wouldn't ask. Instead I started wadding up a stream of toilet paper, folding it over and over into a makeshift pad.

“We'll stop at a drugstore,” I said. “This will do till then.”