A pair of headlights had just swung through the gate. The vehicle was now rolling toward them, across the container yard. It was a van.
Abby had no chance to duck for cover behind the crates. The headlights’ beams had already caught her, trapped at the end of the pier.
The van skidded to a halt. Shielding her eyes against the glare, Abby could see almost nothing, but she heard doors open and slam shut. Heard footsteps crunching across the gravel as the men moved in to cut off any escape.
Katzka materialized right beside her. She hadn’t even heard him scramble off the gangplank, but suddenly there he was, stepping between her and the van. “Okay, just back off,” he said. “We’re not here to cause any trouble.”
The two men, silhouetted by the headlights, hesitated only a second. Then they began to advance.
“Let us by!” Katzka said.
Abby’s view of the men was partially blocked by Katzka’s back. She didn’t see what happened next. All she knew was that he suddenly dropped to a crouch, that there was a simultaneous crack of gunfire and the zing of something ricocheting off the concrete pier behind her.
She and Katzka lunged at the same time for the cover of the crates. He shoved her head to the ground as more gunfire rang out, chunking out splinters of wood.
Katzka returned fire. Three quick blasts.
There was a tattoo of retreating footsteps. A terse exchange of voices.
Then the sound of the van being started, the engine revving and tires spitting up gravel.
Abby raised her head to look. To her horror she saw the van was rolling toward them, bearing down on the crates like a battering ram.
Katzka took aim and fired. Four bursts that shattered the windshield.
The van bumped crazily onto the pier, swerved right, then left, a battering ram gone out of control.
Katzka fired two last, desperate blasts.
The van kept coming.
Abby registered a blinding glimpse of headlights. Then she flung herself off the pier and hurtled into pitch darkness.
The plunge into icy water was shocking. She sputtered back to the surface, choking on brine and spilled diesel fuel, her limbs flailing at the black water. She heard men shouting on the pier above, then a thunderous splash. Water boiled up and washed over her head. She surfaced again, coughing. At the end of the pier the water seemed to be glowing a phosphorescent green. The van. It was sliding under the surface, its headlights casting two watery beams of light. As it sank, the greenish glow faded to black.
Katzka. Where was Katzka?
She whirled around in the water, stroking as she scanned the blackness. The surface was still churning, wavelets slapping her face, and she was struggling to see through the sting of salt in her eyes.
She heard a soft splash and a head popped out of the brine a few feet away. Treading water, Katzka glanced in her direction, and saw that she was holding her own. Then he looked up, at the sound of more voices—from the ship? There were two men, maybe three, their footsteps thudding up and down the pier. They were yelling to each other, but their shouts seemed garbled and unintelligible.
Not English, thought Abby, but she could not identify the language.
Overhead a light appeared, the beam cutting through the mist and slowly skimming the water.
Katzka dove. So did Abby. She swam as far as her breath would carry her, away from the pier, toward the blackness of open water. Again and again she came up, gasped in a breath, then dove again. When she resurfaced a fifth time, she was treading in darkness.
There were now two lights moving on the pier, the beams scanning the mist like a pair of relentless eyes. She heard the splash of water somewhere close, and then a quick intake of breath, and she knew Katzka had surfaced nearby.
“Lost my gun,” he panted.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Just keep swimming. The next pier.”
The night suddenly lit up with shocking brilliance. The freighter had turned on its deck lights, illuminating every detail on the pier. There was one man on the gangplank, and one crouching at the pier’s edge with a searchlight. Towering beside them was a third man, his rifle aimed at the water.
“Go,” said Katzka.
Abby dove, clawing her way through liquid blackness. She’d never been a good swimmer. Deep water scared her. Now she was swimming through water so dark it might as well be bottomless. She came up for another breath, but could not seem to get enough air, no matter how deeply she gasped.
“Abby, keep moving!” urged Katzka. “Just get to that next pier!”
Abby glanced back toward the freighter. She saw that the searchlights were tracing an ever-larger circle on the water. That the beam was flitting toward them.
She slipped, once again, underwater.
By the time she and Katzka finally clambered out onto land, Abby could barely move her limbs. She crawled up rocks slippery with oil and seaweed. Crouching in the darkness, the barnacles biting into her knees, she vomited into the water.
Katzka took her arm, steadied her. She was shaking so hard from exertion she thought she might shatter were it not for his grip.
At last there was nothing left in her stomach. Weakly she raised her head.
“Better?” he whispered.
“I’m freezing.”
“Then let’s get someplace warm.” He glanced up at the pier, looming above them. “I think we can make it up those pilings. Come on.”
Together they scrambled up the rocks, slipping and sliding on moss and seaweed. Katzka made it up onto the pier first, then he reached down and hauled her up after him. They rose to a crouch.
The searchlight sliced through the mist, trapping them in its glare.
A bullet ricocheted off the concrete right behind Abby.
“Move!” said Katzka.
They sprinted away. The searchlight pursued them, the beam zigzagging through the darkness. They were off the concrete pier now, running toward the container yard. Bullets spat up gravel all around them. Ahead loomed the containers, stacked up in a giant maze of shadows. They ducked down the nearest row, heard bullets pinging on metal. Then the gunfire ceased.
Abby slowed down to catch her breath. She was still exhausted from the swim, still weak from retching up seawater. And now she was shaking so hard her feet were stumbling.
Voices drew near. They seemed to come from two directions at once.
Katzka grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the maze of containers.
They ran to the end of the row, turned left, and kept running. Then both of them halted.
At the far end of the row, a light winked.
They’re in front of us!
Katzka veered right, turned down another row. Stacked containers towered on both sides of them like the walls of a chasm. They heard voices and corrected course again. By now they’d made so many turns, Abby couldn’t tell if they were moving in circles, couldn’t tell if they’d fled this way seconds earlier.
A light danced ahead of them.
They halted, spun around to retrace their steps. And saw another flashlight beam winking. It swept back and forth, moving toward them.
They’re ahead of us. And behind us.
In panic she stumbled backward. Reaching out to steady herself, she felt the cleft between two containers. The gap was barely wide enough to fit into.
The flashlight beam winked closer.
Grabbing Katzka’s arm, she squeezed into the opening, pulling him after her. Deeper and deeper she wormed, through a filigree of cobwebs, until she bumped up against the wall of an adjacent container. No way forward. They were trapped here, wedged tightly into a space narrower than a coffin.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel approached.
Katzka’s hand reached out to grip hers, but his touch did nothing to ease her panic. Her heart was slamming against her chest. The footsteps drew closer.
She heard voices, now—one man hailing another, then a second man answering
in some unrecognizable tongue. Or was it the blood roaring through her ears that made their words seem garbled beyond comprehension?
A light danced past the cleft opening. The two men were standing close by, conversing in puzzled tones. They had only to shine their flashlights into the gap, and they’d spot their prey in the crevice. Someone kicked at the ground and gravel skittered and clanged against the container.
Abby closed her eyes, too terrified to look. She didn’t want to be watching when that beam of light flooded into their hiding place. Katzka’s grip tightened around her hand. Her limbs were rigid with tension, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She heard another scrape of shoes across the ground, another skittering of gravel.
Then the footsteps moved away.
Abby didn’t dare move. She wasn’t sure she could move; her legs felt locked in position. Years from now, she thought, they’ll find me standing here, my skeleton frozen stiff in terror.
It was Katzka who made the first move. He eased toward the opening and was about to poke his head out for a look when they heard a soft whick. A light flared and went out. Someone had lit a match. Katzka went dead still. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the darkness.
Somewhere, faintly, a man was calling.
The cigarette smoker grunted out a reply, and then his footsteps faded away.
Katzka didn’t move.
They remained frozen, hands clasped together, neither one daring to whisper a word. Twice they heard their pursuers pass by; both times, the men moved on.
There was a distant rumble, like the growl of thunder somewhere over the horizon.
Then, for a long time, they heard nothing.
It was hours later when they finally emerged from their hiding place. They crept down the row of containers and stopped to scan the waterfront. The night had turned unnervingly silent. The mist had lifted, and overhead, stars twinkled faintly in a sky washed by city lights.
The next pier was dark. They saw no men, no lights, not even the glow of a porthole. There was only the long low silhouette of the concrete pier jutting out, and the sparkle of moonlight on the water.
The freighter was gone.
22
The alarm on the heart monitor was going crazy, squealing as the line traced a chaotic dance of death across the screen.
“Mr. Voss.” A nurse grasped Victor’s arm, tried to pull him away from Nina’s bed. “The doctors need room to work.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
“Mr. Voss, they can’t do their job if you’re here!”
Victor shook off the woman’s hand with a violence that made her cringe, as though struck. He remained standing at the end of his wife’s bed, gripping the footrail so tightly his knuckles looked like exposed bone.
“Back!” came a command. “Everyone back!”
“Mr. Voss!” It was Dr. Archer speaking now, his voice slicing through the bedlam. “We need to shock your wife’s heart! You have to move away from the bed now.”
Victor released the footrail and stepped back.
The shock was delivered. It coursed through Nina’s body in a single, barbaric jolt. She was too small, too fragile to be abused this way! Enraged, he took a step forward, ready to snatch the paddles away. Then he stopped.
On the monitor above the bed, the jagged line had transformed to a calmly rhythmic series of blips. He heard someone release a sigh, and felt his own breath escape in a single rush.
“Systolic’s sixty. Up to sixty-five . . .”
“Rhythm seems to be holding.”
“Up to seventy-five systolic.”
“Okay, turn down that IV.”
“She’s moving her arm. Can we get a wrist restraint over here?”
Victor pushed past the nurses to Nina’s side. No one tried to stop him. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. And he tasted, on her skin, the salt of his own tears.
Stay with me. Please, please, stay with me.
“Mr. Voss?” The voice seemed to call to him from across a long distance. Turning, he focused on Dr. Archer’s face.
“Can we step outside?” said Archer.
Victor shook his head.
“She’s all right for the moment,” said Archer. “All these people are taking good care of her. We’ll be just outside the room. I need to speak to you. Now.”
At last Victor nodded. Tenderly he lay down Nina’s hand and followed Archer out of the cubicle.
They stood together in a quiet corner of the ICU. The lights had been dimmed for the evening, and against the bank of green screens, the silhouette of the monitor nurse sat silent and motionless.
“The transplant’s been postponed,” said Archer. “There was a problem with the harvest.”
“What do you mean?”
“It couldn’t be done tonight. We’ll have to reschedule for tomorrow.”
Victor looked at his wife’s cubicle. Through the uncurtained window, he could see her head moving. She was waking up. She needed him at her side.
He said, “Nothing can go wrong tomorrow night.”
“It won’t.”
“That’s what you told me after the first transplant.”
“Organ rejection is something we can’t always stop. No matter how hard we try to prevent it, it happens.”
“How do I know it won’t happen again? With a second heart?”
“I can’t make promises. But at this point, Mr. Voss, we don’t have an alternative. Cyclosporine’s failed. And she had an anaphylactic reaction to OKT-3. There’s nothing left except another transplant.”
“It will be done tomorrow?”
Archer nodded. “We’ll make sure it’s done tomorrow.”
Nina was not yet fully conscious when Victor returned to her bedside. So many times before, he had watched her as she slept Over the years he had taken note of the changes in her face. The delicate lines that had formed at the corners of her mouth. The gradual sagging of the jawline. The new whisper of white in her hair. Each and every change he had mourned, because it reminded him that their journey together was but a temporary passage through a cold and lonely eternity.
And yet, because it was her face, each and every change he had loved.
It was hours later when she opened her eyes. At first he did not realize she was awake. He was sitting in a chair by her bed, his shoulders slumped with fatigue, when something made him raise his head and turn to her.
She was looking at him. She opened her hand in a silent request for his touch. He grasped it, kissed it.
“Everything,” she whispered, “will be all right.”
He smiled. “Yes. Yes, of course it will.”
“I’ve been lucky, Victor. So very lucky . . .”
“We both have.”
“But now you have to learn to let me go.”
Victor’s smile faded. He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
“You have so much ahead of you.”
“What about us?” He was grasping her hand in both of his now, like a man trying to hold on to water as it trickles away. “You and I, Nina, we’re not like everyone else! We always used to say that to each other. Don’t you remember? How we were different. We were special. And nothing could ever happen to us?”
“But something has, Victor,” she murmured. “Something has happened to me.”
“And I will take care of it.”
She said nothing, only shook her head sadly.
It seemed to Victor that the last thing he saw, as Nina’s eyelids closed again, was a look of quiet defiance. He gazed down at her hand, the one he’d been holding so possessively. And he saw that it was closed, in a fist.
* * *
It was nearly midnight when Detective Lundquist dropped off an exhausted Abby at her front door. She saw that Mark’s car was not parked in the driveway. When she stepped inside the house, she could feel its emptiness as clearly as one senses a chasm yawning at one’s feet. He’s had an emergency at the hospital, she thought. It was not
unusual for him to leave the house late at night, called into Bayside to tend to a gunshot wound or a stabbing. She tried to visualize him as she had seen him so many times before in the OR, his face masked in blue, his gaze focused downward, but she could not seem to come up with the image. It was as though the memory, the old reality, had been erased.
She went to the answering machine, hoping he’d left a voice memo on the recorder. All she found were two phone messages. Both were from Vivian, and the number she’d left had an out-of-state area code. She was still in Burlington. It was too late now to call her back. She’d try in the morning.
Upstairs, she stripped off her wet clothes, threw them in the washing machine, and stepped into the shower. She noticed the tiles were dry; Mark hadn’t used the shower tonight. Had he even been home?
As the hot water beat down on her shoulders, she stood with her eyes closed, thinking. Dreading what she’d have to say to Mark. This was why she had returned to his house tonight. The time had come to confront him, to demand answers. The uncertainty had become unbearable.
After she got out of the shower, she sat down on the bed and called in a page for Mark. She was startled when the phone rang almost immediately.
“Abby?” It wasn’t Mark, but Katzka. “Just checking to see if you’re okay. I called a little while ago and there was no answer.”
“I was in the shower. I’m fine, Katzka. I’m just waiting for Mark to get home.”
A pause. “You’re by yourself?”
His note of concern brought a faint smile to her lips. Scratch that armor of his, and you’d find a real man under there after all.
“I locked all the doors and windows,” she said. “Just like you told me.” Over the phone, she could hear a background buzz of voices, along with the squeal of a police radio, and she could picture him standing on that dock, the blue emergency lights flashing on his face. “What’s happening over there?” she asked.
“We’re waiting for the divers. The equipment’s already in position.”
“You really think the driver’s still trapped in the van?”
“I’m afraid so.” He sighed, and it was a sound of such profound weariness, she gave a murmur of concern.
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