The Survivor (34 page)

With effort she peeled herself off the door. She cleaned herself up, tissue and styptic pencil, a midsize Band-Aid. The care and healing were as much a part of the ritual as the cutting itself. She had promised her father she’d keep her body unmarred, and she would do so, even now, to the best of her ability.

Using her brightest pink lipstick, she wrote across the window,
NO MORE
. Then she drew her heavy shades across the brightness, blotting it out. Beneath her mattress she retrieved a hidden trove of papers, artifacts of her failed search for her mother. Genealogy trees with broken branches, chat-room threads that knit into nothing, leads that went nowhere—she let all the dead ends spill across her puffy duvet.

Her sturdy desk chair fought the carpet as she shoved it to the middle of the room. Swaying, she tilted her head, letting her long hair brush her arm. With a distant smile, she ran her knuckles up her swanlike neck, taking comfort in the smoothness of her skin. Her fingertips rose to the scar tissue, traced its faint ridges. She unbuckled her thin studded belt and snapped it once.

Then she stepped up onto the chair and tested the sturdiness of her ceiling fan.

Chapter 45

When Nate pulled off his T-shirt, grimacing, Janie regarded the fresh slice in his shoulder with disapproval. “Because between the ALS, the letter opener stab, and the butterfly stitches in your forehead, you didn’t have enough problems.”

“Price of entry,” Nate said. “It was an exclusive club.”

Aside from the reading lamp angled to spotlight the cut, the Silver Lake house was dark. With the heat turned off and the abundance of windows, the floor in the great room turned frigid. Janie stayed bundled up in a sweater. Nate sat in a leather armchair, Cielle and Jason dozing on separate couches in front of the TV. Nate had returned a few hours ago and shot off a text to Abara, updating him on his conversation with Nastya at the club. No response yet.

Though the cut had bled nicely, it was superficial. Janie patched it up with a few more butterfly stitches, Nate squinting at her through the glare.

She finished and said, “How’re the symptoms?”

He rolled his head back, looked up at the dark ceiling. “Getting worse.”

“Joints? Muscles?”

“Yeah. And I’m … I don’t know,
fatigued.
Especially at night. Dizzy. Nauseated at intervals. Hands and wrists are bad, as you know. The ankle goes in and out.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Regular laugh riot.”

She regarded him, again with that bittersweet smile. “Can I get you something to eat, Husband?”

The old game. “No thanks, Wife.” He matched her grin, though the exchange made his heart ache a little, too. “Being on the lam always makes me lose my appetite.”

She set a hand on his cheek. “Maybe we should go to Paris. That honeymoon we never took.”

“Dunno. I’m falling apart here. Not the best guy to be on the run with.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. “Now the illness is going to your brain.”

His cell phone chirped across on the kitchen table. Text message.

On the couch Jason groaned and sat up.

Nate said, “Abara,” and tried to rise, but his leg complained and he winced and sat back down.

She moved toward the phone. “I’ll get it. Maybe Nastya already got a confession from her old man. Maybe Abara’s calling to say the whole gang’s in jail and we won the Powerball, too, and NIH is announcing a cure for ALS—”

She stared at the LED screen, her words sticking in her throat. Her mouth came slightly ajar.

“What?” Nate said. “What?”

Jason stood and cracked his back, the sound loud in the quiet house. Cielle turned over and mumbled, “Gross.”

Nate’s focus stayed on Janie. Speechless, she crossed to him and held out the phone. “We gotta leave,” she said.

Reading the screen, he felt a dull pain start up in his stomach, a beating drum. The words didn’t fully compute, and he had to back up and read them again.
ANASTASIA KILLED SELF. PVLO’S GONNA GO SCORCHED EARTH. I NVR SAID THIS, BUT FRGT THE TERRORISM CHRGES AGNST U + GET THE FUCK OUT OF DODGE. NOW.

A flood of guilt washed over him, leaving him shell-shocked, his ears ringing. She was a troubled girl in an impossible predicament. He pictured her in the booth, the weight of her denial melting away, her fierce words about her father—
He is the only thing I have ever had.

Vaguely, through the haze in his head, he became aware of surging lights at the periphery of his vision. Blue and red, peaceful, almost angelic. And Jason by the front window saying something, his words fuzzed and shapeless.

Jason repeated himself, sharper, snapping Nate from his trance. “
Cops.
The cops are here. Right outside.”

Indeed, those were patrol lights flickering through the gauzy curtains and rolling across the ceiling. Nate leaped to his feet, and then Cielle flew up from the couch, the blanket fluttering like a cape, Casper startling at her side.

Reaching to snap off the reading lamp, Janie nearly knocked it off the table. “They can’t possibly know we’re
us,
” she said.

“Right,” Cielle said. “Just break-in artists.”

“Back door,” Nate whispered.

“No,” Jason hissed. “Two guys already headed through the side gates.” He withdrew his finger from the curtain and flattened himself to the wall. “And two more are coming up the walk.
Right now.
”

They were frozen in place. Any move toward the kitchen or garage would put them in view through the beveled-glass panels bookending the front door. Fleeing down the hall would force them to cross a series of windows draped merely with silhouette curtains. Casper emitted a faint growl, and Nate snapped his fingers.
“Hush.”

Jason straightened himself. “I’ll go out, make a run for it.”

“They’ll catch you,” Cielle said.

“Yeah, up the block, though. It’ll distract ’em, give you guys time to slip out. I’ll just tell ’ em I broke in as a prank.”

Cielle said, “No way, Jason. Don’t be lame—”

“It was my idea coming here. I don’t care. I’ll just get arrested, but you guys could get
killed.
” He took a step toward the door, almost in sight of the glass panel.

“
Stop,
Jason,” Cielle said. “You’re freaking me out.”

“They know you, too, Jason,” Nate said, in as loud a whisper as he could risk. “Yuri saw you.”

Jason paused, glanced back at Nate, and shrugged. “Then let it be me. Not Cielle.”

Looking at the husky kid with his slouched shoulders and baggy hoodie, his hair swirled up in the back from sleep, Nate felt an undeniable pang of affection. Even regard.

They could hear the policemen’s boots now and see flashlights strobing up the walk, rocking with each step. As Jason braced himself to step into view, Nate realized he was too far away to reach him in time.

But then Janie said,
“Wait.”
She bounced on her feet, flipping off her shoes, then stepped out of her jeans. Beneath, she was wearing a pair of Nate’s boxers. Then she tugged off her sweater, revealing a stretched T-shirt that showed the points of her nipples.

“Uh, Mrs. O?” Jason said.

Cielle had sagged back onto the couch, watching her mother, her mouth slightly agape. Nate had yet to formulate an appropriate question to ask Janie when the doorbell rang, the sound pronounced off the hard surfaces. A flashlight knocked wood a few times, hard.

Janie turned to Nate. A harsh whisper: “On the floor.”

He dropped to the floorboards, the bottom two-thirds of the front door vanishing behind the half wall partitioning the foyer.

Janie’s head swiveled to Cielle. “Lie down.”

Cielle lowered herself stiffly on the cushions, disappearing behind the couch back, a vampire returning to its coffin. On the far side of the couch, Casper also lowered himself to the floor, following the same command.

Janie looked at Jason, frozen in almost comical surprise at the hinge side of the front door. “Stay.”

He flattened to the wall inches from the panel window.

Janie mussed up her hair, blond spikes sticking out in all directions, and started for the door.
“Coming.”

Affecting a tired slump, she tugged the door open, stifling a fake yawn. “Yeah?”

The fresh-faced cop peered past her into the house. “Mrs. Newell?”

“You boys know what time it is?”

The two patrol cars at the curb seemed to light the neighborhood, but no one was up and about on the dark street. The faintest rustle issued from the couch cushions. The hidden dog made a barely audible whine.

“Yes, ma’am,” the cops said. “We had a call from your neighbor, Mr. Sullivan? I guess there’ve been lights in the house—”

“Oh. Right. I forgot to tell Sully. I had to come back early from Maui. Family emergency. I must’ve left a light on out here.” She rubbed an eye theatrically. “Look, I’m wiped out. Do you think…?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Newell. But it’s our responsibility to follow up—”

“And I’m glad you did. It’s good to know you’re here when we need you.”

“We can give a quick check, make sure you’re safe, and then we’ll be on our way.” His boot set down on the threshold, his knuckles pushing gently on the door.

Janie shuffled back a bit, swinging the door open a few more degrees. Two feet from her elbow, Jason stayed so still he might as well have been inanimate, nailed to the wall, a piece of art.

Janie halted, as if having second thoughts, the young cop moving forward, head down. Suddenly they were much too close.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I really need to get some sleep.”

The cop hesitated, unsure, reluctant to retreat but not wanting to force his way forward. The slightest lean on his part would bring Jason into view.

Janie looked into the young cop’s face, inches from hers. “Boys,” she said, summoning amusement and the slightest hint of scorn.
“Really?”
She gave him and his silent veteran counterpart the full-wattage smile, and both sets of eyes traveled briefly to her chest and then back up again.

Suddenly tongue-tied, they nodded and mumbled a few words, already backing up. The veteran gave a whistle, and a cop emerged from either side gate, nodding at her as they headed off the property.

Janie closed the door, lowered her head, and blew out a shaky breath. She stood there as one engine turned over, then another, and tires crackled slowly away.

“Okay,” she called out, her voice tight with adrenaline. “We can go now.”

Chapter 46

The slate-colored sky signaled either the birth or the death of the day, but Pavlo did not know which. He’d lost time, simply dropped out of it as if plunging through a sheet of ice into cryogenic waters. The first dot of sun nosed over the skyline to the east, casting straws of light through the grain and grit of early morning. Hastening along the fractured downtown sidewalk, he stared at the solitary point of light and thought,
So that’s it. A new day.

The venerable marble steps, worn by a million footfalls, stood out from the surrounding concrete and rotting wood. He mounted the brief flight of stairs and pushed through the imposing oak door. Contrasted with the gray morning chill, the humidity of the
banya
was startling, pressing itself into his pores.

He did not know what had drawn him here.

The memory returned, less a thought than a primal impulse, a fury of clawed impressions scratching at his spinal cord. Around midnight he’d entered her room to check on her. Those pale thin legs, the swaying feet—a familiar prison tableau. He’d stood breathless in the doorway, all the wrong details coming into painful focus. The dusting of drywall across her shoulders from where the fan had been wrenched from the ceiling. The rasp of the pull chain, still swaying. Those perfect teeth, gleaming above her slack jaw. The next he recalled, he had her down and across his lap. One of his hands rested beneath her slender, bruised neck, the other clutching his heart as if to hold it together. His chest convulsed, a silent shaking. He thought he might be dying. Choking on his own air, he felt the moisture on his cheeks. He had not cried since his boyhood and had forgotten the sensation. He made not a sound.

After the parade of paramedics and firemen, the cops with their endless questions and looks of thinly veiled suspicion, that spic Abara had arrived with another agent to sit on the couch—
his
couch—and make phone calls. The house was no longer his own; medics and officers stomped about and used the toilet and left the hand towels on the counter. Nastya was conveyed out finally in a white body bag, strapped to a gurney, and Pavlo was given a phone number to call in the morning.

He’d closed the door on the last intruder, listening to it click shut, the dividing line between the present and the rest of his life. He walked back into the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and drank it down. For seventeen years, every glass of water he’d had, each piece of bread, every bit of nourishment, he’d taken as a father. No more.

He rinsed the glass, dried it carefully with a towel, and set it back in the cupboard. When he turned, his men had materialized behind him. It was safe now that the officials were gone.

With its seams and bulges, Yuri’s face looked like a rotted piece of fruit. Dima and Valerik remained behind the big man, as was their habit. But Misha, Misha stood to the side, clear-eyed and well rested. His round, boyish face held a quiet contentment. He’d waited his turn, and now the bell was about to ring.

Pavlo walked over to him and brought his face close to Misha’s. Misha did not flinch, didn’t so much as blink.

“There is no trial now,” Pavlo said. “No witness list. There is one thing only, one thing left in this world.”

“I understand,” Misha said.

“My daughter is gone. And his daughter lives.” The skin of Pavlo’s face tightened like a stretched hide, bringing a dull ache to his temples. “You take from him what he has taken from me. And then you keep taking, piece by piece.”

“That is what you brought me here for,” Misha said.