Red (40 page)

E
ven after a month, the flowers kept coming.

Becky Lynn accepted this latest arrangement with a wan smile. The deliverywoman looked a bit sheepish, as if she, too, felt enough was enough.

Becky Lynn carried the flowers inside and set them beside another grouping on the cocktail table. Tremayne sent a fresh arrangement every day; she had gotten some from The Shop and Sallie, her brother Randy and a myriad of photographers, designers and editors.

People were simply trying to be nice, attempting to show their affection and concern, but now the flowers only served as a constant reminder that Carlo was gone.

As if she needed a reminder.

She sank into an oversize stuffed chair that had been Carlo's favorite and drew her knees to her chest. At first, the flowers and cards had been for Carlo, and as an expression of sympathy for her loss. Now they were for her. People were worried; Christmas had come and gone, then the New Year, they thought it time for her to get out and begin living again.

They thought it time, but she wasn't ready. She just …wasn't.

She rested her forehead on her knees. Except to attend the funeral, she hadn't been out. She had refused all jobs, most calls. The media had jumped on the story. Carlo's
drama, especially considering some of the names involved, had made for some big, juicy stories. Reporters had called repeatedly for the first few weeks, but she had refused all interviews. Her publicist had pressed her, so she had fired him.

The only person she had allowed inside was Sallie. Becky Lynn would be forever grateful for the other woman's support and understanding. And for not pushing her, for allowing her to grieve Carlo's death as she needed to.

Becky Lynn drew a ragged breath. Carlo had promised her she would never be alone again, he had promised her that he would take care of her, that they would take care of each other.

He had broken his promise.

She was alone again.

Tears stinging her eyes, she pressed her face to her knees and swore. She was sick and tired of crying. She was sick of the hollow ache in the pit of her gut, an ache that couldn't be assuaged with food or drink or flowers.

She wanted Carlo. She wanted her friend and companion, her only family.

She couldn't have him; he was gone.

She swiped at the tears that rolled down her cheeks, and leaned her head against the back of the chair. Why hadn't she seen how desperate he was? Why hadn't she suspected he might take his own life? She had known he was depressed, despondent, but she had believed he would pull through. She had never doubted it.

She hadn't gotten him help. She hadn't tried hard enough to help him.

Now he was gone.

As guilt twisted through her, she turned her thoughts to
Jack, working to replace her guilt and grief with anger. Anger hurt so much less than sorrow, placing blame on him hurt so much less than accepting blame herself.

But even her anger felt weak-willed and unfocused. Instead of burning with fury and blame as she had right after Carlo's suicide, she pictured Jack's face that terrible moment she had come around the side of the house, pictured his bare chest and hands marred by Carlo's blood, remembered the stark anguish in his eyes.

He had tried to save Carlo. He had been too late.

Why had he come here that day? To see her? Or Carlo? She had asked herself that question often over the last month. At first, she had told herself he had come to gloat over his winning Giovanni, to rub salt into Carlo's wounds. But as much as she wished she could believe it, she didn't. Jack wouldn't do that. He simply wouldn't.

Becky Lynn sighed. She may never know for sure why; she hadn't heard from Jack since. And after the hateful accusations she had hurled at him, she wouldn't be surprised if she never did again.

The phone rang and as she always did these days, Becky Lynn let it ring, counting until her machine picked up.

“Valentine…love…it's Bev, from
Vogue.” The woman clucked her tongue.
“You naughty minx, you really must get a rep. I had to track you down through Tremayne and it was most awkward.

“Anyway, we love your pictures. They've been quite a hit, we've gotten mail. I have another small spread for you, but you must call!”
Bev laughed, the sound genuinely amused.
“Really, dear…getting your start in
Vogue
is most untoward. Call me.”

For long minutes after the woman hung up, Becky Lynn stared at the ceiling.
Vogue
wanted her to do another spread, she thought, a stirring of life inside her, a stirring of excitement. Her photos had been a hit. She straightened, her heart beginning to thrum. They had gotten mail about her photos.

Becky Lynn scooted out of the chair and went to the kitchen, to the answering machine. She rewound the tape and played back the message. She listened to it several times, then crossed to the sink and gazed out the window above it.

They loved her photographs.

The ones she had done for Carlo.

She drew a deep breath. What would Carlo want her to do? How would he feel about this?

He would be happy for her. He would want her to be happy.

Carlo had loved her. He had believed in her. Her eyes filled. He just hadn't loved or believed in himself. And no matter how hard she had wished she could change that, she hadn't been able to.

He would want her to go on. He would want her to live. She squeezed her eyes shut and remembered the way she had felt that day at the studio, when she had finished that shoot. She remembered her elation, her self-satisfaction, the sensation of being superalive.

She wanted to feel that way again, she realized. Now. Today. She wanted to call Bev and accept the job, she wanted to move forward with her life.

She wanted to live.

Z
oe struggled to breathe. The men, their hands, were everywhere. There were three of them, holding her, muttering things she couldn't understand, muttering in a strange language of animals.

The hands clawed and squeezed at her, they worked at places and in ways that frightened her, that hurt. She caught her breath finally; the air smelled foul, overripe. She gagged.

There were other men, too. Men who didn't touch, but watched, men who spoke in words she understood but couldn't make sense of.

What was happening to her? she wondered, feeling the frantic beat of her heart like the wings of a bird trapped in a too-narrow cage. Where was she?

A fix, she remembered. They had promised her a fix. Had they given it to her yet? She searched the fog of distorted images in her head, trying to remember, wondering why she couldn't.

Pain shot through her. She screamed and fell forward.

“Great,” one of the talking men said. “Hold her down, and do it again. Give her everything.”

She was crying now, clawing at the sheets, desperate to escape.
Dear God…someone had to save her… Somehow…she had to find a way to escape.

She did.

The world faded to black.

Zoe awakened slowly, coming back to consciousness with a sense of dread. She hurt, in ways and places she hadn't thought possible. Ugly, terrifying images filled her head, and tears welled up in her eyes and slid down her cheeks, so hot they burned.

She couldn't remember exactly what she had done, couldn't remember exactly how she had come to be in this place, but it had been something bad. She had been a part of something vile.

And it had hurt.

Her stomach heaving, Zoe rolled onto her side and hung her head over the side of the bed. She was so empty, she couldn't even retch.
So empty.
She drew her knees to her chest, and her teeth began to chatter. She curled herself into a tighter ball.
So cold.

She moved her gaze over the room, until it came to rest on the bedstand. A syringe lay on its scarred surface, a bloody piece of sheet beside it.

With a whimper of relief, she reached for the syringe. Then with a cry, she let it slip from her fingers to the floor. Empty. It was as empty as she was.

Zoe pressed her fist to her mouth. She had been paid for whatever those men had done to her. She had allowed them to hurt and violate her, she had allowed them to do unspeakable things to her body.

The sound that passed her lips came from the very bowels of her being. She pressed the fist tighter. She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't live through it again. She curled the fingers of her free hand into the stinking bedclothes, clutching them, hanging on because her life depended on it.

She didn't want to die, Zoe realized, starting to cry. She didn't want to die.

B
ecky Lynn didn't recognize the strangled whisper on the other end of the phone. Still half-asleep, she pushed the hair out of her eyes and glanced at her bedside clock.
Two-twenty, the middle of the night.

“Please,” the person whispered again, “help me.”

Becky Lynn tightened her fingers on the receiver, heart pounding. “Who is this?” she asked.

The woman on the other end of the phone began weeping, the sound hopeless and lost. Gooseflesh raced up Becky Lynn's arms. “I'll help,” she said quickly. “I promise, I will. Just tell me who this is. I have to know who…”

Zoe. It was Zoe on the other end of the line.

Becky Lynn took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. If she panicked, she might lose her.

The way she had lost Carlo.

“Zoe,” Becky Lynn said evenly and with as much authority as she could muster. “Tell me where you are. I'll come and get you.”

The weeping increased. “I…I don't know.”

Becky Lynn twisted her fingers around the phone cord. “Are you inside someplace or outside, at a pay phone?”

Zoe hesitated, as if she had to think about it. Becky Lynn's hopes sank. How was she going to find her if Zoe couldn't tell her where she was? She could be anywhere.

“Inside,” she said finally. “I'm in a room.”

“Are you alone?”

She began to weep again. “They might…come back. I don't know if…they're done.”

They might come back.
Becky Lynn took a deep breath, frightened now for a different reason. Who? Dear Lord, done with what?

Panic crept up on her, and Becky Lynn fought it off again. “Describe where you are.”

Because of Zoe's confused state, it took some time, but eventually Becky Lynn was certain the other woman was in a motel room. “Okay,” she murmured, “good. Now, can you get to the nightstand? Great…open the drawer… Is there something with the motel's name on it? An envelope or stationery? A Bible?”

When that search proved futile, she instructed Zoe to try the dresser drawers next. While Zoe did, Becky Lynn rummaged through her own dresser for clothes, then slipped out of her nightgown and into a T-shirt and a pair of light sweats.

The motel drawers were all empty, and frustrated, Becky Lynn told her to check the phone. “Is there a number on it?” she asked.

There was.
Room twenty-two.

Something tugged at her memory, and she struggled to figure out what it was. Avocado green carpeting, she realized. Lord, how she had hated living with that color. Zoe had described her old room at the Sunset Motel.

“Describe the room again,” she said, excitement edging into her voice. “Everything you see.”

Zoe did, and although Becky Lynn had lived with the orange, avocado and bloodred bedspread, had lived with
the matted avocado-colored carpet and the cardboard-patched walls for more than a year, she couldn't be certain that's where Zoe was.

How many other motels might have the same cheap and tacky interiors, she wondered, frustrated. She couldn't take the chance she was wrong.

She drew a calming breath. “Zoe, go to the window. Look out, then tell me what you see.”

It took Zoe several moments to get across the room. Becky Lynn heard her stumble and whimper, heard the rattle of plastic blinds as Zoe pushed them aside. “There's buildings and a…a sign. But I don't know what it says… I can't…read…it.”

Zoe's voice faded out, becoming fuzzy and indistinct. Becky Lynn's heart leapt to her throat. She couldn't lose her now. She wouldn't. “Try, Zoe,” she said sharply. “It's important, read me what the sign says.”

“The unset otel.”

The Sunset! She'd been right. She knew where Zoe was.

“I'm coming to get you, Zoe. But first I have to hang up.” Terrified, sobbing, Zoe begged her not to hang up. No matter how Becky Lynn tried to reassure her, the other woman couldn't seem to understand. Finally, as she had no other choice, she told Zoe she would be there soon, then set the receiver back onto its cradle.

Severing that fragile connection while Zoe pleaded with her not to was one of the hardest things Becky Lynn had ever had to do. She feared what would happen to Zoe if she was wrong about the motel; she worried that, confused and frightened, Zoe would run off, and she couldn't stop thinking about Carlo and how she had lost him.

Heart pounding, Becky Lynn stared at the phone. She couldn't do this alone, she realized. She was afraid. Whispering a quick prayer, she picked up the phone and dialed Jack's number. He answered on the fourth ring; his voice fogged with sleep.

“Jack, it's Becky Lynn.”

“Red? What—”

“There's no time to talk. Zoe called, she needs help. She… I'm frightened for her. I didn't know who else to call, and I don't think…I can't do this alone, Jack.”

“Where is she?” Jack asked, his voice instantly clear and authoritative, free of sleep.

Becky Lynn's knees went weak with relief, and she sank onto the edge of the bed. He would help her; Zoe would be all right. “She's at the Sunset Motel. Room twenty-two.”

“You stay put.” She heard him fumbling around while he talked. “I'll get her.”

“No! I'm coming, too. She called me… I promised.”

“You're not going there without me. I'll pick you up.”

“Hurry, Jack,” she whispered to herself as she hung up the phone. “Hurry, before it's too late.”

Suddenly cold, she grabbed a sweater and went outside to wait.

Twenty minutes later, she climbed into Jack's car. He glanced at her, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. His eyes were shadowed, the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth more deeply etched than before. He looked as if he had aged years since she had last seen him.

Smeared with Carlo's blood, his expression naked with pain.

Emotion choked her, and she tore her gaze away. She
slammed the car door and fastened her safety belt. That done, she glanced at him. His hands in a death grip on the steering wheel, he stared in the direction of the side of the house and the gate the paramedics had carried Carlo through.

The urge to comfort him, to reach across the seat and lay a hand over his, came upon her suddenly, so suddenly it took her breath. He hurt, she realized. In a different way than she did, but just as deeply.

She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “We'd better go.”

He nodded and shifted the car into gear.

They drove for several minutes in silence. She clasped her hands in her lap, trying to quell their trembling. She swallowed hard, then looked at him. “She sounded bad, Jack. Really bad. And she…she mentioned other people. It scared me.”

Panic rose inside her, and she worked to tamp it back. “I'm so afraid… What if we get there and she's gone? What if…those people—”

“We'll find her,” Jack said with grim determination. He took his eyes from the road to meet hers. “Somehow, we'll find her, Becky Lynn. I promise.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. She hadn't been wrong about the Sunset Motel. They found room twenty-two, knocked and called Zoe's name. She didn't answer, but from inside they heard her weeping.

Becky Lynn knocked again. “Zoe, it's me, Becky Lynn. Jack's with me. We've come to help you. Open up,” she coaxed softly. “Come on, Zoe, open the door.”

Zoe's weeping became hysterical. “Don't touch me! No…don't…I can't…”

Becky Lynn grabbed Jack's arm, her heart in her throat.
“There's someone in there with her. Oh, God…we'd better get the manager, we'd better—”

“Fuck that,” Jack muttered, shaking off her hand. “Stand back.” He drew back and slammed his foot against the door. The thin wood buckled with the first blow and caved with the second.

Zoe was alone, crouched naked in the corner, panting like a trapped animal. Her eyes were wild, her pathetically thin body marred by long red welts, the hair on the right side of her face matted with blood.

Becky Lynn cried out at the sight of her and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “What did they do to you?” she whispered, taking a step toward her. “Oh, Zoe, what did they—”

Jack laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Let me, she might fight.”

Becky Lynn nodded, her stomach rising to her throat. She tried not to watch, tried not to see. But she knew the image of Zoe this way would haunt her forever.

Jack started across the room. “Come on, baby,” he crooned. “It's Jack and Becky Lynn. We're here to help you.”

Wild-eyed, Zoe scrambled away on her hands and knees, trying to hide, to escape, so weak, the attempt was little more than heartbreaking.

“We're not going to hurt you,” he murmured. “We're here to help you. Jack and Becky Lynn are going to take you out of here.”

Finally, he caught her. She fought for a moment, scratching and kicking, trying to bite, then simply gave up and sagged against him.

Becky Lynn slipped off her cardigan. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He took it and folded it carefully around Zoe. “Check the bathroom, see if there's a clean towel.”

Becky Lynn did as he asked, though not without trepidation. The bedroom was so filthy, she feared what state she would find the bathroom.

It was as vile as she had expected, though surprisingly, on a wire rack above the commode lay a folded towel. She reached for it, then noticed the empty film boxes and wrappers littering the floor, along with cellophane wrapping off some sort of package.

“Becky Lynn? What is it?”

She turned. Jack stood in the doorway, Zoe in his arms. “Look. Film boxes and…stuff.” She drew her eyebrows together and nudged the cellophane with her foot. “What do you think—”

“Pornography,” he said tightly. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Becky Lynn grabbed the towel and helped Jack tuck it tenderly around Zoe. He carried her out to his car, then folded her frail body carefully into the minuscule back seat of his 911, the whole time murmuring soft sounds of comfort.

That done, they both climbed into the car, anxious to be away from this place and the horror that had happened here. Jack started the engine and hauled out, the back of the small car fishtailing as he floored the accelerator. The speed, his recklessness, didn't scare her. Becky Lynn hadn't a doubt that after what she had seen tonight, many things would have lost the power to frighten her. She had glimpsed a small piece of hell itself.

Becky Lynn closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks that Zoe had called and that they had found her in
time. Thoughts of what could have happened filled her head. She pushed the terrifying thoughts away and glanced over her shoulder at the other woman. Zoe appeared to be asleep, although her mouth moved as if she were talking to someone.

“What now?” Becky Lynn asked, shifting her gaze to Jack. “What do we do next?”

He met her eyes briefly. “We get her help. I know a place we can take her.”