The Darkness Gathers (19 page)

She spied a quiet corner through the smoke as a gorgeous black couple—she all legs and cheekbones, lavender contact lenses; he with impossibly defined muscles, slicked-back hair, too much cologne—got up to dance and left vacant seats. She sat on the plush red velvet chair, which allowed her to face out at the club and be seen by people who entered. Her cocktail was terrible, obviously the cheapest-possible well vodka and not the Ketel One she’d ordered. She drank it, even though she knew a searing headache would be the price she’d pay for the calming effect it was having. She reached into the small velvet clutch she carried and removed the pack of Dunhill cigarettes she had purchased in the hotel lobby on her way here. If Jeffrey was trailing her, which was a safe bet, he was going to bitch endlessly. Lydia hadn’t smoked in over a year but, without a pang of guilt, she opened the pack, withdrew a cigarette, and lighted it with a tiny black lighter. It tasted good, very good, as she drew the smoke into her lungs like a long-lost lover into an embrace. Smoking was like that for her, like an abusive relationship that she didn’t leave for years because the sex was so good. She knew it would kill her someday, but when it was good, it was so good, she couldn’t have imagined living without it. And even after it was over, she always remembered the pleasure, always toyed in her mind with the idea of going back.

She caught her reflection in a mirrored wall. Her jet-black hair was slicked back and pulled into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck. The only makeup she wore was a deep red matte shade of lipstick from MAC. A Jean Paul Gaultier tight black choker-collar halter was low enough to show a little cleavage and hugged her hips over a pair of narrow black leather pants. A shamefully expensive pair of black midcalf boots looked fabulous but hurt like hell. Her reflection in the mirror as she sat waiting reminded her of the old days—days thankfully gone. The days before she had admitted to being in love with Jeffrey for most of her adult life. She’d had more meaningless, probably dangerous, one-night stands than a season of
Sex and the City
. It was a part of her life that she and Jeffrey never discussed. She wondered if it would make a difference if he knew that she’d only been trying to find a substitute for him. She decided it was a gamble she wasn’t willing to take. Besides, he’d never asked her how many men she’d been with before him. And it wasn’t information she was about to volunteer.

Somehow above the din of the club, she heard her cell phone chirp. As she reached into her bag, her fingers brushed the cool metal of her Glock. Jeffrey’s mobile number glowed on the phone’s digital display.

“Yes?”

“Did she show up yet?”

“No.”

“How long are you going to wait?”

“A little while. Where are you?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Liar.”

“Give me a break. You didn’t seriously expect me to wait in our room while you ran off in the middle of the night to meet some mystery woman … at the G-Spot, of all places. I can’t believe you’re smoking.”

“Just like a private
dick
,” she said. “Always following me around.” As a card-carrying feminist, whatever that was, she felt compelled to complain about his overprotective streak, but she was secretly glad he always covered her back. Besides, she would have followed him, too.

“She wanted me to come alone, Jeffrey,” she explained, as if talking to a stubborn toddler.

“Do you see me?”

She looked around the room. “No.”

“Then you’re as alone as you’re going to get as long as I’m alive.”

“My hero.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.”

“I
n my country, a beautiful woman like you would never sit alone for long. But here”—he gestured magnificently—“these American men are too afraid to approach you. I am not afraid.”

“They’re afraid for a reason,” Lydia said, glaring at him. She’d been waiting over an hour and was starting to lose her patience. But she was flattered. She
had
been striving for the unapproachable look and was starting to doubt herself. He was the third man she’d had to fend off, and she was sick of being polite.

He laughed and sat down opposite her with the ease of someone who was welcome. He was smarm personified, and all the expensive clothes and jewelry in the world weren’t going to change that for him. With his slicked-back hair, a maroon silk shirt open to his hairy navel, copious gold chains, and tight black jeans, he looked like Tony Montana’s dopey twin.

“Listen,” she said, leaning so close to him that she could smell his cologne, “get the fuck away from me. Right now.”

His eyes widened in surprise and his broad smile twitched. He gave a little chuckle and looked around self-consciously, then back at her. He struggled to maintain his suave demeanor, and the smile crept back. He was a trooper; she had to give him that.

“I’m serious,” she added, hoping to dispel any doubt he might be entertaining. He got up.

“American bitch,” he said as he walked off. She just rolled her eyes, took another Dunhill from the pack, and lighted it. She wouldn’t wait much longer.

chapter eighteen

T
he crowds seemed to part for Marianna Fitore; she was a goddess in a swank cherry red dress that she wore like a bad attitude. It clung to her hips and breasts and shot dramatically over her right shoulder, danced around her tight thighs. She swept past Lydia, lightly touching her arm as she went. Lydia stood and followed her through the crowd and down a flight of stairs, then along a tiny hallway that led to a dimly lighted room. Lydia could hear the music from upstairs pulsing through the floor, but this room was subdued. Reeking of pot, cigarette smoke, and Lydia didn’t even want to imagine what else, the room was a maze of velvet couches. Melding forms lounged and moaned, groping at one another. Candles melted on endless ledges on the walls and on the floor, casting strange shadows. Lydia lost sight of Marianna for a moment in the darkness and she stopped, not sure whether to continue forward or go back. She was feeling suddenly vulnerable, and she began to question the wisdom of following the girl down here. She wondered if Jeffrey was somewhere close behind.

“Ms. Strong, I’m here,” Marianna whispered, and pulled her down onto a plush seat. Lydia could barely see the girl’s face, but she could see the nervousness in her eyes.

“You were at my mother’s service today,” she said.

“Yes, I was. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The girl nodded, and it was a moment before she could speak again as she tried to control herself. “I do not want my mother to have died for nothing. She took a great risk in contacting you, and she paid the price.”

“So she did send the package.”

“With my help, yes. I thought it was a mistake. And so it was. But it was the right thing to do. Too many girls are in danger—not just Tatiana. For so many, it’s already too late.”

“What do you mean?”

The girl sighed and leaned back, wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes grew wide and her bottom lip quivered. “If you haven’t seen with your own eyes what goes on in this world, you would never believe it.”

Lydia said nothing, just placed a hand on the girl’s knee. Marianna reached into a sequined bag that she carried and removed a black DVD case.

“My country has been destroyed. And the people left there are like vultures feeding off the carrion of our dead culture. They would sell their daughters for the American dollar, not caring what their fate might be.”

Lydia wasn’t sure she understood, but she took the case from Marianna and put it in her clutch.

“I stole that from my uncle so that you can see what I’m talking about. If he knows I have betrayed him, I will die,” she said simply.

“What is it?”

“It is the truth of the world.”

Now that Lydia’s eyes had acclimated to the darkness, she could see Marianna’s face better. The glassy look in Marianna’s eyes told Lydia that she was high.

“What do you mean by that?”

“There are men, men like Nathan Quinn, who run the world, you know, with their money. But they are not good men; they are devils with ravenous appetites, hungry only for human flesh. It is a secret society of powerful, powerful men. If you turn on CNN, you’ll see the faces they wear for the world. When you play that DVD, you’ll see them as they truly are.”

Listening to Marianna, a chill had come over Lydia. She tried to block out the low moans and quiet laughter from the forms reclining on the couches around them. Other forms moved in the darkness like wraiths. Lydia hoped that Jeffrey was one of them.

“Why have you given this to me, Marianna? If girls are in danger, like you claimed in your note, why not go to the police or to the FBI?”

Marianna turned suddenly cold eyes on Lydia and shook her head. “Americans are like children sometimes, children who think that Santa Claus brings them their many gifts. Don’t you hear me?” She was becoming frantic, her beauty growing sharp and mean, her soft features growing brittle, her voice rising an octave. “They own the police, the FBI, the CIA.”

“Okay, take it easy,” Lydia said gently, placing her hand on Marianna’s bare white shoulder, where she could feel the tensed muscles. “You’ll have to forgive me,” Lydia said, humoring her, “I haven’t seen the things you have.”

Marianna seemed to deflate. She slumped back against the wall, smoothed her hair away from her face with both hands, and let out a shuddering sigh.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Strong,” she said, her shoulder relaxing under Lydia’s grip. Her eyes were suddenly wide and moist, the eyes of a little girl, her mascara starting to run a bit. Lydia could feel the girl trembling.

“It’s all right. Call me Lydia.”

“We saw you on television.… I don’t remember what program. And my mother said, ‘There is a woman of strength and honor. She can help us.’ That is why she sent you the note and the tape.”

“Where did that tape come from?”

“From our machine, a few days after Tatiana disappeared.”

“And you didn’t tell the police because you thought they couldn’t be trusted? Not even Detective Ignacio?”

She nodded, mascara trailing down her cheek, a thin black line leading to the corner of her mouth. She didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“And why didn’t you tell Jenna Quinn? Why couldn’t you have trusted Tatiana’s own mother?”

“We did tell her,” Marianna answered. “She said it wasn’t our business. We couldn’t understand …”

Lydia could see that something had distracted the girl; her eyes started to shift and she sat up on the couch, sliding forward. “I’ve already told you too much,” she said in a desperate whisper, her eyes focusing on something beyond Lydia.

“I can’t help you or anyone if I don’t have all the information I need,” Lydia said, grabbing her wrist, trying to keep connected to her before she floated away. “What is Sasa’s connection to Nathan and Jenna Quinn?”

She hesitated as her eyes searched the room, then took a deep breath and seemed to relax a little. “Nathan Quinn is his … his contact, his client. Sasa and Jenna are lovers.”

Lydia had already suspected that just from the touch she’d witnessed between Sasa and Jenna at the memorial service. But for a second, she didn’t understand what Sasa could have that Quinn would want to buy. Then she remembered what Detective Ignacio had told them about Sasa Fitore. “What do you mean, ‘his client’?”

Marianna nodded toward Lydia’s purse, where she’d slipped the DVD. “You’ll see.” Then suddenly she grew fierce. “He is my uncle, but he’s a demon. Do you understand?
Somebody
has to stop him.”

Then Marianna got up suddenly and backed away toward the door. Lydia could see Marianna’s chest heaving like a dancer’s after a performance. The girl was panicking, and Lydia scanned the room to find the source of her fear. She felt her own heart start to race.

“Marianna, please. There’s still too much I don’t understand. You need to tell me about the films.”

“I’ll call you.”

In a flash of red, she disappeared into the darkness. Lydia followed her through the black velvet curtain and saw the hem of Marianna’s dress turn the corner leading to the staircase. The sound of music and the crowd upstairs grew louder as Lydia jogged up the long, narrow flight. At the top, she pushed herself through a throng of bodies, catching sight of Marianna’s bright orange hair. The music seemed to grow louder still, and Lydia’s heart was pounding as she followed Marianna onto the dance floor. Progress was slow, and she lost sight of the girl in the mass of people moving to the heavy techno beat. The strobe light came on again, accenting a high siren of music, turning the dancers into ghosts of themselves, pale and horrible, their movements stuttered and menacing.

Though the music raged, a stunned silence fell after the first gunshot. Then after the second, people on the dance floor began to scream and run, panic setting in, Lydia caught in the thick of it. She was pushed along in the crowd as the music stopped and the lights came up. A third gunshot rang out and Lydia pushed her way against the crowd of people fleeing blindly for cover. As the crowd cleared, Lydia saw her. She had fallen, her dress and long hair splayed about her, the dance floor lighted beneath her. When Lydia got to her, she was still alive, the red of her dress soaked black with a spreading stain over her heart, her delicate white shoulder marred by a tiny, perfectly circular entry wound. Lydia sat next to her, touched a hand to her forehead.

“It’s all right,” Marianna said. “Nothing was ever as I thought it would be anyway.”

“You’re fine, baby. You’re going to be fine,” said Lydia, looking into her eyes with a reassuring smile.

“The girls … they never have a chance,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. She looked like a sleeping angel.

It was at that moment that Lydia felt the cool metal at the base of her skull.

“Don’t turn around,” a deep voice growled in an accent that was becoming familiar.

Lydia sat still, not even removing her hand from Marianna’s forehead.

“We’ve been more than tolerant. This is your last opportunity to walk away. There won’t be another warning.”