Page 13 of Spiders in the Grove

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head, pacing a trench in the carpet. “I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I knew you were into some bad stuff, but actually hearing all of this, knowing what you want me to do, it makes it all so…real.”

“Yeah,” I say, “you probably would’ve been better off just imagining what kind of shit I get myself into.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

She stops pacing, and turns to face me.

“But I’ll do it.”

“Huh?” Surprised, I just look at her a moment; I’d convinced myself at seventy-four-percent she would slide back to zero. “So, you’re—”

“Saying yes,” she interrupts. “I don’t care how dangerous it is; with that kind of money”—she pauses, looking downward, probably imagining herself bathing in it and all the drugs she can buy—“I’ll definitely do it. I’d be an idiot to pass up an opportunity like this. Somebody like me: thirty-two-years-old, fresh out of rehab, no self-respect, no talent I know of, unless you want to count my acting, but since it wasn’t good enough for Hollywood, I suppose it counts as not having talent. Where the hell else am I ever going to get even half that amount of money?”

She kinda has a point, but I’d feel bad openly agreeing with her, so I say nothing.

“The acting,” I say instead, “will come in handy, that’s for sure. And fuck Hollywood—they sign shit-actors every day, so their opinions of your talent are invalid.” At least I hope so, for her sake—going into this, she better be able to channel Charlize Theron.

She blushes, as if she’s needed to hear someone say that since the day Hollywood turned her away.

She sits down next to me again; I get the feeling she’s getting ready to say something she’s not sure how I’ll react to; but she’s not afraid of me—Jackie isn’t really afraid of anything.

“Sounds like you really care about this girl,” she says, and I knew this was coming, “to do all of this to protect her.”

“No, I just worry about her.”

“You wouldn’t worry about someone you didn’t care for.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“OK,” she says, and I easily detect what she really wants to say: OK, but you’re full of shit.

Maybe she’s right; maybe I care for Izzy more than I should. But the bigger problem here is that my brother is the one who should be worrying about her, paying someone a million dollars to watch over her. But he’s an idiot. And somebody’s gotta pick up his slack.

I still can’t fucking believe he actually agreed to let Izzy go through with this stupid plan, or that he agreed not to interfere. Fuck him, and everybody else in his Order who’s letting this happen. Fuck ‘em all.

“Well, what makes you think I won’t just take the money and run?” Jackie asks with a smirk.

“Because I trust you.” Strange thing is, I actually do trust her.

“All right,” she says, changing the subject and her tone, “so then who are these two guys you’re sending with me? And how much do you trust them?”

“Not as much as you,” I say. “But they’ll keep you safe on the mere fact that the other half of their payment depends on it.”

“Guys you work with?” She’s trying to make herself feel better about all this.

“I don’t work with them,” I say, “but they work for me.”

The men I’ll be sending to Mexico with Jackie are not part of my brother’s Order, and don’t even know what it is. They’re just guys I’ve known for a long time, ex-military, and who have seen some messed-up shit in their lives, so their roles in Mexico won’t really faze them much. I hired them for the same reason I’m hiring Jackie: I can’t get anyone from our Order involved, because anyone loyal to Victor, doesn’t necessarily make them loyal to me.

I spend another three hours with Jackie, going over every detail; I show her photos of Izzy, and, because I want Jackie to be sure herself about this, I also show her photos and videos of the girls in compounds—not just Mexico, but everywhere else, too—and the things that happen to them. Jackie doesn’t want to do this—it’s all over her face—but money is The Great Negotiator, and one million is hard enough for a rich man to pass up, much less a woman who lives in a trailer park and drives a 2001 Acura with a huge dent in the driver’s door.

“Physically, you’ll be fine,” I tell her. “You’re considered too old to be kidnapped and sold in the slave trade, and my ex-military guys who’ll be going with you can protect you from the occasional horny idiot who might try to have his way with one of the rich buyers. But I doubt you’ll have to worry about that, even. They don’t usually mess with the buyers; but keeping your story straight, and being able to prove you are who you say you are is the most important job. You play the part, and I’ll prove it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure my story will be backed-up if they try to verify who I am?” she asks.

“Not if,” I say, “but when. They always do background checks. You just play your part, and don’t worry about the rest. I wouldn’t send you in there if I didn’t have that part under control.”

“OK.” She can’t keep eye contact with me anymore; her eyes stray everywhere else.

---