He crawled up alongside her, choosing not to speak, choosing not to write words, and picked up a piece of scrap paper. In a moment of artistic inspiration, her father, a man who had never drawn a thing before or after, picked up a brown crayon. The minutes of doodling quickly revealed why she had never seen him draw before.
The image was of a gas pump. The pump handle waved and the pump itself had circles for eyes. It looked more like a triple decker upside-down ice cream cone that had been in the sun for about a week, than anything resembling the image her father had drawn. It was the fact that, knowing he couldn't draw, he did, and he did it for the sole purpose of reconnecting with his batty, awkward, nine-year-old-daughter, who'd gone adrift.
The sight of that pathetic brown cartoon gas pump forced a laugh so deep and hearty from Angela, the sound of it had surprised her. Something broke loose in that laugh. Whatever darkness made her go mute, the sensation of the rumbled giggle obliterated its hold on her. And she silently wished it could work its magic one last time and take her away from this awful place.
Angela closed her eyes. When she woke, her surroundings had not changed. The leaky pipe above pelted out its metronomic beat on the cold concrete floor stained with dirt and excrement. Air that smelled like oranges floated in, accompanied by the whir and clang of the machines outside the door.
In the cold dark space, Angela let the memory of her father's love warm her. The cold immediately returned with the sound of a door closing from the hallway and the rapidly approaching footsteps that followed. Footsteps that did not belong to either Pencil or Bigfoot.
These were hurried, purposeful steps, and they came to an abrupt halt in front of her door. The shadow of the man behind it swallowed up the light.
Angela convulsed in fear as she prepared for the door of the last stop to open for the last time.
Twenty-Nine
Ayala fought to control his breathing as he stood outside the door. Hatch identified it when he had entered the hallway. She was looking for a room that was separated from other rooms, somewhere where they could keep people and keep them away from others. When Ayala nearly gagged on the smell upon approaching it, Hatch knew she had been right. Her only worry now was that either Angela wasn't in there, or never was.
"Why do you think any one of these keys you took from that guy's belt are going to work on this door?" Ayala asked in a hushed whisper.
Hatch had not scolded him once for speaking inside the hallway. She told him it was permitted only in a whisper. And used only when absolutely necessary.
Ayala's question was unnecessary but he was glad when she decided to answer it instead of admonishing him for breaking radio silence to ask it. Ayala was nervous. He assumed Hatch could see his tremors from the camera nestled in his pocket as she watched him from the phone in her hand. She needed to keep him calm. Best way to do that was to keep him talking.
"Your ID badge says manager, right?"
Ayala recalled when he'd tried to lighten the mood and compensate for the nerves rocking his system by making a joke about being promoted. It had given them both a little chuckle, and the release had helped him in those final moments before he left Hatch.
Ayala began rifling through the keyset looking for one that would match the keyhole in the door. He felt like he'd been standing in the hallway jingling keys for way too long. A key floated by the eye of the camera as Ayala unsuccessfully tried it in the door’s lock. He exchanged the key for another, taking the new one in his fingers and leaving only two more.
Hatch continued to speak. "My guess is that if you can find a key that fits and opens that door, it might shed some light on how complicit the Solarus Juice Company is in their knowledge of the girls kept in their facility. If I'm wrong, the keys won't work, which means the cartel may be using the space as a front without the knowledge of its employees.
“But I'm counting on the other, a much darker probability, that the girls they run through here, some of them at least…"
Hatch presumed Ayala was about to tell her the odds had just slimmed a little further, but just as he started retracting the key, it caught and the door unlocked.
The hallway's dim light captured the pale features of the red-headed girl Hatch had shown him a picture of. She looked nothing like the girl in the photo. Angela was smeared with dirt around the edges of her hair like a charcoal drawing left out in the rain, though her clothes, a blue t-shirt and worn jeans, were clean and looked out of place amid the filth. It made sense when he saw the soiled heap near a pile of human waste.
He expected to see relief in the girl's face, instead it was twisted into a snarl and had been since the moment Ayala entered. Hatch watched the image of Angela edging herself back in a strange three-legged crab walk on account of the bindings on her wrist. She moved toward the back wall and pressed herself firmly against it.
"We have to move quickly, please," Ayala said in a hushed whisper. "Let me cut those bindings off."
The girl was crumpled awkwardly now against the back wall with her bound hands. She was having great difficulty righting herself.
Ayala edged forward and pulled out a knife. "Listen, I'm here to help." He tried to get close to the rope, but Angela squirmed. She was terrified, and rightfully so, but Ayala knew he needed to get her under control so that he could free her hands. He looked at the blue uniform he was wearing and down to the knife in his hand. Then Ayala remembered what Hatch said about the key. If the managers had access to the room, they're also a part. And Ayala couldn't fathom the trauma this girl had faced by seeing him wearing the exact same uniform he now wore. Angela thought he was one of them.
"Take me off the Bluetooth. Put me on speaker." Ayala did as he was told and took a step back from the girl, keeping one eye on the open door. "Angela, it's me, Daphne."