by Callie Hart
“He needs an ambulance.” Shelta’s already on her way across the room, heading for the nicotine-yellowed Bakelite telephone on the nightstand; I step in front of her, blocking her path. “What are you doing, Pasha? Get the hell out of my way.”
“You…are a fucking hypocrite of the highest order,” I seethe.
“Oh, not now, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see a man is dying?”
“He can go right on ahead and expire for all I fucking care. I’m almost hoping he does, just so I don’t have to live with the knowledge that he’s still drawing breath. I came here so I could eradicate any doubt in my mind. See, I couldn’t force this to make any sense.”
“Pasha, please.”
I open my mouth, about to begin hurling the questions I came here to ask her directly into her face, but…
…there are tears streaking down her face. Real tears. I didn’t even know she was capable of fake ones. The wind in my sails gutters and dies, leaving me suddenly adrift. All of the things I wanted to ask her…none of them matter anymore. Not a one of them. I do already have the answers I’m looking for: yes, she loves him. Yes, she hurt her sister, just so she could have him to herself. Yes, she chose him over me that night, when I found him ripping Leo’s underwear down his legs, grunting like a desperate, hungry man. It’s all true. So why even fucking bother with all of this?
I realize all at once that this serves no one. She’s always been a terrible mother. Confronting her with her crimes will accomplish nothing. I release the breath I’ve been holding, and I just…I let it all go.
“Change of plan, Patrin,” I say tightly. “We’re leaving. And we’re taking him with us.”
“No!” Shelta tries to get around me, tearing at my shirt, but for all her years of cold indifference, seeming so much larger than life, so much stronger and more powerful than me, it turns out that she’s week and feeble as can be; I think it comes as a surprise to both of us. I hold her at arm’s length, already pitying her for her fall from grace.
“Make up your fucking mind,” Patrin grouses, throwing Lazlo back over his shoulder. My mother sobs as he takes him and walks out of the motel room, down the stairs that lead into the parking lot. I pause in the doorway, searching her face, knowing this will be last time my mother and I are ever in the same room together.
“Don’t worry, Shelta. If you want to see him again, all you’ll have to do is turn on a television and watch the goddamn news.”
With that, I turn around and I go.
Thirty-Two
PASHA
Detective Holmes is nothing like I expected him to be. I assumed he’d be balding, overweight and dressed in a grease-stained trench coat like Columbo or something. When he flits out of the police station and jogs down the steps toward the Mustang, suddenly a guy my own age, wearing a leather jacket and scruffy, faded out jeans, like he just raided my wardrobe, I’m thrown off balance a little. He climbs into the passenger seat and laughs softly when he notices Patrin looming ominously in the back.
“This isn’t a mob meet, gents. No need to get gung-ho on me.”
I rap my fingers against the steering wheel, pouting. “You’d know all about mob meets, huh, Holmes? Best friends with the Petrovs, I hear.”
Holmes clears his throat, bridging his hands together in his lap. “The Petrovs aren’t mob. They’re…the Petrovs. Now, I’m about to head home for the night, guys. Unless you do have something for me to sink my teeth into. If that’s the case, then get on with it.”
“We have him. The guy who took Corey Petrov,” I say. “He’s hurt a lot of people. Children. There was also a nun in New York a while back. We’ll give him to you, along with statements, evidence…the works.”
Holmes is staring at me now. Really paying attention. “And in return? You want a payday. The department doesn’t—”
“No. We want something far more complicated. We want two guys, Sammy and Jamus Rivin.”
“The Gypsy boys? The kids who robbed that bank?”
Patrin growls like a rabid dog in the back. I shoot him a warning look, then to Holmes I say, “They’re Roma. They need to walk.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind? Never gonna happen. They held a bank up at gunpoint. That’s beyond Spokane PD’s jurisdiction altogether. They committed a federal crime. They’re gonna spend the next twenty to thirty years behind bars.”
“Then we shouldn’t waste our time continuing with this conversation. Good night, Detective.”
Holmes’ jaw flexes as he stares out of the windshield, scowling at the snow that’s started to fall. He has the eyes of a hawk. I get the feeling he sees everything. “You have no idea how hard it’ll be to accomplish what you’re asking,” he says.
“Hard’s better than the impossible you gave me two seconds ago. See, we’re already making headway.”
Holmes grunts. Thinks for a second. “There can be no guarantees here.”
“Shame. Because that’s exactly what we want. A guarantee that Sam and Jamus Rivin will be free men by the end of the week.”
I can feel Patrin’s eyes burning into the back of my head, but he keeps his mouth shut. I made him swear he wouldn’t say a goddamn word, and thus far he’s kept that promise. It’s killing him, though, I can tell.
Holmes huffs, forehead a mess of worry lines. “I’m gonna need more than the guy, then. I’m gonna need the money those kids took. The department never found it.”
“We have no idea where they hid it.”
“Not my problem. Forty grand and change. If your guys have any hope in hell of being cut loose, then that money needs to be on my desk by nine a.m. tomorrow morning, or this thing goes nowhere.”
“Fine. Then get it from Yuri Petrov.”
“Excuse me? Why the fuck would Yuri hand over forty K to bail out two kids he’s never met before?”
“Because that motherfucker owes me. Actually, he owes Zara.”
“If this perp of yours is who you say he is, I’m going to cop enough flack from the Petrovs for not immediately handing him over to them for some Russian justice. The man killed Yuri’s fucking so—”
“The boy’s alive.”
That stops him dead in his tracks. He looks like he just stepped on a fucking land mine.
“Go to Zara’s apartment in an hour. You can pick him up and take him home. Yuri Petrov will think you walk on water for the rest of your fucking life.”
Holmes shakes his head. “Okay. Sure. If that happens…I’m sure he’ll be willing to stump up the forty. There’s something else, though. Your people need to leave Spokane.”
“What now?”
“Your clan. The Rivin vitsa.” He says the word like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. “Having a large contingency of gyp—sorry, Roma people in the area has made local government…edgy.”
“We’ve been coming through here for more than fifty years, asshole,” Patrin snaps. “We don’t cause any trouble. We’re not gonna leave just because some pen pusher sitting behind a desk in your town hall thinks we’re bad for PR.”
God, I knew he couldn’t maintain his silence forever. I send him a malevolent glare powerful enough to strip paint courtesy of the rearview mirror, but Patrin studiously ignores me. “We’ve been chased out of enough places over the years. We’ve been beaten and disrespected. Our children have been outcast and ostracized. We’ve been looked down on and spurned at every turn, and all because we don’t conform to some bullshit societal ideal, where we’re supposed to chain ourselves to one spot and work our fingers to the bone just so we can pay our taxes, and get ourselves into debt with fucking credit cards, and—”
“All right, all right! Jesus Christ! Fine!” Holmes holds up his hands, wincing. I sympathize with him. I’m accustomed to Patrin’s rants, but if you’re new to them they can be pretty fucking overwhelming. “I’ll figure that one out, but for the record, you do cause trouble. Those boys did fucking rob a bank. They won’t have a choice. They will have to go. I don’t c
are where you send them, but that’s fair turnaround. They shit the bed here. There’s no way they’re gonna be invited to sleep over anymore.”
Patrin slowly closes his mouth.
“That’s fair,” I agree. I already know Patrin’s going to piss and moan about this clause, but he’s just going to need to learn how to be fucking grateful for what he’s getting. Jamus and Sam can go live with one of the other clans if they want to, or they can join the Rivin Clan whenever they’re not in Spokane, then go on fucking vacation or something. I’ll have no bones with telling them they’re not welcome within the state of Washington whatsoever, if they actually manage to get out of this thing unscathed. They’re probably not going to be too eager to come back here anyway, after a near miss with such a huge fucking prison sentence.
“Right then.” Holmes scratches at his chin, frowning at the dashboard. “I have to get everything signed off by the chief. He’s gonna be on the phone all night, greasing the wheels on this thing. He’s gonna fucking hate me.”
“No. He’ll fucking love you. You’re gonna be the guy who brings in a murderous, serial rapist pedophile. Everyone’s already forgotten about the boys who robbed the bank. This is gonna be news for months. You’ll make your career off the back of this deal and you know it.”
The fact that Holmes chooses not to say anything to this gives me the feeling that I’ve hit the nail on the head. Instead, he says, “Where is he, then? This guy, Lazlo? Your murderous, serial rapist pedophile? We’ll need to send a team to—”
“You won’t be needing a team.” My gaze flickers to the back of the car, and Patrin squirms in his seat uncomfortably as the detective turns and looks back over his shoulder. As if on cue, Lazlo wakes from his Patrin-induced coma and thuds helplessly at the trunk of the Mustang, moaning something offensive that only Patrin can hear.
When Holmes looks back at me, he’s already started to shake his head. “No. No, no, no. Not cool, man. You’ve got to be kidding me.” The detective bolts out of the passenger seat and hurries to the back of the vehicle, large fat flakes of snow landing on the shoulders of his leather jacket as he slaps his palm against the trunk. “Open it up, right now. Jesus, I don’t have any handcuffs.”
“Yeah, you’re not gonna need them.”
All the blood drains from Detective Holmes’ face. “If he’s dead, there’s no deal, you know that, right?
“Don’t panic, officer. The Roma just took their pound of flesh first is all. He’ll be able to stand trial in a couple of months or so. After a short stay in an ICU.” I pop the trunk, and Lazlo doesn’t try and lurch out of the cramped space this time. He starts cursing, spitting blood, and Detective Holmes draws his gun.
His eyes have lit up like it’s fucking Christmas morning. “Well, shit. Would you look at that. We’ve had an APB out on this guy for a long time. Except we know you as Malcolm Jarvis, don’t we, Mal? Three counts of murder. Another sexual assault. You’re an old school cold case come to life, huh, buddy?”
Patrin steps in front of the trunk. In front of Holmes’ gun, for that matter, putting himself in between the cop and the rapist. “Even better. If he’s doubly important to you people, then you should have no problem cutting our boys loose. Do we have a deal?”
Holmes regards Patrin with an air of disbelief. “You really are a jerk, you know that?”
I laugh into the cuff of my jacket, turning it into a fake coughing fit when Patrin sends me a withering look. My cousin holds out his hand, offering it to Detective Holmes. “Shake on it.”
“This isn’t the wild west, man.”
I heave a sigh. “Just do it. We’ll be here all night otherwise.”
Unhappy, Holmes shakes Patrin’s hand. Patrin nods and steps out of the way. “Take the sick fuck. And hold up your end, Detective. Do what you agreed to do.”
Holmes doesn’t strike me as a guy that takes threats well. He arches an eyebrow, eyes bouncing from me to Patrin and back again. “And if I don’t?” he challenges.
I don’t try and hide my laughter this time. “Oh, I really wouldn’t recommend it.”
Thirty-Three
ZARA
It’s the middle of the night when he returns. I feel his touch, light and gentle on my skin, his fingers caressing the side of my face, and I slowly open my eyes. He’s crouched down in front of me, leaning against the side of Sarah’s couch, where exhaustion finally claimed me some time ago, and he’s looking down at me like I’m a treasure he just stumbled across entirely by accident.
“Hey you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. You looked so peaceful. I shouldn’t have woken you.” He runs the tip of his index finger down the bridge of my nose, all the way to the tip, fixated on me, eyes alive with some emotion I can’t quite pinpoint through my sleep-clouded brain.
“Where’s Lazlo?” I groan. “Is he…” Dead? Buried alive? Locked away? I don’t know which option I’d prefer at this point.
Pasha smiles tightly. “Patrin tracked me down. Or I tracked him down. Never mind. We gave Lazlo to your friend, Detective Holmes. I get the feeling Lazlo’s buried so deep in shit right now, he’s never going to see the light of day again. Holmes is coming for Corey any second. Is the kid okay?”
The kid is more than okay. Fed, bathed, and dressed in clothes Archie managed to find somewhere, Corey Petrov is safe. “Yes. He’s excited to go home.”
When I held Corey in my arms for the first time, comforting him, feeling his heart thundering behind his small ribcage, it felt like the hand of fate was resting on my shoulder. This all started with Corey. This whole, wild, rollercoaster ride began with the sound of his small, terrified voice on the other end of the phone. I’d given up all hope that the story would end with him alive and well. I still have no idea who the little boy was that washed up on the banks of the Spokane River, but a selfish, fucked up part of me is so glad that it was a different child and not Corey.
“And Garrett?” Pasha asks. “I should fucking kill him for—”
I stroke my thumb along the line of his cheekbone, shaking my head. “He’s gone, Pasha. We’ll…” I sigh, delving deep, muddling through my own mixed emotions, trying to come up with something to say that might make sense. “We’re never going to understand Garrett. He was Lazlo’s pet for years. Nearly his whole life. God knows what he went through, but I do know for a fact that he suffered because of that man. He should never have taken Sarah. There are plenty of things he shouldn’t have done. But he protected Corey in the end. Saved him. And he didn’t hurt me. He did what was right in the end.”
“I’m sure Sarah doesn’t see it that way.”
“You’d be surprised.” I breathe deep, mulling it over. “Sarah’s the most compassionate person I know. When we got that mask off her…she hugged him, Pasha. I could hear the anger and the pain in her voice, but she told him to forgive himself, because she had. It was…it was really fucked up, actually.”
Pasha blows out his cheeks, surprised. “She sounds like a bit of a bad ass.”
“She is. You have no idea. I can’t wait for you to meet her properly. Better to wait ’til morning, though. She’s gonna need so much sleep to recover from that ordeal.”
“Of course. Archie’s sitting vigil over her anyway. He wouldn’t even let me stick my head in there just now. I get the feeling the sly old bastard might be feeling a little over protective toward her.”
“Do you think she’ll go back to live with the clan now?” I whisper.
Pasha shrugs. “You know her better than I do. But she’s welcome. From here on out, she’ll be welcome to come and go whenever she likes, if that’s what she wants.”
When I breathe out, my muscles feel like they’re melting away from my bones. The tension, the panic, and the worry all seem to subside, and for the first time in weeks I feel at peace. Up until this moment, I haven’t given myself permission to believe it. That it’s all over. That we’re safe. That Lazlo no longer poses a threat to us. But seeing the relief in Pasha’s eyes, it f
inally begins to sink in.
I haven’t cried. Not once, throughout this entire mess, but it seems okay to allow myself a moment of weakness now. A gentle frown pulls at Pasha’s brows, as he carefully reaches out and brushes away a teardrop, catching it in the crook of his curled finger before it falls.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I came barreling into your life and turned it upside down, didn’t I? It’s the last thing I wanted.”
Gently, I take hold of him and slowly turn his hand inward, placing a long, featherlight kiss against the roadmap of faint blue and green veins and the beautifully woven, inked, black tree roots on the inside of his wrist. “You don’t ever need to apologize. That’s not how any of this happened and you know it,” I whisper back. “Lazlo caused all of this. He brought me to Spokane. Spied on me. Sent me to the Midnight Fair. Orchestrated our meeting, knowing you’d be there to find Shelta. He was the catalyst that brought us crashing together. He was hell-bent on screwing with my life, just as much as he was determined to ruin yours. I was some sort of sick obsession to him. You were part of a fifty-year-old vendetta. He threw us together as some sort of perverse experiment, because it was entertaining to him.”
Pasha’s dark eyelashes look like spilled black ink against his pale, high cheekbones. He stares down at my hand, still curled around his bare, tattooed arm, and I realize he isn’t breathing. “You believe that?” he asks. How he masters his deep, rough-edged, impossibly commanding voice into such a fragile whisper is a mystery. “You think this is all because of Lazlo? He coerced you into coming to Spokane, so now you think he had a hand in coercing you to fall into bed with me? Do you think…” He looks up at me, and the cool, penetrating, intense power of his beautiful pale green eyes hits me like a blow to the stomach. “Do you think that what you feel for me isn’t real, Firefly? That this was all some kind of manipulation?”
