Beyond the Shadow of Night(78)

He walked toward her, his eyes locked and unblinking. This was Izabella. She was alive, and he had found her. He could finally kiss her as he had done many years ago. She was alive, and he would talk and she would talk, and they would rekindle their love and they would look back on sadder times and perhaps—just perhaps—look forward to better times together.

And then Izabella looked down, at the baby carriage her hand was holding on to. She reached in and picked the infant out, clasping it to her chest. She kissed the baby’s head, rocking the precious bundle slowly from side to side.

Then a man appeared behind Izabella, placing an arm around her shoulders. His other hand stroked the baby’s forehead, pushing aside a lock of hair. He leaned over and kissed the baby.

Asher stopped walking.

Of course. Now he remembered. The woman in the café. Magda. She’d said she’d seen Izabella out shopping for her family. Her family.

Asher felt weak, and turned his back on Izabella so she wouldn’t see his face if he were to fall. He stumbled, took a few deep breaths, and started running haphazardly, knocking stalls askew along the way.

Twenty minutes later, he was on the platform, waiting for the train back to Kiev, thoughts of Izabella still whirling in his mind. He could have spoken to her, he could have asked how she was and how she’d escaped the walled sector, but without a doubt he would have then told her he was still in love with her, and how would she have replied to that? What could she have said with her husband standing next to her. No, it was better to keep his memories, and not to break the spell.

On the way back Asher cursed himself and his stupidity. He could have talked to her, at least exchanged polite conversation. He should have talked to her. But no; he was on his way back to Kiev.

He would have to be content with mere memories of Izabella.





Chapter 26

Pittsburgh and Detroit, 1997

The Troy Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh, on the north side of the Allegheny River, boasted houses of varying designs and colors, all packed together like they trusted one another with their lives. Accompanied by a well-judged smattering of trees, it could almost have been a pretty village in some hidden corner of Europe.

A car pulled up into the driveway of 38 Hartmann Way, a modest but smartly kept house, and the car door opened.

Michael Peterson swung his legs to the side. He was sprightly for his seventy-four years of age, but still had to grunt a little as he grabbed the door pillar to pull himself out.

He walked up to the front door and pulled out his house key, but the door opened and his head jerked back with a little surprise. It wasn’t a big issue as he didn’t live alone; it just caught him off guard. For a second it occurred to him that he was becoming rather easy to spook in his senior years.

“Hi, Diane,” he said in an accent that was almost completely apple-pie American. Almost. He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Diane? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t want you just coming inside, Father, and . . . I thought it best if . . . Look, some people are here to see you.” She stood aside.

He looked up and down the street, looking for what, he wasn’t quite sure—just something out of the ordinary, something that might explain his daughter’s worried expression.

When he stepped into the living room, two men in dark gray suits stood up. He gulped and took a step back, but all they did was smile at him.

“Michael Peterson?” one of them asked.

He nodded.

“Lieutenants Schneider and Gomez. Office of Special Investigations.”

“Office of what?”

Both men got out their badges and showed him. “It’s a unit of the Department of Justice. We need to talk to you.”

He shrugged. “So talk.”

“Uh, at the police station.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”

“What’s it about?”

Schneider glanced at Diane. “Better if we tell you down at the station.”

“It’s okay,” Michael replied. “She’s my daughter. She’s my one and only. You can speak in front of her. I have nothing to hide.”

“As you wish,” Schneider said with some uncertainty. “We need to formally interview you regarding allegations of war crimes.”

He almost dropped his shopping bag, but turned and placed it on the couch. “Say that again.”

Schneider displayed an embarrassed smile. “It really would be better for everybody if we talked to you down at the police station.”

“You said ‘war crimes’. You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But . . .” He sat in a heap, right on the bag he’d just put down. “War crimes? Me? This is madness.”

“We just have some questions to ask you, that’s all. We’re here so we can talk about it, and so you can have your say about the allegations.”

“He’s never harmed anyone in his life,” Diane said.

“I even put the catch back in when I go fishing,” Michael said, then turned to his daughter. “Isn’t that right, Diane?”

“It must be a case of mistaken identity,” she said to the gray-suited men.

But the men said nothing. They just stood next to her father.