Maura saw it, too. “There’s someone in Roke’s backseat,” she said.
“That’s what I wanted you both to see,” said Moore. “A third person was in Roke’s car. Hiding, maybe, or sleeping in the backseat. You can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. All you can see is this head with short hair, popping up right after the shooting.” He looked at Gabriel. “There’s a third associate we haven’t seen or heard yet. Someone who was with them in New Haven. That activation code may have been meant for more than one person.”
Gabriel’s gaze was still riveted on the screen. On that mysterious silhouette. “You said he had a military record.”
“That’s how we matched his prints. He served in the army, 1990 to ’92.”
“Which unit?” When Moore did not immediately answer, Gabriel looked at him. “What was he trained to do?”
“EOD. Explosive ordnance disposal.”
“Bombs?” said Maura. She looked, startled, at Moore. “If he knows how to disarm them, then he probably knows how to build them.”
“You said he only served two years,” said Gabriel. His own voice struck him as eerily calm. A cold-blooded stranger’s.
“He had . . . problems overseas, when he got to Kuwait,” said Moore. “He received a dishonorable discharge.”
“Why?”
“Refusing to obey orders. Striking an officer. Repeated conflicts with other men in his unit. There was some concern that he was emotionally unstable. That he might be suffering from paranoia.”
Moore’s words had felt like blow after pummeling blow, pounding the breath from Gabriel’s lungs. “Jesus,” he murmured. “This changes everything.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maura.
He looked at her. “We can’t waste any more time. We’ve got to get her out now.”
“What about negotiations? What about going slow?”
“It doesn’t apply here. Not only is this man unstable, he’s already killed a cop.”
“He doesn’t know Jane’s a cop,” said Moore. “And we’re not going to let him find out. Look, the same principles apply here. The longer a hostage crisis goes on, the better it usually comes out. Negotiation works.”
Gabriel pointed to the laptop. “How the hell do you negotiate with someone who does that?”
“It can be done. It has to be done.”
“It’s not your wife in there!” He saw Maura’s startled gaze, and he turned away, struggling for composure.
It was Moore who spoke next, his voice quiet. Gentle. “What you’re feeling now—what you’re going through—I’ve been there, you know. I know exactly what you’re dealing with. Two years ago, my wife, Catherine, was abducted, by a man you may remember. Warren Hoyt.”
The Surgeon. Of course, Gabriel remembered him. The man who late at night would slip into homes where women slept, awakening to find a monster in their bedrooms. It was the aftermath of Hoyt’s crimes that had first brought Gabriel to Boston a year ago. The Surgeon, he suddenly realized, was the common thread that bound them all together. Moore and Gabriel, Jane and Maura. They had all, in one way or another, been touched by the same evil.
“I knew Hoyt was holding her,” said Moore. “And there was nothing I could do about it. No way I could think of to save her. If I could have exchanged my life for hers, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But all I could do was watch the hours go by. The worst part of it was, I knew what he was doing to her. I’d watched the autopsies on his other victims. I saw every cut he ever made with his scalpel. So yes, I know exactly what you’re feeling. And believe me, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Jane out of there alive. Not just because she’s my colleague, or because you’re married to her. It’s because I owe her my happiness. She’s the one who found Catherine. Jane’s the one who saved her life.”
At last Gabriel looked at him. “How do we negotiate with these people?”
“We need to find out exactly what they want. They know they’re trapped. They have no choice but to talk to us, so we keep talking to them. You’ve dealt with other hostage situations, so you know the negotiator’s playbook. The rules haven’t changed, just because you’re on the other side of it now. You have to take your wife, your emotions, out of this equation.”
“Could you?”
Moore’s silence answered the question. Of course he couldn’t.
And neither can I.
THIRTEEN
Mila
Tonight we are going to a party.
The Mother tells us that important people will be there, so we must look our prettiest, and she has given us new clothes for the occasion. I am wearing a black velvet dress with a skirt so tight that I can scarcely walk, and I must pull the hem all the way up to my hips just so I can climb into the van. The other girls slide in beside me in a rustle of silk and satin, and I smell their clashing bouquet of perfumes. We have spent hours with our makeup creams and lipsticks and mascara brushes, and now we sit like masked dolls about to perform in a Kabuki play. Nothing you see is real. Not the eyelashes or the red lips or the blushing cheeks. The van is cold, and we shiver against each other, waiting for Olena to join us.
The American driver yells out the window that we must leave now, or we’ll be late. At last the Mother comes out of the house, tugging Olena after her. Olena angrily shakes off the Mother’s hand and proceeds to walk the rest of the way on her own. She is wearing a long, green silk dress with a high Chinese collar and a side slit that reaches all the way to her thigh. Her black hair swings straight and sleek to her shoulders. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and I stare at her as she crosses to the van. The drugs have calmed her down as usual, have turned her docile, but they have also made her unsteady, and she sways in her high heels.
“Get in, get in,” the driver orders.
The Mother has to help Olena into the van. Olena slides onto the seat in front of mine and promptly slumps against the window. The Mother slides the door shut and climbs in beside the driver.
“It’s about time,” he says, and we pull away from the house.
I know why we are going to this party; I know what is expected of us. Still, this feels like an escape because it is the first time in weeks that we have been allowed out of the house, and I eagerly press my face to the window as we turn onto a paved road. I see the sign: DEERFIELD ROAD.
For a long time, we drive.
I watch the road signs, reading the names of the towns we are passing through. RESTON and ARLINGTON and WOODBRIDGE. I look at people in other cars, and I wonder if any of them can see the silent plea in my face. If any of them cared. A woman driver in the next lane glances at me, and for an instant our eyes meet. Then she turns her attention back to the road. What did she see, really? Just a redheaded girl in a black dress, going out for a good time. People see what they expect to see. It never occurs to them that terrible things can look pretty.
I begin to catch glimpses of water, a wide ribbon of it, in the distance. When the van finally stops, we are parked at a dock, where a large motor yacht is moored. I did not expect tonight’s party to be on a boat. The other girls are craning their necks to see it, curious about what this enormous yacht looks like inside. And a little afraid, too.
The Mother slides open the van door. “These are important men. You will all smile and be happy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” we murmur.
“Get out.”
As we scramble from the van, I hear Olena say, in a slurred voice, “Fuck yourself, Mother,” but no one else hears her.
Tottering on high heels, shivering in our dresses, we walk single file up the ramp and onto the boat. On the deck, a man stands waiting for us. Just by the way the Mother hurries forward to greet him, I know this man is important. He gives us a cursory glance, and nods in approval. Says in English, to the Mother: “Take them inside and get a few drinks in them. I want them in the mood when our guests arrive.”
“Yes, Mr. Desmond.”
The man’s gaze pauses
on Olena, who is swaying unsteadily near the railing. “Is that one going to cause us trouble again?”
“She took the pills. She’ll be quiet.”
“Well, she’d better be. I don’t want her acting up tonight.”
“Go,” the Mother directs us. “Inside.”
We step through the doorway into the cabin, and I am dazzled by my first glimpse. A crystal chandelier sparkles over our heads. I see dark wood paneling, couches of cream-colored suede. A bartender pops open a bottle, and a waiter in a white jacket brings us flutes of champagne.
“Drink,” the Mother says. “Find a place to sit and be happy.”
We each take a flute and spread out around the cabin. Olena sits on the couch beside me, sipping champagne, crossing her long legs so that the top of her thigh peeks out through the slit.
“I’m watching you,” the Mother warns Olena in Russian.
Olena shrugs. “So does everyone else.”
The bartender announces: “They’re here.”
The Mother gives Olena one last threatening look, then retreats through a doorway.
“See how she has to hide her fat face?” Olena says. “No one wants to look at her.”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t get us into trouble.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my darling little Mila, we are already in trouble.”
We hear laughter, and hearty greetings between colleagues. Americans. The cabin door opens and all the girls snap straight and smile as four men walk in. One is the host, Mr. Desmond, who met us on the deck. His three guests are all men, all nicely dressed in suits and ties. Two of them are young and fit, men who walk with the confident grace of athletes. But the third man is older, as old as my grandfather and far heavier, with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair that is giving way to inevitable baldness. The guests gaze around the room, inspecting us with clear interest.
“I see you’ve brought in a few new ones,” the older man says.
“You should come by the house again, Carl. See what we have.” Mr. Desmond gestures toward the bar. “Something to drink, gentlemen?”
“Scotch would be good,” says the older man.
“And what about you, Phil? Richard?”
“Same for me.”
“That champagne will do nicely.”
The boat’s engines are now rumbling. I look out the window and see that we are moving, heading out into the river. At first the men do not join us. Instead they linger near the bar, sipping their drinks, talking only to one another. Olena and I understand English, but the other girls know only a little, and their mechanical smiles soon fade to looks of boredom. The men discuss business. I hear them talk about contracts and bids and road conditions and casualties. Who is vying for which contract and for how much. This is the real reason for the party; business first, then fun. They finish their drinks, and the bartender pours another round. A few final pleasantries before they fuck the whores. I see the glint of wedding rings on the hands of the three guests, and I picture these men making love to their wives in big beds with clean sheets. Wives who have no idea what their husbands do, in other beds, to girls like me.
Even now, the men glance our way, and my hands begin to sweat, anticipating the evening’s ordeal. The older one keeps looking toward Olena.
She smiles at him, but under her breath she says to me in Russian: “What a pig. I wonder if he oinks when he comes.”
“He can hear you,” I whisper.
“He can’t understand a word.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Look, he’s smiling. He thinks I’m telling you how handsome he is.”
The man sets his empty glass on the bar and crosses toward us. I think he wishes to be with Olena, so I stand up to make room for him on the couch. But it is my wrist he reaches for, and he stops me from leaving.
“Hello,” he says. “Do you speak English?”
I nod; my throat has gone too dry to answer. I can only gaze at him in dismay. Olena rises from the couch, flashes me a sympathetic look, and wanders away.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“I am . . . I am seventeen.”
“You look much younger.” He sounds disappointed.
“Hey Carl,” Mr. Desmond calls out. “Why don’t you take her for a little stroll?”
Already, the other two guests have chosen their companions. One of them is now leading Katya away, down the corridor.
“Any stateroom will do,” our host adds.
Carl stares at me. Then his hand tightens around my wrist, and he leads me down the corridor. He pulls me into a handsome stateroom, paneled with gleaming wood. I back away, my heart hammering as he locks the door. When he turns back to me, I see that his pants are already bulging.
“You know what to do.”
But I don’t; I have no idea what he expects, so I am shocked by the sudden blow. His slap sends me to my knees and I huddle at his feet, bewildered.
“Don’t you listen? You stupid slut.”
I nod, dropping my head and staring at the floor. Suddenly I understand what the game is, what he craves. “I’ve been very bad,” I whisper.
“You need to be punished.”
Oh god. Let this be over soon.
“Say it!” he snaps.
“I need to be punished.”
“Take off your clothes.”
Shaking now, terrified of being hit again, I obey. I unzip my dress, pull off my stockings, my underwear. I keep my gaze lowered; a good girl must be respectful. I am completely silent as I stretch out on the bed, as I open myself to him. No resistance, just subservience.
As he undresses, he stares at me, savoring his view of compliant flesh. I swallow my disgust when he climbs on top of me, his breath sharp with scotch. I close my eyes and concentrate on the growl of the engines, on the slap of water against the hull. I float above my body, feeling nothing as he thrusts into me. As he grunts and comes.
When he is finished, he does not even wait for me to dress. He simply rises, puts on his clothes, and walks out of the stateroom. Slowly, I sit up. The boat’s engines have quieted to a low purr. Looking out the window, I see that we are returning to land. The party is over.
By the time I finally creep from the stateroom, the boat is once again docked, and the guests have left. Mr. Desmond is at the bar sipping the last of the champagne, and the Mother is gathering together her girls.
“What did he say to you?” she asks me.
I shrug. I can feel Desmond’s eyes studying me, and I am afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“Why did he choose you? Did he say?”
“He only wanted to know how old I was.”
“That’s all?”
“It’s all he cared about.”
The Mother turns to Mr. Desmond, who has been watching us both with interest. “You see? I told you,” she says to him. “He always goes for the youngest one in the room. Doesn’t care what they look like. But he wants them young.”
Mr. Desmond thinks about this for a moment. He nods. “I guess we’ll just have to keep him happy.”
Olena wakes up to find me standing at the window, staring out through the bars. I have lifted the sash and cold air pours in, but I do not care. I want only to breathe in fresh air. I want to cleanse the evening’s poison from my lungs, my soul.
“It’s too cold,” Olena says. “Close the window.”
“I am suffocating.”
“Well, it’s freezing in here.” She crosses to the window and pulls it shut. “I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I,” I whisper.
By the glow of moonlight that shines through the grimy window, she studies me. Behind us, one of the girls whimpers in her sleep. We listen to the sound of their breathing in the darkness, and suddenly there is not enough air left in the room for me. I am fighting to breathe. I push at the window, trying to raise it again, but Olena holds it shut.
“Stop it, Mila.”
“I’m dying!”
“Please open it. Open it!” I’m sobbing now, clawing at the window.
“You want to wake up the Mother? You want to get us in trouble?”
My hands have cramped into painful claws, and I cannot even clutch the sash. Olena grabs my wrists.
“Listen,” she says. “You want air? I’ll get you some air. But you have to be quiet. The others can’t know about it.” I am too panicked to care what she’s saying. She grabs my face in her hands, forces me to look at her. “You did not see this,” she whispers. Then she pulls something from her pocket, something that gleams faintly in the darkness.
A key.
“How did you—”
“Shhh.” She snatches the blanket from her cot and pulls me past the other girls, to the door. There she pauses to glance back at them, to confirm they are all asleep, then slips the key into the lock. The door swings open and she pulls me through, into the hallway.
I am stunned. Suddenly I’ve forgotten that I am suffocating, because we are out of our prison; we are free. I turn toward the stairs to flee, but she yanks me back sharply.
“Not that way,” she says. “We can’t get out. There’s no key to the front door. Only the Mother can open it.”
“Then where?”
“I’ll show you.”
She pulls me down the hallway. I can see almost nothing. I put my trust entirely in her hands, letting her lead me through a doorway. Moonlight glows through the window, and she glides like a pale ghost across the bedroom, picks up a chair, and quietly sets it down in the center of the room.
“What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer, but climbs onto the chair and reaches toward the ceiling. A trap door creaks open above her head, and a ladder unfolds downward.
“Where does it go?” I ask.
“You wanted fresh air, didn’t you? Let’s go find some,” she says, and climbs the ladder.
I follow her up the rungs and scramble through the trap door, into an attic. Through a single window, moonlight shines in, and I see the shadows of boxes and old furniture. The air is stale up here; it is not fresh at all. She opens the window and climbs through. Suddenly it strikes me: this window has no bars. When I poke my head out, I understand why. The ground is too far below us. There is no escape here; to jump would be suicide.
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