The Devil_s Garden

by Richard Montanari

  The Devil_s Garden

  Richard Montanari

  The Devil_s Garden

  Richard Montanari

  PROLOGUE

  NORTH-EASTERN ESTONIA – MARCH 2005

  Elena Keskkula knew they would come at midnight, bathed in the blood of ancients, just as she had known so many things in her fifteen years. As the ennustaja of her village – a fortuneteller and mystic whose readings were sought by believers from as far away as Tallinn and St Petersburg – she had always been able to glimpse the future. At seven she saw her family’s small potato farm overrun by vermin. At ten she saw Jaak Lind lying in a field in Nalchik, the blackened flesh of his palms fused around the face of St Christopher. At twelve she foretold the floods that washed away much of her village, saw the peat bogs choked with dead livestock, the bright parasols adrift on rivers of mud. In her brief time she had seen the patience of evil men, the heartbreak of motherless children, the souls of all around her laid bare with shame, with guilt, with desire. For Elena Keskkula the present had always been past.

  What she had not seen, what had been denied the terrible blessing of her second sight, was the torment of bringing lives into this world, the depth to which she loved these children she would never know, the grief of such loss.

  And the blood.

  So much blood…

  He came to her bed on a warm July evening, nearly nine months earlier, a night when the perfume of rue flowers filled the valley, and the Narva River ran silent. She wanted to fight him, but she had known it would be futile. He was tall and powerful, with large hands and a lean, muscular body marked with the tattoos of the villainous vennaskond. Drug lord, usurer, extortionist, thief, he moved like a wraith in the night, ruling the towns and villages of Ida-Viru County with a ruthlessness unknown even during Soviet occupation.

  His name was Aleksander Savisaar.

  Elena had first seen him when she was a child, standing in the place of the gray wolf. She knew then that he would come to her, enter her, although she was far too young at the time to know what it meant.

  At morning he stole away as quietly as he had come. Elena knew he had left his seed in her, and that he would one day return to reap what he had sown.

  Over the many months that followed, Elena saw his eyes every waking moment, felt his warm breath on her face, the cruel power of his touch. Some nights, when the air was still, she heard the music. Those who whispered of him said on these nights Aleksander Savisaar would sit on Saber Hill overlooking the village, and play his flute, his long fair hair blown back by the Baltic winds. They said he was quite learned in Mussorgsky and Tchaikovsky. Elena did not know of these things. What she did know was that many times, when his song soared over the valley, the lives within her stirred.

  On a late winter midnight the babies came, two of them perfect girls, one stillborn, each wrapped in a thin veil, the true sign of the second sight.

  For Elena, consciousness came and left. In her fever dream she saw a man – a Finn by his dress and manner and accent, a man with fog-white hair – standing at the foot of the bed. She saw her father bargain with this man, take his money. Moments later, the Finn left with the newborns, both children swaddled in a black woolen tekk against the cold. On the floor, near the fireplace, he left a third bundle, bloodied rags in a lifeless pile. Her maternal instincts battling her dread, Elena tried to rise from the bed, but found she could not move. She wept until her tears ran dry. She wept for the terrible knowledge that these babies, the progeny of Aleksander Savisaar, were gone. Sold in the night like so much chattel.

  And hell would be known.

  She sensed him before she saw him. At dawn he filled the doorway, his shoulders spanning the jambs, his aura scarlet with rage.

  Elena closed her eyes. The future raced through her like a furious river. She saw the severed heads on the gateposts at the road that led to the farm, the charred and battered skulls of her father and brother. She saw their bodies piled in the barn.

  As morning crested the hills to the east, Aleksander Savisaar dragged Elena outside, the blood between her legs leaving a ragged red streak in the snow. He placed her against the majestic spruce behind the house, the tree around which Elena and her brother Andres had wrapped ribbons each winter solstice since they were children.

  He kissed her once, then drew his knife. The blue steel shimmered in the morning light. He smelled of vodka, venison, and new leather.

  “They are mine, soothsayer, and I will find them,” he whispered. “No matter how long it takes.” He brought the edge of his razor-sharp blade to her throat. “They are my tutred, and with them I will be immortal.”

  In this moment Elena Keskkula had a powerful vision. In it she saw another man, a good man who would raise her precious daughters as his own, a man who had stood in death’s garden and lived, a man who would one day, in a field of blood far away, face the devil himself.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  EDEN FALLS, NEW YORK – FOUR YEARS LATER

  On the day Michael Roman realized he would live forever, five years after the last day of his life, his entire world went pink. A pastel pink at that: pink tablecloths, pink chairs, pink flowers, pink crepe banners, even a huge pink umbrella festooned in smiling pink bunnies. There were pink cups and plates, pink forks and napkins, a plate piled high with frosted pink cupcakes.

  The only thing keeping the property from a listing with Candy Land Realty was the small patch of green grass barely visible beneath the maze of aluminum folding tables and plastic chairs, grass that would surely never be the same.

  Then there was that other vision of green. Departing green. The money.

  How much was all this costing again?

  As Michael stood behind the house, he thought about the first time he had seen it, and how perfect it seemed.

  The house was a three bedroom brick colonial, with buff-colored shutters and matching pilasters, set far back from the winding road. Even for the suburbs, it was isolated, perched atop a slight hill, embraced by a stand of sycamores, shielded from both the road and neighbors by a waist-high hedgerow. Behind the house was a two-car garage, a gardening shed, a wide yard with a latticework trellis. The lot gave quickly to the woods, sloping down to meet a meandering creek, which ran toward the Hudson River. At night it became eerily silent. For Michael, having grown up in the city, the change was hard to take. At first the isolation had gotten to him; Abby too, although she would never admit it. The nearest houses were about a quarter-mile in either direction. The foliage was thick, and in summer it felt like living in a giant green cocoon. Twice over the past year, when the power had gone out in a storm, Michael felt as if he was on the moon. Since that time he had stocked up on batteries, candles, canned goods, even a pair of kerosene heaters. They could probably survive a week in the Yukon if they needed to.

  “The clown will be here at one.”

  Michael turned to see his wife crossing the yard, carrying a plateful of pink frosted cookies. She wore tight white jeans and a powder blue Roar Lion Roar Columbia University T-shirt, along with a pair of drugstore flip flop sandals. Somehow she still managed to look like Grace Kelly.

  “Your brother’s coming?” Michael asked.

  “Be nice.”

  Abigail Reed Roman, thirty-one, was four years younger than her husband. Unlike Michael’s working-class childhood, she had grown up on an estate in Pound Ridge, the daughter of a world-renowned cardiac surgeon. Where Michael’s patience seemed at times to be nonexistent – his temper usually hovered at a constant 211 degrees Fahrenheit, often rising – his wife ran on an even keel. Until she was cornered. Then there were rodents in Calcutta that bowed to her ferocity. Nearly a decade as an emergency room nurse at New York Dow
ntown Hospital will do that to you; ten years of crack heads, PCP heads, exploded lives, torn people, and broken souls.

  But that was another life.

  “Did you frost the cake?” Abby asked.

  Shit, Michael thought. He had forgotten all about it, which was unlike him. Not only did he do most of the cooking in his small family, he was the go-to guy for all things baked. His Bienensticke had been known to make grown men weep. “I’m on it.”

  While jogging back to the house, dodging pink Mylar balloons, Michael thought about this day. Since moving from the city a year earlier, they had not had that many parties. When Michael was small, his parents’ tiny apartment in Queens seemed constantly filled with friends and neighbors and relatives, along with customers from the family’s bakery, a symphony of Eastern European and Baltic languages floating over the fire escape and onto the streets of Astoria. Even in the past few years, since his meteoric rise through the district attorney’s office, he and Abby found themselves hosting at least a handful of cocktail or dinner parties for well-selected political guests every year.

  Here in the suburbs, though, things had slowed down, almost to a halt. Everything seemed to revolve around the girls. Although it might not have been the best career move, Michael found he didn’t want it any other way. The day the girls came into their lives, everything changed.

  Standing in the kitchen, ten minutes later, the cake frosted and decorated, Michael heard four little feet approach, stop.

  “How do we look, Daddy?”

  Michael spun around. When he saw his twin four-year-old daughters standing there, hand in hand, dressed in their matching white dresses – with pink ribbons, of course – his heart soared.

  Charlotte and Emily. The two halves of his heart.

  Maybe he would live forever.

  By noon the party was in full cacophonous swing. Eden Falls was a small town in Crane County, near the banks of the Hudson River, about fifty miles from New York City. Situated north of Westchester County – and therefore further from Manhattan, and therefore more affordable to young families – it seemed to boast an inordinate number of children under the age of ten.

  To Michael it looked like every one of them had been invited. He wondered: How many friends can four-year-old girls have, anyway? They weren’t even in school yet. Did they have their own Facebook pages? Were they Twittering? Socially networking at Chuck E Cheese?

  Michael surveyed the partyscape. In all there were about twenty kids and matching moms, all in some version of J. Crew, Banana Republic, or Eddie Bauer motif. The kids were a constant buzz. The moms were all standing around, cellphones at the ready, chatting softly, sipping herbal tea and raspberry acai.

  At twelve-thirty Michael brought out the cake. Amid the oohhs and ahhhhs, his daughters looked concerned about something, little brows creased. Michael put the huge cake on one of the tables, got down to their level.

  “Does it look good?” he asked.

  The girls nodded in union.

  “We were wondering something, though,” Emily said.

  “What, honey?”

  “Is this organic cake?”

  Coming from a four year old, the word sounded Chinese. “Organic?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “We need organic cake. And guten-free. Is this guten-free?”

  Michael glanced at Abby. “Have they been watching the Food Network again?”

  “Worse,” Abby said. “They’ve been making me Tivo reruns of Healthy Appetite with Ellie Krieger.”

  Michael soon realized an answer was required. He looked at the ground, the sky, the trees, again at his wife, where he found no shelter. “Well, okay, I would say this cake has guten-free properties.”

  Charlotte and Emily gave him the fish-eye.

  “What I mean is,” he continued, reaching into his lawyer’s bag of tricks. “It has guten-absent characteristics.”

  The girls glanced at each other, in that way that twins have, a secret knowledge passing between them. “It’s okay,” Charlotte finally said. “You make good birthday cake.”

  “Thanks, ladies,” Michael said, enormously relieved, and also a little disbelieving, considering that this was only the third cake he had made them, and found it hard to believe they remembered the first two.

  As Michael prepared to cut the cake, he saw the moms whispering to each other. They were all looking toward the side of the house, fluffing hair, straightening clothes, smoothing cheeks. To Michael, it could only mean one thing. Tommy had arrived.

  Thomas Christiano was one of Michael’s oldest friends, a man with whom Michael had, in the gaudy plumage of youth, closed every bar in Queens, and not a few in Manhattan; the only man who had ever seen Michael cry, and that was the night Michael and Abby brought Charlotte and Emily home. To this day Michael claimed it was pollen. Tommy knew better.

  When Tommy and Michael were in their twenties they’d been a holy terror. Tommy with his dark good looks and smooth lines; Michael with his boyish face and ocean blue eyes. They’d had that Starsky and Hutch, Hall and Oates, swarthy and fair thing down pat. They were both around six feet tall, well dressed, and carried with them the confidence that came with authority. Where Tommy’s tastes went to Missoni and Valentino, Michael’s went to Ralph Lauren and Land’s End. They were the dynamic duo.

  But that, too, was a few years ago.

  Tommy swaggered across the back lawn, on display, as always. Even at a kid’s party, he was turned out – black Armani T-shirt, cream linen slacks, black leather loafers. Even at a kid’s party, or especially at a kid’s party, Tommy knew that there would be a number of women in their twenties or thirties present, and that a certain fraction would be divorced, separated, or separating. Tommy Christiano played the percentages. It was one of the reasons he was one of the most respected prosecutors in Queens County, New York.

  The number one spot, the most feared assistant district attorney at Kew Gardens, was Michael Roman.

  “Miss Abigail,” Tommy said. He kissed Abby on both cheeks, Euro-style. “You look beautiful.”

  “Yeah, right,” Abby said, waving a hand at her battered sandals and frayed jeans. Still, she blushed. Not too many people could make Abby Roman blush. “I look like something that just washed up on Rockaway.”

  Tommy laughed. “The prettiest mermaid ever.”

  Blush number two from Abby, followed by a playful slug on Tommy’s shoulder. Considering Abby’s nearly demented devotion to Pilates, Michael bet it hurt. Tommy would rather die than show it.

  “White wine?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  As soon as Abby turned her back and headed to the house, Tommy rubbed his shoulder. “Jesus Christ your wife is strong.”

  “Try playing touch football with her. We always have paramedics standing by.”

  Over the next half-hour, a number of people from the mayor’s office and Queens County DA’s office made their perfunctory appearances. Michael was a bit flattered and more than a little surprised when Dennis McCaffrey, the district attorney himself, showed up with a pair of outlandishly big teddy bears for the girls. Michael had recently been to a party for the deputy mayor’s five-year-old son, and at that gathering Denny McCaffrey – a nineteen-year veteran of the elected position, and the most politically savvy man Michael had ever met – only brought a rather puny Beanie Baby penguin. It seemed that, as Michael’s reputation as the hottest ADA in the city grew, so did the size of the plush toys for his children.

  At one o’clock the entertainment arrived in the person of a tall, feathery woman who went by the professional name Chickie Noodle the Clown. At first Michael thought she might be a little too long in the tooth for a kid’s party, but she turned out to be a trouper, with more than enough energy and patience to deal with twenty little kids. In addition to the balloon-twisting, face-painting, and something called the Merry Madcap Olympics, there was also the obligatory pinata. The kids got to select which one they wanted, a choice that came down to a shark pinata
and a butterfly pinata. The kids chose the butterfly.

  Two questions instantly arose in Michael’s mind. One, what kind of clown buys a pinata in the shape of a shark? And two, perhaps more importantly, what kind of kids wanted to pick up a plastic bat and beat the crap out of a butterfly?

  Suburban kids, that’s who. They should have stayed in Queens where it was safe.

  At two-thirty the pony clopped onto the scene, and there was near pandemonium as Chickie Noodle was left spinning in the dust, holding a stack of cardboard cone hats. One by one the kids got to ride an indifferent Shetland named Lulu around the perimeter of the backyard. Michael had to admit that the act was pretty good. The owner of the horse, the guy who led the animal, was a short, kindly looking cowpoke in his sixties, replete with droopy white mustache, bow legs, and a ten gallon Stetson. He looked like a Shetland-sized Sam Elliott.

  At three-thirty it was time for presents. And man were there presents. Michael considered that he and Abby would be buying reciprocal gifts for every child at the party during the next year or so, a suburban kid pro quo.

  Midway through the consumer love fest, Abby picked up a pair of small square boxes, read the card. “These are from Uncle Tommy.”

  The girls ran over to Tommy, arms extended. Tommy knelt down for a pair of big kisses and bigger hugs. It was his turn to blush. Despite two brief marriages, he had no children of his own. He was godfather to both Charlotte and Emily, a position he took with the solemnity of an English archbishop.

  The girls zipped back to the table. When they got the wrapping paper off the small boxes, and Michael saw the logo on the sides, he did a double take. The second glance was unnecessary. He’d know that logo anywhere.

  “Yaaaay!” the twins cried in unison. Michael knew that his daughters hadn’t the slightest idea what was inside the boxes, but that didn’t matter to them. The boxes had been wrapped in shiny paper, the boxes were for them, and the pile of birthday swag was growing exponentially.