by Glenn Meade
This time the woman’s voice answered. “Yeah?”
“Is that Angel?”
“Who is this?”
The woman’s voice sounded defensive, hoarse from sleep or cigarettes, she couldn’t tell which. A radio or TV was on in the background, the noise fading as it was turned down.
“Angel, my name is Carla Lane.”
There was total silence.
“Are you still there?”
Carla could hear the woman breathing. Five more seconds passed, the silence unbearable.
“Angel, my husband was Jan Lane.”
“I know who you are. Listen, you don’t ever call me on this number again, do you hear me?”
“Just who are you?”
“You don’t know?”
“If I did I wouldn’t be asking. But I can always find out.”
“How?”
“By giving the police your number.”
“Listen, that really wouldn’t be a good idea. Not unless you want more trouble than you can handle.”
“Then you and I need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I think you know what.”
A few moments’ silence. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
“Let me give you my number.”
“I’ve already got it.”
And the line hummed dead.
• • •
Five minutes passed.
And another five.
“I know who you are.” How did the woman know her number? Had it simply showed up on her cell when she made the call or did the woman mean she already had it?
By the time fifteen minutes passed, Carla knew the woman wasn’t going to call her back. She went to call the number again just as a knock came on her door. The wind gusted, rattling the glass.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Ronnie.”
She opened the door and he stood there, carrying the flashlight, the trees behind him tossed by the wind. The night sky stained black and blue with inky clouds.
He tipped his hat. “You got everything you need?”
“Yes, thanks.”
He looked straight into her eyes. “I just wanted to make sure, Carla.”
“Of what?”
“You really know what you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hunting these men down.”
“Yes, I’m very sure.”
“You know what I figure? That you really need to think this through. That your mind’s being clouded by revenge. You want to settle scores.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I’m sure you will. But the problem with settling scores is that it’s always emotional, and likely to impair your judgment. Are you ready for the consequences if things go wrong?”
“Such as?”
“The men you’re hunting coming after you, maybe even killing you.”
Carla fell silent.
“Aren’t you afraid, Carla?”
“The thought of confronting Shavik frightens me half to death. I know the savagery he’s capable of. But I have to do it.”
“Won’t you at least think all this through a little more?”
“I already have.”
He paused. “How do I contact you?”
“I’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow night from New York to Rome, with a connection to Dubrovnik, so I’ll be gone a few days. But you can always reach me on my cell.” She jotted on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
“Why the trip?”
“They matched my DNA to remains they found at a massacre site not far from the camp.”
“I’m sorry. Did they find your father?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been too terrified to ask who they’ve found.”
Distant thunder rumbled.
“You better get some sleep. You’ll need it with all the traveling.”
The strain showed, her voice full of emotion. “To be honest, I’m dreading going anywhere near the camp.”
“I can understand that, too.”
“I never thought such horror and cruelty could exist in the world. It’s the one place I never want to return to.”
She bit her lip hard, as if the words she spoke were the most painful she’d ever uttered.
He touched her arm. “We’ll talk about it some more when you get back, okay?”
He opened the cabin door. A warm gust blew across the veranda.
“The storm ought to break in the middle of the night. If your electricity is knocked out, there’s a flashlight in the nightstand drawer.”
“Thanks, Ronnie.”
His eyes lingered on her face as he tipped his hat again.
“One more thing. Shavik’s top of your list, right?”
“Yes.”
“And Arkov?”
“He’s just a pawn. I’m after the king.”
• • •
She watched from the window as he walked toward his cabin.
He seemed like a good man, a man she could trust. Her cell rang. She answered.
Angel, sounding angry this time. “How did you get my number?”
“I found it written in Jan’s briefcase.”
“Is that all you found?”
“What do you mean?”
“Any papers? Or notes?”
“No. Just some names written down. What kind of notes do you mean?”
Angel didn’t answer the questions, but she heard her swear.
“Did you tell the police your husband had my number?”
“No.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. I knew nothing until I found your name.”
“What are you going to tell the police now?”
“I don’t know. First, I want us to meet and talk. You and me, face-to-face.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t do that. It’s too risky.”
“Why?”
Carla heard no reply.
“Goodbye, Angel. I guess next time you’ll be hearing from the cops after they trace you through your number. You can explain to them.”
“No, wait! Look . . . I’ll meet. Say when.”
She got into JFK the next morning. Her flight to Europe didn’t leave until 7 p.m. “Early tomorrow afternoon. I’m assuming from your cell number you’re near New York?”
“Near enough.”
“Let’s meet somewhere in Manhattan.”
A brief silence. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Ten minutes before I’ll text you what section we’ll meet in.”
“When?”
“Noon. Come alone. If I see anyone with you, you can forget it, I’ll walk away.”
“How will I know you?”
“You won’t. I’ll know you.”
• • •
Carla lay on the bed, trying to sleep.
She thought of Jan as her hand caressed her stomach.
Through a crack in the curtain she saw the night was dark and ominous. She could feel the air pressure change. It would be a violent storm.
The kind of storm that used to scare Luka so much, just like when the shelling became terrifying.
When he’d cling to her, frightened, holding his piece of blue blanket for comfort.
She took two of the green pills, flicked out the light, and fell asleep just after midnight, wondering about Angel.
Who was she?
What was her relationship to Jan?
Why did Jan feel the need to keep his connection to her a secret?
Was there more to their relationship?
Recently or in the past?
The questions tormented her until finally she drifted off to sleep.
A little after 2 a.m. she woke with a start.
A ferocious storm raged outside.
Gusts shrieked, thunder exploded, lightning flashed.
When she closed her eyes again she thought she could hear little Luka’s voice, silenced for so long, cry out to her in the wind,
pleading with her to keep him safe, begging her not to forget him.
And there, lying in the dark, feeling a tear stream down her face, Carla promised that she never would.
PART FOUR
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* * *
She was beautiful.
Tall, blond, leggy, with great cheekbones.
Her hair looked like it might be a wig. She reminded Carla of an expensive call girl she once subpoenaed as a witness, who went by the name of Destiny Star.
Angel carried a faux leopard skin purse, and wore a beige coat and black high heels. Her legs looked tanned, her make up a little overdone with a slash of bright pink lipstick.
She was also the only adult woman Carla saw in that section of the Met. The others a gaggle of schoolkids and their male teacher. They passed her, heading toward the museum store.
Angel was reading a catalog when she looked up, eyeing Carla and scanning the hallway. She jerked her head to indicate a gallery on the right.
Carla followed.
The gallery was empty except for Angel, studying a painting by some eighteenth-century artist with a French-sounding name Carla had never heard of. Angel’s dyed blond hair job looked expensive. Thick faux ivory bracelets on each wrist, she wore a classy gold watch with some costume rings. They exchanged a quick nod.
She guessed Angel was about her own age, except she had a dancer’s figure, curves in all the right places. Ivory-painted nails matched her bracelets and she clutched a leather purse. You only needed one word to describe Angel.
Sex.
Carla had visited the museum once when she was in high school. She remembered almost nothing about the trip, except a cute dark-haired boy named Brad. She went a few times after that with Jan, whenever Paul visited New York.
“So, tell me what’s been going on with you and Jan.”
Angel stared back at her.
“You’re giving me a look, Mrs. Lane.”
“What kind of look?”
“Like I was having an affair with your husband.”
“Were you?”
“Do you really need an answer to that question?”
“Right this minute I feel I do.”
“Jan and I were friends.”
“Friends?”
Carla felt a catch in her heart. Angel’s accent was Jersey. But there was a hint of another one in the background, only she couldn’t tell from where. All she knew was she felt an instant dislike toward this woman.
“It’s really a long story, Mrs. Lane.”
“I’ve got time.”
“What was between Jan and me wasn’t an affair. It was something else.”
“Really? What’s something else?”
“We’ll get to that, I promise. You and I have more in common than you might think.”
“I kind of doubt it.” Carla’s stare lingered on Angel’s face as it turned to look at the painting. She had great cheekbones, a perfect profile.
“Why meet here?”
“I studied art in college. The Met is also where Jan and I used to meet.”
“Come again?”
“Don’t rush me, Mrs. Lane. It’s been hard enough for me to meet you here, face-to-face, believe me.”
“Why is it that all of a sudden my legs are shaking? And why am I thinking that art isn’t what you do for a living?”
“Is what I do so important?”
“Humor me, Angel. I’m trying to get a handle on this.”
“I work in a club.”
“I’m assuming not a golf club?”
“Got a sense of humor, haven’t you?”
“It’s sarcasm.”
“I’m a stripper.”
“Stripper?”
“Stripper, lap dancer. You could have added hooker once upon a time but that’s all in the past, as they say.”
Carla felt her heart race, letting it all sink in.
The silence lingered.
“Is that where you met Jan, in the strip club?”
“Sometimes.”
Angel gently bit her lower lip, leaving it shiny pink.
Carla felt a rush of blood pounding in her temples.
“Tell me how you and Jan came to meet.”
“The circumstances?”
“Everything you think might be relevant.”
“We first met a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Do you know anything about Franz Yakov, Mrs. Lane?”
Before Carla could reply, Angel looked back at the painting and said, “He was an artist. He used to say—”
“That there’s always a secret part of our lives we keep hidden until the day we die. Or at least until we’re found out.”
Angel looked back at her, impressed, one plucked eyebrow raised. “That’s right.”
“Jan told me that quote. Maybe he told it to you, too?”
“Yes, he did. We both had secrets. Not the kind that you share.”
“If this is going somewhere, I’d like to get to it, fast. Because right now, all I’m getting is a headache.”
“I loved Jan.”
“What . . . ?”
“When I saw on the TV news that he died, I cried, believe me.”
“Loved him?”
“He was a good, kind, and decent man. A very brave man.”
“Kind, good, decent, and brave, I can take. Even the crying. It’s the love bit that has me worried.”
“I meant I loved and admired him as a human being.”
“And I loved and admired him as a husband. So let’s cut to the chase here, Angel, and put me out of my misery. Where’s this leading?”
“I think you’re the only one who can answer that. What do you want from me, Mrs. Lane? You made the call.”
Carla remembered the names scrawled on the paper with Angel’s. “Apart from the truth about you and Jan, probably the same thing Jan wanted. Help in finding the men he was hunting down, trying to bring to justice. I’m assuming you know about them?”
Silence.
“Don’t you?”
A tiny nod. “I helped Jan in whatever way I could.”
“Helped him how?”
“With information.”
“What kind?”
“About the men he was looking for. I also told Jan he should be very careful. But he wasn’t, unfortunately.”
“Explain.”
“Simply looking for these people puts your life in danger. Probe too much and they’ll get to hear about it. They have eyes and ears everywhere, including paid informers in the police. I warned Jan.”
Angel looked at her. “Once they know they’re being watched, that someone’s becoming interested in their activities, they’ll act ruthlessly and kill whoever’s nosing into their affairs. I told Jan that.”
Angel paused. “Like there was this guy, a small-time journalist with a local paper. He used to play pool in one of the bars where they’d hang out. He’s playing one day and hears their accents. He starts asking where they’re from, their backgrounds, what they do. It’s really not a big deal, but he’s really curious, asking the wrong questions.”
“And?”
“A few days later they found him with his hands nailed down on the pool table, like he’d been crucified. The police were called. The guy wouldn’t say a word about who did it, wouldn’t press charges. Claimed it was a little DIY accident. You understand?”
“I’m beginning to. Will you help me?”
“Nothing deters you, does it?”
“I won’t allow myself to be intimidated by people like that. I saw enough of them in the courts.”
“Jan said you were a lawyer. I’m guessing if I don’t help you’ll involve the police, right?”
“You’re bright, I’ll give you that.”
“And you’re being smart.”
“Something about you brings out the worst in me, Angel. I don’t know why. Or maybe I do but I’m afraid to say. And let’s just avoid any misunderstanding. By men you mean Boris
Arkov and Mila Shavik, right?”
“Yes. Do you really need to ask?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jan told me about your experience in the camp.”
“You’re saying he did it because of me?”
“Probably. But a lot of innocent people suffered because of those two. Jan simply wanted justice. And by the way, don’t contact the police, you’ll get nowhere.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because both men will vanish if they learn from their informers they’re being watched by the police. I’ve no idea if their investigation’s going anywhere. But I bet if it suddenly did, Shavik and Arkov would disappear.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I’d take bets on it. They may be even planning to flee right now. So we may not have much of a window.”
“We?”
“I’ll help you, because of Jan.”
“No other reason?”
“Because I promised I’d help him bring those men to justice.”
“That’s telling me nothing. Why did you offer?”
“We don’t need to talk about that right now.”
“Did you two have a shared past?”
“How perceptive of you, Mrs. Lane.”
“Tell me.”
Angel looked at her watch. “That’s a story meant for another day. Right now, I have to be someplace. I have one question for you.”
“Ask away.”
“What do you intend to do with Shavik and Arkov?”
“See that they pay for their crimes. Every last one.”
Angel considered. “Good.” She turned to go. “Once I have some useful information I’ll contact you. We can meet. But as they say in show business, don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Why can’t you help me now?”
“After what they did to Jan, I need to protect myself. And please, don’t try to follow me, check up on me, or find out where I live. That would only put us both in grave danger.”
Angel started to move away. Carla clutched her arm. “Not so fast. Give me something to make me believe I can trust you.”
“I know one of the men responsible for Jan’s death.”
“Who?”
“The man I live with.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mila Shavik.”
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