Page 76 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Twenty-Three

The back tower is accessed with a keycard, and once in the lobby, it feels as though we aren’t even in Vegas. The main floor is set up as an office, complete with a reception desk, a waiting area, and glass-fronted offices that line the perimeter of the oval-shaped space.

I can see inside the workspaces—efficient-looking employees in conference, on the phone, working diligently on computers. And when Devlin takes me in to meet some of them, I’m equally impressed by the actual people as I am with the persona they project.

We make the rounds through each of the departments, and I learn about the research that goes into assisting the trafficking victims, the process by which the DSF liaisons with the organizations to which it provides funding, like the Beyond Project, and the method by which it assists law enforcement, and so much more.

It’s lunch time when I finish meeting everyone, my hand is cramped from taking notes, and my phone is full to the brim with recordings I’ll sift through later that will hopefully fill the gap where my handwriting fails.

Since he’s in town, Devlin is taking the opportunity to talk to the staff, so lunch is catered sandwiches in the conference room, after which we’ll be going up into the tower to meet some of the residents.

Now, I sit in the back, nibbling at a turkey sandwich and watching Devlin in his element. There’s a podium for him to use, but instead, he’s leaning against a table, looking stunningly professional in his bespoke suit, even as his casual posture reflects a man who is approachable and comfortable with both his role and his mastery of the subject matter he’s discussing.

He reviews the progress the Vegas branch has made since his last visit, speaking from memory instead of notes, and even mentioning many of the residents by name. He engages in dialogues with the employees, addressing funding issues and corporate sponsors, analyzing the effectiveness of certain educational programs and offering alternatives and additions, and digs deep into the overall well-being of the residents.

The point is to help them, not to simply give them a physical place to recover, and from what I can tell, the DSF and its partner organizations are accomplishing that goal.

“We exist for you. Which means that for as long as you need it,” he tells the residents, “the Phoenix is your home and we’re here to help you. Never hesitate to ask for what you need.” It’s obvious he means it. And I can tell from their applause that the residents know it, too.

After lunch wraps up, Devlin takes me up to the tower’s recreation floor.

“There’s an outdoor playground, too, but most of the kids prefer this space.” As he speaks, we step into what feels like a huge rec center. A group of kids are playing basketball in one corner. In another, little kids sit at small, colorful tables drawing and pasting and generally being kids.

“Those women over there are studying for their GED,” Devlin says, pointing to a group of women in another corner. “And those are getting help putting together resumes, then doing mock interviews. We have a tech center on the third floor with computers open for anyone’s use. They can play games, submit resumes, or get specialized instruction.”

“This is incredible,” I say, as he calls over a lanky blond woman who looks to be headed toward a group of kids goofing around on a tumbling mat.

“Mr. Saint!” The pleasure in her voice is obvious, and he gives her a side-hug as she comes over to greet him. “I heard you were on-site. I was hoping you’d come by.”

“Stacy Blake, meet my friend Elsa Holmes. She’s writing an article on us for The Spall Monthly.”

“That’s great,” Stacy says as we shake hands. “The DSF saved my life, literally,” she tells me. “This man really is a saint.”

“Do you mind telling me your story?”

“Not at all.”

As Devlin leaves to go circulate, she leads me to a couple of chairs where we park ourselves while we talk. I learn that she’s twenty-four and was taken six years ago when she hailed an airport taxi in Mexico, only to learn it wasn’t a taxi at all. “Like something out of a movie,” she says, then tells me about her ordeal. Put on the block. Sold. Transported to the buyer blindfolded and tied up in the back of a truck. Used sexually.

The more she talks, the more nauseous I feel.

“The Beyond Project worked with local authorities and Interpol and all sorts of agencies. The DSF supported them and then funded the rescue mission. I didn’t know that until later, though. All I knew was that we were rescued. For a while, that was all I cared about.”

She nods across the room, then calls out, “Amy! Wave to Mommy!”

A dark-haired little girl’s head pops up. She grins, then waves wildly.

“I kept her,” Stacy says. “When I was rescued, I was too far along to have any choice but to give birth, and once I saw her face, I couldn’t let her go.” I see the pain on her face. “It was hard, though, even knowing that the man—the one who—well, he didn’t want to, either. He—he’d been taken, too. They were, you know, watching us. Like for sport. It was—”

I put my hand on her arm. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t know anything about him. I never saw him again. But when I decided to keep Amy, the DSF did everything for me. Medical care. Counseling. It was rough at first. Now she’s the light of my life. She’s hope that good things—wonderful things—can come from rot. Like flowers that fight their way out to bloom in muck.”

She flashes me a watery smile, then shrugs. “So that’s me.”

“I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve met,” I tell her, thinking that her pain certainly puts my own in perspective.

“Is it strong to shoulder what you have to? I don’t know. I think Mr. Saint’s strong. He’s shouldered more than his fair share, you know. All of this is personal to him, and while I doubt he knows everyone’s name, he’s here a lot, he talks, he cares.” Another shrug. “Put that in your article.”