Dark Sky Falling

by Richard Ryker

  Alyssa said, “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Bite your nails. It’s bad for you.”

  “Says who?” Kamila looked down at her ragged nails.

  “My dad. There’s lots of germs on your fingernails…”

  Kamila put the cards down. “I changed my mind. I don’t want to play.”

  A look of hurt crossed Alyssa’s face. “You just have to learn—”

  “I said I don’t want to.”

  Alyssa scooped up the cards and put them back in the pack and moved over to the bed.

  She’ll get over it, Kamila thought. It was a stupid game and, like most games, a waste of time.

  There were more important things to think about, to focus her energy on. She imagined her father’s joy when Kamila transferred the girl, his only grandchild, over to him. Anna had always been his favorite daughter, yet he had never forgiven Anna for leaving her family behind, for starting a family with Marcus, the infidel American. Now her father would realize that she, Kamila, could be important too.

  Knowing that taking Alyssa would get Marcus’s attention or, more to the point, punish him for not keeping his promise—that was just icing on the cake. Marcus wouldn’t expect Kamila to be so smart, or so devious. She had learned from her father, the rebel leader, that the element of surprise should never be underestimated.

  The only person who knew about her plans was her boyfriend Aazim. In hindsight, telling him was a mistake. She had told him off over the IM, but she did miss him. Kamila had asked Aazim to come with her back to Chechnya. She told him that she needed him, wanted him to be with her. When he refused, she had become angry and called him a coward. It wasn’t for love that she wanted him along. It was for protection, mostly, and someone to talk to besides the girl.

  It was probably better he didn’t come, because her father wouldn’t like him anyway, precisely because Aazim wasn’t good for anything. He wasn’t even man enough to marry her when she let him have her.

  It wasn’t like it was her first time, though, so technically he didn’t owe her anything. That gift she could have given a husband, something sacred and alive, one of the few things left alive in her, had been stolen by Russian soldiers long before she had met Aazim.

  When she was eighteen years old, Kamila’s father had been deeply involved in guerilla warfare on the side of the Chechen rebels and had forbidden Kamila from leaving the apartment building. So it was against her father’s wishes that she left the house one day to visit the ruined market where her mother and sister had been killed in a Russian missile attack. Her father refused to visit the memorial with her. They were gone, he had said, and there was no sense thinking about the dead every day. She hated him for his matter-of-fact approach to death, for not being alive enough to grieve for his own wife and daughter. Why couldn’t he at least see that she, Kamila, had a heart? That she still loved them even if he did not?

  Wishing—not for the first time—that her father were the one who had been killed, Kamila made the trip to the memorial. On the way, she gathered a handful of white and yellow wildflowers that had pressed through the rubble of what used to be Grozny.

  Even the Russian army could not entirely annihilate spring.

  A tall fence around the debris prevented anyone from entering. Signs with names and messages to those who had died were tied to the fence, as were hundreds of flowers, many limp, sapped of whatever charm they once possessed. Kamila walked up to the fence and kneeled. She pulled out a string and began threading it through the fence and into a bow to hold the bouquet firm.

  When she stood, her shoulder met a waiting hand. The hand turned her body and she saw it belonged to a Russian soldier no taller than Kamila, even in his boots. His eyes were blue and bloodshot, the combination reminding her of the colors of the Russian flag. He mumbled something that she didn’t understand.

  Kamila put her head down and tried to walk around him.

  She didn’t see, but felt, the soldier’s fist slam into the side of her head.

  Later, she chastised herself for not being more alert, for not anticipating what happened next. At least, she told herself, she had kept her balance after that first sucker-punch, didn’t give him the pleasure of knocking her down.

  Kamila blinked, shook away the sharp pain and ringing in her ears. Now there were four other soldiers, standing a step back from the little one who had hit her. They were laughing and clapping now, so the little soldier raised his hand again. Instead of wincing, she grabbed his arm and shoved it back.

  Kamila turned toward the street and noticed a police car on the other side of the road. The Grozny police were not Russian, they were Chechens approved by Moscow. The Chechen, one of her own people, would understand, could stop the invaders.

  She darted across the highway as drivers honked and shouted but slowed to let her pass. Halfway across, the little soldier wrapped his hand around her hair and pulled her back, locking an arm around her neck.

  Years later, she would remember the passing vehicles, slowing down enough to get a good look at her, the terror on their faces that must have mirrored hers, knowing what was going to happen, but doing nothing. Nothing. Trying to stand, but with her neck and body twisted in the grip of the Russian, she pleaded for help in the direction of the police officer. This seemed to amuse the soldiers, and they brought her over and stood her up in front of the Grozny officer.

  “You want this little brat?” The little soldier asked.

  “Please…don’t let them take me,” Kamila said, her voice frayed.

  The officer, who looked as though he was about to wet himself, said, “No.”

  “So we can do what we want with her?” the little soldier said.

  The police officer, a Chechen in his forties, looked into Kamila’s eyes.

  Kamila breathed deep, hoping that with more breath, if she said it slower, he would understand. “Help me. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Are you going to help her, Mr. Police?” The little Russian asked in a mocking tone.

  “He probably has a daughter just like her,” another soldier said.

  Kamila reached for the officer and held onto his arm. “They’ll kill me.”

  She looked at him and tears were in his eyes.

  I am going to be raped and killed and he is crying, she thought.

  “What are you going to do, police man?” the little soldier said, pointing his rifle at the police officer’s head. “Answer me!”

  The officer, looking at the soldier’s boots, answered, “Nothing.”

  “Good,” the soldier said. He shoved the butt of his rifle into the officer’s abdomen and left him bent over, his powerlessness no greater than it had been a few minutes earlier. Just more palpable.

  “You coward!” Kamila shouted at the Chechen, and spit on him, which led the soldiers to cackle once again. She tried to pull away but they had her, and all of the kicking, biting, and spitting did nothing to stop them.

  The little man took her first while two others held her down. Then the others took their turns.

  When they finished they left her in the burned out building where they had cheated her of what was supposed to be hers to give away. Years later, Kamila would laugh at the way Americans said you “lost” your virginity. Losing had nothing to do with it. You either gave it away or it was stolen, and hers was stolen.

  When she returned home, she did not tell her father what happened, but told him she had gotten into a fight with another girl and had been cut on her face. Her father beat her for going out alone, for what might have happened to her. He never learned what the Russians did that day, or other days like that one, or about the miscarriage two months later.

  Now, Kamila pressed her eyes tight, to ward off the pain, to keep it quarantined, where others could not take it, make it their own, use it against her. Kamila ran her thumb across the scar on her cheek, the one the soldiers had given her. It was
to remind her, they said, this is what happens when you fight back. A scar for everyone to see. Forever.

  It didn’t matter anymore. In a few more days, Kamila would have enough money and then she would take Alyssa to Grozny, start looking for Kamila’s father. Kamila would protect Alyssa, as much as it was her job to do so. Then again, she thought, we all have to learn some things the hard way.

  Chapter 18

  Back in her room, Stormy opened her laptop to do a search for print shops near the Metropol. Marcus was downstairs asking the concierge for the same information. She didn’t understand why he didn’t want to ask the reporter for help. It was worth trying, even if it was his ex-girlfriend’s idea.

  Never rely on anyone else—that was Marcus’s view of the world. She hadn’t noticed that about him until Alyssa’s disappearance. She knew it wasn’t fair to judge his character under these circumstances. But there was a question there—could she be with a man who always refused help? More important, was his stubbornness getting in the way of finding Alyssa?

  It wasn’t the only question she had about Marcus. She mulled over Marcus’s interaction with Jen. He had never mentioned having a girlfriend in Moscow. Then again, Stormy hadn’t revealed the minutiae of every relationship she had been in either.

  She cringed at the idea. There had been some pretty bad ones.

  Marcus’s cell phone buzzed. He had left it on the bed, next to his suitcase. Unidentified caller. She answered, “Hello?”

  “Hello?” a small voice questioned.

  “Yes?”

  “I have the wrong number.” She couldn’t be older than eleven or twelve.

  “Wait. Is this….Alyssa?”

  The girl replied, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Stormy. I’m a friend of your dad.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m going to get him.” She looked toward the door. What was taking him so long? “Alyssa, can you tell me where you are?”

  “We came to Russia on the airplane. She said it was for a vacation. That dad would be here.” Alyssa’s voice quivered. “Kamila’s acting worse and worse.”

  “It’s going to be alright sweetie,” Stormy said. “Where are you now?”

  Stormy walked into the hallway. No sign of Marcus.

  “Aunt Kamila couldn’t go anywhere else. We’re still in the same place as when we got here. I think she works somewhere…I don’t know where.”

  “You’re in Moscow?”

  “She makes me stay here alone. I can’t find anyone who speaks English. I found the phone...”

  Stormy pushed hard on the elevator call button. “You did good, Alyssa. We’re going to find you, okay? We’re here in Moscow.”

  “She’s coming back. I have to go. She can’t find out—”

  “Alyssa, wait.”

  There was a click and Alyssa was gone.

  The elevator door opened and she collided with Marcus.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Marcus, its Alyssa. She’s here…”

  “Here?”

  “In Moscow. She called your phone.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened. “Where in Moscow?”

  “I think she was going to tell me—”

  “What did she say? What number did she call from?”

  He grabbed the phone.

  “It’s blocked.” Stormy paused. “Alyssa said Kamila is working.”

  Marcus closed his eyes, ran his hand up through the nape of his neck and pulled against his hair.

  “It’s not your fault Marcus. We’ve made it all the way across the world and she’s here.”

  Marcus lowered his arm but his fist remained clenched.

  “Marcus…”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said. He walked the length of the hallway to his room. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Chapter 19

  Marcus pressed his head against the hotel window, his breath spreading a thin fog over the surface of the glass. This is your fault. You’re the one who missed Alyssa’s phone call. You could have talked to her, found out where she is.

  Kamila started this, but you’re the one who let it get this far, let her leave the country with Alyssa.

  Anger roiled in his chest. Alyssa didn’t deserve this.

  Kamila needed to be punished. He didn’t know what that looked like, but every thought, every breath and ounce of blood in him wanted her gone, forever.

  He exhaled, and the fog thickened.

  This isn’t about Kamila, it’s about finding Alyssa. He had to keep his focus. Hatred and revenge would only cloud his judgment.

  Stormy knocked on the door. He let her in.

  “Are you alright?”

  The question seemed irrelevant. What did it matter how he was doing? Alyssa had found a way to contact him and he wasn’t there for her.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Marcus, at least we know Alyssa is okay. I mean, she’s still here.”

  “We should probably get going, make copies of the missing person posters. And I’m going to call the reporter Jen suggested.”

  “Really?” She looked up at him, smiling. “I’m glad to hear you’re finally going to let someone help—”

  He pulled away. “Help?” Marcus, tired of ideas and thoughts and excuses, let his burgeoning frustration expand. “What have those helping me done to find Alyssa—the police, the Embassy—”

  Her smile faded. “And me?”

  “It’s not the same,” Marcus said. “This is my daughter—”

  “When are you going to get it? You’re not the only one who cares about Alyssa.” Stormy disappeared into the bathroom.

  Marcus waited a moment before following her. The last thing he needed was more drama. Maybe he wasn’t being fair to Stormy, but life wasn’t fair, was it?

  He watched Stormy from the doorway as she pulled a bottle of mascara out of her purse, slid the brush out, and held it up to her eye. Her hand was unsteady as she glanced at Marcus’s reflection in the mirror. “You’re being so selfish. Other people want to help too.”

  “Who said I didn’t want you to help?”

  She turned and faced him. “You.”

  “I did not.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You’re being ridiculous Stormy. You know I appreciate …I mean, I let you come with me didn’t I?”

  “Let me come? Marcus, if you don’t want me to help, I’ll go out and do my own detective work. This isn’t my first trip to Moscow—”

  “No, no, no. God knows what might happen to you. I’m not going to lose someone else I—”

  “Someone else what?”

  He paused. “Someone I care about.”

  Stormy spoke quickly, it seemed, to put him out of his misery, “I care about you too. Let’s get going.” She walked past him and out into the room.

  Through everything that had happened, he’d forgotten the one trait he’d appreciated most about Stormy—her directness. Something Anna had lacked.

  “Ok.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just a little stubborn every once in a while.”

  “That makes two of us. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of stubbornness for us to catch Kamila.”

  Chapter 20

  Alyssa pulled against Kamila’s grip. She had tried to run away after Kamila caught her using the phone. Alyssa had almost made it out the door.

  Kamila closed the door, picked her up and tossed her across the room. Alyssa’s stomach hit the side of the hard bed and pain shot up from under her ribs, knocking the air from her.

  “You were talking to your dad, weren’t you?” Kamila said.

  Alyssa stood, her back to Kamila. After a few seconds, her lungs began to work again. But she wasn’t going to answer Kamila. She didn’t deserve an answer. Alyssa knew Kamila was lying, but this was worse. Kamila really had kidnapped her. Othe
rwise why did she care if Alyssa had found her father?

  Kamila dug her fingers into Alyssa’s shoulder, twisting her around. “Answer me!”

  Alyssa had found the phone under the bed and figured she’d try, even though it was long distance. It actually worked.

  “And now I have to pay for that call. It’s going to go on the motel bill,” Kamila said.

  “Why are you so afraid of me talking to my dad?”

  She hadn’t even talked to her father. Alyssa had called his cell phone, but then Kamila came back before she could tell the woman who answered where they were. Stormy. That was her name. Her dad’s date. They were both in Moscow and they were trying to find her.

  That was the good news. Her dad was close by. He might come rescue her any day now. But now that Kamila suspected that Alyssa had called her dad, she would never leave her alone.

  “You’re a sneak,” Kamila said. “I’ve seen you. I know you hate me, just like everyone else. You sit there with your little brain, probably thinking how you might kill me in my sleep.”

  More crazy talk from Kamila. She was getting worse. Alyssa thought back to the knife Kamila had been holding just before they left home. If Kamila thought Alyssa was going to hurt her, what would Kamila do to her?

  “Go ahead. Trust them. Trust everyone but me. But they will rip what is most precious from you. And you won’t ever get it back. Is that what you need? Is that the only way you will learn the truth?”

  “That’s all you ever talk about…but…that’s what you do.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you are doing to us. My mom already died and now you are taking away my dad too.” Alyssa eyed the door. She could try to run again. Run until she found someone who would listen. Someone who knew English.

  “Shut up,” Kamila said.

  Alyssa looked up at her. “You always say shut up when you don’t know what to say.”

  “Be quiet or—”

  Alyssa took a step toward the door. Kamila reached out and slapped her. Alyssa fell back across the corner of the bed and onto the floor, her hands covering her face. There was a long silence and Alyssa held her breath to stop the sobs from returning.