Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series) (21 page)

T
he next four days were torture. Excruciating pain pummeled Vanna in waves. Her legs buckled, and she couldn’t walk—even to the bathroom. At the peak, she thought her joints and muscles were going to explode. When the pain did recede, her fingers, arms, and legs felt lethargic and weak. Opening a drawer was impossible. So was twisting a doorknob, assuming it wasn’t locked, which, of course, it was. Then there were the cramps, which gnawed at her gut and radiated down to her crotch but were a thousand times worse than menstrual cramps. The bouts of diarrhea were so fierce she couldn’t control them, and full-body sweats left her wringing wet, except when they alternated with chills that couldn’t be controlled even with three blankets.

Zoya laid plastic sheets on the bed. She brought Vanna Imodium and vitamins, but Vanna’s lips were so swollen and cracked she could barely open her mouth wide enough to swallow. A sour taste in her throat slithered up to her tongue, making her mouth taste like clay.

Eating was out of the question, despite the toast and endless cups of tea that Zoya brought. She almost threw them in the woman’s face. After the first day, she didn’t see Jenny at all, but when she heard moans and screams coming from the other bedroom, she knew Jenny was going through withdrawal too.

There was no respite. Insomnia claimed her and she couldn’t sleep. Occasionally she dozed, but most of the time she lay in a semiconscious state of misery. Her legs had acquired what those late-night TV commercials called restless-leg syndrome, twitching and moving on their own. By the third day, she begged Zoya to kill her.

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to die. Just kill me now. Please.”

Zoya shot her a pitiless expression.

That night she was woken by the sound of a car crackling on the snow and gravel. It seemed to be heading past the house to the barn. She thought she heard a woman cry, but it was muffled, and she could have been dreaming. The next morning, the car had vanished, and everything was the way it had been.

By the fourth day, the symptoms were still there, but they didn’t seem as fierce. Vanna still felt like she had a bad case of flu, but she managed to get down half a piece of toast and a few sips of tea. On the fifth day, although she wasn’t sure how much time had passed, the diarrhea subsided, and she even took a full-fledged nap.

The next morning she actually got out of bed, unsteady, and was taken to the bathroom. She gazed at herself in the mirror. An ugly girl with ratty blond hair, a gaunt face, alabaster skin, and huge eyes stared back. Vanna turned away. She didn’t want to see the human wreck she’d become.

T
he next few weeks passed in hues of gray. The physical symptoms of withdrawal subsided, but Vanna’s emotional state was shaky. Bouts of listlessness during which she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed alternated with irritable, manic periods. She didn’t want to live; she didn’t want to die. She spent most of her time in her room, wondering how her life had come to this.

One morning she was lying on her bed when she heard a voice. “Vanna.”

She sat bolt upright. The voice was her father’s. She knew it better than she knew her own. She gazed around the room in a panic. Where had it come from? How was it possible? She slid off her bed. It took only about two seconds to search the tiny room—there was only the bed, a chest of drawers, and an empty closet. She looked under the bed. Nothing. She threw open the closet door. Empty. She sucked in a breath. She’d been so sure.

She lay down again, trying to make sense of what she’d heard. It must have been a dream. She must have been dozing. But it was so real. His inflection, his tone, the underlying warmth in his voice. Was it just a heroin dream? Or was it something else? If felt as if he’d reached down from heaven—or wherever he was—to let her know she was on his mind. That everything was okay. That he was there and he loved her.

She blinked back tears.

S
avannah wasn’t sure whether it was the dream, as she came to call it, or the fact that she hadn’t been hooked on dope for more than six months, but by the following week Vanna was better. The personality changes and mood shifts heroin was known to trigger seemed to ebb, and she felt stronger. More competent and lucid.

In retrospect, Vanna realized Zoya must have noticed it too, because one afternoon she came back to the house with a Walgreen’s bag and shook it out on the kitchen table. Two pregnancy tests fell out. Zoya made both Vanna and Jenny pee on the sticks. Zoya’s eyebrows rose as she read the results. She eyed Jenny and Vanna from top to bottom. Then she walked out, as she usually did, leaving Savannah and Jenny with the guards. The girls snatched the sticks off the table and studied the results. Jenny’s test was positive; Vanna’s wasn’t. Vanna heaved a sigh of relief. Jenny burst into tears.

“Crap, Vanna. What am I going to do?”

Vanna shook her head. “I don’t know. How did it happen?”

Jenny wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “That’s a stupid question.”

“What I mean, is, do you think you were pregnant when they were shooting us up?”

“I think I’m about three months. So I had to have been.” Fresh tears streamed down Jenny’s cheeks. “Which means the baby might be deformed or something, you know?”

“That’s okay. You not going to keep it, anyway.”

Jenny stopped crying and looked at Vanna. “What do you mean?”

“Just tell Zoya you want an abortion. There’s still time. I’m sure they’ll say yes. They don’t want you having a baby any more than you do.”

Jenny sniffed. “I—I don’t know.”

“Jenny, you have to. This”—Vanna waved her arm to encompass the kitchen, the farm, their entire situation—“this is not the time or the place to have a baby. Promise me you’ll ask, okay? Tell them you’ll do anything to get it out of you. And then we’ll figure out a way to get out of here.”

Jenny bit her lip. Then the guards cut them off and took them up to their rooms.

Vanna was dozing when Zoya returned that afternoon. She came awake when she heard the woman’s heavy tread on the stairs. Vanna frowned. There was more than one person on the steps. Zoya came into her room followed by a pudgy man in a suit. Thin, dark strands of hair in a comb-over failed to hide his baldness. He was carrying a black bag.

“Who are you?”

“A doctor.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Sure you are.”

Zoya cut in. “You no talk. He doctor. Take blood.”

“Why?”

“We want to make sure you’re healthy,” the man said.

“Healthy? You want to make sure I’m healthy? Where were you when I needed you?”

“I’m just going to take a little blood. Make sure you don’t have any STDs or AIDS.”

Vanna ran her hand through her hair. “Oh fuck. Just get it over with.”

Mercifully, the doctor was quick. Once he had a couple of vials of blood, he nodded to Zoya and left the room.

Zoya closed the door. Vanna hadn’t noticed, but Zoya was carrying a familiar white bag with a red bull’s-eye. She placed the bag on the bed and slid out the contents. Inside was a silver-sequined tank top, the skimpiest black shorts Vanna had ever seen, four-inch heels, and tubes of mascara, eye shadow, and blush. She told Vanna to put on the clothes.

Vanna’s spirits sank. Was she being sent back to the hookers? Her throat closed up in fear. “But I don’t want to.”

Zoya squinted and shoved the clothes closer.

“I don’t want to go back there,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“You pass test, you no go.”

“The blood test?”

“No.” The woman shook her head. “You see.”

“What about Jenny? Is she having the test too?”

Zoya shrugged.

“Why me?”

But Zoya didn’t answer. She waited while Vanna tried on the clothes. Then she nodded. “You take off now. Rest.” She locked the door and left Vanna’s room.

S
ometime after dark Zoya came back up to help Vanna dress. When Vanna had pulled on the skimpy clothes, Zoya motioned her into the bathroom. Vanna had been avoiding the mirror since she’d caught that glimpse of herself, but putting on her makeup required her to look. The sunken-eyed, hollow-cheeked face that had stared back at her a month earlier was gone. Instead her reflection showed an attractive, fresh young woman. Her hair was longer now, and when Zoya pinned it up in a twist, Vanna almost smiled. Even her cheeks had a rosy glow.

Zoya herded Vanna down the steps to the living room, a large space with no furniture except two easy chairs, an end table, and thick green drapes covering the windows. Track lighting illuminated one end of the room; the rest of the room was in shadow. Almost like a stage. She was aware that a man was reclining in one of the easy chairs near the pool of light, but she couldn’t see who it was. Zoya stopped at the entrance to the room, and a brief conversation took place in Russian. It ended with the man’s voice calling out of the dark.

“
Da
.”

Zoya rotated a dial on the light switch, and the track lights brightened. Then she nodded at Vanna. “You go.”

Vanna flipped up her hands. “Where?”

Zoya pointed to the center of the room. “Stand. Turn around.”

“Why? What the fuck is going on?”

“Just do,” Zoya hissed.

Vanna shot her an irritated glance but moved to the middle of the room under the lights. She paused, unsure what to do next. She was aware that the man in the chair was watching her, and she realized with a start that this was the test. She
was
on a stage, of sorts. She raised her hand to shade her eyes.

A voice came out of the darkness. “Put hand down.”

She hesitated. The man had a thick Russian accent, but at least he was speaking English.

The voice deepened. “Now.”

Vanna dropped her hand. Who was this man?

“Turn around,” the voice said.

Vanna turned.

“Other way.”

She turned back.

“Put hands behind head. Look up.”

She tilted her head up, but the glare from the lights was too bright. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Open eyes and walk across room.”

She felt like a bug under a microscope. She flashed back to biology lab in high school. She and a geeky kid named Stewart were supposed to dissect a frog so they could examine the creature’s delicate muscles and joints under the microscope. She couldn’t do it. She told him she’d give him a BJ if he did it himself. He happily complied.

“Now back.”

Pulled back to the present, Vanna backtracked to the center of the room.

Another silence. Then, “You look better than last time I see you.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

After what had happened to her over the past six months, she knew that was bullshit.

“You okay now?”

She didn’t answer.

“We clean you up.”

“Why?”

“I buy you.”

“You bought me?” Her voice spiked. She hadn’t imagined anything worse than being forced to be a whore. On the other hand, if he’d bought her maybe there was. But something told her she couldn’t show him she was afraid. She pretended to be pissed off. “What the fuck for?”

The man laughed; a rough, harsh laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. Terror bubbled in her throat, but she forced herself to keep up a front. This was America. “Lincoln freed the slaves, remember?”

The man’s laughter faded. “You no like? I take you back to apartment, drugs, fucking.”

V
anna gulped air. She didn’t want to go back to the filth, the whores, the heroin. She didn’t know what was going on, but this man was now clearly in charge of her, and at least for now, she had to play along. She let out her breath and pretended to think. Then she planted one hand on her hip, angled it out, and smiled seductively. “I guess I’ll stay.” She paused. “So? Did I pass?”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s your name?” she called out.

More silence. “C’mon. Make one up if you want to. I need to call you something.”

Then, “I am Vlad.”

Vlad? What kind of a name was that? She shaded her eyes again and tried to make out his features. She couldn’t. “Well, Vlad. What happens now?”

A throaty chuckle came from the shadows.

Vanna was suddenly tired of the bullshit. “Okay. Tell it to me straight. What do I have to do to get out of here? How much do you want?”

He sidestepped the answer. “Where is home?”

“Colorado.”

“Why you leave?”

A sharp memory of her mother bit into her. Why hadn’t they been able to make it work after her father died? Maybe Vanna should have been more caring. Her mother was as broken as she was. Maybe they could have patched each other up instead of ripping each other to shreds. Vanna needed someone who cared whether she lived or died. Maybe, over time, she could have broken through her mother’s problems and found that love. Her father would have wanted that.

“Tell me,” Vlad said.

She shook her head.

“Okay. What is
your
name?”

“Vanna.”

“Vanna? What name Vanna? For TV show?”

“It’s short for Savannah. Hey, do you think we could turn down the lights? I’d really like—”

Ignoring her request, he cut her off. “Why you come Chicago?”

She pressed her lips together. He didn’t have to know.

“I waiting, Vanna.” He emphasized the word “Vanna.”

She kept her mouth shut.

“Is big secret?”

She shook her head.

“You tell me. Now.” He sounded irritated.

Vanna considered it. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. He’d probably heard the story before. “My mother and I weren’t getting along. So I came to see my sister.”

There was a sudden pause. Then, “You have sister here?”

“Well, a half sister,” she replied. “Look, if it’s money you want, I can borrow some to pay you off,” she lied. “Really. Just give me a chance.”

“Where is sister?” His voice grew cool. The throaty laugh was gone.

“I—I don’t know. Things happened so fast…” Her voice trailed off. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up Georgia.

“You want I call?”

Vanna looked at the floor. “She doesn’t know I’m here,” she said softly.

She heard him shift. Had she made a mistake? Maybe she should never have mentioned Georgia.

“What is sister name?”

She didn’t answer.

Even though she couldn’t see Vlad, she had a sense he was leaning forward. Waiting. “Tell me her name.”

Again, she shook her head.

“Vanna, you want make you talk?”

Vanna ran her tongue around her lips. She had fucked up. But there was no way to unring this bell. She had to tell him. “Her name is Georgia.”

“Georgia? Georgia what?”

“Georgia Davis.”

Once again, a silence so long and deep that it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. What had she done? She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. Finally, Vlad cleared his throat. What came out of his mouth next shocked her. In fact, it scared the shit out of her.

“Your sister…she is police?”

She went rigid. How could he know that? Who was this man? Why would he think Georgia was a cop? A mental alarm blasted her brain. She had to fix things. Fast.

“There’s no fucking way my sister is a cop,” she blustered. But even as she said it, she recalled her mother telling her how
she’d
married a cop in Chicago all those years ago. That man had been Georgia’s father. It
was
possible. But how did this man know?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of movement. Vlad stood up and came toward her. She lifted her chin, like an animal sniffing the air.

When he came into view, she took a step back. She recognized him. He was the man in the leather jacket who’d come to the hooker apartment a month earlier. Who’d chosen her and Jenny and brought them here. Whose orders had been obeyed without his saying a word.

She looked him over. Muscled and well built, he was the type she wouldn’t mind fucking. Skin so pale it was milky, eyes so icy blue they could probably cut glass. High cheekbones, a nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice—but who cared about that?—and a mass of thick hair, black and silver, particularly at the temples. Still, there was something wild and dangerous in his face, something that made her feel there were no boundaries he wouldn’t cross. His expression was cold and detached. He stared at her as if she were nothing more than a lump of clay.

“A sister. Police. Georgia Davis.” His gaze turned calculating, as if he was putting things together. Finally he smiled, as if he had just figured it out. But it was an odd, crooked smile, a smile that highlighted his sharp features but did nothing to warm his face. “Well, well. How you say? It is small world.”

She recoiled.

He called out something in Russian. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw, or maybe felt, Zoya, who was lurking at the entrance to the room, stiffen. He talked to Zoya, whose eyebrows rose sky-high. Then he switched back to English. “How you say? This is my lucky day.”

Vanna took a step back, but he closed in, invading her space, moving so close she could smell his aftershave. She didn’t recognize it. An icicle of fear slid up her spine.

He cupped her chin in his hand, still with that strange, crooked smile. “I think we have fun now. How you say? Kill birds with stone?”

“Kill two birds with one stone,” Vanna murmured.

“Yes.” Vlad paused. “We see how good a cop sister is.” He grinned as if he was very pleased with himself. ”Zoya. Go into kitchen. Get paper. Pencil. We plan.”

Vanna shivered. Her bravado vanished. Something was off. Really off.

Vlad turned back to her with a cold smile, one that, curiously, reminded her of her mother in one of her moods. Then the smile vanished, and he gazed at her with barely disguised contempt. “You now gonna be my favorite girl.”

Zoya came back into the room with paper and pen.

Vlad motioned to Vanna. “Bring her to me in an hour.”