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Mrs. Snow’s expression doesn’t change.
“That does sound rather strange. Jimmy Kross is a nice boy, and his parents are the salt of the Earth. Why would you be worried, Mr. Slate? What would make you think that our daughter’s in trouble?” Her voice is soft, and yet there’s something sinister there. Immediately, I realize that Susan Snow is the true mastermind of the couple. Her husband is a mere amateur compared to her deft approach.
I merely smile.
“Now I never said any of that. I just mentioned that you all seem a little on edge and wanted to offer my help. I’ve been in the military for years, and I’ve picked up various skills along the way. You know, hand-to-hand combat techniques, cryptography, behavior analyses, search and rescue. That kind of thing.”
Mark grows nervous, but Susan’s expression remains placid.
“I’m sure our daughter is fine, Mr. Slate. Thank you for your concern.” She moves to close the door, but I place a big hand on the wooden slab, preventing her from shutting it in my face.
“This is your last chance. Clearly something is wrong because Jessie just rang up Jimmy Kross, and he had no idea that Misty was coming to visit. Where is your daughter? Stop lying. It won’t work anymore.”
This time it’s me making the threats, and Susan and Mark look perturbed.
“Listen, you’ve done enough as is,” Susan begins, but then Mark cuts her off.
“We shipped her off,” he says in a strangled voice. “We sent her to relatives in Russia, but she never showed up.”
“Shut up Mark!” Susan screams. “Shut your trap.”
But the older man shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear.
“She’s supposed to be staying with relatives in St. Petersburg, but she never arrived. My brother says that they’ve asked everyone at the airport, but evidently, Misty wasn’t even on the plane.”
I stare at them.
“Do you know anything else?”
“Don’t you say a word, Mark!” Susan screams again, trying to pull at her husband’s arm. But he won’t go, staying rooted to the spot while shaking his head miserably.
“No. But something’s gone wrong, Mr. Slate,” he says in a hoarse voice, his eyes filled with fear. “Please help before it becomes too late. I’ve done many things I’ve regretted in my life, but never have I endangered my daughter. Misty’s too important, and I love her too much. Please help,” he finishes in an anguished whisper.
With that, the soldier in me takes over. My expression hard, I briskly de-brief him of what he knows, and by that evening, I’m on the first plane to St. Petersburg.
11
Misty
I don’t know where I’ve been taken, or where I have been living the last several days. I know it’s Azerbaijan, but still, my dad’s henchmen could have been feeding me lies. I could be anywhere in the world, come to think of it. Did they drug me? I’m not sure, although I hope not because I’m definitely still pregnant.
In my hazy memory, I remember pulling up to a large brick building. It looks as if it could have been impressive a long time ago, but now it’s quite drab and a bit ghostly. Thick hedges have overtaken the courtyard and gnarly moss obscures most of the exterior walls.
The inside is made up of a complex maze of hallways, offices, and cell blocks, all lit up by harsh fluorescent lights. I know I’m in block three, cell A. I have no idea if there are ten blocks or one hundred as I’m restricted to my assigned block during recreation times. Even worse, this building is filled with young women just like me, who are pregnant and in desperate straits. Our children will be taken from us once they’re born, and we’ll be sent home afterwards, our wombs hollow and arms empty.
It’s a horrific future to contemplate, and I try not to focus on it too much. Right now, right here, I have a cot, a small table and a chair. There’s a sink and even a toilet, although I hate going when the guard watches. Even more, I’ve been instructed not to tell my story. I can’t share where I am from, how far along I am, or even my real name for that matter. All rights, privacy, and individuality are stripped from the women imprisoned here. We aren’t allowed to send or receive mail, nor can we have visitors. Our cells are constantly searched, and we’re always under surveillance.
This is a shame-filled prison and if the walls could speak, they would scream. They would wail of sadness, fear, torture, desperation, and regret. The women here have been labeled amoral, scandalous, and utterly debauched. For some reason, this society (whichever one it is) views unwed mothers as lepers. Any girl who could let this happen is an amoral being who forfeited her right to an independent life when she let a man into her skirts. The men of this society, of course, think that the male species is utterly blameless.
