A lie depends on the voracity of detail behind it, and the quality of its delivery. I knew I’d nailed it. I knew it even before Donnie Angel’s eyelids shot up to his forehead, and Rus’s jaw dropped. The momentary silence that ensued told me I’d won a reprieve. It might last a minute, an hour, or a day, but I was still alive. And if I could get them to New York, anything could happen. A doorman, a fire alarm, a cop. A cop! There were more cops in New York City than coffee houses in Seattle. All I had to do…
“Where is this nativity scene now, Nadia?” Donnie said. “And be honest with me, or you and your family are gonna pay dearly.”
“In my apartment building,” I said.
“In New York?” Donnie said.
“Every tenant has a storage locker. For bicycles and luggage and stuff. It’s in the basement. Only the super has the key to the basement, and only I have the key to the locker. It’s there, wrapped in a blanket and sealed with duct tape.”
The more truth to the detail behind the lie, the easier it is to sustain it. That’s why most frauds inevitably reveal themselves. They become lies built on lies. The lockers existed, my super and I had the keys as discussed, and my storage space contained a framed object wrapped in a blanket. It was a limited edition print of a winter scene from Hunter Mountain in New York. I loved it to death, but it had been a gift from my husband and I didn’t want his memory hanging on my wall.
“All right then.” Donnie pointed to one of his men. “You take him home,” he said, motioning toward Rus. “And stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight, not even to the bathroom. Nobody goes out of our sight until I figure out what’s what.”
“You’re a fool,” Rus said. “My son was a fool for trusting this ugly harlot, and you’re the biggest fool of all.”
Privately, I had to agree with him. For the moment, at least, I was no longer the greatest fool.
“Watch your mouth,” Donnie said. “She’s not ugly and she’s a friend of mine. I go back a lot longer with her than I do with you.” Donnie gave me another gorgeous, psychopathic grin. “Don’t we, babe?”
One of the thugs put the whiskey and masonry jars in a corner. After Donnie gave logistical orders — one of the men would drive while the second would keep a gun pointed at me during the entire trip — the other thug opened the door.
An object came whipping around out of nowhere. The glint of steel, a wooden handle, a pair of hands. It happened so quickly, that’s all I saw. The object crushed the man’s face. He collapsed to the floor. I could see at the last second that it was a shovel that had hit him in the face. The hands pulled the shovel back out of the doorway.
The crunch of bone beneath the shovel sounded like sweet salvation. The hands that had swung the shovel couldn’t belong to a cop. The police didn’t announce themselves with earth-moving equipment. Neither did disgruntled clients from tony suburbs like Avon. And the hands couldn’t belong to someone I knew because there was no one left who cared—
Two men burst into the office. Both of them looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place them. One held a gleaming silver revolver in his hand. The other aimed a shotgun at Donnie Angel.
“Don’t move,” the man with the shotgun said.
Marko stepped into the office, shovel in hand. It was a brand new shovel. The promotional sticker was still affixed to the blade. Kobalt, made in America. Heavy gauge, tempered-steel blade for increased strength and durability. I could not for the life of me understand why I read that sticker or why it mattered to me that the shovel was new. But it did. My brother had come to save me and he’d brought a brand new shovel for the job. It was amazing what we noticed when we were under duress, I thought. Only then did it dawn on me that this was an unlikely observation under the circumstances, and that I might be in shock from the events of the last half hour.
Marko scanned the room without emotion, pausing only on Rus’s face. Evidently, his presence was the only surprise to my brother. When he was finished appraising Donnie and his crew, he stood before them.
“My associates are licensed to carry firearms,” Marko said. “They’re also veterans of the United States Army which means they’re trained and know how to use them. I’m guessing you’re not and you don’t.”
Marko told them to remove their weapons and put them on the floor. They followed his instructions. Afterward, he had one of his boys search four of the men. He tended to Donnie Angel himself. After patting him down, Marko looked him in the eye.
“I thought I told you to leave my sister alone.”
Donnie grinned as though he didn’t have a care in the world, and shrugged.
Marko slugged him in the jaw and knocked him to the floor.
We stood there for ten minutes until two state police cars arrived. Most conflicts were resolved within the community, but the prospect of a second murder — my own — was too much in Marko’s opinion. He’d call the cops himself. I didn’t disagree with his decision.
When I thanked Marko for rescuing me, he looked at me and waited, as though expecting me to follow up with something else. I didn’t. I wanted to say more, but I simply couldn’t. Even in light of what had just transpired, the prospect of sentiment streaming from my lips made me nauseous. As a result, what should have been a time of celebration became an experience of physical and mental relief coupled with extreme emotional anguish. I thanked God I was alive and prayed for his forgiveness for the indomitable Tesla pride that defined me.
During the entire wait, Marko never said a word to me. He didn’t ask me how I was feeling or if I was hurt.
That was okay with me. Sometimes a makeshift weapon in a brother’s hand is all the love one needs.
CHAPTER 34
Nadia tried not to think of the images that came to mind, but the more she wished them away, the more vivid they became. What sound would her fingers make when they pulled the man’s eyeball out of his head? How mushy would it feel?
She felt the urge to puke. She waited. The wave of nausea crested, and then nothing. She waited some more but nothing would come out. She understood why. There was nothing left in her stomach to throw up.
Her body heaved up and down in cadence with the man’s lungs as he took one long step after another. Sweat rolled down Nadia’s forehead. She had to do it. She had no choice. PLAST had taught her self-reliance. Who else was going to come rescue her?
Nadia brought the first three fingers of her right hand together to form an adjustable clamp. Grabbed the man’s T-shirt with her left hand for ballast. Yanked herself up, reached around and jammed her fingers toward the man’s right eye.
He turned his face toward the woman behind him to say something to her.
Nadia’s fingers connected with his cheek instead of his eye.
“What the hell.” The man shouted and cursed.
Nadia stabbed at his eye. Got a handful of slimy hair instead.
The man tossed her to the ground. Nadia landed in a bed of ferns.
“You little brat,” the woman said.
The lantern swung toward Nadia’s head illuminating the woman’s orange sneakers. The right sneaker reared back, its toe aimed at Nadia’s head.
A strong wind shook the pine trees to either side of her. Nadia was reminded of the night she’d first arrived, when dusk came and the trees began to whisper and move as though they were human, capable of pulling her to their trunks with their branches and devouring her with hidden mouths. The next morning, she’d thought how silly she’d been when she’d thought a tree could come alive, but now she realized she hadn’t been silly at all. Trees had faces. Maybe most people didn’t know this because the trees revealed themselves only at night. Like the one she was staring at right now.