Deadliest of Sins (5 page)

Six

Smiley secretly hated the
Russians. He didn't like the way they muscled into a territory, knocking back their vodka, assuming that America was now theirs for the plundering. In particular he didn't like the fact that their local lieutenant, Boyko Zelinski, was now glaring at him with the butt of a Makarov pistol protruding from the shoulder holster under his pricey linen jacket.
No respect,
he thought to himself.
Not an ounce of deference for me and my people, the ones who'd been plundering America back when his ancestors were growing turnips for the Czar.

Boyko's pale eyes narrowed. “You always allow your girls cell phones,
moy drug
?”

“Ivan was one of yours, Boyko. Not mine.”

“Ivan was here to help you, Smiley. Feed the girls, dole out their drugs, don't pop any of their cherries. He was not to loan his cell phone out for calls.”

Smiley stepped aside as the walking side of beef they called Volk carried Ivan's corpse down the dark hall. “Then I guess Ivan screwed up, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did. And it's too bad, too. I hate to kill Russians.” Boyko glared at Smiley. He'd started to say something else when another man joined them in the hall. Short and stocky, he had his slicked-back brown hair curled over the collar of his white lab coat. Smiley noticed he carried a tattered black doctor's bag. Boyko nodded at the man, then returned his attention to Smiley.

“But enough about Ivan,” he said. “Tell me about this girl … this treasure who's already cost me a man.”

“You saw her, before you whacked Ivan,” Smiley replied. “Sixteen. Beautiful. And she's a virgin.”

Boyko laughed. “Sixteen is old to be virgin.”

“This one really is, as far as we could tell. She's not strung out or crazy like these others. She's clean—a country girl. Just wants to go home to her mother.”

The Russian gave him a cold look. “How did she wind up here?”

“Doesn't matter,” said Smiley. “She's here now. Jersey told me to call you—the Seattle market's good, but they thought there could be an even bigger payoff overseas.”

Boyko snorted. “Overseas is lot of trouble. But let's go look.”

He motioned for the doctor to follow him but paused before they entered to the girl's room. “Smiley, if this girl is not a virgin, it will not go well for you. Russians I hate killing; Americans mean less to me than dogs.”

Samantha lay in her room, trembling, covering her nose against the sickly sweet smell of Ivan's blood. The last half-hour had passed in a dream. She'd actually heard Chase's voice, asking her where she was, then the phone, Ivan, the room—everything exploded. Every time she closed her eyes, she relived it all over again.

“I can't do this,” she whispered, her teeth chattering. She was cold, so cold. Even though it was July and not a breath of air stirred in the boarded-up room, she felt like she was adrift on an iceberg. She wished she were home; she wished she were dead. She wished she were out there with Dusty and the others, sucking men off at the truck stops. She wouldn't be so cold, then. People would be alive. Nobody would have their brains oozing out their ears. She heard footsteps, a soft knock on her door. She sat up, pulled her knees under her chin, and pressed her back against the wall. Maybe they were coming to kill her. In a way, it would be a relief.

As she watched, the door opened. The bald man who killed Ivan peeked inside the room.

“
Dorogoy
? Kiska? Are you okay?” He sounded so much like Ivan, she wanted to cry all over again. “May I come in?”

She was too scared to answer, so he came in anyway. As he neared her bed, she saw that he was not bald, but wore his blond hair shaved so close to his head she could see the veins crisscrossing his skull. His eyes were of a dark, indeterminate color that reminded her of the little chips of coal that her father tracked in from the mine. She shrank back closer to the wall.

“You have had a bad time today, little Kiska, and I am sorry. I did not mean for you to see such a terrible thing. I know Ivan was your friend.” He took several steps closer to the bed and withdrew a Hershey bar from his coat pocket. “Nothing can replace him, but please know that we mean you no harm.”

She watched him. He dropped the chocolate bar on the bed, then backed away, as if she were a wild animal that might come at him with teeth and claws.

“We are very concerned about you, Kiska. We have called a doctor to make sure you are okay.”

Her heart began to beat wildly. This was the man Ivan had told her about—Boyko, who was bringing a doctor to attest to her virginity. She looked around the room for something she could jam up inside her. If she wasn't a virgin, maybe they would let her just go out and be with the others. But the room held nothing. She could not lose her virginity to a candy bar.

“No need to be frightened,” Boyko murmured as he motioned for another man to enter the room. “This is Dr. Petrov. He is going to examine you.”

She watched as the doctor came into the room. He was older than Boyko with yellowish-gray hair greased back from his forehead. He wore a long white coat that had brown stains on the lapels and rimless glasses that magnified his eyes, giving him a strange owlish appearance. A third man followed the doctor into the room but stayed by the door, watching the other two with dark, unreadable eyes.

The doctor walked over and dropped his bag on the side of the bed. He looked at her dispassionately, as if she was some lab rat in a cage. In a way, she guessed she was.

“Have you ever had a physical examination?” His English was formal, but awkward, as if he seldom spoke it.

She gulped, her mouth dry as a cracker. She'd been to doctors to get shots for school and once to get a dog bite stitched up. Beyond that, her mother had taken care of her.

“Do not be afraid,” said the doctor. “It will be painless.”

Her heart thudding, she watched as he opened his bag and withdrew a pair of latex gloves. As he shoved his plump fingers into the gloves, he turned to look at the two men who stood by the door.

“Do you need to watch this?”

“I do,” said the man Boyko, whose coal-chip eyes now gleamed.

The doctor shrugged, then turned back to Samantha. He pulled a flashlight and wooden tongue depressor from his bag and tapped her chin with the little wooden stick. “Open, please!”

She opened her mouth. Immediately, his fingers began a rough probing, feeling her gums, pulling her tongue up to peer underneath. Finally, he withdrew the tongue depressor and stuck his own tongue out, motioning for her to do the same. He shined the flashlight down her throat, then stuck another instrument up her nose and into her ears. As he turned her head, she saw Boyko watching her with hungry eyes.

When the doctor had finished with her head, he took out a stethoscope and listened to her heart. His pale eyes gleamed moistly behind his thick glasses and he smelled of the same disinfectant that sometimes clung to her mother's work uniform. As he worked, he breathed heavily through his nose, the air whistling through his nostrils.

Done with her heart, he straightened up
. “Razdeváysya
.”

She didn't understand what he wanted. When she didn't move, he made another motion, crossing his arms over his chest and then lifting them up. “Remove your clothes.”

She looked past him, at Boyko and the other man who stood gaping at her from across the room. “No.”

The doctor frowned. “If you don't, they will,” he warned her in a whisper.

She lowered her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized that she was one of their girls now—no longer a person—just a thing to examine, use, and then discard.

“
Bystro!”
the doctor finally cried. Impatient, he reached behind her and pulled her T-shirt over her head, her bra down to her waist. As she moved her arms to cover herself, he pushed her flat on the bed. Suddenly, his latex-covered fingers were feeling her breasts, making
large circles around the outer edges, smaller circles around her
nipples. She turned her head and saw Boyko, his thin lips parting as he watched the whole procedure.

The doctor's hands left her breasts. She thought—prayed—for a moment that he might be done, that this might be the end of it, but faster than she could imagine, he pulled her shorts and underpants to her ankles, then off entirely. He pushed her knees up and spread her legs wide. Then suddenly, the same fingers that had catalogued her teeth were now inside her, probing and feeling. At that point, she closed her eyes and took herself away. Down, down into a soft darkness that she imagined her father's mine must have been like. Suddenly, he was there, scooping her up in his strong arms.

Sam-I-Am,
he whispered, just as he had when she was little. He still looked the same—his face sooty up to his forehead, then pale white where his miner's helmet had covered his head. He smelled of cold and metal, and she could feel his outrage—his desire to come into this room and smash the doctor's head in, strangle Boyko like a rag doll. But he made no move to do that. Instead she simply felt his warmth around her as he whispered,
It's all up to you, Sam-I-Am
.
Now it's all up to you.

Seven

Miles away, Chase Buchanan
lay in bed, reliving the call that had come this afternoon on Gudger's precious and forbidden telephone.

“Chase?” Though the young female voice had been faint, his heart nearly stopped. It was Sam calling.

“Sam?” he'd cried. “Where are you?”

She said something; he couldn't hear it. Pressing the heavy black receiver to his ear, he turned. Gudger was banging on the glass panes of the door next to the fireplace, his face now contorted with rage instead of laughter. “That's my private phone, you little asshole!” he shouted from the other side of the door. “Hang that up!”

He ignored Gudger, listening as Sam's words came sketchily over the old receiver. “Trouble … scared … Mama.”

“What did you say?” He gripped the phone harder. “I can't hear you!”

“Tell Mama … men … want … ”

“What?” he cried. “What—”

Then he heard no more. Rough fingers ripped the phone from his grasp as a hand pushed him so hard he fell down. “I told you never to answer this phone, you little bastard!” Gudger cried, his upper lip curling in a snarl.

“But it was my call,” he'd cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It was for me!”

“At least I didn't tell him who it was,” he whispered now, staring at the cracks in his ceiling. He'd barely been able to stand it until his mother came home; then when she walked in the kitchen door, his head began to swim with doubts about what he'd heard. The voice had sounded like Sam, but why had she called Gudger's landline? If she were in trouble, why not call 911? Or even his mother, at work? That made him think maybe it wasn't Sam—maybe it was just someone playing a trick. But who would do that? One of those snotty high school girls who used to call Sam the Coal Miner's Daughter? Or somebody from his class, Ms. Norman's fifth grade? He tried to figure out who it might have been, but he couldn't come up with anybody. He and Sam were new to their school, uncool outsiders from West Virginia. They weren't important enough for anybody to play a trick on. He turned over, crumpling his pillow. As he did, it occurred to him that maybe Gudger had hired someone who sounded like Sam to call. But why? To raise his hopes? To see if he would tell his mother? To drive them both crazy? Gudger was mean enough to do that, but Gudger was also cheap. He'd never pay someone to make a fake phone call.

“No,” he told himself aloud. “It was Sam—I know it was. The landline must have been the only number she could remember.”

But where was she? What had happened to her? Why hadn't she called back? He got up from bed and turned to look out the window. The blue plastic shards of their ruined pool glowed in the patio lights. In the shadows beyond stood the toolshed where he'd taken off his clothes. Behind the toolshed was the fence that enclosed Gudger's property, and behind that, in Mrs. Carver's yard, was his backpack with Mary Crow's business card.

Mary Crow would know what to do, he decided. She was the governor's cop. She could trace the number, find out where Sam was calling from. But why had he put the card in his backpack, instead of his pocket, or even in his shoe? How could he have been so stupid?

“Doesn't matter,” he told himself. “You'll just have to go get it.” Of course he would have to wait until Gudger and his mother went to bed, but that was no problem. He would just sneak out to the toolshed, grab one of Gudger's flashlights, and retrace his steps along the fence line. Once he found the backpack, he'd hurry back here. If Gudger was snoring as loudly as he usually did, he would call Mary Crow immediately, from the forbidden phone in the den. Who cared what Gudger thought?

He got up from the window and cracked open his door. The late news theme song blared from the television. That meant his mother would be heading to bed. Gudger would linger to watch the weather and sports, then he would follow. Their bed might squeak for a few minutes, then they would go to sleep. Softly, he closed his door and got back into bed. All he had to do now was wait. Once he heard Gudger snoring, he could go and get that card.

Hours later, he opened his eyes. He bolted upright, blinking, ready to sneak out of the house and retrieve the card, but something was wrong. It was light outside. Birds were chirping. He was dressed but sock-footed, his shoes still peeking from under the bed. He realized that while he'd been waiting for Gudger to go to bed, he'd fallen asleep.

But maybe I can still do it
, he thought.
Maybe I can sneak up there if they think I'm asleep.

Quietly, he got out of bed, opened his door. Though he smelled fresh coffee, the house was silent—he heard no TV commercials, no cabinets slamming as Gudger fixed his usual Cheerios and milk. His mother had probably gone to work, but where was Gudger?

He crept into the hall, tiptoeing past the master bedroom. The door was open, revealing a made-up bed, a dresser clean of Gudger's normal paraphernalia (wallet, car keys, Taser). Chase had a wild moment of hope—Gudger had been promising to take his mother's car into the shop for months—had he dropped her off at work so he could take the thing to the mechanic?

Emboldened by his possible good luck, he padded through the den and into the kitchen. The coffee was still warm in the pot and Gudger's cereal bowl lay in the sink, but the house was empty. Chase's heart leaped. Gudger was gone!

Quickly, he headed for the back door. He wouldn't need a flashlight now. Now all he had to do was get to the back fence, grab his backpack, and get home. He hesitated a moment, remembering yesterday, when Gudger had appeared from nowhere and snapped those pictures of him in his underwear. The man was mean, and sly as a fox. But as he scanned the back yard, he saw that the patio was empty and the door to Gudger's shed was closed and locked.

“Come on,” Chase told himself. “Don't be such a nelly. Gudger's not here.”

He took a deep breath and stepped out into the already hot morning. Feeling strangely exposed, he ran across the patio and headed toward the toolshed. He'd just jumped over his mother's sad little patch of marigolds when a voice rang out.

“Well, if isn't Olive Oyl, done with her beauty sleep!”

H
is heart caught in his throat as he turned to see Gudger sitting under the eaves of the house in an aluminum lawn chair,
drinking coffee as he read the paper. Chase closed his eyes. He should have known better. There was no way of escaping Gudger.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, boy? You look like your head's on fire and your ass is catching.”

“N-nowhere.” Chase felt as if he was standing there naked, even though he'd slept with all his clothes on.

“Well, nowhere must be a pretty exciting place, if it's got you out of bed with so much piss and vinegar.”

He didn't know what to say. Sam's phone call had gotten him out of bed; saving his sister had filled him full of piss and vinegar.

“I've been wanting to talk to you anyway, Olive Oyl. Who the hell were you on my phone with, yesterday?”

“A computer,” he lied. “It said we'd won a cruise to Jamaica.”

Gudger frowned. “I'm on the Do Not Call list, Olive Oyl.”

“Well it called, just the same.”

“Then why'd you say it was your call?” asked Gudger.

“I thought it might be Mom,” he replied.

“She doesn't call on that line. She always calls my cell.”

“Well, she could have forgotten.” Riding a sudden swell of defiance, he said, “She could have just wanted to talk to me!”

“You're lying, Olive Oyl,” Gudger said. “Just like you lied about going fishing yesterday. I'm gonna straighten you out, boy. I can stand a lot of things, but not a liar. Since you're so bright and bushy-tailed today, how about you go and grub out that poison ivy along the back fence?”

He couldn't believe what he heard. Was Gudger actually sending him to the very spot he needed to go? “Over by Mrs. Carver's?” He pointed over his right shoulder.

“Naw, I don't want you near that old witch. I want you over there.” Gudger pointed to the opposite corner of the yard—a football field away from where he needed to go.

“I-I'm not sure what poison ivy looks like,” Chase said.

Gudger spread three fingers. “Three green leaves on one long stem. It's a vine, coils up around things. Go get a hoe from the shed.”

“But—”

“Get up there, boy.” Gudger snapped his paper back open. “I'm tired of your lying nonsense.”

Chase turned, fighting back tears. Whatever you did, however hard you tried to get past him, Gudger was always there—grinning, leering, grinding him down into something that felt mostly like a fool.

Miles away, Mary Crow was walking into the office of Richard Drake, district attorney for Campbell County. He was a tall, thin-faced man who buttoned his suit coat as he rose from his chair.

“Ms. Crow.” He nodded, extending his hand. “How nice to meet you.”

She shook his hand, wondering what you should say to someone you were supposed to light a fire under.
Sorry I have to be here? I know you're a good lawyer, but the governor thinks you have the balls of a chipmunk and is less than pleased with your performance?
She couldn't decide, so finally she just settled on, “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Please have a seat.” He offered her a chair, then got right to the point. “I understand that the Honorable Ann Chandler is unhappy with our lack of an indictment for Bryan Taylor's murder.”

Mary smiled, grateful that the man was brave enough not to shillyshally around. Still, she tried to be diplomatic. “The governor is always troubled when murder indictments are overly long in coming. But I think she's even more dismayed by the anti-gay sentiment in this county. She thinks it sullies the state's reputation and she's particularly concerned that this Reverend Trull is feeding the flames with all his sermons against homosexuals.”

“I don't like Trull any more than Ann Chandler does,” said Drake. “He's a fanatic who's embarrassed the county with that ridiculous video. But Trull notwithstanding, the majority of people in this county are conservative Christians. They believe homosexuality is a choice and a sin.”

“And does this belief extend to violence toward gay people?”

“Of course not. Most folks here take ‘love the sinner, hate the sin' to heart.”

“Well, clearly,
someone
beat Bryan Taylor into a very early grave.”

“But we don't know whether his killer had any connections with Reverend Trull.”

“But you don't think Trull has upped the ante here? His YouTube video advocates an internment camp for gay people. Last night I heard him advise parents to use corporal punishment should their children show any homosexual tendencies.”

Drake shook his head. “Ms. Crow, you know as well as I do that I can't charge Trull with anything. A sermon is protected speech, and the current hate crime statute doesn't even include sexual orientation. Even the great Ann Chandler can't regulate what people say in church.”

Mary sighed. This is exactly what she'd told the governor—Trull hadn't broken any law, the way the current law was written. Shifting in her chair, she switched the subject from the theoretical to the reality at hand. “Then what's the status of the Taylor case?”

“It's a priority. We are moving with due diligence.”

“Any arrests?”

“No. I advised Chief Ramsey that I'd need a totally airtight case, so he and his staff are going slowly.”

Mary frowned. “Why would you need a totally airtight case?”

“Like I just told you—the folks who put me in this office believe homosexuality is a sin. If I go to trial without a smoking gun, they won't convict. They didn't in Sligo County, and they won't here. It's time to walk softly, Ms. Crow. Tempers are hot. Everybody hates all these outsiders with their picketing and their YouTube videos and, frankly, they're not real crazy about Ann Chandler sending you to whip us into shape.”

“I'm sure Governor Chandler would have preferred sending me elsewhere,” said Mary, “except Reverend Trull is about to cost this county hundreds of new jobs. Ecotron is a Dutch company that doesn't discriminate against gays. They won't come here if their gay and lesbian employees might be in jeopardy.”

“Corporate bucks get the governor's attention right fast, don't they?” Drake gave a tight smile.

“This county's twelve percent unemployment rate gets it faster,” Mary snapped back.

“Tell your boss to get Raleigh to add sexual orientation to the hate crimes statute and I'll go to town down here. Until then, I can't prosecute people for breaking laws that aren't on the books.”

Drake pulled a sheet of stationary from his lap drawer, scribbled something on it. “I've told you all I know, Ms. Crow. I suggest you go down to the police department and talk to Victor Galloway. He's a new hire, working undercover on the Taylor case. Maybe he can convince you and the governor that even here, in Bible-thumping Campbell County, we still believe in equal protection under the law.”