SIX

Being forced to leave Abby behind had shattered Karen. She sat in the Expedition in a sort of detached haze, like a disembodied brain floating in ether. She was wearing the blindfold again, but she sensed that there was little traffic. The whooshes of cars passing were far apart.

“You taken a vow of silence or what?” asked Hickey.

Karen let her mind reach into the starless night beneath the blindfold.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.”

The voice was like a face obscured by fog.

“You’re upset, I know. But it had to be that way. You’ll get over it.”

“I’m not sure I will.”

“See? You can talk.”

She heard him light another cigarette. The smell of burning tobacco filled the air.

“You can take off the blindfold now.”

“I prefer it on.”

“I prefer it off.”

Karen unwrapped the scarf. The dash lights shone like a coastal city viewed from the sea. Glancing up, she saw that the digital compass between the visors read “E” for east. That was information she could use. They were on a two-lane road, and she knew by the speed and sound of the outgoing trip that they had driven on an interstate for at least half an hour after leaving Jackson. That left two options: they were still on I-55, which ran north and south, or they had turned onto I-20, which ran east and west. That meant Abby was being held somewhere south of Jackson and west of I-55, if Hickey had taken that interstate. If he’d taken I-20, it was harder to make assumptions. But if he left the blindfold off, she might soon know for sure. She decided to make an effort to keep him in a good mood.

“Thank you for letting me give Abby the shot.”

Hickey rolled down his window a crack and blew cigarette smoke outside. “That’s what I like to hear. Gratitude. You don’t see much of it these days. It’s a forgotten courtesy. But you’re an old-fashioned girl. I can tell. You know how to show appreciation for a good deed.”

Karen waited a moment, then looked left. Hickey’s profile was like a wind-eroded boulder. Heavy brows, the nose a bit flat, the chin like an unspoken challenge. It looked like a face that could take a lot of punishment, and probably had.

“We’ve got a whole night to kill,” he said, glancing away from the road long enough to find her eyes in the dark. “Why make it like breaking rocks, you know? Let’s be friends.”

Her internal radar went to alert status.

“You’re a beautiful woman. You got that red hair, but not the coarse kind, you know? Strawberry blond, I guess they call it. And I’m not a bad-looking guy, am I?”

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve done in the past, but-”

“I want to see that bush, girl.” Hickey’s eyes glinted in the dash lights. “I know you got a good one.”

The words shocked and frightened Karen more than she would have believed possible. She didn’t want to show fear, but she had already pressed herself against the door.

“You got some good tan lines, too, I bet. With that pool out back.”

She stared straight ahead, her cheeks burning.

“I’ve got something for you, too, Karen. A lot more than you’re used to, I bet.”

With every remark she left unanswered, she felt Hickey’s confidence growing. “I wouldn’t count on that,” she said. “My husband got lucky with those genes.”

Hickey gave a self-assured laugh, “That right? Somehow I don’t picture old Will having the goods. Seems like the tennis player type to me. Mr. Average in the showers. See, that’s why I never back off. On that elemental level, I got what it takes.” He threw his cigarette butt out of the window and pressed the dashboard cigarette lighter. “I heard this story about LBJ once. During the Vietnam thing, MacNamara was giving him some shit about how Ho Chi Minh has this, Ho Chi Minh has that. LBJ unzips his fly, whips out his Johnson and says, ‘Has old Ho got anything like this?’”

He broke up laughing.

“Right there in the freakin’ Oval Office. Hey, I wonder if that’s why they call it a Johnson?”

“LBJ lost that war, didn’t he?”

Hickey stopped laughing. “Get those jeans off. You’re gonna be walking bowlegged for a week.”

A ball of ice formed in Karen’s chest.

“You think I’m kidding? We’ve done this gig five times, and every time the wives and me had a little party. A little bonus for the executive in the operation, and nobody the wiser.”

“No party tonight, Joe.”

“No?” He laughed again. “In thirty minutes I’m gonna be banging on your tonsils, lady. Get those jeans off.”

“Here?”

“Like you never done it in a car before?”

She sat rigidly in the seat, refusing to acknowledge the remark.

Hickey shook his head and tapped a finger on the cell phone. “Lose the jeans. Or I reach out and touch your precious princess.”

Karen held out for another few seconds. Then she unsnapped her jeans, arched in the seat, and pulled them off.

“Happy now?”

“Getting there. Keep going.”

A cold trickle of sweat ran down her rib cage. “Not in the car.”

He looked down and punched a number into the Expedition’s cell phone.

“Don’t!”

He cut his eyes at her. “Still dressed?”

She folded her jeans and laid them in her lap, then slid the panties off and put them on top of the jeans.

Hickey laughed and hit END on the phone, then picked up the cotton panties and knocked her jeans to the floor. “Not exactly Victoria’s Secret. You trying to discourage interest with these things?”

She felt an irrational prick of guilt. As Hickey laughed, she arranged the tail of her blouse so that it fell into her lap. But no sooner had she done this than he reached up and hit the passenger reading light switch, flooding her side of the interior with yellow light. She felt as she had as a little girl, playing hide-and-seek with her older male cousins. She’d hidden in the basement once, at the house at Fort Leavenworth, and as she heard them approach, she backed deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of the mildewed room. Yet no matter how far she went, the footsteps followed. And in the dark basement, far from the adults, she knew what they would do. Pressure her into “show-me” games, whether she wanted to play or not.

“Nice legs,” Hickey said. “Far as they go.”

She shivered in the air conditioning. “Why are you doing this?”

He sniffed and reached down for the cigarette lighter, then shook another Camel from the pack in his shirt pocket and ignited the tip. A stream of smoke clouded the windshield like dissipating fog.

“Does there always have to be a why?”

“Yes.” She felt his gaze on her lap like the heat from a lamp.

“We’ve got time for all that. Slide that shirttail over.”

She wanted to refuse. But how could she? She breathed slowly and deeply, trying not to let him rattle her. “Are you going to leave the light on all the way back? It seems dangerous.”

“I gotta admit, I’m tempted. But it wouldn’t be too smart, would it?” He reached out and traced a fingernail along her outer thigh. “Like I said, we’ve got all night. What the hell.”

He flicked off the light, and the protective blanket of night closed around her again. But she was not safe. Nowhere close. Of course, safe didn’t really matter, not in the usual sense. What mattered was survival. For once in her life, it was that simple. There was only one priority: Abby. Other mothers had walked through fire for their children; she could do the same. She could endure the worst that an animal like Hickey could dish out, and be there to hug Abby when it was over. But that didn’t mean she would stop looking for a way to fight back. Because Hickey was arrogant. And arrogant men made mistakes. If he did make one, God and all his angels wouldn’t be able to help the son of a bitch who made Abby Jennings suffer pain.

Another hope burned in her heart, small but steady. Wherever Will was, he was thinking. And not the way Karen was. She had outscored her husband by five percentile points on the MCAT test, and she could balance a checkbook twice as fast as he could. But there was another kind of intelligence, and Will had it in spades. It was speed of thought, and not just down one pathway, but several simultaneously. Karen thought logically, examining each option from beginning to end, then accepting or rejecting it before moving on. Will could look at a situation and see the endpoints of a dozen possible choices in the blink of an eye, then from instinct choose rightly. He wasn’t always able to explain his choices, but they were almost inevitably correct. He told her once that they weren’t correct in any objective sense. Sometimes, he said, simply making a choice-any choice-and following through with absolute commitment made it the right choice.

That’s the kind of brain I need now, she thought.

At that moment, Will was staring at the telephone in the bedroom of his suite. It had just rung, and though he was holding Cheryl’s Walther in his hand, he knew it was useless. If she told Hickey he had assaulted her, anything could happen. Yet if he didn’t let her answer, Hickey would assume things were not as they should be, and he might retaliate against Abby.

The phone rang again.

“What are you going to do now, smart-ass?” Cheryl asked. She was leaning against the headboard of the bed, her torn dress around her waist, the road map of bruises on her torso left exposed like a silent “go to hell.”

He tossed the gun into her lap.

She laughed and picked it up, then answered the phone. After listening for a few moments, she said, “It is now. The doc flipped out…He hit me and took my gun. Just like the guy from Tupelo…Okay.” She held out the receiver to Will. “He wants to talk to you.”

Will took the phone. “Joe?”

“Doc, you screw up again, and the biggest piece you find of your little girl will fit in a thimble.”

“I hear you, Joe.”

“You hit my old lady?”

“It doesn’t look like I was the first.”

Silence. Then, “That ain’t your business, is it?”

“No.”

“You remember what I said about your little girl.”

“I understand. I made a mistake. I just want my daughter back.”

The phone went dead.

“You’re pathetic,” Cheryl said. “Like some kid stopped by a highway patrolman. Totally submissive.”

“You know all about that, don’t you? Submission.”

She shrugged. “So he smacks me around sometimes. You never smacked your wife?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Will saw no point in arguing. “Those bruises weren’t caused by a couple of smacks. I see signs of systematic abuse.”

“You don’t argue with your wife?”

“We argue. We don’t hit each other. What did you and Joe argue about last? Was it about going through with this kidnapping?”

“Hell no. We’ve done this lots of times.”

“Maybe you’re tired of it.” He let that simmer for a few moments. “I can see how you would be. Realizing how much pain you’re putting people through. Especially the kids.”

She looked away. “Talk all you want. You know what I was doing before Joe found me?”

“What?”

“I was a bar girl in a truck stop. A full-service bar girl.”

“You mean like-”

“Yeah, like that.”

“How did you end up there?”

“You sound like some frat-boy john. ‘Oh, Cheryl, you’re so sweet, how’d ever you end up doing this?’ Well, I ain’t blaming nobody. My stepfather, maybe, but he’s dead now. My mother had it worse than I did.”

“Being a whore is a lot more respectable than what you’re doing now.”

“You ever been a whore?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know. Every time I see a hooker in a movie, I want to throw something at the screen. When I saw Pretty Woman, I wanted to puke. You know the part in that movie when Richard Gere’s friend tries to make Julia Roberts do him? The guy from Seinfeld? It’s like the only uncomfortable part of that whole movie.”

“I remember.”

“That’s what being in the life is like all the time. Except no movie star busts in to save you from his friend. He probably bought you for his friend.” Her eyes burned into Will’s with disturbing intensity. “Think about sitting somewhere all day, all night, available to any scummy, shit-breath, disease-ridden son of a bitch who walks in the door with the price of admission. That’s being a hooker.”

“You didn’t have any choice about clients?”

“Clients?” She barked a little laugh. “I wasn’t a lawyer, okay? It’s johns. And, no, I didn’t have any choice. ’Cause if I said no, I didn’t get the good thing.”

“The good thing. Cocaine?”

“My pimp used to say we were just trading crack for crack.”

“Joe got you out of that life?”

“That’s right. He got me clean. It was the hardest thing either of us ever did. So, if you think you’re gonna talk me into betraying him, or bribe me into it, think again. If he smacks me around now and then, you think I care?”

“Yes, I do. Because you know that’s not love. You don’t owe Joe a life of servitude because he got you off crack. You deserve to be as happy as anybody else.”

She shook her head like someone listening to a salesman. “My stepfather always said everybody gets what they deserve.”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

A bitter laugh. “You got that right. You ever go to a hooker?”

“No.”

“What guy admits it, right? I believe you, though. You’re one of those one-in-a-million guys who were meant to be husbands, aren’t you?”

“And fathers.”

She winced.

“You never had a child of your own?” Will asked.

“I’m not talking about that.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been pregnant enough times that I can’t have kids.”

What did that mean? Multiple abortions? One bad one? “Are you sure? I was an obstetrician before I was an anesthesiologist. There are lots of new therapies for-”

“Don’t ask me any more about it,” Cheryl said in a desolate voice.

“All right.”

He turned and walked over to the picture window. There wasn’t much moon over the gulf. It was hard to see where the dark water ended and the sky began. Far below him, the lighted blue swimming pool undulated at the center of the plaza, with the paler Jacuzzi beside it. To his right lay the marina, with its stylized lighthouse and million-dollar cabin cruisers. A few bright stars shone high in the sky, but the glare from the casino sign drowned the rest. Changing focus, he saw Cheryl reflected in the glass, sitting on the bed with the gun in her lap, looking as lost as anyone he’d ever seen. He spoke without turning.

“I don’t want to beat a dead horse here. And I don’t want to pry. But I would really like to know how you ended up in prostitution. I mean, you just don’t look like one. You look too fresh. You’re beautiful, for God’s sake. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“How old is Joe?”

“Fifty.”

Twenty-four years’ difference. “Where are you from?”

Cheryl sighed. “Do we have to play Twenty Questions?”

“What else is there to do?”

“I could use a drink.”

Will walked over to the phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, laying a hand on the gun.

“Ordering you a drink. What do you like?”

She looked suspicious. “I guess it won’t hurt anything. I like rum and Coke.”

He called room service and ordered a bottle of Bacardi, a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and a pot of tea for himself.

“You English or something?” asked Cheryl.

“I just like tea.” What he wanted was caffeine, enough to get him through whatever was going to be required of him in the next twelve hours. He needed a pain pill, too, for his joints, but he wasn’t going to take anything that might dull his mind. He needed his edge tonight.

“So, where are you from?” he asked again.

“Nowhere. Everywhere.”

“What does that mean?”

“My dad was in the army. We moved a lot when I was a little girl.”

“My wife grew up the same way. Moving from base to base.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “I doubt much was the same about it. She was probably the colonel’s daughter or something.”

“No. Her father was a master sergeant.”

“Yeah? My father was a captain. Or so I’m told. He screwed up some way, so they never let him go to Vietnam. He took it out on my mom for one too many years, and she finally left him. We went back to her hometown, little nothing of a place in Marion County. Then she hooked up with my stepfather.” Cheryl’s eyes glazed. “That was a whole new thing. I was about ten, I guess. After he got tired of Mom in the sack, he turned to me. She was so scared he’d leave us, she wouldn’t listen to anything I said. When I turned sixteen, I got the hell out of there.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I had a girlfriend who’d gone to Hinds Junior College. She had an apartment in Jackson with two other girls. I crashed with her for a couple of weeks, got a job waiting tables. I was barely making enough to help with the rent, and her roomies got mad. One of them was dancing at this club in Jackson. She was making three hundred bucks a night. Straight, you know? Just lap dances and stuff, no tricks out back. A couple of nights, just for kicks, a bunch of us went in there and watched her dance. It wasn’t at all what I thought. I mean, some of the men were pathetic and all that, but it wasn’t humiliating. The girls were in control. For the most part, anyway. Or that’s what it looked like.”

“You started stripping?”

“Not right away. But my girlfriend got pregnant, and her boyfriend ran offshore. She went back home to Mayberry RFD, and suddenly my share of the rent went up. So I gave it a try. And it worked. I was a natural, they said. Plenty of nights I made six hundred bucks. Of course, I had to kick half of that back to the club.”

“That sounds like enough money to eventually move up to a different kind of job.”

“That’s not how it works. See, stripping is like any night job. Musician, whatever. You’ve got these long shifts. You sleep all day, so you don’t really meet normal people. You get tired as hell. I mean, have you ever danced for eight hours straight? Drinking beer and mixed drinks? Plus, you find out it’s not exactly what you thought. You’ve got your lap dances, which are fine. But then you’ve got sofa dances. A sofa dance is a little more involved. The guys want to make it, you know? It’s hand jobs on the outside of the pants, or dry humping till they get off. What you try to do is get them almost there just as the song ends. Then they’ll come across with another thirty bucks to get off at the start of the next song. You do that for eight hours, you start needing something to keep you going. To keep you from sinking too far down, you know?”

“Cocaine.”

A hint of a smile animated her lips, like a ghost smiling from within her. “The sweet thing.”

“And once you got on coke, they had you.”

“Yep. Pretty soon you’re only breaking even on the dancing, just to keep up your habit. Then you’re into them for money. Dancing eight hours a day, just to pay the vig on what you owe. And that’s when they hit you. There’s ways to pay off the principal.”

“Turning tricks.”

“Blow jobs in the bathroom. Half-and-half in the cars out back. Around the world in the motel up the street, after your shift.”

“Jesus.”

Her eyes looked ancient in her young face. “Girls don’t last long doing that, Doc. These are people, you know? Single mothers trying to raise kids. Girls working through junior college.”

“And Joe got you out?”

A cynical smile. “Sir Galahad to the rescue. That’s Joe. One night he paid for a trick at the motel, packed me into his car, and hauled me all the way down to New Orleans. He had a house in Gentilly. He put mattresses on the walls, boarded up the windows, and locked me in.” She shuddered at the memory. “Cold turkey. He cleaned up the vomit and brought me soup. Talk about a nightmare.”

Will tried to imagine how Joe saw this drama in his mind. He probably did see himself as some sort of knight, rescuing the fair damsel from the dark castle. And Cheryl was fair, all right. It was difficult to believe that she had endured the ravages of the life she described. Working the ERs as a resident, Will had seen twenty-six-year-old whores who looked fifty. Cheryl looked like a sorority girl from Ole Miss, poised in that bloom of youth between college and marriage. Maybe a little hard around the jaw and eyes, but otherwise unmarred.

“How the hell did you wind up kidnapping kids? Is that what Sir Galahad rescued you for?”

“It wasn’t like that. Not at first. But we needed money. Joe tried some straight things, but they never seemed to work out. And I knew how to strip. He put me in a club in Metairie, just outside New Orleans. Nice club. He stayed every night watching over me. No drugs, no drinking. I was making so much money, we couldn’t believe it. Everybody said I was better than the featured dancers who came through, you know, Penthouse pets, girls like that. So I got into that for a while.” Cheryl’s eyes suddenly lit up, the way Abby’s did when she was telling someone about her doll collection. “I had a dozen different outfits, props, the whole works. I had a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and we’d drive around the country, following my club tour. Texas, Colorado, Montana… man, it was something.”

“But?”

She looked down at the gun in her lap. “Joe got jealous. I was good enough that people started talking to me about other things. Movie people. Not like Sandra Bullock, you know, but still Hollywood. Soft porn stuff, like you see on Cinemax. And Joe got nervous about that. He didn’t… He-”

“He didn’t want you out from under,” Will said. “He wanted you all to himself, all the time.”

She nodded sadly. “Yeah.”

“You couldn’t break loose?”

“I owed him, okay? I owed him in a way only me and him understood.”

“For getting you off crack?”

“Not just that, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where’s my damn drink?”

As though in answer to her question, a knock sounded at the door. Will walked through the sitting room of the suite and accepted the tray from a young Mexican girl. He tipped her liberally, then hung out the DO NOT DISTURB sign and carried the tray in to Cheryl.

“How did you owe Joe?” he asked, pouring Bacardi and Coke over the small hotel ice cubes.

She took the glass and drank a long sip of the sweet mixture. Then another. She clearly meant to finish the drink before continuing. Will poured himself a steaming cup of tea, added sugar and lemon. The scent of Earl Grey wafted through the bedroom.

Cheryl finished her rum and Coke and held out the glass for a refill. Will mixed another-stronger this time-then took a sip of tea and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How did you owe him, Cheryl?”

“You don’t just walk away from the kind of work I was doing at the club in Jackson,” she said quietly. “I owed them money, and they wanted me working it off. When I started dancing in Metairie, they heard about it. They sent a couple of guys down to get me. Joe offered to pay my debts, but they wouldn’t go for it. They wanted me back at the club. The guy who owned the place… he had a thing for me.”

“So what happened?”

A little laugh rippled the bruised flesh of her abdomen. “Joe convinced these guys to change their minds.”

“How did he do that?”

“Convincingly.”

“And they left you alone?”

“Those guys did.”

“And?”

“The owner sent another guy for me. To bring me back. A really bad guy.”

“And what happened?”

Another swallow. “Joe punched his ticket.”

“You mean he killed him?”

Cheryl looked Will right in the eye. “That’s what I mean. Messy, too. So that anybody else they sent would know what he was getting into. You know? And it worked. Nobody else came. I was free.”

“You weren’t exactly free. You’d just traded one master for another.”

“Hey, I ain’t nobody’s slave.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

“Shut up.”

“You carry a lot of pain around, don’t you?”

“Don’t we all?”

“Yes. But I don’t think Joe understands that. He thinks he’s got a monopoly on suffering. That everything’s stacked against him from the start.”

“How do you know it wasn’t? You sit up there in your perfect little house, with your money and your kid and your paintings and your swimming pool and your cars. Everything laid out just right since the day you were born. Well, some people don’t have it that way.”

“Is that what you think? You think I started rich? My father worked in a mill for eighteen years, Cheryl. No college degree. Then the mill shut down. He put his life savings into his dream, a music store. Every dollar he had went into Wurlitzer organs, Baldwin pianos, and brass band instruments. Five months after he opened it, the store burned to the ground. His insurance had lapsed two days before.” Will reached out and took a shot from the Bacardi bottle. “He drove off a bridge a week later. I was eleven years old.”

Cheryl shook her head. “You must have inherited something. You’re silver spoon all the way.”

Will laughed bitterly. “My wife’s mother was a waitress. Karen was the first woman in her family to go to college. Then nursing school. Then medical school, but she had to drop out because she got pregnant. And her father died before he could see how well she did. She fought for everything she has. So did I.”

“The American dream,” Cheryl mumbled. “Get out the violins.”

“I’m just pointing out that Joe seems to have a personal problem with me. Some kind of class thing. And he’s way off base.”

She looked up, her eyes alert. “How much money do you make a year?”

“About four hundred thousand dollars.”

“He’s not that far off.”

Will had understated his income, and he doubted Cheryl had any concept of the kind of royalties he would earn from Restorase. “I can give you a lot more money than that, Cheryl. If you’ll help me save Abby, I mean. Enough to get you away clean. Really free. Forever.”

A faint flicker of hope lighted her eyes, then died. “You’re lying, sweetie. You’d rat me out the first chance you got.”

“Why would I? I’d have nothing to gain.”

“Because it’s the nature of things. I’d do the same. If you had my kid, I’d be over there right now giving you the sofa dance of your life. I’d take you to bed and give you around-the-world like you never imagined it before.” A note of professional pride entered her voice. “I can do things for you that your wife never even heard of. That your wildest old girlfriend never heard of. When was the last time you got off four times in one night?”

Will treated this as a rhetorical question.

“I thought so. But you could. I could make you. And if you had my kid, I would. Gladly. But as soon as I had my kid back, I’d rat you out.”

He started to argue, but there was no point. She would not be persuaded.

Cheryl held up her drink in a mock toast. “Don’t feel bad, Doc. Like I said, it’s just the nature of things.”

Will had stopped listening. He was thinking about what Cheryl had said she would do to save her child, if she had one. And about why Hickey had chosen to spend the night with Karen rather than with him. And what Karen would or would not do to save Abby.

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