Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (20 page)

G
eorgia froze. A man was so close to her she could reach out and touch his sleeve. Did he hear her tramping through the underbrush? If he turned around, he’d see her. She’d be finished. She held her breath. After what seemed like an interminable time, he moved in the opposite direction and headed toward the farmhouse. His cell kept ringing. He fished in a coat pocket for the phone and brought it to his ear.

“Yah?” It was a deep voice, rough and guttural.

Georgia allowed herself to exhale.

“
Da.
Okay.” The man slid the phone back into his pocket and changed direction, walking up the driveway away from the farmhouse. She heard the sound of a car door opening. Jesus! She hadn’t known she was this close to another vehicle.

The man who’d answered the cell called out in what sounded like Russian. A second voice, sounding sleepy, replied. Then the passenger door opened, and she heard two men exit the vehicle.

Guards. Good to know.

Behind them loomed a dark structure. A barn? Toolshed? She’d have to check it out later. Carefully, silently, she turned back to the approaching car. It was rolling into the driveway, headlights illuminating the two guards, one of whom raised an arm in greeting. She hunched her shoulders and tried to disappear behind a tree. Thank God it was dark.

The car was a dark sedan. Maybe a Beemer. Two figures were inside: driver and passenger. The car stopped on the driveway, the passenger door no more than ten feet from her. The engine cut out, and the man in the passenger seat climbed out. Georgia squinted to get a better look at him. When she saw who it was, she gasped.

O
ver the next six months, time had no meaning for Savannah. Lost in a yawning black maw of dope and sex, she measured its passage by how often she got her fix. She spent most of her time in a fog, but occasionally—usually when she needed another fix—a burst of clarity would puncture the numb curtain. By then, though, her awareness of how low she’d sunk was too intense, too horrifying, and she’d have to back away and allow the fog to envelop her again.

After Turdball caught her in the backyard of the fleabag hotel, he threw her in the back of a van and took her someplace new. She had no idea where it was, but it wasn’t a long drive. Turdball parked, hauled her out, and practically dragged her up a four-story walk-up. When he pushed her through the door of a dingy apartment, she was thrilled to see other girls. She counted eight. But none of them spoke English, and as she started to explore, her joy turned to despair. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and they all appeared to sleep in one room. The other room was filled with clothes on metal racks, all come-hither outfits, low-cut tank tops, short skirts, and stiletto heels. She guessed she was supposed to share them with the others.

By the next day she realized all the girls were addicted to heroin, that they were all whores, and that the ring was operated by the couple who had brought her first taste of heroin. They’d seemed so friendly. Friendly enough to fuck her blind.

Now, though, both the man and woman—she never learned their names—were all business. They no longer smiled, and they rarely spoke English. She found out later they were Ukrainian, not that it mattered. The only thing that did matter was that she was now their employee, and everything was different. She was expected to work nearly twelve hours a day on her back. Instead of getting smack from them every day, Savannah now had to pay for it. She had to pay for her food, too, although she was never hungry. And she had to fork over seventy-five percent of her earnings to the couple after the last john headed back to the suburbs or the north side or his job.

Which meant she was up shit creek. Sex was a cash business, and she made about five hundred a night. By the time she handed over nearly four hundred, she had barely a hundred left for dope, and the good stuff cost at least fifty a hit. The Ukrainians would extend credit, but even Savannah knew it was a ploy to keep her dependent on them. She’d never make or keep enough to get away from them. That was their plan. A Ponzi scheme in reverse.

Chicago was oppressively hot and dry that summer. Even air-conditioning did little to relieve it. And yet she was supposed to look good. Five, maybe six times a night, in clothes that had been worn by seven other women. The heroin helped dull her awareness, but a few impressions seeped through anyway. The smell of the men and their cum, briny and thick. Stray pubic hairs on her body, which made her skin crawl. The way most johns kept their eyes screwed shut, as though looking at her would turn them into stone. Their body odor, rancid and dirty or drenched in cologne. Either way, it was all repulsive. Yeah, sure, she’d fucked for money back in Colorado. But it was her choice. She decided who, when, and where. No more.

The other thing she found curious during her rare moments of lucidity was the medications they were given. Antibiotics but no birth control pills. When she asked the woman who had “recruited” her about it, the woman lied and said they were birth control pills. But Savannah had seen the bottles from which the pills were doled out, and the labels said amoxicillin or Cipro. She tried to ask the only other girl who spoke a smattering of English about it. But the girl, who wore a world-weary air, didn’t understand or wasn’t in any shape to give advice and shrugged.

The biggest event of the summer occurred in August, when a second American was brought in. Another blonde, the girl wore the same dazed look as the others, and Savannah wondered if she’d met up with Lazlo. She gave her a few hours to get acclimated, then approached her with a simple “Hi.”

The girl’s eyes widened; she told Vanna later she hadn’t thought anyone else spoke English. Her name was Jenny and she was from Kansas City. They could talk only in snatches—the couple had armed handlers like Turdball monitoring them—but she told Vanna a familiar story: an abusive family, druggy parents. Jenny wanted something better. She’d come to Chicago on the bus. Met a guy named Lazlo at the bus terminal.

That confirmed it. Savannah had been set up from the beginning. Lazlo was a recruiter. His assignment was to find fresh “stock,” and he was paid off with sex and money. She winced. She didn’t have the heart to tell Jenny.

A
few nights later they were getting dressed when the couple left the apartment. That in itself wasn’t unusual; one or both of them often left for hours at a time, probably to lure another girl into heroin and sex. Two men were assigned to guard the girls. One of them would take whomever he wanted into the clothing room to fuck, while the second stayed in the living room with the others. The women, listless and dull eyed, didn’t seem to care. After what they went through on a daily basis, no further humiliation was possible. When the first guard emerged, it would be the other’s turn.

This time was different. The couple usually handed out assignments before they left, including what street corner the girls were to supposed to hang out on, or what fleabag hotel they were supposed to find. But this time they didn’t. Once the couple had gone, Vanna caught a furtive look between the guards, as if they knew they had to behave. Had the Ukrainians been fingered by someone and were they now trying to flee? The other girls didn’t seem to notice—or care—that the couple was gone, but Vanna knew something was off.

At the same time she was powerless to do anything about it. She hugged her knees and rocked on the floor. She stopped when she heard footsteps thumping up the steps. Male voices murmured on the other side of the door, but she couldn’t make out the words. For a fleeting moment she thought the men were cops and she was just moments from freedom. But when she heard their harsh, Slavic words, which she now knew was Russian, she sagged and resumed rocking.

The door opened, and three men came in. They were all well dressed in jackets that looked expensive, designer jeans, and soft leather boots. One man seemed to be in charge, and he gestured to the other two. They cruised around the living room, hauling each girl to her feet. Most were too high to stand on their own, and the men had to support them.

The leader looked each girl over in turn, squinted, and cupped her chin in his gloved hand. Then he shook his head, and the men released their grip. The girls slid to the floor. The leader moved on and motioned to the next.

The men proceeded around the room, closing in on Vanna and Jenny. Vanna made herself pay attention. Why were the men checking them out? Did they want a party? An orgy? She studied the man in charge. He had pale blue eyes, almost hooded, but they contrasted sharply with his black hair. Most of the Russians she’d come across had light complexions; his dark coloring gave him a slightly Asian look. He was sinewy and slim, and his clothes fit him like a second skin. He wasn’t what you’d call handsome, but there was something about him. It was hard to look away.

As he approached, she scrambled up from the floor. But she was unsteady on her feet, and the two men grasped her under her armpits. She tried to shake them off. The leader raised one eyebrow, as if surprised anyone had the energy or motivation to fight. He moved a step closer and grasped her chin in his hand. Vanna tossed her head, trying to loosen his grip, but the more she wriggled the tighter he squeezed, until she couldn’t move. Her jaw locked and pain shot through her.

When he had her where he wanted, he smiled. It was a strange, crooked smile, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Mustering her courage, she stared back at him, trying to suppress the fear skittering around in her. She wasn’t prepared when his crooked smile deepened, as though her efforts amused him. He dropped his hold and stepped back, pulling his gaze away from her face. He examined her from head to toe. Then he grabbed one of her arms turned it over. When he saw the tracks on her veins, his smile faded, but he looked at the other two men and nodded.

They seized Vanna and shoved her against the wall nearest the door, then motioned for her to sit. The leader moved on to Jenny. She was weak and flaccid and couldn’t stand. Still, he examined her, looked back at Vanna, then his men, and nodded again. The men pushed Jenny onto the floor next to Vanna.

When he had finished checking out all the girls, he waved his hand and left the apartment. Vanna heard his boots clumping down the stairs. One of the men grabbed Jenny, the other Vanna, and forced them out and down the steps. Vanna’s final thought before she was hustled into an SUV was that the leader had done everything without saying a word.

W
hen Savannah was herded into the back of the SUV, the nip in the air told her summer was over. Of course, she wasn’t wearing much of anything, but one of the men threw a blanket over her and Jenny. They needed it. The sky was inky dark, and she had no idea where they were, except that they were barreling down a highway. After what seemed like a long time, the driver turned off, and a fresh, piney scent replaced the gritty smells of the city. The smell made her feel oddly optimistic, although there was no reason to be.

They turned off a two-lane road onto a narrow lane thick with woods on both sides. Rolling down the uneven road, they eventually reached a patchy driveway, which led to a farmhouse well recessed from the road. An unattached barn lay farther away. The men parked the SUV and motioned for Vanna and Jenny to get out. Floodlights mounted to the walls of both house and barn illuminated the surroundings, but all Vanna could see were bare branches waving in the wind.

Inside, the farmhouse was unusually clean and neat. No dirty dishes lying around, no trash piled up, worn but comfortable furniture. The kitchen looked good enough to cook in.

An older woman, round, with dark hair piled on top of her head and the faint trace of a mustache, motioned them to a set of stairs.

“Where are we?” Vanna asked.

The woman didn’t answer. Had she not heard or did she not speak English?

“Who are you?” Vanna said.

The woman shook her head, still not talking, and started up the steps. About halfway up, she stopped, turned around, and gestured for Vanna and Jenny to follow. The second floor contained four bedrooms. Vanna peeked in one as they passed. The room contained not much more than a bed and dresser, but like the rest of the place, it looked clean. At the end of the hall was a bathroom with older fixtures, but again, it was cleaner than most of the bathrooms she’d seen since she left Colorado.

The woman turned on the shower above a claw-footed tub. She opened a chest of drawers, handed both girls a washcloth and towel, and gestured to the water. Vanna didn’t need any more encouragement. She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the tub; it was the first real shower she’d had in months. As she lingered in the hot, steamy water, she wondered if she could scrub away the past few months as easily as the grit from her body.

After they showered, the old woman led Jenny to one room, Vanna to another. A faded green bathrobe lay on the bed. It wasn’t new, but the terry cloth was soft and comfortable. The woman beckoned her back down to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Jenny came down too, also wearing a bathrobe, but hers was white. She flipped up her hands as if to say, “What the fuck?”

Vanna shook her head. She didn’t understand either. The cleanliness and concern were a universe away from the way she’d been treated. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop.

The older woman busied herself at the stove and minutes later set down two steaming cups of tea in front of the girls. Vanna sipped hers, wondering whether she was dreaming or whether this was real. She felt herself smile wide enough that her lips curled.

It would be her last for a long time.

V
anna slept more soundly that night than she had since she’d stepped off the bus in Chicago. Still, she woke early. She knew why. She was ready for a fix. Somehow she had to communicate that to the woman who’d taken them in. She and Jenny would have to drive into town—wherever that was—to score. They’d need money, too, she realized worriedly. When they’d been taken from the apartment, they had no time to gather anything, including the few twenties Vanna had stashed inside her pillow case.

She went down to the kitchen in her bathrobe. Through the window the morning sun glittered through the trees, splashing a riot of yellow, orange, red, and brown over the surroundings. When had it become fall? she wondered. How had she missed it? Fall was her favorite season. It meant a new grade in school, new clothes—and her father.

Her little corner of the universe had been perfect. Her mother met Denny when they moved to Flagstaff; they’d married a few months later. Vanna was born a year after that. Her dad taught at the community college, and he spent more time with her than any of the other kids’ dads did with their kids; he even enjoyed her dress-ups and tea parties. When her mother called her a “daddy’s girl,” he would laugh and wink at Savannah like they shared a secret. When she started school, it was Denny who dropped her off in the morning and picked her up in the afternoon. He was going to his classes; she’d was going to hers. They were a team.

Until the freak ice storm that happened in January eleven years later. He dropped her at school in the morning but wasn’t there to pick her up in the afternoon. She’d stayed at school so long they finally called her mother, who couldn’t come to the phone. Instead the principal spoke to a neighbor who said her daddy had been in an accident on the highway. An eighteen-wheeler skidded on the ice and smashed into his car. He was killed instantly. Savannah never forgot the moment she heard he was dead. She was twelve and was wearing a new pair of shiny black boots he’d helped her choose. The next day it was sunny and sixty-five degrees.

Now she tore her eyes away from the window. The woman sat at the kitchen table, tiny white headphones dangling from her ears. The sight of an old woman listening to an iPod or iPhone was funny, and Vanna almost giggled. When the woman noticed her, she pulled out her earbuds, rose, and went to the fridge. She took out milk and a loaf of bread. Then she went to a cabinet and fished out a box of Cheerios. Vanna wasn’t hungry and she didn’t want cereal; the only thing she did want was a hit. She approached the woman, who was taking a bowl out of another cabinet, and stayed her hand.

“No. No cereal.”

The woman threw her a disapproving scowl. “
Da.
You eat.”

Vanna scrunched up her nose. “I’m not hungry.”

“
Da
,” the woman repeated. “You eat. You must.”

Vanna squinted. “So you do speak English?”

The woman tipped her head from side to side. “A leetle.”

“Great.” Vanna pasted on a smile. “Listen. I need a ride into town. Can you drive me?”

The woman’s gaze was cool and direct. She turned away and put the bowl back in the cabinet.

Vanna was confused. “You understand, right? I need a ride into town. Or Chicago. Now.”

The woman turned to face her. She held up her index finger. “You stay. Here.”

Vanna blew out a breath. “Look, I don’t know your name, and you’ve been great to take us in, but we really need to go into town.”

“Vanna,” a voice called. Vanna spun around. Jenny. In her white bathrobe. “Hey,” Jenny asked, “did you find any clothes in the drawers or closet?”

“I didn’t look.”

“Well, I did, and there’s nothing there. Not a thread.”

Vanna turned back to the woman. “Look, lady, we need our clothes. Where’s the stuff we were wearing last night?”

But the woman refused to answer. She got out the same bowl she’d offered Vanna, the Cheerios and the milk, and gestured to Jenny.

Jenny sat at the table. The woman nodded and poured cereal into the bowl.

“She doesn’t understand a fucking word we’re saying.” Vanna blew out a breath.

The woman put the cereal and a spoon in front of Jenny.

“You see a car anywhere?” Vanna asked.

Jenny shook her head. “The van took off.”

“Dammit.” Vanna started to pace. “She’s got to have a car.” She stopped and brightened. “I bet it’s in the barn.”

Jenny dug into her cereal.

Vanna scowled. “How the fuck can you eat?”

Jenny shrugged. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, well, if we can’t find her car, we’re up shit creek.” She headed toward the kitchen door. “I’m gonna check out the barn.”

But the old woman, suddenly as fleet-footed as a ballerina, intercepted Vanna before she reached the door. “No.” The woman grasped her arm and shook her head. “You stay in. No go out.”

“Let me the fuck go!” Vanna tried to shrug her off, but the woman’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“You go up now. Bed.” The woman said.

“You can’t do this. I’m not a prisoner!” Vanna cried out.

“You stay. You see.” The woman nodded and guided her toward the stairs.

Vanna opened and closed her mouth several times as if she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to throw a tantrum or cry. The woman’s expression remained stoic. Vanna narrowed her eyes, took another look, and stomped out of the room.

A few hours later Vanna’s stomach began to tighten. The cramps started twenty minutes after that. She’d had food poisoning from a lobster roll years earlier, but the pains from these cramps were much sharper. Beads of sweat ringed her neck and forehead. She made it to the bathroom just in time.

While she was dealing with the cramps, diarrhea, and sweat, her skin started to itch. That worsened as well, until she felt as if bugs were crawling over her body. She scratched everywhere, but it didn’t help.

She staggered into Jenny’s room. Jenny was fast asleep. How the hell could she sleep? Shouldn’t she be as sick as Vanna? Then she knew. Jenny had been on junk for only a week or so, not the five months Vanna had been hooked. Her withdrawal would be easier. Vanna frowned. She wanted to wake Jenny up. Why should she suffer alone? Meanwhile, the urge for a fix, somewhere, anywhere, tore through her. If she didn’t get it soon, she was going to die.

She hurried down the steps. The old woman was at the table again, earbuds trailing a white cord to her phone. Vanna wanted to rip the fucking cord away from her head and strangle her.

“Please…,” she wailed. “I need it. I need it bad.”

The woman glanced up, but her expression was stony. She didn’t even bother to remove her earbuds.

Despair thickened Vanna’s throat. The morning sun disappeared from the window. It must be almost noon. She tried another tactic. “Hey, what’s your name?” She wondered if her voice sounded as frantic as she felt.

The woman hesitated, then squinted as if she knew the ruse. She took off her earbuds. “I Zoya.”

“Zoya.” Vanna pasted on a smile. “Do you have a daughter, Zoya?”

There was no response. In fact, the woman stiffened as if Savannah had struck her.

“Well, if you did, you wouldn’t want her to suffer, would you?”

Zoya pressed her lips together. “You stop talk. Go up.”

“Up? You mean high?” Vanna, close to the end of her rope, purposely misinterpreted the woman’s words. “Thank God. Where is it? I can do it myself, you know.”

Zoya rose and shooed Vanna toward the stairs like a misbehaving dog. “Up, up. You go bed. I come soon.”

“No!” Vanna shouted. Panic rolled over her. Fresh sweat soaked the back of her neck. “You just said I could score. You promised!” She knew she wasn’t making sense, but she glanced around wildly, trying to home in on something, anything, that would stem the overpowering urge for a fix.

Then she remembered the barn. The woman’s car had to be in there, didn’t it? She inched around the table toward the door, preparing to bolt. This time, though, Zoya didn’t try to stop her. With a shriek of victory Vanna reached the door and twisted the knob. Nothing happened. The door was locked. She looked for the release. She couldn’t find it. She whirled around.

“Open this door!” she commanded.

Zoya just looked at her.

“Open it, you goddammed witch!”

Still no reaction.

Vanna screamed. And then screamed again. She screamed over and over until she was hoarse and the screams turned into tears. With her back to the door, she sank to the floor. She couldn’t stop crying.

Zoya went to Vanna, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. Vanna tried to resist, but whatever strength had propelled her this far vanished. Or else Zoya was a hell of a lot stronger than she looked.

“You go to bed. You sick.”

Vanna kept crying.

Zoya half pushed, half dragged her up the steps. She shoved her into the bedroom and locked the door.