Twisted lives, p.16
Twisted Lives, page 16
“You’re kind of freaking me out, Dad.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is crazy. Just hang in there. I’ll call you when I can.”
“Okay.”
“I love you with all my heart.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Chapter 35
Close Calls
I STOOD IN SHOCK staring at my phone. Vera hadn’t told the girls their mother was dead. They also didn’t know I was on the run.
How could she keep that from them, either literally or figuratively? The answer to the first part came quickly. This was one instance where grandma’s facial paralysis would work to her advantage. Grief would not be written all over her face. The second answer followed when I put myself in my mother-in-law’s shoes, which for once was easier than anticipated.
Vera’s situation wasn’t all that different from mine. One morning she was going about her day as normal, as she had for the past sixteen years, then out of the blue she got life-altering news. No doubt she’d also found it incredibly depressing, distressing, and disorienting. Her heart had been broken, her mind was reeling, and suddenly she was facing the greatest challenge of her life.
Or close to it, at least.
Vera had endured a lot in her life. First the polio that deadened the muscles of her face. Then a youth in Stalin’s shadow, as she liked to say. Then the death of her husband when Tanya was still very young. Then leaving everyone and everything she knew behind to help her daughter in America.
Now her only child was gone, and with her Vera’s only means of support. And her retirement. Grandma had been her part-time hobby. Now parent was her full-time job. That was three knockout blows delivered just 72 hours earlier in a single catastrophic punch. No wonder she hadn’t found the strength to break her granddaughters’ hearts.
I felt like a fool. A selfish fool.
I debated ditching my disguise and slipping into Vera’s apartment. We could cry it all out together.
Should I risk it? I hadn’t detected any police presence. Suppose I did. Would that make Vera’s life easier? It would relieve her of a tremendous burden, that was for sure. But it would also saddle her with another.
Caring for two kids whose parents were away was one thing, caring for two kids who’d just learned that their mother was never coming back and their father was likely going to spend decades in jail was a very different thing. A much more difficult and demanding thing.
Clearly, Vera was thinking a few steps ahead of me. I shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d enjoyed a successful career as an attorney.
What about the girls? Would they be better off knowing? They had to learn sometime, sometime soon. But what would they be learning? Like me, they’d be stuck in a state of extremely stressful uncertainty, staring at two very different doors. Unlike me, they’d have no influence over which door opened. The anxiety would be relentless and tremendous. The depression would follow.
Our family had suffered enough from depression.
I decided that Vera had been wise to refrain, both for her own sake and for the girls’. Better to tell the kids only after my fate and their future became more certain.
Satisfied with that conclusion, I hopped back in my Jeep and sped off. I didn’t think my heart could handle catching sight of Eva without being able to hug her. That would be like … prison.
I drove a quarter mile down the road to a big shopping center. One that had always been crowded before Barnes & Nobles, Pier 1, Toys R Us, and Bed Bath & Beyond had closed their doors. I parked in an inconspicuous place beneath a tree and called Kent’s cell.
He didn’t answer.
I was using a new number. I texted: “It’s F.S. Need to talk.”
A second later my phone rang.
“Thanks for calling back.”
“Of course. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. In fact, I’m hoping for a big breakthrough tonight. I’ve established contact with Wang Wei. But that’s not why I’m calling. I want to get the kids and grandma back into my house. Her place is too small, and the kids want their stuff.”
Kent replied with those rarest and most precious of attorney phrases. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Then he added, “But I’ll confirm with Detective Dubrey. By the way, she asked me to pass along that she’s anxiously awaiting your first call.”
“Noted. I’ll call her once I have something worth reporting. Regarding the move back to my house, the kids don’t know anything yet. Not about Tanya, not about me. So I need you to make sure there’s no crime scene tape or anything like that. I’d do it myself, but I’m assuming I’d be wise to keep my distance.”
“That’s a healthy assumption. If Dubrey says it’s clear, I’ll take care of the house. How do I get inside?”
I told him where my hide-a-key was located, then asked, “Once you’re done will you call my mother-in-law and let her know?”
“Sure. How’s she holding up?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since the morning Tanya died. I feel bad about that. I’ve been extremely busy trying to avoid spending the rest of my life in prison, but I still should have made time.”
“Hey, I hear you, buddy.”
“Vera’s not the easiest person to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, we get along. We’re just very different, and this is about as awkward as situations get.”
“True. But in a way you’re married to her now. My advice is to make the effort and treat her accordingly.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
I hung up and got out of the car. I preferred to pace when I needed to think on my feet. I realized I wasn’t reluctant solely because the call would be awkward. I wasn’t certain I could take any more stress without cracking. What would I do if she broke down? Or put Eva on the phone? Or she simply said, “I’m done”?
“You’ll do what you have to do,” I told myself. Then I dialed.
“Allo.”
“Vera, it’s me.”
She didn’t reply. Two seconds. Five. Had she found Kira’s phone? Was she mad? Ten seconds. Fifteen. Then, “I had food on the stove. Now I’m on the balcony so the girls won’t hear.”
“Thank you. Are they okay?”
“They’re fine, for now. I haven’t told them anything. I …”
“I understand. It’s probably better that way for now.”
“Yes. When will you be home?”
“In time for Kira’s birthday.”
“That’s not until the 24th! Can’t you come sooner? Maybe just for a day? A night? A couple of hours?”
“I wish I could. Believe me, there’s nothing I want to do more than to hug my girls.”
Vera went quiet.
I gave her time.
“I’m afraid that may be too long.”
“What do you mean?”
“The news just ran a story on you and Tanya. If the girls see it…”
“They don’t watch the news. Please leave it off,” I said, a bit too abruptly.
“I will. But if a parent of one of their classmates sees it and makes a connection—”
“The story will reach them over social media,” I said, completing Vera’s sentence. What a disaster that would be. I felt like a fool for not having foreseen this. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m mad at myself.”
Before I could comment further, Vera said, “That’s not all. There’s another problem.”
My heart dropped even further. “What kind of problem?”
“A social worker stopped by. She wanted to check on the kids. After she did, she informed me that since the girls have effectively lost both of their parents and there is no directive in place, a decision has to be made as to who will be looking after them.”
That was fast. Too fast. Summoning the Department of Child Support Services smelled to me like a police pressure tactic. This was unfortunate, but I supposed it shouldn’t have been unexpected. Maybe I wouldn’t be calling Dubrey after all. I didn’t want to work with anyone who would stoop so low.
My knowledge of local law enforcement statistics was limited, but I knew that if the federal government filed charges against someone, their conviction rate was north of ninety-five percent. Uncle Sam was big and powerful and happy to throw his weight around with complete indifference. I’d hoped my local government would be more humane. If they were willing to use children as pawns, I was in for a very rough ride. Better I didn’t mention that to Vera.
“My attorney, Kent Tierney, is going to be reaching out to you about moving back into the house. Tell him what the social worker said and he’ll take care of that too. I’m sure we can put a directive in place.”
“That sounds good, but I have a better idea. One that also solves the news problem.”
“Really? I’m all ears.”
“Tanya, the girls, and I were scheduled to leave on our annual trip to Moscow the 25th. Since you can’t come home before then, and it’s dangerous to stick around here, I think I should take the girls tomorrow instead.”
“That’s perfect,” I said, feeling a flood of relief. It was a godsend having Vera focused on the kids while the murder investigation consumed my mental bandwidth.
“I thought so. But since Tanya won’t be with us, I’ll need a letter from you giving me permission to take them abroad.”
I was familiar with the letter. Given that Putin’s habit of arresting Americans for “spying” meant I could no longer safely visit Russia, I wrote a notarized permission letter every year when Tanya took the kids over for cultural immersion. “I’ll work with Kent to get you the letter and a directive tonight. Meanwhile, you should try to keep the kids off their phones, just in case.”
“Thank you,” Vera said, sounding as relieved as I felt.
“No, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Vera.”
“Or I without you, Felix.”
As I hung up, I realized that I didn’t just have two dependents anymore. I had three.
Chapter 36
Bad Timing
I WALKED to Five Guys for a burger and fries, slipping through the door just before a large group coming from the adjacent cinema complex. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who needed a helping of comfort to fuel their fire.
Biting into a thick burger five minutes later, I got a painful reminder that I’d recently been punched in the mouth. So much had transpired since my discussion with Igor that it seemed like a week ago, even though it had only been 24 hours. Heck, a week ago I’d been living a radically different life, and I still had a wife.
On the one hand, I felt like I’d made a lot of progress in the four days since she’d passed. I’d certainly made a lot of moves. On the other hand, moves didn’t matter, even if they took me in the right direction. Ultimately, coming close would be no better than getting nowhere. I was in an all-or-nothing competition. It would end with either not guilty, or game over.
“That could all change tonight!” I told myself. Not that I needed reminding. What I needed was a nap. As a Federal Air Marshal, I was used to functioning for long periods while jetlagged, but like everyone else, I was sharpest when well rested, and the last four days had been emotionally exhausting.
I downed the last of my fries and decided to return to Zykin’s condo. I was spending a good chunk of my limited funds on that shower and bed. The smart tactical move would be to rest while waiting for Wang’s call. Please, God, let there be a call!
Walnut Creek was also closer to San Francisco. Wang’s assistant had not indicated a location, but The City was most likely. Unless he picked Pleasanton, the scene of the crime, just to rub it in my face.
As I headed toward the door, two uniformed police officers opened it to enter. On the one hand, I was bald and mustached. On the other hand, I had my hood on so the bald didn’t help, and I remained 6′4″. My one-in-a-hundred height wasn’t obvious when I was alone in a parking lot, but I stood out when moving through a crowded fast-food restaurant.
Because we were two big guys suddenly placed in each other’s paths, my eyes met the first officer’s. In that instant, I knew I was screwed, though I tried not to show it. I gave a slight nod and kept walking toward the door. The second guy had seen me too, and he stood there holding it open. Nothing I could do but walk through it, which I did with a nod.
I turned toward the dark of the cinema’s parking lot, rather than the one across the street where my Jeep was parked. The cops let me get a dozen yards from the door before stopping me with, “Hey, Buddy.”
I didn’t completely ignore them. I didn’t halt like a guy with a guilty secret either. I just glanced over my shoulder without stopping.
“Hold on a second,” the first officer said, trying to lock eyes for a second time.
I stopped and half-turned. Tried to keep my posture passive. My hands visible and relaxed.
The officers approached. The smaller one stopped three feet away, his larger partner three feet further back and to the side. Holsters unsnapped but hands empty. Cautious but not alarmed.
“What’s your name?” the closer cop asked.
I answered using a trick I employed when the passenger next to me wanted to chat. I employed what I called my throat cancer voice. It was raggedy and hushed and apparently produced with some effort. “Kevin Fox,” I wheezed.
Both cops stepped closer. I was cooperating. I was disabled. They couldn’t hear. “What’s that?”
I licked my lips as if powering up my voice. This drew their eyes to my mouth. “Kevin—” long breath in with pursing lips, then a move I’d practiced ten thousand times.
Federal Air Marshals train all the time, and they train for one situation more than any other: recapturing a hijacked plane. A plane is essentially a long metal tube. Hijackers are usually teams of men with weapons. So we’re talking close-quarters hand-to-hand combat in the cramped presence of civilians. We’re talking disarming and disabling determined men with great speed and precision. That is our Job One.
During a hijacking, hundreds of lives are on the line, including our own. We’re at risk if we act, and we’re at risk if we don’t. Therefore, we train to survive. We train out the fear and we iron out the errors. Then we drill until our moves are natural and perfect and automatic during all kinds of scenarios and conditions. We practice with one attacker, and we practice with four. We practice with bound hands and blindfolded eyes. We practice with knives and shivs and sprays and bombs.
But most of all, we practice with guns. Handguns. Lots of them. Tons of practice. Revolvers and automatics. Magnums and micros. We practice flipping them around until our fingers develop minds of their own. We train and we drill and we practice and repeat until we’ve got magician moves. Nothing in my hand, poof!, gun in my hand. Gun in your pocket, poof!, gun in my hand. Mess with me, poof!, you’re down.
On a plane, I have to go from frightened passenger to conquering captor in less time than it takes a nervous hijacker to pull a trigger. That is the job description. The FAM’s ultimate reason for being.
I was good at my job.
I was sure the officers who’d spotted me were good at theirs too. But they weren’t specialists. They trained for hundreds of situations. I focused on one.
Had there been any passersby looking our way, they’d have seen two officers faint. First the one nearest me, then the further one whose fall was broken by my timely intervention.
What really happened was my left fist uppercutting the smaller guy’s jaw hard and fast and swift enough to lift him up and knock him back while my right drew his Glock. A single step took me inside the standing guy’s space where the Glock pressed under his jaw while my left hand grabbed the back of his head and I powered him to the ground.
When you’re facing multiple tangos on a plane, lightning takedowns aren’t enough. You have to disable each before moving on the next, and you have to do it in the blink of an eye. It’s got to be so fast that terrorists two then three then four don’t catch on to the commotion. If one guy grabs a passenger by the hair and sticks a gun in her ear, you lose, and people die.
As I powered the larger cop down, I guided him onto his belly and cuffed him before he’d processed what was happening. Then I rolled over his partner and did the same. Two opponents down and disabled in something like six seconds.
I pulled my sleeve forward to wipe my prints off the Glock. As I slid it back into the dazed cop’s holster, I offered his partner a bit of advice. “You’ll avoid a yard of paperwork and a year of embarrassment if you forget this happened.”
Then I vanished into the sea of cars.
Or so it seemed.
I hoped.
I couldn’t actually disappear. My prowess at sleight of hand hadn’t reached David Copperfield’s level. But I immediately put SUVs between myself and the officers, then I ducked down and ran. I headed toward the cinema complex, which was once again showing signs of life. Another film had finished.
I jogged like I was trying to catch a film but then diverted to the side of the building, where people were exiting through the fire door. I slipped into the corridor connecting all the theaters on that side of the complex to the street and came face to face with a kid whose job was stopping people from doing exactly what I was attempting. “Left my phone on my chair!” I said, zipping past, as though that were an emergency on par with a bomb threat. The kid nodded. At his age, there was no greater nightmare.
I ran into the theater that was letting people out and kept right on going to the internal exit. Along the way I pulled off my gray hoodie, exposing a plain black T-shirt underneath. The hoodie went into the trash by that exit, tucked under an empty popcorn bucket. I also peeled off the mustache and put it in my pocket.
The complex had 20 regular theaters, ten to a side, plus an IMAX in the middle. I ignored the IMAX and studied the displays for the theaters on the other side. I wanted a first-floor show that had been running for a while but wouldn’t let out for at least an hour. Preferably one where I’d easily blend in.
