Shadow WIngs (Skeleton Key)

by JC Andrijeski

  Looking at his features in more detail, she found that inhuman beauty striking her again, so much so that she had difficulty looking away.

  High, perfect cheekbones framed either side of a well-formed mouth, a strong jaw, those stunning, crystal-gray eyes. Yet nothing about him fit or made sense. His Adonis-like looks contrasted sharply with his clothes, which were those of a penniless vagrant. He looked like he’d been dressed with clothing they’d found in a garbage bin.

  She remembered then––perhaps they had. He’d been found in Gorky Park naked.

  He still wasn’t fully dressed.

  His chalk-white chest wore no shirt, but she saw well-defined muscles. He’d partly wrapped his upper body in a ratty gray blanket filled with holes and moth-eaten around the edges, but it didn’t cover him entirely. The dirt-stained jeans were at least two sizes too large around the waist and several inches too short for his height. Covered in holes and worn to threads at the knees, the jeans didn’t look very warm, even apart from how they fit him.

  His feet were bare, his toes white verging on blue, and hairless.

  The man shivered nonstop as he stared up at her.

  His face remained utterly serene––strangely calm under all of that shivering. Particularly so, given where he was and his predicament. He appeared in no way drunk or otherwise intoxicated. Apart from that violent, uncontrollable shivering, he did not appear to move at all.

  Still, from the look on his face as he watched her from the cement floor, he did know her. She saw a flicker of recognition there, the second he met her gaze.

  More than that, she saw relief.

  “Ilana,” he said, even as she thought it.

  So much of that relief filled his voice, it startled her.

  “...You are here. At last. Thank you.”

  He also spoke perfect Russian.

  Once he had, she realized she hadn’t expected him to––certainly not without a foreigner’s accent. There was something strange about his voice and cadence, something overly precise perhaps, but his accent was that of a regular Muscovite.

  He could be an academic, perhaps––a scholar.

  “I do not know him,” Ilana said, speaking to the militsiya officer but unable to tear her eyes off the imprisoned man’s face. “You are sure this is the man you told me about?”

  The officer gave her a startled look. “Comrade? He just said your name––”

  “I know what he said!” Ilana snapped, turning. “I am telling you... I do not know him!”

  The militsiya officer stared at her, taken aback.

  “Ilana, I must speak with you,” the man on the floor said, as if he’d caught nothing of their exchange. “It is extremely urgent... it cannot wait.”

  “I processed him myself,” the police officer said, his voice slightly wounded now. “It is him, comrade Kopovich. I was there when he first asked for you––”

  “Ilana!” The man on the floor continued to ignore the ment, looking only at her. “I am sorry I told him those things about you, but I needed to see you right away. It could not wait. It was all I could think of to get you here quickly––”

  “Be silent!” she snapped, turning on him.

  “I cannot be silent, Ilana. I cannot––”

  “I do not know you, comrade!”

  He looked startled.

  He glanced at the male officer for the first time, then back at her.

  “I know that.” His voice reflected his surprise. “But it should be equally obvious that I do know you. I need your help, Ilana, please. Please... help me. I beg you.”

  She swallowed, struck somehow by the depth of feeling in his words.

  Moreover, he looked at her like he really did know her.

  Somehow, the sheer certainty in his eyes brought up a fear she’d never experienced before, at least not since she’d been a child. Something wasn’t quite normal in the way he looked at her. He looked through her almost. Like he not only knew her, but he knew her better than others did, better than even those closest to her.

  Perhaps even better than Ilana herself did.

  He’d known of the birthmark on her thigh. He’d described it. He knew her clothing size, where she lived. He knew what and who she was. He even knew she was here to look at a case.

  But how? How could he possibly know these things?

  She knew it was not personal. She could not have slept with this man. Just the thought made her face heat, and anyway, it was not like her to do this. She had not been with anyone but Uri since university.

  She’d been thinking about it again lately, yes, contemplating an affair at least, but so far hadn’t been able to move past that gun-shy thing left over from Uri turning into someone she didn’t recognize as soon as the ink was dry on their marriage certificate.

  But it’s not like she ever drank so much, or had been with so many men as to forget any of them––much less someone like this man, with his riveting smoky eyes and that heavy jaw. So that was out of the question. It left only one thing.

  He had to be a spook.

  Perhaps he came from a rival faction in the KGB. Which meant he had to be from somewhere else, or based out of somewhere else at least. Some place far enough from Moscow that they would not have crossed paths.

  Unless he was American. In which case, he had mastered the accent to a disturbing degree. Perhaps he had a parent born in Moscow, or was a sleeper agent of some kind.

  He rose abruptly to his feet as she continued to think.

  Throwing the blanket off his shoulders, he walked directly to the bars, so swiftly and deliberately she found herself backing away in reflex. When he reached the bars, he did not hesitate. He reached through for her, his hands outstretched.

  Somehow, she felt his desperation to touch her.

  For the first time, she also saw the fear in him. She saw it in his face and eyes––it practically emanated from his skin.

  “I need you,” he said. “But I can also help you, Ilana. You need me too. You do not yet know it, but I promise you... you need my help.”

  She winced again. Maybe it was how he said her name.

  Maybe it was him saying he needed her... or what she felt when he said it.

  “I need your help with what, comrade?” She held his gaze warily. Her reactions to this man were frightening her. To her logical mind, they bordered on delusional, and Ilana was not prone to delusion. She was also not the type to moon over handsome men.

  “Golunsky,” he said at once. “I can help you with Golunsky.”

  She felt her throat tighten.

  That time, a feeling of unreality washed over her, along with a harder suspicion. No one knew about Golunsky. He’d been picked up that morning, early, in the pre-dawn hours. But even that didn’t explain the totality of her reaction.

  Something in how this beautiful man said Golunsky’s name struck her at a deeper level than she could articulate to herself. It wasn’t fear she heard in his voice, not that time. Well, not fear of Golunsky at least. But it was... something.

  An added knowledge.

  “Let me help you, Ilana,” the man said, his voice lower. “Please. We could help one another with this. Do not leave me in here. It will be bad for you, for me... for many people, if you do. I must have your help. Please, Ilana... please. More depends on it than you know.”

  She could not hold his gaze.

  Turning, she spoke to the militsiya officer instead, ignoring the blond-haired man still reaching for her through the metal bars.

  “What is his name?” She clutched the files she carried tighter to her chest. She could not trust herself to look back at the prisoner’s face, or the depth of feeling in his eyes. She felt her heart beating too fast in her chest. “Who is he? Where is he from?”

  “He did not give us a name, comrade.”

  “Where are his papers?”

  “There were no papers.”

  She stared up at the face of the militsiya officer. “No papers? That is no
t possible.”

  The officer shrugged, disinterest on his face. “He was naked, comrade.”

  Ilana’s jaw clenched briefly, but her shoulders relaxed. “Ah. And he refused to give you his name or address to find them?”

  The officer smiled indulgently. Clearly he did not believe Ilana that she and the man in the cell did not know one another. Given their reactions to seeing one another, Ilana could almost understand his skepticism, but it still infuriated her.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the ment cut her off.

  “––He tells us he has no name that will mean anything to us, comrade Kopovich.” The officer shook his head to show what he thought of that idea. “He says that it ‘will not benefit us’ to know it, that it would only benefit you.”

  “Me?” Frowning harder, she turned, once more studying the man in the cell. She still avoided direct eye-contact. “You! You just agreed I do not know you. You still think your name will mean something to me?”

  The beautiful man hesitated, glancing at the officer. Then he looked back at Ilana. His eyes serious, he nodded, the motion barely perceptible.

  “Yes,” he said only.

  “Tell it to me,” she demanded. “At once. And tell us where you live.”

  Again, the man in the cell glanced at the other officer.

  Clearly, he did not wish to speak with the militsiya officer present.

  When Ilana glanced back at the ment herself, the man smirked.

  He inclined his head. “Your friend here explained that he could not share his name with us for fear of ‘confusing the issue’ of who he is and why he was found the way he was.” The ment gave her another knowing smirk. “...Then he would only ask for you. He would not tell us any more about himself. He told us only about you.”

  “You have fingerprinted him?”

  The man exhaled impatiently. “Yes, comrade, of course. But you know it will take days to find him that way, if not weeks.” He gave her another of those oily smiles, winking. “You are certain you have no name to share with us, Party Comrade Kopovich? It would certainly save us a great deal of time and trouble. Perhaps you could whisper it in my ear? I will say I got it from him during interrogations...”

  Ilana gave him a cold look. “Are you implying I would jeopardize an ongoing murder investigation by refusing to provide critical information if I had it?”

  “Murder?” The officer let out a surprised laugh. “He was drunk and naked in the park!”

  Ilana frowned, but said nothing that time, looking back at the cage.

  It struck her that this ment prick likely knew nothing of Golunsky either.

  “Who is this ‘Golunsky’?” the ment said, even as Ilana thought it.

  Ilana didn’t answer.

  When the silence continued for a few beats more, the officer shrugged, frowning delicately as he held up his hands.

  “Comrade, I meant no offense,” he said. “I am thinking you are knowing this man. That you are married to someone else, maybe... that you have good reason to keep such a knowledge to yourself. I am thinking maybe you saw him last night, and he got too drunk. I am thinking you left and he is upset, da? That he ends up in the park, with no clothes? I am thinking he knows why you are here today from these things, maybe...?”

  Ilana’s felt her lips press into a hard line. Hard enough that she nearly broke the skin with her teeth. “What is your name, comrade?”

  The militsiya officer jerked his eyes to hers, startled.

  Studying her gaze, he visibly blanched, growing whiter under the scruff of his beard. As he looked at her, he seemed to remember himself again, as if he’d once more forgotten that she belonged to the Party and might not be exactly who she claimed to be.

  “I apologize, comrade.” That time, his voice came out humble. He gave her a short bow, clicking his heels, his words formally polite. “I meant my words only as an offer to be discreet. And a desire to dismiss this man, if he is only here for drinking too much vodka and fucking the wrong hooker in the park.”

  She grimaced slightly but didn’t lower her gaze. “The assumption that I would refuse to aid you in those endeavors is rather offensive, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course, comrade. Of course.” The man exhaled, holding up his hands. “Do you really think he knows something about a case? Or is it just bullshit?”

  His tone had gone back to cop to cop––or cop to Party, perhaps, which suited Ilana just fine. She felt her hackles lower.

  “I do not know,” she said, exhaling herself. “But it is strange. This whole thing is strange. This knowing about me, knowing that I would be here at all...” She glanced at the man on the other side of those iron bars. “It is not something I can afford to ignore right now.”

  “You think he is with the Party too?”

  Ilana gave the militsiya officer a grim look. “If he is, I’ve never seen him before.”

  Her eyes drifted back towards the cell as she said it. Folding her arms tighter around the folders she held, she studied the prisoner’s face, frowning. Something in her couldn’t make herself believe this man could be Golunsky’s accomplice. If he really did know something about the murders, perhaps he was some kind of witness? He did say she would need him to solve the crime. Perhaps Karkoff was right to send her here.

  Perhaps these murders were political after all.

  The thought made her tired.

  As for him, the prisoner, he seemed to be watching her and the police officer with an unusual intensity of concentration. He looked almost as if he strained for the sound of faraway music––like he listened to not only their words, but to something else. Something he couldn’t quite hear, but desperately wanted to hear.

  Ilana did not know what this man’s issue was with her, but for some reason, she could not simply leave him here, in this cell. Nor could she process him in the usual way.

  Yet she could not decide what to do with him.

  As she stood there, still hesitating, the other man spoke.

  That time his voice was low, almost a murmur.

  “Ilana,” he breathed. “Come here. Please. I will not hurt you. Come here, Ilana. There is something I must tell you. It is important...”

  She found herself wanting to do as he asked.

  She would be a fool to approach a prisoner’s cell, even one picked up for something minor like lewd and drunken behavior. Yet somehow, she found herself pulled into those gray eyes.

  “Please, Ilana,” he said, softer still. That look in his eyes tugged on her more. “Please. There is something about me you must know. We cannot waste any more time...”

  Before she’d consciously made the decision, she moved, jerking towards the cell. In a single heart beat, she’d closed the distance between them.

  “Comrade!” the militsiya officer said, alarmed. He seemed about to reach for her, then remembered that she might be his superior and pulled his hand sharply away. “Comrade! I implore you to not approach him! It is not safe! He could be dangerous...”

  But Ilana had already reached the iron bars.

  The man caught hold of her arms once she did. He did not hold her roughly, but his grip was strong, firm. Insistent. He pulled her towards him. His skin was ice-cold, but his hands also strangely soft under their obvious strength.

  Once she was close enough to him, he murmured softly in her ear.

  “I am Raguel.” His breath caressed her ear. “I am Raguel. I was in the room when he spoke my name to you. I was there. It is how I know these things. I am Raguel...”

  She drew away, staring at him.

  “It is true,” he breathed, still soft.

  She shook her head. “That is not possible.”

  “It is possible. It is the only explanation, Ilana.”

  She let out a humorless laugh. “That is no explanation at all, comrade... it is an impossibility. No one else was in that room. None but the three of us. I know this.”

  The beautiful man met her gaze. He frowned slightly,
as if trying to decide what else to say.

  In the end, he remained silent.

  She continued to study those smoked-crystal eyes. “No one was there, Comrade. No one. What you say...” She shook her head. “No. I was there. I know this.”

  Again, he did not answer.

  He only watched her face, his gray eyes still, yet filled with ever more infinitely subtle layers. Up close they were even more stunning than they had been from a distance. They really did glow faintly with light, like translucent crystal.

  She watched him study her face, as if willing her to put it together, to remember exactly what transpired in that detective’s office.

  Raguel.

  She remembered the name, of course.

  She also remembered that she’d been alone in that room, with the officer and Golunsky. She remembered Golunsky speaking to someone behind her, taunting her.

  Talking about wings. About feathers. About sex.

  He’d used her, Ilana, to taunt that other person.

  She suspected he’d also used that other person to taunt her.

  It struck her as strange at the time, how convincing he had been. Golunsky spoke with such feeling, such conviction to that other person. She’d dismissed his words as insanity, of course, but she’d wondered what they meant to the man himself. There’d been a bizarre religious cast to some of it, or perhaps a metaphysical one. Truthfully, she’d gotten the impression Golunsky thought he was talking to an angel, based on some of what he’d said. He’d mentioned wings, feathers, referenced heaven and even God himself at one point...

  Now she found herself face to face with someone who not only knew about the contents of that conversation, but claimed to have been there. She knew that was not true. The room had been empty, windowless. No one could have heard them through the walls or doors. She’d checked the room for additional surveillance besides the standard version––so had Obnizov, the homicide detective. Could they have missed it? She thought it unlikely.