Chapter 31
Exiting Penn Station, I try not to gawk like a tourist. I’ve been to Manhattan before — more than once Lance wanted to hit up the Big Apple for some “real excitement.” To him, that meant the overpriced, tourist-packed bars within a block or two of Times Square. I lost my taste for the city because of that, but I knew I couldn’t just go to Philadelphia. Prescott’s reach goes far — New York might not be far enough, but I also only have a day. It’ll have to do.
This morning I spent an hour at the library researching recent cases of busted human trafficking organizations, and one name popped up more often than not: Bennett Consulting. Researching them turned up a sparse website with just a telephone line and P.O. Box where they could be contacted. No one picked up the phone, so I left a message asking for a call back. I didn’t get one, but after half an hour I got a text:
Reichenbach Hall, midtown. 3 PM
It feels bizarrely cloak and dagger, but I don’t have a better idea, so I go. The place is only a few blocks from Penn Station, so I walk. A restaurant and bar, Reichenbach Hall is moderately busy when I get there, but it seems crowded for the mid-afternoon on a weekday. Outfitted with long benches for seating, the eatery is way more spacious on the inside than one would expect for New York, or so I imagine. Most of the patrons are young, drinking beer from tall glasses and sharing the biggest soft pretzels I’ve ever seen.
Not knowing who I’m looking for, and figuring they’ll find me, I take a seat at the bar and get a beer. I probably shouldn’t drink at a time like this, but I could use a little something to calm my nerves. What will these people think when I tell them my story? I’m going to be admitting to some criminal activity. In theory, they could have me arrested on the spot. It’s a risk I have to take, I guess.
“Reed Nolan.”
I turn on my stool to see three women standing a few feet behind me. A blonde on the left carries a computer case over her shoulder and keeps her fist wrapped around something small — possibly a can of mace. The muscular one in the middle wears a leather jacket with a suspicious bulge around her waist — potentially a concealed handgun. On the right, a short brunette has her phone out and pointed at me.
“That’s me,” I say, getting up.
The middle one points to a shorter bench near the back of the restaurant. “Go.”
Nodding, I move, biting back a smile. I’m not used to women giving me orders. Do they have any idea what I do? They know who I am, apparently.
“How do you know my name?” I ask as I take a seat.
“You used your personal phone,” says the short one. “We looked it up.”
Figures. The number is unlisted, but I guess if they have resources, that won’t matter.
The three women all sit on the other side of the bench, across from me. I’m not sure what to make of them, other than the fact they clearly mean business. They walk quickly, and almost in formation; like a flock, they don’t get in each other’s way. The middle one constantly looks around the room, as if checking for threats. I could tell them I’m alone, but would they believe me?
With my physical size and my position of authority at Walker, I don’t often get intimidated — I wouldn’t say that’s what I’m feeling now, but I’m uncomfortably aware of the fact I am not in control of this situation. I recognize them, but not the way I did with the girl at Prescott’s — this is far more concrete, like I’ve definitely seen them before, and in a way that raises an alarm in the back of my mind.
“You’re Bennett Consulting?”
“I’m Carson Bennett,” says the muscular one, nodding. “These are my colleagues Marla Angel and Helena Bloom.”
As soon as she says it, I remember who they are. “You’re the one abducted from that college,” I say, pointing to Helena. Her photo was all over the news during the search — it was as if she’d disappeared. She was one of the asylum survivors with-
With Marla. I turn to her, remembering the infamous clip of her on YouTube. “And you’re the reporter who went missing. And you, Carson, aren’t you the private detective who infiltrated that mega church in New Jersey?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t infiltrate the church, but I did investigate undercover. It’s a long story, and we’re here to talk about you, Reed. You seem to have a good recollection for stories involving human traffickers. Care to tell us why?”
No wonder my flight instinct has been spiking — every one of these stories gave me chills when I heard about them, except, I was afraid for my life. I worried I’d be considered a “criminal” for giving killers the punishment they “deserved.” They scared me, and rightly so. I’d like to think it was because inside I knew what I was doing was wrong, but maybe I was just being selfish.
Either way, I can only be ashamed of the past, I can’t change it. Now it’s time to deal with the present and the future.
Here goes.
“Have you heard of Congressman Darren Prescott?” I ask.
“Of course,” says Helena as she takes out her laptop. “Prison industry magnate out of Pennsylvania, which is where you’re from, isn’t it? He’s running for re-election right now, isn’t he?”
I nod. “That’s correct.”
“Are you working for his opponent… Tamara Miller?”
My eyes widen in shock. “No, not at all!” I hadn’t even thought about that, though now I get Helena’s suspicion. A scandal of this magnitude is the only way Miller could win at this point. “I swear, this has nothing to do with the election. Let me start from the beginning.”
—
The three of them listen for more than an hour as I tell them everything: Lance, Darren, the Walker Center — Quinn. “I’m here because of her,” I say.
Throughout my story, the women don’t give any reaction, other than to ask questions — especially names. I give them so many — all the inmates I can think of, any sponsor who I could identify. I give them directions to Walker and draw a basic floor plan of the entire facility.
“What else can I do?” I ask when I finish. “I want to take them down and free all the prisoners. Whatever it takes, I’m in.”
As I say this, I notice two men quickly approaching our table. Before I can react, they split apart and take seats on either side of me. They both wear matching outfits — black jeans and tight, white, short-sleeved T-shirts that show off their developed physiques. Both have tattoos on their muscular arms, and as soon as they sit I feel one of them slip something hard into my gut — the barrel of a pistol.
Now I feel intimidated.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“We don’t like your story,” says Marla.
“Sounds like bait,” Carson adds.
I don’t understand. Do they really not believe me? “What do you mean, bait?”
“We deal with some of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the country, Mr. Nolan,” says Carson. “We’ve made plenty of powerful enemies. You’re a stranger to us, and you come here with bold accusations leveled at men at the highest levels of government. It’s the makings of an irresistible target for us to pursue.”
“Which means it could just be a story, meant to draw us out into the open,” Marla adds.
“Our enemies have set traps for us before,” notes Helena. “And smarter men than you have been bait, Reed.”
I shake my head, trying not to move too suddenly with a gun against my ribs. “I swear, everything I told you was true.”
“That’s good,” Carson replies. “Because we don’t take chances. Our network of associates watches out for us wherever we go. Right now there are about fifty women out on the street watching for signs of an ambush and recording everything.”
“I promise,” I growl, starting to feel my heart pound. “I’m not lying, and nobody knows I’m here. Quinn knows I’m trying to get help, but not where I went or who any of you are.”
Their suspicion and doubt is pissing me off — which is exactly how Quinn felt when I didn’t believe her. I suppose I kinda deserve this.
“If that’s true, we won’t have a problem today,” says Carson. “If there really is a secret prison in Pennsylvania run by a corrupt congressman, we intend to shut it down, Reed. You can be sure of that. We just have to know what we’re getting into. We can’t afford to spook Prescott or any of his partners in crime.”
“Good.” That works for me.
“It was very risky of you to do this,” Marla says. “We need to know, why now? Why not come forward years ago?”
I sigh, angry at myself. “Because I didn’t know any better. Quinn got me to see the truth about it all. I have a lot to atone for — I’d like to topple Prescott and his entire empire, but I’ll settle for getting Quinn to safety.”
“Even if that means suffering the consequences of your actions?” asks one of the men, speaking up for the first time. “Prison isn’t exactly fun.”
“If your story is true, you’ll be an accessory to so many crimes, you’ll never see Quinn again,” adds Marla.
She doesn’t have to tell me; I tried adding up every count I could think of and their minimum sentences. I could serve a thousand years and still not be up for parole.
“I’m hoping my willing and full cooperation in this investigation could get me an immunity deal,” I say.
Helena snorts. “We can’t promise that.”
Carson nods. “No, we can’t, even if we wanted to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply, without hesitation. “I’m still doing this. I want to save Quinn and pay for my actions. When it’s all over, whatever happens, happens.”
“We appreciate that, Mr. Nolan,” says Marla. “We’re going to look into your claims and start briefing our contact in the FBI. He’s trustworthy and won’t alert Prescott or anyone else about the investigation.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a business card. “Put this number in your phone as someone innocuous, a cousin or something.”
I get out my phone and add the contact, then nod.
“For the purposes of security, you probably won’t hear back from us,” notes Carson. “Even if you’re being completely honest with us, we have to assume otherwise. We also have to worry that you may become compromised between now and any incursion we launch. If this conspiracy goes as deep as you say, the operation to take them down will be complicated. It’ll take a little time to put together. So will getting a judge to sign off on an immunity deal for you. Until then, act natural. Contact us if you have anything to report.”
“Understood,” I say, relaxing as the man next to me gets his gun out of my chest.
“Reed, don’t say anything about this to the prisoners,” Marla adds. “We know too well what they’re going through, and we wish you could offer them some comfort, but we can’t have anyone acting out of the ordinary. One wrong word at the wrong time, and Prescott could move to protect himself in ways we can’t stop.”
“Of course.”
Carson and Marla get up, but Helena stays put. “One last thing, Mr. Nolan,” she says, spinning around her laptop. On it I see a window with a paused video: it’s of me, taken from right here. “You better not be lying to us. If this is a trap, or the investigation gets blown, everything you said will be forwarded to the authorities and the media. You’ve admitted to complicity in too many crimes to count. If this doesn’t work out, your life is over.”
“Yeah,” I say as they all leave, my stomach a lump of ice.
My train home leaves in ninety minutes, so I head back to the bar. I order another drink. I take my time, enjoying it, knowing it could be my last.