Previous Installments:
Part One
Prologue and Chapter I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Radu-Chapter XXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
19 pages approximate
When Aleksandre Khoska opened his eyes, he appeared to be in an airport lobby, though it seemed engulfed in fog. He knew he was supposed to be waiting for somebody, and though he knew whom it was he waited for, he seemed vaguely unaware of who the person was.
There were people all around, walking around aimlessly. He started walking straight ahead of him, toward where a group of people stood, the only people who remained in one place, the people who stood straight ahead of him, though at some distance. They became remarkably clearer as he drew closer to them. He seemed to recognize the old gypsy woman who smiled at him knowingly. He noted the old woman, incredibly ancient, who seemed not to know where or, for that matter, even who she was, as an old man stood watch over her. Yet, though he was considerably younger, Alek seemed to understand he was the woman’s husband, and was actually much older than she was.
When he saw the children, he felt sad, though resigned, at the sight of the young boy with the obviously broken neck slanted down on his right shoulder, and the heart-wrenching site of the two younger children who gazed at him with baleful, questioning eyes, their entire bodies afflicted with severe burns. Then he saw the young teenage girl, huddled in the corner, obviously sick, shivering as she cried. She was afflicted with boils. This horrified Aleksandre Khoska, who recognized the plague all too well, though he never saw it before.
“Is there a problem here?”
Aleksandre turned at the sound of the commanding voice to note the approach of what he took first to be a guard. He realized though that this was not an airport terminal guard, but a soldier, an American soldier in what appeared to be a World War I uniform, riddled with bullet holes and caked with blood.
An older man almost immediately joined the soldier. Aleksandre noted the vitriolic hatred and anger that emanated from the heavy-set balding man, whose face was purple with rage, as a throbbing vein pulsated violently at his nearly hairless temple.
“You are going to have to move along old man,” the soldier said, as Aleksandre suddenly recognized the Romanian medals that adorned the uniform of the soldier, though he seemed to be an American.
“I am sorry, but I do not seem to know where I am,” Khoska said to the soldier. “Could you perhaps give me directions?”
The angry man then stepped forward and glared at Aleksandre.
“I will give you directions,” he shouted. “Go to hell, you son-of-a-bitch.”
He then awoke, to realize he was still in the hospital, though this was to be his final day. Doctor McCann had already signed his release, and he was more than ready to go, but he dreaded doing so. Yet, he could not remain here forever. Soon, his nurse entered the room with a questioning look, to inform him he had a visitor.
“She says her name is Dorothy Moloku-I think I have that right,” she said. “Do you know her?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Aleksandre said as he stifled a groan, still sore from his encounter with what he had with some reluctance to admit was some form of demonic entity that invaded the sanctity of his little Orthodox Church.
“I will tell her you are sleeping,” the nurse replied. “It’s really past visiting hours anyway, but since she claims to be your daughter I thought-“
“No, I will see her,” Aleksandre replied. “I’m going to have to do so eventually, I suppose.”
When Dorothy entered, bedecked in costume jewelry she proudly wore as a copy of that which she kept fastidiously locked away for insurance purposes, dressed in black satin pants and matching blouse, her natural auburn hair glowing from the effects of her most recent spa treatment, Aleksandre winced.
“Were you on your way to some charity event?” Aleksandre asked. “If you are, I hope that I am not the charity.”
“I came to take you with me to Chicago,” she told him. “It’s been years since you visited, and this is as good a time as any. You won’t be bothered by reporters there, I promise.”
“I think the police want me to hang around Baltimore,” he replied. “There were two bodies on the church property. I’m sure you read all about the supposed black mass that took place in my church, and the alleged human sacrifice performed on the Eucharistic Altar.”
“Who were those people anyway?” Dorothy asked, and then acted as though she immediately regretted the question. “Never mind, that’s not important. I just want to make sure you are well cared for. After what you have been through you certainly should not be alone.”
“Agnes is coming from Romania in a few days,” he insisted. “She put in for a transfer, and seeing as to the nature of my injuries, the Church is allowing it. It really is not a good idea to go to your house at this time, though I do appreciate the offer. What does Voroslav have to say about this, by the way?”
“Voroslav is fine with it,” she insisted. “In fact, when I brought it up he told me he was ready to suggest the same thing.”
“Even though I have been cooped up for three weeks in a facility filled with every germ imaginable?” he asked. “I find that very hard to believe.”
Before she could respond to what she obviously took as a sarcastic utterance, the nurse returned and told Dorothy that visiting hours were really over, but she could allow her thirty minutes, as she looked at Aleksandre with a nod and brief smile.
“Doctor McCann did say I could leave tonight if I felt up to it, right?” Aleksandre asked.
The nurse looked surprised at this, but then affirmed this was so, whereupon Aleksandre informed her he believed he would leave tonight, to Dorothy’s obvious surprise.
“I will go with you,” he told her, “but I must return home first, as there are certain things I have to see to.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
It took Aleksandre all of Dorothy’s allotted time to dress and otherwise prepare to leave, during which time the nurse presented his discharge papers, at which point he signed them.
“Has that Doctor Chou still been inquiring after me?” he asked her.
“Chou?” she asked. “Not that I’m aware of. Doctor McCann might know.”
“Well, it’s not important,” he replied. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality and your kind and most professional manner during my stay, but it is time for me to leave, before I run up my insurance premiums more than necessary.”
After they left, Dorothy seemed ecstatic, pleased that he agreed so easily to come to Chicago. Soon, they pulled up to the Church Of The Blessed Sacrament, and Khoska was relieved to see the crime scene tape gone, though the absence of the old gold plated cross stood as a grim reminder of the previous weeks events. The scene still haunted him, though he tried not to think about it.
“Well, here we are,” Dorothy noted as she completed parking in the old cobblestone driveway that formed an angular pattern to beside the church doors. The lights were on, and Khoska was relieved to note that “the boys”, as Dorothy called them, were still there.
Indeed, the twin sons, the oldest children of Aleksandre Khoska, had gladly agreed to stay at the church and see to its security during the course of his stay in hospital, for which he was grateful. Now, he was glad to be out, though dreaded the prospect of asking one or both of them to remain a while longer until Agnes arrived from Romania. Unfortunately, there was a slight delay, and now he faced the prospect of a trip to Chicago, one he realized he could not afford to pass up.
“Gee, Dad,” the New Jersey priest named John said, “I’d like to stay longer, but there’s really a lot going on. I have so much to do as it is, and I‘ve gotten so far behind”-
“Why John I thought you retired,” Dorothy said, knowing full well her older brother did not take kindly to her to begin with, and especially resented any dispute from her.
“Yeah, I did,” John said uneasily, “but there’s a lot of personal stuff I have to take care of. Rita has had medical problems, for one, and”-
“Oh, you mean her back is acting up again?” Dorothy replied.
“It’s all right, John,” Khoska said. “I really appreciate you coming here when you did, and if you cannot stay longer I completely understand.”
He then shot Dorothy a stern look as Michael, the other twin, stepped out from the hallway that led to the interior of the church and it’s suite of offices.
“Well, we weren’t expecting you back until tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “What was this about Chicago? Dorothy, you’re as vivacious as ever.”
“Isn’t she though?” John asked, still stinging with discomfort.
“I just thought it would do poppa good to get out of this place for a while,” she said.
“Go on,” the twin named Michael insisted. “I can stay here a few days. It might do me some good.”
“What about your church?” Khoska asked. “Really, Michael, I should not impose on you this way.”
“I can swing it,” Michael insisted, as John suddenly cleared his throat.
“I’m sure I can take over for Michael at his church,” he suggested. “That way, I’ll be close enough to home I can see after my affairs, and Michael can stay here with no worries. That should work out fine, I mean if that’s all right with Michael, of course.”
Michael suddenly laughed a mischievous laugh.
“Hell, why bother to tell anybody?” he suggested. “We look alike, sound alike, and do almost everything else so much alike, most people probably would never notice. It might be fun.”
“You can’t be serious,” Aleksandre said, but suddenly Michael and Jonathon Khoska seemed like two kids again, almost giddy as they discussed plans for Jonathon’s last day, when Michael would return and walk into the middle of the service.
“We can turn it into some kind of lesson, I’m sure,” Michael suggested. “Be wary of appearances, that kind of thing. The kids will get a big chuckle out of it.”
“Well, I guess that settles it then,” Dorothy said. “We really should get going.”
“What in the hell’s the hurry, Dorothy?” Jonathon asked suspiciously.
“Well, none, I just thought since”-
“No, she’s right,” Aleksandre said. “If we leave now, we should be in Chicago before it gets too late. Hopefully, I can get good and rested over the weekend, and be back by bright and early, say, late Tuesday afternoon?”
Aleksandre was grateful for the presence of his older sons, as they provided him the ability to take care of a very urgent matter, as well as the excuse not to take a lot of time doing so. In fact, the sooner he got it over and done with, the better.
He made his way to the privacy of his office, where he noted the newly replaced urn, which this time he was certain held the genuine ashes of his beloved granddaughter Lynette. The city cemetery now contained those that apparently belonged to some other person, possibly a murdered girl named Spiral Lamont. A brief funeral service had been her lone farewell, though none attended, not even her family. He thought of this as he looked at the urn of Lynette, and considered it no wonder the world contained such hatred and violence. He began to weep, though he knew he should not, and composed himself as he looked within his safe. He closed it back after taking a roll of hundred dollar bills.
He then made his way to the basement, where he had yet one more matter of which to attend. He turned on the light and made his way down the musty, seldom visited basement, and toward the old broom closet that contained the false doorway behind which rested an old cabinet. Before he got to the door, however, it struck him that he was not alone. Someone was there with him this day. He always felt that way upon coming down here, but this was different. This time, the eyes he felt upon him belonged not to some spiritual entity, but his familiarity with that realm possibly prepared him for the intrusion of the more mundane intruder he sensed within his basement, where was stored so many private memories and unfulfilled promises. He quickened his breathing, and grew fearful. By the time he called out for help, he knew it would be too late. He doubted anyone could hear him from this distance at any rate.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “I know you are in here. Show yourself to me at once.”
He turned at the sound of a movement behind him, and saw then the figure silhouetted in the darkness, his shadow outlined by the dim light that shook weakly from its chain at the top of the steps.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Khoska hissed as he attempted with some difficulty to control his mounting fear. Then, the figure of a tall, lanky man stepped forward from out of the shadows.
“Okay, here I am,” Khoska heard the man say. “Don’t worry-I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Who in the name of God are you and what are you doing her?” Khoska tried to control his breathing and steady himself as the man drew two steps closer, until Khoska could make out clearly the face and form of the tall, lanky black man with the camera.
“You are a reporter?”
“My name’s Phelps,” the man said. “No, I’m a photographer, but same difference I guess.”
“I thought you people were warned to stay away from here,” Khoska said, relieved, and yet now angry at the intrusion.
“This ain’t business, Father,” Phelps replied. “This is a personal matter, having to do with Grace Rodescu. She’s a friend of mine.”
“Oh, so you’re the one,” Khoska observed bitterly, which induced Phelps to bite his lips.
“Very funny,” he said. “Look, we’ve worked together, and I guess I got to know her pretty good. You might not like her much, but if something happens to her, I doubt you’d feel that callous about it, right?”
“Actually, I would,” Khoska insisted. “She has pushed her luck to the limit, with me and with a good many others. As I told the police, I was unconscious when she left here, or was taken from here, and at the time I was assaulted, the only other people here besides her and I were the two people they found here murdered. For all I know she is responsible for that, or was complicit in it. As you may well be aware, she lived with the girl Sierra for some time. Sierra left and stole some things that belonged to Grace. Some would consider that curious, in light of the fact that two people are dead, while she seems to have merely vanished.”
“Grace is not a killer,” Phelps said firmly. “She might be a lot of other things, and most of them may not be good, but I am pretty confidant she doesn’t have it in her to actually commit murder.”
“Well, perhaps you do not know her as well as you think you do, then,” Khoska said cryptically, his voice tense with anxiety as he almost spat this declaration in the face of the beleaguered news photographer, who for just a few seconds held his breath as he turned from Khoska’s gaze.
“Look, young man, I do not really know you,” Khoska continued. “I am taking your word you are here for the benefit of Grace, and that you are acting out of concern for her welfare. However, I promise you I can tell you no more than you probably already know. Sierra Lawson knocked me unconscious, and by the time I awoke, Sierra and Joseph Karinsky were dead and Grace was gone.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but I get the impression you are holding something back,” Phelps replied, but before he could continue, an interruption brought the conversation to a halt.
“Who in the hell are you?” Michael demanded as he bounded down the steps in a near furious panic.
“Father, who is this man?” hhe insisted.
“I was just leaving, sir, I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Phelps assured her. “Look, Father, if you think of anything, if you remember anything, if you hear anything, will you please get in contact with me? Here, you can call me at home and leave a message if I am not there.”
Phelps reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a card. He handed it to Khoska, who took it warily.
“Very well, Mr. Phelps, I promise you I will do so,” he said.
“Wait a minute, just who are you, a cop, a reporter, or what?” Michael asked as Phelps edged by him while glancing at his face fleetingly, obviously uncomfortable at his accusatory tone.
“Its fine, Michael, he is merely seeing to the welfare of his friend,” Khoska explained as Phelps made his way up the steps.
“Grace Rodescu, I take it.”
Khoska started toward the steps and then realized he yet needed to see to his personal effects, and so told him to see that Jonathon and Dorothy did not accost the strange black intruder on his way out of the church.
“I’ll be up momentarily,” he told him.
After he left, he hurriedly checked the hidden latch on the false wall that led to his secret reserves of cash, gold, and relics, and saw it was evidently well. He opened it, looked inside, and then closed it quickly back. It was going to be a long trip to Chicago, but he hoped it would not take long.
Khoska was exhausted from his stay at the hospital, and dreaded the flight. He hated flying and did not trust planes. This would be his first flight since the death of Marta seven years ago. He had intended that to be his last flight. It had been no pleasure trip, nor would this one be. He did not intend to act as if it was. Still, he tried to be as cordial toward Dorothy as possible, though he said little.
“You surely are not planning to leave your vehicle at this place, are you?” he inquired as they pulled into the airport.
“Father, this is a rental car,” she explained. “When we get to Chicago, we’ll take a cab home.”
“Oh, I see,” Khoska replied as he looked out the passengers side window. “I would imagine we will have a long walk then, from the rental agency to the terminal.”
“No, I’ll just turn the key in when we get to the lobby, and then we’ll just wait for the flight. I took the liberty of purchasing your ticket when I purchased mine, so we could remain together. Our flight will be in about forty minutes, unless there is a delay.”
It was a short walk to the main lobby, where Dorothy turned in her keys with the receipt, and then they proceeded to the waiting area. Khoska was amazed at the number of people waiting for flights out of Baltimore, and particularly bemused by the number of small children, many of whom seemed to lack adult supervision.
“Are children allowed to fly on planes by themselves?” Khoska asked in amazement.
“Yes, it would seem so,” she replied. “They should have adults with them until they board though. Some people are rather careless, you know. Once they are on board, there’s not much they can get into, at least.”
“They are probably more savvy than I would be were I alone,” Khoska observed. He sat and began to doze off within ten minutes. He could not believe how tired he was after spending two weeks cooped up in a hospital bed, half of which seemed to have been unnecessary. For the last half of his stay he needed neither antibiotic nor any other kind of medication, yet McCann seemed insistent he remain for “observation”.
Now, he was completely exhausted, and more depressed than he had been in years. By the time the announcement was made of the departure for Chicago, some two hours later than originally scheduled, he was all but convinced he should return home. Dorothy sat there beside him and said little, other than to ask if he were hungry or would like a pillow.
He remembered how when she married Voroslav he objected, though meekly, his opposition based mainly on the age difference. Voroslav was thirteen years her senior, and married her when she was a mere eighteen, barely out of school. Yet, Dorothy was always willful and stubborn, and rare was the time she would listen to others advice when it did not suit her. Khoska predicted it would end unhappily, and when Voroslav was defrocked, he was sure that would be the end of it. Instead, Dorothy defended her husband, and declared she would remain until the end. She really seemed to love him. That was what Khoska found perhaps most objectionable of all, given the circumstances.
By the time they took their seat, Khoska resigned himself to whatever awaited in Chicago. Voroslav had the answers he needed-or so he told himself. After the plane left the runway and was on its way to O’Hare, he wondered if he made the right decision, while telling himself he really had no choice. The only thing he dreaded was being in the same home with Voroslav, who was perhaps the most peculiar fellow he ever knew. Some more old-fashioned folk even considered him demon possessed due to the nature of his curious afflictions.
Aleksandre did not look forward to his visit, for a number of reasons. He already knew the answers to too many questions. They were not pleasant, yet he found himself in the position of needing confirmation, of which his son-in-law was the only reliable source. Nevertheless, by the time their plane taxied onto the O’Hare runway, he found himself wanting to return to Baltimore.
He was dead tired by the time they made their way to the baggage claim area, and Aleksandre found himself wishing for as long a delay as possible, when suddenly he found himself the object of some attention from a couple of airport guards. Obviously, they found his manner of dress curious, as he remained dressed in his Orthodox robes. At length, one of the guards approached him in the company of a well-dressed man, obviously an airport official of some sort.
“Sir, we wondered if we might ask you a couple of questions,” the well-dressed man stated.
“I am not Islamic. I am an Orthodox Christian Priest!” Aleksandre said, incensed that the security at this airport would be so unprofessional, to say nothing of uninformed, as to not distinguish the difference. He looked toward Dorothy, who looked more embarrassed than angry.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
The man looked embarrassed now, and looked around, to note the numbers of people milling about. He seemed to be looking for someone.
“Have you mistaken me for someone else, perhaps?” Aleksandre asked.
“It’s just a routine check, sir,” the man replied. “If you could just kindly follow me, this should not take long. You do have identification?”
“For what purpose should I follow you?” Aleksandre demanded. “What have I done?”
“Just go along with them, poppa,” Dorothy advised him, obviously perturbed, and yet unwilling to engage in a confrontation with persons of obvious authority at an airport where she was a frequent customer.
Aleksandre noted that there were others standing in a line undergoing security scrutiny, though there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about any of them. One guard waved a wand over them as they progressed to a certain point, while some others stood off in the distance, drinking what appeared to be coffee and idly chatting.
“No, I will not just go along with them,” Khoska replied. “I have done nothing to warrant this treatment.”
“Sir, you are making this very difficult,” the man replied. “The quicker you follow our instructions, the quicker this can be over with. I assure you, this is routine airport security screening. As a passenger”-
“That is just the point!” Aleksandre shouted. “I am no longer a passenger. I am not departing. I have arrived, you idiot!”
Two other guards now approached hurriedly, as Aleksandre noted now what appeared to be a list in the hands of the one guard who remained silent throughout this exchange.
“Father, please for God’s sake just let them see your identification,” an obviously mortified Dorothy insisted.
“You would be well-advised to do as your daughter suggests,” the man now said in all earnestness, obviously annoyed at Aleksandre, who now regretted his tirade, and actually felt somewhat ashamed in the wake of a noticeable crowd that gathered, though they remained at some distance, looking curiously in their direction, as Dorothy practically hid her features from view.
He finally relented and produced his wallet, and after a brief perusal of it, the airport official handed it back to him.
“Enjoy your stay in Chicago, Father Khoska,” the man said with a noticeable hint of animosity.
“Father, that was completely uncalled for,” Dorothy observed. “You made a scene. Aren’t you the slightest bit embarrassed?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Aleksandre admitted. “I don’t care, I am tired, I am still not well, and I do not appreciate being monitored as though I were some sand monkey with a bomb hidden under my vestments. It is an insult. I bet if I told the bastard my name was Ahmed Mohamed he would have offered to buy my dinner by now. Screw all of them.”
“You just do not understand, poppa,” she replied. “It’s really my fault. I should have warned you ahead of time. Let’s just get out of here, please.”
Dorothy extracted her cell phone from her purse and quickly placed a call, which lasted under a minute. They waited less than five minutes outside the airport terminal before a limousine pulled up to the curb.
“This is one hell of a cab,” Khoska observed. “I will be glad when we get to your home, as I am exhausted. A good night’s sleep will do me good.”
“Voroslav wants to see you before you go to bed,” she said.
“Oh really, Dorothy,” Aleksandre replied in a voice tinged with anxiety. “Can it not wait until morning?” he asked. “I really am in no mood to bathe. I showered in the hospital not quite four hours before you arrived. Afterwards, I slept for a while and had the most disturbing nightmare. I am still quite ill, and my nerves are a shambles. Really, I would much prefer”-
“Father, really, would a nice hot bath kill you?”
Khoska fumed, not really knowing how to answer the question. He knew he should speak to his son-in-law before he retired for the night. There was actually a practical reason for doing so. If he spoke to the man tonight, there was a better than average chance he might not have to see him any at all for the duration of his stay. Perhaps a little inconvenience would be worth that much.
“I suppose I could put up with it,” he said as the airport faded from view. “I don’t know why I bothered to pack any clothing, frankly. That was a waste of time.”
“Well, you did say you might stay three or four days, and you sure can’t go about in the same clothes, and you sure can’t go about Chicago in a bathrobe at this time of year.”
“I have no desire to take in the sights of Chicago,” Khoska insisted. “Still, you have a point. After what I have been through over the last three weeks, two baths in one day is certainly a minor inconvenience. I am more curious as to what this was you should have warned me about.”
Dorothy suddenly seemed uncomfortable, as though she dreaded answering the question.
“It is nothing,” she finally said. “I am just glad we’re away from there. I was afraid you might cause us to be detained for far longer than you or I would have liked.”
Khoska knew she was lying, but said nothing as they finally approached the relatively modest two-story home that rested in the suburbs of northeastern Chicago. Khoska informed the driver that he could carry his own baggage, and at a nod from Dorothy, the elderly driver acceded to Khoska’s wishes as he carried Dorothy’s own quite cumbersome suitcase. She had obviously come to Baltimore prepared to spend more than a day or two if necessary.
When they made it inside the house, which seemed larger on the inside than on the outside, Dorothy told Khoska to deposit his luggage by the door.
“It will be well taken care of,” Dorothy assured him.
“I assume the bathroom is within a few short steps of here,” he said. She told him that it was indeed through the nearest door to his right. Incredible, he muttered to himself.
He bathed, after which he put on the newly cleaned robe that hung on the inside of the door, wrapped in plastic. He left his clothing in the floor after making certain he put his wallet, keys, and loose change inside the robes pockets.
Khoska remembered well where Voroslav’s room was as he walked up the spiral staircase that led to the upper floor. He proceeded down to the end of the hallway, past the two bedrooms that faced opposite each other, down past the bathroom that faced opposite a large linen closet, and to the end of the hallway, where a room without doorknob waited.
Khoska stopped at the sound of the beep initiated by his passage by an electronic eye, and a whirring motor produced by the infrared camera he knew announced his approach.
“Aleksandre, just a second, and the door will open,” he heard the voice of his son-in-law, who at fifty-six years of age was exactly in years between himself and his daughter Dorothy, who always had a predilection for older men. Khoska had mused upon their marriage that since he insisted her preferences were unseemly, she decided to compromise. In fact, there was twenty-six years between Khoska and his daughter, with Voroslav firmly between the two of them, and separated from both by thirteen years almost exactly.
The door opened and Khoska entered, to note the change that had occurred over the former criminal conspirator and Orthodox Priest. His hair, though still dark, was graying, and he had put on quite a few pounds. This was understandable, despite the fact that he did not eat a lot, nor did he drink alcohol. He exercised little, and in fact, he seldom left this room. Through his thick moustache, Khoska could detect the hint of a smile, for which Aleksandre could think of no discernible reason for him to affect.
“It is good to see you, Aleksandre, it has been a long time,” Voroslav said, as he made no motion to rise from his leather-upholstered recliner, which was in fact where he slept most of the time.
“I am glad to see you seem to be well,” Aleksandre replied as the door shut automatically behind him. He noted the presence of ionic air cleaning devices, and smokeless candles that filled the air with an antiseptic scent, as Khoska could hear fresh air filtered from an indiscernible source into the otherwise hermetically sealed off room.
“For the time being, yes,” Voroslav said. “I thought I would die when I was taken in for questioning, but there was little I could do about it.”
“You do know your life is probably in danger, I take it,” Khoska said. “What does Dorothy say about all this, and what of Marnie?”
Voroslav looked away as a worried expression briefly crossed his brow, but he quickly recovered.
“Dorothy will be fine,” he replied. “Or she would be, if she would just leave me to my fate, as I am always telling her. Unfortunately, you raised Dorothy a bit better than I think you imagine. Sometimes, if I did not know better, I would think she actually really does care something about me after all. Marnie, well that is a different story. She is away at university, going for her Masters in Business. I know she will be protected.”
“Protected from what, and by whom?” Khoska asked. “Really, Voroslav, I know you are not a well man, and you know it too. I will not bother going into that, as I know you are not responsible for your affliction. But please, for the love of God, can you find it in your heart to allow me to sit?”
At first, Voroslav seemed confused but then his black eyes gleamed with realization, as he told Khoska that of course he could sit, as he indicated the sofa that set off to the side of the room. Khoska then noted the presence of a liquor cabinet and ice tray, which Moloku explained he kept for the comfort of his guests, what few he had, though he allowed no smoking.
“Unless of course you would like to join me in a bit of hashish after we have finished our business,” he added, almost as a polite afterthought. “Of course, I would be very surprised, pleasantly so, if you would do that, but your expression tells me probably not.”
“You read my expression very well,” Khoska replied, to which Moloku smiled and nodded.
“Very well, then, before we get on with it,” he continued, “let me assure you, both Dorothy and Marnie are to be well provided for. There is no problem with the two of them.”
Khoska felt as though his son-in-law now resigned himself to whatever fate awaited and knew it was certainly coming. After all, he had turned states evidence against criminal associates who recognized loyalty to none, not even family, above loyalty to the code.
“So what exactly is it about Grace Rodescu you wished to tell me about?” Khoska asked him.
“First things first,” Voroslav replied. “On the end table by you, you will notice a folder. Feel free to examine its contents, if you will.”
Khoska did so, and was somewhat disconcerted by what he saw.
“Your father Volescu-what of him?” he asked uncomfortably.
“You will recall how he was shot outside our home in 1968, when I was a mere lad of seventeen, studying for the Priesthood,” he explained. “Go on, look at the other pictures.”
Khoska did so, only to see other, older pictures, of Voroslav and his father and mother, in seemingly happier times. In one of them, a picture that seemed taken in Romania, Voroslav was an innocent child of two or three years old.
“My parents emigrated from Romania after the war,” he said. “It was a very hard life compared to what they were used to. Of course, I was raised in the kind of filth and degradation my mother could never quite adjust to. She went from living a life of comfort and abundance, in clean and safe surroundings, to a time of traveling from one filth-infested slum in Europe to another. We finally made it here in 1958.
“Of course, what I and my parents went through was nothing compared to what the others were obliged to endure.”
“What others?” Khoska asked. “Whom do you mean?”
“My half-sisters and my half-brother,” he replied. “Yes, my mother was previously married, to a man named Ion Ionescu. He died two decades before we came to America, whereupon my father persuaded her to marry him. I was his only child, out of five. When they left, he insisted the others stay behind with relatives, though he promised to send for them later. He never did, and my mother grew cold and harsh, as much towards me, her own son, as towards him.
“When he was murdered that day, allegedly by Securitate agents in retribution for his activities against the Romanian communist regime, rumors circulated that you were responsible. I know you heard those rumors and probably believed them. In fact, I have reason to believe this caused you a great deal of anxiety.”
Khoska was stunned. He indeed always held himself responsible for the death of Volescu Moloku, but never imagined anyone connected him with the affair. Now, here was Volescu’s own son, now his son-in-law, decades later, inferring his complicity in a state crime.
“Are you sure you do not wish to have a drink?” Voroslav asked. “If you would like a little wine, I also have some of the finest Wisconsin cheese, straight from the docks of Racine. It is in fact the one indulgence I allow myself these days, apart from a little hash, which is a rarity.”
“No thank you,” Khoska said, trying to control his fear and his anger, the last of which he now felt was out of place under the circumstances.
“I do not deny my involvement with the communist government, as I was given little choice,” he said. “If this resulted in the death of your father I am truly sorry. I have spent years in regret over the incident.”
Voroslav looked at him harshly, as suddenly he reached over and extracted a mask attached to an oxygen tank that blended in well with the metallic nature of the furniture in the sterile environment within which Khoska found himself. Voroslav breathed deeply, and then returned the mask.
“Relax, Aleksandre, I did not send for you to berate you,” he then explained. “For one thing, if you were responsible I would have killed you long ago. Your involvement was incidental at most. No, I place the blamed squarely on the shoulders of he to whom it belongs-my half-brother, Sylveu. He came here and found my father, and killed him, in revenge for what occurred with his sisters. All of them were beaten and raped, one of them eventually killed by a brutal, drunken husband who sold her into prostitution. One of the twins died of pneumonia, eaten up with syphilis. The other twin died an old woman, forced to beg in the streets.
“Somehow, he came to America, got in contact with our mother, and he later killed his step-father, my own father. Then, the son-of-a-bitch had the gall to come proposing an offer of friendship, as after all we were half-brothers. He even admitted his crime, and claimed he was justified. Well, perhaps in his own mind he was. At any rate, he offered to help initiate me into his organization. I played along with him, and eventually I rose in the ranks.
“All the while, I learned what I could. He had no choice but to leave his own wife and child behind in Romania. In his despair, he spent days on end looking into their whereabouts. He discovered that his daughter married a man by the name of Rodescu, a mere farmer who barely managed to stay a step ahead of starvation.
“His wife, meanwhile, had died, and soon enough the Rodescu family was scattered to the winds. I saw to that. Rodescu himself disappeared, while his wife, in despair, turned her children over to the state after two of them died of infectious diseases caused mainly by malnutrition and exposure. She then took her own life.”
Khoska sat listening to this, what he realized now was a confession, in abject horror. He had no need to hear the rest of it.
“And then you took it on yourself to go to Romania, adopt her, and sell her into sexual slavery. Your own grandniece and you turned her into a heroin addict and whore. Voroslav, how could you?”
“Because he was dying, and I wanted him to know,” he replied. “I wanted him to know that he, who had sponsored my membership and rise within the organization, had enabled me to destroy his family in the process, and that I did so in the exact same manner that he himself had participated in the similar abuse of thousands of other innocent children.
“Then, after he died in agony, from cancer, I made sure my beloved mother knew the truth as well. It destroyed her, of course. She went all but insane, unable to speak, seemingly unable to hear. That is fine, as I understood very well that she knew the whole story, which was all I cared about.
“So there you have it, the story of Voroslav Moloku, the monster Priest of Romania. Yes, the Church eventually learned of my activities, and I was defrocked. And yes, Aleksandre, I know as well of your part in that. I accept the responsibility. It is even well and good that Grace Rodescu managed to survive, and bring the cycle of revenge to what I hope will be its completion. I accept her right to do so. I did not bring you here out of some self-serving search for forgiveness. I did my part to destroy the organization that my half-brother was such an influential and powerful member of. Granted, that was not my intention, but I still see it is only right.
“It is also right that I explain all of this to you now. Go ahead and look at the rest of the pictures. They tell quite a story. Somewhere within them is one with your grandfather, by the way. Perhaps you might recognize one of the men with him.”
“Corneliu Codreanu”, Khoska said as he found the one picture in question. As he looked at the old black and white, age-faded photograph, a thought occurred to him.
“Ion Ionescu was also one of his followers,” he declared.
“Indeed he was,” Voroslav admitted. “As was my father Volescu, until the time my father realized what an insane madman he was, and broke his ties to his Iron Guard organization.”
“According to some sources, your father found affiliation with Antonescu much more profitable and fortuitous. Some people considered him a traitor. You do realize that, do you not?”
Voroslav smiled.
“Codreanu was an anti-Semite, a fascist, and a religious fanatic. He was an ally of Hitler. He was no hero by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps in his own mind he was sincere, but if so, he was insane at best, at worse possessed. All of this of course is of no consequence to me, but something else is.
“You see, Aleksandre, I have agonized over the prospect of telling you all of this. I wanted to tell you, but at the same time, I could see where it would serve no useful purpose. Then, you mentioned something in your call from the hospital, something that came wholly without warning. It was as though somehow, in some way, I was granted a bird’s eye view of the workings of destiny and fate.
“I have seen the hand of God, working through the minions of Satan. It reminded me of my days in the seminary, when I honestly believed there was a purpose to life, a truly divine plan. Of course, I eventually put aside such foolish pretenses. Beliefs such as that were for the benefit of the sheep, I came to believe, not the shepherd. It is the shepherd’s job to protect his flock from the ravages of nature, from the storm and from the wolf, and perhaps most importantly, from the ravages of their own animal impulses. I did not see myself as a wolf in shepherd’s clothing, by any means, only that I performed a necessary function to society.
“Well, all of this is what I had come to believe, and still believed up until that time I was defrocked, and even afterwards. Do you know that I still prayed, after that, even though I did not truly believe? Is that not amazing? What would make a human being act in such a manner?”
“Faith,” Khoska replied. “It is called the dark night of the soul. I have had my share of them.”
Before Voroslav could respond, a buzzer heralded the entrance into the room of Dorothy, who seemed to affect a casual attitude than was natural. Something about her manner was, in fact, wholly suspicious.
“So are the two older men in my life having an enjoyable visit?”
“I won’t say enjoyable is an accurate description, but it has certainly been enlightening,” Khoska replied.
“I have some business I have to attend to,” she said as though her previous statement had been a mere formality after all. “I might not be back for a few days. I will be back by Monday at the latest, and I will see you home the next day, poppa.”
Khoska nodded, not terribly disappointed at the announcement, yet wary of her true intentions to return at the time stated.
“Voroslav, if there is anything you need, you have my cell phone number written down somewhere, right?”
“Yes, it’s here in the book, but I am sure I will be fine,” Moloku replied. “Have a nice trip.”
“Goodbye then,” she said as she turned to leave. “Love you both.”
“That is it?” Khoska asked in amazement. “She just walks in and casually announces she is going off somewhere, and you allow this, and do not even ask her where she is going?”
“Oh, I know where she is going,” Moloku told him. “She is going to meet her boyfriend. She is having an affair.”
Khoska’s jaw dropped at this pronouncement and his eyes widened. Voroslav seemed to take his reaction with some amusement.
“Oh, I do not mind,” he insisted. “Like I said, she will be well taken care of.”
“Yes, and you never told me exactly what you meant by that,” Khoska replied, obviously hurt at this level of infidelity evidenced by his own daughter toward her husband of twenty-six years. Now, he obviously did not care to know any more, as Voroslav reached down and opened the top of an end table, from which he extracted what appeared to be a game board.
“I want to show you a little something I discovered, which I consider most interesting,” he said as Aleksandre watched him lay out what appeared to be some version of a chessboard, one that seemed to be a computerized machine of some sort.
“While I am setting this up, you should want to peruse the other folder, in the same drawer from which you took the first one. It has everything to do with why I wanted you to come here this night.”
Aleksandre however waited until Voroslav set the tiny little pegs on the board, choosing the white pieces for himself, the black pieces for his computerized opponent.
“As you shall see, the only choice you really have in this game is the choice of white and black.”
“What, is this supposed to be some kind of symbolic lesson or something?” Aleksandre asked, as he considered such displays to be a waste of his time. As Voroslav made his initial move of the knight’s pawn, two spaces up the board, Aleksandre reached into the end table and withdrew the folder.
“You will never defeat that machine,” Aleksandre said with a mirthless chuckle. “That has always been your opening move, and if I am familiar with it I would be certain the move is forever enshrined within that computer’s memory banks.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Moloku replied. “More than likely you are. I have defeated it twice, out of more than one hundred attempts, and I was hoping I could show you something that is most amazing.”
Aleksandre watched his son-in-law play the game opponent, which signaled to Moloku the moves it wanted him to make on its behalf.
“This is actually quite an old game,” he explained. “With one of the newer versions I seriously doubt I could do this. It is in fact a rarity when I defeat this game. I’ve had this thing for going on twelve years, and it took me more than three years to beat it, a feat I never repeated until a couple of years ago.”
Koska found himself increasingly drawn to the on-going battle of human intellect versus computer calculation. Within ten minutes, Voroslav lost a knight and one bishop, as well four pawns, while only taking two pawns and a bishop off the computers’ side.
“I think you are in a bit of a jam,” Khoska observed.
“Actually-I think I might be on to something here,” Voroslav replied. “Do you see it?”
Khoka did indeed see what appeared to be a potentially devastating move, one that would place the computer’s queen in dire jeopardy. All he had to do was place the king in check, which would necessitate a move one square away, exposing the queen to the ravages of Voroslav’s rook. Though he would lose this remaining rook to the king, Voroslav could then proceed to decimate his opponents’ field with his own queen, rooks, and remaining bishop and knight.
“You see, Aleksandre, the key is to not take too many of the opponents pieces, while making a few necessary sacrifices of your own in order to maneuver the king into an area where there is scant room for movement on its part. His own crowded field does him in.”
Voroslav then proceeded to take the queen, but to Khoska’s amazement, the computer did not respond by taking its opponents rook. Instead, the lights on the board changed, signaling that the computer changed sides. It was therefore now Voroslav’s queen that was off the board, and Voroslav who now had the option of taking the offending rook. Khoska now saw something he previously did not see. If Voroslav took the rook with his king, the computer could now put the king back in check with a knight, while simultaneously taking an opposing knight. The king would be obliged to e moved to one remaining open spot, at which point it could be checkmated by a rook.
“You see, I have no choice,” he explained. “I have to move from this side, before the computer will signal for me the move it wishes to make from my former side which it has now stolen from me. That makes three times that has happened. You see, Aleksandre, this computer is programmed to do anything involving the game of chess with the sole exception of losing.
“You asked me if there was some kind of lesson to this. Well, you have just seen it. This is a most accurate display of how the universe works. Whatever force put it into motion programmed it in much the same manner. Whatever move you make in life, the outcome is a foregone conclusion. No matter how well you seem to do, those who are destined to lose will lose in the end. Those who are destined to win will do so as well. This is not due to goodness and sacrifice, or to faith and holiness. It has everything to do, I am afraid, with cunning, guile, and the practical application of intelligence and strength. Ruthlessness is all but a necessity, at some point, of course.
“Even then, you have only so much in the way of good fortune, and once it is gone, then the game is over. Then, the universe will switch sides, so to speak.”
“I changed my mind,” Khoska now said. “I think I will have some of that cheese and wine. I am starting to become very hungry.”
He opened up the small refrigerator where he noted several varieties of cheeses and cold cuts, along with some yogurt, and he extracted what looked to be a portion of sharp cheddar, though a Wisconsin variety, and an unopened bottle of port. He poured himself a glass, and took the entire somewhat small portion of cheese. He knew that Voroslav would not eat from it once other human hands touched it.
“I am curious about something Voroslav,” Khoska asked. “You say you have struggled with your affliction since you were a teenager, so I was wondering how you could stand to go to a filthy place such as a Romanian orphanage, and return in the company of Grace, to say nothing of surrounded by all those people you encountered on your travels.”
“I did it more than a few times, frankly,” his host replied as Khoska hungrily bit into the wheel of cheese that was actually more of the taste of an Edom, and quite good. “Grace was not the first, she was merely the last. Yes, it was a struggle. However, I took comfort in the series of inoculations I was assured would protect me on my travels from every disease known to man. It got to the point I actually started looking forward to those trips, for precisely that reason. I insisted on the inoculations even when I was assured they were not actually necessary.
“That may have been my downfall, to tell you the truth. When the church discovered my activities, they officially said nothing. However, I have an idea one or two of the more holier-than-thou busybodies turned me in to the authorities. Of course, by that time, my activities in those regards were over, and yet I found I could make no flights even within the country without being questioned. Dorothy and Marnie were harassed as well. Dorothy threatened a lawsuit at one point, and so though the harassment did not exactly cease, it slowed considerably. Had you any problem at the airport?”
“Yes,” Aleksandre replied. “They were quite insistent that I show them identification, and answer their questions, which I found quite insulting. You mean that was all because of you?”
“I apologize, but yes,” Moloku replied. “9/11 gave them the excuse to be more through, I suppose, but Islamic radicals aside, their reasons are what they are. It is a waste of time and money of course, but when did the government ever let that even be a consideration?
“Imagine how you would have felt if your own daughter had her identity stolen, the way Marnie’s had been, and you were told there was nothing which could be done about it. You said it turned out to be Grace Rodescu’s doing, and I suppose it was. At the same time, consider this. How exactly could she have gotten such personal information about my daughter’s life, unless that information was on file somewhere, under the care of some person determined to find some criminal conduct through way of her.”
“You are saying that Grace got this information from someone in the government?” Khoska asked.
“The government or the police, obviously,” Voroslav confirmed. “She probably found it fitting to steal the identity of the daughter of the man who adopted her for illegal purposes, and then sold her. I cannot fault her for that, truthfully, but at the same time, it all goes back to what I was saying. The game’s outcome is already decided, and the winners and losers all have their predestined paths to follow. They might veer off course from time to time, but even at that, they only delay the inevitable.
“Well, I will no longer delay the inevitable-quite the opposite.”
As he said this, Voroslav extracted a gun from the drawer of his end table, and Khoska, who just now took a large drink of port, sat it down hurriedly and looked around frantically, almost certain Voroslav meant to kill him after all.
“The Krovelescu’s are the key,” Voroslav continued, seeming not to notice the frantic terror that gripped Aleksandre. “I realized that the minute you mentioned their name as being complicit in this affair. Of course, that should have come as no surprise to me, especially seeing as how I have had an on-going relationship with Martin Khoska and his wife for several decades now. In fact, you referred Martin to me when he came to you for help searching for his long lost mother. I was unable to help him, unfortunately, but we have remained friends, though we seldom see each other.
“Nevertheless, though the Krovelescu’s are a factor in our lives, and as you shall see, have been for some time, I never expected the level of involvement they have had in our affairs.
“I suppose you know by now of Radu. If not, you shall. I will say no more about him, for I am of the hopes that for your sake, as well as for the sake of Dorothy and Marnie, and the rest of your family, you will drop this crusade you are on. You see, I know exactly what you are doing. In that folder, you will find everything you need.”
Khoska found some relief at this statement, but was still overwhelmed with anxiety.
“Who was he, at least tell me that much,” Khoska said. “I know about Radu the Black, and Radu the Handsome, but this person”-
“The game is over, Aleksandre,” Voroslav replied, as his eyes became almost emotionally unexpressive, yet stern and even cold. “I am very sorry about Lynette. She did not deserve the fate she suffered. She was a very good person. Many were the times I wished privately that Marnie could be just somewhat like her. Just a little bit. That of course was quite unfair to the both of them. If there was ever anything in life I tried to acquire, it was a sense of fairness. It is now finally time to be fair to myself. Goodbye, my friend.”
To Aleksandre’s horror, Voroslav Moloku placed the barrel of the gun inside his mouth and in the space of an instant sent his brains splattering on the wall behind him, as Aleksandre Khoska loudly shouted an impotent and senseless no. He dropped down to his knees and prayed, and cried loudly as he swayed back and forth on his knees on the hardwood floor of the room in which Voroslav Moloku, who spent most of his last years confined within it, now ended his life.
He placed a frantic call to Dorothy, unsure of what he would tell her, but Dorothy never answered. Instead, her recorded voice advised to leave a message. He felt loathe to relay the night’s events on voice-mail, and was unsure exactly what to say. In despair, he hung up.
Aleksandre then remembered the folder, the one he never got around to perusing, and in an effort to calm his despair, opened the folder, only to see what looked to be a marriage certificate for Voroslav’s mother, though not to his father, but to her first husband, Ion Ionescu. What he noted, however, that shook him to the core, was the maiden name of Voroslav’s mother, which was Krovell.
He then noticed the old, age-lined black and white photograph of the young man of about twenty-five years old, the man in the Romanian uniform of the World War I era. Attached to the photo by a paper clip was a document that turned out to be a death certificate for a Lieutenant Jason Krovell, listed as a volunteer combatant for the Romanian Royal Army, killed in the line of duty early in the year 1917 in a battle against Turkish forces near the Black Sea. Another photo revealed the nature of his wounds to be at somewhat close range. In fact, his body appeared riddled with bullets. Then, the thought occurred to him.
“He was not killed in the line of duty at all,” he mused aloud. “He was executed.”
Suddenly the phone rang, and Aleksandre was now in the uncomfortable position of walking within touching distance of the corpse of his son-in-law, who sat staring out into the vastness of the eternity to which he at last surrendered. The caller ID of the screen was a number he did not recognize, and so he frantically scrolled down the list of names in a vain attempt to find a number with a name to match, an attempt that proved fruitless.
Aleksandre gave up, and said a quick prayer over the corpse of his son-in-law. He then closed his eyes.
He decided to replace the folders within the drawers of the end table from which he extracted them. He had no need for them, and was concerned about how this might look. How would he ever explain this? He and Voroslav did have a falling out at one point, over a good many of the very things they discussed this night. Though Aleksandre never confirmed or denied it, it was patently obvious to Moloku that Aleksandre was responsible for the Orthodox Church defrocking him.
Graces’ survival that night, in the woods of western Maryland, and the eventual recovery of her memory, enabled her to remember the name of the man who had adopted her. Aleksandre said nothing to the authorities. There was always the possibility that criminals had procured and used his son-in-laws identity. After all, no one would suspect an Orthodox Priest of such abominable activities as engaging in the sexual slave trade of young children. He tried to tell himself that this had to be the answer, though at the same time, his conscience would not allow him to keep the matter entirely secret. He reported it to the Church, who conducted an investigation. They found that, indeed, Voroslav and a small number of other Church priests and officials were involved, and so in order to forestall what might well amount to a crippling scandal, they swept the entire thing under the rug, while expunging from the Body of Christ those offensively guilty parties.
Aleksandre benefited from his silence, of course, but it left him with a guilt he never entirely came to terms with. He had nothing to feel guilty for, and yet he did. He should have done more, taken more action, regardless of the immediate consequences to his family. Now, it was too late. The game played on, and Khoska looked with great despair upon the form of his son-in-law, his gaping mouth wide open as the blood and gore that caked the wall behind him yet moved inexorably toward the floor. He knew well that he was merely looking upon the remains of the latest victim, but, unfortunately, probably not the last one.
“Why, Voroslav, did you do these things?” he asked. “What possessed you, and why did you do this, the most unforgivable of all sins? Why?”
Khoska jerked at the sound of the gun dropping finally from Moloku’s hand, producing as it did so a thud on the pristine, waxed hardwood floor. He saw then for the first time the white handkerchief by which he held the gun and pulled the trigger. Then, the thought occurred to him that sent waves of terror cascading through his body.
“That was not your gun, was it, Voroslav?”
He sat for twenty minutes, praying as he finally started to cry, until he heard the sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs. Even through the sounds of the fresh air circulating from the tanks in the adjoining room, Khoska could tell they were too heavy to be the footsteps of Dorothy, who tended to walk much like a cat, a maddening habit shared by her daughter Marnie. Someone was walking, actually tromping up the steps, slowly but surely, as Khoska, now in mortal terror for his life, hid within the adjoining room, squeezing uncomfortably between two instrument panels that he realized barely hid him from view as he gathered his flowing robe tightly around him.
He heard the beep produced by the electronic eye, and realized someone would have to grant admittance from within the sealed off room. Unfortunately, that was no deterrent to the person who waited outside, who proceeded to kick the door down.
“Stop that, what are you trying to do?” Aleksandre heard a female voice say, and soon enough, the door slid open.
“Uh-oh,” he heard the voice of the man say. “Guess what? We are too fucking late. I guess he took you up on your little offer.”
So-there was two people here this night, Khoska realized, and then he heard a female gasp.
“Oh, so now you’re going to cry,” the man said. “Come on, lay your head on here and cry those eyes out, get it out of your system.”
“I thought it would be easy,” the female voice said. “Now that he’s actually done it, and I’ve seen it”-
Marnie, Khoska realized, was the woman. She was crying, and Khoska peered briefly out, wondering what would happen next.
“Come on, you know he’s better off,” the man said. “I’m actually glad for your sake he had the guts to do it, to spare you the ordeal of having to do it yourself, or rather have me do it for you. It’s for the best.”
Khoska soon no longer heard the sounds of Marnie’s stifled crying, as the man continued consoling her.
“The folders should be in that end table over there,” she said. ‘Let’s get them and get the hell out of here.”
“Yep here they be,” he heard the man say. “Oh, shit, Marnie, somebody else has been here. Look, there is an open bottle of port, and some cheese. I thought you said your dad quit drinking a long time ago.”
“Maybe he wanted something to steady his nerves,” she suggested.
“Uh-uh, something just ain’t right here,” the man continued. “Look at this shit, his fucking eyes has been closed. Somebody shut them. I’ve seen enough people die I know for a fact when you die at least from a gunshot to the head there ain’t no way you eyes be shut, you be staring out into space, the great beyond, that be just the way it be. I’m telling you, somebody have either be here or they still be here. If they left, we had to just miss him, cos I’m telling you he just did this shit about thirty minutes ago. Look at this, he’s still a little warm. As cool as this room is he couldn’t have done it too long ago.”
“Hell, what are you, some kind of detective or something?” Marnie asked in what Khoska took as a teasing tone of voice.
“Well, come to think of it,” the man replied, “I do wants to be your private dick.”
From that point on, Khoska heard nothing but the sound of breathing, and the terrible thought occurred to him that Marnie, his own granddaughter, was engaged in what seemed to be activity leading toward a tryst, in the presence of the corpse of her own dead father.
“Come on now, girl, let’s get a room, this is weird shit,” the man weakly objected.
“No, fuck me here,” Marnie insisted. Khoska gasped, and immediately hoped the air circulation devices that now surrounded him would serve to cover the unfortunate sound. Fortunately, both Marnie and the man now breathed so loudly she doubted they would hear him if he pounded the wall. He could not help himself, he had to see, not because he wanted to view the act of his granddaughter’s sexual shenanigans, but he realized this might be the only opportunity he might have to see exactly with whom she was. It was obviously a person who was involved with Marnie in some criminal activity, one that would bode no good for him if they discovered him here. From the sound of things, Marnie brought this man up here for the express purpose of ending her own father’s life, and he had no illusions she would feel any qualms about ending his.
He carefully approached the curtain that blocked the view from one room to the other and peered carefully out the curtain. He was relatively sure of their distraction in the face of the groaning, grunting, and inadvertent swearing from the both of them, as the hardwood floor seemed to shake under the both of them. In fact, it shook under Khoska as well.
He looked out carefully to see the form of the large black man, who seemed to be almost three times Marnie’s size, and realized he was a man whose picture Lynette showed him, not long before she died, in a newspaper advertisement. His name was Dwayne Letcher, but he went by the stage name of Toby Da Pimp. He was a hardcore criminal, a former member of the now defunct street gang known as the Seventeenth Pulse.
According to Lynette, the late Brad Marlowe brutally assaulted him at the funeral of Marshall Crenshaw, after which the rap artist cancelled a number of appearances. Marlowe had almost crushed his throat. Now, he certainly seemed well enough, as Khoska, having seen enough of the sickening sight of his own granddaughter’s debauchery, once more withdrew into the relative privacy of the little room in which he planned to remain for some time, despite the urge he now felt to use the bathroom.
After a number of minutes that seemed more like hours to Khoska, the incident came to it’s conclusion with Toby cursing fiercely and then collapsing on the floor beside Marnie.
“Damn, that was the best fuck I’ve had in a long time, maybe ever-especially from you,” she said. “Hell, let’s just keep him here.”
“Yeah, right, let’s do that,” he said. “Hey, I just remembered-what about your mom?”
“Oh for God’s sake Toby I wasn’t serious.” She said.
“Uh, I wasn’t either, I was just saying, again, what about your mom? Do you reckon she’s there by now?”
“Hell, not this quick,” she said. “Her flight to Baltimore wasn’t scheduled for until about thirty minutes ago, and I doubt it’s even off the ground yet. Just the same, I’m going to call him now.”
“Hey, lover, your so-called girlfriend should be on her way,” Marnie said into the phone that rested right by her father’s corpse. “Be sure you give it to her good for me. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” Toby said after she hung up. “Come on, let’s get moving, we gots to find that other shit before we get out of here, and we also gots to make sure there ain’t nobody else in this house. Look at this shit. He wrapped the fucking gun with a handkerchief before he shot himself. Ain’t that the pits. He had it bad, didn’t he?”
“Hey, you know something, I bet he doesn’t have a single fingerprint on that gun,” Marnie said.
“Well, so fucking what?”
“So, if we take the handkerchief it would look like a murder disguised as suicide, right?”
“Uh, yeah, and you’re the first one they would be asking about that.”
“Yeah, but you seem to have forgotten whose gun this is, whose gun I actually stole this from, and who it is registered to. In fact, it’s one of his oldest personal firearms.”
Toby remained silent for the time being, as though digesting the information and the implications thereof.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said.
“Yep, I’m tired of his shit,” Marnie replied, “and you want him off your ass too. What better way to accomplish that? It will just look like a man killing his lover’s husband, the oldest story in the world. Well, one of the oldest stories anyway. If we are lucky, they will question him right about the time he is ready to dispose of her body. Come on-let’s go look for the shit. You search the living room downstairs and I’ll look in the bitch’s bedroom.”
“I keep telling you, now, if you’re going to hang with Da Pimp, that’s”-
“Yeah, I got it, I’ll search the beeyathch’s bedroom,” Marnie said.
“That be better”, Toby replied with a chuckle as the two of them finally exited the room, the door to which shut automatically behind them.
Khoska promptly removed himself from the confines of what once was a walk-in closet, before its conversion to an air-filtration center, and quietly yet quickly walked to the bathroom. He pissed as quietly as possible, worrying about the sound of it hitting the water in the bowl. It was a foolish thought, and Khoska knew very well if he was going to survive this night, he had to control his nerves. All he needed now was for April Sandusky to arise from the commode. He had to keep his nerve, he thought repeatedly.
“Keep your nerve, Aleksandre Khoska,” he muttered to himself, until he finally finished.
He walked quickly to the phone, picked up the receiver, and hit redial. The phone answered after three rings, and Khoska heard the familiar voice of Detective James Berry.
“You have reached the residence of James Berry and family,” he said. “At the tone kindly leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call, if you really, really want me to. Go on, punk, make my day.”
Khoska put the receiver down. Everything was finally coming together for him, as he frantically looked for the cell-phone number of his daughter Dorothy. He found it, and then he hurriedly dialed it from Voroslav’s phone. Although Dorothy never answered, at length he got once more the recorded message from her answering service.
“Dorothy, this is your father, and it is very important that you listen carefully to what I am about to say. Voroslav took his own life right in front of my eyes. Your own life is also in danger, from Marnie and Detective James Berry, so please avoid both of them. That is all I can say for now. I am in hiding, as my own life is in danger. Marnie is here with a black man, a rap artist named Toby the pimp, I believe. Go to the church and wait until I return, and then I will tell you everything.”
He hung up the phone, and then treaded cautiously to the door, where he placed his left ear while cupping his right ear with one hand to block out the sound of the machinery in the room. He could hear the sounds of walking and some talking, but it seemed to be at a distance. He returned to the phone, as he hastily extracted his wallet. Going through it, he found the card with the phone number. He extracted the phone and then walked over toward the one small window. He could see out of it enough to note there was indeed a balcony, from which Khoska hoped there yet would remain a set of emergency steps leading to the street below. He dialed the number. The phone rung several times before a weary voice answered.
“Phelps here, who is it?” asked the photographer.
“It is father Khoska,” Aleksandre replied. “I don’t have much time, so I cannot talk long. I have a favor to ask of you, and I also have a good deal of information I am sure you would be interested in, information concerning Grace, and a good many other things.”
“Yeah, okay, but what are you doing in Chicago?” Phelps asked him.
“Right now I am waiting for you to come and get me, and hoping it won’t take you a long time to get here.”
