Deadliest of Sins (9 page)

Twelve

Sam couldn't remember if
the doctor had pulled her shorts back on; what she did remember was being flipped over on her stomach, then a sting in her left buttock. After that she floated away, back to Chase climbing high into Cousin Petey's sycamore tree, back to her father waving to her from his truck, back to a strange, lush land where people had wings and dogs walked upright, reciting poetry. For days she traveled through dazzling meadows with a poetry-quoting Airedale, then, when they came to a river that flowed like honey, the dog turned to her, saying,
Little Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids, all in a row!

Grinning at her, the Airedale vanished. She jumped, surprised by his disappearance. She found herself not in a magical land with talking dogs, but back in a shabby motel room. She sat up in the bed, blinking, still looking for the dog and the meadow and the lapping river, but she saw only a gray linoleum floor, a boarded-up window, an ancient television crowned with a rabbit-ear antenna. For a moment she sat there, wondering where the dog had gone; then the edges of reality sharpened. There were no dogs or golden meadows here. Here was only a sweat-stained mattress, a battered bureau all in a concrete-block box.

As she grew more fully awake, she realized she was both thirsty and needing to pee. She lifted the lint-speckled blanket that covered her and stood up. The soles of her feet tingled as they touched the cold linoleum floor. She felt woozy but managed the four steps to the bathroom without stumbling. As she sat down on the toilet, she saw that someone had scratched
this place is a hell hole
at knee-level, on the wall.

“You got that right,” she whispered.

As she peed, she closed her eyes, tried to piece her recent past into some kind of order. A horrible old doctor had examined her in front of a man named Boris? Bucko? She couldn't remember his name, but his actions were etched her in memory—he'd yelled at Ivan, and then the man who looked like an ape pointed a rifle at Ivan; flames had come out of the barrel. But why? What had made Boris-Bucko so mad? She put her head in her hands and tried to think—was it something the doctor had done? Some part of her body that he founding lacking? She was filing through hazy wisps of memories when suddenly, she remembered! Ivan had let her use his cell phone! She'd called home and talked to Chase!

Chase, I'm in trouble,
she remembered saying.
I'm scared. Please tell Mom.

What did you say?

She could barely hear him, the connection was sketchy and someone seemed to be hammering in the background.
Tell Mama some men are going to send me away!
she'd finally said, yelling as loud as she could.

Then a huge noise, then blood, then Ivan slammed against the wall right beside her with half his face gone. She covered her own face, trying to block out the memory. Had Chase heard anything she'd said? Had he told Mama? Had either of them called the police?

Sam didn't know; the world had gone crazy after that phone call, becoming a maelstrom of shouts and voices, none of them speaking a word she could understand.

“Oh Mama,” she whispered, longing for her mother's arms, the soft shoulders that had blotted so many of her tears. “I am in so much trouble.”

She sat there trembling, then she remembered her father speaking to her in another dream—a dream of warm, deep darkness.
It's all up to you, Sam-I-Am.

“I guess it is,” she said. Neither Chase nor her mother could get her out of this mess. This time, she would have to save herself.

She dried her eyes and got to her feet. She pulled the lever that flushed the ancient john with some trepidation, but the tank emptied and refilled, making a curious tapping sound as the water level rose. Grateful to at least have working plumbing, she stepped over to the sink to wash her hands. As a stream of tea-colored water issued from the faucet, she lifted her head to look in the medicine cabinet mirror. Someone (maybe the person who'd written the hell-hole graffiti) had put a fist in the middle of the thing—cracking the glass so that her face looked as if it had been jig-sawed into a puzzle that didn't quite fit together. She traced one of the long shards with her finger. It wiggled in its rusty metal frame, sharp as a stiletto.

Okay,
she thought.
If it comes to it, I can take myself out of here. Better that than whatever Boris has in mind.

Turning away from the mirror, she stepped back into her room. She'd assumed it was her same old room, but as she looked around, she realized it was different. Ivan's blood did not stain the floor, nor did any bullet holes speckle the wall next to her bed. This room had a bureau shoved in one corner, one drawer of which held a tattered collection of old sci-fi paperbacks. The television pulled in a single, fuzzy shopping channel, and when she tried to peek out the nailed-shut window, she saw nothing but a sheet of plywood. She walked over to the door and flipped the switch for the overhead fluorescent. Neither on nor off had any effect; the cold, anemic light that shone now would, apparently, illuminate the room 24/7.

As she fiddled with the light switch, the john began rattling again. The sound reminded her of their scary old toilet back in West Virginia. It had seemed like a living monster when she was four; she was convinced some ogre lived in the thing, just waiting to grab her bottom and pull her down into the dark, watery depths. Then her father explained it was just air in the old pipes.

“Only there probably is a monster in this john,” she whispered, thinking of Boris. “It speaks Russian and has a head like a cue ball.”

After a moment, the tapping stopped. She paced off the room—twelve feet by twelve feet—the same size as her last one. Something was different here, though. Before, she was aware of a world beyond her locked door—the sounds of girls trooping past her door twice a day, distant music playing, loud arguments usually involving Dusty and the men. Here, she heard nothing. Except for the noisy toilet, this room was as silent as a tomb.

Suddenly she panicked. What if Boris had locked her in here and gone away? What if Chase had called the police and they'd taken everyone to jail, but hadn't searched the place well enough to find her? What if Boris and the doctor were saving her for something worse than the truck stop? What if they'd gone and just left her here to die?

She turned and started pounding on the door. “Hey!” she cried. “Is anybody there? Can anybody hear me?”

She stopped, pressed her ear to the crack, and listened. Nothing.

“Hey!” she called louder. “I'm hungry! I need some food!”

She listened again, praying to hear something—anything—even that
mama, mama, mama
girl was preferable to this. Again, she heard nothing.

“Please!” she cried, banging harder. “Somebody! I need help!”

She listened again. Did she hear footsteps? She pressed her ear to the door as the muffled sounds seemed to grow louder. Then she heard a key fumbling at her lock. Scared, she hurried back to the bed. As she did, the door opened, revealing a short, dark-haired man wearing jeans and bearing a tray of food. He stepped inside the room and kicked the door closed behind him. His brows were knitted above his nose, his mouth a thin, downward curve. His expression was stern but neutral; his dark eyes focused on her face rather than her body.

“You ho-kay?” he asked in heavily accented English.

She didn't know what to say. She wasn't in physical pain; no doctor was stuffing his fat fingers up her crotch. Still, she was about as far from okay as she could get. “Where am I?” she asked. “What day is it?”

“You with Yusuf,” the little man said. “You eat, then drink tea.”

He put a tray down on her bed. It was not the fast food crap that Ivan had brought her, but real food. Orange-colored chicken stew over rice with little triangles of bread, accompanied by a small teapot that had steam seeping from the spout. As she inhaled the savory aromas, her mouth began to water. She couldn't remember when she'd last eaten.

Yusuf snapped a big linen napkin open and laid it across her lap, then sat down on the floor, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. “You eat. I stay … make sure you ho-kay.”

She frowned, realizing that he wasn't going away until she finished. She looked for a spoon or fork on the tray, but found none there.

“I don't have anything to eat with,” she told him.

“Turkish way.” He made a motion of scooping something into his mouth. “With bread.”

She picked up a triangle of the flat bread and scooped up some stew. It tasted as delicious as it smelled—chicken and cinnamon and a lot of other spicy-sweet flavors she couldn't name. She shoveled the food into her mouth; never had anything tasted so good.

He watched her as she ate, his gaze never wandering. At first he made her nervous, then she decided to ignore him. This Yusuf seemed another version of Ivan—short and dark instead of tall and blond—but a foreigner, nonetheless. If she could make friends with him, maybe he would tell her where she was, what they planned to do with her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled. “This is good. Thank you.”

“Good to eat,” he said. “Make healthy.”

“Does everybody here eat like this?”

Yusuf shook his head, as if he didn't understand. “Everybody here?”

“Here.” She spread her arms to indicate the whole building. “As opposed to the cornflake and Big Mac wing.”

“Everybody here special,” he replied, his tone guarded.

Yusuf had neither Ivan's conversational skills nor any apparent interest in engaging her in conversation. She returned her attention to her food and, with the last triangle of bread, scraped her plate clean. The moment she finished, Yusuf jumped up and moved quickly to pour her tea.

“Now you must drink.” Though his smile stretched all the way across his face, his dark eyes bored into her, glittering in a way that made her go cold inside.

“What kind of tea is this?” She frowned. This man was standing too close, pouring the tea too readily.

“Turkish tea … make you feel good … sleep.”

She remembered her last sleep, where she'd crossed a magic land, conversing with dogs. As wonderful as it had been, she didn't want to go back there—not now, anyway.

“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I've slept enough lately.”

Yusuf acted as if she hadn't spoken a word. He stood there, staring at her, holding out the teacup.

“No.” She shook her head, wondering if he was having difficulty understanding her West Virginia accent. “Thanks, but no tea.”

Still he remained there, implacable, tea in hand. “You drink now.”

“No!” she repeated. This time she pushed his hand away. He moved the tea quickly out of her reach, then, with his free hand, pinched the fleshy top of her right shoulder. Pain shot up into her face, making her eyes water.

“You drink tea, ho-kay? You no get Yusuf in trouble!”

“But why?” she cried. “Why do you care if I drink tea?”

“My job keep you strong and healthy.”

“What for?”

“Soon you will be in new home. Far away.”

For a time, she'd forgotten—she was an American virgin … a rare delicacy for a man with enough money to buy her. “No!” she cried, panicky, trying to squirm away from his grasp. “I won't go!”

He stepped closer, giving her shoulder another squeeze, showing her that the pain could get considerably worse. “Yes. When it's time, you will go.”

“No, I won't,” she cried, as tears began to flow from her right eye.

“Yes, you will.” He released her shoulder and pulled out another smart phone. This one he did not offer to lend, but to show her pictures on the screen. As he held the thing up, she gasped. He had a photo of her mother in her work uniform, going into the nursing home. Her head was bent down, her face drawn in sorrow.

“Where did you get that?” she cried.

He grinned proudly. “I take, yesterday.” He swiped a finger across the screen and pulled up another image. “This, too.”

The second picture showed Chase getting the mail from Gudger's yellow ribbon–clad mailbox. He looked quizzical but timid, as if he were afraid some car might stop and scoop him up, too. Her mouth went dry with terror. “How do you know about them?”

“We know all about you. You give trouble, these people pay.”

She closed her eyes. All the time she'd been teaching Ivan about French braiding, she'd talked about how much she missed her mother and her brother. He'd patted her hand, told her he knew how hard it was to be without your family. She thought he'd honestly sympathized—instead, he'd just been pumping her for information. She bit her lower lip—not from the pain in her shoulder, but for the fact she'd been such a fool.

“Come,” Yusuf said, putting the phone back in the pocket of his jeans. “Drink the tea. You will not sleep too long—just more happy.”

As she gazed at the cup, her heart shriveled. The police were not coming for her. She could tell that by her mother's sorrowful, beaten-down posture. And Chase was getting the mail scared, his gaze fearful of strangers in cars. He must have not heard her when she called. Either that, or Gudger had simply convinced everyone that he was lying again.

She took Yusuf's tea and drank it in two gulps. What did she care how long she slept? Soon they would ship her out as bit of precious cargo. If she fought that fate, her family would suffer; better that they never see her again than that she cause them any more pain. She handed the cup back to Yusuf in slow motion, the room already beginning to spin. As she flopped back down on the bed, she caught a quick glimpse of the shattered bathroom mirror, the shards that would slice a willing vein like razors.