Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

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.
”
    The girl did not move.
    He rolled off the bed and stood staring down at her for a moment. He pressed his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Every muscle in his body seemed to go taut. Backing away from the bed, his breathing accelerated in panic.
    “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered.
    He glanced around, as though the solution to his dilemma lay somewhere in the room. Frantic now, he snatched up his clothes and began to dress, hands shaking as he fumbled with buckles and buttons. He dropped to his knees to retrieve his glasses, which had slid under the bed, and slipped them on. One last time, he looked at the girl and confirmed his worst fears.
    Shaking his head, he backed away, out of the camera’s range. A door squealed open, swung shut, and footsteps hurried away. An eternity passed, the camera still focused on the bed with its lifeless occupant.
    Different footsteps approached, and there was a knock on the door, a voice calling out in Russian. Jane recognized the woman who stepped into the room. It was the house mother, who had died while tied to a kitchen chair.
    I know what happens to you. What they will do to your hands. I know you will die screaming.
    The woman moved to the bed and gave the girl a shake. Barked out a command. The girl did not respond. The woman stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. Then, abruptly, she turned and stared directly at the camera.
    She knows it’s there. She knows it is filming.
    At once she moved straight toward it, and there was the sound of the closet door swinging open. Then the screen went blank.
    Mila turned off the VCR.
    Jane could not speak. She sank onto the couch and sat in numb silence. Regina was silent as well, as though aware that this was not the time to fuss. That at this moment, her mother was too shaken to attend to her. Gabriel, she thought. I need you here. She glanced at the telephone and realized that he had left his cell phone on the table, and she had no way to reach him in his car.
    “He is an important man,” Mila said.
    Jane turned to look at her. “What?”
    “Joe says the man must be high in your government.” Mila pointed to the TV.
    “Joe saw this tape?”
    Mila nodded. “He gave me a copy when I left. So we would all have one, in case . . .” She stopped. “In case we never see each other again,” she said softly.
    “Where does it come from? Where did you get this video?”
    “The Mother keeps it in her room. We didn’t know. We only wanted the money.”
    This is the reason for the massacre, thought Jane; this is why the women in that house were killed. Because they knew what happened in that room. And this videotape is the proof.
    “Who is he?” Mila asked.
    Jane stared at the blank TV. “I don’t know. But I know someone who might.” She crossed to the telephone.
    Mila stared at her in alarm. “No police!”
    “I’m not calling the police. I’m going to ask a friend to come here. A reporter. He knows people in Washington. He’s lived there. He’ll know who that man is.” She flipped through the phone book until she found the listing for Peter Lukas. His address was in Milton, just south of Boston. As she dialed, she