Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

Ten minutes later they pulled off the road on Hempstead Avenue, near Belmont Racetrack, just east of Hollis, into the parking lot of a somewhat isolated off-brand motel called the Squires Inn.

The motel was L-shaped, tired, with a broken asphalt parking lot, missing shingles. It may have at one time been part of a chain, but had long since fallen into disrepair. They pulled into the lot. Kolya pointed to a space. Michael put the car in park, cut the engine. Kolya reached over, took the keys from the ignition.

“Do not get out of the car,” Kolya said. “Do not do a fucking thing. You move, I make a call, and it starts raining shit.”

Kolya reached into the back seat, grabbed two large grocery bags, exited the car, crossed the walkway. He reached into his pocket, fished out a key, opened the door to room 118. Michael checked his coat pockets, even though he knew that Kolya had frisked him before leaving the office, taking his house keys, car keys, cellphone, and wallet. All he had left was his watch and his wedding ring. He reached over, tried to open the glove compartment. It was locked. He checked the back seats, the console, the pockets on the doors. Nothing. He needed something, something he could use as a weapon, something with which he could get the upper hand. There was nothing.

A minute later Kolya emerged from the room, looked left and right, scanning the parking lot. It was all but empty. He motioned to Michael to get out of the car. Michael emerged, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the room. Kolya closed the door.

The room was standard issue for an off-brand motel – worn teal green carpeting, floral bedspread with matching drapes, laminate writing desk, a nineteen-inch television on a swivel stand. Michael noticed a rusty ring on the ceiling over the bed. There had recently been a leaky roof. He heard the pipes rattle inside the walls. The room smelled of mildew and cigarettes.

Kolya locked the door. He pointed to the chair by the desk. “Sit there.”

Michael hesitated for a moment. He was not used to being given orders, especially by someone the likes of which he put in jail for a living. The fact that this man had both a 9 mm weapon and his family got him moving. He eased himself onto the chair.

Kolya parted the drapes slightly, looked out into the parking lot. He took out his cellphone, punched in a number. After a few moments he spoke into the phone. He closed the phone. He then extracted the weapon from his waistband, held it at his side. He turned to Michael. “Come here.”

Michael stood, walked over to the window. Kolya opened the drapes further, pointed. “You see that car over there? The one parked underneath the sign?”

Michael looked out the window. Under the sign for the motel was a ten-year-old Ford Contour, dark blue, tinted windows. He could not see inside. “Yes.”

“Go back and sit down.”

Michael did as he was told.

“I am going to leave now,” Kolya said. “I want you to listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t leave this room. You don’t make any phone calls. There’s a man sitting in that Ford over there. He works for me. If you so much as open the door to this room, he will call me, and your family is dead. Do you understand this?”

The words sliced through Michael’s heart. “Yes.”

“I’m going to call you on this room phone every thirty minutes. If you don’t answer within two rings, your family is dead.” Kolya pointed to the wall. “The girl working the front desk here is my cousin. In front of her is a switchboard. If you make an outgoing call, she’ll know. If you even pick up the phone without receiving an incoming call, she’ll know. Do either of these things and I will light up your family. Do you understand this?”

The fear began to crawl around Michael’s stomach. The possibility that he may never see Abby and the girls was real. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Kolya pointed to the two large grocery bags he had brought in with him. “There’s food in there. You’re gonna be here awhile. Eat healthy, counselor.”

Kolya laughed at his joke, then held Michael’s stare for an uncomfortable amount of time, asserting his authority. Michael had met so many men like Kolya over the years. He could not look away. He would not.

Finally Kolya backed off. He crossed the room, gave everything one more look, opened the door, and left. Michael slipped up to the window, peered through the curtains. He saw Kolya walk up to the blue Ford. Whoever was inside the Ford rolled down the window. Kolya pointed to the room, to his watch. A few seconds later he slipped into his own car, pulled out of the parking lot and soon disappeared into the traffic on the Hempstead Avenue.

Michael paced around the room.

He had never felt more helpless in his life.

Aleks looked through the two-drawer file cabinet in the small bedroom Michael and Abigail Roman used for a home office. He scanned the history of their lives, taking in the milestones, the events. He learned many things. He learned that they owned their own home, having paid cash for it. They also owned a commercial space on Ditmars Boulevard. Aleks perused the photographs of the boarded-up building. He recalled it from the story he’d read about Michael. It was the place in which Michael’s parents were killed. The Pikk Street Bakery. Inside the envelope were a pair of keys.

Marriage license, deeds, tax returns, warranties – the residue of modern American life. He soon found the documents he sought. The girls’ adoption decree, forms which would serve as their birth certificates.

Aleks sat down at the computer, conducted a search for the government agency he needed. He soon heard a car door slam. He glanced out the window.

Kolya had returned.

They stood in the kitchen. Aleks smelled the marijuana on Kolya. He decided to say nothing for the moment.

“Any problems?” Aleks asked.

“None.”

“Do you have the license?”

Kolya reached into his pocket, removed an envelope, handed it to Aleks.

Aleks opened the envelope, slid out the plastic laminated license. He held it up to the light, caught the shimmer of the holographic image. It was good work. He put the license in his wallet.

“Where do you have him?”

Kolya told him the name and address of the motel, along with the room number and phone number. Aleks wrote nothing down. He did not need to.

Aleks glanced at his watch. “I will return within one hour’s time. When I come back you will return to the motel and make sure Michael Roman does not leave. Are we clear on this?”

Kolya mugged. “It’s not that complicated.”

Aleks held the young man’s stare for a few moments. Kolya glanced away.

“You may be there for a while,” Aleks said. “You will need to guard him until I am out of the country.”

“The money is right, bro. No worries.”

Bro, Aleks thought. The sooner he left this place, the better. “Good.”

“What do you want me to do with him then?” Kolya asked

Aleks glanced down at the butt of the pistol in Kolya’s waistband. Kolya saw the look. Neither man said a word.

Aleks looked at the photos of the girls. He had taken them against the wall in the kitchen, an off-white background that could have been anywhere. He took a pair of scissors out of the drawer and cut the photographs into 2? 2-inch squares. He needed two photographs of Anna, and two of Marya. For their passports.

The girls sat on the couch in front of the television. They were watching an animated film, something about talking fish.

He got down to the girls’ level. “We’re going to go to the post office,” he said. “Is that all right?”

“Is Mommy coming with us?” Marya asked.