by Blake Pierce
Keri was almost relieved to hear him say it. Now at least she knew he wasn’t going to try to escape. He was going to try to kill her. At least that was one variable gone.
She saw him take a deep breath and knew he was about to make his move. There was no way to avoid it. But maybe she could throw him off his game just a bit.
“How do you know it’s not ending for you tonight?” she asked. “I think I may just have to make you my bitch.”
“You can’t do that,” he said, still smiling. “Otherwise you’ll never find your daughter agai—”
Before he could finish the sentence, she moved forward, punching him hard in the gut. He seemed startled but not badly hurt. Without any hesitation, he moved toward her, slamming his formidable frame into hers, pinning her against the concrete parking garage barrier.
Keri felt the breath escape her body and she gasped, desperately trying to regroup. She saw him pull something from his jeans pocket and realized it was a knife. It was smaller than the one she remembered, but it would still do what he wanted.
She saw it flash in the light of the streetlight as he brought it forward, keeping it low and aiming for her stomach. She knew she couldn’t stop the momentum of the thrust, so she tried to shift her weight to the right as she grabbed his forearm and pulled it forward so he couldn’t adjust the direction.
The blade narrowly missed her body and instead slammed hard into the concrete barrier behind her. She saw it pop from his hand. But rather than watch where it ended up as he was doing, she thrust herself forward, slamming her forehead into the bridge of his nose.
For briefest of instants, she felt his body, pressed hard against hers, relent. She used the moment to gather herself for what she knew would be the oncoming onslaught. It didn’t take long.
He slammed up against her, trapping her lower body against the barrier and bending her upper body backward so that it was hanging out over the ramp leading down to the parking garage. As she pressed back against him, she glanced down and guessed it was at least a ten-foot drop to the hard concrete.
She looked at the Collector, whose face was only inches away from hers. Her head-butt had knocked off his sunglasses and she stared into his hazel eyes. She could tell he was thinking the same thing she was. If he simply stepped back and pushed, the weight of her upper body would send Keri crashing backward onto the ramp pavement below, likely on her head.
She saw the victorious glint in his eyes as he started to step back and push her at the same time. But at that exact moment, unable to think of any other option, Keri stopped pushing against him and instead wrapped her arms tightly around his midsection.
As she felt herself careening over the edge, with him on top of her, she kicked up her legs in front of her, hoping to generate as much momentum as possible. At the same time she squeezed him against her, refusing to allow him to break free.
And then they were falling, weightless and heavy at the same time. As they tumbled, both of them were completely inverted for a split second before their shared momentum propelled him down and her on top of him.
By the time they reached the asphalt, he was on the bottom and Keri was above him. She felt their bodies land with a massive thud and she heard a crack that sounded like his head hitting the ground.
Her knees, which were straddling him, hit the ground hard, sending waves of pain shooting through her. The side of her head slammed against his chest hard and bounced once before resting there. Once again, the air had been knocked out of her and she tried to gulp it back in.
She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. It felt like she’d broken both her legs. But she knew she was alive.
After what felt like forever, she placed her hands on the ground and pushed up slightly so she could more clearly see the Collector lying underneath her. His chest was heaving so she knew he wasn’t dead.
She looked at his face. His eyes were open and he was blinking a lot. The wig had come loose and she could see his blond hair below it. A small pool of blood had collected below his head.
Keri looked around. No one else was in sight. Apparently their fight had been so sudden and quiet that no one else even seemed to have realized it had happened. Keri could still hear the loud shouts and cheers of people having a fun night on the town.
She pushed herself up so that she was now sitting almost upright, straddling the Collector as he lay on his back. He had made no effort to push her off. In fact, other than his blinking eyes, she realized he hadn’t even twitched.
“Can you move?” she asked him. She realized she still had the fake teeth in her mouth and spit them out.
He stopped blinking and looked around as if trying to find the source of the voice. Finally his gaze rested on her.
“I think I broke my neck,” he said, his voice audible but soft. “I can’t feel anything.”
Keri pinched his upper arm hard.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
“Feel what?”
“I think you might be paralyzed.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” he said vaguely. Keri noticed that the pool of blood below his head was getting larger.
“Tell me where my daughter is.”
“What?”
“You’re dying. Blood is pouring out of your head. You’ll be dead before an ambulance can get here. No need to worry about prison. Just tell me where Evie is. Do one good thing before you die.”
She was surprised at how calm she sounded. Her voice wasn’t pleading. It was more like she was making a forceful suggestion.
“Why would I give you the satisfaction?” he asked. “This is your fault. If I’m dying, at least I’ll know you’ll suffer when I’m gone.”
Keri felt her chest tighten as the rage welled up inside her. She tried to force it back down.
You don’t know how much time he has left. Use it. Make it worth his while to tell you.
“Tell me where she is and I’ll call for help,” she said.
“You already said I’m going to die. You’re just changing tactics, trying to take advantage of my diminished state,” he said before hacking in what Keri suspected was an attempt to laugh.
“I’m no doctor. Maybe you can make it.”
His eyes softened a bit, as if he couldn’t fix his gaze on her anymore. He resumed blinking for several seconds and then seemed to regain control.
“Keri,” he whispered and she leaned down close to him. “This is going to be so bad for you. Until now, you always had hope. But once I’m gone, you won’t have any link to her. Imagine all the things that have been done to her. Those are on me. But the things that have yet to be done to her? They’re on your head now. What kind of mother are you, to inflict such suffering on your own child?”
Suddenly he was gagging. Keri looked up and realized it was because she had wrapped her own hands around his neck. She was squeezing, harder than she had ever squeezed in her life. She looked at her knuckles turn white, and then turned her attention to the Collector, whose arrogant eyes were no longer blinking. Now they were wide, as if they might pop right out of his head.
And still she kept choking him. She squeezed until she no longer had feeling in her hands, until she felt his neck muscles stop straining against her fingers, until his chest stopped rising and falling below her.
And when she was sure he was done moving, Keri collapsed on top of him. Her own body began to heave with uncontrollable sobs. In the distance she could hear a voice.
“Hey, there are people down there!” a woman screamed. It sounded far away.
She didn’t try to stop weeping. Rather, she let the heaving cries envelop her. She cried because she knew he was right. Once he died, whether due his shattered, bloodied skull or her hands around his throat, all hope of finding Evie was lost.
She couldn’t tap his phone. She couldn’t put a tail on him. She couldn’t throw him in a cell and interrogate him. She couldn’t do anything.
He was gone. And now, so was the only lead
she had to find her precious daughter. As she lay there, listening to the voices getting closer, one thought consumed her.
I wish I was dead too.
CHAPTER TEN
Sarah felt panic creeping in at the edge of her mind and tried to shove it away. It was getting harder with each passing minute. She sat shivering on the floor of the cold, dingy motel room, wearing only her teal top, her panties, and her sneakers. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here.
The brown van had dropped them off and the men had yanked each of them out and dragged them to separate rooms of the two-story motel. She noticed the parking lot was mostly empty and wondered if this place even had customers. The man responsible for her had handcuffed her right wrist to the radiator, put duct tape over her mouth, warned her not to pull it off, and left, locking the door behind him.
The room was dark and there was no clock for her to orient herself. She tried to grab a blanket off the bed but it was too far to reach, no matter how much she stretched. She saw a phone on a nightstand on the far side of the bed but it might as well have been a mile away.
She tried to turn on the heat and despite everything, ended up laughing, because the radiator was broken. But after a moment, the laughs turned to tears as the memories returned in a rush: the man she’d kicked in the groin on top of her, forcing her back down every time she tried to pull away, seeming to enjoy her squirming and struggling.
It had only stopped when Chiqy started shouting, announcing that the police were on their way. The man climbed off her, pulling up his pants as he rushed to the exit.
Ignoring the pain she felt, she had rolled off the mattress and tried to crawl away. But Chiqy caught up to her, lifted her to her feet by her hair, dragged her to the van, and shoved her in.
Before she knew what was happening, twenty-two other girls were herded in after her. One girl was left behind because she couldn’t stop vomiting. Sarah was pressed up against the cab of the van and worried that if she lost her balance she’d be trampled by the others.
She forced the memory from her head. It did her no good to obsess over what had happened to her. If she wanted to prevent it from happening again, she had to find some way out of this motel room.
She looked around the room for what felt like the hundredth time. But there was nothing she saw that could help her escape. She tugged on the radiator again but it didn’t budge. Her wrist was bloody and swollen from the effort. She considered ripping the duct tape off her mouth but didn’t see the point if no one who might care could hear her scream.
Suddenly she heard voices from down the walkway. She crouched into a ball, hoping to make herself small, as if that would do any good if they came in.
Please let them walk by this room. Please let them walk by this room.
But they didn’t. She heard someone turn a lock and the door opened. Blue neon light streamed in, temporarily blinding her. When her eyes adjusted, she saw two men in the doorway. One was clearly Chiqy. She didn’t recognize the other one.
Chiqy turned on the overhead light and closed the door behind them.
“Sarah,” he said, “this is Mr. Holiday. You’re his now.”
Mr. Holiday proceeded to pull out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills and count them out. As he did, Sarah studied him. He wasn’t quite as big as Chiqy. But he was in much better shape. Wearing a track suit that was too tight for him and showed off his bulging muscles, he looked like one of those steroid-loving weightlifters. He had light, close-cropped brown hair and a square face with too-tanned skin.
He finished counting the bills, thirty of them in all, and handed them over to Chiqy, who took them and shoved them in his pocket.
“Nice doing business with you, little girl,” he said to Sarah, before turning to Mr. Holiday. “Be careful with this one. She’s feisty—likes to fight back.”
When Chiqy left, Mr. Holiday locked the door and walked over to her. He stood directly above her, looking down at her like a butcher might look at a side of beef. Then he sat down on the bed.
“I know Chiqy had his rules,” he said, speaking for the first time. His voice was surprisingly quiet, and almost warm. “But I do things a little differently. I’m going to explain what will happen to you so you don’t have any questions. If I were in your position I’d be constantly worried about what was going to happen to me. I want to take away that uncertainty for you. Would you like that?”
Sarah nodded, not sure there was any other option.
“It’s okay, you can speak,” he said as he peeled off the duct tape, sounding like nothing so much as a comforting doctor. “Would you like me to walk you through the procedure?”
“Yes please,” she said hoarsely. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the mall and her throat was dry. Mr. Holiday seemed to sense that. He got up, went into the bathroom to fill up a plastic cup with water, and handed it to her. As she sipped, he spoke.
“First of all, you no longer have a name. You are now Number Four.” To reinforce that point, he pulled out a marking pen and wrote what she assumed was a “4” on her forehead. He looked at it, and apparently satisfied with his handiwork, he returned the marker to his pocket.
“You will answer to that name,” he continued. “Now we’re going to have to make a few changes. I want you to hold still so you don’t get cut.”
He pulled a pair of scissors from another pocket, then grabbed what remained of her teal top and cut it off. He did the same to her panties. Other than her sneakers and socks she was now completely naked. He then began to cut her hair. She saw huge chunks fall on the carpet beside her, and with each lock that fell, her heart broke.
It had taken her years to grow it that long.
As he cut, he went on.
“I understand that you are sixteen. But with a shorter cut, I think we can make you look closer to thirteen. Younger girls do better business so that’s what you are now. If a client asks your age, you say thirteen, got it?”
Sarah nodded.
“So there’s no confusion, I prefer ‘yes, Mr. Holiday’ or ‘no, Mr. Holiday.’ Try again.”
“Yes, Mr. Holiday,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, despite the fear rising in her throat.
“Good. As I was saying, clients like younger girls. I expect you’ll be very popular. We’re going to break you in here at the motel. But then we’ll be moving you to your new, permanent home. When we get there, you should expect to service between twenty and thirty clients a day. You’ll be worth more early on, when you’re fresh. Most of them won’t be using protection. They pay more for that thrill.”
Despite her best efforts, Sarah started to cry. But Mr. Holiday seemed oblivious, continuing to chop off her hair and speak in that kindly, lilting tone.
“You should anticipate getting most sexually transmitted diseases—syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes, HIV. As the weeks go on and you’re more used up, you’ll cost less. That is, unless you can think of ways to keep it interesting for the clients. I recommend you do that. The more you can do to keep your price up, the more value you have to me. Do you understand that, Number Four?”
“Yes, Mr. Holiday,” Sarah managed to whisper.
“Now, I prefer to avoid drugging my employees if at all possible. I’ve found that clients prefer their girls more alert. But if you become a problem, as Chiqy suggested you might, I may have to. You’ll do the work either way. But if you’re drugged, I’ll just give you to my more…unsophisticated clients. Trust me, you don’t want those. They tend to leave lots of bruises. Do you understand, Number Four?”
“Yes, Mr. Holiday.”
“Excellent. I have high hopes for you. Now, because I can tell you are a smart girl from a good home, I’m going to tell you something I don’t tell most of my employees. Obviously, after this your parents won’t want anything to do with you—they’ll be too ashamed. And you’ll be too damaged and diseased to ever find a man to love you.
“But if you give me ninety days of solid work, and maybe
even show a little enthusiasm, I will reward you at the end with a freedom of sorts. I will offer you the sweet release of death. Most girls don’t get that offer. I have some who have worked for me for years, until they are dried up, strung out, and covered in open, festering wounds so bad that no one will pay to use them anymore. In the end, I put them down like dogs. I don’t want that for you, Number Four. I want you to retain your dignity, at least as much as you can under the circumstances. So keep that in the back of your mind.”
With that he stopped talking and stepped back to look at her. She didn’t dare reach up to touch her head but she could tell he’d cut off the bulk of her hair. The back of her neck felt cold in the unheated room.
Mr. Holiday came close and she tried not to shiver. He unlocked her cuffed right hand and gently helped her to her feet. She’d been crouched on the floor so long that she couldn’t feel her legs or support her own weight. He anticipated that and helped her over to the bed.
He maneuvered her so she was lying on her back and adjusted the pillow under her head. Then he took her unbruised left wrist, put the handcuff on it, and attached the other end to a bar of the bed’s headboard. He stepped back to look at her.
“Perfect,” he said, before pulling out his phone and making a quick call. “Send him up.”
Sarah felt a new wave of fear course through her body. She didn’t know how she still had the capacity for it. She thought she’d be desensitized to these horrors by now.
“Number Four, your first client as my employee is on his way up. I want you to be very nice to him. If he wants you to talk, you say the things he likes. Do as he says, no matter what it is. He may have some unusual requests. You are to do your best to meet them. This is the first test of our relationship, Number Four. Pass it and things will go better for you. Fail it and things will get much worse. You know that they can get worse, right, Number Four?”
“Yes, Mr. Holiday.”
There was a knock on the door. He opened it and stepped aside to let in a wheezy, rotund man. Sarah guessed that he was in his sixties. He was balding but had a ridiculous comb-over that swept across the top of his head like a thatch of wet straw.