Tess Gerritsen - Vanish

“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.

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.