“Most women your size have no fuckin’ hips at all. You know what I mean? Built like boys.”

Just get me near that closet.

They stepped into the bedroom. Kolya directed Abby to sit on the bed. He opened the closet door, rummaged through the suits, the shirts, the sweaters, the slacks. “There’s no fuckin’ uniforms in here.”

Abby stood, backed to the wall. “I forgot. They’re at the cleaners.”

“Where’s the ticket?”

Abby pointed to the small wicker tray on top of the dresser, the catch-all for parking stubs, receipts, claim checks. Kolya found the dry-cleaning ticket, read it, put it back. He then started looking through the dresser, tossing out underwear, socks, sweats. He reached the third drawer from the bottom. In it were neatly folded camisoles and teddies. He pulled a few out, examined them. He arrived at a scarlet red slip, one Abby had not worn in a few years, one of Michael’s favorites. Crazily, she tried to remember the last time she had worn it for her husband.

“Nice.” Kolya threw it across the room. “Put it on.”

Abby glanced at the closet. She remembered. The previous night she had not locked the gun back into the case. It was underneath her sweaters on the bottom shelf. It was less than five feet away.

“I’ve got something better than this,” Abby said.

“Oh yeah?”

Abby made no moves. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask permission. Kolya seemed to like this. “Yeah,” she said. “A new cocktail dress. Short. High heels to match.”

“Sweet,” Kolya said. “Let’s see.”

Abby turned, slowly, walked to the closet.

She slid open the door, and reached inside.

THIRTY-SIX

The Millerville post office was a quaint standalone building with a mansard roof, multi-paned windows, two chimneys. The walkway was lined with driftwood posts connected with white chain. On the sculpted lawn was what looked like a Revolutionary War-era cannon. Two large evergreens flanked the double main doors.

Aleks had located three other post offices that were closer to Eden Falls, but he could not take the chance that the girls would be recognized. Or, for that matter, his new name and identity. According to his driver’s license he was now a thirty-five-year-old New Yorker named Michael Roman. He walked into the post office, both girls clutching his hand. How many times had he thought about scenes like this? How many times had he envisioned taking Anna and Marya somewhere?

There were eight or nine people waiting in line, another half-dozen people tending to their post office boxes or glancing at the racks of commemorative stamps and mailing supplies.

Aleks glanced around the ceiling. There were three surveillance cameras.

They inched their way to the head of the line. The girls were very well behaved.

“May I help you?”

The woman was black, in her forties. She wore silver eye shadow. Aleks approached with Anna and Marya. “Hi. I need to apply for a passport.”

“For yourself?”

“No, for my daughters.”

The woman leaned slightly over the counter. She waved at the girls. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the girls replied.

“It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins.”

Anna and Marya giggled.

“How old are you?” the woman asked.

The girls held up four fingers each.

“Four years old,” the woman said. “My, my.” She smiled, leaned back, looked at Aleks. “My sister has twins. They’re grown now, of course.”

A man standing behind Aleks – the next person in line – cleared his throat, perhaps indicating that Aleks’s small talk was wasting his time. Aleks turned and stared at the man until he looked away. Aleks turned back. The woman behind the counter smiled, rolled her eyes.

“I’ll need to get the applications,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

The woman disappeared into the back room for a few moments. She returned with a pair of forms. “Do you have photographs of the girls?”

Aleks held up the manila envelope. “I have them right here.”

The woman opened the envelope, took out the photographs. “They’re so adorable.”

“Thank you,” Aleks said.

“They look just like you.”

“And now you flatter me.”

The woman laughed. “Okay. First off I’ll need to see some identification.”

Aleks reached for his wallet. He handed the woman his newly minted driver’s license. It had Aleks’s photograph, and Michael Roman’s name.

This was the first test. Aleks watched the woman’s eyes as she scanned the license. She handed it back. Hurdle cleared.

“Next you’ll need to fill these out, and I need you to both sign at the bottom of each form.” She handed Aleks a pair of application forms for the issuance of a passport to a minor under the age of sixteen.

“Both?” Aleks asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. She glanced around the crowded room. “Isn’t the girls’ mother here?”

“No,” Aleks said. “She had to work today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “You seemed so organized, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Your wife needs to be present.”

“We both need to be here at the same time?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Either that, or she needs to fill out form DS-3053.”

“What is that?”

“That is a statement of consent form. It needs to be filled out, signed, and notarized. Would you like to take one with you?”

“Yes,” Aleks said. “That would be most helpful.”

The American bureaucracy, Aleks thought. It was at least as wearying as the Soviet edition. He now knew that everything had changed. He would not be able to get the girls out of the country legally. He also knew that the girls would not need a passport to get over the border into Canada, only the equivalent of their birth certificates, which he already had. The Canadian border was not that far away.

The woman returned in a moment with the form, handed it to Aleks.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

“That will be fine.” The woman stole another glance at the girls, smiled at them. “Where are you headed?”

Aleks tensed at the question. “I’m sorry?”

“On your trip. Where are you headed?”

“We are going to Norway,” Aleks said. “We have family there.”

“How nice.”

“Have you ever been to Norway?”

The woman looked up. “Gosh, no,” she said. “I’ve only been out of the country once, and that was on my honeymoon. We went to Puerto Rico. But that was a few years ago.” She winked at him. “I was a bit younger then.”

“Weren’t we all?” The woman smiled. Aleks looked at her nametag. Bettina.

He extended his hand. “You’ve been most kind and helpful, Bettina.”

“My pleasure, Mr Roman.”

Aleks took the girls by the hands and, noticing the security camera over the door, lowered his head. Once out in the parking lot, Aleks put the girls in the back seat, fastened their safety belts. He got back into the car.

“Ready?”

The girls nodded.

Aleks turned the key, started the car. And it came to him.

He would take Abby with them. As long as he had her husband, and she could see that the girls were safe, she would go along. It would make crossing the border that much easier.

Canada, he thought. Once they were safely over the border, he would cut the woman’s throat, bury her, and he and the girls would disappear for as long as it took. He would be one step closer to his destiny.

They would leave tonight.

PART THREE

THIRTY-SEVEN

Abby stood at the foot of the bed. The dress was laid out in front of her, along with a pair of black stiletto heels. Kolya sat on a chair at the other side of the room, next to the windows that looked onto the street. Every so often he would part the curtains.

Abby turned to face Kolya, held the black dress in front of her. Vera Wang. She’d only worn it once.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the one,” Kolya said. “Put it on.”