Below Zero jp-9

by C. J. Box

  The tall man continued to look her over. He walked around her, appraising.

  “We can do business,” the man said to Ed.

  Ed let out his breath, obviously relieved. He turned to her and bent forward, lightly grasping her arms, and stared into her eyes.

  “You’re going to be staying here for a little while, do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re doing this to protect you,” Ed lied. “Mary Ann was going to send you back to the agency anyway. She feels threatened by you—she told me that a bunch of times. She doesn’t like the way you look at her. This is for you. Do you understand? This way you can make some money and go on with your life.”

  She nodded.

  “If anyone asks, you ran away,” Ed said. “That’s what we’ll say, too. Do you understand? We’ll even file a report with the agency people and the police to make it official.”

  She nodded.

  “So don’t even think of turning yourself in,” Ed said, showing his yellow teeth. “Don’t forget, we still have that special ‘sister’ of yours. You wouldn’t want any harm to come to her, would you? Like sending her back so you’d never find her again? You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “No.

  “Well, neither would I, kiddo.”

  Ed left her standing there in her dress and sandals while he and the tall man went through a door behind the desk. In a few moments, Ed came back out patting his breast through his jacket, as if he’d just put something there. She saw the corner of a thick white envelope as he passed by her. He said, “Take care of yourself, kid,” and left.

  “What’s your name?” the tall man asked after the door closed and Ed went home with his pile of money.

  She couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her legs felt weak and her mouth was dry.

  “Can’t you talk?” the man asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s your name? Don’t worry, we can always change it.”

  She refused to say the name Voricek, or use the name they’d called her.

  “April Keeley,” she said.

  “Nice,” the tall man said. “And you’re what, eighteen?”

  She was confused. “No, I’m . . .”

  The man stepped forward shaking his head. “You’re eighteen,” he said with finality. “You just look younger. You have nice legs for your age, you know. And a good face. You need a manicure, though. We’ll take care of that, don’t worry.”

  She quickly hid her hands behind her back.

  “That’s a good look,” the tall man said, “it makes your breasts stand out and makes you look all innocent.” Then he chuckled and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “We’ll take good care of you here,” he said. “We take good care of our girls. Ask them if you don’t believe me. You’ll be part of the family. And we take care of our family.”

  A door on the far wall opened and a man came out, adjusting his tie. He was heavy and his face was flushed. When he saw her, he stopped and looked her over.

  The tall man said, “How was everything, Mr. Davis?”

  Mr. Davis said, “Fantastic, Geno. Great as always. And who is this fresh-faced young flower?”

  “Meet April Keeley,” Geno said to Davis. “She’s just joined the family.”

  Davis said, “Welcome aboard, April.” Then to Geno, “They just keep getting younger, don’t they?”

  FOR THE FIRST WEEK, she lived with the women in their rooms upstairs, which were nothing like the rooms down the hall from the reception area. Upstairs, the sleeping rooms were cozy, messy, personal, and feminine. There were posters of rock and rap bands on the walls and stuffed animals on the beds. During the daytime, they were a kind of family. They cooked for each other, went shopping, gossiped. Two of the women took a particular liking to her and bought her clothing and ice cream. One of them, a beautiful tan/black woman named Shawanna, did her hair and nails and told her to insist on protection no matter what and to never back down on that despite what the man said or offered or threatened.

  “You’re a sex worker,” she told her, “you’re not a whore.”

  Geno took fully clothed photos of her for the Internet site. He told her to wet her lips like Ed had and to pout and to pretend she was hungry. Shawanna urged her on, and the photo session was kind of fun as long as she didn’t think ahead to how the photos might be used.

  On the night of her debut—they called it her “debutante ball”—she wore a tight maroon dress and new high heels and she followed Shawanna out into the reception area with four other girls when the buzzer rang. She wondered if she would be chosen. They emerged to find a man squaring off with Geno. Shawanna whispered to her that the man was called Stenko. “He’s a big man,” Shawanna said. “He’s one of the owners of this place.”

  The six girls were to lounge in the chairs and couch, see if Stenko was interested, let things develop from there. She stuck close to Shawanna. But Stenko barely looked at any of them.

  Stenko said to Geno, “Why did you call them out? I didn’t ask to see them.” He sounded exasperated.

  “I thought it might be a nice distraction,” Geno said. There was a line of sweat that showed through his mustache. “I thought we could have our discussion afterward, when you’re more relaxed.”

  Stenko was obviously worked up about something. His movements were stiff but sudden. His eyes darted around the room. At first, she was scared of him. He was big, his hands were huge, and his face was wide and fleshy. He kept running his hand back through his thin hair in an angry way.

  Stenko said to Geno, “I don’t need to be relaxed. I want to cash out. I told you that, and I told the Carriciolis that. That is the only reason I’m here, Geno.”

  Geno looked nervous. She hadn’t known him long, but she’d never seen him so pale, so furtive. Geno said, “Have a drink, relax. You look pretty good, Stenko. When I heard you were sick, I expected you’d look, you know, sick.”

  “I’m on meds,” Stenko said, “and some days are better than others. But no matter what day it is, I can kick your skinny ass out that window if you don’t cash me out of this operation.” When he said it he gestured toward the girls without looking at them.

  “I can’t, Stenko,” Geno said softly.

  She could tell that the other girls were getting tense. There were no false smiles or purring, just quickly exchanged glances back and forth. She saw Shawanna mouth, “Oh my God.”

  Stenko said to Geno, “What do you mean you can’t? I have an investment in this operation. I want it back. I’m not asking for principal plus profit, which is my due. I just want the principal back. Now.”

  Geno shook his head. “Stenko, you know what’s going on. The feds are on us, too. We’re not liquid right now. You know that.”

  Stenko said nothing, but his rage was building. It was as if he were getting larger. His presence seemed to fill the room, dominate it. She watched him clench and unclench his fists and stare down Geno. His stillness was more frightening than his words earlier.

  Geno said, “What about your guy? The accountant? Is it true what I heard about him taking your money and the Talich Brothers and hitting the road? Maybe you should be going after him instead of trying to shake me down.”

  Stenko just stood there, swelling in size. She found herself pressing back further into the couch. She thought, Shut up, Geno. Can’t you see you’re making him even angrier?

  “Get them out of here,” Stenko said through clenched teeth.

  The girls didn’t wait to hear from Geno. They were up and rushing the door they had came through, stiletto heels snapping on the hardwood floor like castanets. Shawanna reached back and pulled her up by the hand, said, “Let’s git, April.”

  She was nearly through the door when she heard Stenko say, “Who is that one?”

  It was as if a bolt of electricity shot through her.

  “April!” Geno shouted harshly. “Stay here.” He seemed happy to change the subject.
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  Shawanna let go of her hand at the shout, and April stopped short of the open door. Before the door shut ahead of her, Shawanna said, “Sorry, girl,” and sounded like she meant it. Alone again.

  “Turn around,” Stenko said. His voice was soft.

  She turned, blinking through tears. She wished she could stop them. Geno was looking at her, angry, imploring her to stop crying.

  Stenko looked at her and gently shook his head. There was something soft in his expression. Sympathy, pity. Or . . . recognition. As if he knew her.

  Geno said, “You want her? We can make a deal. She’s absolutely fresh—the freshest. Inexperienced, though. No skills at all I know of. I just want you to know that up front.”

  “How old are you?” Stenko asked her, ignoring Geno.

  “She’s . . .” Geno started to say.

  “I’m fourteen,” she said.

  Geno stared daggers at her.

  Stenko said to Geno, “Fourteen?”

  Geno held his hands out, palms up. “Hey, she claimed she was eighteen earlier. I believed her. She looks like she could be eighteen.”

  “Look away, darling,” Stenko said to her.

  At first, she thought he was asking her to turn and pose. She hesitated.

  “Avert your eyes,” Stenko said. She turned. But in the reflection of a glass picture frame, she saw him reach behind his back under his jacket. That was the first time she saw the pistol. Stenko wheeled on Geno. There were two loud pops and Geno slapped his forehead like he’d just gotten a major idea instead of two bullet holes. Then Geno pitched forward onto the hardwood floor.

  “Don’t look,” Stenko said, approaching her and taking her by the arm. “We’re leaving, and I don’t want you to see him.”

  THEY WENT OUT of the building the same way she’d come in, being pulled by her hand by a man saying, “Follow me.”

  There was a big dark SUV out front, double-parked. Some of the street boys had gathered around it, and they parted as Stenko came out with her. One of them said, “Nice ride, dude.”

  Stenko flashed his pistol, said, “None of you ever saw me here.”

  The boys scattered. She could hear a couple of them say, “That’s fuckin’ Stenko!” Recognizing him. Making her feel special despite her tears, despite the circumstances.

  She climbed into the passenger seat and Stenko roared away. As he drove, she stole looks at him. He looked purposeful, determined. Like a man who knew where he was going and would stop at nothing to get there. She was scared, but only because she didn’t know what would come next. And even though she’d seen what he could do, she wasn’t sure she was in danger. For some reason, her intuition told her to calm down. But why else would he single her out, take her like that?

  He drove for a half an hour through the city, down streets she’d never seen, finally off the street into a park where there were dark leafy trees and a huge rounded ancient building with a sign reading GARFIELD PARK CONSERVATORY. He pulled over to the curb on the farthest corner of the lot from the conservatory. She looked around: they were completely alone. Whatever was going to happen, she thought, is going to happen now.

  He turned toward her in his seat. She could feel his heat.

  He said: “Don’t worry. Don’t be scared. Here, dry your eyes.” He handed her a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket. As she dabbed at her face, trying not to ruin her makeup, he said, “When I saw you in there it was like I was looking at a ghost—the ghost of my daughter. Her name was Carmen. What an angel she was. You could be her twin, I swear to God. Poor Carmen—she got mixed up with the wrong people. She ended up in a place like you just came from, but I wasn’t there to rescue her. And on her last day on earth she called me twice on my cell phone, but I was in negotiations and I couldn’t break free to call her back until that night. It was too late by then. She was gone.”

  She saw moisture in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

  He said, “We’d been on the outs and I was getting tired of her calling me only when she needed money. I blame myself for what she did that night, because I know in my heart if I would have been there for her, I could have saved her. I could have checked her into rehab again . . .” His voice trailed off. He stared out the window for a full minute before he turned back to her with a crooked smile. “But when I saw you there tonight I thought, Damn! There she is again. It’s like I’m being given a second chance.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  Said Stenko, “I’m going to treat you right. I’m going to feed you whatever you want to eat and buy you clothes you want. Like you’re my daughter come back to earth, that’s how it’ll be. You’ll stay in nice hotels and you’ll never have to see the inside of a place like that”—he chinned in the general direction of where they’d come—“for the rest of your life.”

  She shook her head quickly, as if she’d imagined what he said, that he’d actually said something different.

  “Really?” she asked.

  He smiled. He had a nice smile. She thought if what he said was true—and it probably wasn’t—the first thing she would want to do would be to rescue her special stepsister from the Voriceks. With money and a place to live, they could be together, care for each other.

  “I will never touch you,” Stenko said. “It isn’t like that. I don’t want you in a sexual kind of way.”

  “What, then?” she asked. Her voice sounded weak to her.

  “I want to be kind to you,” he said simply.

  “Why?”

  It took him a moment to answer, and he glanced outside at the trees, at the conservatory. “Because I haven’t always been kind. I’ve hurt a lot of people—innocents, like Carmen. I didn’t really think about what I was doing most of the time. But now I think about it every minute.”

  She asked, “Why now?”

  He said, “I’m dying fast. It focuses the mind.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Look,” he said, “I know I can’t really redeem myself. I don’t have enough time. But when I die, I want someone to say, ‘He was a kind man to me.’ Believe me, it will be a lonely voice in the room. But it’s one I just gotta know I might hear.”

  She was confused.

  He said, “I don’t expect you to understand all of this. I’m still sorting things out myself. I mean, it isn’t unusual for a sixty-year-old man who can pound down an entire deep-dish to have digestive problems. But when you find out it isn’t the pizza but advanced bladder cancer that’s spread to your liver and you maybe have a month to live, well, like I said, it focuses the mind.”

  “That’s why Geno said you were sick.”

  He nodded. “He never thought he’d see me again, either, that jerk. He never thought I’d show up at his place like I said I would.

  “Anyway,” he said, shaking his head, shaking away his thoughts about Geno, “forget what happened. I’m a little . . . volatile. The morphine and the meds keep me going, but I have the feeling that if I slow down and think about it, that’ll be the end. So I gotta keep moving. And I gotta do things right, make things right with the Big Guy,” he said, glancing upward.

  “So,” he said, “when that doctor told me nothing would help, that it was time to make peace with the world, I thought of two things right away. The first was to reconcile with my only son, Robert. That’s step one. After we leave here, we’re going to pick up Robert in Madison, Wisconsin. He has some kind of crazy-ass environmental foundation there he pays for through his trust fund . . .” She couldn’t see that well in the dark, but she thought he rolled his eyes when he said it. He said, “I was a little surprised he agreed to see me, so I’m excited. I haven’t even talked with him in a coon’s age. But he said right away he’s got a way for us to get back together. To become father and son again. And you—you’re like Carmen. The three of us will do it all over again, and this time I’ll make it right. This time there will be a happy ending. Ain’t that cool?”

  She nodded.<
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  “You bet it is,” Stenko said. “And the second thing is what we’re doing now. Like I said, I want to be kind to you. I want to help you. No strings, April. Just let me be kind to you, okay?”

  She nodded.

  And he was.

  10

  Saddlestring

  A MASSIVE BLACK FULL-SIZED HUMMER WITH DARKENED windows blocked their driveway when Marybeth and Joe returned home. “Oh no,” Marybeth said in an uncharacteristic whine. “Not now. This is not a good time.”

  Joe nodded toward his mother-in-law’s vehicle with new vanity plates reading DUCHESS, said, “There never has been a good time.”

  The driver’s window of the Hummer whirred down and there she was, on her cell phone, her free hand flapping at them, gesturing at them to park behind her, oblivious that she was blocking their entrance.

  “Ram her,” Joe said.

  “That’s not helpful . . .”

  Missy had never liked Joe, and the feeling was mutual. She thought her daughter could have done better for herself. Joe agreed with that, but didn’t necessarily want to hear it from his mother-in-law. For a while, after he’d been fired from the Game and Fish Department, they’d lived in an old homestead on Missy and Bud Longbrake’s ranch. The close proximity had driven a wedge between Marybeth and her mother that had never healed. Joe had not discouraged the rift as it formed, grew, and hardened.

  Marybeth said, “I’ll try and get rid of her.”

  Joe said, “You’ll need a cross and a wooden stake. I think I might have them in the garage.”

  “Joe, please. You’re being worse than usual.”

  Missy terminated her call and tossed her phone aside and climbed out.

  Missy was an attractive woman—sixty-three but looked forty, a tiny, slim brunette with a heart-shaped porcelain face and perfectly highlighted and coiffed hair. She may not look it, Joe thought, but she was the most relentless and challenging adversary he had ever encountered. Missy was a shark; she never stopped moving forward and she was always hungry, but not for food. In fact, Joe had been around her on the ranch when she ate no more than carrot sticks and celery for days if she gained a single pound. Missy was hungry for power, influence, and status. Her lifelong ambition to trade up, replacing husbands with those of greater power and means, had recently reached a new level that stunned the entire valley. He had not seen her since the coup took place several months before, and Marybeth was still beside herself with embarrassment and anger.