Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Georgia couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth next. “I think you’re right. We should have communicated better. I should have told you how much I loved you. We were both at fault.” Another powerful vision of Jimmy strafed her brain. The two of them in her bed. At the pancake house. At the movie. Then Jimmy embracing Saucy Hat.

  “Are you saying there might be another chance for us?” Matt reached for her hand.

  She pulled it back and let the silence grow. It was okay with Matt. Comfortable. Familiar. But none of the old sirens wailed. Her skin didn’t tingle. It was over. Really over. All she could think about now was Jimmy. She knew what she had to do. “Hey, thanks.” She smiled.

  “For what?” He looked lost.

  “For coming today. And for lunch. I need to go.”

  “Right now?” He motioned to her soup. “You hardly touched it.”

  “Take it home for dinner.” She grabbed her coat, flung it on, and hurried out to the parking lot. A frigid wind had kicked up, and her fingers ached with the cold. Still, once inside the Toyota, she made herself dig for her cell and punched in Jimmy’s number.

  He picked up right away. “Georgia?” He sounded relieved, happy, and pissed off, all at the same time. “Are you all right? God! I’ve been so worried. I must have left a dozen messages.”

  “I know. I’m fine. I—I’m sorry for not calling you back. It was—well—I was…hey, do you have a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who was that woman you put your arms around two nights ago outside the restaurant, around six? The one with the”—she couldn’t say the word “saucy”—“hat?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Wednesday.” It was Friday now. “I drove out to a farmhouse in Capron. Then I drove to Lake Geneva, hoping to catch you. It was snowing, remember? And I saw you go inside the restaurant with another woman. You were—pretty cozy.”

  He hesitated. It was the longest minute Georgia could remember. Then,

  “Oh. Her. Marianna is my cousin. I’ve known her all my life. She just lost her husband. A sudden heart attack. No warning. He was barely fifty. I was trying to comfort her.” He paused again. “Why the hell didn’t you come in?” Then he answered his question. “Oh.”

  Georgia swallowed. “I should have, Jimmy. I was wrong. We—no—I need to communicate better. I’m not real good at it. I don’t trust easily. But I want to try.”

  “We both will.”

  He was letting her off the hook. Her heart melted.

  “Um, where are you now?” he asked.

  “In my car.”

  “Have any plans for the rest of the day? And night?” She felt his smile through the phone.

  “I do now,” she said.

  Chapter 83

  A narrow band of sunlight crawled across Georgia’s bed the next morning on its way toward Jimmy’s cheek. When it reached his eyes, he’d wake up. Meanwhile Georgia watched and listened. His slow, even breaths mingled with the sounds of a Saturday morning: the slam of a door, the catch of a car engine, the whoop from one of the kids across the street. A profound contentment spread through her. She was where she was supposed to be. She pulled the sheet up to cover her body; the morning chill was taking its toll. The rustling couldn’t have been much more than a whisper, but when she looked back at Jimmy, his eyes were open.

  “Good morning.” He smiled and reached for her. She let herself be folded into his arms. He tightened his hold. She let out a breath. His hands moved up and down her back, lightly stroking her skin. She closed her eyes and concentrated on every sensation.

  Over coffee and croissants at the coffee shop in Evanston, Georgia debated whether to tell him about Boris, the farm, and her plans. If she did, he’d go all cop on her again. He’d hook up with the Boone County Sheriff, the Harvard police, maybe bring in his own men. They’d take over. She couldn’t chance it. Then again, Jimmy would find out soon enough when the cops announced they had Nyquist, Coe, and Lotwin. He would be pissed she hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in—no—“communicate” with him.

  She was between a rock and a hard place. If she told him, her part in the operation would be over; if she didn’t and he found out, their relationship would be over. She winced. Either way, she was aware that this one was on her. She was still keeping secrets, precisely what she’d just promised not to do.

  Jimmy bit into his croissant. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

  She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “I want you to know something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I never thought I could feel this way about a man. Thank you.”

  He finished chewing. “Shouldn’t that be cause for celebration?”

  She tried to smile brightly. “I hope so.”

  “Assuming I feel the same way.”

  She felt a rush of heat on her face. “I didn’t say it to trap you. Or make you say something you don’t want to.”

  His eyes crinkled up at the corners, and he flashed her a grin. “Don’t you think I know that? You’re the least devious, Machiavellian person I know.”

  She kept her mouth shut.

  He glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. I’m working today.”

  She nodded.

  He stood up, leaned over, kissed her.

  “We’ll continue this conversation tonight. You want to drive up?”

  Chapter 84

  Later that afternoon Georgia stocked up with as much gear as she could think of: a thermos filled with coffee, another jug in which to pee, a Maglite, a ski mask that covered her nose and cheeks, sandwiches, boots with rubber soles, and of course, her baby Glock. She loaded an extra magazine and stowed it in the glove compartment, made sure her cell was charged, and brought the charger. She strapped a .22 to her ankle and wedged it into her left boot. It wasn’t the most original place for a throw-down, but like a good scout, she wanted to be prepared.

  At the farm she parked in the same place as before and prepared to wait. To pass the time she reviewed what she knew. Chad Coe had visited a surgeon. Then he showed up at the home of a Glencoe man who needed a kidney transplant. Then he’d driven to the Evanston apartment where Claudia Nyquist lived. Nyquist later confessed she was helping him traffic organs. Then Chad Coe had gone up to the salon where Zoya worked. Zoya had led her here.

  Yes, it was mostly circumstantial. There was always the chance she had it wrong. And there was one missing piece. Vlad needed a place to harvest the organs. He couldn’t use a real hospital—way too risky. Same with the EmergenC clinics that had sprung up since health care deregulation. A private clinic or hospital would be best.

  She remembered a cosmetic surgeon’s office on the North Shore, right on Green Bay Road in Kenilworth. Privately owned, it boasted an operating room, recovery suite, even patient rooms. In fact, it was a small hospital, intended for nose jobs and breast augmentation. Still, as far as she could tell, it had the same equipment as a surgical OR. It made her wonder if the farm was the site for a similar place. There had been some kind of structure behind the guard’s car when she’d staked out the other night.

  She checked her cell. No texts or messages. She downed some coffee from the thermos. Its smell was better than the taste. She took a few bites of a ham sandwich. As dry as sawdust.

  Finally it was twilight, then dark. Georgia took a few breaths to center herself and slipped her Glock in her shoulder holster. She grabbed her cell and climbed out of the Toyota.

  Chapter 85

  Georgia trudged through the stand of trees between the Toyota and the driveway. The snow beneath her boots crunched. Some had melted in the past two days and seeped into the dirt, leaving patches of bare ground that gave off a fresh, earthy scent. Although it was still February cold, the smell reminded her that spring would be coming.

  She wanted to snap on her Maglite but couldn’t risk it. She listened to the silence instead. She thought she might have heard a f
aint whisper. Was it a TV inside the farmhouse? One of the guards? Or just the night breeze?

  She edged around the last of the trees but stayed half-hidden among the bare branches. A shabby barn stood about a hundred feet from the house, partially surrounded by trees and brush. This was the structure she’d seen the other night. A window was cut into the side closest to her. She needed to look into that window. A dim spotlight mounted on the side of the barn angled in her direction, but the throw of light was too weak to penetrate the tight weave of the branches where she stood.

  Two cars were parked beside the barn. One was Zoya’s red sedan. The other was a dark-colored SUV. The same vehicle from two nights earlier. And now that she had time study it, she realized the van could be the SUV used in the Evanston drive-by. She squinted, trying to pick out the plate—she remembered it started with 633. But the SUV was parked at an odd angle, and she couldn’t make it out. She was about to head over for a closer look when two men on foot emerged from the gloom. The guards. She shrank back into the trees.

  They approached from the far side of the barn. One had a flashlight pointed at the ground, but it wasn’t powerful, and she couldn’t make out either man’s features. They talked in low tones. They circled around the front of the barn and disappeared.

  She waited. Ten minutes later, they came around again, but this time they closed in on the SUV and climbed inside. The dome light snapped on, and she saw them pass a bottle back and forth. Perversely, that gave her hope. If they spent the night loaded on vodka, maybe they’d fall asleep and she would have a chance.

  Half an hour later the men were still in the car. Georgia’s feet and fingers had gone numb, and despite the ski mask, her nose was runny. She had to retreat to the Toyota. She was halfway through the copse of trees when the doors to the SUV slid open again, and the men got out. Their conversation was louder now, and punctuated with broad laughs. They made another circuit of the barn, stumbling occasionally, their boots tramping the underbrush. This time, though, instead of going to the SUV, they headed toward the house. A door slammed.

  She waited another ten minutes. The sky began to spit a cold, stinging rain, not cold enough for sleet but strong enough to hamper visibility. Only crazies would be out in this. Good. She needed every edge.

  Slowly she crept past the cars to the barn. She was about a foot away from it—and the window—when a second set of lights suddenly flickered on, brighter and more powerful than the first. She froze. Her heart thumped in her chest. Had she been made? She stood absolutely still, a rabbit caught in the glare of light. But there was no alarm. No shouts. No movement. The lights must be connected to a motion sensor. Shit. She should get back to her car. They must have noticed the light.

  But she was so close. All she needed was a quick peek through the window. A few seconds. Then she would leave. She closed in. The window was covered with something on the inside: brown paper maybe. Or a canvas drop cloth. She was catching no breaks tonight. Then she looked more closely. One corner of the covering had drooped or the paper had torn, leaving a tiny portion of bare window. The glare from the lights made it difficult to tell. She shaded her eyes and squinted.

  And sucked in a breath. Followed by a triumphant exhalation. Although the window was grimy and streaked, she could clearly see the gleam of metal. And several pieces of equipment, including a gurney, different colored tanks for gas and oxygen, an assortment of instruments. In the center of the area was a table. A light fixture hung over it. Thick drapes cordoned off the sides. She was looking at an operating suite. A place where Dr. Lotwin delivered babies, killed their mothers, and then harvested their organs.

  She hurriedly fished out her cell and took a few pictures. She’d found what she was looking for. She tapped her phone app. She’d programmed in the number of the Russian mob guy she and Matt had visited. Time to call in the cavalry. She’d told Boris they should give her an hour—it would take them at least that long to get here. If they came at all. Not ideal, but it was the only insurance policy she had.

  She tapped on “Boris” and was waiting for a connection when she felt it. The spitting rain was cold, but the barrel of the gun against her neck was colder.

  Chapter 86

  Savannah—One Month Earlier

  Vanna was pregnant. She’d never been pregnant before, but, like her mother used to say, “Sure as eggs is eggs,” she knew. She hadn’t seen her period for more than two months, and the cramps that always preceded it never materialized. Her boobs were bigger, too, and tender. She wasn’t showing, at least yet, but she would be. Soon.

  When Vanna told her, Jenny, already five months pregnant, said, “How could you be? You’ve been here. You haven’t been doing tricks.”

  The girls were kept in separate but adjacent rooms at the farm. They’d discovered a vent in each of their rooms at roughly the same location. If they lay down beside them, they could communicate.

  “Keep it down,” Vanna said in a whisper.

  “But how did it happen?” Jenny’s voice grew quieter.

  “Vlad. He checked me out a couple of months ago. Made me parade in front of him downstairs in hooker clothes. He’s been coming out here a few times a week.”

  Jenny’s voice went flat. “So it is you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The guards said Vlad had a new girl. But they weren’t sure who it was. I should have known.”

  “I didn’t ask for it,” Vanna said.

  “Yeah, I know.” But there was a judgmental quality in Jenny’s voice, as if Vanna could have done something about it if she wanted. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He’s had all of us.”

  “You’re kidding.” Vanna couldn’t help feeling deflated.

  “Yup.” Was there just a hint of “I told you so” triumph in Jenny’s voice? “And now I’m pregnant.”

  “But that was—while we were on the junk, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. And now he ignores me. Like I was the one who fucked up. Even though they were the ones who put us on the shit.”

  “How come you never told me?”

  “I thought you knew. I thought he was fucking you too. And now”—Jenny’s voice caught—“he is.”

  Vanna kept her mouth shut. Vlad had come out to see her just two days ago. In fact, she was getting used to him. He could be cruel; then again, there were times he was quite sweet. At least to her. One night after they fucked, she thanked him for getting her off the dope.

  He nodded. “No one should be on that poison.”

  She curled up next to him, something he rarely allowed. “When you’re on it, you don’t think it’s bad.”

  He actually put his arm around her.

  She snuggled closer. “Anyway…,” she said, “now I know you care.”

  When he bought her a pair of earrings for Christmas, dangly things that sparkled in the light, she was sure of it. She was different from the other girls. She and Vlad had something special.

  Now Jenny interrupted her thoughts. “This isn’t good, Vanna. When we were downtown, there were rumors. The girls—when they get pregnant—a lot of them disappear. And never come back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. After they go into labor, they’re gone.”

  “What do you think happens to them?”

  “What do you think?” Jenny whispered.

  Vanna swallowed. “No. I don’t believe it. He probably just sells them to other pimps.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  Vanna hesitated. “It—it makes no sense.”

  It was Jenny’s turn to be quiet.

  “And,” Vanna added, a chill running through her, “it would mean we’re next.”

  Chapter 87

  Savannah

  That night Vanna couldn’t sleep. At one point she heard the crunch of cars on snow and gravel. She’d heard them before, but her room was on the other side of the house and she�
�d never actually seen the cars or the people in them. She only knew they hadn’t come into the house. Once she thought she heard a woman cry out, but when she asked, Zoya said she must have been dreaming.

  Then there was the barn. All the time she’d been at the farm, no one had allowed her near it. She’d tried. One of the guards, Sergei, was almost human. He nodded when he saw her; even smiled once or twice. She begged him to let her go for a walk, and he consented, but, of course, he went with her. Anytime she ventured in the direction of the barn, he steered her away. Which, of course, made her more curious.

  Now she wondered if the cars arriving at night and the barn were connected to what Jenny had told her. She didn’t see how. She wasn’t even sure Jenny was telling the truth. Girls who got pregnant, and there did seem to be a lot of them—four or five in the time she’d been at the farm—were probably given abortions, then sold.

  If she’d learned one thing about sex trafficking, it was that there was always a supply of new girls. Fresh off the bus, duped into thinking they were going to be nannies, actresses, or models. Once snared by assholes like Lazlo, they were sold into trafficking, then hooked on heroin so they couldn’t buy their way out. Except for the ones who got pregnant. Like her, they were forced into withdrawal. But Jenny had a point. She never saw any of the pregnant women once they delivered.

  If that was true, though, why was Vlad coming out here three times a week to have sex with her? And why was he fucking other girls, many of whom, according to Jenny, got pregnant as well? It made no sense. And yet, if it was true, she and Jenny were sitting ducks.

  She didn’t want to leave. For the first time since she’d come to Chicago, for the first time since her father died, in fact, she’d found a sort of security. Sure it was crazy to think that being trafficked was stable. But Vlad had rescued her from the worst of it, and she didn’t have much to do except wait for his next visit. She wasn’t stupid enough to call it love, but it was something. He came to see her regularly, they had sex, they talked. She liked that part—the talking—best of all. They were getting to know each other.