The Solomon Effect

59

The chopper came down on a grassy helipad beside a dreary Soviet-era building of dirty glass and rust-stained concrete. Two blue-and-white militia vans stood at the ready, their idling engines belching clouds of white steam into the cold air.

A tall, lean militia captain with high cheekbones and a tight mouth snapped to attention and delivered a stuttering report.

“What do you mean you lost the men watching the widow’s farm?” Andrei bellowed.

“They just…left.”

“And your men didn’t follow them…why?”

The militia captain swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple up and down. “One of them was taking a leak.”

“And the other was-what? Asleep? Screwing his girlfriend in the backseat?”

A rush of scarlet darkened the militia captain’s face before slowly draining away to leave him a sickly white.

Jax said, “I can think of only two reasons they’d leave. Either they’ve given up trying to find the boy and are pulling out, or…”

Tobie finished for him. “Or they found him.”

Andrei stood with his fists on his hips, a muscle bunching and flexing along his tight jaw as he stared through the silently drifting snow at the distant cluster of wooden houses. “If you were a sixteen-year-old kid too scared to go home, who would you turn to?”

From a distant barn came the lowing of a cow and, nearer, the disgruntled caw-caw of a crow perched on a nearby electric pole. Looking toward it, Tobie saw the spire of an ancient church thrusting up above the bare, snow-covered branches of a stand of willows.

“The priest,” she said suddenly. “Remember when Anna Baklanov was showing us Stefan’s picture? She said Jasha used to make fun of the boy for being so devout.”

Andrei swung toward the nearest militia van. “It’s worth a try. Let’s go.”

Stefan sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his spine pressed against one of the iron columns supporting the stable block’s soaring roof. Tipping back his head, he could see a giant hook hanging from the center of the beam above. He craned his neck, following the line, hook after hook, disappearing into the gloom. It seemed strange that the hooks should still be here, long after all the blood stallions and broodmares had disappeared.

He shivered. The interior of the stable block was starkly empty and open, the fine polished oak that had once formed the stalls having long ago been ripped out and carted off for firewood. The row of small, arched windows set high on each side wall let in little light. He shivered again, and reached over to draw the dog closer. The pup let out a little whimper and licked his face.

“It’ll be all right once Father Alexei gets here,” whispered Stefan, his voice echoing eerily in the vast, hollow chamber. “You’ll see.”

He heard the whine of the priest’s motorbike long before he saw it. Scrambling to his feet, he was standing in the broken archway at the end of the stable block when the priest brought his old Ural to a coughing standstill and cut the engine.

Stefan bolted out the door. “Father!”

Climbing stiffly off the motorbike, the old priest turned to open his arms wide. “Stefan. My boy.”

Stefan flung himself against the priest’s broad chest. “Father,” said Stefan again. Pressing his face into the habit’s scratchy wet wool, he breathed in the familiar, comforting scents of incense and vodka and cooked cabbage.

“Come, come,” said the priest, drawing back to cup Stefan’s cheek with one big, work-worn hand. “It’s all right. Tell me what has happened.”

“They want to kill me!”

“Who? Who wants to kill you?” said the priest, just as the dog at Stefan’s side let out a growl that rumbled low in his chest.

Looking up, Stefan saw a shadow, heard the crunch of snow beneath a heavy boot. He took a step back, whispered, “It’s them. It’s the men who killed Uncle Jasha and the others.”

Turning, Father Andrei shoved Stefan behind his big body and shouted, “Run, boy!” just as the men across the clearing opened fire.