“You do that,” he said under his breath.
Marcus leaned forward for a better look at the apartments. He scanned the large numbers posted at the edge of each building.
There, that was the one.
His eyes caught on the second-story, corner apartment, where a man in a white, sleeveless t-shirt leaned over the balcony, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. Marcus picked up the picture of Kamila and her boyfriend. He opened the car door and stood for a better look at him. Their eyes met.
The man disappeared into the apartment.
Marcus turned and glanced at the officer. He was looking down. Probably writing a ticket. Alyssa’s life was at stake and the only person who knew Kamila’s plans was getting away.
He’d deal with the ticket later.
Marcus sprinted across the parking. At the top of the stairs, he turned the handle to apartment B254. Locked. Marcus shouldered the door twice and it let out a weak crack. He gave himself more of a running start, slamming his body into the door. Then, his face was against the door and his hands locked behind his back.
“I am placing you under arrest, Mr. Shelton.”
“I need to talk to that man,” Marcus shouted. “He knows where my daughter—”
The officer recited his Miranda rights, ignoring Marcus’s plea to check the apartment. He pulled the Ruger from Marcus’s hip. “What were you going to do with this?”
“It’s protection. Completely legal—”
“Armed and attempting to break in to a residence.”
The trooper pushed Marcus’s head low as he guided him into the cruiser. From the front seat, the officer eyed Marcus through the rear-view mirror.
“Speeding…reckless driving—”
“He knows where my daughter is.”
“Your daughter Alyssa is missing, I know.”
“You know?”
“Sir, if you’re so sure he knows where she is, have you contacted the police about your theory?”
“Not this part.”
He turned in his seat to face Marcus. “But you think it’s okay to go breaking into someone’s house?”
If it means saving my daughter, I’ll do whatever it takes. But the police were getting in the way, protecting the bad guys. He probably shouldn’t say another word without an attorney present, but being silent wasn’t one of his strengths. He leaned forward. “I really need to talk to this guy.”
The officer shook his head like he had just heard the stupidest idea in the world.
“What’s his name?”
“He used the name Mujadin on the IM.”
“Instant messaging?”
“Right. When he talked with Kamila. She’s the one who has my daughter. He might know where she is.”
He looked sideways at Marcus. “Alright. I’ll give it a try. Just so I don’t have to listen to you bitching and moaning all the way back to the station.”
Ten minutes later, the officer returned.
“Never heard of him.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“He’s not at B254. You, however, terrified the old woman who lives there.”
“I saw him. Right up there on the balcony. Smoking a cigarette. He looked right at me. It was obvious he knew something.”
If Marcus could speak to the man himself, he’d get the information he needed.
“Give me a chance—”
“I’m taking you in. Your car will be towed—”
“But—”
“Tell it to your attorney.”
***
Aazim stood just inside the sliding glass door that led to the balcony as he watched the police cruiser drive away, Marcus safely locked up in the back seat.
“Whole family needs to be committed,” he said to no one.
The bastard had tricked Aazim, somehow got into Kamila’s account. He would have to stop using the IM now, just in case the police found out, could trace him.
What did he want from Aazim, anyways? It wasn’t like he was hiding Kamila. He wasn’t that dumb.
If that wasn’t Kamila on the IM, then she really must have followed through on her plan to leave. And if Marcus was here—that meant she took Alyssa with her.
Stupid woman.
God knew Kamila was capable of anything, just to prove a point. Not that he cared about the little girl. Let Kamila do what she needed to do, just keep him out of it.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and texted her. She hadn’t answered any of his texts for a couple of days now. He sent her another. “You owe me.”
It was true. He could have told the police, or Marcus, everything he knew about her plans. But he wasn’t like that.
He put the phone in his back pocket. If she did what she said she would do—dump her cell phone and Alyssa’s—she’d never get the text.
He probably should tell the police, at least to save his own ass in case anything was traced back to him.
Nah. For all he knew, Kamila and Alyssa were already long gone or dead—or both.
He lit a cigarette and let out a quiet chuckle as he watched the tow truck haul away Marcus’s beamer.
Chapter 7
Kamila and Alyssa waited in line at a ticketing counter at Moscow’s Sheremetevo 2 Airport. She had made it out of America, all the way to Russia. It was too easy, and that usually meant something bad was about to happen. Kamila turned, surveying the dull, emotionless faces that filled the crowded airport.
No sign of Marcus.
Did he even know she’d left the country? She’d been careful with the credit card, used it to get cash and then filled another card so she could buy the tickets without him finding out. She should have bought the plane tickets from Moscow to Chechnya when she was still in America, but she wasn’t thinking clearly then. All she wanted was out of Marcus’s house, out of the pretend life where things were supposed to be different. Instead, it was all a lie.
“When is my dad going to be here?” Alyssa asked.
“Not yet.”
“This isn’t Disney World. This isn’t even America.”
“Change of plans. Your dad texted me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Kamila released an angry burst of breath through her teeth. “Will you stop being so disrespectful?”
Kamila had convinced Alyssa that their dad was planning a surprise vacation. And Alyssa believed her, at first, if only because Alyssa wanted it to be true. People with hope were easy to fool. For some reason they believed in, even expected, good things.
Now she told Alyssa that they were visiting relatives in Russia, where Alyssa’s mother was from, where Kamila was from. The girl was more suspicious now.
She was going to be trouble.
“Next,” the ticket agent said in Russian, without looking up from her computer screen.
“I need the next flight to Grozny.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, furrowing her eyebrows as she considered Kamila. “We don’t fly to Grozny.”
“That’s not what it said online.”
“You should have called. We no longer fly there.” She was staring at her screen again.
“Then who does?” She wanted to grab the woman by the shoulders, shout at her, look at me!
“Try Aeroflot.” She cleared her throat, eyes on the man in line behind Kamila. “Next.”
On their way to the Aeroflot ticketing counter, Alyssa asked, “Where are we going?”
“Grozny”
“Why?”
“To visit your family.”
“My dad is my family. And his mom and dad.”
“I am your family,” Kamila said. “And so is your grandfather who happens to live in Chechnya. And your mother was born and raised there too.”
Would Alyssa ever stop hounding her about Marcus? Kamila approached the agent at the Aeroflot airline-ticketing counter, where there was no one waiting in line.
“I need two tickets to Grozny.”
“What date?”
“Now.”
The woman squinted at Kamila. “We don’t have any flights today. We have one tomorrow out of Vnukovo.”
Tomorrow? More money wasted on a hotel. At least she had the credit card.
“Vnukovo is a different airport in Moscow.”
“I know that,” Kamila said. It was a lie. She knew very little about Moscow. “Tomorrow is fine.”
She handed the woman her credit card, the one Marcus made sure was never empty, just in case of an emergency. It was the only card that wasn’t overdrawn. “I’ll need a recommendation for a hotel as well,” Kamila said.
Several minutes later, the woman handed the card back to Kamila. “Your card was rejected.”
“Try it again,” Kamila said.
“I did. Three times. Do you have another card?”
The card was supposed to work no matter what. That’s why she hadn’t thought to bring much cash.
“Is it more than a hundred?” Kamila asked.
“Rubles?”
“Dollars.”
“Yes it is more than a hundred.” The woman chortled, as though Kamila and her questions, and her life and her useless card were all one big joke.
“I’ll come back with cash,” she said, snatching the card back. The woman made a show of rolling her eyes before leaving the counter.
“What’s wrong?” Alyssa asked. The girl did not understand Russian.
“Nothing.”
“Why don’t you call my dad?” the girl was taunting her, daring her to admit she was lying about this trip. The fact was, Kamila didn’t have Marcus’s cell phone number. She had taken out the battery and thrown away her cell phone—and Alyssa’s—before she left, a trick she learned from American television.
“Just…shut up.”
They walked around until Kamila found an ATM. The credit account was set up to get cash, so she put the card in and entered the pin code. There was a pause before the machine spit it back out. Card not recognized. She tried four more times before giving up.
They were going to starve, end up on the streets if she didn’t find money soon.
She could ask the girl for Marcus’s phone number, ask him for forgiveness, tell him the whole thing was a big mistake. But then he would take Alyssa from her, have Kamila thrown in a Russian jail, ridicule her just as the ticket agent had. He must have cancelled the credit card.
Another example of Marcus not taking care of his family.
Kamila ran her thumb across the black onyx stone that hung from the thin chain around her neck. The onyx was warm, reminded Kamila of twin sister, Milana. Their mother had given Kamila and Milana matching necklaces.
Not quite matching. Milana’s was white onyx, Kamila’s black. Kamila’s had white lines as thin as cracks running through hers. Milana’s was white with black stripes. Together, part of each other, but different. But Milana was gone, just like their mother and Anna. All Kamila had left was her father—if he even remembered his last daughter, the one who never did anything right.
Alyssa murmured, and when Kamila looked at her, she had her eyes closed.
“What are you doing?”
Alyssa didn’t respond.
“I said, what are you doing?” Kamila shook Alyssa’s shoulder and her eyes opened.
“Praying.”
“About what?”
“My dad said to when you don’t know what to do.”
“That’s stupid,” Kamila said. “Praying has nothing to do with this.”
Alyssa’s eyes clenched shut and her lips began to move.
“Stop,” Kamila said, louder this time. “I can’t think when you do that.”
“You think everything I do is stupid.” Alyssa closed her eyes again but was silent.
What did she care what Alyssa did? Kamila had her own problems to deal with. She squeezed her hands tight as if to choke the wicked bouquet of emotions confronting her now: frustration…fear…anger. Their thorny stems punctured her palms, poisoned her.
A woman’s voice whispered behind her right ear, “Get rid of the girl. She’s useless now.”
“I can’t...”
“You’re on your own. She’s only going to slow you down.”
“And do what with her?”
“Leave her here…give her to someone who wants her...”
“No.” Kamila said loudly.
The girl’s voice appeared next to her and Kamila recoiled at the sound of it. “Huh?” Alyssa had asked.
“Mind your own business.”
“Are you going to call my dad?”
Kamila stared at her, and Alyssa said something else, but Kamila was distracted by the noise in her head. They were right. The girl was making it harder. If she was too difficult, Kamila would have to get rid of her. But no matter what happened, she would not let Marcus have Alyssa back. Not after the way he lied to Kamila, the way he’d broken his promise.
Chapter 8
The officer booked Marcus into the county jail. A deputy took his prints, asked him a handful of questions. A call to an attorney friend had Marcus out by early afternoon, with a preliminary court date far enough in the future that he wasn’t going to worry about it any time soon.
There was a good chance the charges would be dropped, based on the circumstances.
Marcus might be free, but he still needed a ride home, and his attorney had other hearings that afternoon. Considering the situation, Marcus couldn’t think of anyone he knew—including family—that he’d want to ask. He’d been arrested. That’s what people would remember.
The only person that might understand was Stormy. As mad as she was the last time they’d talked, he wondered if she’d even answer his call.
She did answer. Using very few words, Stormy told him she’d take the afternoon off so she could give him a ride home.
Marcus waited at the bus-stop outside city hall, figuring he’d be less likely to meet any fellow attorneys there.
His phone buzzed.
“Hello?”
“Marcus Shelton?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Bryant from the King County Sheriff’s Department. I’ve been assigned to your case.”
“What have you found out?”
“I’d like a chance to speak in person.”
“That’s fine. But do you have any news about Alyssa?”
“That’s why I’d like to meet you—”
Why the reluctance to talk? Was Alyssa alive? Hurt?
“I need you to tell me what’s going on with my daughter.”
“Okay. Nothing drastic. I don’t want you to worry—”
“Don’t worry? What the hell else am I supposed to do?”
An elderly woman waiting at the bus stop stared up at him, as if wondering whether she should be concerned about this angry man yelling into his phone. Marcus turned, began walking down the hill, away from the woman.
“We don’t have any evidence she’s been harmed,” the detective said.
“I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Marcus called Stormy. “Change of plans. I need a ride to Seattle. The detective wants to talk. How long until you’re here?”
“Ten minutes.”
“I’m at the bus stop on ninth. See you then.”
He looked back up the hill. The lady was still staring at him.
“Can’t anyone mind their own damn business?” he mumbled under his breath.
***
Detective Bryant led Marcus and Stormy back to his office. Stormy had insisted on coming and Marcus didn’t try to stop her. She was his ride home and, if he were honest, he didn’t mind having someone else there when he heard the news about Alyssa.
The detective’s desk was a junkyard of forgotten cases, some papers half tucked into color-coded folders, others drifting between piles, bent sticky notes that had los
t their bond from use and reuse.
“What information do you have?” Marcus asked.
“She’s left the country.”
“You mean Kamila. What about Alyssa?”
“She took the girl with her.”
That shouldn’t be possible. Kamila was Alyssa’s aunt, not her mother. There were rules about taking children out of the country.
He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Kamila a few days earlier. He’d told her she had to return home, back to Chechnya. Kamila had been upset, but she was always getting worked up about something, and he figured she was just overreacting. America wasn’t really her home, anyway.
Kamila had said he would regret making her leave. At the time, it seemed little more than an empty threat.
Now he knew just how wrong he was.
“We located Kamila’s car in the parking garage at SeaTac airport. We tried tracking her cell. She probably ditched it. We do know she left Tuesday night on a flight for Copenhagen.”
“She took her to Denmark?”
“For a layover, with the next flight connecting to Moscow.”
She was taking Alyssa to Chechnya, the war ravaged country where Kamila had grown up. One of the most dangerous territories on the planet.
The detective closed the folder and placed a hand on it. "She would have arrived in Moscow just after 9 a.m. this morning our time. That’s where the trail ends.”
“But there are laws about taking a child out of the country. I never gave consent.”
“It appears that Kamila completed the passport and visa process for Alyssa, posing as her mother—Anna was the name she used. Both parents have to agree to the passport for a child her age. That’s meant to prevent international abductions. That means Kamila must have forged and somehow notarized documents stating your agreement.”
This was more than Kamila’s mental illness. She’d thought this through. Kamila was trying to get back at Marcus. Why? Because he was the bad guy, the one who told her she had to return home? It wasn’t his fault she’d refused to go back to school, that she’d sat at home week after week, feeling sorry for herself. Even if she blamed Marcus, why hurt Alyssa?
Dark Sky Falling Page 3
