The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 4

August 22, 2002.

It is four-ten in the morning.

A week has elapsed. I can scarcely believe that seven days and seven nights have come and gone with no word or sight of Robyn. I'm amazed that the world continues grimly on; Rob and I have gone to work, managed to eat food, taken showers. Each day feels surreal, has become its own miniature horror to be endured, like an out of control amus.e.m.e.nt park ride skidding towards destruction.

Sleep eludes me most nights. I brush my teeth and don an old nightgown as if everything were normal. I fold myself into my bed, enveloping myself in the familiar smell of nylon and cotton. Tucking myself between old, too-warm sheets I maybe glance at my nails; perhaps pick up the emery board that sits on my nightstand to file an errant fingernail. But before the job is done, tears cloud my eyes and I stop. I lie down, eyes burning, the familiar heavy-handed grip of fatigue holding me firmly in its grasp; and I will the telephone to ring. I stare at the ceiling and think about praying, and maybe my lips move discreetly, air from words that feel empty and meaningless dribbles out as a small and stubborn hope dares challenge a gauntlet of despair. Where is my daughter?

I am watching Rob as he sleeps. His dark eyebrows are soft, his mouth slack, lips slightly parted. Robyn was born with his eyebrows. I remember her coming out with fierce, darks tufts of hair above her luminescent dark eyes; she reminded me of Groucho Marks. As she grew into a toddler they lightened up a little bit. But other mothers at playgrounds always commented on Robyn's Brooke s.h.i.+elds eyes.

When we were first married, I used to always love watching Rob sleep. Secretly, I used to let my fingers steal across the smooth bands of hair as he slept, amazed at how soft eyebrows could feel. I used to think of Rob's sleeping face as a perfect replica of one, perfect man at peace. But now I see different things in that calm, undisturbed face. A word, 'failure', flashes into my mind. I jerk my head away from him in a quick, violent motion, shaking that word from my mind.

I throw back the covers, and slip to the window. The carpet is cool against my feet even though it will be another hot day. From the bathroom, the steady plink of the leaky sink faucet marks the pa.s.sage of time. I draw back the curtain and gaze out through the gla.s.s.

Somewhere out there, beneath this same slate blue-black sky is Robyn. Is she asleep? Safe? My stomach churns with a heavy sickness contemplating the alternatives. I rest my hand against the windowpane, as if this action might somehow allow me to communicate my love to my daughter.

Yesterday I had finally managed to get one local television station interested in our plight. A scraggly cameraman and a field reporter from a local channel, both of whom stank of cigarette smoke, came out and interviewed Rob and I. I was calm and did my best to speak in a slow, still voice. With clammy hands we held the eight by ten of Robyn's freshman picture along with our phone number in twenty-six-point courier font in front of the cold, uncaring lens and were promised a spot on the six o'clock news. But due to a head-on collision that killed six on the Bay Bridge, Robyn's story was relegated to little more than a flash of her picture on the screen after the sports highlights. Nearly the entire interview had been deleted.

Still, hope clings to me like an orphan. Her picture is out there now. Though I'd made up flyers days ago and stapled them to every telephone pole I could find in the greater East County area, I feel that having the television exposure, however brief, is a step in the right direction. I went to bed last night with the unreasonable expectation that Robyn would see herself on TV and come right home.

Suddenly, the telephone rings. I leap to the dresser, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo?" I say, breathless. I look at the clock on my nightstand: four forty-five.

"Your daughter is dead. I cut her." The voice is gruff and full of hate. "Did you hear me? I cut the b.i.t.c.h-"

I slam the receiver down. The raw and sour taste of bile rises in my throat. Rob stirs.

"Who was that?" he asks.

"Another crank call," I say.

The reporter warned us that this would happen. He said there were lots of sick people out there who enjoy it when others suffer.

I walk back to the window fighting the sting of tears, my back to Rob.

"I want to hire a private investigator," I say.

I hear the swish and flutter of blanket and sheet.

"How much will that cost?" Rob asks as he makes his way to the bathroom.

"What difference does it make?" I respond.

The plash of urine against water followed by the flush of the toilet obfuscates my question. Rob tramps back into the bedroom, pads across the room, directly behind me.

"We don't have any money," he says sadly.

Though we are not touching, I can smell his familiar odor: stale sweat and morning breath.

"We've got two thousand dollars in savings," I say. "And we could probably get an advance on the MasterCard."

"Isn't that card maxed out?" he asks. He runs his hand through his hair. "Besides, what's a PI gonna do that the cops aren't already doing?" he asks.

His hand snakes round my shoulder. I lean my head against his chest, tears filling my eyes yet again, stopping for the moment, the constant burn of exhaustion. The bitter tang of salt coats my tongue.

"I don't know," I say. My voice is so high it is nearly a squeak. "But we have to do something."

His other hand his on my head now, fingers gently and tenderly ma.s.saging my scalp.

"She's probably staying at a friend's house," he says.

I hear it; the overwhelming desire that things will be just fine in a day or two. I feel it too sometimes. As if by sheer will we could simply wish a happy ending. It's intoxicating at moments when I am the weakest. Maybe if I just go to work and finish the laundry, ignoring the entire nightmare long enough it will go away. I clench my jaw and stiffen.

"Maybe she's not at a friend's house. Maybe she's in trouble and she can't get to us. Maybe she's hurt, or-" I stop suddenly, unable to give voice to the unthinkable.

Rob breaks our embrace and turns away, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. Was he crying?

"I gotta get ready for work," he says. A minute later the pelt of water against plastic announces that he is in the shower.

My fingers scan the yellow pages. Most of the private investigator ads are small and discreet. I dial a local name, a Mr. Bart Strong with an Antioch number. A voice message begins but is then quickly replaced by a husky, cracked voice: "This is Bart."

I open my mouth to speak but suddenly find myself tongue-tied.

"'Lo?"

"My daughter is missing," I say finally.

We arrange a time for me to come to his office, which is wedged between a tattoo parlor and dilapidated beauty salon in downtown Antioch, near the water. The briny smell of the delta mingles with car exhaust. Gigantic elms and blue oaks line the street. The hum of traffic from nearby Third Street buzzes in my ears. With one hand on the door, I pat my purse and the twenty, crisp one hundred dollar bills I withdrew on my way over, closing our savings account. I draw in a deep breath and open the door.

Inside, a heavy patina of pipe tobacco coats the air. Motes of dust, like confetti, glimmer along bands of light from three small windows at the back of the room. Bookcases filled to bursting line both side walls. Books, phone directories and thick texts are stacked on the floor near the bookshelves, fighting for s.p.a.ce with seemingly dozens of manila file folders. In the center of the large room is a huge desk and behind the desk, a man who looks to be in his fifties or sixties sits eyeing me. Somewhere behind me I hear the unyielding tock of a wall clock.

"Mrs. Skinner, I presume?"

I walk forward, shaking his proffered hand. His grip is firm.

"Yes."

"Please," he gestures, "have a seat. I'm Bart. Bart Strong."

His eyes are a warm, inviting hazel green. He's wearing jeans, a T-s.h.i.+rt and on top of that, what looks to be a khaki and olive colored hunting or fis.h.i.+ng vest. I don't recognize the faint undertones of his cologne.

"I need you to find my daughter," I say. Unaccountably, relief floods my voice. Everything spills out suddenly. Robyn's increasingly defiant behavior, the fights, the money I found in her room, the police, the seemingly useless television spot. As I talk, my hand finds its way into my purse withdrawing a photograph.

"Here's her picture," I say holding Robyn's image out to him.

He takes the picture and looks at it a moment before placing it on the desk.

"She's only fifteen," I say. Then emotion clots my throat and I must stop.

He looks down, rubs his cheek with one hand, fingertips scratch absently at a graying sideburn as he considers Robyn's face. My desperation embarra.s.ses him, I'm sure of it, but I don't care. I'd gladly beg on my hands and knees if it meant finding Robyn.

Bart hunches his shoulders, leans forward dropping his elbows to his desk. In front of him is a pipe, maroon brown with a long black mouthpiece. The smell of his pipe tobacco is suddenly fresh in my nose again. He toys with it a moment. He asks a question or two, the same types of things the police asked. Did Robyn have a habit of staying away from home? Was anything of any significance missing from her room?

I answer his questions, impatient to move forward. Wanting only for him to leap from the desk, picture in hand, and dash from the room to scour the earth in order to find my daughter.

He is quiet a moment.

"You do search for missing persons, don't you?" I ask, suddenly nervous.

"Oh sure," he says. "Most of my work these days is insurance fraud," he jerks a thumb in the direction of the files on the floor. "But missing persons, unfaithful spouses, you name it, I've done it."

"About your fee," I begin.

"I charge five hundred a day plus expenses. That includes photographic proof. If I do find her." He gives me a pointed look. "But I don't do any recovery, kidnapping, or extractions."

"Extractions?"

"If she's hooked up with some cult. Something like that."

I tease out the thin envelope of cash from my purse, our entire savings. How can so much money feel so puny and inconsequential?

"Here is two thousand dollars," I say. The money falls to his desk with a breezy thump. "It's all I have."

He eyes the envelope a moment and then breaths in a somber lungful of air and gives me a grim look.

"Do you want the honest to G.o.d truth about your daughter?"

My bottom lip begins to quiver, just slightly, but I'm sure Bart has noticed. I bite down hard, trying to stop the tremor and my eyes well with tears. I nod.

At that moment, in the distance, a car slams on its brakes. The sliding scream of rubber against asphalt fills the air as both Bart and I lock eyes. The wailing continues for three or four seconds. And then we hear, not the scorching impact of a crash, but mercifully, silence. Bart continues.

"Honestly? Your daughter probably ran away." He folds his hands together like a disappointed second grade teacher. "She might be doing drugs, she might not. If you've already tried all her friends and she's not living with any of them, she's probably on the streets."

He stops a moment letting me take this in. He looks at me steady, a gaze of solid steel.

"She could be prost.i.tuting to make money. A pimp has maybe even taken her in. If that's the case, she could be anywhere. He'll be keeping her as hidden as possible because she's underage. Or he might be running an escort service, which will make it even harder to find her."

"But she's only fifteen," I say.

"There's been a seventy percent increase in the last three years of juveniles in prost.i.tution. The average age is twelve to thirteen. Some as young as ten. Some of these girls come from bad homes where there was some kind of abuse, be it physical, s.e.xual or else the parents were drug addicts."

He pauses. Does he expect me to admit something?

I sit stiffly in my seat. "There is no abuse in our home."

A prost.i.tute. I can't even get my mind to wrap itself around the word.

"Nearly half these girls come from good homes. They're good kids with good grades looking to make some money on the side. These pimps tell them they'll be in music videos or models. Buy them clothes, show them a good time. Sometimes they use their own girls to lure in new recruits. They hunt for new blood in halfway houses, youth shelters, and bus stations."

Money. Always an issue in our house. My mind flashes to half a dozen arguments I've had with Robyn about why I could never buy her the name brand purse or coat or shoes she always seemed to require.

"The FBI estimates there's anywhere between one hundred to three hundred thousand of these kids on the streets in America. But no one really knows for sure."

I sink into the chair. A pillowy air smelling of old leather from the cus.h.i.+on covers my face. I feel as if I've been sucker-punched and all the air expelled from my lungs. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, sniffling and Bart is suddenly offering a box of tissue. I grab two and swab my eyes and nose and mouth.

"What can you do?" I ask.

Bart shakes his head. His eyes look weary and his mouth forms a deep frown.

"I can look for her," he says. "But I have to tell you, the odds aren't in your favor. Kids who don't get off the streets within a month or two are usually lost forever; dead within eight years."

I gather my purse to my side and stand.

"Just please find my daughter," I say.

I drive home in a fog. My eyes scan the sidewalks as I drive, searching, just in case. Nightmarish images of child prost.i.tutes cloud my brain, lurid apparitions of little girls wearing garish red lipstick and little else flit in front of me. I simply can't believe that Robyn would do such a thing. I find it impossible to suppose that she could find her way to some filthy motel room, allow her young, perfect body to be ravaged by a sweating, grunting, middle-aged, overweight pig of a man.

"She comes from a good home," I say to the air, as if to refute everything Bart has told me.

I drive all over Pittsburg and Antioch, searching out the worst possible places in town, hunting for Robyn. But in the end I drive home, empty-handed.

I trudge up the walk, noticing that the gra.s.s has all but died in the front lawn. A handful of weeds eek out an existence, choked by the parched dirt. The hot summer air stinks of dirt and grime. Absently, I yank the mail from the mailbox and unlock the door. I hear the answering machine beep. I feel the ineffable rise of hope clamber in my chest, though I realize that all of the messages are probably crank calls.

Still, I drop the mail to the floor and head directly for the kitchen and the answering machine. A red digital light flashes before me. I punch the playback b.u.t.ton and wait, my heart throbbing with desire.

The first two are indeed crank calls. The third is from Robyn's friend, Jenny. My mouth is tinder dry as I await her message.

"Hi." Jenny's voice is tentative. "It's me, Jenny. I um, saw the thing on TV," she says. Her voice is a whisper, as if she doesn't want anyone to know what she's saying. "Um, I feel really bad, you know? But I um, know where Robyn is."

"This is Rob." He's working a late s.h.i.+ft to pick up some extra money.

"Rob, it's me. Jenny said that Robyn's in San Francisco," I say into the cordless, which is cradled between my ear and shoulder.

"San Francisco?" Rob's voice rattles with disbelief. "What the h.e.l.l's she doing in San Francisco?"

"I don't know," I reply defensively. "All Jenny would say is that Robyn was 'partying in frisco'."

As I talk I am bolting through the house, finding a jacket, gathering my purse, ferreting through its contents for my keys.

"But I'm going to find out." I say.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm driving to San Francisco," I say.