Firebird

by Helaine Mario

  CHAPTER 55

  “The beauty of an aged face...”

  Joseph Campbell

  Falling!

  Fingers flinging out, gripping. Muscles burning.

  A voice, calling her name.

  Alexandra’s eyes flew open.

  White! Brighter, this time.

  She turned her head, saw the blurred face of a man. Too close!

  She cried out.

  “Easy, Chica, you’re safe now.” That voice…

  “Garcia?” She took a breath, tried to focus. Without warning, a rush of panic. “Something’s happened! Juliet? Oh, God, Ruby?”

  “Both fine. Your niece is at St. Theresa’s. A few scrapes and a sore throat, but sleeping soundly, according to her Mother Superior. And Ruby is safe with Olivia and Dan.”

  A few scrapes?

  Her breath came out. Nothing made sense. The hazy face took shape, coalesced. Hard edges, dark eyes gazing down at her.

  The mouth moved. “Buenos Dias, Garcia, it’s so good to see you here.”

  “Ouch! Don’t make me laugh! What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you to wake up. Again.” He grinned as he rose to tug at the blinds. Soft October light flooded like water into the room. “It’s morning. Almost seven.”

  Her eyes widened and she struggled to sit up, pulling at the small oxygen tube in her nose. “What is this thing?”

  “Easy, Red, you’re in the hospital. Lenox Hill.”

  “Lenox Hill… I’m in New York?” She gazed around the room in confusion.

  “Si. You were drugged last night. In shock. And burned.”

  Burned.

  His voice vibrated with anger. “You were brought here by ambulance sometime before midnight.”

  Drugged? Burned? What was he talking about? She stared at him, then down at her throbbing, bandaged hands. Burns. Ok. “What happened to me?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  “Nothing.”

  He held out a small bouquet of violets, set them down on the sheet next to her hip. “For valor,” he said softly.

  How did he know she loved violets?

  “Valor?” She shook her head, bewildered.

  He dropped into the guest chair, crossed a booted foot over a jean-clad knee. “Seems you had quite a night, Chica. The good news is, the Doc says your hands will be fine. You’ll be sketching again before you know it. And you can go home in a few hours.” He gazed at her. “After we talk, Red.”

  She looked down at the bandages, trying to order the dark swirl of her thoughts. Out of the darkness, an image slowly took shape.

  A snow covered clearing.

  “There was a snowstorm…” she said slowly. A gabled lodge on the edge of a mountain. “Stratton. I went to Stratton to look for Juliet!” More images crashed into her head. “I was at the Baranski. There was a text message, a photograph of Juliet. Oh, God, there was tape over her mouth! The text told me to come to Stratton.” Her eyes flew to his. “I was so scared for her!”

  “She’s okay,” Garcia reminded her. “You found her. She’s home.”

  She closed her eyes with relief.

  He bent toward her. “The bastard who took her - your niece said that he wore a ski mask.”

  Memory tumbled back. A black ski mask, the terrifying flash of pale blue eyes, on the gondola. “It was that man, Garcia, the faceless blond!”

  He was very still. “The man who’s been stalking you? Are you sure it wasn’t Ivan?”

  Ivan.

  “Oh, damn, why can’t I remember?”

  “Take your time, Red.”

  A silhouette in a flickering room. A deep voice. A bearded face.

  Concentrate.

  And then - “He was there!”

  “The blond?”

  “No, no. I found Ivan, Garcia. He was in the lodge. Ivan is Rens Karpasian!”

  “Karpasian…” He reached for his phone. “You’re sure, Alexandra?”

  “He admitted it.”

  Eyes dark, Garcia moved to the window, murmured into his phone. Then he returned to her. “So you went head to head with Ivan.” He reached out and took hold of her wrist.

  Her breath caught as she felt her skin flare with heat beneath the touch of his fingers. Pulse jumping, she gazed down at his strong hands, unsettling, holding her. She tried to pull away.

  He stared at her bandages for a moment longer and then let her go. “Of all the damned reckless – ”

  “I’m a city girl, Garcia. Apparently I don’t do wilderness very well.”

  He shot her a look.

  “You want to know what I remember? I remember trying to call you! But your blasted phone was turned off. Yes, it would have been safer to wait for you before going to Stratton. But there was no damned way I’d let my sister’s daughter be hurt.”

  “Madre de Dios. You were in danger, Chica, and I –”

  “You would have tried to stop me! You think you can ride in on your white horse like some Knight Valiant, Garcia. But Eve was my sister, Juliet is my niece. No way I’d let you stop me. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

  “Does everything have to be so damned complicated with you?”

  The air crackled between them as they stared at each other in the morning light.

  It was Garcia who broke the silence. “A white horse? No way. Horses scare me,” he admitted in a low, self-mocking voice. “And nobody says ‘valiant’ anymore.”

  “If the boot fits…” she murmured.

  “I don’t have much time, Red. I need answers before I go back to D.C.”

  “I thought you were in D.C.”

  “But you’re here.”

  You’re here.

  “Where else would I be?” He flashed his crooked smile. “Who else would supply this drama in my life?”

  She touched the velvety violets, swallowed. “You said Ivan drugged me,” she said finally. “I remember talking with him. But it’s all still a blur.”

  He nodded. “You said Karpasian admitted he was Ivan. Try to remember, Chica. The drug should be wearing off. I need to know everything he said during your conversation. Both Ivan and your stalker have disappeared, Alexandra. My guess is they’re working together and they’re planning something. We’ve got to find them.“

  Of course. That was why he was here. He needed to know about Ivan.

  He said, “Start at the beginning. What happened after you went back to New York?”

  She closed her eyes, tried to remember. “I worked at the Baranski. I spent time with my daughter, and Juliet. I spoke with a Russian jeweler, hoping to trace the provenance of the Firebird brooch... ” Something important stirred, lingered just on the edge of memory. Think! “He told me the story of a Russian woman…” A snowfilled courtyard, a scarred dancer, a wall of photographs. Her eyes flew open. “Ivan’s gone to her, I’m sure of it.”

  Garcia spiked an eyebrow, leaned closer. “Gone to whom?”

  “Tatyana Danilova. A Russian ballerina. She was Ivan’s first love. She owns the Palace of the Firebird restaurant in the Theater District. I traced her through the brooch. She had old photographs, of the Kirov Ballet… That’s how I discovered Ivan’s identity. They’d had a great romance, until the fire. And last night, at the lodge, I told him that she’s still alive.” She could still hear the disbelief in Ivan’s voice. The pain. “He thought she was dead, all those years…”

  Before she finished speaking, Garcia was on his cell phone once more issuing a string of rapid orders.

  * * * *

  A pool of gold spilled suddenly into the shadowed courtyard, and Ivan caught his breath. A light, in the upstairs corner room.

  Let it be her, he prayed silently. He crossed the stones toward the French doors and rang the buzzer.

  Several minutes passed. He waited, barely able to breathe, while the morning sun filled the small courtyard with pink light.

  Then a sound. The French doors opened and a silver wheelchair rolled slowly to
ward him. Its occupant was wrapped in a deep red shawl that covered her head.

  He stood very still, not breathing, waiting for the chair to come closer.

  As if sensing his presence, the wheelchair stopped in front of him. The figure raised her head. Sunlight lit the velvet shawl.

  “Is that you, Nicky? Did you forget your key again?”

  Ivan fell to his knees in front of her.

  “Tatyanovich!”

  With a gasp of pain, the woman leaned forward into the light and let the cloak fall from her face.

  Her face!

  They stared at each other like two lost children.

  “That voice,” whispered the old ballerina. “But it cannot be...”

  “Tatyanovich.” The endearment caught in his throat, ended in a sob.

  “Sergei? Sergei, is it you?” She thrust out her arms, and the blanket fell unheeded from her knees to the snow. “Come closer! I cannot see you. Am I dreaming?”

  The shock of hearing his childhood name spoken aloud pierced his heart. He bent to her. She reached out, touched his face. He felt the tears, warm and real, on her fingertips. “Sergei, my heart.”

  He pulled back, staring at the scarred face, still so beautiful. He dropped his gaze to the withered dancer’s legs, so still on the metal chair. “Can you stand?” he asked her in Russian.

  “This morning, I can do anything.”

  He drew her slowly to her feet, supporting her. Then with a cry she fell against him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a long time they stood together in the brightening courtyard, arms wrapped tightly around each other, lost in memory and tears.

  “Yesterday was your birthday,” she whispered. “I thought of you all day. Have I conjured you from my thoughts?”

  “I am real,” he whispered against her hair. He pulled away to look down at her face, to move his fingers with a lover’s gentleness over the scars. The pain he felt at that moment was far more wounding than any fire could have caused.

  “Tatyanovich,” he said gently. “I didn’t know.”

  “You’re alive...” she murmured, touching his face with disbelief as if he were a ghost who had somehow taken shape. “You’re alive.”

  “All that matters is that we’ve found each other.”

  “But how…?”

  “Two nights ago you met a woman. Alexandra Marik. She told me where to find you.”

  “I am forever in her debt,” she whispered. “Hold me, Sergei. Just hold me.”

  He looked up at the lightening sky. “It is dangerous for me here, Tatyana. For you, as well. Will you come with me now? I know a place where we can talk without fear.”

  The slender hand on his cheek was still the hand of the girl he had loved. “Take me there, Sergei. I cannot bear to let go of you again.”

  Once more he gathered her close, then settled her gently into her chair.

  In moments, the courtyard was empty.

  * * * *

  Alexandra watched Garcia slip his phone into his jacket. Bright morning sun caught the hard planes of his face, lighting his skin with an amber glow.

  From nowhere, a memory of blazing orange flames. “Sweet Jesus!” She looked up at him with shocked eyes. “I thought it was a nightmare,” she murmured. “But - there was a fire.” Burns. “It was real.”

  “Si. Ivan - Rens Karpasian - left you to die in a fire.” There was a strange note in his voice. “Do you know what he was going to do?”

  She stared at him, then closed her eyes. “He left the lodge, but - he came back. To rescue Juliet!” And then? A man shouting, running into the heart of the flames. “He ran back into the burning lodge, Garcia! Oh, God. Did he survive?”

  He shrugged. “No remains were found in the chalet. His car was located a few hours ago in Bondsville, at the base of the mountain. But Karpasian hasn’t returned to D.C. Personally, I’m hoping that monster is with the devil himself by now!”

  She winced.

  “But I think you’re right. He’s gone to Tatyana Danilova.” He gazed down at her. “It’s what I would have done.”

  What he would have done.

  She looked into the shining dark eyes. I want to be loved like that someday, she thought.

  Get over it. Just give him what he needed, and be done with it. “The drugs are wearing off, Garcia. I told you Ivan admitted the truth. I have the proof. It should be with my clothing, in the closet.”

  He flashed her a questioning look as he retrieved the plastic bag, emptied the contents on the bed.

  She pointed to a small metal rectangle with a triumphant smile. “This is Eve’s recorder. I had it with me in Stratton.”

  “By God, Red. You were wired?”

  “Tucked it right against my heart! It didn’t catch everything, I was wearing a jacket and Ivan moved around too much. So I know it’s not admissible, Counselor, but this isn’t about convicting Ivan in court. I just wanted him to admit the truth. For me.”

  He pressed a button. Whirring silence, static, and then Ivan’s deep, thick voice filled the small room. Moments later, his admission.

  “It’s the ultimate irony, Alexandra. In the end, the ballet dancer became a Russian soldier, albeit a secret one.”

  “You got him,” said Garcia. “He’s ours now.”

  They listened to the voice until there was only silence.

  “Too much is missing for a trial,” she said. “But there’s a certain poetic justice to using Eve’s recorder.”

  “We may have Cause here,” said Garcia. “Enough to reopen Eve’s case, investigate Karpasian, get an arrest warrant. Could even be a silver bullet, with enough circumstantial evidence. It’s finally something we can bring to the dance.”

  He slipped the recorder into his jacket pocket. “I’ll get this to my team right away.”

  “If only...” She hesitated, uncertain.

  “What’s troubling you, Chica?”

  “I can see his face,” she said slowly. “At the lodge. He said he didn’t have Juliet. And he said he didn’t kill my sister, Jon. He was horrified when I accused him of Eve’s murder. For a moment I actually felt sorry for him. I believed him. And now, I can’t help wondering -”

  “Rens Karpasian drugged you, Alexandra. He left you to die in a fire!”

  “No. The drug he gave me was a mild sedative. He just wanted time. And he was so scared of fire that he wouldn’t even light his own fireplace. Why would he destroy his refuge? And why would he choose fire?” She locked her eyes on his. “He came back, Jon, he caught Juliet when she jumped. He ran back into the flames to help me.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly, Chica.”

  “Ivan didn’t start the fire,” she insisted, “I’m certain of that.” She shook her head back and forth. “It was the blond, the man from the gondola.” Quick, light footsteps, a terrifying, whispery voice. “I felt his hands on me! He’s the one who took Juliet. He’s the one who set the fire, I’m sure of it. Not Ivan.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I keep hearing footsteps in my head. Quick, soft, on the lodge stairs. Not Ivan’s steps. He was already gone.” The roar of a collapsing roof rushed into her brain, and she shook her head. “Wherever he is - you won’t find him, Garcia.”

  “We’ll find him, Chica. We’ll find them both.”

  “I didn’t stop him,” she whispered. “I had that damned iron poker in my hand. But when I had the chance - I couldn’t.”

  “Ivan can’t harm anyone now, Alexandra, dead or alive. We know who he is.”

  “You’re wrong, Garcia. Remember the legend. The Firebird always rises from the ashes.”

  More memories, crashing like a waterfall into her head. Flames. A roof. A tower. A voice…

  “I think there was someone else there, too. Waiting for me. In a tower? Not Ivan. If only I could remember…”

  He gave her a long, measured look, was about to say something when there was a quick, loud knock on the door.

  A nurse charged in
to the room bearing a huge bouquet of white roses that hid the entire upper half of her ample body. “Good, you’re awake. And how are we this morning, Mrs. Marik?”

  Garcia glared at the woman as Alexandra smiled. “We are just fine, thank you.”

  “Aren’t these roses gorgeous?” The nurse set the bouquet on the bedside table, dwarfing the tiny spray of violets, and turned to the door. “I’ll be back for your vitals in ten minutes. If your numbers are good we’ll get you on your way home.”

  “I see I’m not your only admirer,” murmured Garcia. “Who bought out the flower shop?” He bent to check the card. “To Alexandra, with love, A,” he read aloud. “A… Anthony?”

  “My brother-in-law’s subtle way of forgiving me for suspecting him,” she said from behind him.

  “Overcompensating,” he muttered as his cell phone rang. “Garcia.”

  He listened, frowned, turned to her with a shake of his head. “The Palace of the Firebird is closed up tight. No one is there.”

  “So now what? Where would Ivan go?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out, Chica. Because if Karpasian’s still alive, he’s got to move fast.”

  “I was so sure he would go to Tatyana,” she murmured. A flash of memory. “Last night, he said he was going home. Could he be on his way to Russia?”

  Garcia shook his head. “Not before he does what he came to do. Whatever he’s planned, it’s big. And soon. I’ve got my team looking at every significant political event planned in Washington for the next 72 hours. And any event that might have involved Rens Karpasian. That means hundreds of places, people, checkpoints.”

  “Garcia…” She wanted to ask him if she would see him again, but the words wouldn’t come. She watched him move to the door, stop and turn back to her. The dark eyes held an expression she couldn’t read.

  “You are no day at the beach, Chica.”

  “If you want beaches, Garcia, go to Miami.”

  He stood for a moment longer, gazing down at her as if he wanted to say something more. “Vaya con Dios,” he said finally.

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER 56

  “Cover her face...”

  John Webster