Revenge Ch 01 10

Special thanks to kenjisato for the editing, whom I cannot recommend enough.

Constructive comments would be appreciated.

**

Prologue

31 Years Ago

Debra was her mother's daughter; everyone said so. In Debra's case, that meant spoiled, entitled, prejudiced, and passively cruel. Like her mother, she loved to start a sentence with 'Bless their heart', because it was always followed by something demeaning.

But steal her mother's jewelry? No. I mean, why would she? Her mother didn't keep them locked away, had allowed her to wear an expensive piece or two on very special occasions, and had told Debra they would be hers one day. Moreover, she had never shown a particular interest or quarreled with her parents about them. Her parents very rarely denied her anything she wanted, and money wasn't a concern.

Mother and daughter had been butting heads more often lately, but mothers of thirteen-year-olds would have been shocked if that wasn't the case. No, it just didn't add up. So, when her mother's necklace went missing, nobody seriously looked in the thirteen-year-old's direction. Which was a shame, for the necklace was hidden in the bottom of her dresser.

Debra had never seen her mother wear the necklace, which encouraged her to take it, as she had other pieces. She had been playing with a ring when she was eleven, something she knew she was NOT supposed to do, which was why she did it, of course. She had planned to put it back, but when she heard her mother coming down the hall, she'd quickly hidden it under her bed. And, as the days went by and no alarm bells went off, she began to wonder if she could also take other pieces.

Turns out, she could. Seven pieces in all, valued at north of a hundred thousand dollars, pieces her mother never wore, nor even missed. It was a secret thrill, getting away with it; until it wasn't.

"Debra, honey, you haven't been in my jewelry, have you? I can't find your grandmother's diamond choker, and I wanted to wear it this weekend."

"No, Mother," she sighed, dramatically. "You told me not to get into your jewelry, remember?"

"I know what I told you, young lady; it was simply a question. You haven't seen it?"

"No. When's dinner?"

"Ask Sofia," she replied, leaving Debra's room.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

All hell broke loose that evening. Mother couldn't find one piece after another, until she knew seven pieces were missing. By the time Father got home from the club, Mother was in a state, insisting they'd been robbed, and they should call the police.

First, Father had their domestics, Sofia and Raul, search the house; Mother became hysterical as nothing was found, certain that 'those people' were to blame. 'Those people' were some combination of 'coloreds', 'illegals', 'liberals', 'feminists', 'gangs', or 'thugs', depending on the circumstance.

It was much too late to come clean now, Debra thought, scooping up the pieces in a little bag and sneaking into the kitchen, intending to just throw them away. And there, hanging on a hook, was the canvas bag Sofia took to the grocery store, and she dropped the jewelry inside.

Sofia and Raul were okay, she supposed, for illegals, but their little girl, Maria, was a pain in the ass. Debra had been forced to make her own lunch for three straight days that week, when Maria had been sick, and that was Sofia's job. She had heard her mother grumbling to her friend that 'those people never miss an opportunity to take advantage of our every kindness'. Debra was sure Mother would easily believe Sofia was the culprit. Debra then went to help search for the jewelry, staying well away from the kitchen.

**

Debra was conflicted as Sofia, Raul, and little Maria were taken into custody. She'd never seen two people so upset, proclaiming their innocence in broken English, something about gangs and murder, and they begged Father not to call the police, to simply let them leave.

But Mother was in a state, the theft just confirming everything she thought about 'those people'. So, when Sofia said she had seen Debra playing with one of the pieces last week, Mother laughed it off; 'those people' would do anything to try and get out of trouble.

So, when Father sat her down and asked if it was true, she lied.

"You're sure, honey? This is very serious."

"I'm sure, Father. I know to stay out of Mother's things."

She felt a little guilty, but there was always a shortage of domestic help, Mother's friends bitched about it all the time, and she convinced herself they were making up the story about gangs and would find work with another family easily.

**

Raul and Sofia had fled El Salvador on foot fifteen years ago, when they were eighteen, running from a kill-on-sight notice from one of the gangs terrorizing the tiny country, because Sofia would not sleep with the man who controlled their street once a week. They walked for months, supported by her older sister, Bertie, who was in Guatemala City, which, shockingly, is in Guatemala. More on Bertie in a moment.

When they finally reached the border, they crossed over and applied for asylum, detailing the certain death that awaited them back home, received a hearing notice, and were released. Two months later, exhausted and emaciated, they made it to their cousins in Virginia.

They worked the jobs the gringos wouldn't, for far less than minimum wage, but they were alive. When they started working for the Andersons five years ago, living in a one-bedroom cottage at the back of the property, they thought it was finally okay to have a child, which they had dreamt of for years. Mr. Anderson gave his blessing, and Mrs. Anderson said it was okay, as long as the work got done, giving her three days off after the baby, Maria, was born, which she thought was more than generous.

When Maria was born, Sofia contacted her sister, Bertie, in Guatemala, who agreed to be her godmother. Bertie was an attorney, and she drew up paperwork that made her the little girl's legal guardian, in case the unthinkable happened.

After they were arrested and turned over to Immigration, Sofia was allowed to call Bertie to tell her what had happened and to let her know that Maria, a citizen from birth, was being placed in foster care and where to find her. Bertie had escaped El Salvador two years before her sister and had no way to save her from her fate, but she promised her little sister she would get Maria and raise her.

Two days later, Bertie received a text from a cousin, one she prayed would never come, though there was no stopping it; Sofia and Raul Ortiz's mutilated, bullet-ridden bodies had been found on the side of a rural road.

Bertie knelt in church and prayed, seething at the injustice of it all, the helplessness a hole in her heart. Someday, somehow, she promised them, she would exact revenge on the person Sofia had said was responsible, Debra Anderson.

**

17 Years Ago

When Maria was sixteen, Bertie Rodriguez sat her down for a difficult conversation. For the first time, she explained that she was her aunt, not her mother, and detailed everything she knew about her parents' lives once they had fled El Salvador. She told Maria about the stolen jewelry, the accusation, and her mother's certain belief that the teenage daughter was the one actually responsible. Finally, she told her about the deportation and the gruesome manner in which they died, though Maria was very familiar with the horrific violence that regularly occurred in the neighboring country.

Maria took the news about as well as could be expected, Bertie thought, not saying much, just absorbing the information, then saying she needed some time to think. It was so much like the beautiful young woman she would always think of as hers. She had seen to it that Maria was well-educated and nearly fluent in English, anticipating the day she would return to the country of her birth. Guatemala was safer and wealthier than El Salvador, but that wasn't saying much. Despite a successful law practice and a husband, Jose, who was a government minister, money was always tight, and violence never far from home.

Maria stayed in her room all evening, thinking, praying for guidance, and calling the woman she thought of as her big sister, who happened to be a therapist.

The next evening, Maria sat down with her parents.

"Why are you telling me this now, Mama?" Maria asked her mother, or the woman she would always think of as such.

"Well, your father and I think you deserve to know and are mature enough to handle the news. Your mother was a wonderful woman and she and your father loved you more than anything in the world. We had to tell you."

"Do you know what happened to the girl my, uh, mom said was the thief?" Maria asked.

"Oh yes, I've followed her online. She's twenty-seven now and lives in Virginia."

"Is she happy?"

"Happy? Well, I guess I don't know, but she has had a very nice life."

"So far," Maria added.

"Maria?"

"It can't end this way, Mama. She can't get away with sending two people to a certain death. You said my mother told you that she and my father explained to this girl's dad what would happen if they got sent back to El Salvador?"

Bertie nodded. "Oh, yes. I remember that phone call like it was yesterday. Your mother had seen the girl playing with one of the missing pieces a few days before, but hadn't said anything, thinking it wasn't her place. The girl was spiteful and looked down on them, despite everything they did for their family, and your mom didn't want to cause a scene.

"When the jewelry showed up in her grocery bag, she tried to explain, but Debra's mother laughed and said she was just trying to deflect blame, now that they had been caught. The girl's father was sympathetic, but his daughter denied having anything to do with it, and the mother insisted they call the police. Your mother said they definitely understood what she told them would happen; they either didn't care or didn't believe her."

Maria nodded. "Would you show me what info you have on this woman, Mama?"

Bertie nodded.

"We talked about me going north after I finish school, going to university. Maybe I will, maybe this anger I have will pass, but right now, all I can think about is making this family pay for what they did to ours."

That night, Bertie lay awake for a long time, wondering if she had done the right thing in telling Maria everything. She remembered being in church years ago, on her knees, promising vengeance. She was older now, fifty-one, but the anger had never dissipated, these last couple of days simply reigniting it.

If, in a couple of years, Maria was still determined to set out on this path, Bertie wanted to be able to help her as much as possible. She didn't know how she might do that, but she knew where to start.

She called her husband at work the next day.

"I'm going down to see Esmy, honey; might be gone a few days."

Jose was silent on the other end.

"You're sure?" he said, finally.

"No, not really, but she's where I should start, don't you think?"

Jose sighed into the phone. "Yeah. Tell her I said hello."

**

Two years before Sofia and Raul fled El Salvador for the safety of the United States, when she was eighteen, Bertie had fled their home for Guatemala, where she was plucked off the streets and befriended by a curious man called Chito. Chito was a colonel in the country's secret Security Service, and also ran a high-end string of young prostitutes under the guise of fashion designers, who he tasked with entertaining ministers and dignitaries of foreign governments doing business in Guatemala. Chito and his partner, Esmy, taught the young women, and one man, how to seduce their targets and gently probe for information that might be helpful to the government.

Esmy told Bertie, who was both beautiful and smart, but not well-educated or worldly, that if she learned her lessons well, a quiet, safe, stable life could be hers. Bertie realized that was exactly what she wanted, though she had never really thought about it.

"But, how could you know that?" Bertie asked.

Esmy smiled and stroked her cheek. "Because Conejita ('Bunny' in Spanish), I listen, and I watch. And the more I do, the more I learn. Look at the man in the gray suit over there and tell me what you see."

They were at a party at the presidential palace. All twelve of the women like Bertie were there, the oldest twenty-one, as well as the young man, Paco, who was eighteen, like Bertie, and her best friend. It was President Alvarado's birthday, and representatives from all thirty-one embassies and twenty-one consulates were in attendance to wish the popular leader Feliz Cumpleaños.

"Well, he has gray hair, so he's old; at least forty. He hasn't taken a drink in five minutes and doesn't appear drunk. He speaks Spanish. He watches the room, specifically that far corner, where Maris is talking to those two men. That's all I see," Bertie shrugged.

"That's good, Conejita; let's see how you did. Chito is forty-five and this man is much older, yes?"

Bertie nodded.

"He is sixty-two. Notice the slight stoop in his back and the limp in his walk. He drinks cautiously, at least here in public, but do you see the slight tremor in his hand? That can be an indication of an alcoholic, which I happen to know he is. When Maris and the two men split up, watch his eyes and see who he is watching, then you can add that piece to the puzzle you are completing in your head. Let's go talk to him."

"Esmy, darling, you look ravishing tonight. And who do we have here?" he asked in British-accented Spanish, smiling at Bertie, the two exchanging a hug and kiss on the cheek.

"Sir Arthur, this is Bertie, but please call her Bunny. She's interning at the design house this summer," Bertie blushing furiously.

"Ah, Esmy is teasing my new friend. Tsk-tsk. Okay, I shall play along. Tell me, why does she call you Bunny, dear?" he asked, Bertie noticing his eyes following someone crossing the room and stepping outside.

"Now, now, Arty. Be a good boy and we may show you later," Esmy giving him a seductive smile.

He looked surprised for just a moment, then smiled. "Then I shall wait."

"Are you British, Sir Arthur?" Bertie asked, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, seeing one of the men Maris had been talking to step out onto the veranda.

"Born and bred, Bunny. And may I say how beautiful you look tonight. Is this dress one of your designs?"

Bertie was five-six and just over a hundred pounds, but up almost twenty since Chito and Esmy found her and Paco begging on the street last month. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, Esmy saying how lovely her neck was, but it was her eyes that made her different, desirable; they were what led Chito to choose her. They were light blue, nearly gray, and had always drawn attention. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with hundreds of sequins, the most beautiful, and expensive, thing she had ever owned, still not believing Chito when he said it was hers to keep. The dress was scandalously short, not even mid-thigh, and the push-up bra was magical, her A cup looking more like a C.

Everyone had spent the day at a spa, getting their hair, nails, and toes done, even something called a Brazilian wax, which was terribly painful, and the genesis of her nickname, Bunny.

Bertie giggled and blushed because it seemed the right thing to do.

"No, Sir Arthur, it was a gift from Esmy."

"Ah, my ever-generous Esmy. I need to feed my filthy habit. Will you ladies join me on the veranda for a few moments?" he asked, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

"Bunny would love to. I need to see to my other ladies for a while, but I'll meet you upstairs in the study in, say, ninety minutes," Esmy replied, looking at her watch.

"Excellent," Sir Arthur smiled.

"Relax, Conejita. Have a couple of glasses of champagne, but no more. Be nice to Arty, like I taught you, but remember your job," Esmy whispered, giving her a hug.

"Shall we, Bunny?" Sir Arthur asked, giving her his arm.

"Thank you, Sir Arthur."

"Call me Arty, dear. All my friends call me Arty."

**

Arty and Bunny climbed a flight of stairs toward the back of the palace, Arty seeming to know where he was going, his hand on the small of her back.

"Here we are, Bunny," he said, opening a door and ushering her inside.

"We are just a few minutes early. Let me fix us a proper drink and I'll show you around."

They were in a room of dark wood and gold fixtures, with a large desk in one corner and two large chairs in another, paintings of Guatemala on the walls.

"Here you are, dear," Arty handing her an inch of dark liquid in a heavy glass.

"Cheers," he said, clinking her glass, and she felt obliged to take a drink.

It burned her throat and she coughed and spluttered, Arty smiling kindly.

"Scotch takes some getting used to, even just a sip."

"Wow," she croaked after a moment. "That's disgusting," immediately worried she'd offended him.

He laughed loudly. "Good girl. Be as honest and natural as you can, it puts me at ease."

Bunny looked at him quizzically, and started to speak when the door opened and Esmy entered, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and three tumblers on a tray in her hands.

"Ah, I wasn't sure they stocked the room," she said, setting down the tray.

"Arty, honey, excuse us for a few minutes, please. Come along, Conejita, let's freshen up," leading her into a large bathroom.

"Well, what have you learned?"

"The man Arty was watching is a little younger than Chito, I think. He has golden-blonde hair, with a little scar on his lip, here. He speaks some awful guttural language I've never heard before, but would definitely recognize. He spoke for several minutes with an attaché from Bolivia, and I think they were arguing.

"Arty kept an eye on him, but we never got close enough to overhear them. Arty had a brandy and two cigarettes. He said he's going back to Britain next month for two weeks of meetings about their funding something called the Churchill Award," Bertie said, proud of herself.

"And did Arty kiss you, touch you?"

"He kissed me in the garden, and his hands wandered a little too much."

"Indeed? And what did you do?"

"I stopped him only when he started to put his hand under my dress."

"Very good. And you know what is going to happen now?"

"He expects me to have sex with him."

"And will you?" Esmy asked the skinny eighteen-year-old.

"It's the job, right? Make him happy and report what he says and does back to you and Chito. I don't want to go back to the streets, so yes, I will, Esmy," Bunny replied, trying to say what the woman wanted to hear and hide how nervous she was.

Esmy smiled and cupped her cheek. "My smart, scared little Conejita. Tell me, what makes you more nervous, having sex, or having sex with a man not of your choosing?"

Bunny blushed. "I've only done it once, last month, so Paco and I could have a meal and a bed for the night. The man was fat, sweaty, and smelled like grease. It was, uh, unpleasant. I hope this time will be better."

Esmy smiled. "I can promise it will be better. Arty is a wonderful lover...and I get very few complaints."

"You mean the three of us? But I thought--"

"I would let you do this alone? No, honey, this we do together. It is important that you be a good lover, so Arty and I will teach you. Plus, men love to see two women together. We will often pair you with one or more of the other girls, so you need the experience.

"You are ready?"

Bunny squared her shoulders and swallowed the fear. "Ready."

"Good. Remove your dress and put on this robe," Esmy said, undressing.

Bunny hesitated, but only for a second, putting her trust in Esmy.

Leaving the bathroom, Bunny was shocked to see another room had opened behind the chairs. She looked a question at Esmy, who grinned.