Orest Stelmach
The Altar Girclass="underline" A Prequel
For my parents, Eudokia and Bohdan Stelmach. Child refugees, proud Americans, devoted parents.
Мамі і Татові — Вічная Пам’ять!
CHAPTER 1
He snatched me a block away from my apartment.
I’d just driven back to New York after attending my godfather’s funeral in Hartford. A drive to Connecticut usually unwinds me. I crack open the moonroof and the wind sucks out my stress like God’s vacuum cleaner. Beauty surrounds me, along country roads, on rolling hills, and in the sound of silence. Once I reenter New York, however, the parkway twists and turns my insides. Gridlock awaits, at the toll bridge, on the sidewalks, and on the rungs of the corporate ladder. At least that’s how it always was for me.
Until tonight.
I’d sped toward the border of New York as though the Red Army were pursuing me in a fleet of Audis. I couldn’t wait to get out of Connecticut and leave my suspicions behind me. I didn’t really think anyone was following me, but I feared my godfather’s death might not have been an accident. That deduction didn’t bother me when I was among people, at the wake and the reception. Once I’d climbed into my car, however, the silence was too loud, the hills too desolate. I wondered if I’d asked too many questions and who’d heard me. Suddenly, I’d longed for the familiarity of the gridlock.
After leaving my car at the garage at midnight, I walked along 1st Avenue savoring the smells of my neighborhood. The smell of pups from the doggie day care center, the aroma of rising crust from the pizzeria. I spied my apartment building up ahead. A hot shower awaited, the pizza was next door, and if I could have uncorked the Chianti telepathically, I would have. I was safe at home. No one would touch me here.
I stopped at the corner of 82nd Street to let a car go by.
A glove covered my mouth. A second set of hands lifted me off the pavement.
A shiny black van screeched to a halt. The back doors opened.
They hurled me inside.
I landed on my elbow and hip. Pain ripped through me.
The doors slammed shut. Darkness enveloped me.
“Don’t scream,” a man said. “And don’t move.”
I froze.
It all happened so fast I had no time to fight, no time to resist, no time to even think. One minute I was a random carbohydrate addict dreaming of medicating with food and wine, and the next minute I was some stranger’s prisoner.
“We go way back, Nadia. Be good. Don’t make me hurt you even more than I got to.”
Except he wasn’t a stranger. I recognized the voice as soon as I heard it, but I couldn’t place it. It boasted a mellifluous tone that contrasted with coarse enunciation and gutter grammar. He knew me. We knew each other. According to him, we went way back. But I didn’t frequent the gutter, so who was he? I could see him sitting in a chair at the far end of the van, but I couldn’t make out his face or any of the objects around him. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness.
The van started moving.
A sense of helplessness gripped me. First, I’d lost my freedom. Now I was being taken somewhere against my will. I was an average woman. I wasn’t trained in self-defense. I wasn’t a cop, spy, or martial artist. I was a financial analyst. I was good with numbers, but math skills weren’t going to get me out of this situation.
These men could do anything they wanted to me, and I would be helpless to stop them.
The thump of my heartbeat echoed in my ears.
He lit a match. Long, elegant fingers cupped the flame to a face. Dirt clung to the skin beneath one of his nails. The flame illuminated a pair of lush lips, the kind that could suck a grapefruit dry from across the room. I caught a glimpse of his face. It belonged to a man who’d grown up with me in the Ukrainian-American community in Hartford. I hadn’t seen him since graduating high school, but I’d heard stories about him. Everyone in the community had heard the stories.
The bad seed. The most handsome first-generation Ukrainian-American boy, the one mothers and their daughters had dreamed about until he revealed himself to be a true sociopath. This one didn’t hide his tendencies. There’d been arrests for a string of burglaries, illegal weapons possession, even rumors he was the lead suspect in two drug-related murders in Hartford. People spoke in whispers about him at church, that he’d gotten involved with the wrong crowd, lived on the edge of society. Outwardly, the community distanced itself from him. Secretly, however, many of the seniors enjoyed some Schadenfreude at the expense of his parents, for he created the illusion that their own dysfunctional first-generation kids were normal.
Dim lights came to life in the ceiling. Recessed lights. Bright, brighter, full power.
Donnie Angel sat facing me in one of two captain’s chairs.
In full light, he still resembled the boy I’d grown up with, but time had been unkind to him. His lush cheeks had turned hollow. His jacket hung loosely on his formerly broad shoulders while a slight paunch pressed against his belt. As his midsection had thickened, his hair had thinned. Gone was most of the rock-star mane so many girls had dreamed of running their hands through.
Someone once told me that spouses begin to look like each other over time. I’d never believed it but now I wasn’t so sure. Donnie Angel was evidence the theory might be true, if a man was married to his job and his job was crime.
He wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, natty gray slacks, and black track shoes with white stripes. His eyes lit up when he saw that I recognized him. His lips stretched wide. It was a smile as spontaneous and genuine as the pile of shit I’d stepped in was deep. His teeth were still white and perfect. He could still smile. My God could he smile.
“You look great, Nadia,” he said. “Just great. Someone told me they seen you at the funeral. Said you lost weight. Not that it didn’t look good on you. You always had a cute face, for a smart girl. You know what I mean. So how you been?”
I could tell he was serious. He meant what he said — that I looked good, for a smart girl — and what he didn’t say. That in some sick way he was happy to see me even though he’d kidnapped me and made it perfectly clear that he was going to hurt me. That he was compelled to hurt me, presumably for something I’d done. I wasn’t particularly happy to see him, which meant I had to lie. I had to pretend to be cool even if I was petrified on the inside.
“I’ve been good, Donnie. Real good.” My voice sounded unsteady. I prayed he couldn’t tell. I nodded at his blazer, its gold buttons to be specific. “Nice jacket. You look like you just got off the yacht in Newport. Free enterprise agrees with you.” I gave him a once-over and forced a smile of my own. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, I think you’re looking at it.” He gestured toward an assortment of decanters partially filled with liquor. “How about a drink?”
“A drink?”
“I got some Champagne in the fridge. French stuff in a bottle with flowers on it. Got a case of it from a guy who got it from a guy. Been saving this bottle for a special occasion.”
I couldn’t believe he was acting as though we’d stumbled into each other at the Ukrainian National Home’s bar. There had been a time when the thought of Donnie Angel pulling out a bottle of champagne for me would have been the highlight of my life. Now, given the circumstances, it terrified me.
“Donnie,” I said. “Why am I here?”
He stood up and walked over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the van. Beside it, a side table was covered with a white sheet. A glint at his feet caught my eye. I glanced at the floor and realized his athletic shoes had metal spikes attached to the bottom, the kind worn by golfers, and track and field athletes. I tried to conjure various reasons why a sane man would wear spikes but couldn’t think of one. Then I tried to think of some reasons why an insane one would wear them during an interrogation and could think of only one.