Vanish

Jane went back into the kitchen, where the pan was now overflowing. She set the bottle in hot water, and as the formula warmed, she paced the room with her crying daughter.

The apartment door buzzed again.

Oh, Ma. What’d you forget this time? she wondered, and pressed the lock release.

By now the bottle was warm. She slipped the nipple into Regina’s mouth, but her daughter simply batted it away, as though in disgust. What do you want, baby? she thought in frustration as she carried her daughter back into the living room. If you could just tell me what you want!

She opened the door to greet her mother.

It was not Angela standing there.

THIRTY-FOUR

Without a word, the girl slipped right past Jane, into the apartment, and locked the door. She scurried across to the windows and yanked the Venetian blinds shut, one after the other in quick succession, as Jane watched in astonishment.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The intruder spun around to face her, and pressed her finger to her lips. She was small, more a child than a woman, her thin frame almost lost in the bulky sweatshirt. The hands that poked out the faded sleeves had bones that looked as delicate as a bird’s, and the bulging tote bag she carried seemed to drag down her frail shoulder. Her red hair was cut in a wildly uneven fringe, as though she herself had wielded the scissors, hacking blindly. Her eyes were pale, an unearthly shade of gray, transparent as glass. It was a hungry, feral face, with jutting cheekbones and a gaze that darted around the room in a search for hidden traps.

“Mila?” said Jane.

Again the girl’s finger snapped up to her lips. The look she gave Jane needed no interpretation.

Be quiet. Be afraid.

Even Regina seemed to understand. The baby suddenly went still, her eyes wide and alert as she lay quietly in Jane’s arms.

“You’re safe here,” Jane said.

“No place is safe.”

“Let me call my friends. We’ll get you police protection right now.”

Mila shook her head.

“I know these men. I work with them.” Jane reached for the telephone.

The girl shot forward and slammed her hand down on the receiver. “No police.”

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 ru

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 stu

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.