Beautiful Evil Winter Page 12

  Ethan and I lock eyes. He’s as stumped as I am.

  Dumfounded, we stare at her in disbelief.

  We definitely need to find a way out of this. Yea, this will be a long problem-solving discussion.

  Speechless, Natasha spins on her heels leaving in a huff slamming the door behind her.

  “Can you believe that!” My eyes bulge toad-like out of face.

  “Of course, the answer is no. We’re not doing that.”

  “How not to offend and say no?” I ask rhetorically, tapping my finger on my chin.

  “I know—let’s tell her that our doctor said that we can’t discontinue the medicine because the problem will get worse. He also told us not to do anything besides give the medicine,” Ethan offers.

  That’s it!” I proclaim happily. “Good thinking. That’s our strategy when we see her again.”

  ***

  “It’s been two days since we’ve seen Natasha. What a relief!! Although, she could see that the medicine is working,” I smirk.

  “One more call to the doctor to report progress. It’d actually be good to have her here to make the international call. Guess, we’ll have to wait a day,” Ethan says with a sigh.

  It’s dinner time when someone knocks at the door.

  Ethan answers the door, standing aside so Natasha can barrel in.

  Without a greeting or acknowledgment, she rushes to Zack. Picking him up in her arms, she ignores his flailing hands and dour demeanor, looking into his eyes first then holding him close. That’s risky—she can trigger screaming mode any second. I bet she’s holding him close to listen to his breathing.

  “He’s better, isn’t he?” I ask.

  Turning her back to me, she returns him to his book on the floor. Ignoring my question, she glares at me before to turning to Ethan.

  “Will you make this international call for us?”

  “Of course.”

  While sitting on the couch, her eyes dart from Zack to the kitchen counter and back again before she hands the phone to Ethan.

  “Dr. Black, he’s improving. What now? Stay the course?” Ethan asks.

  With a loud sigh, Natasha stands, smoothes her skirt and dusts her shoulders before standing to leave, another glare as she crosses the room acknowledges my presence.

  As she exits, a smug smile takes shape on my lips.

  It’s sort of witchy, but it feels good to be right.

  26. MARTYRDOM

  The Siberian airport—a bustling, inviting environment broad brushed in steel gray and ready-to-crumble brown welcomes us. The unheated gate areas offer little square footage for standing or sitting. Warmly wrapped Zack doesn’t cry, complain or care because I offer him an early dinner bottle and a toy. Both Ethan and I stare respectfully at the menacing, snowy climate through the ceiling to floor glass windows. While I shiver at the sight of the blizzard cold, a darting figure catches the corner of my eye. Just a blur of color, but it makes me pause. My eyes jump from face to face looking for something familiar or suspicious. The crowd is parting like zebras scattering for the onslaught of lions. I see a short muscular man barreling our way—a man with a ponytail. With each stride, the gun wedged under his belt peeks out from his brown overcoat.

  What’s going on? Who is that? Oh my God, can that be Ponytail? Here? Anna’s words haunt me—”The police always find the best way to produce the result to hurt the most.”

  What do we do? I can’t run with the baby! Natasha doesn’t know to help us!

  What will Ethan do now? Maybe, I have to change the subject.

  In an instant, I hand Zack to Natasha and turn to face Ponytail—my face contorts in a hard tight mask, my teeth clench and my eyes fill with molten hate, ready to incinerate anything in my path. I stand tall and upright in fighting stance, my heart racing and my body quivering with rage.

  You want to kill me? Fine, bring it on if my baby lives. Knees and elbows, knees and elbows are my only weapons now.

  “What’s happening here? Why is stranger running at us?” Natasha shrieks.

  “Just take Zack. Ethan and I have to handle this. Not your problem,” I say frantically as I train my sights on Ponytail, bolting my body down into the floor and plotting my offensive. I feel, but won’t meet her penetrating gaze.

  “He wants to kill us Natasha. Either Ethan or I should be able to escape,” I add wistfully.

  “Ethan, we’ve got to split and re-unite later in the airport.” I grab his hand and squeeze it, keeping my focus on Ponytail.

  Split… like my heart is splitting now as if halved by a meat cleaver.

  I may not see Zack grow-up, but at least he will have his Dad. A hard lump fills my throat as tears well up in my now stinging eyes.

  Ponytail approaches with a predator’s pace like a too hungry lion closing in for the kill.

  Natasha and Ethan are stepping sideways away from me, distancing themselves for the collision.

  My blood channels ice cube cold, my chin tilts up in defiance as the back of his hand rips across my face, a stripe of blood painting the trajectory. The bastard’s wedding ring probably cut me! I raise my forearm to shield my face as I step forward to become a spinning top of elbows and knees. I see him lift his machine gun to pummel my head; yet, it falls to the ground.

  What the hell happened? Wide-eyed with surprise, I turn to see Ethan, rebalancing on his back leg. With a quick do or die jump, I escape Ponytail’s reach. Looking at Ethan, I see his soft understanding eyes and a small smile before he turns to run.

  “Nyet! Pomoshch’! On pytayetsya skhvatit’ nashego rebenka! He try to grab our baby!” Natasha yells as Ponytail scrambles to his feet in furious pursuit. People in the crowd are now staring, whispering and pointing. I see a large man with a black fur cap frowning and glaring his hands fisted at his side, an enraged rhino not more formidable or fierce.

  Ethan stepped up to protect us! I love you more than ever, Ethan! Find your way back to us! Maybe, someone will block Ponytail to give Ethan a chance to escape.

  Natasha nudges my arm just as Fur Cap spins around in Ponytail’s direction. Fur Cap heaves his big frame forward and runs fisting his hands—rhythmic and powerful like pistons in a car engine.

  “I know what you are thinking, but you must stay here. You cannot help him now. Let’s get on this plane and get out of here. I want to hear everything about angry man,” Natasha says glowering.

  Taking the baby from her, I hold him tight as the onlookers begin jockeying for a spot in line, the re-formed crowd of passengers becoming a turbulent waterfall of bodies rushing toward the resentful outdoor holding pool to board the plane. No one seems to care that I’m holding a baby as they shove us around to get closer to the front of the line. Natasha becomes angry and uses her body to create a comfort zone for us like an offensive lineman protecting the running back.

  As I step forward cradling Zack, I realize that slippery ice thickly covers the runway. Holding him tightly to my body, I quickly check his protective armor of clothing. The merciless cold frisks us quickly with heartless fingers, searching for signs of vulnerability. With small respectful steps, I travel to the staircase. As I look down at him, my foot skates out from underneath me, forcing a struggle for balance. My torn anterior cruciate ligament strains and bends, multi–directionally like a ribbon of cardboard attached to a large barbell, as I try to recover. Grabbing a fistful of Natasha’s coat, I steady myself.

  Must not fall—not with Zack. I can’t drop him or fall on him! Natasha should be carrying him, not me! She’s comfortable with this ice because she grew-up with it.

  “Please, carry him to keep him safe,” I ask as I stare at the icy staircase.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiles as she pulls scowling Zack from my arms.

  With a deep sigh of relief, I look down at the ice and back toward the plane.

  Great! The old weathered Aeroflot plane looks like it’s ready for the scrapheap or a museum. I hate putting our baby on this plane. A vintage plane to battle
the ferocious arctic weather as we travel to frigid Moscow. I may drink a shot on the plane this time too. Maybe, the leaks and the creaking cabin won’t be exponentially irritating.

  After we settle into our seats, Natasha turns to me with a commanding stare and an accusatory finger.

  Will Ethan be able to escape and board the plane? How will we find him? Did Ponytail catch him? What will he do with him?

  “We have a lot to discuss, but first hear me! Be invisible and careful with your baby—especially if he cries—every woman and stewardess watch you deal with him on plane.”

  “Now, tell me why that man wants to kill you and Ethan,” she asks, her voice crackling with burning embers, which glow in her gaze.

  ***

  Without a single temper tantrum, we reach our Moscow destination with extra baggage, two large carry-ons of physical exhaustion and emotional fatigue.

  Finally, our son moves closer to home. We’re much closer to our destination, but Ethan could be dead or enduring torture. Burning tears spill onto my face, patted and smeared away by our curious laughing baby.

  For Zack, the traveling experience is sensory overload—unrecognizable sights, new smells, new people and a new place—total submersion into the world of the unfamiliar. His wide eyes dart around restlessly as he snuggles into me.

  Before disembarking from the plane, I once again ask Natasha, the seasoned soldier, to carry him. And, still, each slow, methodical step forward on the wax paper-covered metal steps scares me. To add an extra measure of assurance, Viktoria follows as back perimeter coverage.

  Well if I fall, I’ll try to make sure it’s backward and not forward, onto Natasha and Zack. With that thought, I pause to put more distance between us.

  After we enter the brown and gray airport terminal, we spot Ivan who greets all of us warmly; then, he guides us outdoors to the white lacquered van. Working feverishly as if to beat a stopwatch in a racecar pit, Ivan assists us into the van and starts it before returning to the terminal to locate our luggage. As he drives, ice continues to paint and lacquer the inner and outer glass on the van windows reducing the entire 45 minute journey to the apartment to streaks of color. The car heater never overpowers the December cold inside or outside the vehicle, especially, this winter, the coldest winter in a decade. Zack sleeps with a wrinkled brow and active pacifier, safe and comfortable.

  Safe and secure—my hope for Ethan.

  A quick turn reminds me that my seat belt is unfastened. Without baby car seats, that was the only safety option to protect us.

  “Where are the seat belts?” I ask while groping around the seat crevices with one hand.

  “Russia cars aren’t equipped with seat belts,” Viktoria replies with a patronizing smile.

  Good Grief!!! I bet air bags aren’t standard issue either. I’ll bet that accidents are more severe than they should be, no baby seats, no seat belts and no airbags.

  “What happens after a car accident here, Viktoria?”

  “When no serious injuries are involved, the situation is settled immediately with dual pay-offs to the law enforcement officer and the victim. We don’t have lawsuit abuse here,” Victoria proclaims, a proud smile pasted on her lips.

  Finally, the van stops at the apartment. Thankfully, Ivan gently takes Zack from my arms and nonchalantly walks the opaque sidewalk surrounded by Christmas card snow.

  I’m so glad Ivan is carrying him for me. You could carve bifocal lenses from the ice on that sidewalk.

  With all of the stealth of a great grandmother, I approach and struggle with the short flight of outside stairs leading to the entrance of the apartment building. Ivan, Natasha and Viktoria wait patiently at the entrance while I complete the short distance. Ivan opens and closes the front door behind us and the temperature suddenly warms as the building blocks the cold wind.

  Apparently, all we need is a light bulb for heat and light to climb the stairs to the second floor. I’ll carry the baby and Ivan will take the bags. It’s surprising. There are no elevators even in this luxury apartment building.

  Finally, the last of the series of triple secured doors unlock and we part company with the group. Now, I’ve got to learn and understand Zack’s signals. And more pressing—diapering. I lie Zack on the bed in his thick mummifying one piece jumpsuit. His arms and legs can’t flex and move; so he lies on the bed like a scarecrow in ski wear. While changing his clothing to make him more comfortable in the warm apartment, I notice his tightly clenched fist.

  “What do you have Zack?” I ask as I pick him up, hug him and scratch his little back.

  “Can Mommy see?” I kiss his downy head and the top of his little fisted hand. He relaxes his grip to show me his favorite little toy from the child house—a simple thin white plastic dog with a round red belly (a ball attached on two sides so that it could be rolled with the touch of a finger).

  Oh, my! His favorite toy from the child house! How did he do that? Did a staff member give it to him? He was a favorite baby in the child house maybe…

  A passing thought about how Ethan would’ve roared with laughter about this discovery interrupts my emerging smile.

  Tonight, it’s toys, play, diapers and food for us, Zack. We bond as a family tonight, but tomorrow, we concentrate on making our family whole.

  Grabbing one of Ethan’s shirts, I place the long sleeve on the pillow boundary. Carefully cradling Zack in my arms, I lay him in his pillow “crib”—placing the shirtsleeve in his small curious hand. Watching his eyes widen in sudden wonder, I smile away the threatening tears. After tucking the other sleeve under the top mattress, I kiss him gently on the head and grab another of Ethan’s shirts to layer over my pajama top. Pausing, I slip it on—wrapping myself in his woodsy orange aroma. Climbing in on the other side of the bed beside the pillow crib, I take Zack’s hand for another kiss and move my arm into his outstretched fingers, waiting for him to become still.

  27. INTEL ON ETHAN

  With the how-to-call-me-from Russia slip of paper in one hand, I push the buttons on the apartment phone with the other to phone Dad.

  The big hairy coconuts emerge again to remind me how I hate to tell my Dad that I’ve made a mistake, that we’ve made a mistake. Get it right the first time, always his motto. Yea, one big hairy coconut wedges in my throat, its rough exterior scratching my throat making me choke and cough, and the other lies on my stomach like a bad meal. This happens every time I’ve been in this situation with Dad.

  “Dad, Ethan didn’t board the plane with us. I don’t know where he is. I only know someone chased him in the airport, someone who we scuffled with in the hotel bar.”

  “What! I surround you with people to protect and guide you. And you still get into trouble! What’s this about a bar? Why were you in a bar? I told you nothing good ever happens in a bar! Natasha is so careful… Wait a minute! She wasn’t with you. Was she?”

  “No, she wasn’t, Dad,” I mutter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I stare at the floor.

  “What an idiotic thing to do! That was dumb, dumb, dumb! You said ‘we scuffled.’ I don’t even want to hear the details. You were asking for trouble just being there. All this work and effort at risk because you two had to go to a bar! Maybe, you all are too immature to be parents! It may have been an awful decision for me to help you in the first place! The baby…is the baby ok?”

  I know his face burns scarlet red, and his head shakes back and forth in vehement denial of the entire situation as if physically denying it would erase the reality.

  “He’s with me, Dad—doing well. The scuffle happened before we took custody. We have no good explanation for going to that bar. It was a lapse in judgment. It was stupid! Can we please skip the details and figure out how to find Ethan?” I plead weary from the assault. While I rub my forehead and stare at the floor, a migraine threatens to bubble up under my messaging fingers.

  Dad doesn’t need to know all the details—the assault and the wounded assailant.

&n
bsp; It’s over. The focus has to be on finding Ethan now.

  “Haven’t I done enough? What do you want from me now?” he asks acidly.

  “You have, Dad, many times over. And I’m so eternally grateful. Can we find Ethan? And create a strategy from there?”

  “Of course, but we haven’t finished this conversation yet,” he adds.

  “Obviously, Natasha knows since she was at the airport with you. Maybe, she knows some people who can give us answers. What a mess! I’m so disappointed in the both of you!” He rants, leveling my hopes of even a short reprieve. I can almost see his blazing green eyes reducing my plan to a pile of ash. He continues.

  “Honestly, Natasha did what I asked—her work is complete. They are under no obligation to do anything more now. I’m not going to ask them to appear on the radar screen, to risk their hides to help your out-of-control husband get out of jail. You’ve got a big problem on your hands. The truth is if this is too complicated and too long-lasting, you’ll have to consider raising Zack by yourself.”

  ***

  The wooden rectangular clock on the tv shows two o’ clock, and Natasha will be here any minute. After my conversation with Dad, she calls insisting that we meet at the apartment. A rustle at the door followed by a quick knock announces her arrival.

  Snowflakes cover her fur hat and coat. Stomping the brown “gelatin” off her boots, she looks at me warily like a suspicious parent waiting to hear the next lie.

  I haven’t been outside. I haven’t tried to call the local police.

  “I found him, Sophia. He’s in jail, charged with resisting arrest, rape and human trafficking.”

  I stop breathing as I process the information—sorrow watering my eyes. Grief finds my frown and elongates my face. My shoulders and knees burn with the burden of desperate can’t-see-the-light sadness. Shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head, I begin to ask the follow-up question.

  “Da, they know about baby,” Natasha adds as if quoting a statistic from a business report.