Ghosts
Boris got a motel room like the one we’d checked into the last time I needed an emergency clean up. Being with him seemed the better of the two options, although I had no clue what the boss had ordered him to do to me.
He wrapped me up in his big black coat, guided me inside, and sat me down on the edge of the bed. I blinked to reorient myself as he turned my head to assess the damage the pakhan had inflicted on me. I fought to stay strong in the spirit of fixing things—no crying, no whimpering, no whining. If Boris thought I would go home and cry to my papa, I would be in the ground before dawn.
I was rounding third and heading for home. If I could get over this last hurdle, I would be okay. The boss was done with me. They were leaving in the morning. I would be free.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“What happened?”
“Um, I hit myself with my racquet defending a shot to the face.” I demonstrated the swinging motion.
“Looks like someone hit you.” He lined the back of his hand against my cheek. “Finger marks.” He slid off his coat I was wearing and examined my body to see what else had been done. He pushed my hair over my shoulder so he could see the bite mark on the back of my neck.
“Just that,” I said.
He ran his fingers over my ribcage.
I winced. “And maybe a couple of cracked ribs—nothing else.”
He picked up my arm to get a look at my skinned elbow.
“I just need some Band-Aids.”
“Did they touch you?”
I knew what he meant. I shook my head.
He studied my expression. “Good. Very good.” He lowered his hand to his belt. My heart pounded as he unbuckled it and slid it off. “Hold out your hands.”
I curled my knees up, buried my face in my lap, and did as he said. He tightened the leather strap around my wrists, pushed me back on the bed, and looped it around the metal headboard. I kept my eyes closed as the reality set in that Boris would be my first, last, and only.
He stuffed a gag in my mouth and tied it tight behind my head. Then he tucked a pillow under my head and covered me with the tattered bedspread. I begged him to let me go, but the gag muffled my pleas.
“Shush. I have to go out and get you clothes and something to eat. You don’t want the boys to come back to babysit, do you?”
I shook my head.
“I’m waiting for my orders.” He blotted my face with the sheet. “I have to do my job, understand?” He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “Try to rest.”
When the door closed behind him, I called out to the universe for Sophia. I wanted her to be with me at the end so we could be together. Not so she could lead me to the Pearly Gates; I had no interest in cloud hopping or harp strumming. I wanted revenge.
I told her my plan to ditch the tunnel that led to the other side, so I could stay on earth as a ghost, follow my killers to Russia, and haunt them for the rest of their evil lives. I wouldn’t rest in peace until I found a way to scrape that tattoo of Sophia off that monster’s skin—preferably with my teeth—if such goals were attainable for pissed-off little ghosts.
After I worked out my plan for the afterlife with Sophia, I lost consciousness. I woke up in a fog when Boris shook me back to life. When I came to, I spotted a large serrated knife with a shiny blade laying on the nightstand. Under the yellow light of the lamp, I could see crude notches engraved in the handle. The knife had kept track of how many victims it had offed, too.
I turned my head and focused on a still life of a flower vase in a picture frame on the wall. I didn’t want my murderer’s face or his weapon to be the last memory etched in my mind for all of eternity.
“Look at me.” Boris tilted my head to meet his eyes.
I turned my focus back to the knife. Boris followed my gaze and picked it up.
“I’m going to cut off the gag. Hold still.” He sliced the fabric and pulled the material out of my mouth, freed my wrists, and brought me to an upright position.
I sat there, stunned, not at all trusting his nonchalant tone, but also perplexed as to why he was removing my restraints.
Has the boss forgiven me?
“How much did you drink?”
“A couple shots. I’m fine.”
He checked my arms and legs for needle marks.
“I’m clean.”
He led me into the bathroom, flipped down the toilet seat cover, and sat me down. He pushed my hair aside and cleaned the bite mark on my neck. He rubbed an alcohol swab over the wound. It stung, but I didn’t flinch. He smoothed some cream on it and then covered it up with a bandage. Next, he wrapped athletic tape around my ribs, and then wet a washcloth and wiped off my face and cleaned up my elbow.
After he patted me dry, he lifted a small vial of liquid out of his pocket, popped off the top, and dabbed some sort of oil on his thumb. He spoke in Russian and smeared it on my forehead and on each of my wrists. It smelled like essential oils. A blessing, I figured. He helped me get dressed, led me back into the room, and sat me at a small table. He cracked open a Coke, set out a container of white rice with a fork stuck in it, and unwrapped a sleeve of crackers.
I chugged the pop and noticed Boris had set his black notebook and cell out on the table. How could he work at a time like this? As I drank, he tapped his finger on the phone, waiting for his orders. My body began to shake. I scooped up a bite of rice and lifted it to my mouth. Half of it made it; the rest tumbled down my shirt.
“Want me to help you eat?”
I shook my head and fed myself again with similar results. I gave up and nibbled on a cracker. “Which one of you killed my sister?”
Boris’s expression turned murderous.
“Don’t deny it. I saw the tattoo of her inked on Vladimir’s back. That’s how you assholes brag about your crimes, right? I know that knife on your neck means you’re a hit man. Does one of those links on your arm represent my sister?” I pointed to his blue snake tat.
“Your sister’s death was a tragic accident.”
“Bullshit.”
“Not bullshit. Vladimir was in Siberia at the time of your sister’s death. I never told him about the accident until after he was released. The news would’ve killed him.”
That was what Vladimir had told me, too. Maybe it was true. “So you did it?”
“Think, lapsha. Why would I, why would anyone in the Bratva hurt her? Vladimir is like a son to me. The accident was just an accident. She lost control of her car and crashed. Not my fault, not Vladimir’s fault—not your fault either.”
Tears dripped down my cheeks. “I don’t believe you. I saw the tattoo. Her face, the flames, a blue devil—”
“Guilt, my dear. Vladimir feels responsible because if he hadn’t gone to prison, they would’ve stayed together in New York. No car wreck in Cincinnati.”
I would never know if he was telling me the truth, but his facts did validate Vladimir’s alibi, hence she didn’t die by his hand. “When is he going to call?”
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
“What time is it?” I asked. When he ignored me, my gaze darted to the alarm clock next to the bed. It was almost midnight. I looked down at my wrist and at the shiny oil mark Boris had rubbed on me. It looked like an X—no, it was a cross.
Oh, God. Holy oil—Last Rites.
I knew then he had already made up his mind. It was two hours past my curfew. I wasn’t going home. “How are you going to do it?”
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
“Are you going to make it hurt to get back at me for all the times—”
A loud boom came from the door. “Freeze!” Two officers wielding guns stormed the room and aimed their weapons at Boris. “Put your hands up.”
I leapt out of my seat, my hands high, totally confused by the huge uniformed man with his gun pointed at Boris and the bushy-haired officer next to him—
“Officer Montgomery?”
“Are you all right, Carter?” Officer Montgomery asked, her entire focus on Boris, her gun pointed at his chest.
Oh, God. I’m safe.
But Boris wasn’t. If I squealed, the pakhan would have my whole family whacked. This was my chance to do the right thing for once.
“Don’t shoot! He’s the one who saved me.”