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.

THIRTY-TWO

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.

“No,” Aleks said. “She has some work to do.”

“At the hospital?”

“Yes, at the hospital. But on the way back we can stop and get something for dinner. Are you hungry?”

Anna and Marya looked apprehensive for a few moments, but then they both nodded.

“What would you like for dinner?”

The girls exchanged a guilty glance, looked back. “McNuggets,” they said.

ABBY WATCHED THE DOOR at the top of the stairs, and waited. She had always feared for her daughters, as any mother would. The stranger in the car, the terminal childhood disease. She had also feared the legal ramifications of what they had done. She had even rehearsed what she might say if ever called before a judge or a magistrate, the pleadings of a woman desperate for a child.

But never this.

A few minutes later Aleks came downstairs. Abby had long ago stopped struggling against her restraints. Her limbs had fallen numb.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

Abby Roman just glared at him.

“We are going to leave for a while. We will not be long.” He crossed the room, sat on the edge of the workbench. Abby noticed that he had gelled his hair. What was he getting ready to do?

“Kolya will remain here. You will obey him as you obey me.”

Abby noticed he was carrying a manila envelope. She saw her own handwriting on the front. It was the envelope that had Charlotte and Emily’s adoption papers in them.

Her blood turned to ice water. “You can’t do this.”

“Anna and Marya were stolen from their mother’s bed in the middle of the night. They are mine.”

Abby had to ask. Perhaps, in the answer, she would find something she needed. “Why do you call them Anna and Marya?”

Aleks considered her for a few long moments. “Do you really want to know the answer to this question?”

Abby wasn’t sure. But she knew she needed to keep him talking. If he left an opening, any opening, she would take it. She tried to keep the fear from her voice. “Yes.”

Aleks looked away, then back.

“It is the story of a prince and his three sisters . . .”

OVER THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES Aleks told her a story. What Abby had feared – that she was dealing with a dangerous but rational individual – was not true. This man was insane. He believed he was this Koschei. He believed that, with his daughters, he would be immortal. He believed that his soul was in the girls.

The part that stole Abby’s breath, the part that frightened her to the limits of her being, was that the girls knew. They had been looking at pictures from the same story in the library.

When he finished telling her the story Aleks stood, watched her for the longest time, perhaps waiting for some sort of reaction. Abby was speechless for a moment. Then:

“You’ll never get them out of the country. Someone is going to catch you.”

“If I cannot have them I will take their essence,” Aleks said.

“What are you talking about?”

Aleks touched the vials around his neck.

My God, Abby thought. The vial filled with blood. The two empties. He was going to kill the girls if he had to.

As Aleks climbed the stairs, Abby felt her heart break.

She would never see Charlotte and Emily again.

THIRTY-THREE

Desiree Powell was hungry. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen – it smelled like a pork roast with rosemary and garlic, three of her favorite things – was making her salivate. She’d forgotten to eat lunch. It often happened in the tornado of the first twenty-four hours of a homicide investigation.

The ride up to Putnam County had been stop and start, due to construction. Fontova had taken a nap, a skill Powell had never been able to cultivate. She barely slept in her own bed, at night, with a righteous snort and 5 mg of Ambien as a chaser.