The Devil's Garden Read online

  When Tommy and Michael were in their twenties they’d been a holy terror. Tommy with his dark good looks and smooth lines; Michael with his boyish face and ocean blue eyes. They’d had that Starsky and Hutch, Hall and Oates, swarthy and fair thing down pat. They were both around six feet tall, well dressed, and carried with them the confidence that came with authority. Where Tommy’s tastes went to Missoni and Valentino, Michael’s went to Ralph Lauren and Land’s End. They were the dynamic duo.

  But that, too, was a few years ago.

  Tommy swaggered across the back lawn, on display, as always. Even at a kid’s party, he was turned out – black Armani T-shirt, cream linen slacks, black leather loafers. Even at a kid’s party, or especially at a kid’s party, Tommy knew that there would be a number of women in their twenties or thirties present, and that a certain fraction would be divorced, separated, or separating. Tommy Christiano played the percentages. It was one of the reasons he was one of the most respected prosecutors in Queens County, New York.

  The number one spot, the most feared assistant district attorney at Kew Gardens, was Michael Roman.

  “Miss Abigail,” Tommy said. He kissed Abby on both cheeks, Euro-style. “You look beautiful.”

  “Yeah, right,” Abby said, waving a hand at her battered sandals and frayed jeans. Still, she blushed. Not too many people could make Abby Roman blush. “I look like something that just washed up on Rockaway.”

  Tommy laughed. “The prettiest mermaid ever.”

  Blush number two from Abby, followed by a playful slug on Tommy’s shoulder. Considering Abby’s nearly demented devotion to Pilates, Michael bet it hurt. Tommy would rather die than show it.

  “White wine?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  As soon as Abby turned her back and headed to the house, Tommy rubbed his shoulder. “Jesus Christ your wife is strong.”

  “Try playing touch football with her. We always have paramedics standing by.”

  Over the next half-hour, a number of people from the mayor’s office and Queens County DA’s office made their perfunctory appearances. Michael was a bit flattered and more than a little surprised when Dennis McCaffrey, the district attorney himself, showed up with a pair of outlandishly big teddy bears for the girls. Michael had recently been to a party for the deputy mayor’s five-year-old son, and at that gathering Denny McCaffrey – a nineteen-year veteran of the elected position, and the most politically savvy man Michael had ever met – only brought a rather puny Beanie Baby penguin. It seemed that, as Michael’s reputation as the hottest ADA in the city grew, so did the size of the plush toys for his children.

  At one o’clock the entertainment arrived in the person of a tall, feathery woman who went by the professional name Chickie Noodle the Clown. At first Michael thought she might be a little too long in the tooth for a kid’s party, but she turned out to be a trouper, with more than enough energy and patience to deal with twenty little kids. In addition to the balloon-twisting, face-painting, and something called the Merry Madcap Olympics, there was also the obligatory piñata. The kids got to select which one they wanted, a choice that came down to a shark piñata and a butterfly piñata. The kids chose the butterfly.

  Two questions instantly arose in Michael’s mind. One, what kind of clown buys a piñata in the shape of a shark? And two, perhaps more importantly, what kind of kids wanted to pick up a plastic bat and beat the crap out of a butterfly?

  Suburban kids, that’s who. They should have stayed in Queens where it was safe.

  At two-thirty the pony clopped onto the scene, and there was near pandemonium as Chickie Noodle was left spinning in the dust, holding a stack of cardboard cone hats. One by one the kids got to ride an indifferent Shetland named Lulu around the perimeter of the backyard. Michael had to admit that the act was pretty good. The owner of the horse, the guy who led the animal, was a short, kindly looking cowpoke in his sixties, replete with droopy white mustache, bow legs, and a ten gallon Stetson. He looked like a Shetland-sized Sam Elliott.

  At three-thirty it was time for presents. And man were there presents. Michael considered that he and Abby would be buying reciprocal gifts for every child at the party during the next year or so, a suburban kid pro quo.

  Midway through the consumer love fest, Abby picked up a pair of small square boxes, read the card. “These are from Uncle Tommy.”

  The girls ran over to Tommy, arms extended. Tommy knelt down for a pair of big kisses and bigger hugs. It was his turn to blush. Despite two brief marriages, he had no children of his own. He was godfather to both Charlotte and Emily, a position he took with the solemnity of an English archbishop.

  The girls zipped back to the table. When they got the wrapping paper off the small boxes, and Michael saw the logo on the sides, he did a double take. The second glance was unnecessary. He’d know that logo anywhere.

  “Yaaaay!” the twins cried in unison. Michael knew that his daughters hadn’t the slightest idea what was inside the boxes, but that didn’t matter to them. The boxes had been wrapped in shiny paper, the boxes were for them, and the pile of birthday swag was growing exponentially.

  Michael looked at Tommy. “You bought them iPods?”

  “What’s wrong with iPods?”

  “Jesus, Tommy. They’re four.”

  “What are you saying, four year olds don’t listen to music? I listened to music when I was four.”

  “Four year olds don’t download music,” Michael said. “Why didn’t you just get them cellphones?”

  “That’s next year.” He sipped his wine, winked. “Four is too young for cellphones. What kind of parent are you?”

  Michael laughed, but it occurred to him that his daughters weren’t all that far off from cellphones and laptops and cars and dating. He barely survived them going to preschool. How was he going to handle the teen years? He threw a quick glance at Charlotte and Emily, who were tearing into a new pair of presents.

  They were still little girls.

  Thank God.

  BY FOUR O’CLOCK THE party was winding down. More accurately, the parents were winding down. The kids were still jacked sky-high on cookies, chocolate cake, Kool Aid, and ice cream.

  As Tommy prepared to leave, he caught Michael’s eye. The two men gathered at the back of the yard.

  “How’s the girl?” Tommy asked, lowering his voice.

  Michael thought about Falynn Harris, the quiet girl with the sad angel’s face. She was the star witness – no, the only witness – in his next homicide trial. “She hasn’t spoken a word yet.”

  “The trial starts Monday?”

  “Monday.”

  Tommy nodded, taking it in. “Anything you need.”

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Don’t forget Rupert White’s party tomorrow. You’re coming, right?”

  Michael instinctively glanced at Abby, who was cleaning the frosting off a neighborhood boy’s face, neck, and arms. The kid looked like a chubby pink fresco. “I have to clear it with command and control.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Marriage.”

  On the way out, Michael saw Tommy stop and talk to Rita Ludlow, a thirtyish divorcee from the end of the block. Tall, auburn-haired, shapely, she had probably populated the daydreams of every man under ninety in Eden Falls at one time or another.

  Not surprisingly, after just a few seconds of chatter, she handed Tommy her phone number. Tommy turned, winked at Michael, swaggered off.

  Sometimes Michael Roman hated his best friend.

  BECAUSE THE INVITATIONS said noon to four, when they heard the car doors slam out front, it could only mean one thing. Abby’s brother Wallace was making his regal entrance. He was not just fashionably late. He was fashionista late. Which was all the more ironic, considering his past.

  Angel-hair thin, freckled and balding, Wallace Reed was the kid in high school who ironed his book covers, the kid who would have played triangle in the school band if he hadn’t gotten smoked in the audition and ended
up playing second triangle.

  Today he was chairman of WBR Aerospace, pulling down something north of eight figures a year, living in a McMansion in Westchester, and summering in one of those sea-foam green Gatsby places in Sagaponack featured in Hamptons Magazine.

  Still, despite his card-carrying status in Nerds Anonymous, Wallace had romanced an astonishing array of beautiful women. Amazing what a few million dollars can do for your image.

  This day his belle du jour didn’t look a day over twenty-four. She wore a Roberto Cavalli halter dress and a pair of burgundy ballet flats. This according to Abby. Michael wouldn’t know a ballet flat from a flat tire.

  “Now here’s a woman who knows how to dress for cake and Kool Aid,” Abby said, sotto voce.

  “Be nice.”

  “I’m going with Whitney,” Abby whispered.

  “I’ll take Madison.” It was a running five-dollar bet they had.

  “There’s my favorite sister,” Wallace said. It was the standard line. Abby was his only sister. He kissed her on the cheek.

  Wallace wore a bright plum Polo, razor-creased beige chinos and green duck boots. Barney gone LL Bean. He gestured to the girl. “This is Madison.”

  Michael could not look at his wife. He just couldn’t. The twins came running over, sensing fresh chum.

  “And these must be the girls of the hour,” Madison said, getting down to the twins’ level. The girls did their shy act, fingers to lips. They hadn’t figured out the woman’s gift-potential yet.

  “Yes, this is Charlotte and Emily,” Abby said.

  Madison smiled, stood, patted the girls on their heads, like they were schnauzers. “How adorable. Just like the Brontë sisters.”

  Abby shot a desperate glance at Michael.

  “Right,” Michael said. “The Brontë sisters.”

  Here was a party-pause longer than the one where Rock Hudson came out of the closet.

  “The authors?” Madison said, blinking, incredulous. “The British authors?”

  “Of course,” Abby said. “They wrote . . .”

  The second longest pause.

  “Wuthering Heights? Jane Eyre?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “I simply adored those books growing up. So did Michael.”

  Michael nodded. And nodded. He felt like a bobble-head doll in the back window of a car with busted shocks.

  The girls circled the four adults. Michael could almost hear the theme from Jaws. Presents from Uncle Wallace were like the Oscars. Best picture was always last.

  “You ready for your gifts?” Wallace asked.

  “Yes!” the girls chanted. “Yes we are!”

  “They’re out front.”

  The girls made a move to rocket across the yard, but instead waited for Wallace, taking him by the hand. They were no dummies. They knew how to work their quarry. Even though Charlotte once said Uncle Wallace smelled like pickles.

  “He said they’re out front,” Michael said, once they had disappeared around the corner. “They’re. As in they.”

  “I know.”

  “He did not buy them bikes. Please tell me he did not buy them bikes. We talked about this.”

  “He promised me, Michael. No bikes.”

  Getting your daughters their first grown up bicycles was an important thing, a father-daughter thing to which Michael Roman was greatly looking forward. He was not going to let a millionaire who wore eau de gherkin take that away from him.

  When Michael heard the yay come flying over the house, his heart sank. Moments later he saw his daughters come racing around the corner in their matching pink motorized Barbie Jeeps.

  Oh, Jesus, Michael thought.

  They’re driving already.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER the final few guests gathered in the driveway. Thanks were proffered, cheeks were kissed, promises were made, and teary little ones were bundled into SUVs – the party was over.

  On the back patio, Charlotte and Emily shared a piece of chalk. They drew a hopscotch pattern on the concrete. Emily found a suitable stone in the flower garden, and the girls played a full game. As usual, they did not keep score, neither wanting to best the other in anything.

  When they tired of the game, they began to draw something else on the concrete, an intricate figure of a big blue lion with a long curling tail. They worked in silence.

  At six o’clock, as deep violet clouds gathered over Crane County, New York, their mother called them inside. The little girls rose, looked at their drawing. They each whispered something to the other. Then, in their private way, they hugged, and went inside.

  Twenty minutes later it began to rain; huge gobbets of water falling to earth, soaking the grass, giving life to the spring garden. Before long, small ponds pooled on the patio, and the symbol was washed away.

  TWO

  SOUTH-EASTERN ESTONIA

  The valley was silent the morning he left, as if in its stilled branches, its songless robins, its hushed streams and posing wildflowers, it knew there would soon be change.

  The tall man in the black leather coat stood at the split rail fence that surrounded the main section of his property. He had already shuttered the structure, armed its systems, and programmed its photosensitive lighting grid. From the outside the dwelling – although not a large house by any means, not by the standards of the young “minigarch” Russians who had begun to buy property throughout Estonia – appeared to be a sturdy but humble building. Inside, in its heart, in the heart of its builder and owner, it was a fortress.

  The tall man picked up his two leather bags, shouldered them.

  It was time.

  As he began to make his way down the two-mile gravel lane that wound through the hills, Rocco, the Italian mastiff, found him at the first turn. Rocco had been rooting in a log, it seemed, and smelled of rot and compost and feces. The aroma filled the tall man with an instant and indefinable melancholy. Soon the other five dogs emerged from the forest and fell into a rhythm next to him. The dogs were nervous, excited, sad, leaping on each other, onto him. They sensed he was leaving, and like all dogs, felt he was never going to return. The wolfhound, Tumnus, already over a hundred pounds, was getting too large for such antics, but on this day – this day for which the tall man had so long waited – it was permitted.

  The entourage made the final turn toward the gate. Rounding the bend, the man considered the boy who lived at the edge of the village, the boy who would let himself onto the grounds each morning to feed and water and groom the animals in his absence. The tall man trusted the boy. He trusted few people.

  When he reached the gate he unlocked it, stepped through, rearmed it. The dogs all sat on the other side, shivering in the moment, softly keening their sorrow. The smallest of them, the alpha male pug named Zeus, put a paw to the chain-link fence.

  THE RENTED LADA NIVA was parked on the side of the road, keys in the ignition, as promised and paid for. Except for automobiles belonging to the tall man, no vehicle had ever driven the two miles up to the house. No other vehicle ever would. The silent weight alarms deployed just beneath the surface of the gravel lane, along with the gossamer thin trip wires strung throughout the property – all at forty-eight inches from the ground, lest the dogs trip them – were sufficient warning. The perimeter had yet to be breached. Perhaps it was more the man’s reputation that spoke to any would-be interlopers than anything electronic.

  If the alarms were triggered in his absence, the boy next door, Villem Aavik, a growing and muscular fourteen, knew what to do. The boy, whose father was killed in the war in Bosnia, was strong and smart. Aleks had trained him to shoot, which had come to the boy with difficulty, having lost a finger in a foundry accident. He also taught the boy how to read the hearts of men. He would one day be a master thief, or a politician. As if there were a difference. Perhaps the boy, like the tall man, would be vennaskond.

  The tall man placed his shoulder bags in the trunk, slipped inside the car.

  He looked down the road, and began to feel
the exhilaration one feels at the onset of a journey, a journey that had long been in the planning, a journey that would find for him his very soul.

  In the silence and darkness of the womb there were three.

  Anna, Marya, and Olga.

  Four, the tall man thought. His girls were four years old now. He had not slept fully or soundly since the night of their birth, had not drawn one breath of God’s air, had not stopped looking.

  Until now.

  He had finally located the man who had been there that morning, the white-haired Finn who walked the shadows of his dreams, the man who had stolen his daughters. He would meet the man in Tallinn, find out what he needed, and a reckoning would be known.

  The tall man turned to look one last time at the intricate wrought iron gate – a gate bearing the complex metalwork of a blue lion surrounded by oak branches, the national symbol of Estonia – and his house on the hill, the structure now obscured by trees ripe with leaf and blossom. He believed the next time he saw this place his life would be different. The sky would be clearer, the air twice as warm. There would be sweet voices singing in the forest, children’s voices.

  He touched the crystal vial hanging from a silver chain around his neck, the small glass bottle filled with Olga’s blood. There it gently clinked against the two empty vials.

  With his daughters, his beloved tütred, the tall man believed he would live the prophecy of Koschei the Deathless, he believed he would live forever.

  No. It was more than a belief. Much more.

  Aleksander Savisaar knew.

  THREE

  Two hours after the party ended, after the crowd had departed and the mess had been cleared, Michael and Abby sat their daughters down for a solemn talk about the ground rules regarding their new little cars: no driving anywhere near the street, helmets always and, most importantly, no driving after more than two glasses of grape juice.