Blood Daughters: A Romilia Chacon Novel

Chapter 43

187 Chapter 43 Courtney Singleton had a fine tattoo of a spiked dog collar completely around her neck. She had a belt of earrings all the way up to the top of her ear, a nose ring punched through the left nostril and an eyebrow ring, fairly new, according to the puffiness. Her hair was blonde and scarlet. Her skin was white as snow. At first all she said was, “My dad teaches law at Princeton.” “Yeah and my mom taught me potty training in Atlanta. Let’s talk about Karen Allende.” “She hasn’t done anything wrong.” I looked across the table at the punk kid who dangled off Daddy’s Ivy League. “Yes she has. And so have you. And so has Robert.” She cursed Robert’s name. Then she sat up straight. “We used an unregulated venue in order to bring U.S. citizens, especially U.S. men, to the attention of spreading injustices against women all over the world.” “You broke federal decency laws.” She laughed at that. Then stopped, abruptly. “Decency,” she said. “Look,” I said, “we need to find Karen. She might be in danger.” That didn’t move her. “We know about the virus, and what you were trying to do on the internet. But now Karen’s disappeared. And to be frank, we’re getting a little worried.” There was a shift. She looked over to a corner, before turning back my way. “Of course it’s dangerous,” she said. “It was all a risk.” That was the beginning of a confession; it needed to be teased out of her. She had already been teased once today by Robert. I didn’t want to lose her. 188 ~ Blood Daughters “Has something happened, Courtney?” “She was supposed to call in.” “Yes? Call in to report on what, her progress?” “Yeah.” “When?” “Wednesday. In the morning.” Today was Friday night. Karen, and her absence, rattled inside me. “Courtney, what was she going to do?” Courtney the revolutionary began to crumble. Courtney the girl, nineteen, who licked boys’ ears and who wanted to call Daddy in Princeton, not for legal advice but for a hug, a big hug, started to appear. “She was going to get on the inside. To take pictures. And to get reports. She was going to send us the pictures.” “The inside. You mean, inside where the kids are kept?” Courtney nodded. Her chin quivered. She nodded harder. “Okay. Okay Courtney, listen. How was she going to get on the inside?” “We had a contact.” “Who?” “It was through OWL.” “Owl? Who’s Owl?” “No no. O-W-L. ‘Operation for Women’s Liberation.’” “Oh. Okay, a group. So where are they, this OWL organization?” “Their main offices are in Washington, D.C. They’re working on the Desert Women cases.” “Can you give me their address? Phone?” “It’s on their website.” “Okay,what’sthewebsite?”Iwaswritingnotesasshespoke.Iwroteasifthe pen scratched a path closer to Karen. She gave the site, owlsagainstthedesert. com. That seemed strange, the wording. Long and bulky, even for a web address. But Randall was on it. He took the name and walked to another room where there was a computer. In less than five minutes he was back. “Here,” he said, “but that’s not a D.C. number. It’s a San Diego area code. And their site, it’s pretty lame.” Acid worked its way through my stomach. But I kept going; I pulled my cell phone from my bag, punched in the number. And I was not surprised, as the phone rang, that Courtney was muttering about the fact that Robert knew nothing about the OWL contact. Robert would have Marcos M. Villatoro ~ 189 said the same thing Randall had said, that the site was lame, or simple, or too unprofessional. Set up quickly, by an amateur. All this verified by the answer on the other end of the call, “We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected and is no longer in service.” I was just about to report this to Randall and Blaze. But Courtney spoke before I could. “Ask for Ingrid,” she said. ...