Cultured, page 22
“We’ve docked. Stay in your room.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Where are we?”
“Don’t matter. Just stay here. If you leave this room, it will not be good for you.”
“What if I need to go to the bathroom?”
“Hold it. Understand?”
She nodded. “How long?”
“Short time. Half an hour.” He smirked. “Then we leave and you can visit the head.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost cinco. Five.” He looked her up and down. “Tell me you understand these orders.”
“I understand.”
“Make sure you do.” He left.
She listened to his footfalls recede. She rolled out of bed and parted the curtain just enough to peer through the porthole. The two men she had seen on the dock now stood next to a stack of boxes. They began lifting them and passing them to the crew members on the deck. No doubt fresh supplies for the trip to Venezuela. A third man appeared. Victor. She heard him bark orders but couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying.
Okay, she had missed the opportunity to jump on the way in and now there was too much activity for her to make a run for it. She would have to wait for departure.
Doubts crept into her head. Could she do this? Did she have the nerve, or the ability? Stop it, she scolded herself. You have to try.
A man walked down the dock and into view. He was tall and wore a black windbreaker and a dark cap, which gave him a menacing aura. Worse, he grasped the upper arm of a young woman, who offered some resistance, but not enough. He greeted Victor and then literally lifted the girl and deposited her on deck. Victor looked her over and gave a wave to the man, who turned, headed back up the dock, and disappeared from her view. Victor roughly dragged the girl toward the front of the yacht.
Now there are five of us, April thought.
A pang of guilt rose. If she escaped and left behind Emanuella, Roberta, and Chloe, and this new girl, could she live with that? Did she owe them a chance to go with her? In the end, she saw no reasonable way to bring them into her plan before the yacht would be too far out to sea. Besides, their only hope, her only hope, was that she somehow escaped.
She felt the engines rumble to life. The ropes were tossed from the dock onto the boat, and it began to back slowly toward open water.
It was now or never.
She opened the door to her cabin and looked both ways, seeing no one. She slipped down the hallway to the rear steps and began to creep up them. Halfway to the deck, she heard footsteps above moving toward her. She froze. A man’s legs appeared near the top of the stairs. She silently pleaded that he wouldn’t descend toward her. He stood motionless for a few seconds before turning and moving out of sight toward the bow.
She eased up to the level of the deck and looked both ways. No one visible. It was still dark, but the predawn was beginning to eat away the darkness. She crawled toward the rear of the vessel. A storage locker sat near the stern railing, and she settled behind it. Her heart beat so hard she was sure it was audible. Her hands shook and she felt panic rising in her chest.
Get a grip.
She rose just enough to see over the locker and scanned the deck. A single crew member stood near the starboard rail, facing forward.
She twisted on her haunches and saw the dock and the town of Pensacola slowly receding. She estimated she was two or three hundred yards from shore, but that distance expanded rapidly.
Now, she thought.
She took a deep breath and hurled herself over the railing and braced for impact. The fall took forever it seemed. She hit the water hard, her breath exploding from her chest, and the wet darkness enveloped her. She bobbed to the surface and gasped a breath. She treaded water and turned toward the yacht. No movement, no one running to the aft rail, no shouting or yelling or anything.
Tears pushed against her eyes. She had done it. She had actually done it.
She turned toward shore and began to dog paddle.
CHAPTER 42
LAST NIGHT, IT was after three a.m. before Nicole and I crawled into bed. We were out within a quick minute of hitting the sheets. I must have descended deeply into the REM world because when my cell phone buzzed, I rose from the depths slowly, my brain foggy. I felt Nicole’s hips against my side. Scrunched into a ball, lying on one side, she began to stir.
I managed to unwind the sheet enough to roll toward the nightstand and retrieve my phone. The screen told me two things: it was seven a.m., and the caller was Pancake. I answered, my voice thick with sleep.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” he said. “You guys hit the streets a running and meet me and Ray at the Pensacola PD.”
That made no sense. Less than four hours of sleep and he was up and at it and wanted us to hop over to Pensacola.
“Why?” I asked.
“They found April Wilkerson.”
I didn’t know whether I liked the sound of that or not. “What do you mean found?”
“She’s OK. The guy I talked to said she was jabbering about being kidnapped and jumping off a boat and swimming to shore.”
I sat up. So did Nicole, a concerned look on her face.
Pancake continued. “She apparently came into the PD with that story. She called her mother and her mother called Ray. Her mother is on the way over from Jupiter. We’re headed that way to sort this out.”
“So why do you need us there?”
“Not really you. Ray says he wants Nicole to talk with April. Something about a woman’s touch.”
“Good. I’ll send her?”
Now Nicole had a big old question mark behind her eyes.
“Get your ass up, plop in the passenger’s seat, and hold on while she rolls that way.”
“OK, OK. We’re on the way.” I disconnected the call.
“What’s going on?” Nicole asked.
“That’s Pancake. April’s at the Pensacola PD with a pretty wild story.”
“What happened? Is she OK?”
“I think so. I’ll tell you what little I know on the way.”
We made it to Pensacola in record time. Nicole passed every car she could but, to her credit, only three times on the right. We raced by two police cars on the way, both headed in the opposite direction, but they seemed to pay no attention to us. I had seen this many times and was beginning to believe she was invisible to law enforcement. Well, except for the few times when she did get pulled over. Then she opened a shirt button or two, flipped her hair into just the right position, and offered up that smile. The one that had the officer apologizing for pulling her over and offering his card, telling her she could call anytime if she had any problems.
We reached the Pensacola Police Department unscathed and once inside were greeted by the desk sergeant who directed us down a short hallway to an interrogation room. Ray and Pancake sat across a table from April Wilkerson, who was wrapped in a blanket and sipping hot chocolate. Ray made the introductions.
Ray stood. “I want you to run through it again for Jake and Nicole. We’ll check in with your mother and see what her ETA is and make a couple of other calls.”
“To who?” April asked.
“For one, the FBI. If that yacht has other girls on it as you say, they’ll have it located and stopped.”
“They can do that?”
“They’ll have to get the Navy and the Coast Guard involved, but yeah, they can do that,” Ray said.
Ray and Pancake left and Nicole and I sat.
“Are you OK?” Nicole asked.
“I am now. But if you’d asked me that a few hours ago I’d have had a different answer.”
“Tell us what happened,” I said.
“I’ve already told it twice. To the police and to Ray and Pancake.” She gave a headshake. “What kind of name is that?”
I laughed. “He gets that a lot, but it’s what I’ve called him since we were kids.”
April sighed, forked her fingers through her hair, and said, “It’s truly amazing that I’m here.”
“Take your time,” Nicole said. “Tell us the whole story.”
April did. Her work at TLM, her visit to Gordon Buchanan’s estate, the parties there and at Andrew Heche’s estate, the party on Andrew’s yacht, how Lorie and Robin left but she remained, thinking she and Andrew would cruise the Gulf for a few days and she would follow them. How her phone disappeared so she couldn’t call her mother. She said she was sure Andrew had taken and destroyed it. The meeting with the other boat and her transfer in the dark, far from shore. The other girls she met onboard, and the fact that she was sure the vessel was headed to Venezuela at that very moment.
Finally, she sighed. “I still don’t know how I did it, but I literally hurled myself off the yacht and somehow made it to shore.”
“Jake and I’ve been there,” Nicole said.
Boy, have we.
“Really?”
“Long story.”
“I assume Ray told you who we are and what we’ve been doing,” I said.
“He did. Even the part about looking into TLM.” She drained her hot chocolate, placing the empty cup on the table before her, staring at it for a beat. She looked up at me. “Do you think Jonathon and Rhea are involved in this?”
“Do you?” I asked.
“They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? I don’t think Andrew would have done any of this without their consent. Maybe even their help.”
“Go with the latter,” I said.
She nodded. “Makes sense.”
“What I’m going to tell you goes no further,” Nicole said. “At least for now.”
“You mean there’s more?” April asked.
“They took videos.” Nicole went on to explain what we had found, and that yes, April was in some of them.
April appeared defeated. A low groan escaped her throat. “This is a total nightmare.” Her eyes glistened. “My mom will be devastated.”
“Moms are resilient,” I said. “And understanding.”
“You don’t know my mom,” April said. “This will humiliate her.”
Her? What about April? Was their rift about more than trust fund money? I thought back to our phone conversation with Clarice Wilkerson. Her boy toy, if that’s what he was, in his red Speedo hanging with her at the pool. How her hair and makeup had been flawless. How she’d seemed more angry than truly scared.
“We do have some good news,” I said. “We grabbed the DVDs Jonathon made, and Pancake set up some kind of thing in Jonathon’s computer to block him from sharing them.”
“So they won’t pop up on the internet?” April asked.
Nicole reached across the table and laid her hand over April’s. “We hope not. But you can never be sure.”
“Mom would be mortified if they did. So would I.”
Interesting that again she focused more on her mother’s reaction than her own.
“Hopefully, that will never happen,” Nicole said.
“Thanks for telling me,” April said. “I hate it, but at least I’m prepared.”
“We thought you needed to know.”
“How’d you manage to do that?” April asked. “Get the discs and that other stuff?”
“We’d rather not say,” I said. “But Pancake’s very clever.”
“Fuck Jonathon and Rhea,” April said. “How could they do this? I was loyal to them. I worked hard. I did crap for them that I’d never do in my former life.”
“We know,” Nicole said. “Many of you did.”
April held back tears. “And now this. They, and that snake Andrew, selling me to that Victor dude. This is freaking evil on steroids.”
Was it ever.
Ray came into the room. “An FBI agent is coming over to get the ball rolling on this.” He looked at April. “Their office is nearby so it’ll only be a few minutes. Unfortunately, you’ll have to tell him the story yet again.”
“Can he really find that yacht and get to those other girls?”
“He can,” Ray said. “I talked to your mother. She’s an hour away.”
April sighed. “This is going to be fun.”
“She seems concerned about you,” I said.
“Yeah, she’s good at that. Acting concerned. But in the end this will all be my fault and a big inconvenience for her.”
I reminded myself not to complain so much about Ray. Probably wouldn’t work, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
CHAPTER 43
SPECIAL AGENT ROBERT Whiting arrived fifteen minutes later. The local FBI office was that close to the police department. He wore the typical “special agent” suit, this one gray, with a navy-blue tie. His short buzzed dark hair carried a slight silvering at the temples. The haircut plus his erect posture indicated a military background. To me, he looked like a Ray clone. He carried a leather briefcase.
He and Ray shook hands, then Ray introduced Pancake, Nicole, and me to Agent Whiting. I mean, Special Agent Whiting. In my limited experience, FBI agents are prickly about that special designation. His square jaw remained fixed, his handshake firm.
Ray brought him up to date on what we knew, and then we walked down to the small conference room where April sat, working on a second cup of hot chocolate.
Whiting introduced himself and sat across from April. He opened his briefcase and removed a writing pad, a ballpoint pen, and a small recorder.
“Ms. Wilkerson,” he began.
“Call me April,” April said.
“OK.” He actually smiled and his face didn’t crack. Maybe I had read him wrong. “Time is critical here, so let’s get right to it.”
April nodded.
Whiting punched on the recorder and went through all the official stuff. The date, time, location, his name, and April’s name, as well as those of us in the room.
“Tell me how this started,” Whiting said. “How you ended up on that yacht.”
April told the story again, though this time an abbreviated version as if she felt like she was on the clock. Which she was.
“So Andrew Heche belongs to TLM, which by the way, I’m aware of. He took you out on a cruise for a couple weeks. Which you willingly did. Is that correct?”
“Yes. But had I known what he had planned, I wouldn’t have.”
Another smile from Whiting. Either he was actually a nice guy, or he was employing well-trained interview techniques. Trying to relax April and make her think he was her friend.
“I suspect not,” Whiting said. “He then met with another yacht out in the Gulf, at night, and you were transported to that yacht. There, you met three other girls, and you believed each of you were captives.”
“Which we were. They were taking us to Venezuela to sell us to some guy down there.”
“How do you know that?”
“Andrew told me. He said I was equipment, that’s the word he used, and he was selling some old equipment.”
Whiting scribbled some notes on his pad.
“Then Victor, Victor Mendoza, he’s the guy that owned the other boat, told me that for the time being I belonged to him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He made me do some awful things.”
“Did he tell you he was taking you to Venezuela?”
April considered that. “He never said that to me but Chloe, one of the other girls on the boat, overheard the crew talking about it.”
“But you didn’t hear that yourself?”
April shook her head. “They all spoke Spanish so I didn’t understand anything. Chloe did. They never knew she understood, but she did. She said she learned it in school and in some bar she worked at in New Orleans.”
“How did you end up here in Pensacola?”
I knew that Whiting already knew the answer so he must have been testing April to make sure her story remained consistent and to officially document it.
“Chloe had heard we were going to dock here briefly to pick up supplies and another girl.” She looked at me and Nicole, then back at Whiting. “I saw them bring her onboard.” She looked down at the tabletop. “I was so angry, and so scared. I knew that the opportunity to carry out this wonderful plan I had created in my mind was right there in my face. Some plan. Jump off a boat and swim to shore.” She stared at Whiting. “I’m not a good swimmer.”
“Good enough it seems,” he said.
“Thank God. Anyway, as soon as we pulled away from the dock, I crept out of my room and up to the back deck.” She sniffed, swiped a hand across her nose. “Standing at the railing I almost chickened out, but I knew this was it. Now or never. I jumped.”
“Did they know you had jumped?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. At least no alarm was sounded, and the boat kept heading out to sea. But I was busy trying to stay afloat and not drink half the Gulf.”
Whiting nodded. “You said the owner, or at least the guy in charge, was Victor Mendoza. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“We are aware of Mr. Mendoza,” Whiting said. “And his activities. We’ve just never been able to get to him.” He looked at April. “But you, young lady, just might have given us that opportunity.”
“I hope so. And get to Chloe, Emanuella, Roberta, and whoever the new girl is.”
Whiting tapped his pen on the pad. “You’re sure the yacht was named El Jugador?”
“Yes. It reminded me of ‘juggler.’”
“It means The Player.”
“Oh,” April said.
Yeah, oh. The name fit in some perverse way.
Whiting clicked the ballpoint. “And Victor Mendoza plays a very dangerous game.”
April screwed down her eyes, face. “What now?”
Whiting closed his notepad. “Track down and detain El Jugador and Victor Mendoza. Already have the Navy and the Coast Guard on it. He won’t get far. Thanks to you, this time we’ll have him red-handed.”
“What about Andrew?” April asked.
“He will be dealt with. After we build a case.”
“How long does that take?”
“Not long. We’ll need to take a formal statement from you, of course. Then, we’ll generate the warrants and pay him a visit.”
“I’m scared of him,” April said. “He’s very rich and powerful.”
