talking about, don’t you?” He pulled back the hem of his jacket. Abby’s eyes were drawn to the butt of the large pistol in his waistband. “Besides, I just met this guy. He’s a fucking dinosaur. Old country, old school. I hate that shit. Reminds me of my old man, who was so fucking stupid he trusted a Colombian.”
Abby glanced again at the steps, her mind reeling. “You don’t have to do this.”
Kolya killed a few moments, rearranging some jars of nails and screws on the metal shelf next to him. “You work outside the home?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
The last thing Abby wanted to do was let this animal even further into her life. But she knew she had to keep him talking. The longer she kept him talking, the sooner it would be that Aleks got back. “I’m a nurse.”
“A nurse! Oh! Jackpot,” he said, sounding like a little kid. “You wear the whites and everything?”
Abby knew he was talking about the dress-style uniform. Nobody wore them anymore. At the clinic, she spent most of her time in solid-color scrubs. But she would say or do anything to get out of this basement. “Yes.”
Kolya rubbed himself. Abby wanted to be sick.
“So, what, you’re saying you have your nurse’s uniform here?”
The truth was, she did not. Her three sets of scrubs were at the cleaners. It was going to be one of her stops on the way to the clinic. She glanced at the clock on the workbench. She was to start her shift soon. When she did not show up, they would call. “Yes,” she said.
“Where is it?”
“Upstairs,” Abby said. Her face burned with the lie. She was sure he could read it. But she had to buy time.
Kolya glanced at his watch. “So let’s go upstairs.”
They walked up the steps, across the kitchen, into the foyer. Kolya motioned to the stairs. Abby hesitated, then started up. She had no choice.
Kolya smiled. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You bad girl.”
As they went up the stairs she could feel his eyes on her. She was certain that, if she wasn’t a Pilates-freak, her legs would be giving out on her.
“Damn, girl. For a skinny little thing you got back.”
Get me to the bedroom, God.
“Most women your size have no fuckin’ hips at all. You know what I mean? Built like boys.”
Just get me near that closet.
They stepped into the bedroom. Kolya directed Abby to sit on the bed. He opened the closet door, rummaged through the suits, the shirts, the sweaters, the slacks. “There’s no fuckin’ uniforms in here.”
Abby stood, backed to the wall. “I forgot. They’re at the cleaners.”
“Where’s the ticket?”
Abby pointed to the small wicker tray on top of the dresser, the catch-all for parking stubs, receipts, claim checks. Kolya found the dry-cleaning ticket, read it, put it back. He then started looking through the dresser, tossing out underwear, socks, sweats. He reached the third drawer from the bottom. In it were neatly folded camisoles and teddies. He pulled a few out, examined them. He arrived at a scarlet red slip, one Abby had not worn in a few years, one of Michael’s favorites. Crazily, she tried to remember the last time she had worn it for her husband.
“Nice.” Kolya threw it across the room. “Put it on.”
Abby glanced at the closet. She remembered. The previous night she had not locked the gun back into the case. It was underneath her sweaters on the bottom shelf. It was less than five feet away.
“I’ve got something better than this,” Abby said.
“Oh yeah?”
Abby made no moves. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask permission. Kolya seemed to like this. “Yeah,” she said. “A new cocktail dress. Short. High heels to match.”
“Sweet,” Kolya said. “Let’s see.”
Abby turned, slowly, walked to the closet.
She slid open the door, and reached inside.
THIRTY-SIX
The Millerville post office was a quaint standalone building with a mansard roof, multi-paned windows, two chimneys. The walkway was lined with driftwood posts connected with white chain. On the sculpted lawn was what looked like a Revolutionary War-era cannon. Two large evergreens flanked the double main doors.
Aleks had located three other post offices that were closer to Eden Falls, but he could not take the chance that the girls would be recognized. Or, for that matter, his new name and identity. According to his driver’s license he was now a thirty-five-year-old New Yorker named Michael Roman. He walked into the post office, both girls clutching his hand. How many times had he thought about scenes like this? How many times had he envisioned taking Anna and Marya somewhere?
There were eight or nine people waiting in line, another half-dozen people tending to their post office boxes or glancing at the racks of commemorative stamps and mailing supplies.
Aleks glanced around the ceiling. There were three surveillance cameras.
They inched their way to the head of the line. The girls were very well behaved.
“May I help you?”
The woman was black, in her forties. She wore silver eye shadow. Aleks approached with Anna and Marya. “Hi. I need to apply for a passport.”
“For yourself?”
“No, for my daughters.”
The woman leaned slightly over the counter. She waved at the girls. “Hi.”
“Hi,” the girls replied.
“It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins.”
Anna and Marya giggled.
“How old are you?” the woman asked.
The girls held up four fingers each.
“Four years old,” the woman said. “My, my.” She smiled, leaned back, looked at Aleks. “My sister has twins. They’re grown now, of course.”
A man standing behind Aleks – the next person in line – cleared his throat, perhaps indicating that Aleks’s small talk was wasting his time. Aleks turned and stared at the man until he looked away. Aleks turned back. The woman behind the counter smiled, rolled her eyes.
“I’ll need to get the applications,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
The woman disappeared into the back room for a few moments. She returned with a pair of forms. “Do you have photographs of the girls?”
Aleks held up the manila envelope. “I have them right here.”
The woman opened the envelope, took out the photographs. “They’re so adorable.”
“Thank you,” Aleks said.
“They look just like you.”
“And now you flatter me.”
The woman laughed. “Okay. First off I’ll need to see some identification.”
Aleks reached for his wallet. He handed the woman his newly minted driver’s license. It had Aleks’s photograph, and Michael Roman’s name.
This was the first test. Aleks watched the woman’s eyes as she scanned the license. She handed it back. Hurdle cleared.
“Next you’ll need to fill these out, and I need you to both sign at the bottom of each form.” She handed Aleks a pair of application forms for the issuance of a passport to a minor under the age of sixteen.
