FORTY-THREE
Michael parked the blue Ford on Creekside Lane. He had stopped on the way, pulling off the road about a mile from his house, back into the part of the woods that had once been a campground. He left Omar Cantwell’s body there, covered in leaves and compost. The man was still alive.
As Michael walked through one of the still-vacant lots in the new development south of his house, he saw a man he knew only as Nathan. Nathan and his wife had just moved into the neighborhood a few weeks ago. Michael waved; Nathan waved back.
There was something in Michael’s stride that told Nathan there would be no stopping and chatting today. As a prosecutor, Michael knew well that everything that had happened this day, everything that would happen this day, went into a timeline, a continuum of impressions, facts, assumptions, interpretations. And, ultimately, testimony.
I spoke to Mr Roman at the motel, the officer would say. He seemed very agitated.
I saw him walking through the woods, Nathan would say.
Moments later Michael reached the top of the hill, just a few feet from the property line behind his house, his blood burning in his veins. He tried to banish from his mind the possible horrors of what had happened here, what he might find.
If you come here, Mr Roman, you will drown in your family’s blood.
The back of the house offered no clues. He could see Abby’s car in the driveway, but no further. But that didn’t mean there were no other cars. There were a pair of turnarounds about twenty feet from the garage.
He was just about to go back down the hill, and circle around to the side of the house, when he saw something to his right, a flash of gold in the late afternoon sun. He turned, his hand moving to the weight of the pistol in his pocket.
It was Charlotte. Charlotte was standing right there. She was picking dandelions, putting them into a little jar. Right in front of him. For a crazy moment, Michael thought he might be hallucinating. How could this be? Had it all been some kind of insane hoax? No. He had seen Viktor Harkov’s body. That was real.
Michael put the revolver into the back of his waistband. He edged to the top of the hill, slipped behind a tall maple at the rear of the property.
Charlotte looked up, saw him. “Daddy!”
Charlotte dropped the dandelions and ran across the yard. Michael got down on his knees and embraced her.
“Baby!” he said. He felt the tears well up in his eyes. It had only been a few hours, but it seemed like years since he had seen her. He pulled back, looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she said. Formal, proper Charlotte.
“Where are Mommy and Emily?”
Charlotte pointed over her shoulder, toward the house. Michael took her by the hand, positioned the two of them behind a hedge, so that they would not be visible from the back windows. “Are they okay?”
Charlotte nodded.
“What about… the man?” Michael asked. He did not know how to put this. He did not want to make things worse. “Is that man still here?”
Charlotte thought for a moment. It looked as if something passed behind her eyes, something dark. Then she brightened, nodded again.
“Is it just him?”
“Yes,” she said. “The other man left, I think.”
“Okay, baby,” Michael said. He held her again, taking a quick inventory. There were no visible bruises. It did not appear as if Charlotte had been crying, nor did she pull back because something hurt. “Okay.”
Michael stood, held his daughter’s hand. He glanced around the yard. Everything appeared to be the way he had left it that morning. He peered around the hedge. There was no movement. Michael decided he would take Charlotte to the car, and come back.
“Let’s go for a walk, okay?”
Charlotte glanced at the house, back. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to see Shasta. You like Shasta, right?”
“I do.”
“Do you know exactly where Mommy and Emily are now?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“What about the man? Do you know exactly where he is?”
Charlotte seemed to zone out on this question. Michael was just about to ask again when he saw a shape appear near the left side of the house, next to the garage. Michael got down low, peered through the hedges. It was Emily. She was standing at the corner of the house, looking out toward the woods. A few seconds later Michael saw Abby.
Before he could stop himself, Michael stood, took a step out from behind the hedges, bringing Charlotte along. Abby saw him. She shook her head. Michael could see her mouth the word no.
A second later a man stepped around the corner. Michael knew it was Aleks. He was tall, broad shouldered. He wore a black leather coat.
The two men saw each other and, in that moment, knew each others’ souls.
Michael looked at Abby. He could see the tears coursing down her cheeks. For a sickening moment the three of them looked like a family – father, mother, daughter. They looked like a suburban family in the yard of their suburban home, perhaps getting ready to leave for a day at the beach, or a picnic.
Then Michael saw a gleam of silver. There, in the man’s hand, just a few inches from Emily’s head, was a large knife. The man pulled Emily close to him. Michael’s blood ran cold.
He did not know how long they stood there on opposite ends of the property. No one moved. Michael had to make a decision, the hardest of his life. He did not know if it was the right decision, but it seemed to be the only one.
He scooped Charlotte into his arms, lifted her into the air, held her close, and began to run down the hill. He almost slipped when they reached a narrow section of the creek, his leather-soled shoes slipping on a slippery rock. He found his balance as they forded the shallow water. Michael was certain he heard footsteps approaching rapidly behind them, the snapping of fallen branches and plodding on leaves, but he knew he could not stop.
Moments later they reached the back of the Meisner property. Michael put Charlotte down, and together they ran across the backyard, skirting the garden. They reached the back patio and the sliding door. Michael banged on the glass. Within moments Zoe came into the dining room, looked at them. At first it appeared as if she did not know Michael, but soon recognition dawned. She crossed the room, slid open the glass door.
“Michael,” she said. “How nice.”
Zoe Meisner was a widower in her sixties. She lived for her garden, her dog, and community fundraisers. In that order.
Shasta came loping up. She was a big golden Lab, and when she reached the end of the living-room carpet, momentum and a hefty diet propelled her across the quarry tile of the foyer, sliding, trying to maintain balance. She stopped just short of knocking Charlotte over.
The dog wagged its tail and began to lick Charlotte’s face. Charlotte giggled, and it loosed something in Michael’s chest. The sound of his daughter laughing. He realized he had all but begun to think he would never hear that sound again.
Michael caught his breath, tried to appear normal. “Uh, Zoe, I was wondering if I could ask you a small favor.”
“Of course,” she said. “Why don’t you come on in? Would you like some tea?”
“No,” Michael said. “No thanks. I was wondering, could you watch Charlotte for just a few minutes?”
Zoe looked him up and down, perhaps for the first time noticing the clothes he was wearing, and the dirt and mud along the cuffs of his maroon golf slacks, slacks that Michael found himself unconsciously hitching every few seconds. He hoped the gun did not fall out of his waistband.
“Are you all right?” Zoe asked.
“I’m fine,” Michael said. “Just kind of a… crazy day.”
