Jane stared into the girl’s eyes, which were now burning with panic. “Okay,” she murmured, backing away from the phone. “I’m police, too. Why do you trust me?”
Mila’s gaze dropped to Regina. And Jane thought: This is why she’s risked this visit. She knows I’m a mother. Somehow that makes all the difference.
“I know why you’re running,” said Jane. “I know about Ashburn.”
Mila went to the couch and sank onto the cushions. Suddenly she seemed even smaller, wilting by the moment beneath Jane’s gaze. Her shoulders crumpled forward. Her head drooped into her hands, as though she was too exhausted to hold it up any longer. “I am so tired,” she whispered.
Jane moved closer until she was standing just above the bowed head, looking down at the raggedly cut hair. “You saw the killers. Help us identify them.”
Mila looked up with hollow, haunted eyes. “I will not live long enough.”
Jane dropped to a crouch, until their eyes were level. Regina too was staring at Mila, fascinated by this exotic new creature. “Why are you here, Mila? What do you want me to do?”
Mila reached into the dirty tote bag she had carried in, and rummaged through wadded-up clothes and candy bars and crumpled tissues. She pulled out a videotape and held it out to Jane.
“What is this?”
“I am afraid to keep it anymore. I give it to you. You tell them there are no more. This is the last copy.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Just take it!” She held it at arm’s length, as though it was poisonous, and she wanted to keep it as far away as possible. She breathed a sigh of relief when Jane finally took it from her.
Jane set Regina in her infant carrier, then crossed to the TV. She slipped the cassette into the VCR, and pressed PLAY on the remote control.
An image appeared on the screen. She saw a brass bed, a chair, heavy drapes covering a window. Off camera, footsteps creaked closer, and a woman giggled. A door clunked shut, and now a man and woman came into view. The woman had a sleek mane of blond hair, and her low-cut blouse revealed bountiful cleavage. The man was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki slacks.
“Oh yeah,” the man sighed as the woman unbuttoned her blouse. She wriggled out of her skirt, peeled down her underwear. She gave the man a playful shove onto the bed, and he flopped back, utterly passive, as she unbuckled his pants, pulled them down over his hips. Bending over him, she took his erect penis into her mouth.
It’s just a porno tape, thought Jane. Why am I watching this?
“Not this one,” Mila said, and took the remote control from Jane’s hand. She pressed FAST-FORWARD.
The blonde’s head jerked back and forth, performing a blow job with manic efficiency. The screen went blank. Now another couple jittered into view. At her first glimpse of the woman’s long black hair, Jane was stunned. It was Olena.
Clothing magically melted away. Nude bodies tumbled onto the bed, writhing in FAST-FORWARD on the mattress. I have seen this bedroom before, Jane suddenly realized, remembering the closet with the hole drilled through the wall. That’s how this videotape was filmed-with a camera mounted in that closet. She realized, too, who the blond woman in the first clip was. She’d been Jane Doe number two in Detective Wardlaw’s crime scene video, the woman who had died in her cot, cowering beneath a blanket.
All the women in this video are now dead.
Once again, the screen went blank.
“Here,” Mila said softly. She pressed STOP, then PLAY.
It was the same bed, the same room, but with different sheets this time: a floral pattern with mismatched pillowcases. An older man walked into view, balding with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a red tie. He pulled off the tie and tossed it on the chair, then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a pale belly, sagging with middle-age spread. Though he stood facing the camera, he did not seem aware of its presence, and he peeled off his shirt with an utter lack of self-consciousness, revealing to the camera an unflattering slouch. Suddenly he straightened, his attention swinging to something the camera could not yet see. It was a girl. Her cries preceded her, shrill protests in what sounded like Russian. She did not want to come into the room. Her sobs were cut off by a sharp slap, and a woman’s stern command. Then the girl stumbled into view as though shoved, and she sprawled on the floor at the man’s feet. The door slammed shut, followed by the clack of footsteps moving away.
The man looked down at the girl. Already an erection bulged in his gray trousers. “Get up,” he said.
The girl did not move.
Again: “Get up.” He gave her a nudge with his foot.
At last the girl raised her head. Slowly, as though exhausted just by the pull of gravity, she struggled to her feet, blond hair disheveled.
Against her will, Jane was drawn closer to the TV. She was too appalled to look away, even as her rage mounted. The girl was not yet even a teenager. She was wearing a pink cropped blouse and a short denim skirt that exposed painfully thin legs. Her cheek still bore the angry red imprint of the woman’s slap. Fading bruises on her bare arms told of other blows, other cruelties. Though the man towered over her, this frail girl now faced him with quiet defiance.
“Take off the blouse.”
The girl just looked at him.
“What, are you stupid? Don’t you understand English?”
The girl’s spine snapped straight, and her chin jutted up. Yes, she does understand. And she’s telling you to fuck off, asshole.
The man stepped toward her, grabbed her blouse with both hands, and ripped it open, releasing a hail of loose buttons. The girl sucked in a startled breath and slapped him, sending his glasses flying. They clattered onto the floor. For a few seconds the man just stared at her in surprise. Then a look of such fury contorted his face that Jane flinched away from the TV, knowing what would happen next.
The blow landed on the girl’s jaw, the impact so powerful that it seemed to lift her right off her feet. She slammed to the floor. He grabbed her around the waist, dragged her toward the bed, and threw her down on the mattress. With a few sharp tugs, he pulled off her skirt, then unbuckled his trousers.
Though the blow had temporarily stunned her, the girl was not finished fighting back. All at once she seemed to spring back to life, screaming, fists beating against him. He trapped her wrists and climbed on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. In his haste to maneuver himself between her thighs, he lost his grip on her right hand. She clawed at his face, and her nails scraped skin. He jerked back and touched his cheek where she had scratched him. Stared, disbelieving, at his fingers. At the blood she had drawn.
“You cunt. You little cunt.”
He slammed his fist into her temple. The thud made Jane flinch. Nausea soured her throat.
“I paid for you, goddammit!”
The girl shoved at his chest, but she was weaker now. Her left eye was swelling, and blood trickled from her lip, yet she continued to fight. Her struggles only seemed to excite him. Too feeble to resist, she could not stop the inevitable. As he thrust into her, she gave a scream.
“Shut up.”
She did not stop screaming.
“Shut up!” He hit her again. And again. Finally he clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as he repeatedly rammed into her. He did not seem to notice that she finally stopped screaming, or that she had fallen perfectly still. The only noise now was the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the animal grunts from his throat. He gave a final moan and his back arched in a spasm of release. Then, with a sigh, he collapsed onto the girl.
For a moment he lay breathing heavily, his body flaccid with exhaustion. Slowly, he seemed to register that something was not right. He looked down at her.
She was motionless.
He gave her a shake. “Hey.” He patted her cheek, and a note of worry slipped into his voice. “Wake up. Goddammit, you wake up.”