seventy-five pounds. His face was thin and pallid, gaunt. In the corner of the room, next to an easy chair blanketed in an afghan – an afghan Michael remembered his mother knitting for Solomon when he was sentenced to Attica – sat an oxygen tank.
“Mischa,” Solomon said. “Minu poeg.”
My son.
“This is my daughter Charlotte,” Michael said.
With great effort Solomon got down onto one knee, holding Michael’s arm to steady himself. Charlotte did not shy away from the old man.
“Say hello to Mr Kaasik,” Michael said.
“Hi,” Charlotte said.
Solomon considered the girl for a few moments. He put a knotted finger to her cheek, then stood up again. It took three attempts. Summoning all available strength and dignity, Solomon moved, ghostlike, unaided, across the room to his kitchen. He turned to Charlotte. “Would you like some juice?”
Charlotte looked at her father. Michael nodded.
“Yes, please,” she said.
Solomon opened the fridge, removed some freshly squeezed orange juice. He poured a glass with a trembling hand.
While Charlotte sat at the dining-room table, crayon in hand, a sheaf of blank paper before her, Michael spoke to Solomon. Beginning with the murder of Viktor Harkov, continuing to the horror he had found at his house, and ending with the bloody confrontation on the street.
Solomon looked out the window, at the traffic on 101st Street. He glanced back at Michael. “The man from the motel,” he said softly. “This Omar. Where is he?”
Michael told him.
Solomon rose, walked to the door. Michael heard the old man speaking to someone. A moment later Michael saw one of the men who had been in front of the house get into a step van on the street, take off.
Solomon returned. A long silence passed. Then, “What are you going to do, Mischa?”
Michael did not have an answer.
“I can put a man at your side,” Solomon continued. “A very experienced man.”
Michael had thought about this. Indeed, it was probably one of the reasons he had reached out. He decided against it. He knew that these were hard, violent men, and he could not take the chance of a confrontation.
“No,” Michael said. “But there is something you can do for me.”
Solomon listened.
“I need to know if someone knows this Aleksander Savisaar. I need to know what I’m up against.”
“Savisaar.”
“Yes.”
“He is Estonian?”
“Yes.”
“Alt eestlane?”
“I don’t know.” It was true. Michael did not know if Aleks was born in Estonia or not.
Solomon closed his eyes for a moment. Michael looked at him, remembering for a moment how big the man once was, how he had filled a room, his thoughts. He struggled to his feet, this time allowing Michael to help him.
“I will make a call.”
Solomon moved slowly across the room, to one of the spare bedrooms. He closed the door. Michael looked out the window. He saw no police cars. He looked above the buildings, toward the skyline of the city. His wife and daughter could be anywhere. New York had never seemed larger or more forbidding.
Although it was probably only ten minutes, it seemed like an hour before Solomon returned. His face looked even more bloodless, as if he had received some terrible news. Michael was not braced for this.
“Did you find anything out?”
“Yes.” Solomon crossed the room to his bookshelves. “This man is from Kolossova. He was in the army in the first wave in Chechnya.”
“And lived to tell.”
“And lived to tell,” Solomon repeated. “He is well known in eastern Estonia. A roimar. My cousin has had dealings with him.” Solomon turned, supported himself against the bookcase. He looked Michael in the eye. “There is no easy way to say this.”
“Then I suggest you just say it.”
Solomon took a long moment. “Charlotte and Emily are his children.”
Michael felt hot and cold at the same time, dizzied. Every slot in which he had tried to fit the events of this day now made perfect, horrifying sense, a wisdom he did not want. Aleksander Savisaar was here to take his daughters back. “Are you sure of this?”
Solomon nodded gravely.
Michael got up, began to pace. He considered that this news provided one thin ray of light, as discomforting as it may be at its core. If Aleksander Savisaar believed Emily was his daughter, perhaps it meant he would not harm her. On the other hand, it made Abby expendable, but maybe not until he got to where he was going.
“They say he consorted with a girl in Ida-Viru County,” Solomon continued. “An ennustaja. She bore him three children, but one was stillborn.”
The facts roared through Michael’s mind like a runaway locomotive. Three place settings. Three candy bars. Three everything.
“An ennustaja?” Michael asked. “A fortune-teller?”
Solomon nodded.
Everything began to fall into place, all the explanations of how Charlotte and Emily were far more in tune with each other, far more perceptive than even the brightest twins. Could it be that the girls were prescient, just like their biological mother? Had they inherited this? Was clairvoyance their legacy?
Ta tuleb, Michael thought. He is coming.
They knew.
“There is more, I’m afraid,” Solomon said. The words chilled Michael’s blood.
Solomon turned, unsteadily, and made his way over to a glass-enclosed bookcase. In it was a collection of leather-bound editions. He opened the case, searched for a few seconds, then removed a small, scuffed book. He leafed through it, then turned to Michael, a thousand miseries in his damp eyes. “Koschei,” he said. “Do you remember the story?”
The name was familiar to Michael. It walked the far horizon of his childhood memories. It had something to do with a boogeyman.
“It is an old tale,” Solomon said. “I used to read it to you when you lived on Ditmars. You got scared, but you never wanted me to stop. The story of Koschei the Deathless was your favorite.”
Bits and pieces of the tale came floating back.
“You used to think Koschei lived in your closet. You used to wake up your parents every night with your nightmares. Then your father and I rewired the closet and put that light fixture inside. You were never afraid again.”
Until now, Michael thought.
“What does this have to do with this Savisaar?” he asked.
Solomon seemed to choose his words carefully. “He is insane, Mischa. He believes himself to be Koschei. He believes he is going to live forever. And it has something to do with the girls.”
Michael tried to process it all. He remained silent. Now that he had an idea what this was all about, he might find a way to fight it.
Solomon nodded. “What can I do for you, Mischa?”
“I want you to watch Charlotte. I can’t think of anywhere in the world where she would be safer at this moment.”
Solomon turned to the window, made a signal to one of the men on the street. The man got on his cell, and within thirty seconds a car pulled up, and two other men got out. They walked toward the backyard. Solomon
