The Devil's Garden

by Richard Montanari

Kolya lashed out with his right hand, catching her high on her forehead. The blow knocked her back to the dresser, shattering perfume bottles, toppling pictures, dumping the television onto the floor. Before she could recover her balance Kolya grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the bed. Abby kicked her feet, flailed her arms, trying to connect, but he was too strong.

  “But first I’m gonna fuck your brains out.”

  He threw her to the bed, slapped her a second time. This time the blow was more powerful, more expertly leveraged. Abby felt herself fall to the edge of consciousness. Still she fought. Kolya pulled out his small pocket knife. He cut her dress away from her body, tearing it off, flinging it across the room.

  Abby, nearly insensible, tried to bring her knee into his crotch again, but this time he was prepared. Stars danced at the edges of her eyes, and she felt for a moment as if she was going to pass out. She tasted blood in her mouth.

  Kolya leaned back, unzipped his jeans. He had a full erection. “You’re out of your fuckin’ league, bitch.” He cut her bra and panties away, climbed back on top of her, all the time keeping tight hold of her hair. Abby fought him as hard as she could, but she was overpowered.

  He grabbed her by the throat, applied pressure. “You point a gun at me?”

  Kolya spread her legs with his other hand, settled his heavy body between them. “You’re gonna like this, Mrs ADA. Too bad you won’t be able to tell your friends about it.”

  As Abby felt the world pull away, she heard something click onto the bed next to them, something metallic. It sounded as if something had fallen from the ceiling, but she couldn’t be sure what it had been.

  Kolya stopped for a moment, looked up at the ceiling, then at the bed. On it were five small-caliber bullets. Kolya looked into Abby’s eyes. And knew.

  Before he could make a move, Kolya grunted once, a wet animal sound. Abby’s face was suddenly bathed in a warm, viscous liquid. Some of it went into her mouth and nose. The taste made her gag, making her head pound, but bringing her back from the edge. Her world went bright red.

  It was blood. Her face was now covered in it.

  In her near-delirium, Abby thought it was her own blood, but when she looked at Kolya, she saw that his face was frozen in a rictus of pain, the muscles on his neck were corded and taut. Something was growing from his throat. Something silver and flat. Kolya fell on Abby in a quivering lump, and Abby now saw the shape of a man standing at the foot of the bed.

  It was Aleks. He had stabbed Kolya from behind, and now the spasming man was laying on top of her, the huge knife protruding from the back of his neck. A second later, Aleks leaned over, pulled out the knife.

  “No!” Abby screamed.

  With all her strength she pushed Kolya off her. He rolled onto the bed, onto the floor, both of which were now drenched with blood.

  “What have you done?”

  Abby scrambled to her feet, the world spinning out of control. She tore a pillowcase from the bed, balled it, and put it over the hole in Kolya’s throat. Blood pumped from the wound, soaking the floor beneath Kolya’s head. His body jerked once, twice, then fell still. Abby kept pressure on the wound, but she knew it was too late. He was dead.

  Abby glanced at Aleks. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom. His face offered no expression. Not anger, not remorse, not even satisfaction. He looked like a bird of prey, surveying his territory. Abby now realized Aleks had found her gun when he had been upstairs on his own earlier. He had unloaded it.

  For a long time Abby couldn’t move. Then she realized her nakedness. She pulled one of the drapes from the rod, gathered it, wrapped it around her, the twin horrors of the past few minutes sinking in.

  “Where . . . where are the girls?” she asked. Her voice sounded small, defeated, distant.

  Aleks turned his head, looked at her. For a moment she wasn’t sure he knew who she was.

  “Clean yourself up,” he said. “We are leaving in twenty minutes.”

  FORTY-ONE

  The police officer was nervous. He was young, no more than twenty-two or so. His partner was a little older. Maybe his FTO, Michael thought, his field-training officer. Once the older cop had assessed that there was no imminent danger in the parking lot of the Squires Inn, he had told the other two patrol cars they could move on.

  The young officer had worked it by the book, first asking for identification, then patting Michael down.

  Michael had explained who he was, and that he was here investigating a case. He hoped that, being from a smaller town, the kid did not know that, as a rule, ADAs did not really do any fieldwork. He did not.

  The officer had looked at Michael’s outfit, perhaps wondering why a Queens County prosecutor was wearing maroon golf slacks and a raincoat that were both clearly two sizes too big for him. If he was wondering, he said nothing about it. But Michael knew the mindset, even for a young cop. Something was off. And when something was off, it did not right itself.

  “And why don’t you have any ID, sir?”

  “It’s in my golf bag,” Michael said. “I got this call about a witness going squirrelly on us and I just jumped in the car.”

  The officer looked at the blue Ford, then back. He glanced at his partner, who just shrugged.

  According to the officer, a call had come in on 911 of two men fighting in the parking lot of the Squires Inn Motel. Michael said he knew nothing about it.

  Michael snuck a glance at his watch. He had missed the call from Kolya.

  “Could you wait right here for me?” the officer asked. He pointed to the rear of the Ford. Michael moved to the back of the car.

  “Sure.”

  As Michael approached he noticed a thin trickle of blood coming from the lid of the trunk. He moved from the left rear fender to the trunk, leaned against it.

  As the young officer communicated on the radio, he looked from the laptop in his cruiser, to Michael, back. It seemed to take forever. Michael glanced again at his watch. He was now a full five minutes past the deadline.

  The officer got out of the car.

  “Sorry about this, Mr Roman. You know how it is. You get the call you have to check it out.”

  “I understand.”

  The kid looked at him for a few more seconds, then around the parking lot, at the motel itself, still not really comprehending the situation. Michael knew he would have crazier days than this.

  “Have a good day, sir.”

  Michael wondered how the uniformed officers had gotten the call. Had Kolya’s cousin seen the altercation from the office? Had she seen what happened and called Kolya, and now something had happened to Abby, Charlotte and Emily?

  He glanced at his watch a third time. There was no point going back inside.

  He slipped into the Ford, turned over the engine. Under the seat was Omar’s pistol and cellphone. He was glad the incident with the police had not progressed to a search of the vehicle. A few moments later he pulled out of the parking lot, and merged into traffic.

  He headed home.

  FORTY-TWO

  Aleks had not intended to let Kolya live, but neither had he expected it to end like this. He hated it when things got messy, and this was as messy as it could be.

  He had owed Kolya’s father Konstantine many debts – indeed, the man had saved his life on more than one occasion – but the son held no power over him, had earned no such arrears.

  While Abby took a shower, Aleks dragged Kolya’s body into the clothes closet. The bedroom was all but coated with blood, and moving the heavy, lifeless form streaked even further a deep crimson into the light-colored carpeting.

  He went through Kolya’s pockets, taking the dead man’s cellphone, but leaving his wallet, which was connected to a belt loop via a silver chain. He opened the phone, checked the list of recently placed calls. The last call to the motel was more than forty minutes ago. Aleks hit the redial. The phone at the motel rang twice, three times, four times, five. Michael Roman was no longer there. If he was, he w
ould certainly have answered the phone. Aleks scrolled down the list until he came to Omar’s cellphone number. Figuring that Omar had Kolya on his caller ID list, Aleks took out one of his prepaid cellphones. He dialed Omar’s number. The phone rang once, twice . . .

  . . . THREE TIMES. Michael stared at the phone in his hands. The readout said the call was coming from a private number. He turned on the radio, then the heater, cranking the fan to high. He opened his window. On the fifth ring he answered. He kept his mouth a few inches away from the phone, answered.

  “Yeah.”

  Silence from the other end. “Are you still at the motel?”

  It was Aleks. He was calling Omar. He was calling Omar to see if Michael was still under lock and key. Why hadn’t Kolya placed the call? Michael tried to remember Omar’s voice. It was deep. He hoped the background noise covered him. “Yeah.”

  Another hesitation. This time Michael heard the girls talking in the background. They were with Aleks. His heart shattered.

  “Do not come here Mr Roman,” Aleks said. “If you do you will not like what you find.”

  “Listen,” Michael said. “Just tell me what you want. You can have everything I have. Just don’t hurt my family.”

  For a moment, Michael thought Aleks might have hung up. He had not. “If you come here you will drown in your family’s blood.”

  The phone clicked. The connection was broken.

  Michael slammed his fist into the dashboard three times. He pushed the speedometer to eighty.

  THEY WERE READY. The woman had packed a pair of bags for herself and the girls, as well as some food. Everything Aleks needed was in his leather shoulder bag. The gear was stacked near the front door.

  In a moment Aleks would collect the girls from the backyard, explaining to them that they were going on a little journey. They would take Kolya’s SUV. They would find somewhere to hide for just a few hours, until midnight, then they would head for the Canadian border.

  By this time tomorrow they would be in Canada, and he would be one step closer to becoming deathless. By this time tomorrow the woman would be dead, and Anna and Marya would be his. This had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

  You’ll never get them out of the country. Someone is going to catch you.

  Perhaps Abigail was right. He touched the two empty crystal vials on the chain around his neck. If they closed in on him and the girls, he knew what he had to do.

  For now, though, he still had his daughters, and there were no obstacles on the horizon.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  ABBY LOOKED OUT the front window. In the drive was a late-model dark sedan. She had not heard anyone drive up, and she always did. She was attuned to the sounds around her house. But the horror of this day, as well as the throbbing pain in her head, made it impossible.

  She looked at Aleks. He said nothing, but rather glanced through the back window at the girls. He stepped into the hallway, out of sight.

  Abby crossed the foyer, opened the door. On the porch was a tall, slender black woman in a dark suit. The woman had the look of authority. Abby knew the demeanor, the posture, and she was suddenly even more frightened.

  Through the screen door Abby said “Yes?”

  “Are you Abigail Roman?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman held up a badge wallet. A gold shield. NYPD. “My name is Detective Desiree Powell. I’m with Queens Homicide. May I come in for a moment?”

  It took all of Abby’s strength and concentration not to look anywhere but the detective’s eyes. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “I just have a few routine questions. May I come in?”

  “I’m terribly busy right now.”

  The woman put her hand on the screen door handle. Abby let go. The woman smiled, opened the door, stepped inside. She did a quick perusal of the entrance, living room, the stairs leading to the second floor. “I know your husband, Michael. We’ve worked a few cases together,” the woman said. “By the way, he’s not here by any chance, is he?”

  “No,” Abby said. “He’s in court today.”

  Powell glanced at her watch. “They’re adjourned for the day, I believe. I called his office and they said he’s gone for the day. Would you happen to know where he is right now?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Powell gave a closer look at the living room, its décor. “You have a lovely home.”

  Here comes the bullshit, Abby thought. She had to find a way to get this woman out of her house. “Thank you. Now if –”

  “Are you all right?”

  Abby instinctively touched her face. She had iced it down, and the swelling was not as noticeable as she thought it was going to be. “I’m fine. Got whacked with a tennis ball this afternoon.”

  Powell nodded, clearly not believing the story. She was a cop. She encountered a lot of married women who walked into doors, tripped in the shower, slipped on the ice. As a nurse, Abby had met her share, too.

  “I’ve never played. Always wanted to. Having you been playing long?”

  “Just a few years,” Abby said.

  “Are your girls here?”

  “Yes.” She pointed out the back window. Charlotte and Emily were sitting at the picnic table in the backyard.

  Powell looked out the window. “Oh my. They’re adorable. Michael talks about them all the time. How old are they?”

  “They just turned four.”

  “Can I ask what their names are?”

  “Charlotte and Emily.”

  Powell smiled. “Like the Brontë sisters.”

  “Like the Brontë sisters.”

  Powell stepped further into the house. “You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”

  “Yes. In fact, we were just about to leave in a few minutes.”

  Powell glanced at the bags by the door. Two lilac nylon duffels, two bags of groceries, and a man’s leather messenger bag. “Going on a trip?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “We’re going to visit my parents.”

  “Oh yeah? Whereabouts?”

  Abby took a short step towards the door, the kind of move you make when you are trying to usher someone out of your house. “They’re in Westchester County. Near Pound Ridge.”

  “Oh, it’s beautiful up there. Especially this time of year.” Powell angled her body in front of Abby, her back now to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She pointed at the man’s leather bag. “Is Michael coming with you?”

  “He’s going to meet us up there.”

  Powell nodded, held Abby’s gaze for a moment. She wasn’t buying any of this. She took a notebook out of her pocket, flipped it open. “Well, I won’t keep you too long.” She glanced at a page of her book. “Do you know a woman named Sondra Arsenault?”

  The name was familiar to Abby. She couldn’t immediately place it. She also knew, from five years of living with a prosecutor, that the best way to handle this was to plead memory loss. “I’m not sure. Who is she?”

  “She’s a social worker,” Powell said. “She lives over in Putnam County with her husband James.”

  “The names don’t really ring a bell.”

  “They have twin girls. Just like you.”

  Abby knew that this detective would not be asking these questions unless she already had the answers. And she now knew what this was about. “I’m sorry. I don’t know them.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What about a man named Viktor Harkov?”

  Abby brought her hand to her mouth, trying to keep the emotion inside. She couldn’t. It was all about to come tumbling out, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. She could still smell the dead man on her, could still taste the blood. She leaned forward, whispered: “You have to help us. He’s here. In the house.”

  “Who’s here?”

  In that moment Abby saw a shadow move behind Powell, a darting gray silhouette on the wall. It was Aleks. In his hand
was Abby’s .25 semi-automatic pistol. There was no doubt in Abby’s mind that he had reloaded it.

  Abby looked over the detective’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

  Powell understood.

  She spun around.

  BEFORE DETECTIVE DESIREE POWELL turned fully, she saw the soft yellow muzzle flash, heard three quick blasts. She felt as if she had been mule-kicked in the side of the chest, the pain roaring through her body like a white-hot freight train. The air was pummeled from her lungs. She felt herself falling backwards.

  She hit the floor hard, the pain in her chest turning an icy cold, her legs falling numb. She looked at the ceiling, the patterns in the stippled finish starting to swirl, to coalesce into a Dali dreamscape.

  For a moment, she smelled the sea, heard the waves crash onto the beach on Montego Bay, heard the unmistakable lilt of the steel drum.

  Then the darkness drew her down, into the long night.

  Lucien, she thought, the light fading. You were wrong, my sweet boy.

  I did hear it.

  ALEKS STOOD OVER the woman. Abby had collapsed in the corner of the room. It was one thing to kill Kolya. He was a liability from the start. No one knew where Kolya was, or where he was expected to be. No one would be looking for him here.

  It was something entirely different with a police officer. Even in Estonia you did not do this, if you could avoid it. Where there was one there were many, and it would not be long before there were more. The detective had mentioned Viktor Harkov’s name. They would soon make the connection to the missing girls, and perhaps they would get a tape from the cameras at the post office, seeing him with Anna and Marya. If that happened, they would be looking for him. He had to move.

  He took the handcuffs from the fallen detective’s belt, along with her keys.

  They would leave right now.

  FORTY-THREE

  Michael parked the blue Ford on Creekside Lane. He had stopped on the way, pulling off the road about a mile from his house, back into the part of the woods that had once been a campground. He left Omar Cantwell’s body there, covered in leaves and compost. The man was still alive.