Dark Eyes

by William Richter

  “She’s a musician,” said Tevin.

  “She was, back home,” Wally answered, somewhat sadly. “Dr. Rainer said that.”

  “And there you are,” said Tevin, nodding toward the far corner of the room. A single bed was placed in the corner, neatly made with a heavy woolen blanket on top and two pillows aligned. On the wall above the bed was an oil portrait of Wally at age eight or nine, obviously painted by next-door neighbor Phil, based on the sketches he had shown them. The painting was a mostly straightforward portrait, not stylized in any way, but with a slight emphasis placed on Wally’s most remarkable features—her well-defined cheekbones and dark, focused eyes. Phil had added a delicate substratum of red to the eyes that brought the portrait to life with a fiery intensity.

  “Wow,” said Tevin.

  Wally recognized her own face, but was taken aback by the underlying combination of sadness and anger that was so stark in the portrayal. There was accusation in the girl’s eyes.

  “Is that really me?” she asked.

  Tevin could see that Wally was disturbed by the picture. “It’s beautiful, Wally. Like you are.”

  Wally turned away from the portrait and inspected the rest of the room. There were three other objects of note in the room: a two-drawer metal file cabinet, a paper shredder standing beside it, and a plain wooden wardrobe. Wally first opened the file cabinet—it was unlocked—and discovered the basic financial documents of a relatively small life: lease payments and utility bills associated with the studio—the Quonset hut—plus financial records of several bank accounts and credit cards. The accounts were flush, with a total of assets nearing three hundred thousand dollars and credit limits exceeding twenty thousand dollars on all the credit cards. Every document listed two authorized account holders: Ellen and Kristen Whitney.

  “Ellen Whitney,” she said out loud. “Kristen Whitney.” Tevin looked over her shoulder as Wally leafed through the documents, which covered many years.

  “You don’t know the names?”

  “No.”

  “One of them’s probably just an alias for her,” Tevin said. “And you, I bet. Your mother has an alias, makes sense she’d have one for you too. So this is all yours too. That’s how she wanted it.”

  Wally moved to the wardrobe, which stood about six feet tall and four feet wide, with a mirror in front. Wally swung the doors open and made an inspection of the contents. On the floor of the wardrobe were two small, identical black suitcases, the kind with a handle and rollers and of a size that could be carried on board an airplane and stored in the overhead racks. On top of the suitcases were two pairs of leather walking boots, both new and both black. They were an expensive Scandinavian brand name that Wally had seen for sale in nice Manhattan shoe stores, designed to be the most practical all-situation footwear possible, stylish but with the practicality of a soldier’s combat boot.

  Wally checked out the boots and found that one was size seven—the most common woman’s foot size—and the other a size eight: Wally’s size. She took off her own worn boots and slipped on the new ones. Perfect. Next, Wally checked out the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. There were only a few items: two warm, knee-length woolen overcoats in dark blue; two gray cashmere V-neck sweaters; four pairs of new denim jeans; and several basic T-shirts, crew neck, white and dark gray. A pull-out drawer contained half a dozen pairs of women’s underwear—basic black—plus several unopened pairs of panty hose and calf-high woolen socks that would be a perfect match for the boots. Every item was brand new, never worn, and sized medium, just right for Wally.

  “What do you see here, Tev?” Wally asked.

  “This is a safe house,” Tevin said. “And a jumping-off point for … wherever. For escape.”

  “For the worst-case scenario,” Wally agreed. “If every precaution had gone to shit and danger was close.” It was a sanctuary—Wally understood—ready to handle the needs of a mother and daughter who had finally been reunited, after many years of separation, and were ready to venture into the world. Together at last. Wally allowed herself to imagine this for a moment, and the thought of it was exciting but … also something else. Sad? Why sad? The answer came to Wally immediately. She imagined Claire, alone and left behind. It was a sad thought—Wally hated it—but at the same time she resented the intrusion, resented her sense of obligation to Claire.

  As Wally’s thoughts drifted, some movement outside the window caught Tevin’s attention. He stepped to the glass and scanned the area, catching sight of a person moving quickly between two huts at the far end of the lane and then disappearing from view.

  “Wally …” he began, but hearing the wary tone in his voice Wally was already at his side, staring out the window as well.

  “What did you see?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. A guy, maybe one of the tenants.”

  Wally moved quickly and hit the light switch, throwing the hut into darkness. The two of them stood silent, not moving. Waiting. Moments passed with no more evidence that someone was outside the hut. Wally was about to turn the lights back on when she heard an unexpected sound: a key sliding into one of the door locks. The dead bolt of the first lock clicked open, and then the key worked on the second bolt.

  Wally stood motionless and held her breath, as if any act or motion, no matter how small, might somehow upset the sequence of events that was about to unfold: she was about to face her mother. As the second dead bolt slid open, the front door of the hut swung open. At the doorway stood a woman lit in silhouette by the outside lights, her features not yet visible. She took half a step into the hut, flicking on the lights as she closed and bolted the door behind her. The woman then turned to face the room and froze there, stunned at the sight of Wally standing before her in the center of the floor, Tevin just behind her. The woman remained silent and still for what seemed to Wally like an eternity.

  “Wallis?” the woman finally said, surprise—and dismay—in her voice.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Johanna?” Wally said, her mind racing.

  Standing before Wally was a woman she had known for … how long? As far back as she could remember, Johanna had been a constant in Wally’s life. She was the wife of Vincent, the live-in building superintendent, and had been helping Claire around the house forever. There were the mundane things, of course—shopping, cleaning, and sometimes laundry—but those tasks described a housemaid, and Johanna had been much more than that within the Stoneman household. She was someone who Claire trusted implicitly, a friend and confidant more than an employee.

  It was Johanna who had chaperoned Wally to school whenever Claire was unable to, making sure Wally had everything she needed in her book bag and that her jacket was buttoned up tight. When the lifeguard for the rooftop pool missed his afternoon shift, it was Johanna who had stood silent watch as Wally and her friends swam. On days when Claire had been at work late, Johanna happily stepped in, taking Wally to the playground near Strawberry Fields and pushing her on the swing for over an hour, making her feel cared for and safe.

  And something else. As Wally and Johanna faced each other now, a specific memory forced itself into Wally’s consciousness. After a particularly bad fight between herself and Claire—how old had she been then? Twelve? Thirteen?—Wally was charging out of the building in a tearful rage when Johanna blocked her way, ushering her into the tiny employee lounge, where they sat together in silence, for hours it seemed, until Wally had calmed down. They hadn’t really talked, but Johanna had held Wally tight and rocked her gently, her arms wrapped all the way around her as if afraid she might float away and never return.

  Wally looked at the woman before her with new eyes, cataloging specific details as if for the first time. Johanna was in her early forties with blue eyes and light-colored hair that now had hints of gray throughout. She was somewhat petite but wiry and physically tough, and possessed a quiet nature that belied her obvious inner strength. The woman had a slight accent that Wally had never thought much about; s
he’d always assumed for some reason that Johanna had Scandinavian roots.

  “It’s you?” Wally was in a daze, her heart and mind reeling as she tried to come to grips with this new version of reality.

  Johanna was still confounded by Wally’s appearance there. As her mind processed the situation, the woman suddenly looked very much alarmed, in much the same way that Dr. Rainer had when Wally appeared at her office.

  “Wally, you should not be—”

  Johanna’s words were interrupted by the sound of racing engines and the strobe of flashing blue lights just outside the hut. Tires screeched as at least two vehicles came to a stop. Within seconds, there came the sound of rushing footsteps and a loud knock on the metal door of the hut, the sharp sound echoing almost painfully against the inside walls.

  “Federal agents!” boomed a voice from outside. “Open the door!”

  Wally stepped toward the window to look outside, but Johanna grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

  “No,” Johanna said. “This could be anyone. Stay back.”

  Both Wally and Tevin moved back, farther away from the front door of the hut.

  “Federal agents!” the call came again, with another round of loud knocks. “Open the goddamn door or we’ll tear it down!”

  Johanna stepped to the tall wooden wardrobe at the far end of the hut. She lowered her shoulder and pushed into the large, heavy piece of furniture, shoving with all her strength. Her force moved the wardrobe away from the wall until there was enough separation to reveal a semiautomatic shotgun with a pistol grip and .45 automatic handgun mounted to the back panel of the wardrobe. Wally and Tevin stood by, stunned by Johanna’s swift action as she retrieved both weapons, sticking the handgun under her belt at the small of her back as she moved to the front door. With her right hand Johanna raised the shotgun, and with her left she unlocked the door and slowly pulled it open.

  Standing outside the door was a white man in his mid-forties, dressed in civilian clothes but with a nylon-shell jacket that had ATF printed across its chest in bold yellow letters. He held a handgun trained squarely at Johanna’s chest. His eyes fixed immediately on her shotgun, which was raised and pointed directly at him.

  “Stay cool,” the man said evenly, his words obviously meant for Johanna but also for the other agents behind him. He never took his eyes off Johanna and her shotgun. “You’re gonna want to put that down. We’re ATF. We’re here to help you.”

  Johanna looked behind the agent and saw two more of them—a short but sturdily built black woman and another white guy, tall and fit. Both were armed, their handguns raised at Johanna. Two unmarked sedans were parked on the lane, one to either side of the hut, both with flashing light panels in their grills that splashed the colony with hypnotic blue.

  Johanna wasn’t ready yet to let her guard down.

  “I want to see your ID,” Johanna said.

  “Yalena Mayakova?” the first agent asked Johanna as he flashed his ATF credentials.

  Johanna crept forward just enough to get a clear look at the man’s ID, then leaned out just a little farther and scanned the entire area outside the hut, looking beyond the two ATF cruisers. Just the three of them, as far as she could tell. Wally and Tevin exchanged looks of shock and bewilderment; layers of intrigue were unfolding before them with no time to process. Wally had finally found Yalena, but the moment of mother-and-daughter reunion—dreamed of, prayed for—had barely happened at all, and now it seemed to be morphing into something else entirely.

  “What do you want?” Johanna barked at the agent.

  “We need all of you to come in for questioning,” the agent said. “We’ll move to our field office. This is in your best interest. Your life and the lives of these two young people are in danger.”

  “What danger?” Johanna demanded.

  “Klesko,” Wally blurted. She looked directly at the agent. “This is about Klesko?”

  Hearing the name shocked Johanna. She kept her eyes on the agent as she questioned Wally.

  “Klesko?” Johanna said, alarm in her voice. “How do you know that name, Wally?”

  “I … I started looking for you,” Wally said, confused. “Klesko is looking for you, like I was. And—”

  “Everything will be explained in due time,” the agent said. “Now we need to move. Lower your weapon and step out, all three of you.”

  Johanna remained silent, still considering her next move.

  “Stay behind me,” she said to Wally and Tevin.

  The two of them obeyed her, following as she slowly stepped outside the hut and into the lane, her shotgun still raised in front of her as she continued to scan the area with her eyes.

  “Everything is secure,” the agent assured Johanna as she emerged from the hut. “Lower your weapon and set it down on the ground in front of you.”

  Johanna appraised the agents standing before her, all three of them with their weapons still raised in her direction, holding their positions at separate firing angles that had her and the two teens squarely in their sights. Johanna took a quick glance behind her, meeting Wally’s eyes.

  “We’ll go with them,” Johanna said.

  Wally nodded in agreement. “No choice.”

  Johanna turned back toward the agents and lowered the muzzle of her shotgun.

  “Good. Now set the weapon down,” the agent said again.

  Johanna carefully bent forward, her arms extending outward as she prepared to set the shotgun down on the ground. She had almost done this when the sound of racing engines came again, this time from the direction of the front gate. Johanna straightened, the shotgun still in her hands, as the three ATF agents all turned in the direction of the engine sounds.

  “What the hell—?” The black female agent began to speak but was interrupted by a squeal of tires and then a crashing sound: the colony’s security gate behind torn out of its track by a charging vehicle. This all took place out of their line of vision—the group’s view was blocked by the Quonset huts surrounding them—but the sound of the approaching vehicles grew louder … closer. The female agent turned to Johanna and yelled at her.

  “Drop your weapon NOW and get in the vehicles—!”

  Before Johanna could respond, a cab swerved around the corner at the far end of the lane and raced toward them at full throttle.

  “What the hell?” the older agent growled.

  With a clear shot at the agents and their waiting vehicles, the cab gave no sign of slowing or stopping but continued on its collision course, hurtling toward them, faster with each passing second. The agents raised their weapons and all fired simultaneously but with no effect; even as the bullets tore into the taxi’s windshield, the driver—Klesko—kept the vehicle on course. The taxi plowed head-on into the first ATF cruiser. The cruiser lurched backward and slammed into the second male agent, rolling over and crushing him beneath its weight. Within seconds, the wreckage burst into flames.

  The two surviving agents—the older man who had first appeared at Johanna’s door and the younger black woman—now fired on the taxi as Klesko ducked down low behind the dashboard to shield himself from the barrage.

  “We’re going NOW!” Johanna said to Tevin and Wally, grabbing Wally by the arm and leading them both down the lane in the opposite direction, toward the area where the gate had stood. Wally spotted a Glock 9mm handgun on the ground—it must have belonged to the fallen agent—and grabbed it as she moved.

  The gun battle continued behind them as Johanna and the teens made it about halfway down the narrow lane, and they stopped only when they became aware of some loud noises ahead of them. With a terrible screeching of tires, a red-and-white-striped tow truck rounded the corner at the far end of the lane and hurtled straight toward them at high speed. The truck was too wide for the lane, and as it moved forward, it plowed aside whatever was standing in front of the huts: wooden porches, sculptures, and plants.

  “Shit!” Johanna hissed.

  She shielded W
ally and Tevin with her body as she fired her shotgun at the charging tow truck. The truck continued barreling forward, its heavy steel body unaffected by the barrage of gunfire. Wally grabbed Tevin and Johanna, pulling them away from the lane and toward a walking passage between two of the huts. The tow truck—with the younger Russian from Dr. Rainer’s office clearly visible behind the wheel—tried to follow them, but the passage was far too narrow. The truck tried to power its way through, but it only succeeded in tearing away the corner of one of the huts.

  Wally and the others raced away as fast as they could run, the enraged howl of the driver following them.

  Back in front of hut 27, there was a break in the gunfire as the two ATF agents reloaded. Klesko took advantage. He threw open the door of the taxi—now riddled with dozens of bullet holes—and rolled out onto the pavement. He jumped to his feet and charged forward, slamming a new magazine into his gun as he ran. He was quicker than the agents—they were still reloading when he sidestepped the burning cruiser and leapt up on top of the second vehicle, standing tall as he gunned down the frantic agents below him with successive shots to the head.

  Wally led Johanna and Tevin in a zigzagging pattern through the colony of huts, crossing the lanes that ran north and south and dodging in between the huts in places where the spaces were not blocked. Even as they made progress, they could hear the two vehicles now scouting the colony, patrolling the grounds like circling sharks. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the vehicles, the taxicab now rolling along the north end of the lanes, closing off that direction as the tow truck swept through the lanes behind them, driving them forward.

  “They’re trying to cut us off,” Wally said, and the three of them pushed their pace, hoping there was a way out at the far end of the colony. They finally reached the last lane—and the last row of huts—at the northeast corner of the Navy Yard. Just past the huts was another tall cyclone fence with at least four feet of razor wire looped at the top, virtually impossible to surmount.