“You know what I care about? That you don’t get hurt. That’s more important than anything else.” He got out of the car; so did she.
“Do you happen to remember what I do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Suddenly my job is not okay.”
He shut his car door and met her gaze over the roof. “I admit it. I’m having trouble right now, dealing with it.”
“You’re asking me to quit?”
“If I thought I could get away with it.”
“What am I supposed to do instead?”
“Here’s a novel idea. You could stay home with Regina.”
“When did you go all retro on me? I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, either.”
“You knew who I was when you married me, Gabriel.” She turned and walked into the building, and was already climbing to the second floor when she heard him say, from the bottom of the stairs: “But maybe I didn’t know who I was.”
She glanced back at him. “What does that mean?”
“You and Regina are all I have.” Slowly he came up the stairs, until they were face-to-face on the landing. “I never had to worry about anyone else before, about what I could lose. I didn’t know it would scare me so much. Now I’ve got this big exposed Achilles heel, and all I can think about is how to protect it.”
“You can’t protect it,” she said. “It’s just something you have to live with. It’s what happens when you have a family.”
“It’s too much to lose.”
Their apartment door suddenly opened, and Angela poked her head into the hallway. “I thought I heard you two out here.”
Jane turned. “Hi, Mom.”
“I just put her down for the night, so keep your voices quiet.”
“How was she?”
“Exactly like you were at her age.”
“That bad, huh?” Stepping into the apartment, Jane was taken aback by how neat everything looked. The dishes were washed and put away, the countertops wiped clean. A lace doily graced the dining table. When had she ever owned a lace doily?
“You two had a fight, didn’t you?” said Angela. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
“We had a disappointing night, that’s all.” Jane took off her jacket and hung it in the closet. When she turned back to look at her mother, she saw that Angela’s gaze had focused on Jane’s weapon.
“You’re going to lock that thing up, aren’t you?”
“I always do.”
“Because babies and guns—”
“Okay, okay.” Jane took off her weapon and slid it into a drawer. “You know, she’s not even a month old.”
“She’s precocious, just like you were.” Angela looked at Gabriel. “Did I ever tell you what Jane did when she was three?”
“Mom, he doesn’t want to hear that story.”
“Yes I do,” said Gabriel.
Jane sighed. “It involves a cigarette lighter and the living room curtains. And the Revere Fire Department.”
“Oh, that,” said Angela. “I forgot all about that story.”
“Mrs. Rizzoli, why don’t you tell me about it while I drive you home?” said Gabriel, reaching into the closet to retrieve Angela’s sweater.
In the other room, Regina suddenly let out a howl to announce that she was not, in fact, down for the night. Jane went into the nursery and lifted her daughter out of the crib. When she came back into the living room, Gabriel and her mother had already left the apartment. Rocking Regina in one arm, she stood at the kitchen sink, running warm water into a pan to heat the milk bottle. The apartment’s front door buzzer sounded.
“Janie?” Angela’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Can you let me back in? I forgot my glasses.”
“Come on up, Mom.” Jane pressed the lock release and was waiting at the door to hand over the glasses when her mother came up the stairs.
“Can’t read without these,” said Angela. She paused to give her fussing granddaughter one last kiss. “Better go. He’s got the car running.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Jane went back into the kitchen, where the pan was now overflowing. She set the bottle in hot water, and as the formula warmed, she paced the room with her crying daughter.
The apartment door buzzed again.
Oh, Ma. What’d you forget this time? she wondered, and pressed the lock release.
By now the bottle was warm. She slipped the nipple into Regina’s mouth, but her daughter simply batted it away, as though in disgust. What do you want, baby? she thought in frustration as she carried her daughter back into the living room. If you could just tell me what you want!
She opened the door to greet her mother.
It was not Angela standing there.
THIRTY-FOUR
Without a word, the girl slipped right past Jane, into the apartment, and locked the door. She scurried across to the windows and yanked the Venetian blinds shut, one after the other in quick succession, as Jane watched in astonishment.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The intruder spun around to face her, and pressed her finger to her lips. She was small, more a child than a woman, her thin frame almost lost in the bulky sweatshirt. The hands that poked out the faded sleeves had bones that looked as delicate as a bird’s, and the bulging tote bag she carried seemed to drag down her frail shoulder. Her red hair was cut in a wildly uneven fringe, as though she herself had wielded the scissors, hacking blindly. Her eyes were pale, an unearthly shade of gray, transparent as glass. It was a hungry, feral face, with jutting cheekbones and a gaze that darted around the room in a search for hidden traps.
“Mila?” said Jane.
Again the girl’s finger snapped up to her lips. The look she gave Jane needed no interpretation.
Be quiet. Be afraid.
Even Regina seemed to understand. The baby suddenly went still, her eyes wide and alert as she lay quietly in Jane’s arms.
“You’re safe here,” Jane said.
“No place is safe.”
“Let me call my friends. We’ll get you police protection right now.”
Mila shook her head.
“I know these men. I work with them.” Jane reached for the telephone.
The girl shot forward and slammed her hand down on the receiver. “No police.”
Jane stared into the girl’s eyes, which were now burning with panic. “Okay,” she murmured, backing away from the phone. “I’m police, too. Why do you trust me?”
Mila’s gaze dropped to Regina. And Jane thought: This is why she’s risked this visit. She knows I’m a mother. Somehow that makes all the difference.
“I know why you’re running,” said Jane. “I know about Ashburn.”
Mila went to the couch and sank onto the cushions. Suddenly she seemed even smaller, wilting by the moment beneath Jane’s gaze. Her shoulders crumpled forward. Her head drooped into her hands, as though she was too exhausted to hold it up any longer. “I am so tired,” she whispered.
Jane moved closer until she was standing just above the bowed head, looking down at the raggedly cut hair. “You saw the killers. Help us identify them.”
Mila looked up with hollow, haunted eyes. “I will not live long enough.”
Jane dropped to a crouch, until their eyes were level. Regina too was staring at Mila, fascinated by this exotic new creature. “Why are you here, Mila? What do you want me to do?”
Mila reached into the dirty tote bag she had carried in, and rummaged through wadded-up clothes and candy bars and crumpled tissues. She pulled out a videotape and held it out to Jane.
“What is this?”
“I am afraid to keep it anymore. I give it to you. You tell them there are no more. This is the last copy.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Just take it!” She held it at arm’s length, as though it was poisonous, and she
wanted to keep it as far away as possible. She breathed a sigh of relief when Jane finally took it from her.
Jane set Regina in her infant carrier, then crossed to the TV. She slipped the cassette into the VCR, and pressed PLAY on the remote control.
An image appeared on the screen. She saw a brass bed, a chair, heavy drapes covering a window. Off camera, footsteps creaked closer, and a woman giggled. A door clunked shut, and now a man and woman came into view. The woman had a sleek mane of blond hair, and her low-cut blouse revealed bountiful cleavage. The man was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki slacks.
“Oh yeah,” the man sighed as the woman unbuttoned her blouse. She wriggled out of her skirt, peeled down her underwear. She gave the man a playful shove onto the bed, and he flopped back, utterly passive, as she unbuckled his pants, pulled them down over his hips. Bending over him, she took his erect penis into her mouth.
It’s just a porno tape, thought Jane. Why am I watching this?
“Not this one,” Mila said, and took the remote control from Jane’s hand. She pressed FAST-FORWARD.
The blonde’s head jerked back and forth, performing a blow job with manic efficiency. The screen went blank. Now another couple jittered into view. At her first glimpse of the woman’s long black hair, Jane was stunned. It was Olena.
Clothing magically melted away. Nude bodies tumbled onto the bed, writhing in FAST-FORWARD on the mattress. I have seen this bedroom before, Jane suddenly realized, remembering the closet with the hole drilled through the wall. That’s how this videotape was filmed—with a camera mounted in that closet. She realized, too, who the blond woman in the first clip was. She’d been Jane Doe number two in Detective Wardlaw’s crime scene video, the woman who had died in her cot, cowering beneath a blanket.
All the women in this video are now dead.
Once again, the screen went blank.
“Here,” Mila said softly. She pressed STOP, then PLAY.
It was the same bed, the same room, but with different sheets this time: a floral pattern with mismatched pillowcases. An older man walked into view, balding with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a red tie. He pulled off the tie and tossed it on the chair, then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a pale belly, sagging with middle-age spread. Though he stood facing the camera, he did not seem aware of its presence, and he peeled off his shirt with an utter lack of self-consciousness, revealing to the camera an unflattering slouch. Suddenly he straightened, his attention swinging to something the camera could not yet see. It was a girl. Her cries preceded her, shrill protests in what sounded like Russian. She did not want to come into the room. Her sobs were cut off by a sharp slap, and a woman’s stern command. Then the girl stumbled into view as though shoved, and she sprawled on the floor at the man’s feet. The door slammed shut, followed by the clack of footsteps moving away.
The man looked down at the girl. Already an erection bulged in his gray trousers. “Get up,” he said.
The girl did not move.
Again: “Get up.” He gave her a nudge with his foot.
At last the girl raised her head. Slowly, as though exhausted just by the pull of gravity, she struggled to her feet, blond hair disheveled.
Against her will, Jane was drawn closer to the TV. She was too appalled to look away, even as her rage mounted. The girl was not yet even a teenager. She was wearing a pink cropped blouse and a short denim skirt that exposed painfully thin legs. Her cheek still bore the angry red imprint of the woman’s slap. Fading bruises on her bare arms told of other blows, other cruelties. Though the man towered over her, this frail girl now faced him with quiet defiance.
“Take off the blouse.”
The girl just looked at him.
“What, are you stupid? Don’t you understand English?”
The girl’s spine snapped straight, and her chin jutted up. Yes, she does understand. And she’s telling you to fuck off, asshole.
The man stepped toward her, grabbed her blouse with both hands, and ripped it open, releasing a hail of loose buttons. The girl sucked in a startled breath and slapped him, sending his glasses flying. They clattered onto the floor. For a few seconds the man just stared at her in surprise. Then a look of such fury contorted his face that Jane flinched away from the TV, knowing what would happen next.
The blow landed on the girl’s jaw, the impact so powerful that it seemed to lift her right off her feet. She slammed to the floor. He grabbed her around the waist, dragged her toward the bed, and threw her down on the mattress. With a few sharp tugs, he pulled off her skirt, then unbuckled his trousers.
Though the blow had temporarily stunned her, the girl was not finished fighting back. All at once she seemed to spring back to life, screaming, fists beating against him. He trapped her wrists and climbed on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. In his haste to maneuver himself between her thighs, he lost his grip on her right hand. She clawed at his face, and her nails scraped skin. He jerked back and touched his cheek where she had scratched him. Stared, disbelieving, at his fingers. At the blood she had drawn.
“You cunt. You little cunt.”
He slammed his fist into her temple. The thud made Jane flinch. Nausea soured her throat.
“I paid for you, goddammit!”
The girl shoved at his chest, but she was weaker now. Her left eye was swelling, and blood trickled from her lip, yet she continued to fight. Her struggles only seemed to excite him. Too feeble to resist, she could not stop the inevitable. As he thrust into her, she gave a scream.
“Shut up.”
She did not stop screaming.
“Shut up!” He hit her again. And again. Finally he clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as he repeatedly rammed into her. He did not seem to notice that she finally stopped screaming, or that she had fallen perfectly still. The only noise now was the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the animal grunts from his throat. He gave a final moan and his back arched in a spasm of release. Then, with a sigh, he collapsed onto the girl.
For a moment he lay breathing heavily, his body flaccid with exhaustion. Slowly, he seemed to register that something was not right. He looked down at her.
She was motionless.
He gave her a shake. “Hey.” He patted her cheek, and a note of worry slipped into his voice. “Wake up. Goddammit, you wake up.”
The girl did not move.
He rolled off the bed and stood staring down at her for a moment. He pressed his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Every muscle in his body seemed to go taut. Backing away from the bed, his breathing accelerated in panic.
“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered.
He glanced around, as though the solution to his dilemma lay somewhere in the room. Frantic now, he snatched up his clothes and began to dress, hands shaking as he fumbled with buckles and buttons. He dropped to his knees to retrieve his glasses, which had slid under the bed, and slipped them on. One last time, he looked at the girl and confirmed his worst fears.
Shaking his head, he backed away, out of the camera’s range. A door squealed open, swung shut, and footsteps hurried away. An eternity passed, the camera still focused on the bed with its lifeless occupant.
Different footsteps approached, and there was a knock on the door, a voice calling out in Russian. Jane recognized the woman who stepped into the room. It was the house mother, who had died while tied to a kitchen chair.
I know what happens to you. What they will do to your hands. I know you will die screaming.
The woman moved to the bed and gave the girl a shake. Barked out a command. The girl did not respond. The woman stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. Then, abruptly, she turned and stared directly at the camera.
She knows it’s there. She knows it is filming.
At once she moved straight toward it, and there was the sound of the closet door swinging open. Then the screen went blank.
Mila turned off the VCR.
Jane could not speak. She sank onto
the couch and sat in numb silence. Regina was silent as well, as though aware that this was not the time to fuss. That at this moment, her mother was too shaken to attend to her. Gabriel, she thought. I need you here. She glanced at the telephone and realized that he had left his cell phone on the table, and she had no way to reach him in his car.
“He is an important man,” Mila said.
Jane turned to look at her. “What?”
“Joe says the man must be high in your government.” Mila pointed to the TV.
“Joe saw this tape?”
Mila nodded. “He gave me a copy when I left. So we would all have one, in case . . .” She stopped. “In case we never see each other again,” she said softly.
“Where does it come from? Where did you get this video?”
“The Mother keeps it in her room. We didn’t know. We only wanted the money.”
This is the reason for the massacre, thought Jane; this is why the women in that house were killed. Because they knew what happened in that room. And this videotape is the proof.
“Who is he?” Mila asked.
Jane stared at the blank TV. “I don’t know. But I know someone who might.” She crossed to the telephone.
Mila stared at her in alarm. “No police!”
“I’m not calling the police. I’m going to ask a friend to come here. A reporter. He knows people in Washington. He’s lived there. He’ll know who that man is.” She flipped through the phone book until she found the listing for Peter Lukas. His address was in Milton, just south of Boston. As she dialed, she could feel Mila watching her, clearly not ready to trust her. If I make one false move, Jane thought, this girl will run. I have to be careful not to scare her.
“Hello?” said Peter Lukas.
“Could you come over right now?”
“Detective Rizzoli? What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“This sounds serious.”
“It could be your Pulitzer Prize, Lukas.” She stopped.
Someone was ringing her apartment buzzer.
Mila shot Jane a look of sheer panic. Snatching up her tote bag, she made a dash toward the windows.
“Wait. Mila, don’t—”
Vanish Page 28
