The congregation laughed. Mary had to admit that Trull was more than the blustering demagogue she’d expected. He was skillful with words, used humor to get his message across. She watched as he unbuttoned his coat, loosened his tie.
“But you know something else, brothers and sisters? The Bible is a wonderful book.” Trull hoisted a Bible the size of the Atlanta yellow pages. “It tells you how to solve just about any problem you have. Just look at Proverbs 22, verse 15. Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. Now you probably think that’s talking about if your son or daughter won’t clean their rooms, or sasses you when you tell ’em to go to bed. Well, you’re right—it does mean that. But I think it means something else, too. I think it means if you’ve got a little boy mincin’ around with a limp wrist, then you take him to the woodshed. Do your duty as the Bible clearly tells you, and he’ll man up right smart. You got a girl wearing jeans and holding hands with other girls? Same prescription. Take her to woodshed, pull those jeans down, and give her a lickin’! She’ll put her skirts back on pretty fast.”
Mary’s stomach turned as the congregation murmured their approval.
“Now those folks outside would probably say I’ve told you to beat your children. But you know that’s not true. I’m just saying that God has given us clear directions on how to raise a child up right. He’s also given us directions on how to deal with queers.”
Trull paused, as the congregation seemed to catch its breath. “I know some of you think that if a homosexual sidles up and bats his eyelashes at you, then you’re going to hell just like they are. Before our blessed Lord came to earth, that was probably true. But I’m telling you, our sweet Jesus does not want anyone to go to hell, and He’s even got a plan to save the queers.” He leaned forward on the lectern and grinned. “You want to know what it is?”
For an awkward moment, his question hung unanswered in the silent air, then a woman reluctantly asked, “What?”
“Sisters and brothers, as much as you might not want to go anywhere near these people—as disgusting as you might find them, it’s your duty, as Christians, to tell them you love them. Tell them they need to quit their evil ways, for the sake of their immortal soul! All they have to do is accept Jesus as their personal savior. Once they do that—once they truly and honestly accept our Lord—a miracle will happen. He will change them into normal people! Instantly! Right before your eyes! So, brothers and sisters, don’t be afraid of these poor people outside the church. Go out there, put your arms around them, and tell them how much God loves them! Stand up for what you know is good and right and true, and when your own day of judgment comes, you can look at Jesus with pride, knowing you tried your best to bring all His sheep back into the fold!”
Everyone stood up. Cheers of Amen, brother and Praise Jesus came like waves, caressing Trull’s grinning face. The guitarists reappeared, striking up another Christian rock anthem as ushers began to pass collection plates. With the congregation digging deep into their wallets, Mary slipped out of the pew and down the aisle. Grabbing a program that she’d missed on her way in, she hurried out the door and down the front steps of the church, eager to get away from Trull’s brand of Christianity. As she walked toward her car, she passed a fresh crew of young men who were chanting God made me gay and I’m okay!
Watch out guys, she was tempted to tell them, a miracle is about to occur. In a very few minutes about two hundred people are going to come roaring out of that church, determined to pray every one of you into being straight.
Six
Smiley secretly hated the Russians. He didn’t like the way they muscled into a territory, knocking back their vodka, assuming that America was now theirs for the plundering. In particular he didn’t like the fact that their local lieutenant, Boyko Zelinski, was now glaring at him with the butt of a Makarov pistol protruding from the shoulder holster under his pricey linen jacket. No respect, he thought to himself. Not an ounce of deference for me and my people, the ones who’d been plundering America back when his ancestors were growing turnips for the Czar.
Boyko’s pale eyes narrowed. “You always allow your girls cell phones, moy drug?”
“Ivan was one of yours, Boyko. Not mine.”
“Ivan was here to help you, Smiley. Feed the girls, dole out their drugs, don’t pop any of their cherries. He was not to loan his cell phone out for calls.”
Smiley stepped aside as the walking side of beef they called Volk carried Ivan’s corpse down the dark hall. “Then I guess Ivan screwed up, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. And it’s too bad, too. I hate to kill Russians.” Boyko glared at Smiley. He’d started to say something else when another man joined them in the hall. Short and stocky, he had his slicked-back brown hair curled over the collar of his white lab coat. Smiley noticed he carried a tattered black doctor’s bag. Boyko nodded at the man, then returned his attention to Smiley.
“But enough about Ivan,” he said. “Tell me about this girl … this treasure who’s already cost me a man.”
“You saw her, before you whacked Ivan,” Smiley replied. “Sixteen. Beautiful. And she’s a virgin.”
Boyko laughed. “Sixteen is old to be virgin.”
“This one really is, as far as we could tell. She’s not strung out or crazy like these others. She’s clean—a country girl. Just wants to go home to her mother.”
The Russian gave him a cold look. “How did she wind up here?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Smiley. “She’s here now. Jersey told me to call you—the Seattle market’s good, but they thought there could be an even bigger payoff overseas.”
Boyko snorted. “Overseas is lot of trouble. But let’s go look.”
He motioned for the doctor to follow him but paused before they entered to the girl’s room. “Smiley, if this girl is not a virgin, it will not go well for you. Russians I hate killing; Americans mean less to me than dogs.”
Samantha lay in her room, trembling, covering her nose against the sickly sweet smell of Ivan’s blood. The last half-hour had passed in a dream. She’d actually heard Chase’s voice, asking her where she was, then the phone, Ivan, the room—everything exploded. Every time she closed her eyes, she relived it all over again.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, her teeth chattering. She was cold, so cold. Even though it was July and not a breath of air stirred in the boarded-up room, she felt like she was adrift on an iceberg. She wished she were home; she wished she were dead. She wished she were out there with Dusty and the others, sucking men off at the truck stops. She wouldn’t be so cold, then. People would be alive. Nobody would have their brains oozing out their ears. She heard footsteps, a soft knock on her door. She sat up, pulled her knees under her chin, and pressed her back against the wall. Maybe they were coming to kill her. In a way, it would be a relief.
As she watched, the door opened. The bald man who killed Ivan peeked inside the room.
“Dorogoy? Kiska? Are you okay?” He sounded so much like Ivan, she wanted to cry all over again. “May I come in?”
She was too scared to answer, so he came in anyway. As he neared her bed, she saw that he was not bald, but wore his blond hair shaved so close to his head she could see the veins crisscrossing his skull. His eyes were of a dark, indeterminate color that reminded her of the little chips of coal that her father tracked in from the mine. She shrank back closer to the wall.
“You have had a bad time today, little Kiska, and I am sorry. I did not mean for you to see such a terrible thing. I know Ivan was your friend.” He took several steps closer to the bed and withdrew a Hershey bar from his coat pocket. “Nothing can replace him, but please know that we mean you no harm.”
She watched him. He dropped the chocolate bar on the bed, then backed away, as if she were a wild animal that might come at him with teeth and claws.
“W
e are very concerned about you, Kiska. We have called a doctor to make sure you are okay.”
Her heart began to beat wildly. This was the man Ivan had told her about—Boyko, who was bringing a doctor to attest to her virginity. She looked around the room for something she could jam up inside her. If she wasn’t a virgin, maybe they would let her just go out and be with the others. But the room held nothing. She could not lose her virginity to a candy bar.
“No need to be frightened,” Boyko murmured as he motioned for another man to enter the room. “This is Dr. Petrov. He is going to examine you.”
She watched as the doctor came into the room. He was older than Boyko with yellowish-gray hair greased back from his forehead. He wore a long white coat that had brown stains on the lapels and rimless glasses that magnified his eyes, giving him a strange owlish appearance. A third man followed the doctor into the room but stayed by the door, watching the other two with dark, unreadable eyes.
The doctor walked over and dropped his bag on the side of the bed. He looked at her dispassionately, as if she was some lab rat in a cage. In a way, she guessed she was.
“Have you ever had a physical examination?” His English was formal, but awkward, as if he seldom spoke it.
She gulped, her mouth dry as a cracker. She’d been to doctors to get shots for school and once to get a dog bite stitched up. Beyond that, her mother had taken care of her.
“Do not be afraid,” said the doctor. “It will be painless.”
Her heart thudding, she watched as he opened his bag and withdrew a pair of latex gloves. As he shoved his plump fingers into the gloves, he turned to look at the two men who stood by the door.
“Do you need to watch this?”
“I do,” said the man Boyko, whose coal-chip eyes now gleamed.
The doctor shrugged, then turned back to Samantha. He pulled a flashlight and wooden tongue depressor from his bag and tapped her chin with the little wooden stick. “Open, please!”
She opened her mouth. Immediately, his fingers began a rough probing, feeling her gums, pulling her tongue up to peer underneath. Finally, he withdrew the tongue depressor and stuck his own tongue out, motioning for her to do the same. He shined the flashlight down her throat, then stuck another instrument up her nose and into her ears. As he turned her head, she saw Boyko watching her with hungry eyes.
When the doctor had finished with her head, he took out a stethoscope and listened to her heart. His pale eyes gleamed moistly behind his thick glasses and he smelled of the same disinfectant that sometimes clung to her mother’s work uniform. As he worked, he breathed heavily through his nose, the air whistling through his nostrils.
Done with her heart, he straightened up. “Razdeváysya.”
She didn’t understand what he wanted. When she didn’t move, he made another motion, crossing his arms over his chest and then lifting them up. “Remove your clothes.”
She looked past him, at Boyko and the other man who stood gaping at her from across the room. “No.”
The doctor frowned. “If you don’t, they will,” he warned her in a whisper.
She lowered her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized that she was one of their girls now—no longer a person—just a thing to examine, use, and then discard.
“Bystro!” the doctor finally cried. Impatient, he reached behind her and pulled her T-shirt over her head, her bra down to her waist. As she moved her arms to cover herself, he pushed her flat on the bed. Suddenly, his latex-covered fingers were feeling her breasts, making large circles around the outer edges, smaller circles around her nipples. She turned her head and saw Boyko, his thin lips parting as he watched the whole procedure.
The doctor’s hands left her breasts. She thought—prayed—for a moment that he might be done, that this might be the end of it, but faster than she could imagine, he pulled her shorts and underpants to her ankles, then off entirely. He pushed her knees up and spread her legs wide. Then suddenly, the same fingers that had catalogued her teeth were now inside her, probing and feeling. At that point, she closed her eyes and took herself away. Down, down into a soft darkness that she imagined her father’s mine must have been like. Suddenly, he was there, scooping her up in his strong arms.
Sam-I-Am, he whispered, just as he had when she was little. He still looked the same—his face sooty up to his forehead, then pale white where his miner’s helmet had covered his head. He smelled of cold and metal, and she could feel his outrage—his desire to come into this room and smash the doctor’s head in, strangle Boyko like a rag doll. But he made no move to do that. Instead she simply felt his warmth around her as he whispered, It’s all up to you, Sam-I-Am. Now it’s all up to you.
Seven
Miles away, Chase Buchanan lay in bed, reliving the call that had come this afternoon on Gudger’s precious and forbidden telephone.
“Chase?” Though the young female voice had been faint, his heart nearly stopped. It was Sam calling.
“Sam?” he’d cried. “Where are you?”
She said something; he couldn’t hear it. Pressing the heavy black receiver to his ear, he turned. Gudger was banging on the glass panes of the door next to the fireplace, his face now contorted with rage instead of laughter. “That’s my private phone, you little asshole!” he shouted from the other side of the door. “Hang that up!”
He ignored Gudger, listening as Sam’s words came sketchily over the old receiver. “Trouble … scared … Mama.”
“What did you say?” He gripped the phone harder. “I can’t hear you!”
“Tell Mama … men … want … ”
“What?” he cried. “What—”
Then he heard no more. Rough fingers ripped the phone from his grasp as a hand pushed him so hard he fell down. “I told you never to answer this phone, you little bastard!” Gudger cried, his upper lip curling in a snarl.
“But it was my call,” he’d cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It was for me!”
“At least I didn’t tell him who it was,” he whispered now, staring at the cracks in his ceiling. He’d barely been able to stand it until his mother came home; then when she walked in the kitchen door, his head began to swim with doubts about what he’d heard. The voice had sounded like Sam, but why had she called Gudger’s landline? If she were in trouble, why not call 911? Or even his mother, at work? That made him think maybe it wasn’t Sam—maybe it was just someone playing a trick. But who would do that? One of those snotty high school girls who used to call Sam the Coal Miner’s Daughter? Or somebody from his class, Ms. Norman’s fifth grade? He tried to figure out who it might have been, but he couldn’t come up with anybody. He and Sam were new to their school, uncool outsiders from West Virginia. They weren’t important enough for anybody to play a trick on. He turned over, crumpling his pillow. As he did, it occurred to him that maybe Gudger had hired someone who sounded like Sam to call. But why? To raise his hopes? To see if he would tell his mother? To drive them both crazy? Gudger was mean enough to do that, but Gudger was also cheap. He’d never pay someone to make a fake phone call.
“No,” he told himself aloud. “It was Sam—I know it was. The landline must have been the only number she could remember.”
But where was she? What had happened to her? Why hadn’t she called back? He got up from bed and turned to look out the window. The blue plastic shards of their ruined pool glowed in the patio lights. In the shadows beyond stood the toolshed where he’d taken off his clothes. Behind the toolshed was the fence that enclosed Gudger’s property, and behind that, in Mrs. Carver’s yard, was his backpack with Mary Crow’s business card.
Mary Crow would know what to do, he decided. She was the governor’s cop. She could trace the number, find out where Sam was calling from. But why had he put the card in his backpack, instead of his pocket, or even in his shoe? How could he have been so stupid?
“Doesn’t matter,” he told himself. “You’ll just have to go get it.” Of course he would have to wait until Gudger and his mother went to bed, but that was no problem. He would just sneak out to the toolshed, grab one of Gudger’s flashlights, and retrace his steps along the fence line. Once he found the backpack, he’d hurry back here. If Gudger was snoring as loudly as he usually did, he would call Mary Crow immediately, from the forbidden phone in the den. Who cared what Gudger thought?
He got up from the window and cracked open his door. The late news theme song blared from the television. That meant his mother would be heading to bed. Gudger would linger to watch the weather and sports, then he would follow. Their bed might squeak for a few minutes, then they would go to sleep. Softly, he closed his door and got back into bed. All he had to do now was wait. Once he heard Gudger snoring, he could go and get that card.
Hours later, he opened his eyes. He bolted upright, blinking, ready to sneak out of the house and retrieve the card, but something was wrong. It was light outside. Birds were chirping. He was dressed but sock-footed, his shoes still peeking from under the bed. He realized that while he’d been waiting for Gudger to go to bed, he’d fallen asleep.
But maybe I can still do it, he thought. Maybe I can sneak up there if they think I’m asleep.
Quietly, he got out of bed, opened his door. Though he smelled fresh coffee, the house was silent—he heard no TV commercials, no cabinets slamming as Gudger fixed his usual Cheerios and milk. His mother had probably gone to work, but where was Gudger?
He crept into the hall, tiptoeing past the master bedroom. The door was open, revealing a made-up bed, a dresser clean of Gudger’s normal paraphernalia (wallet, car keys, Taser). Chase had a wild moment of hope—Gudger had been promising to take his mother’s car into the shop for months—had he dropped her off at work so he could take the thing to the mechanic?
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