Vanish (38 page)

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 FASTFORWARD.

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 FASTFORWARD 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—”

“Rizzoli?” said Lukas. “What’s happening over there?”

“Hold on. I’ll call you right back,” said Jane, and hung up.

Mila was darting from window to window, desperately searching for the fire escape.

“It’s okay!” said Jane. “Calm down.”

“They know I am here!”

“We don’t even know who’s at the door. Let’s just find out.” She pressed the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“Detective Rizzoli, it’s John Barsanti. Can I come up?”

Mila’s reaction was instantaneous. She went sprinting toward the bedrooms, looking for an

escape route.

“Wait!” Jane called, following her up the hall. “You can trust this man!”

Already, the girl was lifting up the bedroom window.

“You can’t leave.”

Again, they heard the apartment buzzer. It sent Mila scrambling through the window, onto the

fire escape. If she leaves, I’ll never see her again, thought Jane.
The girl has survived this long

on sheer instinct. Maybe I should listen to her.

She grabbed Mila’s wrist. “I’ll come with you, okay? We’ll go together. Just don’t leave

without me!”

“Hurry,” Mila whispered.

Jane turned. “The baby.”

Mila followed her back into the living room and kept a nervous eye on the door as Jane ejected

the videotape and threw it into the diaper bag. Then she unlocked the gun drawer, took out her

weapon, and slipped it into the diaper bag as well.
Just in case.

The buzzer sounded again.

Jane swept Regina into her arms. “Let’s go.”

Mila scrambled down the fire escape ladder, quick as a monkey. Once, Jane would have been

just as quick, just as reckless. But now she was forced to take care with every step, because she

was holding Regina. Poor baby, I have no choice now, she thought. I have to drag you along

on this adventure. At last she dropped to the alley, and led the way to her parked Subaru. As

she unlocked the car door, she could still hear, through the open apartment window, Barsanti’s

persistent buzzing.

Driving west on Tremont Street, she kept her eye on the rearview mirror, but she saw no sign

of pursuit, no headlights dogging them. Now to find a secure location where Mila won’t freak

out, she thought. Where she won’t see police uniforms. Above all, some place I can keep

Regina perfectly safe.

“Where do we go?” Mila asked.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She glanced down at her cell phone, but now she did not dare call

her mother. She did not dare call anyone.

Abruptly she turned south, onto Columbus Avenue. “I know a safe place,” she said.

THIRTY-FIVE

Peter Lukas stared in silence as the brutal assault played out on his TV screen. When the tape at

last ended, he did not move. Even after Jane turned off the VCR, Lukas sat frozen, his gaze

fixed on the screen, as though he could still see the girl’s battered body, the bloodstained

sheets. The room had gone silent. Regina dozed on the couch; Mila stood near the windows,

glancing out at the road.

“Mila never learned the girl’s name,” said Jane. “There’s a good chance the body’s buried

somewhere in the woods behind the house. It’s a lonely spot, with a lot of places to dispose of

a corpse. God knows how many other girls might be buried back there.”

Lukas dropped his head. “I feel like throwing up.”

“You and me both.”

“Why would anyone videotape something like that?”

“This man clearly didn’t realize he
was
caught on film. The camera was mounted in a closet,

where the clients couldn’t see it. Maybe it was just another source of revenue. Sell the girls for

sex, videotape the acts, then offer the tapes on the pornography market. Every which way you

turn, there’s money to be made. This brothel was just another one of their subsidiaries, after

all.” She paused, and added drily: “Ballentree seems to believe in diversification.”