"We are not calling the police, Krystal," Bruce said. "First of all, I don't believe it's real. It's some kind of hoax-"
"But what if it isn't?"
"They said don't call the police."
"My God, I can't believe this is happening," Krystal said, her voice trembling.
"I don't know why not," Bruce said. "She's your daughter. You know she's never been anything but trouble."
"How can you talk that way?"
"Easily. It's true."
"You can be so fucking cruel. I don't believe it. Ouch! You're hurting me! Bruce!"
Tears welled up in Molly's eyes. She hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to shake.
"I've asked you not to use foul language, Krystal. You can't be a lady with the mouth of a sailor."
Krystal rushed to apologize. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm upset. I didn't mean it."
"You're irrational. You have to get control of yourself, Krystal. Think this through logically. The tape says no police."
"What will we do?"
"I'll handle it."
"But I think-"
"Has anyone asked you to think?"
"No."
"Who makes the decisions in this house, Krystal?"
Krystal drew a shaky breath. "The person who is best equipped to make them."
"And who is that person?"
"You."
"Thank you. Now leave it to me. Go take a pill and go to bed. There's nothing we can do tonight."
"Yes," Krystal said softly. "I think I will do that."
Molly knew from past experience her mother would take more than one pill, and she would wash it down with vodka. She would retreat into her own little world and pretend everything in her life was lovely and fine. Molly, meanwhile, felt sick to her stomach. Everything she'd heard frightened her. What had Erin done now? Something terrible, if Krystal wanted to call the police.
"I'm going for a drive to clear my head," Bruce said. "I had a terrible day. Now this."
Molly held very still, praying neither of them would come into the family room for any reason. She heard her mother's heels on the tile in the hall. Krystal always went up the main staircase because it was beautiful and she had always dreamed of living in a beautiful house. Bruce walked past the family room on his way to the kitchen. Molly stayed still until she heard him go out the door to the garage. She waited to hear his car start and for the garage door to close, and then she waited a little longer. When she was sure he had gone, she crept out of her hiding place and went into his office.
No one was allowed in Bruce's office when Bruce wasn't there. He expected everyone to respect his privacy even though he regularly invaded everyone else's. This was his house, and he never let any of them forget it.
Molly turned on the desk lamp and looked around at the bookshelves and the walls covered with photographs of Bruce shaking hands with important people, with Bruce's awards for this and that having to do with his job and with his service to the community. Everything in the room was placed exactly as Bruce wanted it, and he would know if one little thing got moved a fraction of an inch.
Molly checked over her shoulder as she picked up the remote for the television and VCR. She hit the play button and waited, so nervous she was shaking all over.
The movie started without any credits or titles or anything. A girl standing by a gate on a back road. Erin. Molly watched in horror as a van pulled up and a man in a mask jumped out and grabbed her and threw her into the van.
A strange mechanical voice came out of the speakers: "We have your daughter. Don't call the police-"
Tears flooding her glasses, Molly hit the stop button, hit eject, scrambled onto a chair, and reached up to snag the video out of the machine. She wanted to cry out loud. She wanted to throw up. She did neither.
Clutching the tape, she ran through the house to the laundry room and grabbed her jacket off the hook. She wrapped the tape in the jacket and tied the jacket around her waist. She was shaking so badly, she didn't know if she would have the strength to do what she had to. All she knew was that she had to try.
She opened the garage door, climbed on her bike, and took off, pedaling as hard as she could down the street and into the night.
16
Despite the fact that every law enforcement agent in Palm Beach County hated me, I did still have contacts in the profession. I called an FBI agent I knew from the field office in West Palm. Armedgian and another agent had coordinated with PBSO narcotics on a case that involved heroine dealers in West Palm Beach and a connection in France. Armedgian had handled all the work between our respective offices, the FBI liaison in Paris, French authorities, and Interpol. The case had lasted six months, and in that time, Armedgian had become not only a contact, but a friend-the kind of friend I could call and ask for information.
I called him at the end of the day and reintroduced myself. It's Estes. Remember me? We'll always have Paris… Of course, he said, though there was a pause first, and a tension in his voice.
I asked him to get me what he could on Tomas Van Zandt and World Horse Sales from Interpol. Again the pause. Was I back on the job? He thought I'd left the profession, after… well, after…
I explained to him I was helping out a friend who had gotten mixed up with this character in a business deal, and I'd heard the guy was a crook. I wasn't asking for anything but to find out if he had a record. That didn't seem too much, did it?
Armedgian made the customary noises of complaint and fear of discovery and censure. Federal agents were the kids in school who really did worry that going to the lavatory without a hall pass would put a black mark in their permanent records that would ruin their lives. But in the end he agreed to do the deed.
Tomas Van Zandt hadn't become what he was overnight. It wasn't unreasonable to assume if he had terrorized one girl, he had terrorized others. Maybe one of them had dared to go to the authorities. Then again, part of his control over Sasha Kulak had been the fact that she was a stranger in a strange land, and probably there illegally.
It made me furious to think about it. He was a predator preying on vulnerable women, whether they were his employees or his clients. And the truly infuriating thing about that was the fact that vulnerable women often either refuse to see the danger in a man like Van Zandt, or convince themselves they have no recourse but to suffer through. And a sociopath like Van Zandt could smell that a mile away.
I picked up his business card and looked at it. It was late, but I could still call him on his cell phone, apologize again for Irina's behavior, ask to meet him for a drink… Maybe I'd get lucky and have to kill him in self-defense at the end of the evening.
I was reaching for the phone when something hit my front door with force. My hand went for the Glock I'd laid on the table to clean. My mind raced through scenarios in the blink of an eye. Then the pounding started and a small voice penetrated the wood.
"Elena! Elena!"
Molly.
I pulled the door open and the girl fell inside as if she'd been blown to the house by a hurricane. Her hair was matted with sweat. She was as pale as parchment.
"Molly, what's wrong? What's happened?"
I guided her to a chair and she melted into it like a limp noodle, so out of breath she was panting.
"How did you get here?"
"My bike."
"God. It's the dead of night. Why didn't you call me if you needed to see me?"
"I couldn't. I didn't dare."
"Have you heard something from Erin?"
She pulled off the jacket she'd worn tied around her waist and fumbled through the folds of cloth. Her hands were shaking violently as she fished out a videotape and thrust it at me.