blared back. “. . . cut him to pieces!
Marya came home from work, found him all cut up! Marya’s coming out now!”
A square, frizzed, bottle-blond woman in her thirties was being escorted from the building, flanked by police officers.
Eyes wide, staring at nothing. She stumbled as if she couldn’t quite feel her legs.
The police officers escorted her toward a waiting ambulance.
Her hands and shirt were stained with blood.
The sun blazed down, but Nina shuddered with cold. Her teeth clacked. She’d lost the thread of the girl’s prattle. Couldn’t look away from Marya’s frozen, staring face. It was dragging her in, pulling . . .
Oh, no. Oh, please, no. Not her. Not this.
Like a magnet sucking her straight into the other woman’s experience. Mind, heart and body. It hit her like a hammer. Papa.
Shock, disbelief. Blood. His face. His hands. His ears. His eyes.
Oh, Papa. Images, superimposed over the mangled red mess on kitchen floor that could not possibly be Papa. Holding her in his arms, feeding her vareniki . Yelling, laughing, breath heavy with vodka.
Playing with her son. A good grandpa. His hands. His ears. His eyes.
God, his eyes.
Images assailed her, gruesome, bright-edged. Colors surreally bright, especially the awful, arterial red. She couldn’t separate herself from Marya’s trauma. It was too strong, too loud. It blotted her out.
The girl’s voice poked like a needle jabbing. Her hand clutched Nina’s sleeve, tugging. “. . . you OK? Hey! You on drugs, or something?”
Nina blinked. Her face was wet. The ambulance was pulling away, pushing its way through the crowd. It took Marya with it.
Yellow crime scene tape fluttered and snapped in the gusty breeze. The images retreated as the ambulance did.
She was Nina again, but she didn’t feel like herself. She felt like a year had gone by, a lifetime. Tears ran down her face, into her nose. She was sitting on the cracked, dirty sidewalk, on her butt. Second time she’d whacked it that day. It hurt, dully. “I’m OK,” she said, struggling to her feet. “Weak stomach. It’s so awful. Sorry.”
She backed away. Don’t run. Stay calm. She spun, looking for . . .
what? Shifty-eyed zombie ghouls, staring at her from a parked car?
Tortured. That poor guy. Keep walking. Keep going. Slow and steady. Nobody here. Nobody here. She’d honed the vibe. Every item in her wardrobe was chosen to be unnoticeable.
Her phone buzzed. She fished it out of her purse. It was Shira, a colleague at New Dawn. She held the phone to her ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, you. Feeling better? Have you found someone to translate that audio file yet? Because I might have, if you haven’t.”
“No, not yet.” She blurted it out. “He’s dead, Shira.”
“What?” Shira’s voice sharpened. “Who’s dead?”
“Yuri Marchuk, the cab driver. The one who dumped me and Helga at the hospital. Someone tortured him to death. There are cops everywhere.” She stumbled on a pavement crack, barely caught herself.
“My God! Nina! Where are you? Are you out in the street somewhere? You left the hospital? What the hell were you thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking. I was running for my life from zombie ghouls. She bit the words back. That would only confuse and terrify Shira, and her own personal terror and confusion was enough to deal with. She spun, in a slow, wobbly three-sixty, scanning the street for who the hell knew what. “Long story,” she said. “Tell you later. I’m in Manhattan.”
Shira made a disapproving sound. “Well, that makes my call pointless, because I’m at your house right now. I used those spare keys you left for Derek last week. I was going to pick up some things for you. You know, a toothbrush, a book, some panties, whatever. But you’re not at the hospital anymore, so to hell with that.”
Nina was touched. “Oh, Shira, that was sweet. Thank you.”
“Oh, and a guy came looking for you today, right after I got back from visiting you
Marya came home from work, found him all cut up! Marya’s coming out now!”
A square, frizzed, bottle-blond woman in her thirties was being escorted from the building, flanked by police officers.
Eyes wide, staring at nothing. She stumbled as if she couldn’t quite feel her legs.
The police officers escorted her toward a waiting ambulance.
Her hands and shirt were stained with blood.
The sun blazed down, but Nina shuddered with cold. Her teeth clacked. She’d lost the thread of the girl’s prattle. Couldn’t look away from Marya’s frozen, staring face. It was dragging her in, pulling . . .
Oh, no. Oh, please, no. Not her. Not this.
Like a magnet sucking her straight into the other woman’s experience. Mind, heart and body. It hit her like a hammer. Papa.
Shock, disbelief. Blood. His face. His hands. His ears. His eyes.
Oh, Papa. Images, superimposed over the mangled red mess on kitchen floor that could not possibly be Papa. Holding her in his arms, feeding her vareniki . Yelling, laughing, breath heavy with vodka.
Playing with her son. A good grandpa. His hands. His ears. His eyes.
God, his eyes.
Images assailed her, gruesome, bright-edged. Colors surreally bright, especially the awful, arterial red. She couldn’t separate herself from Marya’s trauma. It was too strong, too loud. It blotted her out.
The girl’s voice poked like a needle jabbing. Her hand clutched Nina’s sleeve, tugging. “. . . you OK? Hey! You on drugs, or something?”
Nina blinked. Her face was wet. The ambulance was pulling away, pushing its way through the crowd. It took Marya with it.
Yellow crime scene tape fluttered and snapped in the gusty breeze. The images retreated as the ambulance did.
She was Nina again, but she didn’t feel like herself. She felt like a year had gone by, a lifetime. Tears ran down her face, into her nose. She was sitting on the cracked, dirty sidewalk, on her butt. Second time she’d whacked it that day. It hurt, dully. “I’m OK,” she said, struggling to her feet. “Weak stomach. It’s so awful. Sorry.”
She backed away. Don’t run. Stay calm. She spun, looking for . . .
what? Shifty-eyed zombie ghouls, staring at her from a parked car?
Tortured. That poor guy. Keep walking. Keep going. Slow and steady. Nobody here. Nobody here. She’d honed the vibe. Every item in her wardrobe was chosen to be unnoticeable.
Her phone buzzed. She fished it out of her purse. It was Shira, a colleague at New Dawn. She held the phone to her ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, you. Feeling better? Have you found someone to translate that audio file yet? Because I might have, if you haven’t.”
“No, not yet.” She blurted it out. “He’s dead, Shira.”
“What?” Shira’s voice sharpened. “Who’s dead?”
“Yuri Marchuk, the cab driver. The one who dumped me and Helga at the hospital. Someone tortured him to death. There are cops everywhere.” She stumbled on a pavement crack, barely caught herself.
“My God! Nina! Where are you? Are you out in the street somewhere? You left the hospital? What the hell were you thinking?”
I wasn’t thinking. I was running for my life from zombie ghouls. She bit the words back. That would only confuse and terrify Shira, and her own personal terror and confusion was enough to deal with. She spun, in a slow, wobbly three-sixty, scanning the street for who the hell knew what. “Long story,” she said. “Tell you later. I’m in Manhattan.”
Shira made a disapproving sound. “Well, that makes my call pointless, because I’m at your house right now. I used those spare keys you left for Derek last week. I was going to pick up some things for you. You know, a toothbrush, a book, some panties, whatever. But you’re not at the hospital anymore, so to hell with that.”
Nina was touched. “Oh, Shira, that was sweet. Thank you.”
“Oh, and a guy came looking for you today, right after I got back from visiting you
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