“That’s odd,” Charlie murmured. “I wonder what he’s doing.” She turned back around, feeling a little woozy. The room was shifting strangely. She glanced up and found the proprietor watching her, his face expressionless. Behind him the TV was showing an image of a man running across an open field while bullets pinged the earth around him.
“Charlie.” Waverly’s voice sounded strained. “I don’t feel well.”
Charlie turned to look at her sister, but the room spun and everything went topsy-turvy. The last thing she remembered was the proprietor’s large, calloused hand on her head as he laid her cheek down gently on the tablecloth beside the half-empty bottle of pear juice. Her vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light, and then everything went dark.
CHAPTER 21
Somewhere in the Balkans
Waverly was wearing someone else’s slippers. It was the first thing she noticed as she came to consciousness slowly, hazily in the dimness of an unfamiliar room that smelled of cigarette smoke and floral dryer sheets. Her Jimmy Choo wedges were nowhere to be seen, and instead she was wearing a pair of hand-knit booties in a neon pink, nubby and slightly misshapen. She blinked twice, shaking her head, trying to clear it. Her thoughts were sluggish, and she had a piercing headache. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth and fuzzy, as though it were made of felt.
She looked around, turning her head slowly, feeling confusion and a vague concern. She was lying on a narrow single bed, covered with a heavy acrylic blanket that was pulled up to her chin and tucked neatly at the sides. She squinted in the dim light coming through the single shuttered window on the far wall, struggling to orient herself, trying to remember how she had come to this unfamiliar place.
The room was bare and spacious, with an orange tile floor, a spindly wooden table, and two molded plastic chairs. Across the room against the far wall Charlie lay motionless on the other twin bed, the round swell of her pregnant belly poking up under the blanket.
Waverly struggled to sit up, wincing against the throbbing in her head, and still wearing the ridiculous booties, unsteadily padded across the room to check on her sister. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing rhythmically. Waverly bent down and touched Charlie’s forehead gently, just resting the tips of her fingers against her sister’s freckled skin. She was warm to the touch. Waverly put her hand on Charlie’s belly and after a moment was rewarded with a kick from the baby. Slightly relieved, she stumbled back to the other bed and sat down, gripping the edge of the bedframe to steady herself and try to piece together the afternoon.
She remembered stopping at the rundown restaurant somewhere in Montenegro. She had a vague memory of eating chicken and then toasting with Ilir, tossing back a liquid that burned and tasted like plums mixed with gasoline. A face flashed across her mind, the silent proprietor watching them with a guarded expression as he offered them his homemade liquor.
Waverly licked her dry lips. It must have been in the drinks—the liquor and the pear juice. It would have been so easy, really. A slip of the hand as he poured her shot and popped open the slim glass bottle of juice for Charlie. Drinks on the house.
Although she had no previous firsthand knowledge, Waverly suspected they’d been roofied. How long had they been out? And where in the world were they? Where was Ilir, for that matter? She hoped nothing bad had happened to him.
With a growing sense of unease, Waverly walked woozily across the room, which seemed to tilt ever so slightly back and forth, and tried the door handle. Locked. So they were not guests. Someone did not want them to leave. A gap at the bottom of the door let in a strip of light and the muted sound of a television coming from another room. She rattled the handle again, but it wouldn’t budge. Pressing her ear to the door, she tried to make out sounds but couldn’t decipher anything clearly. Someone was smoking, though. The smoke was drifting lazily under the door, just a hint of it.
“Hello,” she yelled loudly, her speech a little slurred. She rattled the handle. “Hello, let us out!” But there was no response. Huffing in frustration and alarm, she tried the window next, unlatching the shutters to reveal rusted bars across the opening. She stared at them in dismay. They were truly prisoners. The view was of a bare patch of land with a few twisted fruit trees and a decrepit tan car sitting on blocks. No other houses were in sight.
On the table were two tumblers and a pitcher of water in an incongruously cheerful orange polka dot print. Waverly hesitated but poured herself a glass of water, her thirst overtaking her caution about drinking unclean water. She took a sip. It tasted like nothing. Hopefully filtered. She sat down in one of the hard, plastic chairs and pressed the cool glass to her forehead, trying to think.
Her pulse was racing and her head felt light. Must be the effects of the drug. She took another sip and tried to concentrate. It appeared to be close to evening. No one knew where they were. Not her camera crew or Beau, not Andrew far away in the US. She thought of her husband with a sudden stab of longing. His calm, even presence made everything manageable. She missed him so much. How had she not realized it before? She had been waiting, hoping he would come to his senses. And now he was an ocean away, completely unaware that his wife was currently being held captive for reasons unknown somewhere in the Balkans.
She drank her glass of water and poured another, feeling marginally more lucid. How did a television star simply vanish? Like this, that’s how. She shook her head, disbelieving. The reality of their situation was gradually dawning on her. In a hyper-interconnected world of smartphones and GPSes and satellites, how could this happen? Surely someone would come looking for them. But where would they look? Beau knew that she’d left Sarajevo, but it could be two days before he realized she had not arrived at the intended location in Albania. And even then no one would know where they’d gone. They could simply disappear.
She cast an uneasy glance around the room, assessing the situation. Who knew their whereabouts? Only Ilir? Presumably he knew what had happened to them. Perhaps even now he was going for help. Ilir was related to a colleague of Charlie’s. What was his name . . . Arbor? That didn’t sound right. But regardless, Arbor would notice his brother missing if Ilir didn’t reappear in Budapest, wouldn’t he? And Beau would know soon that Waverly and Charlie were gone too. Whatever the circumstances of their disappearance, someone would realize they were missing and come for them eventually. Waverly nodded, slightly comforted.
Still, she wondered who in the world had taken them. What possible reason could someone have to drug them and hold them captive? Unless there had been some mix-up, some misunderstanding. Waverly brightened considerably. Yes, that seemed likely. Probably this had nothing to do with her and Charlie. Waverly thought of the three men in their tiny car. Hadn’t Ilir been talking to them in the parking lot right before she and Charlie passed out? This must have something to do with Ilir and those men, then. That was probably it. A misunderstanding, a matter of an unpaid debt. Perhaps he had gotten himself in trouble with them. It could be Mafia related. So much was in this part of the world, Charlie had told her. Probably just a misunderstanding, nothing a wire transfer from the States wouldn’t fix in a jiffy.
Somewhat cheered by this thought, Waverly finished her glass of water and sat back to wait for whatever came next. She was looking out the window at the decrepit car, thinking of Andrew, when Charlie stirred, coughed, and asked drowsily, “Where are we?”
Waverly turned to the bed, a slight smile on her face. “I’ve no idea,” she said cheerfully, “but I think we’ve been kidnapped.”
A look of incomprehension crossed Charlie’s face, quickly replaced by panic. She put her hands on her round belly and struggled to a sitting position. Her feet skittered across the floorboards, searching for her Keens.
“Gone,” Waverly informed her. “Everything’s gone—shoes, purses, everything. But don’t worry. I think there’s been a mix-up. It’s probably just about money. I think Ilir owed a debt to those men at the restaurant. I’m sure we can get it sorte
d out with a wire transfer from my bank.”
Ignoring her sister, Charlie hoisted herself up with a groan and tried the door. Finding it locked, she joined Waverly at the window, peering out at the depressing yard. A few chickens pecked the dirt and a stray dog paused to urinate on one of the fruit trees. Charlie cursed under her breath, gripping the windowsill so hard her knuckles went white.
“This is not good,” she murmured to Waverly, then called out the window loudly, “Hello? Zdravo?” She swayed unsteadily and closed her eyes for a moment.
Nothing. The chickens paused, then resumed pecking at the scrubby weeds.
“Upomoc!” Charlie yelled. “Help!” And when that elicited no response, she tried again, sounding a little more desperate. “Trebam ici u wc?” She clutched her abdomen.
“What is it? Is it the baby? Is something wrong?” Waverly asked sharply, suddenly concerned. What if the drugs had affected the baby? She had felt the baby move, but perhaps something else was not right. Charlie sat down abruptly in the other chair, pressing her legs together and looking across the table at her sister.
“Yes, something’s wrong,” she said crossly. “My bladder feels like a water balloon, I’m about to wet my pants, and I’m pretty sure we’ve been kidnapped, and not for the reason you think.” She cast a desperate glance around the room, then met Waverly’s eyes. “This isn’t about money,” she said grimly. “I think we’re in big trouble.”
Charlie related the facts to Waverly as simply as she could, stating the main points of her story baldly and truthfully. She told Waverly about the women in the back of the transport truck, about Kinga and Simona and the long drive to Belgrade. She told her about the threat to Monica, about Sandra Ling and Charlie’s decision to testify, and about the man outside her apartment. When she was finished she took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her stomach, waiting for the explosion.
But Waverly surprised her. She didn’t say anything, just scrutinized her sister for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked quietly.
Charlie shrugged. “Because I knew you’d make me come back to the US, leave my work and my own life. And I want to help these women. I feel like I have to testify. I’m tired of running. If I don’t help them, who will?”
Waverly regarded her sister gravely. “You’re either much braver than I am or much stupider. I can’t decide which.”
Charlie gave her a dry smile. “Probably both.”
“You put the baby in danger. You put me in danger.” Waverly frowned. She fixed her sister with a hard stare. “You should have at least told me. We could have made a decision together.” She glanced at Charlie’s stomach, her baby tucked safely inside, and her mouth trembled for a moment. “I understand why you feel you have to stay. I don’t agree with it and I don’t like it, but I do understand. But now what? What if something happens to the baby?”
“I won’t let it,” Charlie said with more conviction than she felt. Instinctively her hand went to her neck, to the thin chain and solid little medal sitting under her shirt. She touched the image of St. George, trying to summon courage. Her heart was pounding too fast and she felt dizzy, probably a combination of the drugs and fear. She had been foolish to try to fix this on her own. She should have let other people help her, confided in them. It was too late now. No one had any idea where they were, including Charlie and Waverly. She glanced around the small, neat room, gauging any chance of escape. Nothing presented itself.
What did the kidnappers mean to do to them? That was the pertinent question. Would they simply keep Charlie until after the trial and then let her go? Would they demand some sort of ransom? Or did they want a more permanent end to the situation, one that came with a bullet to the head? She shuddered, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable and very alone. How stupid she had been, thinking she could be a lone cowboy, and now she’d put Waverly and the baby in grave danger as well. Charlie ran her hand over the baby, reassuring the little one that all would be well, but she couldn’t summon the same optimism for herself. It would be so easy to make the two women disappear. No one would find their bodies. They could vanish without a trace. Only Ilir knew what had happened, and who knew where he was. Had the traffickers threatened or harmed him? Had he betrayed Charlie and Waverly? She had no idea.
Charlie heard heavy footsteps in the hall, and a moment later the door opened. She sat up, squaring her shoulders against the frisson of fear that skittered up her spine. A giant of a man filled the doorframe. Charlie recognized him instantly. The bald man with the eagle tattoo on his neck, the one who had been eating the sheep’s head with his friends. Dressed in combat boots, cargo pants, and a black muscle shirt, he had a nasty scowl below a beetle brow and a handgun tucked in the waistband of his trousers. He was carrying a plastic tray of food. Wordlessly he crossed to where they sat and set the tray on the table. He glanced at them briefly, then stepped aside.
Charlie opened her mouth to ask him a question.
“Save your words. He does not speak.”
She whirled to find a dark, slender young man standing in the doorway watching the interaction. The giant grunted and loped to the door, assuming a watchful, guarded stance. The younger man came into the room. He was about twenty-five, Charlie guessed, with slicked-back dark hair, dressed in a blue Adidas tracksuit and spotless matching athletic shoes. He stopped a few feet away and regarded them with a curious expression. He did not look like a villain, more like a normal guy going out to watch soccer on a Friday night.
“What do you want with us?” Charlie demanded at the exact same moment as Waverly said entreatingly, “I’ll pay whatever you ask if you let us go right now.”
The man looked from one to the other, a small, surprised smile playing on his lips. He seemed almost amused. “Unfortunately, this is not my decision. I have orders to keep you here.” His English was heavily accented but precise. He was obviously educated.
“Who ordered you to kidnap us?” Charlie crossed her arms over her stomach, a gesture of protection, and stared him down. “And why?” She felt a wave of fury spiral up through her body, the ancient fight-or-flight instinct of a trapped animal flooding through her veins.
The young man looked unimpressed by her fierce demeanor. “Because you are of use to us.”
“I’m an American citizen,” Waverly interjected. “I demand to be released to the nearest American embassy.”
“Of use how?” Charlie scowled. “Why are you keeping us here?”
The man shrugged. “Soon you will understand everything.” He seemed almost cheerful, which chilled Charlie to the bone. Something seemed very wrong about this situation. She didn’t understand what was going on. Somehow she had to convince him to let at least one of them go.
“My sister has nothing to do with this.” Charlie lifted her chin, ignoring Waverly’s protest, trying to bluff her way out of this mess. “I’m the one you want.” She moved in front of Waverly.
The man looked surprised. “You?” he asked, genuinely puzzled, then pointed to Waverly. “No, she is the one we want.”
“What?” Both Charlie and Waverly stared at him in astonishment. Never in any of her frantic calculations had Charlie considered this scenario. The kidnappers didn’t want her? What could they possibly want with Waverly?
“Yes.” The man leaned toward Waverly and tilted his head slightly, looking at her as though she were a rare object of art. “Waverly Talbot, the famous television star of Simply Perfect. My aunt and mother are your biggest fans.”
Both women gaped at him, stunned. Charlie shook her head, trying to make sense of his words. She was thoroughly confused. Was it possible that they had not been kidnapped by the traffickers, the people who had threatened Monica? It was good news if it was true, but brought with it more questions than it answered. If it was not the traffickers who had taken them, then who were these people and why did they want Waverly?
“Why have you kidnapped me?” Waverly asked tremulously, her express
ion unsure.
The man smiled slightly. “We need your help.”
Their captor refused to say more, insisting that they first eat and rest. The giant guard accompanied Charlie to the toilet, where she took a few extra moments to snoop around the bathroom, learning nothing more than what brand of laundry detergent the household used. She could not tell where they were, not even what country they were in. Depending on how long they had been unconscious, they could be almost anywhere in the Balkans. It was even conceivable that they’d been taken by boat to Italy, although she didn’t think so. The back of the laundry detergent box was in several languages, all of them central European. They were still somewhere in the Balkans; she’d lay money on the fact.
When she got back she was surprised to discover Waverly’s purse and suitcase and her backpack lying on their beds. Her Keens and Waverly’s Jimmy Choos were primly tucked under the bedframe beneath them.
“He brought them,” Waverly murmured, nodding to the slim man standing next to the giant with the eagle tattoo. She cast a look at their captors and said in a low voice, “So, do you think they’re with the Serbian Mafia? Are these some of the men who trafficked those women you helped rescue?”
Charlie glanced over at the two men. The hulking one was standing at attention, staring blankly off into the distance, but she had the impression that the younger man was listening to their conversation.
“We can talk about it later,” she said, nodding her head slightly toward their captors, hoping Waverly would get the message and stop talking.
Waverly, however, missed the cue.
“Do you think they’re trying to stop you from testifying at the trial?” She was trying to whisper, but it was more of a stage whisper, quite audible. “What happens if you don’t make it to Belgrade?”
Charlie rolled her eyes. Her sister would make a terrible spy. “We’ll talk later,” Charlie hissed, jerking her head at the young man. Waverly finally caught on and nodded, clamping her mouth shut.
Becoming the Talbot Sisters Page 21
