Stolen Souls

38

THE COPS WAVED Herkus through the traffic. This detective smelled of trouble. Herkus had known a policeman like him in Vilnius. He was buried in the woods not far from Herkus’s wife.

He dialed Arturas and said, “I’m on my way.”

“About time,” Arturas said.

“The cops pulled me over,” Herkus said. “They kept me there until a detective showed up. His name was Lennon.”

“Broad-shouldered, blond hair?”

“Yes,” Herkus said.

“He was here this morning.”

“He knows about the whore,” Herkus said. “He knows she killed Tomas, and he knows we’re looking for her.”

“He knows nothing,” Arturas said. “He’s just reaching.”

“He knows enough,” Herkus said. “He has the passport she used to travel here. There are two more flights to Brussels today. One from Belfast, one from Dublin. You should be on one of them, get out of here until this blows over.”

“I promised my mother,” Arturas said. “I promised her I’d find the whore. Do you want to tell her we ran away?”

Herkus thought about this for a moment. He had met Laima Strazdiene. only once. He had been in Belgium for less than a year, struggling with the French language when in Brussels, confounded by Flemish when he set foot outside the city.

He had been working at a brothel near Gare Bruxelles-Central that serviced the business and diplomatic travelers who commuted through the station. His job description was simple: man the door, refuse those who looked like bad news, and beat the shit out of anyone who caused grief inside.

It had been a busy enough night, but nothing out of the ordinary until an English client, a politician called Edward Hargreaves if Herkus remembered correctly, kicked up hell because one of the girls had taken money from his wallet. Herkus went to the room and stood between the whore and the client. The girl denied it. Hargreaves’s face reddened with anger.

“She say she not take it,” Herkus said in English.

“She bloody did,” the client said as he pulled on his trousers. “I had seven hundred euros when I came here. When I went to get the money to pay her, there was only three hundred. That’s four hundred euros gone.”

Herkus looked back to the girl. She ranted in French, the words coming hard and fast. The only one he made out was enculer, which he knew meant something bad. Hargreaves understood it too, going by his reaction.

A hard clearing of the throat from the doorway caused Hargreaves to pause. Herkus turned to see Laima Strazdiene. enter the room. She stood no higher than his shoulder and had a thin build with elfin features. But he knew there was nothing playful about her.

It wasn’t the way she wore a business suit and rings that dwarfed her fingers, or the set of her shoulders as she crossed the room, or the tightness of her mouth. It was the dark chill in her eyes, like pieces of coal embedded in the sockets.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked in perfect English.

Herkus explained as best he could over the protestations and interruptions of both the whore and the client.

Laima nodded once and gave a polite smile. “One moment,” she said.

Herkus, the girl, and Hargreaves watched her leave the room.

“Where’d she go?” Hargreaves asked.

Before Herkus could answer, Laima returned with a roll of hundred-euro notes in her hand. She counted off four and handed them to the client.

“Of course, there will be no charge for your visit today,” she said.

“Thank you,” Hargreaves said.

Without his anger to shore him up, he was left with only the sordid nature of his business here. He dressed quickly, and thanked Laima once more.

“Please show this gentleman out,” she said to Herkus.

He obliged, guiding Hargreaves out of the room, and she closed the door behind them. The Englishman and he exchanged no more words on the way to the front door. Their eyes did not meet as the first screams came from the room they had just left.

The client gone, Herkus lingered there by the door, no desire to hear the cries with any more clarity. The other girls gathered in the hall, exchanging fearful glances, some of them flinching with each new shriek.

Soon the screams became moans, and then faded to silence interrupted by grunts of exertion. The girls drifted back to their rooms, tears in their eyes, unable to bear what they heard.

Eventually, Laima emerged. She mopped her brow with a handkerchief, her breath hitching in her chest. The lacy fabric left a red smear on her forehead. Herkus would have told her so, offered to fetch her a clean tissue, but he noticed her rings then.

The strands of hair wafted from them like wisps of candy floss. Skin clung to the diamonds.

“That young woman no longer works for us,” she said. “Please escort her from my property.”

Herkus left the girl within crawling distance of the hospital’s emergency entrance. It took the best part of a bottle of vodka to get him to sleep that night.

“NO,” HE SAID. “I don’t want to tell her.”

“So we stay,” Arturas said. “Besides, if this detective really had anything, he’d have formally questioned one of us by now. Keep looking.”

“All right,” Herkus said. “But it’s dangerous.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be generous to you this Christmas.”

“How generous?”

A pause, then, “Very generous.”

“Okay,” Herkus said.

“But first, bring me what I asked for.”

The hotel came into view. “Soon,” Herkus said.