The Devil's Garden (28 page)

He checked his watch. The readout said 12:50.

He picked up the shard of silvered glass, and began to cut into the drywall. Because he could not get a firm grip on the sharp glass, it was slow going, but after five minutes or so he cut all the way through to the other side. After three more kicks he had a hole large enough to crawl through.

His watch read 3:50.

He walked back to the window, inched aside the blind. The blue Ford had not moved, nor had the red Saturn returned. He went back to the hole in the wall, looked through. The room was identical to his, save for the rollaway suitcase on the bed, opened.

He stood, turned, picked up the motel phone, being careful not to dislodge the handset. The cord barely reached the opening.

He kicked the rest of the drywall in, squeezed himself through the opening. He walked across the room to the closet, opened the door. Inside was a black raincoat, along with a pair of maroon golf slacks and a white Polo shirt. On the shelf was a tweed cap, a pair of sunglasses.

Before Michael could get the clothes off the hanger, the phone rang. His phone. He dashed across the room, reached through the hole in the wall. He barely got there before the third ring.

“Yes.”

Silence. He had gotten to the phone too late.

“Hello!” Michael shouted. “I’m here. I’m
here!
”

“You’re cutting it close, counselor,” Kolya said. “Where were you?”

“I was in the bathroom. I’m sorry.”

A long pause. “You’re gonna be a lot fuckin’ sorrier, you know that?”

“I know. I didn’t –”

“You get one ring next time, Mr ADA. One. Don’t fuck with me.”

Dial tone.

Michael reached through the wall, put the phone back in its cradle. He set his watch again. This time for twenty-eight minutes. He changed his clothes, putting on the golf slacks and the raincoat. They were both two sizes too large, but they would have to do. He put on the tweed cap and the sunglasses, checked himself in the mirror. He did not look anything like the man who Kolya had brought to the motel, the man being held prisoner in Room 118.

At the door, he made sure he turned the knob, unlocking it. He had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, he needed to be back in this room in twenty-six minutes and six seconds.

K
olya came down the stairs, closing his phone, a smug smile on his face. He had in his hand a sandwich. Abby could smell the hard salami from across the room. The smell nearly made her gag.

Kolya poked around the basement room, feeling the couch cushions, opening and closing the drawers on the old buffet. He flipped on the small television, ran through the channels, flipped it off. To Abby he looked like someone at a house sale, browsing the contents, seeing if things worked. Except, people like Kolya didn’t go to house sales.

He leaned against the washer, studied her, took another bite of the sandwich. His gaze made Abby want a shower.

“Your husband said something about money,” he finally said.

The words sounded strange. Money, after all this. “What are you talking about?”

He picked up a pair of crystal candlesticks Abby had been meaning to polish, looked underneath. He looked like a gorilla in a Waterford boutique. “He said he could get his hands on some serious money. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

He glanced around the basement again. “Now, not for nothin’, I mean, this
is
a nice house and all. More than I got. But you don’t look rich. Is there a safe in this place?”

Abby thought about the safe in the office. There was never more than two thousand dollars or so in there at any given time. Emergency cash. Abby could not imagine that such a small sum would be enough to make this all go away. Still, she had to try.

“Yes.”

“No shit. How much is in it?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. Maybe two thousand dollars.”

Kolya mugged, as if two thousand was beneath him. On the other hand, he didn’t turn it down. He turned to the corkboard next to the workbench. On it were calendars, greeting cards, family photographs. Kolya pulled out a push pin, studied a picture of Charlotte and Emily from the previous Halloween.

“So, the little girls are adopted, right?”

“Yes.”

He considered the photo for a while, push-pinned it back. “What, you couldn’t have kids?”

Abby didn’t say a word. Kolya continued.

“How old are you? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude or anything. I know you’re not supposed to ask a woman’s age. I was just wondering.”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Yeah? Thirty-one? You don’t look it.”

Abby almost said thank you, but she soon realized who she was talking to, and what this might be leading up to. She remained silent.

“See, most women your age, they’ve got two or three kids. I mean, kids they actually
had
. Their bodies are a fucking mess. Stretch marks, saggy boobs. A woman your age, in pretty good shape, no stretch marks. You may not believe me, but that’s my thing.”

He smiled again and it made Abby sick. Kolya crossed the room, peeked out the basement window, returned, took out a pocket knife. Abby struggled to move the chair away from him. She nearly toppled over. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Relax.”

He cut her loose.

Abby rubbed her wrists. The ropes had made a deep red welt. After a few seconds, she began to get the feeling back in her arms.

“Thank you,” she said.

Kolya sat on a bar stool. “What can I say? I hate to see a pretty woman suffer. I’m sensitive that way.”

Abby just stared.
A pretty woman.

“Now take off your clothes.”

Abby felt punched, as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “
What
?”

“I think you heard me.”

Abby wrapped her arms across her chest, as if she was suddenly freezing. She glanced out the high basement window. From this vantage she could see part of the driveway. “He’s going to be back soon.”

“He?”

“Yes. Aleks.”

“
Aleks
? You guys friends now?” Kolya laughed. “Don’t worry. It ain’t gonna take that long.”

Abby thought about making a break for the stairs. She shifted her weight in the chair. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Shit. For me it is. I’m just an employee. You know how it is. You take what you can get. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He pulled back the hem of his jacket. Abby’s eyes were drawn to the butt of the large pistol in his waistband. “Besides, I just
met
this guy. He’s a fucking dinosaur. Old country, old school. I hate that shit. Reminds me of my old man, who was so fucking stupid he trusted a Colombian.”

Abby glanced again at the steps, her mind reeling. “You don’t have to do this.”

Kolya killed a few moments, rearranging some jars of nails and screws on the metal shelf next to him. “You work outside the home?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

The last thing Abby wanted to do was let this animal even further into her life. But she knew she had to keep him talking. The longer she kept him talking, the sooner it would be that Aleks got back. “I’m a nurse.”

“A nurse!
Oh
! Jackpot,” he said, sounding like a little kid. “You wear the whites and everything?”

Abby knew he was talking about the dress-style uniform. Nobody wore them anymore. At the clinic, she spent most of her time in solid-color scrubs. But she would say or do anything to get out of this basement. “Yes.”

Kolya rubbed himself. Abby wanted to be sick.

“So, what, you’re saying you have your nurse’s uniform here?”

The truth was, she did not. Her three sets of scrubs were at the cleaners. It was going to be one of her stops on the way to the clinic. She glanced at the clock on the workbench. She was to start her shift soon. When she did not show up, they would call. “Yes,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“Upstairs,” Abby said. Her face burned with the lie. She was sure he could read it. But she had to buy time.

Kolya glanced at his watch. “So let’s go upstairs.”

T
HEY WALKED UP THE
steps, across the kitchen, into the foyer. Kolya motioned to the stairs. Abby hesitated, then started up. She had no choice.

Kolya smiled. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You bad girl.”

As they went up the stairs she could feel his eyes on her. She was certain that, if she wasn’t a Pilates-freak, her legs would be giving out on her.

“Damn, girl. For a skinny little thing you got back.”

“Most women your size have no fuckin’ hips at all. You know what I mean? Built like boys.”

They stepped into the bedroom. Kolya directed Abby to sit on the bed. He opened the closet door, rummaged through the suits, the shirts, the sweaters, the slacks. “There’s no fuckin’ uniforms in here.”

Abby stood, backed to the wall. “I forgot. They’re at the cleaners.”

“Where’s the ticket?”

Abby pointed to the small wicker tray on top of the dresser, the catch-all for parking stubs, receipts, claim checks. Kolya found the dry-cleaning ticket, read it, put it back. He then started looking through the dresser, tossing out underwear, socks, sweats. He reached the third drawer from the bottom. In it were neatly folded camisoles and teddies. He pulled a few out, examined them. He arrived at a scarlet red slip, one Abby had not worn in a few years, one of Michael’s favorites. Crazily, she tried to remember the last time she had worn it for her husband.

“Nice.” Kolya threw it across the room. “Put it on.”

Abby glanced at the closet. She remembered. The previous night she had not locked the gun back into the case. It was underneath her sweaters on the bottom shelf. It was less than five feet away.

“I’ve got something better than this,” Abby said.

“Oh yeah?”

Abby made no moves. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask permission. Kolya seemed to like this. “Yeah,” she said. “A new cocktail dress. Short. High heels to match.”

“Sweet,” Kolya said. “Let’s see.”

Abby turned, slowly, walked to the closet.

She slid open the door, and reached inside.

T
he Millerville post office was a quaint standalone building with a mansard roof, multi-paned windows, two chimneys. The walkway was lined with driftwood posts connected with white chain. On the sculpted lawn was what looked like a Revolutionary War-era cannon. Two large evergreens flanked the double main doors.

Aleks had located three other post offices that were closer to Eden Falls, but he could not take the chance that the girls would be recognized. Or, for that matter, his new name and identity. According to his driver’s license he was now a thirty-five-year-old New Yorker named Michael Roman. He walked into the post office, both girls clutching his hand. How many times had he thought about scenes like this? How many times had he envisioned taking Anna and Marya somewhere?

There were eight or nine people waiting in line, another half-dozen people tending to their post office boxes or glancing at the racks of commemorative stamps and mailing supplies.

Aleks glanced around the ceiling. There were three surveillance cameras.

They inched their way to the head of the line. The girls were very well behaved.

“May I help you?”

The woman was black, in her forties. She wore silver eye shadow. Aleks approached with Anna and Marya. “Hi. I need to apply for a passport.”

“For yourself?”

“No, for my daughters.”

The woman leaned slightly over the counter. She waved at the girls. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the girls replied.

“
It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins
.”

Anna and Marya giggled.

“How old are you?” the woman asked.

The girls held up four fingers each.

“Four years old,” the woman said. “My, my.” She smiled, leaned back, looked at Aleks. “My sister has twins. They’re grown now, of course.”

A man standing behind Aleks – the next person in line – cleared his throat, perhaps indicating that Aleks’s small talk was wasting his time. Aleks turned and stared at the man until he looked away. Aleks turned back. The woman behind the counter smiled, rolled her eyes.

“I’ll need to get the applications,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

The woman disappeared into the back room for a few moments. She returned with a pair of forms. “Do you have photographs of the girls?”

Aleks held up the manila envelope. “I have them right here.”

The woman opened the envelope, took out the photographs. “They’re so adorable.”

“Thank you,” Aleks said.

“They look just like you.”

“And now you flatter me.”

The woman laughed. “Okay. First off I’ll need to see some identification.”

Aleks reached for his wallet. He handed the woman his newly minted driver’s license. It had Aleks’s photograph, and Michael Roman’s name.

This was the first test. Aleks watched the woman’s eyes as she scanned the license. She handed it back. Hurdle cleared.

“Next you’ll need to fill these out, and I need you to both sign at the bottom of each form.” She handed Aleks a pair of application forms for the issuance of a passport to a minor under the age of sixteen.

“Both?” Aleks asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. She glanced around the crowded room. “Isn’t the girls’ mother here?”

“No,” Aleks said. “She had to work today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “You seemed so organized, I thought you knew.”