Arslan hugged Stormy, then Marcus. “Take care of that knee.”
They started their hike up the mountain highway. Behind them, Arslan’s truck roared into gear and turned widely before returning down the dirt path they had just ascended.
Half a kilometer later they found the side road leading into the forest that Arslan had described. They had just stepped off the main highway when a man stepped out from behind a tree. He had a wiry black beard and was wearing ragged camos and a matching cloth hat. He looked more Arab than Chechen.
Marcus looked down at the rifle pointed at his chest. After his experience with the Russians, Marcus was nearly as anxious as he would have been. He’d have to remind himself not to get too cocky. He’d nearly gotten killed less than twenty-four hours ago. He was too close to finding Alyssa for carelessness now. “We are here to see Akhmed Shishani” Marcus said.
“Who is that?”
“It’s about his granddaughter. He will want to talk to us.”
The Arab paused. “You have money?”
“I said he wants to see us.”
“And I could kill you here and the old man would never miss you.”
Stormy pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket. “It’s all we have,”
she said in a pleading voice. “How much?”
“All of it,” he said, snatching the money from her hand.
“But—” she said in protest.
“Go!” he shouted, nodding up the path into the forest. Marcus’s eyes met Stormy’s and the hint of a smile crossed her lips. That wasn’t the last of their money.
The Arab made a signal to an unseen person somewhere in the forest. He followed them up a long dirt road and, after about ten minutes, they reached a clearing with a large two-story house. A group of rebels huddled around a jeep with its hood open. They stopped to watch Marcus and Stormy approach the house.
The rebels looked like anything but soldiers with their mismatched, tattered camo and blue jeans. Some wore coats that could have been purchased at REI. Those without the stereotypical thick beard looked as though they might be on the way to their kid’s soccer game, not preparing to ambush a Russian convoy.
With the barrel of his weapon the man motioned for them to go up the stairs. Marcus tilted his head back, looking up the narrow, steep stairs. Alyssa could be up there, waiting. So could Kamila. Marcus was ready to confront Kamila and her father, by any means necessary, if that’s what it took to get Alyssa out of this house alive.
They reached the top where there was an open room and a man staring out of a window toward the front of the house. Kamila’s, and Anna’s, father. Marcus surveyed the near empty room. No sign of Alyssa or Kamila.
Anna’s father asked, “You speak Russian?” in that language.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. “I am here for Alyssa, my daughter.”
The man turned and walked toward a wide, upholstered chair that sat near the fireplace at the end of the room. A decorative, but threadbare rug spread out in front of the chair. The only other item in the room was a rifle leaning up against the side of the chair.
He sat down and Marcus noticed the deep lines that crossed the man’s face and that his eyes, dark and sunken, seemed lost in a faraway memory. But Marcus was concerned about the present, about Alyssa. He said, “We heard that Kamila and my daughter were coming here.”
The old man looked down, shook his head.
“After all these years, you come here looking for my daughter, and your daughter. Is it my fault you lost your own child?”
“Tell us where Kamila took Alyssa.”
The man laughed feebly. “You give me orders in my own house? Did I tell you what to do when you stole Anna?”
He was going to try to make this about Anna, about something that happened years ago. It was just a distraction.
“Anna left with me because she wanted to.”
He shook his head, his eyes rising to meet Marcus, and it seemed there was a lifetime of resentment behind his black gaze. “She was supposed to come home. She broke her mother’s heart. For what…to marry a filthy infidel?”
Marcus took a step closer to the old man. He didn’t come here to listen to Anna’s father insult her memory. “In case you’ve forgotten, your own wife was a filthy infidel Russian.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his wife. “You should leave now before I have you killed. Or do it myself.” His eyes slid to the gun leaning against his leg now. His hand twitched, but did not move to the rifle.
“Where is Kamila?”
“Kamila is gone. I have no idea where she is,” he said. He paused before continuing. “You know, I always believed she would come home?”
“Kamila?”
“Anna,” he said. “Anna who broke her mother’s heart. Anna was the one she loved. Kamila? No, she was already weak, and the bombings made her weaker.” Across his face, pain, anger and loss merged into a single expression. “I’m sorry,” Marcus said.
“Sorry? Ha! Well I think we can say one thing. We are even. I have lost my wife and you have lost yours. I lost my daughter to a stranger in a faraway country, and now, you have done the same.”
The old man was more insane than Anna, or Kamila had described him. Maybe not insane, but something worse. Bitter, willing to sacrifice others to satiate his own need for revenge. In that way, Kamila was very much like him. Marcus wasn’t going to let Alyssa be a victim to the dysfunction that was Anna’s family.
“This is not justice. She is a little girl. She’s not safe with Kamila.”
“She is not with Kamila.”
“Is Alyssa here?” Marcus looked around the room. There was a door at the opposite end. He must be hiding her. But for what reason? Marcus was done playing games with the old man. He wanted his daughter back, now. The longer they talked, the more ground Marcus lost. What if the old man had already sent Alyssa away? Every second he stood here she was getting further out of reach.
“No, no. I have no need for little girls here.”
“She is your granddaughter.”
The old man did not reply. Marcus wasn’t going to be this close, only to lose her again. Marcus leapt forward, snatching the rifle away where it rested on the old man’s chair. He took a step back, pointing the gun at Anna’s father.
“Not a word to your guards.”
Stormy said, in English, “What are you doing? You are going to get us killed.”
“We’re going to get killed anyway.”
The old man smiled. “I see you have more guts than I give you credit for. But you are rash. You forget to consider the consequences. Like many of the young rebels, you think you can grab a gun and just start blowing things up. This is a boy’s way of thinking.” He shifted in his seat. “Right now, you are wondering if I am going to call for help.”
“You’ll be dead before they reach the bottom of the stairs,” Marcus said.
Anna’s father laughed for a long time, laughed until he began coughing. He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath. “Kill me? You are joking, no? I would be all too happy. Maybe that is the best, I get put out of my misery, and the man who stole my daughter finally gets what he deserves.” He shook his head, his smile fading. “How long I’ve waited for both of these moments.”
“I did not steal your daughter. Why would Anna want to return to this place? To live with a bunch of terrorists?”
“You think like a Russian. See, they kill us, steal our land, send those who survive to a faraway place. Then they let us return home, and they bomb us some more. When we fight back they call us terrorists.”
“Hurting innocent people is terrorism,” Marcus said.
“I agree,” the man said to Marcus’s surprise. “Then we are all terrorists aren’t we? The Russians for bombing apartment buildings and hospitals from the sky, the Chechens for bombs strapped to their stomachs.”
Marcus raised the gun to the man’s head. “I’m going
to ask one last time. Where is my daughter?”
The old man’s lips bent in a resigned smile. He spoke to Stormy, as if Marcus were not there. “That would complete the act of justice, would it not? We will die together.” His eyes fell, focusing on his legs, which were stretched out before him now. “Very good. Pull the trigger. ”
Chapter 48
Kamila had considered returning to her father’s house and killing him. Then she would take Alyssa back. She might kill the rest of them too if they tried to stop her. It was an option, but that wasn’t what she was going to do. It wasn’t that she cared about any of the people at her father’s house; it was the understanding that she still had more to accomplish.
Already, with the child in someone else’s hands, she felt empty. Her next steps were all that mattered now, and she had to be careful, to focus. Looking too far into the future and trusting in what others might do for you—that had failed her. Again.
Thanks to Anwar, Kamila now knew that her father was sending Alyssa to an orphanage in Dagestan, another Russian “republic” where, at times, the Chechen rebels were more in control than the official government. She knew the area well.
During her late teens, after her mother and sister had died, Kamila spent summers working for her father, running weapons and information between Chechnya and the rebel-controlled areas of Dagestan. Back then, Chechen women could get away with more—the Russians were just learning that they were as willing as their men to participate in the fight for freedom. Once the female terrorists known as the Black Widows became popular for killing the oppressors, sacrificing their bodies as human bombs, every Chechen, male or female was considered a suspect.
Not long after that her father had stopped allowing her to participate in the resistance. It was almost as if he was afraid Kamila would join the Black Widows. Because he worried for her safety? No. He worried about his reputation, about his daughter’s name being attached to the extremists.
Anwar had described the route Alyssa’s escort would take to Dagestan, through an area controlled by rebels and feared by Russians. She wouldn’t be able to follow them on the highway without being spotted. That was impossible on the unpredictable mountain roads, where in some areas you could see the road behind you for miles and in others, just a few hundred feet. She had a better idea.
There was a small mountain village in the rebel-controlled area where her father’s men often stopped—a refueling and supply post fronting as a gas station and convenience store mixed in among a few other local shops. If she left now she would be hours ahead of Alyssa, at least according to Anwar’s information. When Alyssa’s escort stopped, Kamila would take Alyssa back and kill the escort if she had to. Then Alyssa would be safe with Kamila, where she belonged.
She drove into the early evening. Russian helicopters, the ones that carried troops, darted and hovered like dragonflies in the distance. She monitored their movements but none came near.
It was near dark when Kamila parked the jeep in front of the village gas station. Nothing looked the same. The paint on the building had faded or flaked away, the only remaining color held in place by a thin layer of moss. An orange-red neon sign dangled in the window, the first two letters invisible.
Across the street, where there had once been shops and homes, now there was nothing more than a row of broken windows bandaged by plywood and two by fours. A hulking transport truck parked in front of one of the shops was the only other vehicle in sight.
She approached the door of the gas station and looked inside. The store was nearly empty now, most of the shelves were pushed to one side. She remembered those shelves filled with candy—her, a child, still innocent, begging for a treat. Once, while in an exceptionally good mood, her father bought her a chocolate bar and chocolate milk.
Her father never bought her these again, but when Kamila was older, old enough to make trips on her own, she used the money she had saved to buy herself the same chocolate, the same chocolate milk. A reminder of what it was like to feel spoiled.
Kamila turned and eyed the abandoned buildings across the highway. They were once busy shops, selling blankets woven by locals and trinkets made of metal or clay. She had left one of these blankets on the wall of her apartment back in Seattle. This thought reminded her of her home in America and of Marcus and her sister, and Alyssa. Everything had gone wrong. But there was still a chance she could make things right again. If only she had Alyssa. And Marcus.
Kamila peered into the gas station again. Her eyes landed on two men, at a table near the back of the store. Sleeping with their heads on the table like lazy high school students. It was obvious by the weapons hanging from the back of their chairs that they were rebels—maybe even her father’s men. She needed gas and needed to make sure no one spotted her. If they knew who Kamila was, they might kill her. If they didn’t know who she was, they might do worse. Unless she killed them first.
Kamila opened the door, praying there would be no bell or buzzer to announce her entrance, and there wasn’t. She surveyed the store and listened; no one else was there. She lifted a pack of cigarettes and matches from the counter. She walked around and inspected the cash register. The key was missing. She activated the switch that ran the gas pump, then stuffed her pockets with a few more items and left, then returned for more food and water.
This is too easy, she thought. No wonder the Russians are beating us.
Outside she filled the jeep with gasoline and through the window watched the men sleep. Nothing was the way she remembered it. Even the rebels were worn out, useless, like this village.
She eyed the men again. Anger at the rebels’ sloppiness pricked her. She would teach them a lesson.
Kamila finished refueling the car, then pulled it across the street but out of view of the store. She would sneak back into the store with Anwar’s pistol and make them pay for their dereliction of duty. A lazy soldier is more dangerous than a dead one, her father used to say. These two would be for her father. She smiled, knowing how the idea of killing a Chechen loyal to the cause would upset him. She began crossing the highway, but stopped when she noticed a flicker of light from the road above. The lights grew closer as the muttering of the truck’s engine echoed through the valley. She sprinted back to her jeep and hid behind it, watching. The truck approached the village, slowed, but then continued down the highway.
The truck was a warning. What if someone else besides Alyssa’s escort stopped at the station? It wouldn’t do to have a messy scene waiting. Dead soldiers would draw too much attention, and if her father’s man stopped at the station and no one was there, he would be suspicious and leave before Kamila had a chance to take Alyssa back.
She was going to have to watch and wait until Alyssa arrived. The sleeping men were lucky, for now.
Kamila examined the structures across from the gas station. It was springtime, but up in the mountains it was still too cold to wait outside. From the street side, each shop she tried was padlocked, the windows nailed and boarded. She discovered a small path leading to the rear of the buildings, wide enough to drive the jeep through. She parked the jeep behind the shops, then searched for a way inside. On her fourth try, she found a door that had rotted so badly that the base of the padlock crumbled away with one hard tug on the handle.
Inside there was a kitchen and a small living area and one bedroom where the shopkeeper and their family would have lived. Everything smelled of abandonment and the rotting of once valuable things. A few musty, mildew-stained carpets were strewn about the room. In the living area there was a wood stove and a mattress against one wall. Kamila walked to the front of the store where there were empty shelves and more broken windows. Through cracks in the boards, she could see across the street where light from the gas station leaked out onto the highway.
This would be the place where she would wait, as long as it took, until Alyssa stopped at that station. It would be easy enough to hear one of her father’s trucks or jeeps co
ming down the highway. And from here she had a good view of the station. Anwar had said they would be transporting Alyssa tomorrow morning, so she had time.
She looked around the store for paper and kindling. Near the stove she found a small bird’s nest of grass and twigs woven together. Inside the nest were three tiny, withered eggs. Had the mother left them? Maybe she had died, or maybe there was something wrong with the eggs. The mother would know, would wait until the next season and try again.
Kamila tossed the nest into the stove. It would make good kindling.
In a cabinet she found some old papers with inventory and sales notes scribbled across them. She went outside to gather branches for a fire, but changed her mind and began pulling boards off the windows. She would have to limit the fires to later in the evening, otherwise they would notice the smoke. She swept aside a pile of broken pottery near the wood stove.
Kamila remembered the old widow that once lived here, selling pottery and rugs. She had a daughter Kamila’s age. What had happened to them? She suddenly had the feeling she was being watched. She stood still in the silence, the air tinged with the smell of wet earth. Had something horrible happened to the old woman, made her ghost angry?
Kamila didn’t believe in ghosts.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out her bottle of Xanax. Before she left America, she’d had a month’s worth. And she had found more in Moscow, though not through a prescription. She poured a handful into her mouth and opened a water bottle she’d just taken. The pills scratched her throat as they slid down. How many was that? Maybe four, five times the normal dose. Enough to help her forget about the ghost.
She shook webs and dirt out of two of the old rugs, wrapped them around herself. Then, she started a fire and waited for the Xanax to start working.
There was so much to do. Alyssa had to be found. The rebels across the highway—punished, or killed? She wasn’t sure anymore. Her mind wandered, the pills working their dark magic. What about Marcus? Alyssa and Marcus. Live or die? Kamila. Live or die? Kamila’s thoughts toddled away like a lost child. She was alone again. Dark and warm and alone. At peace and not at peace.
Dark Sky Falling Page 21