The Stolen

21

By three o'clock, my legs were growing stiff. We'd watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We'd taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And even worse, worried.

Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like

Petrovsky.

At four o'clock, Amanda asked, "Do you think we might have missed him?"

I shook my head. "I hope not. Let's make sure."

I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a woman's voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would be available for any more appointments today.

"I'm sorry, sir, he's got two more patients scheduled for this afternoon, then he'll be out again until Monday."

"Do you have any idea what time he'll be finished with his patients?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry, but if you want to come in next week

I'd be happy to schedule you for an appointment."

"No, thanks, I'll call back later." I hung up. "He's still there, but probably not for much longer."

Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Just a little stiff."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Nah, thanks, though."

For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago it wouldn't have been a big deal at all, just something else that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only when they ended that I realized their significance.

"Henry, look," Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the direction of the entrance. "There he is."

Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He

Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 03

The Stolen (2008) was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait.

He'd changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose

Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried that the argument would escalate and our whole plan would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue

Nissan.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Take my tape recorder out of my bag." She did so. "Now turn it on."

She clicked the record button.

I said, "I want to record the directions. Just in case."

"Smart," Amanda said.

I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights on Petrovsky's car turn red before I edged out of the parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.

"What if he sees us?" Amanda said.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Let's just hope he doesn't."

Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky's Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.

Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp that led away fromYardley. I stayed far enough behind that it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror.

Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the road, the car and what would happen next.

When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind.

There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept pace, threatening to give us away.

After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it.

I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky closely. I could make out the man hunched over the steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we were being cautious, keeping out of sight.

I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds decreasing as the road became more residential. The doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after, leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.

We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all

I could make out of Petrovsky's car were the taillights. The faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this night would end.

About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow, had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up before losing him among the turns.

"There's no way he doesn't know we're following him,"

Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. "No way."

I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the recorder and kept driving.

We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair, casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us, felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer this chase would last.

Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one dimly lit. I couldn't see any houses on either side. There were no lamps. It was just him and us.

I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder,

"Turned right onto Huntley Terrace."

Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we'd driven a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.

"Henry," Amanda said. "What is that?"

I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled the property within. The woods were thick on either side.

I couldn't see anything beyond them.

"Oh, fuck," I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he approached.

"What now?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know."

"I'm scared," she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep going.

I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed a residential area. They were protecting a single home.

Was this where Petrovsky lived?

When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited, unsure of what to do.

And after a minute of waiting, I realized something strange.

The gates hadn't closed.

They were wide open.

Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.

"Too late to turn back," I said.

I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates.

I still couldn't see anything beyond them, but as I got closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky's brake lights.

I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny

Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped as I heard the metal sounds again.

The gates were closing behind us.

"We shouldn't be here," Amanda said. "We should go."

"We can't now," I said. "Let's just see what's what."

As I continued down the path, Petrovsky's Nissan came into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness, but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire property. It confused me. The wall wasn't high enough that an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone smaller from getting out.

Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was waiting for us.

I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan, then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.

"Stay here," I said to Amanda.

"The hell with that," she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.

As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me.

I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.

"Dr. Petrovsky," I said. "It's Henry Parker. I know you saw us following you. I'm sorry to approach you under these circumstances, but I have more questions."

"Yes, Mr. Parker," the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. "I am very sorry, too."

I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and then everything swam away.