A Thousand Engines

Harlan emerged from the kitchen carrying the whole apple pie like an offering, and Carol had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Harlan Briggs was not a man built for deception. He moved like the pie might explode. But he walked straight to booth nine, set the pie down in the middle of the table with a flourish that was almost convincing, and said, "Folks, rain's killed my Friday. This pie's got your name on it or it's going in the trash. On the house."

Vince stared at him. "We didn't order pie."

"That's the beauty of it," Harlan said. "You don't have to."

For a moment, Carol thought Vince was going to refuse — his jaw worked, his hand went to the pinky ring, turning it around and around. But Jesse's face lit up like a sunrise. "Apple pie? I love apple pie," he said, and there was something so young in his voice, so unguarded, that Carol felt a complicated pang. Nineteen or twenty, and somebody's son, and sitting at a table where terrible things were being planned.

"Well," Vince said slowly, "I guess we can — fine. Plates. Three plates."

Three plates. Carol filed it away — even Vince, performing normalcy for the room, had to include the girl. She grabbed plates and forks from the counter, moving fast, because the pie bought them time but not much of it. Every minute the men spent eating pie was a minute they weren't walking out the door.

She set the plates down, and Harlan — bless him, improvising — said, "Whipped cream? I got whipped cream in the back," and disappeared toward the kitchen, which meant he'd be gone a full minute, which meant Carol had the table alone.

She leaned in to set a fork by the girl's plate, and very quietly, without moving her lips more than necessary, said, "What's your name, hon?"

The girl's hands were in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was so soft Carol had to strain to hear it.

"Elena."

"Elena," Carol repeated, anchoring it. A name. She had a name now. "Elena, I'm going to help you. Nod if you understand."

A tiny nod. Barely a movement. But it was there.

"Are they going to hurt you if you talk to me?"

The smallest shake of the head. Then, softer than breath: "Not here. He won't — not where people can see."

That told Carol everything about the rules of Elena's world: violence was private, control was public. Vince wouldn't make a scene in the diner. That was useful. That was a boundary she could work with.

"Where are you supposed to go tonight?" Carol asked.

"Flagstaff. There's a — a motel." Elena's fingers twisted together in her lap. "Please. I can't — if he knows I talked — "

"He won't know," Carol said firmly. "Listen to me, Elena. There are people coming to help. Police, and — friends. I need you to be brave for a little while longer. Can you do that?"

Elena's eyes flickered up — that brave, terrible glance — and Carol saw tears standing in them, unshed, held back by sheer will.

"I've been brave for three weeks," Elena whispered. "I'm so tired of being brave."

The words hit Carol like a physical blow. Three weeks. Twenty years old, and three weeks of whatever Vince had put her through, and she was still holding a water glass like a lifeline, still answering questions, still fighting.

"You're almost done," Carol said, and her voice was fierce. "You hear me? You're almost done being brave alone."

Harlan returned with the whipped cream. Vince was already cutting the pie — sawing at it with the side of his fork, impatient. Jesse watched Elena with an expression Carol couldn't quite read: guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or both.

Carol straightened up, smile back in place, and said, "Enjoy, folks. Holler if you need anything."

She walked to the counter, and Walt mouthed, Well? She gave him a short nod — confirmed — and went to the back hallway, to the little office where Harlan kept the phone book and the first-aid kit and the ancient landline. She closed the door, picked up the receiver, and dialed 911 with hands that were perfectly steady.

"Coconino County dispatch," a calm voice said.

"This is Carol Whitfield at the Hollow Creek Diner on Route 89, south of Flagstaff." Carol kept her voice low and even. "I need to report a possible human trafficking situation. There's a young woman here — twenty years old — with two men, and I'm certain she's being held against her will. She has a bruise on her face. She has no phone, no belongings. The men said they're leaving in" — she checked the clock — "about ten minutes, heading for a motel in Flagstaff."

"Ma'am, are you safe to talk?"

"Yes. I'm in the back office. The men don't know I've called."

"Can you describe the men and their vehicle?"

Carol gave descriptions — Vince, shaved head, neck tattoo, thick build; Jesse, young, acne scars, nervous. The vehicle: she hadn't seen it, but she'd get the plates. "There's a trucker here who's going to watch the lot," she added. "And — " she hesitated, then decided the dispatcher deserved the full picture, " — a motorcycle club is on its way. Veterans' group. They're friends of ours. They'll stay out of the way of your deputies, I promise, but they're coming."

There was a pause. Then the dispatcher said, "Ma'am, I need you to keep those bikers from engaging with the suspects. Can you do that?"

"I'll do my best," Carol said honestly. "But those men aren't leaving with that girl. Not tonight."

"Deputies are being dispatched. ETA twenty-five minutes. Can you keep the suspects there until then?"

Carol thought about the pie. Thought about coffee refills and dropped forks and every trick in the waitress's book.

"I can try," she said. "Twenty-five minutes. I'll try."

She hung up, and stood for a moment in the little office with her forehead against the cool wall, breathing. Twenty-five minutes. The sheriff was twenty-five minutes out. Eddie and the Iron Mesa club were coming from Prescott — forty minutes, maybe more, in the rain. Vince had said twenty minutes, and ten of those were gone.

The math didn't work. She needed more time.

She walked back out front, and her eyes found Jesse — young, nervous, ear-touching Jesse — and an idea began to form. The weak link. Every table had one. Vince was the wall. Elena was the prisoner. But Jesse — Jesse was the crack in the wall, and Carol had nine years of practice at finding the cracks.

She picked up the coffee pot and walked toward booth nine, smiling.

Time to talk to Jesse.