by Gred Herren
He had a point, although I said nothing. There was no way in hell I was going to admit to him he was right. For a brief moment I felt bad. I didn’t like him at all, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to have him as a relative. He was nothing like Sasha.
“What was wrong with Sasha?” Colin went on.
“You met him, didn’t you, Scotty?” Misha sneered. “You saw for yourself what he was like.”
“Yeah, I met him,” I shot back. “And you know something? I thought he was a really nice guy, sweet and kind—someone I’d be proud to claim as a relative.” I was coming dangerously close to losing my temper, but I couldn’t stop myself, couldn’t rein it all back in. “I can see why you’d be ashamed of that.”
“You know nothing!” he said, with a weary wave of his hand. “You know nothing of what life was like for us back in Russia. I may not be proud of my brothers, but what can you do?” He shook his head again. He tapped the side of his head. “Pasha was never all there, what you would call slow. I was oldest, then Sasha, and then Pasha. Such a sweet little boy—he would do whatever we told him to do. So, when Sasha wanted to make some money off Pasha’s body, Pasha would do whatever he was told.”
Colin apparently thought he might attack me, because I saw him tense out of the corner of my eye. Then Misha took some deep breaths, the redness faded from his face, and he shook his head. He turned his back to us and walked over to the mantelpiece and bowed his head. His entire body slumped, and then it slowly began to regain strength visibily. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. He didn’t turn around, keeping his back to us. “Sasha is a liar, Scotty. From the time we were little boys, he always lied. Even when he didn’t need to, when there was no reason to lie. Anything Sasha might have told you was a lie.” He turned and looked at us both. His face was resigned. “You think I like saying these things about my brothers? You think I would say this if it weren’t true?”
I wasn’t convinced. I didn’t like him and I didn’t believe a word he was saying.
Colin shrugged, but his body was still coiled and ready to spring. “Sasha told us all about Pasha and the mobsters.”
Misha sighed. “I don’t suppose Sasha told you it was he who first gave Pasha the drugs?” I gave a bit of a start. Misha looked over at me and smiled smugly, shaking his head. “I didn’t think so. Of course Sasha would never tell you something bad about himself. No, Sasha is a saint, watching out for poor dumb Pasha, and greedy selfish Misha wants nothing to do with his brothers.” He snorted. “Yes, it was Sasha who first gave him drugs, got him hooked and needy to the point where he would do anything to get more. Anything. It was Sasha who started taking Pasha around to the clubs, introducing him to rich men with disgusting tastes. And when people would offer them money for sex—and there were a lot of them—Sasha would take the money and send Pasha off with them. Did Sasha tell you that part?” He laughed coldly. “Did Sasha tell you about how he would make Pasha strip down to a jockey strap and pose for the men? And Pasha was so desperate for the drugs he would agree to anything, anything at all to get his next fix. He used to let people burn him with cigarettes; there was a nice government official who liked to burn his muscles, to see how much he could take without crying out. Did Sasha tell you about him? No? And then there was the foreign diplomat who liked to tape electrodes to Pasha’s nipples and balls and shock him. Did he tell you that?” He shook his head again. “And after the drugs, Pasha, never quite right to begin with”—he tapped the side of his head again—“he was just gone. Simple, like a child again—but worse than before.”
I was so sickened I couldn’t speak. He’s lying, I told myself. Sasha would never do something like that to his own brother. Not the Sasha I knew. It couldn’t be an act—so Misha has to be lying.
I wanted to throw up, to just jump up and run out of the room, out of this house, go back in time three days before I knew the Saltikov brothers existed, back to a time when all I knew of any of them was that one was my Ecstasy dealer and kind of a nice guy.
“Sasha was what you call a pimp, right?” He waved his hand at me. “What do you think of a man who pimps his brother for money?” He walked around until he was standing in front of the sofa facing Colin and me. “Is that someone you’d be proud to know, to call uncle? Tell me, Scotty! Is that someone your grandfather—my father—would be proud to call son? To introduce to the rest of the family?” He ran his hands over his head. “And you wonder why I wasn’t proud of them? You wonder that I was ashamed of what they had become?”
These people are my relatives, I kept saying to myself as Misha continued with his rant about his brothers, and I gripped the arms of the sofa until my knuckles turned white. I looked over at Colin, but he wasn’t paying any attention to me. His eyes were narrowed, and he was watching Misha. No wonder Maman didn’t want them to come to America. I kept watching Colin. Something wasn’t—
The French doors behind where Misha was standing exploded, sending glass fragments everywhere.
Misha pitched forward onto the glass coffee table, which shattered. His head hit the floor with a dull thud.
I just stared down at him. His head was inches away from my feet.
“Get down, Scotty!” Colin shouted, hitting the floor himself and rolling over to the wall.
I just stared at him stupidly. “What the hell—” I started to say.
There was a weird little ping sound, and then the lamp on the end table next to me went flying backward, crashing onto the floor and shorting out. The entire room went dark.
“Get down! ”
I slid down to the floor and flattened myself out on the carpet. My heart was pounding, and I could feel vomit threatening to come up. My whole body was shaking. Someone was shooting at us. And Misha . . . I looked over to where he lay, not moving. A puddle of dark red blood was starting to spread under his head, soaking into the carpet. That’ll never come out, I thought rather stupidly. Aunt Sylvia’s going to have to have that replaced.
Something hit my hand, and I was startled to see it was a cell phone. “Call Venus,” Colin hissed at me. I looked over at him. He was on his knees crouched down behind a reclining chair. He was fitting a gun with a silencer. “I’m going to go see if the coast is clear.” He gave me what was probably meant to be a reassuring look, but it wasn’t. His face was a rigid mask, and his eyes were cold, almost lifeless.
It was the expression of a man who was about to face death without fear.
This was the face the people he’d killed in Palestine had seen before he’d pulled the trigger.
“Are you crazy? You can’t go out there!” I started to crawl over toward him, but he held up his hand, stopping me from moving. I gaped at him. Where the hell did the gun come from? Where the hell did he get a silencer? What the hell is going on around here?
“Stay put and call Venus and the paramedics.” His voice was like cold steel. “Venus is speed dial ten.” He rolled over to where the French doors were swinging in the wind. He peered out and then was out the door before I could say another word. I watched him until he disappeared out of my line of sight. My teeth started chattering again. The wind was blowing in through the open doors, picking up loose papers and blowing the ashes out of the ashtray Misha had been using. The curtains around the other windows began to dance as the wind grabbed hold of them and billowed them out.
Maybe I should go after him.
But I didn’t have a gun.
My hands shaking, I turned the phone on and called Venus. I don’t remember what I said, or what I did, but there must have been something weird in my voice. She told me to stay down on the floor, not to move, and to take deep breaths. She would take care of calling the paramedics and she would be there as quickly as she could. I said sure, that would be fine, everything was fine, I was fine, not to worry about me.
That accomplished, I closed the phone and looked over at Misha. I crawled slowly over to where he lay, and remembering my CPR training, I reached for his neck to feel
for a pulse at the carotid artery.
Nothing.
He was still warm, but he was dead.
In the distance, I could hear sirens wailing over the sounds of the storm.
When I pulled my hand back, it was covered in blood. I looked at it for a few moments. It was dark red.
I just stared at him. He was dead. My uncle was dead. Another one of my uncles was dead. Three days ago I didn’t even know they existed, and now two of the three were gone. But I wasn’t feeling anything. Shouldn’t I feel something? It didn’t make sense to me. He was my uncle, for crying out loud. Why didn’t I feel anything?
The pool of blood was spreading.
I felt eerily calm.
The French doors kept swinging in the wind. There was another flash of lightning nearby, and then a roar of thunder that shook the entire house for a couple of minutes. All the car alarms that had stopped braying started up again. From my spot on the floor, I stared out into the gray rain, squinting. Where was Colin? What was he doing? Was he okay? Was the shooter still out there, waiting for me to stick my head up?
Finally I gave up trying to see him out there. The grandfather clock in the hallway started chiming the half hour. The rest of the house was still, no sound at all—nothing but the rain and the wind and the occasional bang of the French doors slamming against the side of the house.
I closed my eyes and prayed for my uncle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Knight of Wands, Reversed
discord, suspicion
Colin never came back.
After what seemed like an eternity—but according to my watch was actually only about five minutes—I decided it was probably safe to get up off the floor and away from Misha’s body. I slid up onto the couch, poised to dive back down if I heard another ping, but there was nothing. I sat there, trying to get my heart rate to slow down. Deep cleansing breaths, I kept repeating over and over again to myself, keeping my eyes closed as the sirens got louder. I flipped open the cell phone again and made sure not to look where Misha’s body was. I dialed Storm’s cell phone. I quickly explained what had happened and that the police were on their way already, and he told me, as I expected, to keep my mouth shut.
Like I didn’t know that already.
The rain had stopped, and I kept my eyes focused on the French doors, expecting Colin to come back through at any moment. The cold wind was making me shiver again. I thought about getting up and closing the door, but that was a dumb idea. The cops wouldn’t like me messing with their crime scene, and besides, it wouldn’t help. The glass had been shot out. I could see the jagged pieces lying scattered all over the floor. I wrapped my arms around me and started rubbing them to try to get the blood flowing again, but I couldn’t stop shivering. My teeth were chattering. My clothes were still damp, so I grabbed the towel Colin had left behind and wrapped it around me. It was no help; it too was damp. I heard a click as the central heating clicked on, and I checked around for a floor vent. I spotted one over by one of the windows and walked over to stand on it. Before long warm air was blowing up my pant legs and I wasn’t shivering anymore.
Where are you, Colin? Are you okay? What’s happening out there?
Car doors slammed out front. I didn’t want to leave the warm air, but I was glad the cops were finally here. I breathed out a sigh of relief and crouched down, making my way out of the room, all the while listening carefully for more shots. Once I made the hallway, I quickly shut the door behind me and took a big, deep breath. Of course it was silly—shutting the door wasn’t going to make the reality of what happened in there go away, nor was it going to make me any safer—but somehow having that door shut behind me made me feel somewhat better about everything.
Colin was fine—he had to be.
He’s okay, I told myself as I wandered to the front door. You didn’t hear any more shots from outside, so he’s probably perfectly okay, trying to figure out who was doing the shooting. He knows how to take care of himself. If nothing else, the little story about his past as an Israeli commando should make you aware of just how good he is at what he does.
I opened the front door as Venus and Blaine came running up the walk, their guns out. I held my hands up. Some other cops in uniform were creeping around the side of the house, guns drawn, in their navy blue NOPD rain slickers. “I think the coast is clear.” My voice was shaking. I swallowed and took a deep breath. “There hasn’t been any more shooting. Not since, you know . . .” I let my voice trail off. “The body’s in the sitting room, third door down the hall on the left.”
Venus gave me a funny look. “Are you okay?” She was holding a cup of PJ’s coffee in her gloved hands.
I turned my head. It seemed to take a really long time, but then her face swung into focus. “Fine. I’m fine, Venus.” I gave a brittle laugh. “Colin—he went out after whoever it was. He hasn’t come back.” I swallowed. “I don’t know what happened to him.” I gave her a weak smile. “But I’m sure he’s okay. Really. Colin knows how to take care of himself.”
A young black cop stuck his head out the door. “The house is cleared, ma’am.”
Venus and Blaine exchanged a look, and she said, “Stay here with him, Blaine. I’ll go check things out.” She went into the house and shut the door behind her.
Blaine smiled at me and touched my arm gently. “Why don’t we sit down here on the steps, Scotty? You look a little green. You might feel a little better once you sit, you know? Just keep taking deep breaths. You’re okay now. We’re here.”
“I feel a little green, but mostly I’m cold. I feel like I am never going to be warm again.” I laughed. It was weird, the laugh seemed to echo in my head. I frowned, and it stopped. There was a strange buzzing sound in my head, and I shook it to try to get it to stop. Blaine was watching me, like I was an exhibit under glass or something, and it was bugging me. I was just about to ask him to stop staring when an ambulance roared up, followed by a fire truck. Blaine grabbed my arm and we moved back to the porch and off to the side from the front door and sat down in a porch swing. I sat and watched as uniformed personnel rushed past us. I felt like telling them that there was no need to rush, that Misha was dead and nothing they could do was going to change that—not unless they had the power to regenerate life—and somehow I doubted that. “Do you ever get used to it, Blaine?” I asked idly as the stretcher went by. “He’s dead, you know. They won’t need the stretcher. They’re just going to pronounce him dead on the spot.” Dead, dead, dead.
He looked at me strangely. “Get used to what, Scotty?”
“Watching people die.” I pushed against the porch with my feet, and the porch swing began to swing a bit. “Do you ever get used to it?” I stared at him.
That weird look again, then he looked away. “I hope I never do.”
“Huh. This isn’t the first time for me, you know.” I knew I was babbling but couldn’t stop myself. He was sitting right next to me, our knees almost touching. Somehow it seemed that if I could just keep on talking, it wouldn’t be real, that Misha hadn’t been shot and killed right in front of me, that he wasn’t lying in a pool of blood inside. My uncle, I reminded myself. My uncle, my uncle, my uncle. Two of my uncles are dead and two days ago I didn’t even know they were alive. Ain’t life funny? “Every time it happens I keep thinking, you know, this will be the last time, you know? But then it happens again, and it doesn’t get easier. . . .” I shook my head. I felt that weird numbness I now knew to associate with shock. I started shaking a bit. The wind was starting to blow stronger and colder, and the air was heavy with moisture. “And usually when someone dies right in front of me they were trying to kill me, so I guess this time is different somehow . . . but it’s the same, you know? So, yeah, I was wondering if it ever got any easier the more it happens. I mean, will there come a day when someone can get his brains blown out right in front of me and it won’t bother me at all?” I was babbling out of control now.
“Hang on.” He got up and walke
d over to Venus’s white SUV and rooted around in the back for a few moments, as my teeth started to chatter. The thickening mist turned back into rain just as he stood back up, clutching a thin blue blanket triumphantly in his hands. He ran up the walk as he unfolded it and sat down again, wrapping it around my shoulders. For a thin blanket, it was surprisingly warm. He smiled at me. “That should help a bit.”
The rain started coming down again in torrents as a van with the NOPD logo with the quarter moon and stars on its side drove up.
That was when I realized Colin’s car was gone. I looked at Blaine. “Was a black Jaguar parked where that van is when you drove up?”
Blaine’s eyebrows knit together. He thought for a minute. “No, should there have been?”
“That’s where Colin’s car was parked.” My heartbeat slowed down a little. That was a good sign. Colin must have followed whoever had done the shooting. That meant he wasn’t lying in the back of the house or in the side yard with a bullet in his head. Relief flooded through me and I relaxed, to the point where my body sagged and I almost fell into Blaine. I sat back up and gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” He gave me a big smile. “You’ve been through a lot today. It’s okay. Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, I am.” I shuddered again. “Damn. It was so sudden, you know? We were just talking and then the next thing I knew . . .” I closed my eyes and remembered the lamp exploding, the glass in the windows breaking, the look on Misha’s face when the bullet hit him . . . and leaned over the side of the verandah and puked into the bushes.
I sat back up and wiped my forearm across my mouth. My stomach was still cramping, and I bent over at the waist to try to relax the muscles. “Sorry about that.” I gave him a weak smile. “Couldn’t help it.” My mouth now tasted sour and I could feel a headache starting right in between my eyes—one of the blindingly painful ones that make you wish you were dead.