The Devil's Garden

by Richard Montanari

  And if so, why? Why was a killer looking for two little girls?

  Powell had one more question for the moment.

  “Mrs Arsenault, this woman, the one you met at the medical conference, what was her name?”

  Sondra Arsenault looked at her hands. “I never got her last name, but I remember she was a nurse,” she said. “An ER nurse. Her name was Abby.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Michael put his ear to the motel wall, listened. He could hear a muffled voice coming from the room next door.

  He picked up the remote, turned on the television, all the while holding the volume down button. In seconds the picture came on. Ear still tight to the wall, Michael flipped through the channels. The service was basic cable, and soon he returned to the channel where he began. The sound from the other room did not sync with any of the TV channels. The sound was either a radio talk show or another motel patron talking on the phone.

  He turned off the TV, cupped his ear to the wall once more, concentrated. The rhythm sounded like a man having a telephone conversation, like the man was agreeing with someone. A yes-man talking to his boss. Or his wife.

  After five minutes or so, there was silence. Michael heard the water flowing through the pipe, but he could not be sure it was coming from the next room. He then heard the television click on, a few ads, then the unmistakable rhythms of a game show. After another five minutes the television was turned off.

  Michael heard a door open then close. He stepped quickly to the window, inched over the vertical blind. He saw a middle-aged man in a wrinkled gray suit exit the room next to his, walk over to a red Saturn. He fumbled with keys for a moment, then opened the car door, slipped inside. Michael saw the man unfold a map, study it for a full minute. Soon the car backed up, drove out of the parking lot, pulled onto the marginal road, and head toward the avenue.

  Michael glanced over at the motel sign. The blue Ford with the tinted windows was still in position.

  He crossed the room, put his ear to the wall again. Silence. He held this position for a few minutes, listening. No sounds came from the room next door. He knocked on the wall. Nothing. He knocked louder. Silence. The third time he pounded on the wall, hard enough to dislodge the cheap framed print above the bed in his own room and send it crashing to the floor.

  He listened again. Unless the world’s soundest sleeper was in the next room, it was empty.

  He ran his hands along the wall. It felt like drywall beneath the cheap wallpaper, perhaps half-inch gypsum. There was vinyl cove base at the floor, no crown molding at the ceiling. He wondered if –

  The phone rang. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin. He ran across the room, stumbling over the desk chair, and picked up the receiver before the phone could ring a second time.

  “Yes.”

  “Just checking in, counselor.”

  It was the one called Kolya. Michael knew enough about the world to know Kolya was the accomplice, a lackey, despite his claims to be the mastermind. “I’m here.”

  “Smart man.”

  “I need to talk to my wife.”

  “Not gonna happen, boss.”

  Boss. Prison.

  “I need to know she is all right.”

  No response. Michael listened closely to the receiver. There was no background noise. It was impossible to tell where Kolya was calling from. After a few moments pause, Kolya said:

  “She’s a good-looking woman.”

  A sick feeling washed over Michael. He had not considered for a moment that this could get worse. It just did. He battled back his rage. He lost the fight.

  “I swear to Christ if you fucking touch – !”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  The line went dead.

  It took every ounce of discipline within him not to slam down the receiver. He did not need a broken phone on top of everything. He took a few deep breaths, then calmly set the phone in its cradle.

  He set the timer on his chronograph watch. He started it. In an instant the readout went from 30:00 to 29:59. He did not have much time to do what he needed to do.

  HE LOOKED AROUND THE room for something to use. Something sharp. He opened the drawers in the dresser. Inside one was a yellowed cash-registry receipt, a glossy slip for three pairs of men’s support hose from Macy’s. The other held only the fading scent of a lavender sachet.

  The two nightstands were empty, as were the closets, save for a pair of wire coat hangers. He took them off the rod, then stepped into the bathroom.

  He tried to pull the mirror off the wall. It didn’t budge.

  He wrapped his arm in his coat, turned away his head, and slammed his elbow into the mirror as hard as he could. Nothing. He planted his feet, tried again. This time the mirror cracked. He wrapped his hand in a towel, and pulled off the largest piece.

  ON THE WALL FACING the adjoining room there were two electrical outlets, spaced about six feet apart. When Michael was in high school he had worked three summers for a leasing company that owned three apartment buildings in Queens. He picked up a few skills, one of which was hanging drywall in newly renovated apartments. As a rule of thumb, the studs in the wall were sixteen inches on center. If a contractor wanted to skimp, he sometimes placed them twenty-four inches apart. In most residential structures waterlines ran through the basement or crawlspace, coming up through the floor plates to the sinks, tubs, and toilets, leaving only electrical wire or conduit to run behind the plaster or drywall.

  Michael stood in front of one of the electrical outlets, and began to tap along the wall with the middle knuckle on his right hand. Outlets were always attached to a vertical stud, on one side or the other. Directly above the outlet it sounded solid. As he moved left a few inches, it sounded hollow. When he reached what seemed like sixteen or so inches, it sounded solid again. He thudded the heel of his hand eight or so inches to the right. Hollow.

  The bathroom was on the other side of the bedroom, so the chances of there being a sanitary stack or waterlines on this side were unlikely.

  He dug the sharp shard of mirror into the wall. He peeled back the wallpaper. Beneath the wallpaper, as he had thought, was drywall, not plaster and wood lath. He pushed on it. It felt thin. He set himself, reared back, lifted his leg at the knee, and kicked the wall. The drywall cracked, but did not buckle.

  He checked his watch. The readout said 12:50.

  He picked up the shard of silvered glass, and began to cut into the drywall. Because he could not get a firm grip on the sharp glass, it was slow going, but after five minutes or so he cut all the way through to the other side. After three more kicks he had a hole large enough to crawl through.

  His watch read 3:50.

  He walked back to the window, inched aside the blind. The blue Ford had not moved, nor had the red Saturn returned. He went back to the hole in the wall, looked through. The room was identical to his, save for the rollaway suitcase on the bed, opened.

  He stood, turned, picked up the motel phone, being careful not to dislodge the handset. The cord barely reached the opening.

  He kicked the rest of the drywall in, squeezed himself through the opening. He walked across the room to the closet, opened the door. Inside was a black raincoat, along with a pair of maroon golf slacks and a white Polo shirt. On the shelf was a tweed cap, a pair of sunglasses.

  Before Michael could get the clothes off the hanger, the phone rang. His phone. He dashed across the room, reached through the hole in the wall. He barely got there before the third ring.

  “Yes.”

  Silence. He had gotten to the phone too late.

  “Hello!” Michael shouted. “I’m here. I’m here!”

  “You’re cutting it close, counselor,” Kolya said. “Where were you?”

  “I was in the bathroom. I’m sorry.”

  A long pause. “You’re gonna be a lot fuckin’ sorrier, you know that?”

  “I know. I didn’t –”

  “You get one ring next time, Mr ADA. One. Don’t fuc
k with me.”

  Dial tone.

  Michael reached through the wall, put the phone back in its cradle. He set his watch again. This time for twenty-eight minutes. He changed his clothes, putting on the golf slacks and the raincoat. They were both two sizes too large, but they would have to do. He put on the tweed cap and the sunglasses, checked himself in the mirror. He did not look anything like the man who Kolya had brought to the motel, the man being held prisoner in Room 118.

  At the door, he made sure he turned the knob, unlocking it. He had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, he needed to be back in this room in twenty-six minutes and six seconds.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Kolya came down the stairs, closing his phone, a smug smile on his face. He had in his hand a sandwich. Abby could smell the hard salami from across the room. The smell nearly made her gag.

  Kolya poked around the basement room, feeling the couch cushions, opening and closing the drawers on the old buffet. He flipped on the small television, ran through the channels, flipped it off. To Abby he looked like someone at a house sale, browsing the contents, seeing if things worked. Except, people like Kolya didn’t go to house sales.

  He leaned against the washer, studied her, took another bite of the sandwich. His gaze made Abby want a shower.

  “Your husband said something about money,” he finally said.

  The words sounded strange. Money, after all this. “What are you talking about?”

  He picked up a pair of crystal candlesticks Abby had been meaning to polish, looked underneath. He looked like a gorilla in a Waterford boutique. “He said he could get his hands on some serious money. You know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  He glanced around the basement again. “Now, not for nothin’, I mean, this is a nice house and all. More than I got. But you don’t look rich. Is there a safe in this place?”

  Abby thought about the safe in the office. There was never more than two thousand dollars or so in there at any given time. Emergency cash. Abby could not imagine that such a small sum would be enough to make this all go away. Still, she had to try.

  “Yes.”

  “No shit. How much is in it?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Maybe two thousand dollars.”

  Kolya mugged, as if two thousand was beneath him. On the other hand, he didn’t turn it down. He turned to the corkboard next to the workbench. On it were calendars, greeting cards, family photographs. Kolya pulled out a push pin, studied a picture of Charlotte and Emily from the previous Halloween.

  “So, the little girls are adopted, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He considered the photo for a while, push-pinned it back. “What, you couldn’t have kids?”

  Abby didn’t say a word. Kolya continued.

  “How old are you? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude or anything. I know you’re not supposed to ask a woman’s age. I was just wondering.”

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  “Yeah? Thirty-one? You don’t look it.”

  Abby almost said thank you, but she soon realized who she was talking to, and what this might be leading up to. She remained silent.

  “See, most women your age, they’ve got two or three kids. I mean, kids they actually had. Their bodies are a fucking mess. Stretch marks, saggy boobs. A woman your age, in pretty good shape, no stretch marks. You may not believe me, but that’s my thing.”

  He smiled again and it made Abby sick. Kolya crossed the room, peeked out the basement window, returned, took out a pocket knife. Abby struggled to move the chair away from him. She nearly toppled over. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Relax.”

  He cut her loose.

  Abby rubbed her wrists. The ropes had made a deep red welt. After a few seconds, she began to get the feeling back in her arms.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Kolya sat on a bar stool. “What can I say? I hate to see a pretty woman suffer. I’m sensitive that way.”

  Abby just stared. A pretty woman.

  “Now take off your clothes.”

  Abby felt punched, as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “What?”

  “I think you heard me.”

  Abby wrapped her arms across her chest, as if she was suddenly freezing. She glanced out the high basement window. From this vantage she could see part of the driveway. “He’s going to be back soon.”

  “He?”

  “Yes. Aleks.”

  “Aleks? You guys friends now?” Kolya laughed. “Don’t worry. It ain’t gonna take that long.”

  Abby thought about making a break for the stairs. She shifted her weight in the chair. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Shit. For me it is. I’m just an employee. You know how it is. You take what you can get. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He pulled back the hem of his jacket. Abby’s eyes were drawn to the butt of the large pistol in his waistband. “Besides, I just met this guy. He’s a fucking dinosaur. Old country, old school. I hate that shit. Reminds me of my old man, who was so fucking stupid he trusted a Colombian.”

  Abby glanced again at the steps, her mind reeling. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Kolya killed a few moments, rearranging some jars of nails and screws on the metal shelf next to him. “You work outside the home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do?”

  The last thing Abby wanted to do was let this animal even further into her life. But she knew she had to keep him talking. The longer she kept him talking, the sooner it would be that Aleks got back. “I’m a nurse.”

  “A nurse! Oh! Jackpot,” he said, sounding like a little kid. “You wear the whites and everything?”

  Abby knew he was talking about the dress-style uniform. Nobody wore them anymore. At the clinic, she spent most of her time in solid-color scrubs. But she would say or do anything to get out of this basement. “Yes.”

  Kolya rubbed himself. Abby wanted to be sick.

  “So, what, you’re saying you have your nurse’s uniform here?”

  The truth was, she did not. Her three sets of scrubs were at the cleaners. It was going to be one of her stops on the way to the clinic. She glanced at the clock on the workbench. She was to start her shift soon. When she did not show up, they would call. “Yes,” she said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Upstairs,” Abby said. Her face burned with the lie. She was sure he could read it. But she had to buy time.

  Kolya glanced at his watch. “So let’s go upstairs.”

  THEY WALKED UP THE steps, across the kitchen, into the foyer. Kolya motioned to the stairs. Abby hesitated, then started up. She had no choice.

  Kolya smiled. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You bad girl.”

  As they went up the stairs she could feel his eyes on her. She was certain that, if she wasn’t a Pilates-freak, her legs would be giving out on her.

  “Damn, girl. For a skinny little thing you got back.”

  Get me to the bedroom, God.

  “Most women your size have no fuckin’ hips at all. You know what I mean? Built like boys.”

  Just get me near that closet.

  They stepped into the bedroom. Kolya directed Abby to sit on the bed. He opened the closet door, rummaged through the suits, the shirts, the sweaters, the slacks. “There’s no fuckin’ uniforms in here.”

  Abby stood, backed to the wall. “I forgot. They’re at the cleaners.”

  “Where’s the ticket?”

  Abby pointed to the small wicker tray on top of the dresser, the catch-all for parking stubs, receipts, claim checks. Kolya found the dry-cleaning ticket, read it, put it back. He then started looking through the dresser, tossing out underwear, socks, sweats. He reached the third drawer from the bottom. In it were neatly folded camisoles and teddies. He pulled a few out, examined them. He arrived at a scarlet red slip, one Abby had not worn in a few years, one of Michael’s favorite
s. Crazily, she tried to remember the last time she had worn it for her husband.

  “Nice.” Kolya threw it across the room. “Put it on.”

  Abby glanced at the closet. She remembered. The previous night she had not locked the gun back into the case. It was underneath her sweaters on the bottom shelf. It was less than five feet away.

  “I’ve got something better than this,” Abby said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  Abby made no moves. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask permission. Kolya seemed to like this. “Yeah,” she said. “A new cocktail dress. Short. High heels to match.”

  “Sweet,” Kolya said. “Let’s see.”

  Abby turned, slowly, walked to the closet.

  She slid open the door, and reached inside.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Millerville post office was a quaint standalone building with a mansard roof, multi-paned windows, two chimneys. The walkway was lined with driftwood posts connected with white chain. On the sculpted lawn was what looked like a Revolutionary War-era cannon. Two large evergreens flanked the double main doors.

  Aleks had located three other post offices that were closer to Eden Falls, but he could not take the chance that the girls would be recognized. Or, for that matter, his new name and identity. According to his driver’s license he was now a thirty-five-year-old New Yorker named Michael Roman. He walked into the post office, both girls clutching his hand. How many times had he thought about scenes like this? How many times had he envisioned taking Anna and Marya somewhere?

  There were eight or nine people waiting in line, another half-dozen people tending to their post office boxes or glancing at the racks of commemorative stamps and mailing supplies.

  Aleks glanced around the ceiling. There were three surveillance cameras.

  They inched their way to the head of the line. The girls were very well behaved.

  “May I help you?”

  The woman was black, in her forties. She wore silver eye shadow. Aleks approached with Anna and Marya. “Hi. I need to apply for a passport.”

  “For yourself?”

  “No, for my daughters.”