“That’s a lot of name for such a little girl,” the officer said.
Charlotte nodded. She loved to say her full name.
The cop gazed up the street. He tapped his hand on the roof of the car. “Get that taken care of right away, sir.”
“I will. Thank you, officer.”
As the cop walked away, Michael rolled up his window, finally exhaling.
The cop spoke into his two-way, stood to the side, held up his hand again, stopping traffic. Twenty feet up the street a concrete truck pulled out of an alley blocking the road. The cop turned his back on Michael, waved the truck along.
When Michael looked again in the rear-view mirror, his blood froze in his veins. The man driving the black SUV behind him was Aleksander Savisaar. Michael’s eyes instinctively went to the passenger. It was Abby.
They had followed him from Eden Falls.
Michael scanned his mirrors. He was blocked. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t back up. Should he tell the police? Should he just jump out of the car and tell the police that the man in the H2 had kidnapped his wife and daughter and was responsible for a number of homicides?
Too much could happened in the blink of an eye. He thought of Viktor Harkov, and Kolya, and Desiree Powell. He thought of the knife. He couldn’t take the chance.
The concrete truck ambled to the curb ahead of him. The cop blew his whistle, waved Michael on. Not knowing what else to do, Michael reached forward, and turned the car off. The cop waved again. When Michael didn’t move the cop looked at him with impatience. He ambled back over.
Michael opened the door, slid out. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the figures in the car behind him. No one moved.
“Something wrong?” the cop asked.
Michael threw his hands up. “Stalled.”
“Try it again.”
Michael gestured to Charlotte. She slid across the front seat, took his hand. “I’m afraid the battery’s dead. I had to jump it just a few minutes ago. It’s not going to start. I’m going to have to push it.”
The cop shook his head. He glanced up the street at the other officer directing traffic. By the time he turned back they were joined by someone.
It was Aleks. He was standing right next to them.
“Need a hand?” Aleks asked.
The cop turned, sized the big man up. For police officers, whenever citizens get out of their vehicles, in the middle of the street, without being asked, it was a red flag. Now this cop had two citizens in the middle of the street. He looked over Aleks’s shoulder, at the woman and the little girl in the driverless SUV. “No,” the cop said. “We’ve got it under control, sir.”
At this close range, Michael could see that Aleks was about his age. His eyes were a pale blue; he had a scar on his left cheek. They stood, wordlessly assessing each other. Between them stood the police officer. The
armed
police officer.
Would Aleks take this chance? Michael wondered. He gripped Charlotte’s hand tightly, eased a step backward.
“I really don’t mind,” Aleks said. As he took a step forward, Michael and Charlotte retreated yet another step, angling themselves behind the police officer.
“Sir, please return to your vehicle,” the officer said. “We can handle this.”
Michael and Charlotte edged toward the curb and the sidewalk. Aleks did not move. Michael saw Aleks’s right hand descend, saw his forefinger touch the hem of his coat. The moment drew out. The officer stiffened, nearing a state of heightened alert. He turned fully to Aleks. “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Please get back in your vehicle.”
Aleks put his hands out, palms up, as if to say:
Sorry, I was just trying to help
.
As Aleks did this, the right side of his coat fell open. Michael – and the police officer – both saw the large knife on Aleks’s hip.
The officer put a hand on his weapon. “Sir, please turn around and put your hands on the car. Do it now!”
Aleks glanced at the gun, at Michael, at the officer. He backed up a foot. The cop spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. A few anxious seconds later he received a reply. Michael knew all the codes. There were other officers on the way.
In this moment Michael and Charlotte stepped onto the sidewalk. Michael glanced at the SUV, at Emily, saw her lift her hands, bunch her sweater at her neck, shiver, as if she was freezing. It was a funny gesture, an inside joke between Michael and his daughter.
When Michael was small, he used to stand for minutes on end in front of the refrigerator, door open, never being able to make up his mind about what he wanted. His mother, ever trying to save a few pennies here and there on electricity, would always say to him: “Would you like me to get you a sweater?”
The routine continued with Michael and Emily, who was the same way Michael was as a child.
But why is she doing that now?
Michael wondered.
Before he could think about it further, hell came to the street. It all happened at once. A woman on the sidewalk screamed as the officer unsnapped his holster. Before the cop could clear his weapon, Aleks had the knife off his hip. In a blur he slashed the police officer, the long blade catching the cop on the right side of his neck. Bright red blood fountained high into the blue sky. The officer staggered back against the car, his eyes wide with surprise and horror. Aleks cut him again, this time from shoulder to shoulder. The cop slid to the ground, slicking the car behind him.
For Michael, everything slowed. He heard another woman on the other side of the street start screaming. In the distance he heard car horns blow. Someone, hanging out of one the windows above, yelled “Hey!”
The other officer arrived on the scene, and seemed to take a moment to realize what he was looking at. He started to draw his weapon, but it was too late. Aleks pivoted, and kicked the man just below his jaw, splintering the young officers’ teeth. The officer crashed back into the Ford. As he was falling to the ground, Aleks slashed him with the knife. It opened a large wound in the man’s chest. In seconds his blue shirt was black with blood.
Michael and Charlotte backed quickly away from the scene on the street, working their way through the gathering crowd.
Sirens blared in the near distance. The older officer, now on the pavement, his face and hands covered in blood, raised his weapon and fired at Aleks, but the shot went wide, smashing into the side of his sector car. More screams as Aleks came in low and kicked the weapon from the man’s hand. It skittered beneath a parked car.
Aleks, clearly disoriented, spun in place, the huge knife in front. He backed toward the SUV. On the sidewalks people were running, scattering. Aleks spun 360, looking for Michael in the hysterical crowd. He found him nearly fifty feet away, separated by scores of people.
Aleks and Michael looked at each other. A pair of sector cars were now just a half-block away. They would be on the scene in seconds, weapons drawn.
Aleks jumped back in the SUV. He put it in reverse, floored it, burned white smoke from the tires. He backed up all the way to 94th Street, and spun out, nearly causing an accident. Seconds later the SUV was gone.
Michael turned, continued up the avenue, as quickly as he could without running. Charlotte did her best to keep up. When they got to the alley, he scooped Charlotte into his arms.
They ran down Roosevelt Avenue – Michael all the while waiting to hear footsteps behind him. Moments later they came to the Junction Avenue subway stop, and boarded a train.
FORTY-SIX
S
he was handcuffed to the inside of the car door. She held Emily’s hand, tried to focus. There had been many times in her career when chaos ruled the ER, when the waiting room was full, as were the four bays. Blood, bedlam, misery, pain. Dealing with it was a matter of triage, a process of prioritizing the injured for treatment according to the seriousness of their condition.
That’s what she had to do right now. She knew what she wanted – for all of this to be over, for she and the girls and Michael to be safe – but that was the end of things. She had to figure a way to get there.
She had to prioritize.
The horrors were compounding. First Kolya, then Detective Powell. Then the police officers on the street. She had heard the sirens before they had gone a block. She envisioned the next few minutes, the image of the police surrounding them, guns drawn. There was the possibility that none of them – Aleks, Emily or herself – were going to survive.
Barreling down the street, running both stop signs and red lights, sending cars careening, Abby could smell the brute rage coming off Aleks. The steering wheel was sticky with drying blood. He drove quickly but expertly through traffic on 94th Street toward Lamont Avenue.
Abby heard the sirens closing in. Just a few blocks away. When they reached Lamont Avenue Aleks pulled the SUV down an alley, behind a four-story apartment building. He cut the engine.
The police cars passed the alley, the sound reverberating between the brick walls. Aleks got out of the SUV, left the door open, began to pace. His eyes were manic, crazed.
“Where is he going?” he screamed.
Emily started at the sound. Abby put her arm around her daughter. “I don’t know,” Abby said.
“
Where is he taking her
?”
Aleks swarmed to the front of the SUV. He stared up at the sky for a moment, thinking. The sound of a slamming door behind the building made him spin on his heels. Abby tried to see what was happening, but because of the handcuffs she could not turn all the way.
“He will
not
take my daughter!” he yelled.
Abby now saw someone walking up the alley. There were two other cars parked in the back. A delivery van for the auto parts store on the corner, and a late-model Lincoln.
As the man approached, Abby saw that he was middle-aged man carrying a bag of groceries. He stopped and stared at Aleks, perhaps debating about stepping in and speaking to this demented man yelling at the woman and child.
In an instant Aleks was across the alleyway. The man went pale. He dropped his groceries.
“What are you looking at?” Aleks screamed. “Do you have business with me?”
“I’m not . . . I don’t –”
“No you do not.” Aleks looked up the alley, toward the street, back at the man. He pointed at the Lincoln. “Is this your vehicle?”
The man just stared. Aleks drew his knife. He held the tip beneath the man’s chin. Abby could see a slight trickle of blood.
“No!” Abby screamed.
“Last time. Is this your vehicle?”
The man’s eyes rolled back. Abby knew the signs. She feared the man might be going into shock. “Yes,” he said softly.
“Give me the keys.”
The man slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled a few things out: a handkerchief, a pack of gum, a few dollars in cash. No keys.
Aleks spun on his heel, swung his leg around, kicking the man in his chest. The man slammed against the brick wall, and folded to the ground. Aleks took the knife, sliced open the man’s pockets. He soon found the keys, then dragged the man behind the dumpster. He returned to the SUV, pulled all the bags from the back and put them in the Lincoln. He unlocked Abby’s handcuffs, picked up Emily. They got in the Lincoln.
Aleks cuffed Abby to the door handle, then jumped in the vehicle. He started the car, studied the GPS screen on the console. Something seemed to register. He tore open the bag on the seat, pulled out the files he had taken from the house. Abby saw the phases of her life flash by. The deed to the house, her nursing certificate, her marriage license. Soon Aleks took out a photo. He scanned the document, then punched numbers into the GPS.
He pulled into traffic.
Abby knew where they were going. Aleks was not going to give up. Neither was she. She would find her moment.
FORTY-SEVEN
T
hey took the subway to the 82nd Street station, where Michael flagged a cab. When they arrived at their destination, in Ozone Park, Michael paid the fare, looking up and down the street. They had not been followed.
He took Charlotte’s hand in his. Before she got out of the cab, she put something in the pocket of her pink fleece jacket, something she had been holding.
“What do you have there?” Michael asked.
Charlotte took the item back out of her pocket, handed it to her father. It was a carved marble egg. Michael angled it to the sun to get a better look at the intaglio. It was a bizarre tableau – chickens, ducks, rabbits, and a needle.
“Where did you get this?” Michael asked, although a dark feeling inside gave him his answer. She had gotten it from Aleks.
Charlotte just shrugged.
“I’ll keep it for a little while, okay?”
Charlotte nodded. Michael closed the car door.
Michael and Charlotte approached the side door of the house on 101st Street– a two-story 1920s colonial, maroon siding over beige stone. Michael pressed the doorbell next to the casing. There was a small camera overhead watching them, along with a pair of heavily built men leaning against a car across the street. The men were smoking, chatting softly, watching Michael and his daughter.
After a few seconds the door opened, and Solomon Kaasik welcomed them inside.
M
ICHAEL HAD NOT SEEN
Solomon in almost a year. He had been in Chicago attending a five-day conference the day Solomon was released from Attica.
On the occasion of his release, Michael had sent Solomon a case of Türi – the exquisite Estonian vodka – along with a gift basket from La Guli’s. They had spoken on the phone twice, both times ending the conversation with Michael’s promise see the man soon and resume their monthly chess game. One day led to the next, months passed, and Michael had still not seen his father’s oldest friend, the man who had avenged the murder of his parents when society could not.