As we stand on the threshold of a room reeking of antiseptic and something unnamable, el Diablo rules drilled into me from the time I first came to belong as part of the MC ring in my mind. “Never talk to policia.”
“Here.” Handing me the mask, he watches as I set it in place, following with his own.
Stepping ahead of me, he opens the door, moving back to allow me to pass.
Even with my face covered, the smell of death nearly takes me to my knees.
“You’re okay. I got you.” A strong from hand steadies me. Still, I have to breathe out of my mouth in shallow bursts, so I won’t pass out.
There’s another person in the room clothed in medical attire. I noticed then it’s a petite Black woman with a fair complexion.
“This is Dr. Anàis Spencer,” Ulyssess nods to the woman. “She’s come down from the Birmingham FBI office to help us with this case.” Her name gives me pause. The Spencers are notorious for their corruption. I take an involuntary step back when the woman steps forward in an aggressive manner, eyeing me with cold, glass like-green eyes.
“We understand you are the local tattoo artist.” Approaching the covered form that looks to be that of a child or a small woman. Pulling back the sheet that is thankfully on that of an arm — a very thin arm. The nails are gel tipped, showing those of a female, by the whimsical design that could be any age. I have seen my share of bad people put down. This gives none of that. Nothing about this is giving a deserved death.
“We need you to confirm whether this is your design.” Her gaze narrows on me with a dagger-like focus. But I’m already shaking my head in denial.
“I don’t do any work on kids.” I say not even wanting to look. Betrayal slices through me, and I shoot Ulysses an accusing look. “You know I’d never do work on a kid.” He knows I wouldn’t be part of anything involving kids.
“We just need you to take a look.” Dr. Spencr insists as Ulysses ushers me closer.
The heavy hand on my back allows me no escape. Seeing the gloved hand wrapped around the tiny wrist makes icy dread seep deep within the recesses of my soul.
Looking down at the tattoo, I lean closer, taking in the emblem of the phoenix rising from the flames of a crown. It’s not mine, but for some reason it feels familiar.
Shaking my head, I step back. “I didn’t do this.” I stop running into Ulysses hard from that makes me jump like a jackrabbit dodging a fox.
Dr. Spencer’s screws me with a skeptical sweep of her lashes. Her regard is so intense there is no doubt about why she has chosen this profession. Ever so slowly and with great care, she covers the wrist and places it beside the body.
Sighing, she turns back to me her gaze pitiless and filled this disdain. “Sabine Tousaint, early twenties, undocumented, of Haitian descent, tattoo artist, last known as an associate of the el Diablo Cartel and the Savalle Syndicate. Last known residence was a little apartment above a little tattoo shop in Dakkar, Senegal, where she was seen in the frequent company of a local drug dealer, Bennie, and a fish merchant, Amadou. Current residence is also above a tattoo shop after being presumed missing for months at the hands of the el Diablo Cartel. Presumed deceased until she resurfaced right along the time that fifteen-year-old Shasta Cortez-Marquez, of BlountCounty, was found floating in the Tombigbee. All indications are she drowned in as escape attempt. However, her body gives indications of severe sexual and physical trauma.” Snapping her gloves off with cold finality, she looks at me. The disgust is apparent.
“What kills me about folks like you. Is how you go along with this type of bullshit.”
Turning, I look at Ulysses. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I didn’t tattoo her. I don’t tattoo anyone under the age of eighteen.”
Ulysses’ gaze is just as hard. He saw my reaction to the tattoo.
A harsh chuckle comes from Dr. Spencer. “Little girl, one thing the Sheriff didn’t mention was exactly what kind of doctors I am. Doctors plural as in doctor of forensic psychology, medicine and pathology.” She tsks like it means little to her. “Of all the things I loved studying, was of human mind. How people have these little tells when they lie. I’ve met some amazing liars, Sabine.”
I really hate the condescending way she says my name. I know it’s on purpose. She wants me mad. I do my best not the react. Still, she turns an amused glance to Ulysses as though they are sharing a joke — on me.
“But you, Sabine Toussaint, a noncitizen of the United States of America — take the cake as probably one of the worst liars I’ve ever come across.” Laughter seems to well up inside her. “How did you last so long around one of the deadliest cartels and spend time with one of the most notorious syndicates in the world when you can’t even lie better than a third grader?” Sobering, she’s back to her no-nonsense self. “I’m sure they conditioned you. That, however, is no excuse for your compliance at your big age. They will never choose you over their money, drugs and trafficking. You’re out now. Now you have anopportunity to help others get out of that life. Will you do it or face incarceration and deportation?”
Deep in the back of my mind, I hear a whirl of sick laughter. Here I was nearly a year ago thinking I was saving people. Not only did the trafficking continue, but now I’m being implicated. The irony is not lost on me. As I turn to the only other person with power in the room.
“I didn’t do that tattoo.” I swear to him, and I can tell he believes me.
“But you know it. You know who did. Perhaps the person who did all those tattoos on you.” Come the soft musing of Dr. Spencer. Turning to her, I watch her take inventory of my art.
“He’s dead.” I tell her. “And no, that work looks familiar, but I can’t place it.” It’s true, but none of that matters because she’s made up her mind. I can see the moment the hope for my cooperation bleeds from her gaze and is replaced with cool resolve.
“Detain her. I’m not wasting anymore time on her when there are actual victims out there.” Brushing past us, she leaves me with Ulysses and a dead kid.
“I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Panic has me screeching. I’ve just gotten free of one prison and now I’m being thrown into another.
“Where did you see that tattoo?” He demands grimly, zip-tying me with a cool efficiency that has my head spinning.
“I-I” Shaking my head, I do my best to grab onto the image and where I saw it before. “I can’t remember.” My head throbs from the stress and panic. To think I came willingly.
