Taken by Robert Crais Page B

Jack’s whisper.
    “We’re fucking trapped.”
    Heavy plywood panels were screwed over the windows, completely covering them. The floor was a stained wall-to-wall carpet, a narrow door revealed an empty closet, and the sickly blue walls bore crayon marks and holes where tape and nails had been removed. An empty plastic bucket, one roll of toilet paper, and a case of plastic water bottles waited in the corner.
    Krista guessed they were in a boy’s bedroom. The bedroom was small, filled quickly, and then the door closed.
    No one moved. The people who now filled the crowded room stood as if waiting for something more to happen, as if they were too shocked or afraid to move.
    Krista and Jack did not move, either. She turned to Jack, and he hugged her, and they stood without moving as people around them cried.
    Krista cried, too, and felt Jack sob as he held her.
    The man said, “I am Samuel Rojas. You may call me Sam.”
    Seeing she was Latin, he spoke to her in Spanish and she answered in the same, pretending to be a Mexican.
    People were taken from the room in no particular order. The door would open, a man would come in, motion to someone, and take that person away. They always came back a few minutes later, and no one was hurt, so Krista wasn’t afraid when the guard she would soon know as Mr. Rojas motioned her to him. Jack held her arm a moment too long, but she pried his hand gently away, and told him it would be fine.
    The man brought her to the kitchen, and they sat facing each other on the dirty vinyl floor. Following Rojas to the kitchen, she saw other guards in paired conversation with prisoners in the living and dining rooms. Krista also noted the windows in these rooms were covered by the same heavy plywood, and the front door was sealed in the same way. She felt a hollow sickness in her stomach when she realized the entire house was a prison, and suddenly the kitchen felt hotter even though the AC was blasting.
    Once they were seated, Rojas opened a spiral notebook. The cover showed a unicorn reared on its hind legs.
    “What is your name?”
    “Krista Morales.”
    “Where are you from, Krista?”
    “Hermosillo. In Sonora.”
    “It is very pretty there. I have always wanted to see it. I am from Torreón, in Coahuila. It is not so pretty there.”
    Rojas made notes in the spiral notebook as they talked. He had a reassuring smile and a gentle voice.
    Krista heard the Asian language in the next room, and a frustrated conference in Spanish between two of the guards. None of them spoke the language, so they had no way to communicate with the prisoner.
    “Do you have family there in Hermosillo?”
    “No, I am the last. The aunt I lived with, she died.”
    “That is such terrible news. Is this why you are traveling north?”
    “Yes. There is nothing for me at home.”
    “Do you have family in the north, or a job?”
    “My mother.”
    Rojas smiled, and Krista knew she had said the right thing. She had desperately been trying to recall everything she knew about how
bajadores
operated, and what the people from Guatemala had told her.
    “Ah, that is very good for you. A mother in your new home. Where is she?”
    “Los Angeles. A place called Eagle Rock.”
    “Ah, good. She is waiting for you?”
    “Yes. She sent her friend’s son to pick me up.”
    Now Rojas cocked his head.
    “What friend is this?”
    “Her friend’s son, Jack Berman. The Anglo boy who is with me. He was waiting at the airplane when you took us.”
    Rojas wet his lips, and glanced toward the living room before going on.
    “This boy, he is here?”
    “Yes. In the room.”
    Rojas went to the entry, and gestured to someone in the living room. A moment later, a dark man with long hair and tiny, jet black eyes joined him. The man stared at Krista as Rojas whispered in his ear. They had a quiet conversation, then the man walked away, and Rojas returned to resume their conversation.
    “Does she have a good job, your mother?”
    “She is a