Thirty-Two

Mary opened the door of her room and slipped into a dimly lit hall. A threadbare carpet the color of dirt covered the floor, while dark spots of old knotty pine paneling seemed to crawl up the walls. Again, she looked around for surveillance cameras, but the only thing she saw near the ceiling were swollen lumps of drywall and wisps of rotting insulation. She fumbled with the dozen or so keys on Yusuf’s key ring, looking for the one that would lock her door. She knew he would be out for a while, but eventually he would wake up, mad as hell and very sore. Better that a mad, sore Yusuf be locked in her old room than be coming after her with fire in those cold, dark eyes.

Hurriedly she tried the keys, finally finding the one that turned the lock of her door. If nothing else, it would buy her time. That room would be the first place the Russian would look for her; even a moment’s delay would put her that much farther away.

She tested the door to make sure it was locked, then she stepped back into the middle of the hall. She seemed to be midway down a long, door-lined corridor. To her right she could hear the sound of a television—some kind of ball game—she guessed by the constant cheering. No sound came from rest of the hall—it stood empty—just door after door, all closed. Not wanting to surprise any sports fans, she turned left. There had to be an exit down here somewhere. Even old motels had doors to the outside. She was halfway down the hall when she remembered the Russian’s parting instructions to Yusuf. Feed this one, then the other. When I come back, we’ll load them up.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, stopping in her tracks. “There must be somebody else in here.” But where? Which room? Did she even have time to search before the Russian came back?

“Make time,” she told herself, remembering the sad little I want to go home written on bathroom wall.

Hurrying, she tiptoed toward the sound of the television, trying the doors along the way. All opened easily, revealing rooms similar to hers—lumpy, stained mattresses on battered bed frames, fast food wrappers littering the floor. Some rooms had old TV sets, others had nothing but a bed. All were empty. She worked her way down the hall quickly. After she checked the last room, she was tempted to go and find out who was watching television. The noise was coming from what used to be the office—it was only a few feet away. Perhaps she could disarm the TV watcher as quickly as she had Yusuf. But just as she was starting to tiptoe forward, the TV program grew silent. She shrank back against the wall, her heart pounding. Through the open office door, she could see a shadow moving on the wall as a man began to speak.

“Everything’s cool,” he said in English, sounding as if he were from New York or New Jersey. “It’s feeding time.”

He’s on the phone, Mary realized, watching the shadow move back and forth. Probably to the Russian.

“He knows what to do, Boyko.”

Mary held her breath, listening.

“Fifteen minutes? No sweat. We’ll be ready.”

Then the shadow ceased its pacing. She heard what sounded like the squeak of a chair, and the television came on again. Fifteen minutes, she told herself. Then the Russian will be here. To load us up.

She crept back down the hall, trying to both hurry and remain silent. Fifteen minutes was not much time—she still had doors she needed to check and then she had to figure a way out of here for herself. When she reached her old room and pressed an ear to the door, she heard only silence. Good, she thought. Yusuf must still be unconscious.

She took a deep breath, then continued her search of the rooms. As she made her way to the end of the hall, she wondered if she hadn’t just dreamed someone crying and misunderstood what the Russian had told Yusuf.

Lots of languages flying around, it would be an easy mistake to make. She reached for the last doorknob, grateful that this was the final one, but the thing didn’t turn in her hand. She tried again, pushing and pulling against the door, but it was locked tight. She stepped back, wondering if this was just the storeroom at the end of the hall, or if somebody else was in there. With a glance toward the office, she risked a soft knock.

“Anyone there?” she whispered. She put her ear to the door. Nothing. “Hello?” she whispered again.

To her amazement, she heard the creak of bedsprings.

“I’m here,” came a small, young voice.

Mary fumbled through her keys—going through each of them, quickly, always checking to make sure the TV watcher wasn’t barreling down the hall. She’d just begun to think none of them fit this lock when one slid into place. She caught her breath as the cylinder clicked open. What or who was behind the door? The girl who’d written I want to go home? Or just some stupid thing with tapes and wires, like the fake baby in the car seat?

Readying her inner tiger again, she grasped the knob and opened the door slowly. She found a pretty blond girl standing there, clutching her bedpost. Somewhere in her mid-teens, she wore pink shorts and a dirty T-shirt, and she looked as if she might cry. Mary recognized the blond hair and wide blue eyes immediately—it was Chase Buchanan’s sister.

“Who are you?” the girl asked, her voice thready.

“My name is Mary Crow,” said Mary. “You’re Samantha Buchanan, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” The girl peered over Mary’s shoulder. “Did Chase send you here? Are he and Mama outside?”

Mary closed her eyes, ashamed of her own stupidity. Why had she not listened to the little boy? Why had she been so quick to dismiss him? “Uh, not quite,” she finally replied. “It’s a long story that we’ll have to discuss later. Right now, we need to get out of here fast. Do you know how many men they have here?”

“There’s Boyko,” said Samantha. “He’s the boss. And Smiley and Yusuf, who brings the food. More men come, but not all the time.”

“Well, we can count Yusuf out for now,” said Mary. “He’ll be on all fours for the next several days. But the Russian is on his way back to get us.”

Samantha swallowed hard. “They’re taking us away tonight?”

“Only if we’re here when they get back,” said Mary. “Come on, we need to hurry.”

“Wait.” Sam ran to the bathroom, extracted the long shard of glass she’d worked loose from the mirror. She held it up for Mary to see. “It isn’t much, but it’s my way out. I decided I’d kill myself before I’d go with those men.”

“I don’t blame you a bit.” Mary smiled, thinking the girl had as much moxie as her little brother. “But use it on somebody else, okay?”

They crept out into the hall. It was still deserted, with only the sounds of the distant television wafting through. “Do you know of any other girls in these rooms?” asked Mary.

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Samantha. “I guess American virgins are pretty hard to come by.”

They padded toward the end of the long, shadowy hall, where a single exit door stood chained and padlocked. Halfway there, they heard a door open, far down the opposite end of the hall. Pressing themselves against a doorway, they listened. Soon laughter and the echo of foreign voices replaced the sound of the television.

“The Russian’s back,” whispered Mary. “Come on!”

They ran to the exit door. Mary knew that if none of Yusuf’s keys worked, they would have to make a stand. The men would probably be armed now, even if they hadn’t been before. Pretty, virginal Samantha was likely too valuable a commodity to kill; Mary was not. She might be able to take one down before he could fire his weapon, but that would be all. On the other hand, if they think we’re just too much damn trouble, then they might kill us both.

“Keep watch,” Mary told Sam as she started trying the keys in the lock. “If they start coming down the hall, then we’ll have to go to plan B.”

“What’s that?” asked Sam.

“I’m not sure. But keep that shard of glass close.”

Mary fumbled with the keys—the darkness that hid them from Boyko and company also hid the keys and the lock from her. She finally gave up on squinting at the thing and started trying the keys by feel alone. One key was a dud, then the next, then the one after that. She was about to curse all of them when Sam squeaked. “Oh God—here they come!”

Mary shrank back against the shadowy wall, pulling Sam with her. In the dimness she saw Boyko, in his white suit, unlock the door to her room. It would only be seconds until they found Yusuf stretched out in the bathroom with his pants in the toilet. Then everything will be over.

She returned to the lock, frantically searching for the right key, knowing that Boyko and Smiley and whatever other scumbags were around would soon come screaming out of that room.

She tried another key—no good—then another, still no good. Then one more. This one felt different, caught differently. It was tight, but she gritted her teeth and turned it with all her strength. With a rusty squeak, the padlock opened. She flung it from the chain, then as quietly as she could, removed the chain from the door. Grabbing Samantha, she opened the door into a dark and moonless night.

“Come on—follow me. And run as fast as you can!”