Aleks befriended the mayor of the town, a man who also owned just about every business within fifty kilometers.
The man brought him along on a job, a job robbing an old Russian of his wealth accumulated on the backs of Estonians. Aleks had no loyalties, no God. He went. And found that the violence was still deep within him. It came easy.
Over the next few years, from the Gulf of Finland to the Latvian border to the south, and sometimes beyond, there was not a shop owner, business man, farmer, politician, or criminal enterprise, large or small, that did not pay Aleksander Savisaar tribute. He always worked alone, his threats and assurances couched in his ability to make believers of those who doubted his sincerity with torture and cruelty of such intensity, such speed, that his actions never had to be repeated.
By the age of twenty-seven his legend was widely known. In his pocket were politicians, law-enforcement agents, legislators. He had bank accounts and property in six countries. A fortune he never dreamed of.
It was time to turn his attention to his legacy but, with all his wealth and power, he did not know where or how to begin.
He began by building a house, a large A-frame set among tall standing pines atop a hill in Kolossova. Isolated, secure, and tranquil, he began to fell the logs he needed. By fall he had all the lumber milled, and had the structure fully framed.
He returned to the long-abandoned Treski orphanage, the place where he had been left. At great expense, he had locals tear it down stone by stone. Back in Kolossova he hired stonemasons to build a wall around his house.
Hurrying to close in the roof before the winter snows came, Aleks worked well into the evenings. One night, just as dusk claimed the day, he sat on the second floor, looking out over the valley as it began to snow in earnest.
He was just about to gather his tools when he thought he saw movement amid the stand of blue spruce to the west. He waited, stilling his movements, his breathing, dissolving into his surroundings, becoming invisible. He fingered the rifle at his side, shifted his eyes back and forth, scanned the clearing, but there was no movement. Yet there was something. A pair of shining pearls, seemingly suspended on the snow. He looked more closely, and a form began to take shape, seeming to grow around the glistening orbs. The high dome, the pointed ears, the dusty rose of a lolling tongue.
It was a gray wolf.
No, he thought. It cannot possibly be. The wolf who had discovered him in the cemetery, by all accounts, was full grown at that time.
When he saw the old wolf slowly rise, on its terribly gnarled forelegs, and begin to move with an arthritic sluggishness, Aleks believed. The ancient wolf had come to see him before he died.
But what was the message?
Days later, when he saw the young girl, the soothsayer named Elena Keskkula, standing on the same spot, observing him, it was an epiphany.
He watched many times over the next few years, even after her family moved north, observed the people coming to her farmhouse, their tributes in tow – money, food, livestock.
In these days he often envisioned himself on a hillside, the days speeding by, spring given unto winter in seconds, decade born of decade. He watched the fields grow ripe with fruit, fall fallow. He watched cities grow from timberland, only to flourish, expand, reach for heights of glory, then decay, and crumble into ash and dust. He watched saplings reach to the sky, then yield to farmland. He watched animals grow fatted, calve, nurse their young, only to see their offspring seconds later begin the wondrous cycle again. Skies blacken, seas churn and calm, the earth opens and closes in massive quakes, pines grow down the mountains to the valleys, only to farther lakes and rivers, which in turn gave life to the gardens and farms.
Through all of it, through eons of war and pestilence and greed, generations of lawlessness and avarice, there would be his daughters at his side. Marya, the pragmatist, the keeper of his mind. Anna, the artist of his heart. Olga, never seen, but always felt, his anchor.
He fingered the three vials around his neck. Together, one way or another, they would live forever.
He watched them play their games in the backyard, their gossamer blond hair lifting and falling in the breeze. They had Elena’s air about them, an aura of prudence and insight.
He crouched down to their level. They approached him, showing no fear or apprehension. Perhaps they saw in his eyes their own eyes. Perhaps they saw in him their destiny. They were so beautiful his heart ached. He had waited so long for this moment. All the while he had feared it would never happen, that his immortality had been something of fairy tale.
Without a word he reached into his pocket, produced the two marble eggs. He handed them to the girls.
The girls studied the eggs closely, running their small fingers over the intricate carving. Aleks had seen the drawing they had made on the refrigerator. He saw that one section of the drawing was missing.
Anna, the one they called Emily, beckoned him close. Aleks got down on one knee. The little girl leaned even closer, whispered: “We knew you would be tall.”
TWENTY-NINE
The white van parked in front of the townhouse had EDGAR Rollins amp; Son Painting and Decorating on its side. Michael pulled up behind it, cut the engine. Nothing seemed real. This was the last place he wanted to be, but he could not take the chance of breaking with his schedule. He checked his cellphone for the five hundredth time. Nothing.
When Judge Gregg had called him and John Feretti to the bench, he had seen something in the man’s eyes that looked like compassion. Rare for a sitting homicide judge. He had asked both lawyers if they wanted to break for the day, seeing as it was getting close to 4:30. As expected, John Feretti wanted to continue. Any time your opponent is melting down, the last thing you want to do is stop him.
Michael took Judge Gregg up on his offer, and the session was adjourned.
As the jury was filing out, Michael looked into the eyes of every single person in the gallery. If there was a kidnapper among them, he did not see it. What he had seen was confusion and no small measure of distrust. Michael would have to see the daily transcript from the court reporter to know precisely what he had said.
He knew enough to know that a lawyer rarely recovered from a bad opening statement. It set the groundwork for the entire case. A bad opening meant playing catch-up the rest of the trial.
None of that mattered now.
Tommy had not been able to locate Falynn.
On the way to Newark Street he looked at every car that pulled up next to him, at every cab driver, at any car that seemed to follow him for more than a block. No one stood out. His phone had not rung again. Nor had he called. His finger had hovered over the speed dial ever since leaving the office, but he had not pressed it.
You will not call this house for any reason.
The noxious smell of latex paint greeted him at the door. It filled his head, dizzying him for a moment. He checked his cellphone again.
The painter stood on the second floor landing, smoking a cigarette. He wore a pair of white overalls and cap, a latex glove on his left hand. He smoked with his right.
When he saw Michael he flicked his cigarette out the window, a look of guilt on his face for smoking inside a building. It was almost a capital crime in New York these days. “Are you Mr Roman?” the painter asked.
Michael nodded his head. The painter checked his hand for wet paint, found it dry. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bobby Rollins. Edgar is my dad.”
They shook hands. Michael noticed the flecks of drying paint on the man’s hands and arms.
“That’s the cranberry.” The young man laughed. “It dries a little darker.”
“Thank God.” Michael peeked inside the door to the second-floor offices. His heart was racing to burst. He had to get rid of this man. He had to think straight. “How’s it going in there?”
“Good. Whoever did your plaster work was pretty good.”
