“The son of your mother’s cousin. How could I not do my best? Still, I had hopes.”
“You took him in, him and Yakov.”
“And Yakov has proven himself worthy of that gift time and again. Alexi?” Sergei shrugged. “Chicken shit,” he said with half a smile. “Now he’ll be fertilizer. The drugs. He was weak for them. This is why I was strict with you and your sisters. Drugs are business only. For drugs—that is the root—he steals from us, betrays us and his own blood.”
“If I’d known, I’d have been there, to watch him beg like a woman. To watch him die.”
“The information on his arrest, on the deal the bastard made with the cops, only came to us that night. He had to be dealt with quickly. I sent Yakov and Yegor to check his house, to see if he was there. So perhaps he was dealt with too quickly. Mistakes were made, as the Americans say. You’ve not been one to whore with Alexi in the past. His taste was always less refined than yours.”
“I was to stay close,” Ilya repeated. “And the girl, she was intriguing. Fresh, unspoiled. Sad. A little sad. I liked her.”
“There are plenty of others. She’s already dead. Now you’ll stay for supper. It will please your mother, and me.”
“Of course.”
6
Two weeks passed, then the start of another. Elizabeth could count on one hand the number of times she’d been allowed to leave the house. And never alone.
She was never alone.
She, who’d once longed for companionship, now found the lack of solitude more confining than the four walls of her room.
She had her laptop. They’d blocked her access to e-mail and chat boards. Out of boredom and curiosity, she hacked through the blocks. Not that she planned to contact anyone, but it gave her a sense of accomplishment.
She kept that small triumph to herself.
She had nightmares, and kept them to herself as well.
They brought her books, and music CDs. She only had to ask. Devouring the popular fiction and music her mother so strongly disapproved of should have given her a sense of freedom. Instead, it only served to highlight how much she’d missed, and how little she knew of the real world.
Her mother never came.
Every morning John and Terry relieved the night shift, and every evening Bill and Lynda relieved them. Sometimes they made food; breakfast seemed to be John’s specialty. For the most part, they brought it in. Pizza or burgers, chicken or Chinese. Out of guilt—and partially out of defense—Elizabeth began to experiment in the kitchen. Recipes were just formulas, as far as she could see. The kitchen a kind of laboratory.
And in experimenting, she found an affinity. She liked the chopping and stirring, the scents, the textures.
“What’s on the menu?”
From her seat at the table, Elizabeth glanced up as John walked in. “I thought I might try this stir-fry chicken.”
“Sounds good.” He got himself coffee. “My wife does stir-fry to trick the kids into eating vegetables.”
She knew he and his wife, Maddie, had two children. A seven-year-old boy, Maxfield, named for the painter Maxfield Parrish, and Emily—for Emily Brontë—age five.
He’d shown her pictures, the ones from his wallet, and told her funny little stories about them.
To personalize himself; she understood that. And it had, but it also forced her to realize there were no funny little stories about her as a child.
“Do they worry about you? Being in law enforcement?”
“Max and Em? They’re too young to worry. They know I chase bad guys, and that’s about as far as it goes right now. Maddie?” He sat with his coffee. “Yeah, some. It’s part of the package. And it can be tough on her, the long hours, the time away from home.”
“You said she was a court reporter.”
“Yeah, until Max came along. Best day of my life, that day in court. Even though I could barely remember my own name with her sitting there. Most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to talk her into going out with me, much less marrying me.”
“You’re a very solid man,” Elizabeth began. “Physically attractive. You’re kind and have a broad worldview, varied interests. And the fact that you’re in a position of authority, carry a weapon, can be attractive to a woman on a visceral level.”
His eyes laughed at her over his coffee. “You’re like nobody else, Liz.”
“I wish I were.”
“Don’t. You’re a stand-up girl, scary smart, brave, compassionate—and you have varied interests as well. I can’t keep up with the variety. Science, law enforcement, health and nutrition, music, books, now cooking. Who knows what’s next?”
“Will you teach me to handle a gun?”
He lowered his coffee. “Where did that come from?”
“It could be one of my varied interests.”
“Liz.”
“I’m having nightmares.”
“Oh, honey.” He laid a hand over hers. “Talk to me.”
“I dream about that night. I know it’s a normal reaction, an expected one.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“It doesn’t.” She stared down at the cookbook, wondered if her world would ever be as simple as ingredients and measurements again.
“And I dream about going in, to do the lineup. Only he sees me, Korotkii. I know he sees me, because he smiles. And he reaches behind his back, like he did that night. And everything slows down when he takes out the gun. Nobody reacts. He shoots me through the glass.”
“He didn’t see you, Liz.”
“I know. That’s rational and logical. But this is about fear and emotion—subconscious fears and emotions. I try not to dwell on it, try to keep busy and occupied.”
“Why don’t I contact your mother?”
“Why?”
The genuine puzzlement had him biting back an oath. “You know we have a psychologist available for you. You said you didn’t want to talk to one before, but—”
“I still don’t. What’s the point? I understand what’s happening, and why. I know it’s a process my mind has to go through. But he kills me, you see. Either at the house because in the dreams he finds me, or at the lineup because he sees right through the glass. I’m afraid he’ll find me, he’ll see me, he’ll kill me. And I feel helpless. I have no power, no weapon. I can’t defend myself. I want to be able to defend myself. I don’t want to be helpless.”
“And you think learning to shoot will help you feel more in control, less vulnerable?”
“I think it’s one answer.”
“Then I’ll teach you.” He took out his weapon, pulled out the magazine, and set it aside. “This is a Glock 19. It’s standard-issue. It holds fifteen rounds in this magazine.”
Elizabeth took it when he offered. “It’s polymer. I looked it up.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be. But it’s not loaded, so that accounts for some of the weight.”
“We’ll keep it unloaded for now. Let’s talk about safety.”
She looked up, into his eyes. “All right.”
After some basics, he had her stand, showed her how to sight, how to grip. And Terry walked in.
“Jesus Christ, John.”
“It’s not loaded,” Elizabeth said quickly.
“I repeat, Jesus Christ.”
“Give us a minute, Liz.”
“Oh. All right.” More reluctant than she’d imagined, she gave the gun back to John. “I’ll be in my room.”
“What the hell are you thinking?” Terry demanded the minute Elizabeth left the room.
“She wants to learn how to handle a gun.”
“Well, I want George Clooney naked in my bed, but I haven’t attempted kidnapping. Yet.”
“She’s having nightmares, Terry.”
“Crap.” Terry wrenched open the refrigerator, got out a Coke. “I’m sorry, John, this all seriously sucks for that kid. But letting her handle your service weapon isn’t an answer.”