The Devil_s Garden

FORTY-FIVE

Michael drove two miles under the speed limit, coming to a full stop at stop signs and red lights. He was usually a careful driver, especially with the girls in the car, but today there were more reasons to be cautious. He did not know if there were wants and warrants on him yet. He had to be where he was going, but he had to get there.

The horror of what he had found inside his house roiled within him. The place where his children played, where he had thought his family was protected, was shrouded in blood. Right now a madman had his wife and one of his children. And that madman could be anywhere in the city.

He had gotten on Henry Hudson Parkway heading south, frantically scanning both the side and rear-view mirrors, trying to see if Aleks was following him. For the first few miles, he concentrated on looking for Abby’s car. He saw no champagne-colored Acuras. Then it occurred to him that Aleks might have had his own car, a car unknown to Michael. He had not been able to see the length of the driveway.

He called Abby’s brother Wallace, first at his office, then at his house in Westchester. Wallace said he had not spoken to Abby since the birthday party, and Michael did not sense that Wallace was under any kind of duress. Wallace Reed could negotiate multimillion dollar contracts with foreign investors, but when it came to confrontations he was not the coolest egg in the dozen. Michael doubted he would have even been able to talk if a psychopath was holding him hostage.

Michael then called Abby’s parents house in Pound Ridge. He got Charles Reed’s answering service and, after identifying himself to the satisfaction of the efficient young woman on the phone, was told that the Reeds were currently on a plane between Alexandria, Egypt and Madrid. They were not expected back for another ten days.

The security around the gated community in which Abby’s parents lived was tighter than Quantico, and Michael doubted that Abby and her captor would have been able to bluff their way past.

Still, Michael did not know what kind of network this madman had in place, how many bolt-holes he might have around the city, the county, the country.

Michael knew that Desiree Powell was one of the best detectives in Queens Homicide and, for her to have had probable cause to enter the house, given all the surrounding circumstances of the case as it sat – combined with the facts that no one would be able to contact Michael and Abby Roman, not at the office, not at the clinic – it would not be long before they put two and two together.

There was only one reason Powell had showed up in Eden Falls, and that was because she had made the connection between Michael and Viktor Harkov.

They stopped at the red light on Northern Boulevard at 82nd Street. The sun was warm, the sky was gemstone blue, and people walked with a spring in their step. It was all too surreal. It had never been darker in Michael’s heart.

Since leaving Eden Falls Charlotte had not said a word. She was sitting in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, looking out the window. Michael had no idea what had happened in his house, had no idea what Charlotte had seen. It appeared that she had not been crying. That was the only positive thing.

As they waited for the light to turn green, Charlotte turned slightly in her seat, scanned the messy back seat. She looked at Michael.

“Whose car is this, Daddy?”

Her tiny voice roused Michael from his black reverie. “Uh, it belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Which one?”

“You’ve never met him, honey. It’s somebody I work with.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“It smells funny.”

She was right. Michael had smelled it the moment he had dumped Omar in the park. The man had soiled himself.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to see another a friend of mine. A friend of ours.”

Charlotte didn’t ask who the friend was this time. Emily would have, but not Charlotte. Once Charlotte sensed a pattern developing, she tried to find a way around it. “Are Mommy and Em going to be there?”

Michael looked over at his daughter. The open window had blown her hair into her eyes. He reached over, smoothed his daughter’s hair. “No, baby. We’re going to meet up with them later.”

Michael went silent for a few moments, organizing his thoughts. He knew he had to ask. The possibilities were eating him from the inside. “That man back at the house,” he began, not knowing how he was going to broach the subject. “The tall man. Was he nice?”

Charlotte just shrugged.

“He didn’t… hurt you or Emily or Mommy did he?”

Charlotte hesitated for a moment, and Michael’s heart began to sink. Then, “No.”

There were a million more questions, but there was no way to ask them without scaring Charlotte even further. He would have to get the answers on his own.

As they drove down 94th Street Michael rehearsed what he would say to Dennis McCaffrey, his boss. He had placed a call to the office and found, as expected, that McCaffrey was still there. Michael visualized pulling into the back lot, leading Charlotte down the sidewalk. She had never been to his office. What a first visit this would be.

When they turned onto Roosevelt Avenue, they pulled directly behind a NYPD sector car, lights flashing. The entire street was blocked.

Michael looked past the police car. Ahead was a fender bender, probably a little worse. Two cars sat at right angles to each other. A second police car sat in front of the scene. A patrol officer was directing cars around it.

As they approached the officer who was diverting traffic, Michael pulled his cap down low, put on a pair of gradient lens sunglasses that were sitting on the back seat. The shades were a woman’s style, and looked far too feminine, but this was New York. Michael chanced a glance, peering over the top of the frames. The police officer on the street was only ten feet away now, looking straight at him. Was he made? Would the cop draw his weapon, command Michael to get out of the car and lay down on the pavement?

Michael had spent so much time on the other side of things, garnering so little sympathy for the criminals and their mindset, that

The cop held up his hand. Stepping in front of the car, nearly at the hood. Michael glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was no one behind him. If he slipped the transmission into reverse, floored it, he could back up the twenty or so feet needed to get away. They could get a few blocks, get out, and take the subway.

The cop was just a few feet away now.

Michael eased the gearshift into reverse, trying not to make it obvious. The cop still had his hand up. Michael was just about to put his foot on the gas when a vehicle turned the corner and drove up behind him, a dark SUV. He was blocked in.

The cop eased up to Michael’s window, twirling his finger in a circular motion, indicating to Michael that he should roll down his window. Michael thought of the illegal handgun under the seat, the blood in the trunk of the car. He heard the next few seconds unfold in his mind.

Can I see your license and registration, please?

I’m sorry. I don’t have them with me.

You have no identification with you?

No, sir.

Is this your car, sir?

No.

Please step out.

“Good afternoon,” the officer said. He was in his late forties, a veteran patrol officer. Michael knew a lot of men who were on the job more than twenty-five years, men who never took the test, men who were not consumed by advancement. They were savvier in many ways then half the detectives out there.

“Good afternoon.”

The cop looked at Michael, at Charlotte, at the back seat. Cops of this experience could take in an entire scene in seconds. “You know your front license plate is about to fall off. It’s hanging on by one screw.”

Michael felt a cool wave pass over him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That plate falls off, someone picks it up, they could use it for all manner of nefarious purposes.”

“I understand.”

The officer held him in his cop stare for a few more seconds – direct, street-hardened, unconvinced. This was his nature. He then looked over at Charlotte. “What’s your name, little darling?”

Charlotte beamed. “Charlotte Johanna Roman.”

The cop smiled, winked at Michael. Michael took a breath, held it. He knew if this cop decided to run the plate, it would not come back registered to anyone named Roman.

“That’s a lot of name for such a little girl,” the officer said.

Charlotte nodded. She loved to say her full name.

The cop gazed up the street. He tapped his hand on the roof of the car. “Get that taken care of right away, sir.”

“I will. Thank you, officer.”

As the cop walked away, Michael rolled up his window, finally exhaling.

The cop spoke into his two-way, stood to the side, held up his hand again, stopping traffic. Twenty feet up the street a concrete truck pulled out of an alley blocking the road. The cop turned his back on Michael, waved the truck along.

When Michael looked again in the rear-view mirror, his blood froze in his veins. The man driving the black SUV behind him was Aleksander Savisaar. Michael’s eyes instinctively went to the passenger. It was Abby.

They had followed him from Eden Falls.

Michael scanned his mirrors. He was blocked. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t back up. Should he tell the police? Should he just jump out of the car and tell the police that the man in the H2 had kidnapped his wife and daughter and was responsible for a number of homicides?

Too much could happened in the blink of an eye. He thought of Viktor Harkov, and Kolya, and Desiree Powell. He thought of the knife. He couldn’t take the chance.

The concrete truck ambled to the curb ahead of him. The cop blew his whistle, waved Michael on. Not knowing what else to do, Michael reached forward, and turned the car off. The cop waved again. When Michael didn’t move the cop looked at him with impatience. He ambled back over.

Michael opened the door, slid out. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the figures in the car behind him. No one moved.

“Something wrong?” the cop asked.

Michael threw his hands up. “Stalled.”

“Try it again.”

Michael gestured to Charlotte. She slid across the front seat, took his hand. “I’m afraid the battery’s dead. I had to jump it just a few minutes ago. It’s not going to start. I’m going to have to push it.”

The cop shook his head. He glanced up the street at the other officer directing traffic. By the time he turned back they were joined by someone.

It was Aleks. He was standing right next to them.

“Need a hand?” Aleks asked.

The cop turned, sized the big man up. For police officers, whenever citizens get out of their vehicles, in the middle of the street, without being asked, it was a red flag. Now this cop had two citizens in the middle of the street. He looked over Aleks’s shoulder, at the woman and the little girl in the driverless SUV. “No,” the cop said. “We’ve got it under control, sir.”

At this close range, Michael could see that Aleks was about his age. His eyes were a pale blue; he had a scar on his left cheek. They stood, wordlessly assessing each other. Between them stood the police officer. The armed police officer.

Would Aleks take this chance? Michael wondered. He gripped Charlotte’s hand tightly, eased a step backward.

“I really don’t mind,” Aleks said. As he took a step forward, Michael and Charlotte retreated yet another step, angling themselves behind the police officer.

“Sir, please return to your vehicle,” the officer said. “We can handle this.”

Michael and Charlotte edged toward the curb and the sidewalk. Aleks did not move. Michael saw Aleks’s right hand descend, saw his forefinger touch the hem of his coat. The moment drew out. The officer stiffened, nearing a state of heightened alert. He turned fully to Aleks. “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. Please get back in your vehicle.”

Aleks put his hands out, palms up, as if to say: Sorry, I was just trying to help.

As Aleks did this, the right side of his coat fell open. Michael – and the police officer – both saw the large knife on Aleks’s hip.

The officer put a hand on his weapon. “Sir, please turn around and put your hands on the car. Do it now!”

Aleks glanced at the gun, at Michael, at the officer. He backed up a foot. The cop spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. A few anxious seconds later he received a reply. Michael knew all the codes. There were other officers on the way.

In this moment Michael and Charlotte stepped onto the sidewalk. Michael glanced at the SUV, at Emily, saw her lift her hands, bunch her sweater at her neck, shiver, as if she was freezing. It was a funny gesture, an inside joke between Michael and his daughter.

When Michael was small, he used to stand for minutes on end in front of the refrigerator, door open, never being able to make up his mind about what he wanted. His mother, ever trying to save a few pennies here and there on electricity, would always say to him: “Would you like me to get you a sweater?”

The routine continued with Michael and Emily, who was the same way Michael was as a child.

But why is she doing that now? Michael wondered.

Before he could think about it further, hell came to the street. It all happened at once. A woman on the sidewalk screamed as the officer unsnapped his holster. Before the cop could clear his weapon, Aleks had the knife off his hip. In a blur he slashed the police officer, the long blade catching the cop on the right side of his neck. Bright red blood fountained high into the blue sky. The officer staggered back against the car, his eyes wide with surprise and horror. Aleks cut him again, this time from shoulder to shoulder. The cop slid to the ground, slicking the car behind him.

For Michael, everything slowed. He heard another woman on the other side of the street start screaming. In the distance he heard car horns blow. Someone, hanging out of one the windows above, yelled “Hey!”

The other officer arrived on the scene, and seemed to take a moment to realize what he was looking at. He started to draw his weapon, but it was too late. Aleks pivoted, and kicked the man just below his jaw, splintering the young officers’ teeth. The officer crashed back into the Ford. As he was falling to the ground, Aleks slashed him with the knife. It opened a large wound in the man’s chest. In seconds his blue shirt was black with blood.

Michael and Charlotte backed quickly away from the scene on the street, working their way through the gathering crowd.

Sirens blared in the near distance. The older officer, now on the pavement, his face and hands covered in blood, raised his weapon and fired at Aleks, but the shot went wide, smashing into the side of his sector car. More screams as Aleks came in low and kicked the weapon from the man’s hand. It skittered beneath a parked car.

Aleks, clearly disoriented, spun in place, the huge knife in front. He backed toward the SUV. On the sidewalks people were running, scattering. Aleks spun 360, looking for Michael in the hysterical crowd. He found him nearly fifty feet away, separated by scores of people.

Aleks and Michael looked at each other. A pair of sector cars were now just a half-block away. They would be on the scene in seconds, weapons drawn.

Aleks jumped back in the SUV. He put it in reverse, floored it, burned white smoke from the tires. He backed up all the way to 94th Street, and spun out, nearly causing an accident. Seconds later the SUV was gone.

Michael turned, continued up the avenue, as quickly as he could without running. Charlotte did her best to keep up. When they got to the alley, he scooped Charlotte into his arms.

They ran down Roosevelt Avenue – Michael all the while waiting to hear footsteps behind him. Moments later they came to the Junction Avenue subway stop, and boarded a train.