by Karen Rose
“Bobby.” Charles shook his head in mock outrage. “Such a thing to say.”
“You know I’m right. Jim Woolf would sell his own sister for a byline.”
Charles settled his hat on his head and picked up his walking stick, his ivory box tucked under his arm. “And someday, you may be able to say the same.”
No, Bobby thought, watching Charles drive away, not for something as insignificant as a byline. Now for a birthright . . . that was an entirely different matter. But there would be time for dreams later. Now there was work to be done.
“Tanner! Come here. I need you.”
The old man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as was his way. “Yes?”
“Unexpected guests are on the way. Please prepare accommodations for six more.”
Tanner gave a single nod. “Of course. While you were in with Mr. Charles, Mr. Haynes called. He’ll be coming by tonight to secure a companion for the weekend.”
Bobby smiled. Haynes was a premium client, a rich man with depraved tastes. And he paid cash. “Excellent. We’ll be ready.”
Charles stopped his car at the end of the street. From here the turrets of Ridgefield House were still visible. The house had stood in that place for nearly a hundred years. It was a strong house, built the way they used to be. Charles had an appreciation for good architecture, having lived in many places a rat wouldn’t call home.
Bobby used Ridgefield to house “inventory,” and the location was ideal for this purpose. Situated far off the main road, most people didn’t even know the house still stood. It was close enough to the river for convenience, but far enough away that it was safe if the river swelled. It wasn’t large enough or beautiful enough or even old enough to be on any conservator’s list, which made it simply perfect.
For years Bobby had spurned this house as old and ugly and beneath consideration, until maturity had revealed what Charles had learned long ago. Flashy packages draw attention. The mark of true success is invisibility. Being able to hide in plain sight had enabled him to pull the strings of the flashy, the pompous. Now, they are nothing but my puppets. They dance to my tune.
It made them angry, powerless, but they didn’t know the true meaning of powerlessness. They lived in fear of losing the possessions they’d accumulated, so they surrendered their pride, their decency. Their morality, which was merely a religious man’s farce. Some surrendered with barely a nudge. Those people Charles viewed with contempt. They had no idea what it meant to lose everything. Everything. To be stripped bare of physical pleasure, to be deprived of the most basic of human needs.
The weak feared losing their stuff. But Charles did not. Once a man was stripped to the bone of his humanity . . . then he had no fear. Charles had no fear.
But he did have plans, plans that included Bobby and Susannah Vartanian.
Bobby was a level higher than all the others. Charles had molded Bobby’s quick mind when it was young and molten and full of fury. Full of questions and hate. He’d convinced Bobby the time would come for revenge, for claiming the birthright that circumstances—and certain people—had denied. But Bobby still danced to Charles’s tune. Charles simply allowed Bobby to believe the tune was original.
He opened the top of his ivory box, lifted the queen from her slot, and pressed the hidden spring that had a lower drawer sliding out. His journal was on top of the belongings he never left home without. Thoughtfully he thumbed to the first blank page and began to write. Now is the time for my protégé’s revenge, because I wish it to be. I planted the seed years ago. I’ve only watered it today. When Bobby sits down at the computer to work, the photograph of Susannah Vartanian will be waiting.
Bobby hates Susannah, because I wish it. But Bobby was indeed correct on one score: Toby Granville is becoming more unstable every year. Sometimes absolute power—or the illusion thereof—does corrupt absolutely. When Toby becomes too big a danger, I’ll have him killed, just like I had Toby Granville kill others.
Taking a life is a powerful thing. Sticking your knife into a man’s gut and watching the life seep from his eyes . . . a powerful thing indeed. But forcing another to kill . . . that is the ultimate power. Kill for me. It’s playing God. Charles smiled. It’s fun.
Yes, Toby would soon need to be killed. But there would be another Toby Granville. In time, there would be another Bobby. And I will go on. He closed his journal, replaced it and the queen in their proper places as he’d done countless times before.
Dutton, Georgia, Friday, February 2, 2:00 p.m.
She hurt. All over. They’d beaten her head this time, and kicked her ribs. Monica firmed her lips in grim satisfaction. But it had been worth it. She’d get away or die trying. She’d force them to kill her before she let them use her anymore.
Then they’d lose a depreciable asset. That’s what they’d called her. She’d heard them, talking on the other side of the wall. They can kiss my depreciable asset. Anything, even death, was better than the life she had lived for . . . how long had it been?
She’d lost track of how many months had passed. Five, maybe six. Monica had never truly believed in a hell before. She sure as hell did now.
For a while she’d lost her will to live, but thanks to Becky, she’d gotten it back. It was Becky who’d tried to escape so many times. They’d tried to stop her, to break her. They’d broken Becky’s body, but not her spirit. In the short time they’d whispered through the wall that separated them, Monica had drawn strength from the girl she’d never seen. The girl whose death had rekindled her own desire to live. Or die trying.
She drew what she’d wanted to be a deep breath, wincing before her lungs fully inflated. Her rib was probably broken. Maybe more than one. She wondered where they’d taken Becky’s body after they’d beaten her to death. She could still hear the crunching blows, because they’d meant for her to. They’d opened all their doors so they could hear every punch, every kick, and every one of Becky’s moans. They’d meant for them all to hear. To be afraid. To learn a lesson.
Every girl in the place. There were at least ten of them, in varying degrees of depreciation. Some were newly initiated, others old hands at the oldest profession in the world. Like me. I just want to go home.
Monica gave her arm a weak shake and heard the resulting clink of the chain that held her to the wall. Just like every girl in the place. I’m never going to escape. I’m going to die. Please, God, just let it be soon.
“Hurry, you idiots. We don’t have time to fuck around.”
Someone was out there, in the hall outside her cell. The woman. Monica’s jaw clenched. She hated the woman.
“Hurry,” the woman said. “Move. Mansfield, put these boxes on the boat.”
Monica didn’t know the woman’s name, but she was bad. Worse than the men—the deputy and the doctor. Mansfield was the deputy, the one who’d kidnapped her and brought her here. For a long time she hadn’t believed he was a real deputy, had thought that his uniform was just a costume, but he was for real. It was when she’d realized he was a real cop that she’d given up hope.
As mean as Mansfield was, the doctor was worse. He was cruel, because he enjoyed seeing them in pain. The look in his eyes when he was doing his worst . . . Monica shivered. The doctor wasn’t sane, of that she was certain.
But the woman . . . she was evil. To her, this horror, this so-called life . . . it was “just business.” To the woman, every girl in the place was a depreciable, renewable asset. Renewable because there were always more teenaged girls stupid enough to be lured away from the safety of their families. Lured here. To hell.
Monica could hear the grunts as they moved the boxes onto . . . what? She heard squeaking and immediately recognized the sound. It was the gurney with the rusty wheels. It was where the doctor “fixed them up,” got them ready to go “back in the game” after a “client” had beaten the ever-living shit out of them. Of course sometimes the doctor did the beating, then all he had to do was lift them from the floor to the gurney,
making his job that much easier. She hated him. But she feared him more.
“Take the girls in ten, nine, six, five, four and . . . one,” the woman said.
Monica’s eyes flew open. She was in cell number one. She squinted, willing her eyes to get used to the darkness. Something’s wrong. Her heart started to beat faster. Someone was coming to help them. Hurry. Please hurry.
“Cuff their hands behind them and take them out one at a time,” the woman snapped. “Keep your gun on them at all times and do not let them get away.”
“What do we do with the others?” It was a deep voice. The doctor’s guard.
“Kill them,” the woman said flatly, without hesitation.
I’m in cell one. She’s going to put me on a boat and take me away. Away from the help that was coming. I’ll fight. By God, I’ll get away or die trying.
“I’ll take care of them.” It was the doctor, whose eyes were so eager. So cruel.
“Fine,” the woman said. “Just don’t leave their bodies here. Dump them in the river. Use the sandbags behind the generator. Mansfield, don’t just stand there. Get those boxes and girls on the damn boat before we have cops crawling up our asses. Then bring the gurney back for the good doctor. He’ll need it to get the bodies to the river.”
“Yes, sir,” Deputy Mansfield sneered.
“Don’t get smart,” the woman said, her voice fading as she moved away. “Move.”
Silence hung in the air, then the doctor said quietly, “Take care of the other two.”
“You mean Bailey and the reverend?” the guard asked in a normal voice.
“Sshh,” the doctor hissed. “Yes. Do it quietly. She doesn’t know they’re here.”
The other two. Monica had heard them, through the wall. The doctor’s office was next to her cell, so she heard a lot. The doctor had beaten the woman he’d called Bailey for days, demanding a key. A key to what? He’d beaten the man, too, demanding a confession. What did he want the reverend to confess?
In a few seconds Monica forgot about Bailey and the reverend. Shrieks and sobs filled the air, louder even than the blood pounding in her ears. The screams scraped at the inside of her mind as one girl was dragged away, then another, then another. Stay calm. She had to stay focused. They’re coming for me.
Yes, but they have to unlock the chain before they cuff you. For a few seconds, your hands will be free. You’ll run, scratch, claw their goddamn eyes out if you have to.
But even as she tried to bolster her courage, she knew it was useless. Before the last beating she might have had a chance. And once she got out, then what? They were miles from anywhere. She’d be dead before she got to the hallway.
A sob rose in her throat. I’m sixteen and I’m going to die. I’m sorry, Mom. I should have listened to you.
Crack. She flinched at the gunshot. More screams, terrified, hysterical screams. But Monica was too tired to scream. She was almost too tired to be afraid. Almost.
Another shot. And another. And another. Four shots so far. She could hear his voice, the doctor. He was taunting the girl in the next cell.
“Say your prayers, Angel,” he said, laughter in his voice. Monica hated him. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to see him suffer and bleed and die.
Crack. Angel was dead. And four others.
The door flew open and Deputy Mansfield stood in the opening, his face hard and hateful. He was on her in two strides, unlocking the chain that held her to the wall, none too gently. Monica squinted at the light as Mansfield yanked the shackle from her wrist.
She was free. So fucking what? She was trapped, just the same.
“Come on,” Mansfield grunted, dragging her to her feet.
“I can’t,” she whispered, her knees giving out.
“Shut up.” Mansfield jerked her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a doll. At this point, that wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Wait.” The woman was in the hallway, right outside Monica’s door. She stood in the shadow, as she always did. Monica had never seen her face, but still she dreamed of the day she could claw the woman’s eyes out.
“The boat’s full,” the woman said.
“How can it be?” the doctor asked, from out in the hall. “It holds six. You took five.”
“The boxes took up a lot of the space,” the woman answered, her tone short. “Vartanian will be here any minute with the state cops. We need to be downstream before he gets here. Kill her and get the bodies out of here.”
So it’ll be now. No need to run or fight. Monica wondered if she’d hear the gun fire or if she’d be dead instantly. I won’t beg. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“This one’s not that bad off,” the doctor said. “She can still work for months, maybe a year. Toss some of the boxes overboard or burn them. But make room for her. Once I break her, she’ll make the best asset we’ve ever had. Come on, Rocky.”
Rocky. The woman’s name was Rocky. Monica committed it to memory. Rocky moved closer to the doctor, so that she emerged from the shadows and Monica had her first look at the woman’s face. Monica squinted, trying to block out the spinning room as she memorized every feature. If there was a life after death, Monica would come back and haunt her until the woman was a drooling lump of insanity.
“The boxes stay on the boat,” Rocky said impatiently.
The doctor’s mouth twisted in contempt. “Says you?”
“Says Bobby. So unless you want to tell Bobby why you left incriminating records behind that would ruin us all, you’ll shut your mouth and kill this bitch so we can get out of here. Mansfield, come with me. Granville, just do it and hurry. And for God’s sake, make sure they’re all dead. I don’t want them screaming as we chuck them in the river. If any cops are close, they’ll come running.”
Mansfield released Monica and her leg buckled. She dropped to her knees holding on to the dirty cot for support as Mansfield and Rocky left the room, leaving her staring at the end of the doctor’s gun.
“Just do it,” Monica hissed. “You heard the lady. Hurry up and do it.”
The doctor’s mouth turned up in that cobra smile that turned her gut to water. “You think it’s going to be fast. You think it’s going to be painless.”
Crack. Monica screamed as the pain in her head was drowned out by the burning in her side. He’d shot her, but she wasn’t dead. Why am I not dead?
He smiled at her as she twisted, trying to make the pain stop. “You’ve been a thorn in my side since the day you got here. If I had time, I’d slice you to ribbons. But I don’t. So say good-bye, Monica.” He lifted the gun, then jerked his head to one side, his face darkening in rage at the same moment another shot rang in her ears. Monica screamed again as fire burned across the side of her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she waited for the next shot. But it never came. Blinking back tears, she opened her eyes.
He was gone and she was alone. And not dead.
He missed. Goddamn him to hell, he missed. He was gone. He’ll be back.
But she saw no one. Vartanian will be here any minute with the state cops. The woman had said this. Monica didn’t know anybody named Vartanian, but whoever he was, he was her only chance at survival. Get to the door. Monica pushed to her knees and crawled. A foot. Another foot. Get to the hall and you can get away.
She heard footsteps. A woman, beaten and bloody, her clothes torn, was staggering toward her. The other two, the doctor had said. This was Bailey. She’d gotten away. There was still hope. Monica lifted her hand. “Help me. Please.”
Bailey hesitated, then yanked her to her feet. “Move.”
“Are you Bailey?” Monica managed to whisper.
“Yes. Now, move or die.” Together they staggered down the hall. Finally they came to a door and stumbled into daylight, so bright it hurt.
Bailey came to an abrupt stop and Monica’s heart dropped to her stomach. In front of them stood a man with a gun pointed straight at them. He wore the same uniform as Mansfield. The badge o
n his shirt said “Sheriff Frank Loomis.” This wasn’t Vartanian with the state police. This was Mansfield’s boss and he wouldn’t let them get away.
So this is how it would end. Tears seeped down her face, burning her raw skin as Monica waited for the next crack of gunfire.
To her shock Sheriff Loomis put his finger to his lips. “Follow the trees,” he whispered. “You’ll find the road.” He pointed to Monica. “How many more in there?”
“None,” Bailey whispered harshly. “He killed them all. All except her.”
Loomis swallowed. “Then go. I’ll go get my car and meet you by the road.”
Bailey tightened her hold. “Come on,” she whispered. “Just a little bit longer.”
Monica stared at her feet, willing them to move. One step, then another. Freedom. She’d get to freedom. Then she’d make them all pay. Or die trying.
Dutton, Georgia, Friday, February 2, 3:05 p.m.
Susannah Vartanian stared at the passenger side mirror as the house in which she’d grown up grew smaller as each second passed. I have to get out of here. As long as she remained here, at this house, in this town, she was no longer the woman she’d become. She was no longer a successful New York City assistant district attorney who commanded respect. As long as she was here, she was a child, alone and afraid, hiding in a closet. A victim. Susannah was damn tired of being a victim.
“Are you all right?” The question came from the man behind the wheel. Special Agent Luke Papadopoulos. Her brother’s partner and best friend. Luke had driven her here an hour before and then the growing dread in the pit of her gut had made her wish he’d slow down. Now that it was over, she wished he’d drive faster.
Get me away from here. Please. “I’m fine.” She didn’t need to look at Papadopoulos to know he watched her. She’d felt the weight of his gaze from the moment they’d met the week before. She’d been standing next to her brother at their parents’ funeral and Luke had come to pay his respects. He watched her then. He watched her now.
