Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

“Excuse me?”

“Diet soft drinks. The US government bought ’em by the container load for its troops in the Gulf. I was there, and I saw cans and cans, sitting in the heat. What do you think happens to the chemicals in diet drinks when they’re exposed to heat? They turn toxic. They turn to poison. That’s why thousands of Gulf War vets came home sick. Oh yeah, our government knows about it, but we never will. The soda pop industry’s too big, and they know just whom to bribe.”

“So… this is all about soda pop?”

“No. This is much worse.” He leaned closer. “And this time we’ve finally got them, Detective. We have a witness and we have the proof. And we have the country’s attention. That’s why we’ve got them scared. That’s why they want us dead. What would you do, Detective?”

“About what? I still don’t understand.”

“If you knew about a crime committed by people in our government. And you knew it had gone unpunished. What would you do?”

“That’s easy. I’d do my job. The same as always.”

“You’d see that justice is served?”

“Yes.”

“No matter who stood in your way?”

“Who would try to stop me?”

“You don’t know these people. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

She tensed as another contraction squeezed its fist around her womb. She felt Dr. Tam take her hand again, and Jane held on tight. Suddenly everything went out of focus as the pain roared in, pain that made her rock forward, groaning. Oh god, what had they taught her in Lamaze class? She’d forgotten it all.

“Cleansing breath,” murmured Dr. Tam. “Find your focus.”

That was it. Now she remembered. Take a breath. Focus on one spot. These crazy people weren’t going to kill her in the next sixty seconds. She just had to get past this pain. Breathe and focus. Breathe and focus…

Olena moved close, and suddenly her face loomed right in front of Jane’s. “Look at me,” Olena said. She pointed to her own eyes. “Look here, right at me. Until it is over.”

I can’t believe it. A crazy woman wants to be my labor coach.

Jane began to pant, her breath quickening as the pain mounted. Olena was right in front of her, her gaze fixed on hers. Cool blue water. That’s what those eyes reminded Jane of. Water. Clear and calm. A pond with no ripples.

“Good,” the woman murmured. “You did good.”

Jane exhaled a sigh of relief and sprawled back against the cushions. Sweat trickled down her cheek. Another five blessed minutes to recover. She thought of all the women through millennia who had endured childbirth, thought of her own mother who, thirty-four years ago, had labored through a hot summer’s night to bring Jane into the world. I did not appreciate what you went through. Now I understand. This is the price women have paid for every child ever born.

“Whom do you trust, Detective Rizzoli?”

Joe was talking to her again. She raised her head, still too dazed to understand what he wanted from her.

“There must be someone you trust,” he said. “Someone you work with. Another cop. Maybe your partner.”

She gave a weary shake of her head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“What if I held this gun to your head?”

She froze as he suddenly raised his weapon and pressed it to her temple. She heard the receptionist give a gasp. Felt her fellow hostages on the couch shrink away from the victim between them.

“Now tell me,” Joe said coldly. Reasonably. “Is there anyone who’d take this bullet for you?”

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“I’m just asking. Who would take this bullet for you? Who would you trust with your life?”

She stared at the hand holding the gun, and she thought: It’s a test. And I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what he wants to hear.

“Tell me, Detective. Isn’t there someone you completely believe in?”

“Gabriel…” She swallowed. “My husband. I trust my husband.”

“I’m not talking about family. I’m talking about someone with a badge, like you. Someone clean. Someone who’ll do his duty.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Answer the question!”

“I told you. I gave you an answer.”

“You said your husband.”

“Yes!”

“Is he a cop?”

“No, he’s…” She stopped.

“What is he?”

She straightened. Looked past the gun, and focused instead on the eyes of the man holding it. “He’s FBI,” she said.

Joe stared at her for a moment. Then he looked at his partner. “This changes everything,” he said.

Mila

There is a new girl in our house.

This morning, a van pulled up in the driveway, and the men carried her up to our room. All day she has been lying on Olena’s cot, sleeping off the drugs they gave her for the journey. We all watch her, staring down at a face so pale that it does not look like living flesh, but translucent marble. Her breaths come in soft little puffs, a strand of her blond hair fluttering every time she exhales. Her hands are small-a doll’s hands, I think, looking at the little fist, at the thumb pressed against her lips. Even when the Mother unlocks the door and steps into the room, the girl does not stir.

“Wake her,” the Mother orders.

“How old is she?” Olena asks.

“Just get her up.”

“She’s only a child. What is she, twelve? Thirteen?”

“Old enough to work.” The Mother crosses to the cot and gives the girl a shake. “Come on,” she snaps, yanking off the blanket. “You’ve slept too long.”

The girl stirs and rolls onto her back. That’s when I see the bruises on her arm. She opens her eyes, sees us staring at her, and her frail body instantly stiffens in alarm.

“Don’t make him wait,” the Mother says.

We hear the car approaching the house. Darkness has fallen, and when I look out the window, I see headlights winking through the trees. Tires crackle over gravel as the car pulls into the driveway. The first client of the evening, I think with dread, but the Mother does not even look at us. She grabs the new girl’s hand and pulls her to her feet. The girl stumbles, sleepy-eyed, out of the room.

“How did they get a girl that young?” whispers Katya.

We hear the door buzzer. It is a sound we have learned to shrink from, the sound of our tormentors’ arrival. We all fall still, listening to the voices downstairs. The Mother greets a client in English. The man says little; we hear only a few words from him. Then there are his heavy footsteps on the stairs, and we back away from the door. He walks right past our room and continues down the hall.

Downstairs, the girl raises her voice in protest. We hear a slap, a sob. Then footsteps thump up the stairs again as the Mother drags the girl to the client’s room. The door slams shut, and the Mother walks away, leaving the girl with the man.

“The bitch,” Olena mutters. “She’ll burn in hell.”

But tonight, at least I will not suffer. I feel guilty as soon as that thought crosses my mind. Still, the thought is there. Better her than me. I go to the window and stare out at the night, at darkness that cannot see my shame. Katya pulls a blanket over her head. All of us are trying not to listen, but even through closed doors, we can hear the girl’s screams, and we can imagine what he is doing to her, because the same has been done to us. Only the faces of the men vary; the pain they inflict does not.

When it is over, when the cries finally cease, we hear the man walk down the stairs, and out of the house. I release a deep breath. No more, I think. Please, let there be no more clients tonight.