Dark Sky Falling

by Richard Ryker

  Chapter 49

  Marcus considered the old man who, in another world, he might have called his father-in-law. Now, Marcus pointed an automatic weapon at him in a house full of Chechens all too ready to kill. Anna’s father was ready to die. Marcus wasn’t. He still had plenty to live for, most of all Alyssa. She had been here. The old man knew where Alyssa was, even if he wasn’t saying. Like it or not, Marcus needed him.

  Marcus lowered the gun just an inch. “I don’t know what happened between you and Anna, but she could have returned here—to visit you. I didn’t stop her.”

  “To visit,” he scoffed. “She belonged here.”

  “Anna loved America. She was a wonderful doctor who saved many lives. She was well respected by everyone who knew her.”

  Anna’s father said nothing.

  “And she was a mother, the kind of mother any child would want,” Marcus said. He didn’t want Anna’s father to see the tears blurring his eyes, so he let them be. “And a wonderful wife.”

  The old man looked up at Marcus thoughtfully. “Sounds like her mother.”

  “Anna spoke of her often,” Marcus said. “And you as well,” even though she rarely spoke of her father. Anna’s father could not hide the smile that crossed his face.

  “I met their mother when she was only seventeen. I had gone to the train station to pick up an aunt who was returning from the east. We were only back just a few months ourselves. During what the Russians called the Great Patriotic War, the Russians exiled us to the wastelands in the east. Millions and millions of our people. Many died on the way there. Many more died in the camps they forced us into.”

  How much longer was Marcus going to have to listen to old stories? Sure, the old man had had a hard life. But that didn’t excuse him for being such a bastard to everyone else. But Marcus kept his thoughts to himself, for now.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you—”

  “Sorry! That word again. When Khrushchev became leader of the Soviet Union he said, you Chechen, you can go back home after 18 years. That was in 1962. The problem was that a bunch of Russians had taken over our land and built their own homes. They tried to make us Russian, to take the Chechen out of us. Same as they have for hundreds of years. You see, we have plenty of reason to hate the Russians.”

  “Then why did you marry one?” Stormy interrupted. “A Russian…”

  Marcus had almost forgotten she was there.

  Confusion crossed the old man’s face, as if he had never considered the question before. “Because I loved her. Have you not heard of love for a woman in America?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said, laughing for the first time.

  “Anna’s mother was beautiful, and soft, and kind, and she could look at you with her eyes, and you knew everything was going to be just…right.” He stopped and the vacant stare settled on him again. He was in some other place again, remembering some private memory.

  “She was from the Russians who moved here during the Chechen exile. Maybe she felt sorry for that. Maybe that’s why she married a Chechen. Nobody was happy, except us. Not her family for marrying a Muslim and worst of all a Chechen; or mine for marrying a Christian and worst of all a Russian. But it worked. Until, the Russian army killed her.” He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She was out at the market shopping for food.” His voice strained in whispered anger, “Shopping, do you understand? Is that a crime?”

  Marcus remembered the letter Anna received, informing her that her mother had died. Marcus said, “Anna wanted to come home for the funeral, but it was too late by the time she knew. And she thought you might not have her, after all those years.”

  “Not have her? Yes, I was angry at her for leaving. But she was my daughter.” He paused. “I could have forgiven her.”

  “Because she was your daughter,” Marcus said. “And Alyssa is my daughter…”

  “Stop,” Anna’s father said, putting his hand up. He sat silent in his chair for a long time. Marcus feared the worst, that one of the soldiers would come up the stairs and see him pointing the rifle at their leader.

  Finally, Anna’s father said, “Put the gun back against the table, and we will talk.”

  Talk? Hadn’t they talked enough? “How can I know—”

  “You know,” he said. “And it is the only way out of here alive.”

  Marcus looked at Stormy, who said nothing but seemed to be agreeing with the idea of putting the gun down. It wasn’t just Alyssa he had to worry about. He had to get Stormy out of here alive. He had asked her not to come…but she was there, and he was glad she was there because she was the one person he trusted. Marcus leaned the weapon against the table.

  “Good,” the old man said. His hands did not move from his lap.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Marcus said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Kamila is gone. I do not know, but I suspect she may go to the Shahidka.”

  “The what?”

  “Shahidka—the Black Widows. The women who blow themselves up in crowded places. This is something the Arabs brought us, this terrorism. But now, these Chechen women, they will kill anyone, even children. They prey on people like Kamila.”

  “And you sent my daughter with her—”

  “No,” he replied. “Should Chechnya be a truly free land? Yes. But killing children, sending your own children to blow themselves up, that is cowardly. It makes the world forget what Putin did. May he burn in hell.” He spit on the floor. “Your daughter is not with Kamila.”

  “Then where is she?” Marcus demanded. It was a good thing he didn’t have the rifle any longer. He might shoot the man out of sheer frustration.

  “After Kamila left, the girl stayed here one night until it was safe to cross the border into Dagestan. I sent the girl three days ago, but not across the main roads. The Russians would have her, and you would never see her again. She is in a place where I know of some infidel crusaders living across the border in Dagestan.”

  He should feel relief, but he didn’t. They’d been chasing Kamila all this time, and now she didn’t have Alyssa. Did that mean Alyssa was safe now? No. She wouldn’t be safe until she was home, with Marcus. Right now she was with a stranger, someone Marcus had never met. A rebel soldier.

  “I need to know exactly where she is and how to get there.”

  “The people are what you call missionaries. Sometimes they poke into Chechnya, but they rarely last long. She will be with her own kind, and with someone who speaks her language. But, these missionaries, they disappear from time to time. I can’t promise they will be safe for long from those who cannot tolerate the crusaders. It is many miles away. You must drive, but I cannot promise you that you would make it across the border. It doesn’t help that you were stupid enough to let that Russian reporter put your face in the newspaper.”

  “That wasn’t on purpose,” Stormy replied defensively.

  “Still stupid.”

  Marcus put a hand up to stop Stormy from replying. It wasn’t important now.

  “We will find Alyssa,” Marcus said. “We just need a vehicle.”

  “My wife, were she here, would want me to help you,” he said, pulling on his beard. The talking, the story telling had done him good. He was calmer now, which meant less likely to have the two of them executed. “But I cannot afford to give you a vehicle. You will get a ride with one of my men.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I never thought this Chechen blood would somehow reach such a place as America.” With his left hand he patted his right forearm. “You take good care of my granddaughter. Remind her that her ancestors struggled many years in exile. They were strong people, who were willing to fight for freedom from oppression. And that they loved their family.”

  “I will,” Marcus said.

  The old man called out in Chechen and a young man came sprinting up the stairs. He received his orders and left.

  “My man will lead you to where you ne
ed to go.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out for Marcus. “This is the name of the village where she is. Keep it, in case you get lost on the way there.”

  Marcus took the piece of paper. Scrawled in Russian were the name of the mission and town where the Alyssa was located. It was in Dagestan, the Russian republic adjacent to Chechnya. Stormy was looking over his shoulder at the paper and he handed it to her.

  “What do you mean in case we get lost?” Marcus asked.

  “Many things may happen between here and there. Russian patrols. Rebels who recognize your picture from the Russian reporter’s article. You are not safe. Never forget that.” The old man rose an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I have the address in my pocket, ready to hand to you?”

  “I was wondering,” Marcus said.

  “Because I knew you would show up. Your daughter trusts you very much. She said you would come.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. He still didn’t like the man, but he had helped them get closer to finding Alyssa. And somehow, he’d been involved in taking Alyssa away from Kamila, even if Marcus didn’t like the plan of sending her away with one of his soldiers.

  “Good,” Anna’s father said. “Now go before you waste more time with this old man’s stories.” He grinned, but the expression revealed sorrow, not joy, and he lowered his head down and closed his eyes.

  Outside, the same Arab who had led them up the road to the house, and had taken their money, was waiting in the driver’s seat of an old sedan.

  Marcus hesitated. “You?”

  “Ready if you are.” the Arab said with a grin that lifted one side of his mouth more than the other, revealing a half set of smoke-stained teeth.

  Marcus glanced sideways at Stormy, her forehead creased with worry. Marcus took a deep breath, exhaled. Their fate—and Alyssa’s—was in the hands of a rebel and a crook, who had already shown he couldn’t care less about them, or Alyssa. Kamila, Jones, the Russians—none of them had stopped them in their quest to save Alyssa. What could one lone Arab do?

  Chapter 50

  Kamila awoke to the clattering of a thousand birds, like the sound of innumerable women gossiping. She shivered, wrapping the carpet closer. The fire had faded in the night.

  After several minutes, she rose and stared out at the station across the way. The rebel’s truck had not moved during the night.

  She took another Xanax, went back to her corner and lay down and slept again until the afternoon. When she awoke, she ate two sticks of beef jerky and drank a bottle of water. Several vehicles passed down the highway, but only two stopped. None of them were her father’s men.

  If Anwar had lied to her, she would kill him with his own pistol.

  How long had she slept? What if it wasn’t just one, but two nights? There was no way for her to tell. She had lost track of the days a long time ago. If they had taken Alyssa a different route, there would be no way for Kamila to know.

  The hours passed and as evening arrived, there was no sign of Alyssa.

  Kamila paced the room, the old floorboards chirping out patterns like birdsongs under her feet. It was dark and outside silence had returned to the Caucuses. So had the cold, and her breath stretched out in a white plume, tiny invisible droplets forming a visible, transitory indication of life.

  Anwar had told her the name of the orphanage. Was that a lie too? She could go to the orphanage and wait, but that was riskier. Once Alyssa was there, she would be protected by others, making it harder to take her back.

  If Alyssa hadn’t stopped at the village yet, it must be because her father had delayed sending her. He might have done this hoping that Kamila would go to the orphanage before Alyssa was there. They were trying to confuse her. Alyssa would be here soon. Everything within her told her this was true. She only needed to wait a while longer and she would have Alyssa back and everything would be right again.

  Chapter 51

  The engine whirred as they raced along the highway, one switchback to another, climbing higher into the Caucasus Mountains. They were just hours, maybe half a day, away from reaching Alyssa. So close, but so many variables. Marcus was optimistic, more than he had been in weeks. But after everything that had happened, Marcus knew better than to ignore the possibilities, the things waiting to go wrong. There was Kamila. Yes, she wasn’t with Alyssa any longer. But she had shown what she was capable of. Just because she had lost Alyssa didn’t mean she wouldn’t try again.

  Then, there was the Arab Kamila’s father had assigned to drive Marcus and Stormy to the orphanage. He was quiet so far, but always seemed to be watching Marcus and Stormy. Mostly Stormy. And how did they really know he was taking them to Alyssa?

  Now that the Arab knew who Marcus was, his relation to Kamila’s father, the rebel leader, would he be on better behavior? Marcus almost demanded the money back, the cash the Arab had taken from them before leading them to Kamila’s father. But the man was their ticket to Alyssa. Marcus didn’t trust him, but he was all they had, for now.

  In the distance, gray snow masked the higher peaks. The road was wet from the steady rain that had begun to fall. As the day wore on, trees gave way to foothills covered with grass as green as any well-fed lawn in American suburbia. The road clung tight to the mountain on one side, while on the other, cliffs dove far below into a rock-strewn river.

  “Summer is late this year,” the Arab said, resting his forearm on the top of the steering wheel. So his ability to communicate did extend beyond demands for payment.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” Marcus asked.

  “My name is Hassan”, he said in Russian. His Russian was poor, hard to understand through a thick accent. “And no, I am not from this place. Where I am from we have the sun.”

  “Where?” Stormy asked.

  “Yemen.”

  “Where did you learn to speak English?” Marcus asked. It wasn’t a compliment. Hassan’s accent was thick and at times barely intelligible.

  “My family sent me to school to learn English. They wanted me to go to America to study in the university.”

  “And did you?” Stormy said.

  “I was called to come here, to help with jihad.”

  “For the freedom of the Chechens?” Stormy asked.

  Hassan paused to consider his answer. “If that happens, okay. If the people follow the proper law.”

  “Sharia Law?” Marcus said, recalling what Anna had told him about the topic.

  “Soon every nation will have the Sharia Law. The reason we fight, that I fight, is for Islam. To bring oppressors to their knees.”

  “And to make some extra cash while you’re at it?” Marcus said.

  “The money I demanded is nothing to and American. You got what you wanted.”

  Hassan put in a cassette tape and turned up the volume. It was a mix of electronic and Middle Eastern music, an eerie male voice crooning words they could not understand. Marcus was sure it had something to do with oppressors and jihad.

  Marcus rolled down the window a crack. Arguing was pointless. Soon, he would be reunited with Alyssa, and if Hassan wanted to make a few extra bucks in the process, so be it. If everything went as planned, soon Marcus and Stormy would have Alyssa and the three of them would leave Russia, Chechnya, and Kamila behind for good.

  Chapter 52

  Alyssa waited in a small office that was inside of a large metal building with a gym inside. It reminded her of the lunchroom at her school. The man that her grandfather had sent her with had been silent the entire trip. They didn’t stop, except to refill the gas tank with fuel from containers in the back of the jeep. When they arrived, he left her in the jeep for several minutes, then returned to take her to this office. He said “Good luck,” in his broken English, waved goodbye, and left her there, alone.

  A few minutes later, a woman arrived. She took Alyssa’s hand. “You must be Alyssa. My name is Amelia.”

  English. She
was speaking in English. And no accent. Real, American English. Alyssa didn’t know what to say.

  Amelia waited for Alyssa to respond, but when she didn’t she said. “I imagine you’ve been through a lot. I don’t know what, but for you to be here—”

  “I was kidnapped,” Alyssa said.

  “From Chechnya?”

  “America. My aunt took me. My dad tried to find us in Russia. We ended up in Chechnya where my grandpa is, but he doesn’t even know me so he sent me here.” There were too many things to describe or explain. She couldn’t get them out fast enough.

  Finally, someone who spoke English who wasn’t Kamila or someone with a gun. She wanted to hug Amelia.

  Amelia put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  She left for a few minutes and returned with a cup of hot cocoa. “This might help,” she said, handing the cocoa to Alyssa. It was the best thing she had tasted in weeks.

  “How about we start from the beginning, one step at a time.”

  There was so much to remember, and a lot of things she didn’t want to talk about, but she did her best. She explained everything that had happened since the night they left Seattle, from the motel in Moscow and the man Kamila killed to the aunt in Grozny and her grandfather in the mountains.

  When she was finished, Amelia put an arm around her. “Alyssa, I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, you’ve been through so much. Do you have any idea where your father is?”

  “I don’t know. Still looking for me. I guess.”

  Amelia looked away. She seemed worried about something. “What’s wrong,” Alyssa asked.

  “It isn’t safe for an American girl to be here for any extended period. Maybe more dangerous than what you’ve already been through.” Amelia paused. “But first we need to get you fed and cleaned up. Then get you on your way.”