Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

Sondra sat across from her husband. Her hands began to shake. She put them in her lap. “Something happened last night,” she said.

James just stared at her. For some odd reason Sondra noticed that he had missed a large spot on his neck when he shaved that morning.

Despite all her careful preparation, she just told him what had happened in one long sentence. She told him how she had been doing the laundry, how she had just put the towels in the linen closet on the second-floor landing. She told him how, at that moment, she had been thinking about their upcoming trip to Colonial Williamsburg, and whether or not the girls would like it. They were bright, inquisitive children. When it came down to a trip to Disney World, or a trip to a place with real history attached to it, it hadn’t taken long for them to decide.

When she opened the door to the girls’ room, it suddenly seemed as if all the air in the world had changed, had become red and overheated. The girls were sleeping, the nightlight was on, and everything was where it was supposed to be. Except for one thing.

“There was a man standing in their room,” Sondra said.

James looked gut-punched. “My God!” he said. He began to rise to his feet, but it seemed his legs would not support him. He eased back down to the chair. His skin turned the color of dried bones. “He didn’t…”

“No. I told you. The girls are fine. I’m fine.”

She told him what the man said, and how he had slipped out of the window like a wraith in the night. One moment there, the next moment gone. She went on to tell James what she had seen on the news. The Russian lawyer was dead. Their Russian lawyer. Murdered in his office. And it looked like files had been stolen.

For what seemed like hours, but was in reality only a minute or so, James Arsenault did not say a word. Then: “Oh no.”

“I’m going to call the police,” Sondra said. She had rehearsed these six words all day, concocting what seemed like an infinite variety of phrases, and now that she’d said them she felt an enormous sense of relief. Although, as soon as the words crossed her lips, she wondered if she had spoken them in English or Laotian.

A few moments later, when Sondra Savang Arsenault picked up the phone, her husband was still sitting at the table, his drink untouched.

In the background, the coffeemaker began to brew.

Michael figured Kolya to be around twenty-three. He was short and solid, powerfully built, definitely a weight trainer. Michael had about six inches in height on him, and they probably weighed the same, but that was where any similarities ended.

Then there was the gun.

They were driving east on the Long Island Expressway, Michael at the wheel, Kolya next to him.

Michael thought about Viktor Harkov’s body. He had seen his share of carnage over the last decade. He had gotten a brutal introduction of his own that horrible day at the Pikk Street Bakery.

Michael considered what a physical confrontation might be like. It had been many years since he’d had to fight anyone. Growing up ethnic in Queens, it was a weekly occurrence; everyone had their corner, their block. He’d had his share of scuffles in and around courtrooms over the years, of course, but nothing that progressed much beyond the shoving or shirt-bunching stage.

The truth was, he had been hitting the gym with regularity. On a good day, he could put in an hour on the treadmill, lift free weights for another thirty minutes, and work the heavy bag for three full rounds. He was in the best physical condition of his life. But that was a long way from physical violence. Could he handle himself? He didn’t know, but he had the dark feeling that his condition was going to be tested, and soon.

As they passed through Flushing Meadows, Queensboro, and Corona Park, Michael thought about the man who called himself Aleksander Savisaar. How did the man know so much about him? Would he really hurt Abby and the girls? Michael had no choice but to believe him.

In the meantime, he knew he had to remain calm, play this cool. He would find an opening. Until then, the lives of his wife and daughters depended on it.

“Look, you look like a smart young man,” he began, trying to keep the fear out of his tone. “You’re name is Kolya? Short for Nikolai?”

The kid remained silent. Michael continued.

“You’ve got to know that this is going to jam you up for the rest of your life.”

The kid still didn’t say a word. He’d probably heard the routine before. After what seemed like a full minute of silence, Kolya responded. “What do you know about it?”

Here it was. As much as Michael wanted to drive the SUV into a guardrail, take the gun from the kid’s belt and put it to his head, he had to take another tack. For now. He took a deep breath.

“You know I’m a prosecutor, right?”

The kid snorted laughter. So he hadn’t known.

Even before he said it, Michael knew it might be a mistake. Telling a criminal you were a ADA could open a lot of possibilities, most of them bad. If this kid had been to jail – and Michael was fairly certain he had – a prosecutor had put him there. Michael had gotten his share of jailhouse threats over the years.

The kid mugged. “A prosecutor.”

“Yeah.”

“Un-fucking-real. Where at?”

“Queens.”

The kid snorted another laugh. He was clearly from another borough. Michael would bet Brooklyn. He had to keep him talking. “Where are you from?”

The kid lit a cigarette. For a few long seconds it appeared he wasn’t going answer. Then on a trail of smoke, he said: “Brooklyn.”

“What part?”

Another long pause. “So, what, is this where we have a heart-to-heart? The part where you tell me that I really don’t want to hurt anybody, or that if only my mother could see me now she would be ashamed of me?” The kid looked out the window for a moment, back. “My mother was a fucking whore. My old man was a sadist.”

Michael had to get off this subject. “This is my family. Do you have family of your own?”

Kolya didn’t answer. Michael stole a glance at the kid’s left hand. No ring.

“Why are you doing this?” Michael asked.

The kid shrugged. “Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”

“Look, I can get my hands on some money,” Michael said, his stomach turning at the thought of ransoming his family. “Serious money.”

“Don’t talk.”

“Whatever he is paying you, it’s not enough.”

The kid looked over at him. Michael could not see his eyes. All he saw was his own face reflected in a fish eye view in the kid’s wraparound sunglasses. “What he’s paying me? What the fuck makes you think this isn’t my idea? My play.”

It hadn’t occurred to Michael, and with good reason. It seemed impossible. When he first looked the kid over – something at which he was skilled, an ability he developed in his first years in the DA’s office on those days when he had to chair three dozen preliminary hearings in a single day and had to read a defendant in ten seconds flat – he noticed the dirt under the kid’s nails, the smell of axle grease and motor oil in his clothes. This kid worked in or around a garage, and Michael was willing to bet he was not servicing his own fleet of classic sports cars.

“You’re right,” Michael began, hoping to placate the kid. “I didn’t mean any disrespect by that. All I’m saying is that, whatever this is paying, I’m hoping it’s enough.”

The kid lowered his window, flicked the cigarette out. “I’m touched by your concern.” He raised the window. “Now drive the fucking car, and shut the fuck up.”

The kid pulled back the corner of his jacket. The butt of the automatic weapon emerged from the waistband of his jeans. It was on the kid’s right side, furthest from Michael’s reach. The kid might have been a thug, but he wasn’t stupid. The gun was all he had to say.