West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  Dazed, she sat up and screamed, “Help! Somebody call 911! Fire!”

  She couldn’t remember where she’d heard that a bystander is more likely to respond to a cry of “Fire!” than to any other plea for help, but she needed whatever advantage she could get.

  She surveyed her surroundings and saw with great dismay that the yard she’d fallen into looked no better than the one she’d just left.

  God, please don’t let this be another abandoned house.

  She grabbed the leg of the swing set and pulled herself to her feet. Her body had sustained a few bruises, but she had no difficulty walking. The walk turned into a run.

  When she reached the porch, she slowed and looked at the patio table. A half-full mug of coffee and an ashtray of cigarette butts rested beside a folded newspaper.

  She felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. She took two quick steps and began pounding on one of the ornate French doors.

  “Help! Open up!” she screamed. “Please! I need help!”

  The last pound of her fist found only air as the door opened in front of it.

  Behind the door stood a pale-skinned man wearing a pair of boxers. His hair was a tousled mess.

  “Please,” she said, “I need to call—” She hesitated. This man was familiar to her. She continued, “I need to call the police. I—”

  The police.

  His hair was a fright, and he was definitely out of uniform, but he had the same stupid grin he’d had outside the Placer Gold truck stop.

  When his left hand emerged from behind the door, she wasn’t surprised to find it holding a gun. She’d last seen him just after he planted three guns inside a baby-changing table in a men’s room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jennifer’s pulse throbbed uncomfortably in her temples. She opened her eyes but saw only a dark blur. She wanted to sit up, but her hands and feet refused to cooperate. Her mind juggled disjointed fragments but couldn’t process anything beyond the sound of heavy breathing.

  Who the hell is panting in my ear?

  She listened.

  Fuck, it’s me.

  The dark blur became a light blur. Objects began to take shape. The room in front of her was tilted ninety degrees to the right. A pair of skylights to the right cast a hazy glow over a dozen or so big blue barrels on the floor to the left. She tried again to sit up but found that her hands and feet were bound.

  She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. The tile floor felt cool under her cheek. How much time had passed? Had she lost consciousness? Was it possible to lose consciousness from a blow to the stomach?

  She remembered fixating on the gun and being surprised by the punch. She remembered gasping for air and collapsing to her knees as her field of vision narrowed. Beyond that, she recalled only fragments: the sensation of being dragged, a man’s voice mumbling about “inept commie fucks.”

  With each breath, the throbbing in her head subsided, and she became increasingly aware of an acrid stench like cat urine in a gym locker room. She opened her eyes again but saw only the floor tiles beneath her and the unfurnished den full of fifty-five-gallon drums in front of her.

  She wiggled her extremities, checking for injuries. Her hands tingled from lack of circulation. Trooper Haley had made the cuffs too tight. She strained her neck and glanced back over her right shoulder. The zip ties around her ankles weren’t as bad, but the plastic edges dug into her skin whenever she wiggled her feet.

  “Move it,” said Haley somewhere behind her.

  She lifted her shoulders and rotated her head to the left as two pairs of legs shuffled past. Trooper Haley, still shirtless, had put on a pair of khaki pants and tucked his gun into the back waistband. The woman with him wore no pants at all, just a baggy gray sweatshirt that barely covered her hips. Watching the woman from behind, Jennifer could make out little more than unkempt hair and bruised legs.

  The duo continued twenty feet down a narrow hallway before stopping in front of a door to the right. The woman stood motionless, facing the far end of the hall as Haley unlatched three keyless dead bolts and pushed open the door.

  He grabbed the woman by her shoulders and pointed her toward the open door. “Let’s go.”

  She cast a lazy glance back at Jennifer, revealing the soft features of a teenage girl and the glassy eyes of a doll. She was in shock or on drugs or both.

  Haley gave the girl a shove. She stumbled into the room.

  Jennifer recalled Dudka’s ranching analogy: “I buy livestock from poor countries and sell it to rich countries.”

  Her stomach churned.

  Haley shut the bedroom door and fumbled with the first dead bolt.

  Three loud knocks echoed from somewhere behind Jennifer.

  “Hang on,” shouted Haley as he worked the second lock. When he’d finished with the dead bolts, he hustled toward Jennifer and disappeared behind her.

  Three more knocks, louder and quicker than the previous three, shook the walls.

  “Coming!” he shouted.

  Jennifer rolled to her right to get a better view. Behind her was a small foyer that terminated in a wooden door covered by a familiar-looking security gate. Haley fished through his pockets and pulled out a key ring. He searched through the keys, found one, and tried it. It didn’t work. He searched again.

  Three more knocks.

  “Goddammit,” he yelled, “I’m fucking with your stupid gate! Just give me a minute!” He got the gate open and began searching for the key to open the wooden door. “So help me,” he muttered, “if that son of a bitch knocks again—”

  The door swung inward on Haley. He jumped out of the way.

  Jesse stood on the other side, his own key ring in hand.

  Jennifer’s mental fog lifted.

  Fuck.

  The fat American had taken the time to put on his pants but not to buckle them. Like Haley, he was barefoot. He took a step into the house and bellowed, “Where is that fucking cun—”

  His gaze locked onto Jennifer at the end of the foyer. His eyes lacked any hint of humanity. He lunged forward with surprising speed. In a flash, he was over her, lifting her by her hair.

  The shrillness of Jennifer’s scream surprised even her. She tried to get her feet under her, anything to take her weight off her hair.

  His hands found their way to her throat and continued to lift as if he wanted to detach her head from her neck. She pressed up on her toes, trying to relieve the pressure on her throat. Her vision grew red.

  Somewhere behind that crimson curtain, Trooper Haley said, “If she dies, that’s on you. I’m just here to babysit. You can explain to Ilya what happened to . . .”

  Jennifer collapsed onto the ground, choking for air. When she opened her eyes, Jesse had his hands on his knees, panting like a man who’d just run a marathon.

  Nearby, a woman laughed.

  The red devil. A chill ran down Jennifer’s spine.

  Scarlett stood in the open doorway. “Are we moving the party over here?” She crossed the foyer.

  Haley watched her approach. “For you, sweetheart, we’ll move the party anywhere you like.”

  “Forget it,” said Jesse. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

  Scarlett glared at him. “I uncuffed you, didn’t I?”

  Haley gave a snorting laugh and glanced back at Jennifer. “No wonder you want to kill this bitch.”

  Jesse’s face flushed.

  Scarlett stopped in front of Jennifer. “Kill her? Not yet. We might need her.” She turned back to Jesse. “That’s the problem with you men. No subtlety. No nuance.” She looked down at the fat goon’s unfastened pants and said, “Let me show you how this is done.”

  Jesse recoiled as she reached for his crotch.

 
“Relax.” She gripped the buckle of his leather belt and pulled it free of his pants. “Watch and learn.” She dangled the belt from one manicured finger and turned toward Jennifer.

  Jennifer saw the light from the door reflected on the belt’s engraved silver tip and shot a desperate look at Trooper Haley. “Your friends will be back with Crocker soon, and I don’t think—”

  “Uh-huh,” said Scarlett. She pressed her left foot between Jennifer’s shoulder blades, pinning Jennifer’s chest to the ground.

  Jennifer struggled to roll to one side or the other but couldn’t break free.

  Scarlett danced the silver tip along Jennifer’s back. “Before my mom would whip me, she’d say, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.’”

  “Please don’t,” begged Jennifer.

  “Of course,” continued Scarlett, “the bitch always said it with a smile.”

  The belt hummed through the air. Jennifer’s brain processed the loud snap a millisecond before the pain in her backside shut out all other senses.

  Her scream prompted both Jesse and Trooper Haley to take a step back.

  “See,” said Scarlett. “This is much more fun than killing her.”

  Two more sharp hums and two more loud snaps followed in quick succession. Jennifer’s screams turned into gasping sobs. Tears streamed from her eyes.

  “If you kill her,” continued Scarlett, “the fun is over in a minute.” She struck again.

  Jennifer pressed her face into the floor and screamed through gritted teeth.

  When the scream had faded, Scarlett added, “But this can go on for hours.” She gave three more quick lashes. The last two landed inches below the hem of Jennifer’s dress, welting bare skin.

  The world around Jennifer seemed momentarily far away, then once again close. She struggled to catch short breaths between sobs.

  “Okay, okay,” said Jesse. “My turn.”

  “Hold your horses,” said Scarlett.

  The next three lashes struck at the back of Jennifer’s knees. Her mind threatened retreat, but she clung to consciousness. She focused on keeping her face to the ground, in case Scarlett aimed the next blow at her head.

  Scarlett lifted her foot from Jennifer’s back. “Okay, big guy. Your turn.”

  Jennifer turned her head and, through tear-clouded eyes, saw Scarlett hand the belt to Jesse. The fat goon’s foot crushed down on her back with such force that her lungs struggled to fuel her sobs.

  “Stop!” she gasped.

  Jesse chuckled. “That’s right, bitch. Beg me.”

  She tried to face away from him, but his weight pinned her head in place.

  He’s not going to stop until he kills me.

  He ground his toe into her back and glanced over at Scarlett. “All right, Fire Crotch, give me a countdown.”

  “Like ‘three, two, one’ or ‘ready, set, go’?”

  “I don’t—” He hesitated. “Shit.”

  “Is that them?” asked Haley.

  “Yeah,” replied Jesse. “That’s them.” He took his foot off Jennifer’s back.

  Outside, a car horn let out two quick beeps. The rumble of the engine was faint but audible.

  Jennifer choked back a sob. Saved by the—

  The lash struck her with such force that she didn’t even scream. Instead, she felt the breath escaping her body and consciousness slipping away.

  When the world came back into focus, she was slung over Jesse’s shoulder, being carried out into the morning sun. The pain from her backside brought to mind the hot glow of a branding iron. She felt a warm trickle on her leg and realized that the fat man had drawn blood.

  She looked around but wasn’t sure whether she was conscious or dreaming. Two well-constructed renditions of the classic ranch-style home—complete with wide driveways, big yards, and brick mailboxes—sat side by side, all alone, surrounded by desert as far as the eye could see. The paved street in front of the two houses stretched into infinite nothing in both directions. No other structure of any type was visible. Jennifer had the surreal sensation of being inside a desert mirage.

  Your next stop, the Twilight Zone.

  The white cargo van she’d ridden in the night before was parked in the driveway on the right, next to Larry’s yellow Corvette. Jesse cut across the yard toward the van, leaving Jennifer facing the wrong direction. Only by arching her back and straining her neck was she able to glimpse the van and her captors.

  Scarlett and Trooper Haley were already at the driver-side window, talking to Ilya, when Jesse got there with Jennifer.

  Ilya was saying, “That doesn’t explain what happened to your clothes.”

  Haley rubbed the back of his neck. “The thing is, she showed up just as I was getting ready to try out one of the new girls.”

  “I told you to watch them.”

  “Yeah, and I was watching ’em. None of my prisoners got loose. Remember, I’m doing you a favor—I get paid to provide information, not plant guns and guard kidnapped women.”

  “If you’re not happy with the compensation . . .”

  “No, the money is fine, but don’t give me shit about—”

  Ilya held up a hand to silence Haley. “We’ll discuss this later. Go to the garage next door, and fetch three empty drums.”

  “Send Jesse. The fumes in there make my eyes burn.”

  “Jesse is carrying Ms. Williams, so you fetch the barrels. You’ll have to carry them one at a time. If there are only two empties, we can make do, but we’re going to need at least two.”

  “On second thought,” said Haley, “when this shit is over, we’re going to renegotiate my fee.”

  Jennifer quit straining to look over her shoulder and watched Trooper Haley jog barefoot and shirtless toward the house they’d just left. Behind her, a car door opened. She heard feet on the driveway.

  “Jesse,” said Ilya, “take Ms. Williams to the basement, and wait there while I bring Mr. Crocker.”

  “Right, boss.”

  The fat goon lumbered toward the house, giving Jennifer her first unobstructed view of the van. She watched Ilya pull a partially filled garbage bag from the cab.

  Jesse stopped at the front door and adjusted his burden.

  Ilya stared at Scarlett for several seconds, as if considering his next move, then held out the bag. “Take this to the master bedroom, and wait there with it. I know exactly how much is inside, so do my men a favor, and don’t . . .” Jennifer lost the conversation as Jesse carried her into the house.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Crocker picked his way down the basement stairs, testing his footing before transferring his weight, fully aware that with his hands cuffed behind his back, a misstep could be fatal.

  Ilya nudged him from behind. “Move it.”

  Maybe a misstep is what he’s hoping for.

  The stale air reminded him of a cave he’d toured as a child. The smell paired with the dim lighting to create the sensation of descending into a tomb or catacomb, something more foreboding than the basement of a suburban home.

  But this isn’t a suburban home, not really.

  While being escorted from the van to the house, he’d taken one look at his surroundings and realized where he was. An hour before, that information might have saved his life. Now, the fact that he’d been allowed to see his surroundings at all merely underlined the fact that his captors had no intention of letting him leave the safe house alive.

  Ilya’s conversation with Scarlett, muffled by the walls of the van, had confirmed Crocker’s fears. The KGB agent with the BBC accent, speaking with such dramatic inflection that he might have been auditioning for the Royal Shakespeare Company, had warned the young woman, “I know exactly how much is inside, so do my men a favor, and don’
t entertain any notions that might require them to bury a fourth drum.”

  At the foot of the stairs, Crocker stopped and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Ilya shoved him forward.

  “Welcome back,” said a weak but familiar voice.

  “Larry?” Crocker turned toward the support column where he’d left his friend. “Are you still with us?”

  “For the moment.” Larry sat against the column, his hands still cuffed behind him, his bloodstained face unrecognizable. One eye had swollen shut. The other was just a sliver. Two teeth lay on the ground beside him.

  Jennifer occupied the column where Crocker had spent the night. Her distant expression sent a chill, then a surge of anger through him.

  What the fuck did they do to her?

  Beside her, the fat goon’s hands struggled beneath his enormous gut, threading his belt through the loops on his pants.

  Crocker’s hands clenched into fists.

  “It appears,” said Ilya, “that you and Ms. Williams will have to share a pillar.” He gave Crocker another shove. “Have a seat.”

  Crocker leaned against the column and slid to the ground.

  Ilya tossed a set of keys—Crocker’s keys—to Jesse. Jesse caught them and coaxed his oversized frame into a kneeling position beside the couple.

  Crocker cocked his head toward Jennifer and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded but didn’t speak.

  Jesse removed Crocker’s left cuff, wrapped it around the narrow column, and refastened it to Crocker’s wrist. He tested that the cuffs were secure, then began the laborious process of standing.