Page 126 of Strays
In response, the Harris pack files subpoenas to access the financial records of Aranya and Life Circle, hoping to trace payments or contracts linked to TGH trucks, Athena Foods, or the trafficking network.
But Aranya’s legal team is already prepared. They immediately file for a protective injunction, citing medical privacy laws and physician-patient confidentiality, like that applies to payment records. It shouldn’t hold. Everyone knows financial transactions aren’t covered under those protections. But somehow the court grants the injunction. It’s not a clever legal move; it’s a sign of his power, of how protected he really is.
The Harris pack then requests physical and digital surveillance of Aranya’s closed clinic in Short Hills and his current residence in Saddle River. But when a suspect hasn’t yet been formally charged or linked to a crime, surveillance requires judicial approval or DOJ internal review. The U.S. Attorney for New Jersey refuses the request.
The Bielke pack files for an administrative port inspection, similar to a customs audit, to check the Life Circle warehouse. But the place sits in a legal gray zone, not commercial enough to flag, not residential enough to surveil, so HSI has no authority to inspect it without a federal warrant. And we already know how that’s going.
On Saturday, after the basketball game at the YMCA court, we stay a little longer to catch up with Fontes. We’re stretched out on the bench just outside the court when he drops down beside us with a quiet groan, pulls a water bottle from his duffel, and leans back.
“Sônia wants to go see her family in Arizona,” he says. “First time we’ll take more than a weekend off in years.”
“That’s good,” I reply. “We just took a week off with Jo too.”
Shane lets out a low whistle. “Best damn week of my life.”
I shoot him a look. Jay snorts, biting back a laugh.
Fontes leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingers. “You guys deserved a break.” Then, his tone shifts, still easy, but more focused. “So… this Frostbite shit. How deep does it go? I’ve only caught bits and pieces from the bulletins.”
We tell him about the name that makes my stomach twist every time I say it: Aranya.
He listens without interrupting. Just scratches his beard, thoughtful. “I’ve got a few friends at the Port Authority Police Department out in Newark,” he says. “I’ll call in some favors. See if they can quietly keep eyes on the warehouse.”
The next few days, his friends at PAPD start making passes around the place. They run plates on every vehicle parked out front, log movement during odd hours, even ask around, quiet questions to port workers, neighbors. Nothing official, just listening.
But the place is cold. No unusual traffic. No suspicious activity. No one coming or going. Which makes sense. After we cracked the operation wide open, they shut everything down, even Aranya’s private office.
But still, Fontes calling in favors to help us isn’t nothing. So it might’ve come up empty, but I’m grateful anyway. And I won’t forget it.
Unexpectedly, Jo is the one who actually gets something.
One night, we’re cooking and talking about our day, and we end up mentioning the medical supplies the Life Circle warehouse has been getting. She thinks she can figure out what they’re doing there, and it might help us build a case. I agree — any information could matter. So we make her a list, and she spends every spare moment that week in her office in the second bedroom, cross-referencing notes, medical manuals, and her field training.
Sunday morning, she brings her notebook to the table during breakfast and tells us what she’s found.
It’s cold, calculated, and monstrous.
“I think what Aranya was doing in that clinic was medically turning women into cargo,” she says. “He prepared them to survive transport in refrigerated trucks.”
Jay frowns. “How?”
She opens a spreadsheet on her laptop. “The supplies match the process, step by step. First, IV saline stabilized them, prevented dehydration, and got their bodies ready to tolerate sedation. Then, a powerful sedative. I’m betting on a benzodiazepine mixed with a paralytic. That would put a person under fast and keep them quiet.”
“Once they were under, he dropped their core temperature,” she continues. “I think he basically induced artificial hypothermia. He didn’t completely freeze them, but close. It slows metabolism, cuts oxygen demand, and buys time.”
“Then the battery-heated pads,” she goes on. “He probably used them under their torso and neck. They can generate enough warmth to keep a person’s organs from shutting down completely.”
She lifts her eyes to us. “But there’s a catch. Trap someone in a sealed box, and they’d die from lack of oxygen and carbon dioxide buildup way before the cold could kill them. That’s why he had carbon dioxide scrubbers. The scrubbersabsorbed the carbon dioxide the women breathed out. It doesn’t add oxygen, but it keeps the air from turning toxic too fast.”
I feel my stomach twist. “How long could they survive like that?”
“With this kind of protocol,” Jo replies, “they could survive three to six hours in those trucks. Maybe more if the sedative dosing was perfect, and the scrubbers held.”
I nod. “So they could be dropping them off anywhere. Hours inland, no witnesses, no cameras. Just gone.”
Shane swears under his breath. Jay’s face is full of rage, in a way I’m not used to seeing on him. I don’t even realize I’m gripping my fork until my hand starts to ache.
But the knowledge doesn’t open any doors. We can’t prove anything, so we’re still stuck.
