Sanctuary (13 page)

Arriving at the small brick structure, she parked her bike near the side door and hurried into church, feeling terribly uncomfortable knowing that Sadie Nan and her brother would be arriving any minute. She’d first met Sadie during elementary school days, both girls having attended the Amish-Mennonite school two miles in the opposite direction, over on Snake Hill Road.

Sadie’s brother was a year older, a student at the same school. For a time, he seemed to care for Lela. So much so that during their last years of high school, she began to expect a marriage proposal from her dear Paul. Around that time a new girl with strawberry blond hair and a coquettish grin caught his fancy, coming between them, dashing Lela’s hopes. Never interfering to save their relationship, she followed her mother’s example of a submissive attitude and quiet spirit, and several months after Paul’s graduation, rumor had it that he’d married the blond girl and moved to Indiana.

“Plenty more good fish in the sea,” Sadie had offered in an attempt to comfort her. “You’ll see.”

Wounded in spirit, Lela’s heart was so broken she never cared to hope for another love. She poured herself into her singleness, helping her siblings with each new babe as the little ones came along, tending to her gardens, and sewing her fine stitchery to put food on the table and tires on her bicycle. Thankfully, her house was paid for, the result of her oldest brother’s wise investment. Another brother paid her yearly property taxes and the utility bill each month, so she was quite content to work for Elizabeth, helping keep the shelves stocked with handmade goods at the little country store. The money from her larger-ticket items—such as the quilted coverlets and pillows—easily paid for phone bills and groceries, with money left over to give to the Mennonite missions and benevolence fund at church.

On the left side of the church where the women sat, she found a spot next to several cousins, happy to be surrounded by loving faces. She bowed her head in prayer, asking the Lord to anoint their minister’s sermon, that he might break the Bread of Life so needed for the week ahead. She prayed for wisdom and help from her heavenly Father regarding any possible encounter and renewed friendship with widower Martin.

And she prayed for Melissa, who’d decided to stay at home, waiting for a phone call. “Touch her with your grace and love today,” she whispered, then felt the Holy Spirit prompting her to pray further. “Please send your ministering servants—angels—to watch over Melissa … over
both
of us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Ryan and Denny drove to Noah’s in Stonington Borough and ordered halibut for lunch. Later they stopped in at the Stonington Lighthouse, built in 1823 on Stonington Point. The stone tower—thirty feet high—had once supported a lantern with ten oil lamps and silver reflectors. Denny appreciated the maritime history, commenting on the numerous relics from Stonington’s whaling and sealing ships.

They spent the afternoon watching a preseason game between the Patriots and the Bengals. Ryan tolerated the game while Denny phoned his girlfriend on Ryan’s cell phone, keeping the main line free in case Melissa called. They chatted for a good half hour, then Denny made another call to some kid he’d met on the plane.

Meanwhile, Ryan paged through several of Melissa’s recent journals, reading her latest entries, searching for clues.
Anything
. He opened the scrapbook she’d recently finished of last year’s trip to Manchester, Vermont. Picture after picture of peak foliage. Besides painting, Melissa loved the creative process of making scrapbooks. “The preservation of family history,” she liked to call it. Every one of their vacations was imaginatively detailed for posterity, including ticket stubs, pictures, and brochures.

He couldn’t handle even a few minutes of this self-induced torture. Setting the vacation scrapbook aside, Ryan’s depression deepened. His single strand of hope—that Mellie would eventually call—was beginning to unravel. He’d expected her to phone him within a few hours of her leaving. But the hours were turning into days.

Ryan walked out through the sun-room door, following the short path past Melissa’s rose garden to the dock, all the while replaying events from the past several weeks.

The sun had already set. Denny was napping in front of TV news. The moon’s silvery glow cast an eerie reflection on the ocean stillness, accompanied by a corresponding sense of endlessness.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation….

“You don’t know the half of it, Mr. Thoreau,” Ryan whispered, sitting on the dock with his legs dangling over the edge. Minutes later Daisy joined him, padding across the sunbleached wood to nuzzle his back.

He hugged his dog. Then, facing the vast sea, Ryan recalled the day he’d proposed to his darling girl, their subsequent private wedding ceremony on Watch Hill, and her tear-streaked face when he’d kissed her.

“I’m so happy,” she’d whispered with upturned face, eyes shining. “I wish today would never end.”

“I won’t let it end, Mellie,” he’d promised, only to fail.

  
Chapter Sixteen
  

RUSSIAN-BORN DIMA IVANOV had been abandoned as an infant on the doorstep of an orphanage. Left in a crib for weeks on end with no attention and scarcely enough nourishment to survive, he’d suffered the kind of neglect that has been known to breed severe psychological disturbances, even psychopathic tendencies. At least, that’s what his sympathetic psychiatrist had told him when he was sent to a Psikhushka, a psychiatric hospital for troubled youths. Secretly, Ivanov regarded his lack of conscience as a
gift
.

Escaping from the Russian institution, he lived on the streets of Moscow, joined a gang, and made money through scams and extortion. Bred from the deep pain of abandonment, anger dominated his every waking moment. The pleasure of settling a grudge became so empowering, he craved the thrill of revenge.

Ivanov was only twenty-one when he escaped the state police and stowed aboard a commerce ship bound for America. Once in New York, he took the American name “Jim” Ivanov, practiced his English compulsively until his accent was only slight, and joined forces with two other Russian exiles.

Thirty years later Dima kept close protective ties with his
krysha
—homeland compatriots who sent him their dirty cash for laundering. And though they had lackeys to do the dirty work, Dima was a reckless man. He enjoyed implementing the day-to-day details of his criminal operations. Especially …
enforcement
.

Ivanov and his “partners” ruled their underworld through the twin powers of
fear
and
greed
. In the Russian homeland, bribery was a way of life. But in America, bribery was much more difficult. Dima and his men were required to pay more for criminal complicity, to select their criminal participants more carefully, and to be more persuasive.

So they bribed policemen who were struggling to feed their families on low wages. They bribed judges, jealous of exorbitant attorney fees, eager to exchange favorable rulings for briefcases full of cash. They located dishonest corporate executives and bribed them for insider corporate information. Lastly, they bribed disgruntled bank officials in exchange for laundering their Russian cash.

Ivanov insured the preservation of his criminal operations through the judicious use of fear. His numerous greedy participants, including the fools they couldn’t bribe, were taught the consequences of noncompliance. Dima had been arrested countless times, but never had a jury convicted him. Witnesses either disappeared or jurors dissented in terror.

Now, at two o’clock in the morning, Dima surveyed the Denlinger home, barely visible in the distance. Satisfied that the situation was benign, he worked his way through the pasture to the dirt road where his gray sedan was parked and drove to within half a mile of Lela Denlinger’s home. With the aid of binoculars, he spotted the gleaming porch light populated by mosquitoes and moths.

Inside the cottage, Melissa James lay sleeping, the single offspring of the man who had humiliated him in California, the scene of Ivanov’s
only
failed operation. He had taken out his revenge on the man, but Dima’s rage was not spent.

His pulse quickened, nerves heightened as addictive fixation set in. He placed the binoculars on the console and caught his breath, overwhelmed by his need for retribution. First, he would get her to talk; then when he had learned the location of the money, he would enact his revenge.

Focusing his binoculars, he swept the surrounding area, assuring himself again of his safety. Earlier, he’d considered approaching the small house from the back. Such caution seemed unnecessary. In fact, there was no reason why he couldn’t simply park the car on the street, stroll up to the front door, and slip inside.

Setting the binoculars aside, he patted his shirt pocket containing the Sodium Pentothal, also known as truth serum. While it didn’t guarantee complete “truth-telling,” the drug effectively unhinged the recipient’s inhibition.

His left coat pocket contained a bottle of a nervous-system drug designed to stop the heart—undetectable in an autopsy. And finally, under his left shoulder, his holster concealed the 10mm Glock pistol—his weapon of choice, equipped with a silencer. Unlikely he’d need the gun tonight. These women would be frightened into compliance with a nasty stare.

Show time
.

Focusing the lenses on the Denlinger house for one last look, he gave a sharp intake of breath.

He whispered a curse, putting down the glasses, attempting to make sense of it.

He put the binoculars to his eyes again, squinting and frowning. Sure enough, two men lumbered about the front yard of the Denlinger cottage. Both were blond and bearded, wearing straw hats, tan suspenders, and wide-legged black trousers.
Amishmen
, he thought, profoundly irritated. He continued to watch them from a distance as they roamed about the front yard, seemingly performing chores. The more he watched, the more confused he became.

What were they doing at this time of the night? Was there some strange custom that compelled these Amishmen to work while others slept? Shifting in his seat, he decided to wait them out. Eventually, they would leave.

Dima awakened suddenly with a jolt and looked at his watch. 3:30 A.M. Grabbing the binoculars, he focused on the house, deeply relieved. The Amish farmers were gone at last.

With no time to waste, he shoved the car keys into his pocket, reached for the door handle, and climbed out. The night was softened with starlight and a large splinter of a moon. The echo of crickets mingled with the distant bark of a dog. Wearing tennis shoes, his steps were muted, yet he walked with purpose, creating the appearance of a local on his way home.

Less than a block from the house, he stopped short, dumbfounded. The Amishmen had suddenly returned, busy with indiscernible tasks. Staring at the men in frustration, Dima considered his options. He could return to the car and come back tomorrow or proceed with his plan.

In the end, greed decided for him. He’d waited for years for this moment, and he mustn’t wait any longer, no matter the human casualties. He lifted his right foot in an attempt to move forward but nearly stumbled, his legs unpredictably weak, like jelly. Recovering his balance, a wave of unexplainable anxiety washed over him.

Standing on the narrow sidewalk in the early hours of the morning, he stared at the men, trying to get a grip on his own ridiculous reaction to these strange, nocturnal farmers.

What’s the matter, Dima, losing your edge?

Angry with his mental weakness, he patted his holster and quickened his pace to the house. He was within a few yards of the gate when his arms began to shake uncontrollably, then his legs. Fear embraced him so completely that each step was an enormous effort.

When he reached the gate at last, he slumped against it, then turned his back on the Denlinger house, hyperventilating. Against his better judgment, he drew his gun out in the open, barely able to hold the weapon in his sweat-drenched palms. Raising the gun, he turned toward the Amishmen.

They stood motionless, their hands at their sides, watching him, their expressions deliberate, serious, almost grieved. Facing their penetrating gaze, he felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, unable to turn away.

Then something peculiar happened. Unfamiliar emotions began to click through his awareness like dominoes in a chain reaction.

Shame, guilt, conviction …
ending with a final emotion long since dormant through decades of denial—the proffer of
acceptance
. Something he’d last felt as a child sitting across the table from the compassionate psychiatrist, as the doctor tended him with comforting words.
“Let me help you, Dima. I care about you… . You are safe here… .”

For a brief, mysterious moment, he felt drawn to these men, as if they held the answers to the anguish that had driven him to a lifetime of revenge.

He shuddered, and the gun slipped through his fingers, bouncing against the concrete sidewalk. He fell to his knees, scrambled for it, finally grabbed the weapon with both trembling hands. In that moment, his anger returned, but all resolve had vanished. Stumbling to his feet, he backed away to the sidewalk, then bolted in an all-out sprint for his car.

Taking one last glance up the block at the Denlinger house—the Amishmen were gone—he shoved the gearshift into drive. Seconds later he squealed a narrow U-turn in the middle of the block and sped down the street, not caring what sort of commotion he created.