He looked through the doorway of the farmhouse, saw a Chechen woman, perhaps in her seventies, standing at her small kitchen table. On the table was an old leather-bound book. The walls were pitted clay, the floor dirt.
It was clear that the woman had seen the firefight, the grenades, the torn flesh and rivers of blood. She had seen it all. When it was over, she was not afraid of the Chechen rebels, or the Russian soldiers. She was not afraid of the war itself, or even of dying. She had met many devils.
She was afraid of Aleks.
He put down his weapon, and approached her, hands out to his sides. He was starving, and preferred to sit at a table. He meant her no harm. As he neared the woman, her eyes grew wide with horror.
“You,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble. “You!”
Aleks stepped into the house. It smelled of fresh bread. His stomach lurched in hunger.
“You know me?” he asked in halting Chechen.
The woman nodded. She touched the weathered book on the table. Next to the book was a loaf of black bread, a stone-sharpened carving knife.
“Koschei,” she said, her voice quivering. “Koschei Bessmertny!”
Aleks did not know these words. He asked her to repeat them. She did, then crossed herself three times.
In a flash she lifted the razor-sharp knife from the table, brought it to her throat, and slashed her jugular vein. Bright blood burst across the room. Her body slumped to the cold floor, quaking in its death throes. Aleks looked at the table. The loaf of bread was splattered with deep carmine.
Aleks fell upon the blood-soaked bread, wolfing it down, the taste of the old woman’s blood, along with the yeast and flour, an intoxicating mixture that both sickened and exhilarated him.
It was not the last time he would taste it.
In the dying light he read the book, a book of folk legends. He read the fable of Koschei the Deathless. There were many tales, but the one that moved him was the tale of the immortal Koschei – a man who could not die because his soul was kept elsewhere – and Prince Ivan’s sisters: Anna, Marya, and Olga.
He wept.
After his discharge, Aleks returned to Estonia, where he took odd jobs – carpentry, plumbing, fixing fifty years of shoddy Russian construction. He worked the slaughterhouses in the south, the mines in central Estonia, anything to get by. But he always new he was destined for something else, something greater.
Aleks befriended the mayor of the town, a man who also owned just about every business within fifty kilometers.
The man brought him along on a job, a job robbing an old Russian of his wealth accumulated on the backs of Estonians. Aleks had no loyalties, no God. He went. And found that the violence was still deep within him. It came easy.
Over the next few years, from the Gulf of Finland to the Latvian border to the south, and sometimes beyond, there was not a shop owner, business man, farmer, politician, or criminal enterprise, large or small, that did not pay Aleksander Savisaar tribute. He always worked alone, his threats and assurances couched in his ability to make believers of those who doubted his sincerity with torture and cruelty of such intensity, such speed, that his actions never had to be repeated.
By the age of twenty-seven his legend was widely known. In his pocket were politicians, law-enforcement agents, legislators. He had bank accounts and property in six countries. A fortune he never dreamed of.
It was time to turn his attention to his legacy but, with all his wealth and power, he did not know where or how to begin.
He began by building a house, a large A-frame set among tall standing pines atop a hill in Kolossova. Isolated, secure, and tranquil, he began to fell the logs he needed. By fall he had all the lumber milled, and had the structure fully framed.
He returned to the long-abandoned Treski orphanage, the place where he had been left. At great expense, he had locals tear it down stone by stone. Back in Kolossova he hired stonemasons to build a wall around his house.
Hurrying to close in the roof before the winter snows came, Aleks worked well into the evenings. One night, just as dusk claimed the day, he sat on the second floor, looking out over the valley as it began to snow in earnest.
He was just about to gather his tools when he thought he saw movement amid the stand of blue spruce to the west. He waited, stilling his movements, his breathing, dissolving into his surroundings, becoming invisible. He fingered the rifle at his side, shifted his eyes back and forth, scanned the clearing, but there was no movement. Yet there was something. A pair of shining pearls, seemingly suspended on the snow. He looked more closely, and a form began to take shape, seeming to grow around the glistening orbs. The high dome, the pointed ears, the dusty rose of a lolling tongue.
It was a gray wolf.
No, he thought. It cannot possibly be. The wolf who had discovered him in the cemetery, by all accounts, was full grown at that time.
When he saw the old wolf slowly rise, on its terribly gnarled forelegs, and begin to move with an arthritic sluggishness, Aleks believed. The ancient wolf had come to see him before he died.
But what was the message?
Days later, when he saw the young girl, the soothsayer named Elena Keskkula, standing on the same spot, observing him, it was an epiphany.
He watched many times over the next few years, even after her family moved north, observed the people coming to her farmhouse, their tributes in tow – money, food, livestock.
In these days he often envisioned himself on a hillside, the days speeding by, spring given unto winter in seconds, decade born of decade. He watched the fields grow ripe with fruit, fall fallow. He watched cities grow from timberland, only to flourish, expand, reach for heights of glory, then decay, and crumble into ash and dust. He watched saplings reach to the sky, then yield to farmland. He watched animals grow fatted, calve, nurse their young, only to see their offspring seconds later begin the wondrous cycle again. Skies blacken, seas churn and calm, the earth opens and closes in massive quakes, pines grow down the mountains to the valleys, only to farther lakes and rivers, which in turn gave life to the gardens and farms.
Through all of it, through eons of war and pestilence and greed, generations of lawlessness and avarice, there would be his daughters at his side. Marya, the pragmatist, the keeper of his mind. Anna, the artist of his heart. Olga, never seen, but always felt, his anchor.
He fingered the three vials around his neck. Together, one way or another, they would live forever.
He watched them play their games in the backyard, their gossamer blond hair lifting and falling in the breeze. They had Elena’s air about them, an aura of prudence and insight.
He crouched down to their level. They approached him, showing no fear or apprehension. Perhaps they saw in his eyes their own eyes. Perhaps they saw in him their destiny. They were so beautiful his heart ached. He had waited so long for this moment. All the while he had feared it would never happen, that his immortality had been something of fairy tale.
Without a word he reached into his pocket, produced the two marble eggs. He handed them to the girls.
The girls studied the eggs closely, running their small fingers over the intricate carving. Aleks had seen the drawing they had made on the refrigerator. He saw that one section of the drawing was missing.
Anna, the one they called Emily, beckoned him close. Aleks got down on one knee. The little girl leaned even closer, whispered: “We knew you would be tall.”
TWENTY-NINE
The white van parked in front of the townhouse had EDGAR Rollins amp; Son Painting and Decorating on its side. Michael pulled up behind it, cut the engine. Nothing seemed real. This was the last place he wanted to be, but he could not take the chance of breaking with his schedule. He checked his cellphone for the five hundredth time. Nothing.
When Judge Gregg had called him and John Feretti to the bench, he had seen something in the man’s eyes that looked like compassion. Rare for a sitting homicide judge. He had asked both lawyers if t
hey wanted to break for the day, seeing as it was getting close to 4:30. As expected, John Feretti wanted to continue. Any time your opponent is melting down, the last thing you want to do is stop him.
Michael took Judge Gregg up on his offer, and the session was adjourned.
As the jury was filing out, Michael looked into the eyes of every single person in the gallery. If there was a kidnapper among them, he did not see it. What he had seen was confusion and no small measure of distrust. Michael would have to see the daily transcript from the court reporter to know precisely what he had said.
He knew enough to know that a lawyer rarely recovered from a bad opening statement. It set the groundwork for the entire case. A bad opening meant playing catch-up the rest of the trial.
None of that mattered now.
Tommy had not been able to locate Falynn.
On the way to Newark Street he looked at every car that pulled up next to him, at every cab driver, at any car that seemed to follow him for more than a block. No one stood out. His phone had not rung again. Nor had he called. His finger had hovered over the speed dial ever since leaving the office, but he had not pressed it.
You will not call this house for any reason.
The noxious smell of latex paint greeted him at the door. It filled his head, dizzying him for a moment. He checked his cellphone again.
The painter stood on the second floor landing, smoking a cigarette. He wore a pair of white overalls and cap, a latex glove on his left hand. He smoked with his right.
When he saw Michael he flicked his cigarette out the window, a look of guilt on his face for smoking inside a building. It was almost a capital crime in New York these days. “Are you Mr Roman?” the painter asked.
Michael nodded his head. The painter checked his hand for wet paint, found it dry. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bobby Rollins. Edgar is my dad.”
They shook hands. Michael noticed the flecks of drying paint on the man’s hands and arms.
“That’s the cranberry.” The young man laughed. “It dries a little darker.”
“Thank God.” Michael peeked inside the door to the second-floor offices. His heart was racing to burst. He had to get rid of this man. He had to think straight. “How’s it going in there?”
“Good. Whoever did your plaster work was pretty good.”
Michael stepped back, took a moment. “Look, something’s come up. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come back another time.”
The young man stared at the second-floor office for a moment, glanced back at Michael, then at his watch. It looked like Miller Time was coming a bit early. “Sure. No problem. It’s going to take me a few minutes to close the cans and clean the brushes and rollers.”
“I appreciate it,” Michael said. His own voice sounded distant, like he was hearing himself talk through a long tunnel.
Bobby Rollins walked down the stairs, said over his shoulder, “I’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”
Michael stepped back into the second-floor office. There was little furniture, just a desk and a pair of plastic chairs. He paced the room, his mind and heart ablaze with fear. He had to make a move, to do something. But what?
He looked over at the long bookcase against the wall, at the leather-clad books of legal doctrine and opinions. What had always seemed like the solution to everything, things he believed in with all his heart, were now merely paper and ink. There was nothing in any of those books that could help him now.
Before he could decide what to do his cellphone rang. He almost jumped out of his skin. He picked up the phone, looked at the screen.
Private number.
Pulse racing, he flipped open the phone. “This is Michael Roman.”
“How did it go in court?”
It was the man who had his family. The man called Aleks.
“Let me talk to my wife, please.”
“In time. You are at the new office? The office for the planned legal clinic?”
It was a question, Michael thought. Maybe he wasn’t being watched. He peeked out the window. There were cars parked all along Newark Street. All appeared empty.
“Look, I don’t know what you want, or what this is all about,” Michael began, knowing he had to talk. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he had to try and engage this man on some level. “But you obviously know a lot about me. You know I am an officer of the court. I am friends with the chief of police, the commissioner, many people in the mayor’s office. If this is just about money, tell me. We’ll work this out.”
Michael heard the man take a deep, slow breath. “This is not about money.”
Somehow, the words were even more chilling than Michael expected. “Then what is this about?”
More silence. Then, “You will know very soon.”
Something inside Michael flared red. Before he could stop himself he said, “Not good enough.”
He jammed shut the phone, instantly regretting what he had done. He opened it a second later, but the connection had been broken. It took every ounce of restraint within him not to smash the phone against the wall. He scanned the office frantically, trying to think of what do, how to act at such a moment. He knew that he would never get this minute back, and every wrong move he made at this moment could mean disaster, could mean the lives of his wife and daughters.
Go to the police, Michael.
Just go.
He grabbed his keys, headed for the door.
As he rounded the platform he saw a shadow cross the stairs below. Someone was blocking his way.
It all fell into place. It had been nagging his conscious thought for the past few minutes. Nick St Cyr had told him that Edgar Rollins amp; Son was really only one man, that Edgar Rollins’s son had been killed by a drunk driver in 2007, and the old man didn’t have the heart to take the name off the business. St Cyr had represented the old man in a lawsuit against the drunk driver.
The man who called himself “Bobby Rollins” was not a painter at all. He now stood in front of the door leading to the street. He had shed the painter’s overalls, removed his painter’s cap. He had also removed his latex glove.
He was now pointing a weapon at Michael’s head.
In his other hand was a cellphone. He handed the phone to Michael. For a moment, Michael couldn’t move. But the insanity of the moment soon propelled him forward. He took the phone from the young man, put it to his ear.
“His name is Kolya,” Aleks said. “He does not want to harm you, but will if I give him the order. His father was a corporal in the federal army, and a vicious man. A sociopath by all accounts. I have no reason to believe that the apple has fallen far from the tree. Do you understand this?”
Michael glanced at Kolya. The young man lowered the gun slightly, leaned against the door jamb. Michael took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“I am most pleased to hear this. And, if it puts to bed your fears for the moment, let me say that your wife and your adopted daughters are just fine, and they will remain that way, as long as you do what I say.”
Your adopted daughters, Michael thought.
“May I please speak to my wife?”
“No.”
Michael wondered what had happened to the real painter. He shuddered at the possibilities. He tried to calm himself, to tell himself that there was only one job: getting his family back.
“Are you ready to listen?” Aleksander Savisaar asked.
“Yes,” Michael said. “What do you want me to do?”
THIRTY
Sondra Arsenault stared at the television, an icy hand squeezing her heart. In the past twenty-four hours she had not eaten, had not left the house, except to get the mail, and even then she had all but run back to the front porch and slammed and locked the door, as if being chased by invisible demons. She had not slept a single minute. She had alternated between pots of black coffee, vitamins, scalding showers, and runs on the treadmill. She had taken her blood pressure a dozen times, each time registerin
g a higher reading. She had cleaned the refrigerator. Twice.
Now, watching this news report, she realized her fears had not only been justified, but horribly understated. There was a good chance that, before the day was over, her world would end.
At six o’clock James walked through the door, his briefcase bulging at the seams, a pile of papers under his arm. As one of the newer teachers at Franklin Middle School he not only taught English but also a fourth-grade civics class, and served as the school’s soccer coach. In the past three months he had lost fifteen pounds from his already tall and lanky frame. At fifty-one, he was beginning to walk with an old man’s slouch.
James kissed Sondra on the top of her head – Sondra was nearly a foot shorter, and they had fallen into this routine years earlier – put his case and papers on the dining-room table, and crossed into the kitchen.
The kids were staying with Sondra’s mother in Mamaroneck for a few days, and the house was preternaturally quiet, a state made even more pronounced to Sondra by the savage beating of her heart. She could swear she heard her diastolic pressure rise and fall.
James reached into the cupboard over the stove, took down a bottle of Maker’s Mark. It had become a ritual for him. One drink before retiring to what passed for a den in their three-bedroom colonial. He would mark papers for an hour before dinner, catch up on his e-mail. If something unusual happened at school that day, this would be the ten-minute window in which he told his wife.
This was one of those days.
“You’re not going to believe what happened today,” James began. “One of the kids in my civics class, this big fourth-grader who thought it would be a good idea to bring a pair of chameleons to school -”
“I have something to tell you.”
James stopped pouring his drink, his shoulders sagging. All the dark possibilities of what might be coming his way danced across his face – an affair, a disease, a divorce, something happened to the kids. As long as Sondra had known him, he had never faced adversity well. He was a good husband, a great father, but a warrior he was not. It was Sondra who was always on point in every conflict they had faced as a couple, as a family. It was Sondra who stared down the dangers and misfortunes of their lives.
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