by Glenn Meade
He stepped over to the door, shook his head. “Looks like you made a big mistake taking her into your bed, Mila.”
Shavik crushed out his cigarette. “Don’t rub it in.”
“My old man called.”
“And?”
“When I told him about Angel, he wasn’t happy. But it gets worse. He says the Lane woman’s a witness.”
“To what?”
“The fun and games we had at the Devil’s Hill.”
“How does he know?”
“He says he’ll explain when he gets here Sunday.”
“I don’t like it. It’s too much of a coincidence. First the musician nosing around, now his wife.”
“That’s what I thought. You think there’s a connection to Angel?”
“I’ve no idea but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’ll get it out of her. It’ll be interesting to hear what she has to say once the scopolamine starts to work. Are you coming?”
“In a few minutes.”
Arkov grinned again. “What’s the matter, Mila? Don’t have the stomach for the dirty work anymore?”
• • •
Shavik stood there, lighting another cigarette, feeling angry with himself.
He’d let his guard down, been a complete fool. And now he had to deal with Angel. He would do what he had to do.
Kanun and besa, loyalty and secrecy.
He should never have invited her into his house, never have trusted her.
Just as his father told him; trust no one.
His father.
Long gone.
It all came back to him in a powerful flash of memory.
He was eighteen. A bright, hopeful young boy with a thousand dreams.
Until one day he came home and found his father hanging from a rope in the basement, still wearing his lawyer’s dark suit, his face blue, eyes bulging. He cut his father down, tried to revive him. But even before he put his mouth to the blue lips he knew it was hopeless. Afterward, he had never felt so alone. The man he adored was gone.
He could barely recall his mother; he was five when she died—brown eyes, skin the scent of soap, a ready smile—that was it.
But he never forgot his father.
Why did he take the coward’s route?
Why?
He could never answer that question.
He took another drag on his cigarette, looked at his image in the mirror.
Where was that bright, hopeful young boy with a thousand dreams?
Long gone.
Having no one left close to him, did that explain his need to belong?
His desire to be a part of a family, corrupt as it was?
Witnessing so much death, he felt immune to it, and yet always the image of his father hanging from the end of a noose jolted his heart.
He crushed his emotion as he stubbed out his cigarette. He’d learned to do that. Emotions bled you, made you weak.
What happened during the retreat from the Devil’s Hill still disturbed him.
The killings, the butchery.
The light died in his eyes, as if at that moment he went to a place inside himself that he shared with no one. Sometimes faces came to him in his nightmares: women young and old, and the small children, the dead and the cries of the dying. A sea of crimson bodies on the snowy ground. And one body in particular, that haunted him.
From his inside pocket he removed the photograph. He racked his mind as he stared at the face in the snapshot.
The Lane woman looked familiar, yet he still couldn’t recall where he had seen her before.
Where?
Where did he know her from?
63
* * *
TENNESSEE
“The good news is the hemorrhaging has stopped. And your blood and urine samples are okay. However . . .”
The doctor put down the charts, looked at her more seriously.
Carla felt a jolt of distress in the pit of her stomach. Something’s not right.
“I’d like you to tell me about this blast, ma’am.”
“What do you need to know?”
He spread his hands, shrugged, folded his arms. “Whatever you can tell me.”
“It’s relevant?”
“It may be.”
“My husband was killed.”
Faintly startled, the doctor unfolded his arms. “I’m deeply sorry to hear that.”
“Why is this important, Doctor?”
“Who checked you out medically, ma’am?”
“The doctors at Mount Sinai.”
He left eyebrow twitched. “It’s a good hospital. They know their business.”
“Is there something wrong? Please tell me.”
He gave a sigh, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger a few moments.
“You’ve had a show of blood. A little more than a show really. A minor hemorrhage. It can happen anytime during a pregnancy. When it does, it’s always a concern.”
“Will the baby be okay?”
“Your hemorrhage may mean something serious, it may not. You could well proceed to the end of your pregnancy without a further problem. But right now, we want to try to ensure you don’t miscarry.”
“How?”
“Medication and rest. Any kind of exertion is out. That and we’ll need to wrap you up in cotton wool.”
“For how long?”
“A week. At the very least until after the weekend.”
“I . . . I can’t stay here that long. It’s impossible.”
“So, you’re a busy lady?”
“Yes.”
“Know what I noticed right away about you when they brought you in here? I mean apart from the fact that you looked half worried to death.”
“What?”
“You’re exhausted, stressed-out.” He glanced at her chart for a moment. “Your blood pressure’s up a little, too. Anything been bothering you lately? Anything you’d care to talk about?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe something that you’ve been stressing over? You don’t have to give me exact details if you don’t want. Maybe you’ve been working long hours, or traveling a lot?”
“I . . . I guess all those things.”
“Know what they say? Stress and fatigue don’t show up in autopsies.”
The doctor slipped back on his glasses.
“In pregnancy, stress can help to induce a hemorrhage like yours. Which is why you really need to kick back your feet and relax. No visitors, just R-and-R. The man who brought you, he’s Ronnie Kilgore, right?”
“You know him?”
“I fish out of his dock. He know you’re pregnant?”
“Yes. He’s a friend. I’m staying at his marina.”
“I’ll explain to Ronnie that I want you to rest and that we’ll monitor you.”
“Could I have a few minutes alone with him?”
“Sure you can, but remember what I said about rest.”
The doctor winked. “Let’s try and turn you into a southern lady of leisure. No more hill trekking. And you can forget about shooting.”
“Why?”
“Firing off a few rounds now and then from the back porch to scare off a snake or a bear, that’s okay. But blasting away at the range with any kind of regularity, no ma’am. Some studies suggest too much shooting can be a danger to the fetus.”
“Really?”
“The noise, the air displacement, the jolt the body receives when you shoot a heavy-caliber round in particular.”
“Do you think I’ll carry my baby to term?”
“I’m hopeful.” He patted her arm. “But I’d don’t want you taking any more risks, you hear?”
BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
None of it made any sense, none at all.
Kelly’s mind was turning somersaults as he cruised down the mountain road on his way back to Sarajevo.
Mila Shavik took the boy
and his father to the convent.
Then he showed up days later with drugs and medicines.
Shavik, killer, and savior, risking his life to help others. It didn’t add up.
A brutal war criminal carrying out an act of mercy.
It puzzled Kelly.
It would certainly puzzle Carla Lane.
He slowed his speed and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He scrolled to the international number, stabbed the call key, and seconds later heard Carla Lane’s voice message kick in.
“Mrs. Lane, it’s Sean Kelly. I wonder if you’d call me back as soon as you get this? I have some remarkable information. And I know for a fact Mila Shavik was the last person to have contact with Luka and—”
Kelly heard a car engine roar as it sped up behind him. He glimpsed a flash of blue in his rearview mirror.
The vehicle nudged his Renault.
His body jolted violently.
Kelly lost control of the steering wheel for barely a second but that was all it took. The Renault struck the metal road barrier with a clang and a shower of sparks.
“Dear Lord . . . no!”
Kelly screamed as his car smashed through the barrier.
For a split second he floated on air.
Then the Renault nosed down with a sickening sensation, and crashed into the chasm, exploding in a ball of orange flame.
64
* * *
TENNESSEE
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“I didn’t think it would matter.”
“Carla, you’re ten weeks pregnant. That doesn’t matter?”
“I . . . I didn’t intend to harm my baby. I guess I’ve been stressed-out. Blinded by anger, by rage. By my desperation to find Luka.”
“But you know now.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you’re still going ahead?”
“Ronnie, don’t you see? Luka’s like a wound in me that’ll never heal.”
“You want to know what I see?”
“What?”
“A woman who’s torn between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
She didn’t speak.
He saw the tension around her eyes and mouth, and knew she was struggling to control her emotions. “What about Angel?”
“I haven’t heard from her.”
“So assuming you don’t hemorrhage again, you’re going to leave hospital tomorrow and drive to New Jersey, is that the plan?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Try and get in touch with Angel. Find Shavik’s house.”
“You’ve got scared written all over your face.”
“Of course I’m scared.”
“And it’s not a plan you’ve got, it’s a death wish.”
“I’ll try to come up with a better plan.”
“The doc said you need to rest up for at least a week.”
“I can’t stay here that long, Ronnie. As much as I want to protect my baby I can’t let this chance slip by. Time may not be on our side. Angel said we’ve only got a small window. But it’s getting smaller, maybe even closing.”
She looked back at him. “I just can’t go through life not knowing what happened to Luka.”
“How long can you stay here?”
“I’ll have to see how I feel.”
“It’s a choice between Luka and your baby. That’s really what you’re faced with, isn’t it?”
“I . . . I don’t want to think about it right now.”
He saw her lips quiver.
“Carla, you’re not even physically well enough to confront Shavik.”
“I’m feeling better.”
“You’re in a hospital, under care. You’re bound to.”
“Will you stop this?”
“You know what I think? Sometimes you’re still that headstrong, resolute ten-year-old girl who survived the rape camp, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“You don’t get it, do you, Carla? What do you think is going to happen to you if things go wrong?”
“Ronnie, please, I don’t need to hear this right now.”
“You bet you do. You think Shavik and his friends would let you go? What about your baby, then?”
She stared back at him.
“I promised I’d come back for Luka. I promised to keep him safe. This could be the only chance I’ll ever get to keep to that promise. I owe it to him.”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter? Have you changed your mind about helping me, Ronnie?”
“You want my honest advice?”
“Was that a yes or a no?”
“Suddenly I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you’re pregnant brought it home. That really you need to consider the life of the baby you’re carrying.”
“I never stop thinking about it. But what about Luka’s life?”
“You don’t even know for certain he’s alive. And I don’t mean to belittle your brother’s memory, but Luka’s in the past. Your baby’s the present. Think about that.”
Carla said nothing.
He turned to go. “Regan’s outside. She wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You told her?”
“Only that you’re pregnant.”
“What did she say?”
“She’ll be there if you need her. Do me one favor?”
“What?”
“Think hard about what I said. Let go of your hate. Let go of your obsession with killing Shavik and his kind.”
“I can’t.”
• • •
He stepped out into the hall. Regan was pacing the floor, drinking coffee from a plastic cup.
“How’s she doing?”
“The bleeding’s stopped. The doc says she needs to rest up.”
“And the baby?”
“Still okay.”
“Are you all right, Ronnie?”
“Why?”
“You look mixed-up. Even angry.”
“Can you keep an eye on Carla for now?”
“You’ve got to go?”
“I’ve got supplies to fetch in Knoxville and won’t be back until late. I want to see Josh first.”
“He was fine when I left him. I’ll make sure he’s okay. Go do what you have to do.”
“Thanks.”
“Looks to me like you haven’t slept all night. You ought to get some rest yourself.”
“Later.”
“You worried about anything in particular?”
He didn’t answer, turned to go. Regan put a hand on his arm.
“Hey, big brother, what’s really going on with you and Carla?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shooting every day, spending all that time together. What’s the deal?”
“Who says there’s one?”
“I ain’t no dingbat. You spent more time with your truck than you have with a woman in the last four years.”
“So?”
“All of a sudden it’s like you’re coming alive. I saw the way you looked at her at dinner. It’s the same look you got now.”
“What look?”
“You’re concerned. You care about her a lot. Don’t you?”
“Regan, the woman just buried her husband.”
“That ain’t your fault and you didn’t answer the question.”
He tugged on his hat.
She squeezed his arm as he went to go. “I guess I never thought I’d see the day when Ronnie Kilgore felt something for a woman again. That’s a good thing, ain’t it, Ronnie?”
• • •
The door opened a few moments later and the doctor returned. He checked Carla’s blood pressure and pulse.
“Your pressure’s still high. Your pulse, too. How are you feeling?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“We don’t give sedatives to pregnant women, but we’ll give you something to lower your blood pressure. You’re exhausted, so I’m pretty sure you�
�ll sleep.”
“Doctor, I really can’t stay here for a week.”
“It could be longer, or less. All depends.”
“On what?”
He wrote on her chart. “The body’s an unpredictable machine. It can rattle on for years, long after someone should have kicked the bucket. Or sometimes the very fit can drop dead.”
He half smiled, hung the chart on the end of the bed.
“Not that you’re in danger of dying. But simply put, you’re in God’s hands. Though we’ll do our best to tip those hands in your favor. By the way, there was a lady waiting outside, Ronnie’s sister. I told her to head on home, you’re going to be resting for a while.”
The doctor left, closing the door softly. When it opened again the nurse returned with a glass of water and some pills. Carla swallowed them and drank the water.
The nurse left and a little later, Carla felt overcome by exhaustion.
The last thing she saw before she surrendered to sleep was Luka’s face staring up at her through a curtain of falling show.
65
* * *
When Ronnie let himself into the cabin, it was almost dark.
He heard music down the hall and found Josh asleep on his bed, his wheelchair jammed next to it. His head lay on his pillow, his mouth half open, the bedsheet crumpled in a ball at the bottom of his feet.
His son was still dressed in a T-shirt and an old pair of Dockers cargo shorts, MTV on, the volume low.
Ronnie killed it with the remote. He unfurled the bedsheet, draped it over Josh. He pulled up a chair and sat.
Letting out a sigh, he leaned over and stroked his son’s hair.
Next to the bed, a metal support bar curved out from the wall to the floor. Josh had long ago learned the art of hauling himself from the wheelchair.
The room was covered in wall posters just like any normal kid: rock bands, baseball players, and a pouty, pretty young Hollywood actress he could never remember the name of.
The shelves were stuffed, mostly with toys left over from childhood: a bunch of old DVDs and games, a Toy Story “Woody” cowboy hat and a grinning, plastic Buzz Lightyear. Furry characters from Monsters, Inc.
That was the one difference with Josh: most boys his age long ago discarded such childish things; his son clung to them. Boxes of old toys cluttered the garage because Josh refused to part with them.