CHAPTER EIGHT
The man was propped up on a bench. His large forehead was slumped forward, though he was not asleep. He was hollow-eyed, with an appearance of misery and intense suffering. He seemed to be shivering with cold, yet his tremors suggested a man withdrawing from either alcohol or drugs. His pale face was streaked with tears, which fell like drops of rain upon his small, black mustache. The sound of his moaning echoed through the Police Station. He truly seemed to me to be a haunted man.
I averted my eyes from the sight of the unfortunate gentleman. I was waiting on news of Alexander’s release from jail. It hadn’t taken me long to trek to the West Hartford station. It was only a twenty-minute walk from Keeney Avenue to this station on Raymond Road. It was smaller than I had imagined an American one would be; perhaps it was the sprawling Blue Back Square development right next to it that caused it to appear such a diminutive part of West Hartford Center. Nevertheless, it was a very intimidating place to me. In Russia, people who were taken to a police station were never seen again. And I very much wanted to see Alexander Pavlovich again.
“What’s a nice place like this doing with a girl like you in it?” A man’s voice startled me from behind. I turned around to see the Slavic face of Nikita from my church greeting me. He was wearing the same blue, cotton shirt that I had previously met him in, though the white pants he had worn on that occasion had now been replaced with designer blue jeans. He smiled at me, his straight white teeth radiating a sort of brightness.
I didn’t return his smile. I was embarrassed to meet Nikita under the present circumstances. My nervousness returned; I was just able to prevent myself from tugging on my earlobe. “Oh, Nikita,” I managed to say. “Hello,” I said weakly.
Nikita continued to smile. “Privyet,” he greeted me in Russian. I tried to avoid his gaze. He was being too forward, and this was making me uncomfortable. Something suddenly occurred to me. “What you doing here?” I inquired of him. Nikita didn’t seem at all taken aback by my question. In fact, he actually seemed happy that I was questioning him.
“Oh, you would be surprised at the kind of stuff that interests me,” he replied. Nikita indicated the pale man seated on the bench, who was still nervously sniffling. “See that man over there?” Nikita asked. “He reported his wife missing two weeks ago. The police have investigated, but turned up no leads. Sonia, can you believe me, that man comes here every day hoping for some new development. Yet, look at him,” he nodded his head at the pale man. The poor gentleman was twitching uncontrollably; he couldn’t keep his hands still, he scratched his arm incessantly as if it were on fire, and he shook his head from side to side. I had to turn my eyes from the very sight of him. I returned my attention to Nikita, who nodded his head with sympathy.
“What interest you besides strange man?” I asked him.
“Strange Russian girls, who are more than they appear to be,” he responded with a mysterious smile. But then, he quickly stopped smiling. He reached down to his belt and pulled some kind of large cell phone out. The screen of this strange object lit up with bright lights. Words suddenly appeared upon the screen. Nikita’s hand scrolled across the surface of the phone, seemingly moving the text with just the touch of his fingertips.
“It’s just a smart phone, Sonia,” Nikita informed me. “I wanted to show you the reason I come here. I have my own blog,” he said, with pride in his voice.
“What this blog?” I inquired of him. I had never seen such wizardry in Russia as the technology I had witnessed here in West Hartford the last few weeks.
“Oh, it’s sort of like my own little newspaper,” he replied. “I write about true crime stories and then I post them on the Internet. Those people who are interested read the blog. I’ve had thousands of hits just this past week,” he bragged.
“What sort crime stories?” I asked defensively. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. Nikita’s eyes seemed to peer into my heart, digging up information that I didn’t want to share.
“Unsolved murders mostly,” he cryptically responded. “I especially love murders with interesting details. Seemingly senseless killings that make more and more sense as you unravel them. Gothic tales: lurid and horrifying stories full of blood and vengeance. I find the real stuff here at the station, then text the stories onto my phone and put them on the Web,” he proudly informed me.
I shook my head in disgust. “Smart phone too smart for own good,” I said. “Should stick to ordering pizza,” I added. I turned away; I had heard enough to strain my already agitated nerves. Nikita was making my stomach upset with his techno nerd foolishness. I started to walk away, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.
“Wait,” Nikita implored me. He put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from leaving for the time being. Despite my sense of revulsion, I did not push his hand away. “I know one of the police chiefs here,” he quickly confided. “I think I know the reason for your being here. Maybe I can help,” he offered.
I shook my head with anger. “What help you give me? And who is friend? Officer Dante?” I spit his name out with disgust.
Nikita shook his head in reply. “No…I don’t mean Paulie Dante. He is not the only detective in West Hartford,” He informed me. “In fact, my contact is Dante’s superior. I’m not supposed to share this kind of information, but…”
Suddenly, we were interrupted by the sight of Alexander Pavlovich. He appeared out of nowhere, disheveled and red-eyed. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. However, Alexander’s tired eyes seemed to come to life when he saw me.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sonia,” he scolded me. His features were dark with disapproval. And yet, I could sense that he wanted me to be there just the same. He seemed to be fighting the urge to smile, his face betraying a strange bemusement.
“I tell police you innocent,” I responded. “I am not understanding reason they think either of us guilty of something,” I said with frustration, gazing into his eyes.
Now Alexander smiled. “They are just fishing,” he said. “They took a preliminary test of that sickle; it’s not even human blood that’s stained on it. It’s a lamb’s blood,” he informed me.
Nikita’s voice interrupted our conversation. I had forgotten that he was still there. “When the beast came from the Earth, he had two horns like a lamb. But he spoke like a dragon,” Nikita said cryptically. His voice was tense, with something akin to fear in it.
Alexander seemed to notice Nikita for the first time. He approached him slowly, with almost a stealthy menace. For a bad moment, I thought that Alexander might actually attack him. But to my relief, Alexander just gave him a cold smile, patting him lightly on the shoulder. Once again, I was reminded of the resemblance between him and his older brother Ivan.
“It’s Nikita, right?” Alexander asked with some contempt in his voice. He didn’t give Nikita a chance to respond. “You know, I remember you from Hall High School. I think you were on the newspaper staff or something like that. Yeah, I recall it now. You were always sticking that bird nose of yours were it didn’t belong,” he said in a threatening manner.
Nikita didn’t show any signs of being intimidated. “I only use my nose when I smell something bad. And there is definitely something bad about that creepy house of yours,” he said flatly.
At first, Alexander didn’t reply. He seemed to be distracted by the haunted man on the bench. But then, without warning, his hand shot out towards Nikita’s face. It happened so quickly that Nikita had no time to respond. Alexander held him by the nose, twisting his fingers until tears came to Nikita’s eyes. He struggled, but couldn’t break free of Alexander’s iron grip.
“Stop it, Alexander!” I cried. “Let him go, you hurt him,” I implored him.
Alexander continued to smile that evil smile that only Ivan Pavlovich possessed. He slowly pulled Nikita to the door. I was surprised that no police officers were interfering; they had all seemed to have mysteriously vanished.
Nikita continued
to attempt to break free. But the harder he resisted, the stronger Alexander’s grip seemed to become. He twisted Nikita around, and then kicked him down the stairs of the entrance to the station.
“Fly away, little bird!” Alexander shouted down to Nikita, who scrambled to his feet. “Next time I’ll cut off your beak and add it to my collection,” he threatened Nikita.
Nikita raised a fist at Alexander. However, he slowly began to back away from him, making his way to the street. Then, he broke into a run and vanished. Alexander turned back to me, laughing. But he stopped when he saw the expression on my face.
“You are cruel, inhuman man,” I said through tears. “You are being no better than grandfather of yours that you think so terrible,” I informed him.
Alexander seemed to consider this for a moment. He nodded his head, looking at me with sadness. I returned his downcast expression with a glare of disapproval.
“My grandfather broke the everlasting covenant,” he said with a remote voice. “When he did this, he brought a curse down upon our family and home,” he told me confidentially.
I was confused. “Curse…what you talk about?” I asked him.
He pondered for a moment, apparently not certain if he should continue. Then, he seemed to recall something. “I think a woman is linked to the curse. I once overheard my brother Nicholas speaking of the Whore of Babylon. Apparently she will be the one to break the curse, perhaps by fracturing one of the scrolls. But which of the scrolls? And who is this mysterious woman?
For a moment, I stopped being angry and began to fear for Alexander’s sanity. To my way of thinking, this was insane gibberish. What did it have to do with the disappearance of Nicholas Pavlovich? And what was the meaning of the bloody sickle that Paulie Dante had found in the kitchen?
Alexander didn’t give me time to speak. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the entrance. I didn’t resist, though I was frightened by the strange look in his eyes. There was a desperate, erratic expression on his face; he seemed to be in some kind of trance, yet he moved frantically, like one in fear for his life. We silently made our way outside to his parked car, and then climbed inside. As he turned on the engine, Alexander turned his head in my direction. He appeared to have regained his composure, though he still carried an air of urgency in his bearing. He kept an eye on my features as he adjusted the rear-view mirror and put on his seat belt. Finally, he broke the silence.
“I know that you’re innocent, Sonia,” he told me. “I don’t know where Nicholas is, but I am certain that he is still alive,” he stated emphatically.
I opened my eyes wide. “How are you being sure of this?” I asked. Alexander paused for a moment. He seemed to be debating whether or not to be frank with me. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision.
“I think I know what my brother Ivan is searching for,” he said cautiously. “It’s a family heirloom, isn’t it?” he questioned me, raising one eyebrow and tilting his head sideways at me as he did so. “And I think that Nicholas didn’t find you just by sheer chance,” Alexander paused for a moment, breathing heavily with the effort of speaking about such grave themes. “He has opened a Russian Matryoshka doll; one by one, piece by piece, he has found who he was looking for,” he declared. Alexander peered deep into my eyes, and at that moment I guessed the horrible truth.
I was the Whore of Babylon.
69 Keeney Avenue Page 8