The Doll (42 page)

Munroe returned to sitting on the bed, then leaned forward and faced him. Said nothing and neither did he, until the silence in the room became palpable. From behind, Neeva, inching toward Munroe, said, “Are we going to kill him?”

“I don’t think we have to,” Munroe said.

Oblivious to the undercurrents that drove the silence, the thoughts that went unspoken, Neeva said, “Well, we can’t trade him, and he won’t want to tell us what we want to know. He’ll just
make noise and call attention to us. He’s a killer and a criminal
and
a total dick. What’s the use in keeping him alive?”

“Will you talk?” Munroe said to Lumani. “What does he offer that you can’t find elsewhere? He’ll never love you—no matter what he promises. He’s not capable of giving you what you crave.”

“He has at times,” Lumani said.

“Just a game to him. An amusement, a way to control you.”

Lumani lowered his eyes, and Munroe, offering him a way out from the emotional devastation that verbalizing and facing such an internalized worthlessness and shame would cause, said, “What hold does he have on you?”

“I have no life without him,” Lumani said. “Since I was four, he has taken me under his care—spent years and hundreds of thousands of dollars on training—money I owed him and had to pay back as the price for my own freedom.”

“You’ve earned it back, but you still work for him.”

“There’s a bank account somewhere, money I’ve earned—”

“Blood money,” Neeva interrupted.

Munroe raised a hand to hush her.

“I’ve seen the statements,” he said. “It’s not a small amount. He’s promised to release it many times. Always one last job and then I am free. And, I think, if that money was really ever mine, I think he’s taking the account as payment for the merchandise,” Lumani paused, then whispered, “and terminating me.”

“You don’t need that money,” Munroe said. “You’re young. Well traveled. Speak several languages. And maybe not as smart or as good as you think you are, but smart enough, good enough. You can start over just about anywhere.”

“With what? My rifle?”

“Point taken,” Munroe said. “But everyone starts somewhere. I started with nothing. It’s not easy, but it’s possible if you want it badly enough.”

“You are a killer,” he said. “No better than me.”

“I didn’t know we were comparing,” she said, “and frankly, terms like better or worse are meaningless to people like us.” She jabbed a finger to his chest, and he flinched. “But I do own up to my actions instead of finding someone else to blame, and until you get that sorted out for yourself, you’re just a stupid dumb sheep. You have potential, Valon. A life. Don’t squander what you have chasing an illusion.” She paused for effect. “You have options and you’re a fool if you don’t at least examine them.”

He shrugged, his expression empty. “What do you want to know?” he said. “If it is reasonable, I’ll tell you.”

Without turning, Munroe said, “Neeva, check what food is left, will you?”

Neeva rummaged through the bag. To Lumani, Munroe said, “Are there reinforcements on the way?”

“They arrived last night.”

“How many?”

“Two more.”

“Before or after you came for Neeva?”

“After,” he said, and then, reluctant and perfunctory, “They were en route, couldn’t get to me before the exchange. I was to return to the car and then to rendezvous. Had they gotten into town sooner, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Munroe shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Are they looking for you right now?”

Lumani stared at the floor. Not the gaze of contemplation but of searching. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “If they are looking for me, I believe that it is only to eliminate loose ends. They’re certainly out for her, for you. To kill you.”

“What about your driver?”

“I was lying,” he said. “I left the keys in a magnetic case under the vehicle’s carriage. That’s how we operate, so someone else can come get the vehicle if we don’t return to it. My wallet is there also, and ID.”

Neeva stood by Munroe, last packet of crackers in her hand. Munroe took the package, opened it, and placed a cracker in Lumani’s mouth. He chewed. She handed cash to Neeva. “Do you think you can find painkillers in the gift store? We’ll need another couple bottles of water as well.”

“I’ll manage,” Neeva said. “I assume I can spend the change.”

Munroe nodded and, without glancing back, said, “Wear your sunglasses and hat.”

“Got ’em,” Neeva said, and she left.

Alone with Lumani, Munroe stepped to the bathroom, returned with a towel, and draped it over his legs in a concession to his modesty. She squatted again, looked at him eye-to-eye, and this time Lumani didn’t challenge or avoid her gaze, although gradually his focus moved from her face to her torso and he stared at the jacket.

“I hit you,” he said. “And you got right back up.”

She stood so that the jacket straightened. Ran her hand along the leather and paused at the hole near her heart. Allowed him to see it, then spread her fingers and ran them along the front, pausing at each of the hits she’d taken from Tamás.

“Fashionable armor,” he said. “Those pieces are very expensive.”

She nodded.

“I should have demanded the jacket from the beginning,” he said, “together with everything else.”

“You would have had to kill me first,” she said, and with show-and-tell over, knelt, and whispered, “Tell me what you know about the organization, Valon—and about the client who purchased Neeva.”

“May I eat first?” he said.

“After. I’d like to hear what you have to say before Neeva gets back.”

“They’re looking for her,” he said, “she might never come back.”

“You’re not tracked and we weren’t followed.”

He sighed. “I want you to help me in exchange,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Something. Anything. A place to go or a way to survive. I have the clothes I was wearing, and that is all. No bank account, no home to return to, nothing. At this point, I am a beggar in the street.”

She nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Tell me something first,” he said. “I want to know what you told her. When the girl was running and you chased her onto the restaurant patio. One moment she is screaming and fighting and then instantly silent, so easily controlled. What were your words, what did you say?”

“I told her the truth,” Munroe said.

Lumani stared at her quizzically. “Truth?”

“Yes, truth. I described, quite graphically, what would happen if she did manage to get free, and I told her I was the lesser of two evils.”

Lumani smiled, almost blushed. “All right,” he said, and then began a monologue that started in Monrovia and worked its way westward, across Europe, into the United States, and back again: an intricate web of safe houses like the one in Zagreb, transport routes and schedules, a network that pumped a regular flow of young girls from impoverished eastern European countries, and some from South America, into the arms of willing buyers. A business for which demand was always high and the cost of merchandise cheap.

And then there were the clients from the upper echelon, those to whom Lumani and his near-equal counterpart had been assigned, their jobs to secure specific targets, the man with the dog just one of a dozen or more who picked their girls like clothes from a catalogue and paid handsomely for the privilege. Lumani referred to him as Mr. Hollywood, not for the client’s looks but for his proclivity for actresses: Bollywood, Hong Kong, and now Neeva from the United States, his picks always rising film stars, always sensual, always tiny and childlike.

None of the detail was in and of itself enough to build a complete picture of the organization or to understand entirely who the many men were that kept the Doll Maker in business, but it was enough for a start. Munroe jotted notes on hotel stationery and occasionally
interrupted with a question, but once he began, Lumani needed little prodding, and they continued until footsteps from the hallway arrested Munroe’s attention. She straightened and moved from the desk to the door, hand on her weapon, waiting for the knock, and when it came in the pattern she expected, Munroe let Neeva in.

Neeva dumped an armful of items on the bed, glanced at Lumani, and said, “Did he tell us anything useful?”

“Some,” Munroe replied, and fished for the small box of paracetamol. Took a bottle of water from the pile of items. Popped four blisters in the pack and downed them, popped another four and offered them to Lumani. He opened his mouth without being asked. She gave him the pills and water, then fed him crackers until the packet she’d previously opened was empty.

To Neeva, Munroe said, “I’m stepping out for a few minutes. Whatever you need to do before we go, do it now.” Nodded toward Lumani. “You can talk to him, ignore him, whatever, just don’t go near him, okay? And if you get the itch to kill him while I’m gone, don’t, because I will disappear and leave you to take the fall.”

Neeva rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to kill him,” she said.

Munroe stepped into the hallway, closed the door. Strode past doors and recessed lighting to the end of the hall, and there, with her back to the wall, slid to the floor, stretched her legs forward, and tipped her head up to the ceiling.

Detox.

Quiet.

Solitude.

An attempt to survive, to push beyond the anguish of the living and the voices in her head, which though muted, had not left her since Noah’s death. Blocking them out could only go on so long before the darkness overtook her, as glimpses did now that she’d had a chance to breathe.

Logan was saved, but he’d never be the same.

Samantha alive … for now.

Noah was dead.

Jack was dead.

Alexis might also die or be sold on the slave market.

And her relationship with Bradford, which had somehow allowed them to juggle the disparities of their work and this hellish life and still find peace, was, for all practical purposes, over. Through no
fault of his and no fault of hers, they could never go back to the way things had been.

In the acceptance of so much was such unspeakable pain that for the first time, the urges compelled Munroe not to fight, but in an act of self-preservation to get up and walk, to keep on walking until she reached a place where she was truly alone, and humanity with all its evils ceased to exist. In the quiet, in the silence of the empty hall, no longer able to turn off the emotion or shut it down, Munroe allowed the hurt, the gnawing ache that consumed her, to pass through.

How long she sat, she didn’t know, breathing, feeling, allowing herself to simply be, while hotel guests came and went and occasionally did a double-take, and when the moment finally arrived that she felt strong enough to once more push herself off the floor and continue what had to be done, she pulled the phone from her pocket and dialed Bradford.

L
UMANI RAISED CHIN
from chest when Munroe stepped through the door, and Neeva was on the bed watching TV.

“Anything about us?” Munroe said.

“There’s lots about me, but I haven’t seen anything about you yet,” Neeva replied. “You took a long time, where were you?”

Munroe tossed her the phone. “Call your parents. Please. You can go into the hall if you want privacy, but stay right outside the door, okay?”

Neeva stared at the phone, snatched the key card off the night-stand, and scooted off the bed. Stepped out the door. With Lumani watching, Munroe unzipped her pants and took them off. Examined the deepest cut on her leg. The area was raw and red but not yet showing a lot of infection. She needed to get the wound properly cleaned and stitched up, but couldn’t until this ordeal was over. Munroe doused the area with peroxide again, put a clean hand towel over the spot, and used the same tape to hold the mess in place. Pants back on and five minutes in, Munroe stood and knocked on the hallway door.

Lumani said, “Does it hurt? The wound, does it hurt?”

Munroe didn’t turn toward him. “Does yours?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “But I prefer the physical pain. I appreciate the distraction.”

Munroe tested the batteries on the taser and glanced at him over her shoulder. “The pain on the inside is what keeps you human,” she said. “Never forget that.”

In the wait for Neeva, she unloaded and reloaded the magazines. Seated the bullets, and finally, with these items and most of the euros, she filled the pockets of her cargo pants so that what was left to carry was easily divided between the satchel and the backpack.

The key card was swiped and Neeva stepped back inside, her eyes red and puffy. She gave the phone back and Munroe waited a beat to see if she’d need to play therapist, but when Neeva offered nothing, Munroe handed her the satchel. “Give me three minutes,” she said.

Neeva raised an eyebrow but didn’t question her, and when she’d left the room again, Munroe turned to Lumani. “I’m leaving money, your clothes, and food and water,” she said. “I hope to be back within thirty-six hours. Forty-eight at the most, but I expect you’ll be free before then.”

Lumani said, “Will you use the information I gave you to kill my uncle?”