The Darkness Gathers (31 page)

“If they catch us here, they’ll kill us all,” said Gabriel solemnly. Lydia nodded, wondering why a hundred dollars had convinced Gabriel to risk his life. Was the money worth so much? Or was his life worth that little?

“They take the girls from their villages, maybe from school or from a nightclub,” he whispered, confirming what Lydia had read. “They tell them that they will be models, or maybe they are promised rich American husbands. Then they bring them here. It is only a few hours by boat to Italy, where they are sold to pimps. A pretty young virgin is worth the most.”

Two men emerged from the boat’s cabin and walked to shore as three large military vans with flashing lights raced up to the water’s edge. The dock stood at an isolated collection of piers surrounded by an abandoned warehouse. It had once probably been the hub of all the country’s importing and exporting, Vlorë being Albania’s largest port after Durrës. But all the buildings seemed to sag on their frames, the abandonment and neglect evident in the garbage strewn about, the graffiti covering the walls, and the eerie silence; the only sound was the Adriatic lapping against the seawalls. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and rotting fish.

“Have the police come?” Lydia whispered as she watched uniformed officers jump from the vehicles.

“Yes,” said, Gabriel laughing mirthlessly. “They’ve come for their paychecks.”

One by one, the girls filed out of the vans and formed a line, awaiting passage to Italy, believing that they were on their way to a better life. There had to be at least seventy of them. They were too far away and the light was too low for Lydia to see their faces, but she noticed how some of them held hands, how other groups of two or three seemed to cling together. They weren’t bound or handcuffed, except by their own hopes and dreams. Most of them were being led to their deaths, and they didn’t even know it.

“We have to do something,” she said suddenly to Jeffrey.

“No,” he said firmly, turning a stern gaze on her. “There are four men, by my count, with machine guns. Probably more below. We’re outmanned and outgunned. We’ll just get ourselves killed, and we’re not going to help anyone tonight—or ever—if that happens.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Gabriel said, putting a hand on her arm. “You are not in America. This is a country without heroes. Nobody wins here.”

“Except for the criminals,” whispered Lydia angrily.

“Not even them. Look at where they live. What does that money buy them? Venereal disease and an early grave from drink, drugs, cigarettes … or all three.”

His logic was irrefutable, but she felt almost desperate with helplessness as she watched the men from the boat hand envelopes to each of the men in uniform. The police were selling girls into sexual slavery. They were powerless here, stupid even to have come. Jacob had been right after all. They weren’t going to stop this any more than they were single-handedly going to end the drug trade. She realized that Jeffrey had a tight grip on her arm, as if he didn’t trust her not to get up and run toward the boat.

They watched as the girls filed onto the boat, not one of them giving a backward glance to their homeland. The vans pulled silently away, disappearing behind the decrepit buildings as the first light of morning broke the sky in brilliant yellow. The boat engine came loudly to life as a white SUV limousine pulled up, tires spitting up gravel as it came to a stop. Lydia wondered if it was the same one they had seen in front of the club; she didn’t imagine there were too many of them in Albania. The sky was shading to pink and orange, the moon still visible as a figure emerged from the boat and jumped off onto the dock. The boat roared across the water as the figure walked casually toward the limo. She recognized the gait even in the slight morning light. The elegant figure with the cool strut was Sasa Fitore.

chapter thirty

“I
t’s going to be hard to follow him on these deserted roads,” said Jeffrey, as the limousine pulled away and the sound of the boat engine faded off into the distance.

“We don’t need to follow too closely,” said Lydia. “I know where he’s going.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Jeffrey, looking at her as she removed a piece of paper from her pocket.

“This is the address of American Equities. Craig gave it to me.”

She handed the paper to Gabriel, who nodded but said nothing. “Do you know where it is?” she asked.

“I know,” he said.

“Okay,” said Lydia. “Take us there.”

Gabriel walked toward the Mercedes, and Jeffrey held Lydia back by the arm. “This is a bad idea,” he said softly.

“I have a feeling, Jeffrey, that when we follow Sasa, he’s going to lead us directly to Tatiana.”

“Yeah, well, I have a feeling he’s going to lead us directly into a really big mess.”

“We’ve been in messes before.”

He could see that there was no arguing with her now. She had a desperate fire in her eyes, and she was pulling away from him, moving toward the car. He followed her.

“Let’s go,” she said to Gabriel.

“Why do you think we’re going to find her here?” asked Jeffrey as the car made its way up a steep rocky hill and onto a road surrounded by trees. The road wound in such a way that a set of taillights could be seen in the distance.

“I’ve just been thinking about all the pieces and how they haven’t seemed to fit together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, how someone had to have been in the house the night Tatiana disappeared, for example. Someone turned off that camera. And the fact that Nathan Quinn was so desperate to find her, putting all this pressure on the police, and yet people at the top were keeping Detective Ignacio from looking into Quinn’s business affairs. The detective knew that those connections would lead somewhere; that’s why he told us to follow the money, but he dropped the case because he was afraid of something. How someone was ahead of every move we made in Miami, killing off the people who were trying to give us information. Then Jacob, with his whole cryptic warning shtick, telling us that Tatiana’s body had been found. I mean, it’s not just as if Tatiana is missing and can’t be found. It’s as if all these forces are at work trying to keep her from being found. Trying to
hide
her from something.”

“Or someone.”

“So I’m wondering who would be that motivated to hide and protect Tatiana. So motivated that they would be willing and able to go to these lengths to keep her hidden. And what could be so horrible, so powerful, that it would be necessary to do so? And only one thing makes sense to me.”

“What’s that?”

“Only a mother would go to such lengths to protect a child.”

“Jenna Quinn? But what is she protecting Tatiana from?”

“Nathan Quinn.”

“And what makes you think she’s powerful enough to do all of this?”

“What if she had help from some powerful people with parallel interests?”

“I’m not following you.”

“Something Jacob said stuck with me. Remember what he said about Nathan Quinn being out of control and how steps were being taken to change that? And then on the tape, Tatiana said, ‘I can’t believe
she’s
doing this to me’?”

“Yeah, I remember that.…”

“Well, steps are being taken by whom? Maybe some of Nathan’s powerful connections have turned against him. Maybe he’s no longer playing by the rules of, say, the Council. They’ve lost control of him.”

“And now they’re trying to stop him?”

“And Jenna Quinn agreed to help them.”

“Okay … but who are ‘they’?”

“I think,” said Gabriel, bringing the car to a sudden stop, “that you are about to find out.”

They came from the trees like wraiths. There was no moving forward; the road was blocked by a black Hummer, and another approached from behind. Lydia felt her heart skip and her mouth go dry as at least ten men wearing black body armor and ski masks and carrying large automatic weapons surrounded the car. One of them turned on a spotlight and shone it into the window. Lydia blocked her eyes and leaned against Jeffrey, thinking that he was always right. She hoped she’d have another chance to listen.

chapter thirty-one

T
he sky was turning a misty gray and on either side of the rocky road were the charred remains of olive trees, their branches black and twisted like witch’s fingers. No one had said a word to them, only pulled them firmly, but not violently, from the Mercedes. One of the masked men had leaned into the car and said something to Gabriel in Albanian, handing him a wad of cash. The Hummer pulled out of his way, and he then backed away down the road, not looking at Lydia, making a quick U-turn and spitting up gravel as soon as he had room to turn around. Lydia and Jeffrey had been walked to the leading Hummer, where they were each forced to spread their arms and legs against its hood. The hood was warm and gritty beneath her hands and Lydia worked hard to control her breathing. Her head had started to pound and she could feel her pulse throbbing in her temple. The scene—the masked men in black body armor, the dead trees and slate sky—was surreal and eerily quiet. She could hear only the sound of the wind and the footsteps of their captors.

Normally, Lydia would have immediately started shooting off her mouth, but she kept quiet, unsure of what and of whom they were dealing with. And she was afraid. It was a lot safer to be a loudmouthed smart-ass in the First World, where it generally didn’t cost you your life. She endured a vigorous rubdown, which resulted in the loss of her weapon. The man in the ski mask inspected it and made a sound of approval as it disappeared into his pants.

“Take it easy,” Lydia finally said to the man, who continued frisking her even after he should have been satisfied that he’d confiscated her only weapon. He ignored her but stopped and pushed her into the leather backseat of the Hummer next to Jeffrey.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked the man in the passenger seat, who turned around to keep Jeffrey’s Glock pointed at them.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man said in English. She was surprised to note that he was American. She really hated being spoken to that way; a shitty tone of voice and rude language were two more of her serious pet peeves … at least when she was on the receiving end. Jeffrey put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back toward him. He gave her a look that warned her to keep her temper.

The steep road wound through the ruined olive groves, and finally they reached an elaborate, heavy black iron gate hinged to a high stone wall edged with razor wire. Lydia felt her mouth go dry and her heart was beating like a drum. The gate swung open as they approached, then closed behind them with a heavy clang. Lydia reached for Jeffrey’s hand. He squeezed it hard and looked into her eyes, which seemed to say, It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. But she could see in the grim line of his mouth that he knew they were in over their heads—unarmed, taken prisoner by masked men with machine guns.

The house they approached was essentially a stone fortress with huge wooden doors, lanterns burning on either side of the arched entryway, and narrow windows. High towers jutted up from the four corners, and Lydia could see a figure holding a rifle standing at the top of one of them. The SUV limousine they had seen so much of over the last few hours sat next to the entrance of the house. She shuddered. What had she gotten them into? And how was she going to get them out?

She was not comforted by the sight of Sasa Fitore casually approaching the door of the Hummer. “Hello, Ms. Strong,” he said with a cold smile as he opened the door. “Funny meeting you here.”

“Well, you know, we were in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop by.”

Sasa laughed at her joke, but the sound of it filled Lydia with dread.

chapter thirty-two

I
n the dusk, with the leaves falling from the trees in the newly harsh cold of late autumn, he relished his freedom. The sky was a gunmetal gray against the fall colors, now past their peak, turning from flame to bloodred, from spark to ember. The scent of wood burning in fireplaces carried into his nostrils on the wind coming through the open window, reminding him of the warmth of a home and family he had never known. He inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma. He realized suddenly that he was gripping the wheel of the brand-new Land Rover so hard, his hands were starting to cramp. David Bowie and Bing Crosby sang their rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” on the easy-listening station he had tuned in, even though Thanksgiving hadn’t even arrived.

He pulled down the sun visor, looked at his reflection in the mirror there, and took off his black wool hat. He looked like the monster that he was, his cold blue eyes placid pools in the landscape of his jutting cheekbones and badly shaved head. He ran his large sinewy hands over the top of his head, feeling the rough stubble, the raised scar on his crown from a fight with another inmate. He sighed. He felt angry and used.

Given the things he’d done, Jed McIntyre imagined that he’d be treated with a little more respect. Well, maybe
respect
wasn’t the right word.
Trepidation, fear, revulsion
were more like it. He really enjoyed it when people cowered from him, when he saw real terror in their eyes. But people, he noticed, seemed a bit desensitized to murderers these days. It wasn’t like back in the days of Son of Sam and Richard Ramirez, when it was enough just to be really fucking insane. People were repulsed but fascinated; those guys had fan clubs, pen pals, even women proposing to them. He hadn’t received any of the attention he’d expected.

He blamed Thomas Harris and all those other writers, with their larger-than-life villains. How was a real serial killer supposed to live up to that image of the brilliant, sophisticated Dr. Lecter? It just wasn’t realistic, and he resented it. Nothing was ever as cool in real life as it was in books and the movies, not even serial homicide.

On the other hand, it was interesting how in
Hannibal
, it was only when Clarice Starling had lost everything that Lecter was able to have what he had wanted from her all along. That was the only thing that kept Jed in check, even though he’d wanted to strangle R. Alexander Harriman, Esq., or whoever he was today, with his bare hands. A few thousand dollars, some new clothes, and a Land Rover were supposed to turn him into some kind of puppet taking orders from a mystery mogul. Didn’t these guys get it? He was a homicidal maniac … not some thug, some killer for hire. He had impulses that even
he
couldn’t control. What hubris to think that
they
could control him. But he was proud of himself because he had kept his cool. He was smart enough to know that someone powerful enough to get him out of the hospital was powerful enough to put him back. In the meantime, Jed’s benefactor was allowing him to travel in style … while doing exactly what he would have done anyway—rip the flesh off of Lydia Strong’s life, take it right down to the bone, so she’d be nothing but a shell of herself, broken and empty.