“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Irina’s eyes grew pensive. “You weren’t a very happy boy,” she said. “I was just a teenager, but even I could see that. Your grandparents weren’t the real warm types. In fact, until you came, none of us even knew they had a child, let alone a grandchild. And then, of course, you didn’t speak the language and they refused to teach you. My parents used to say…”
Her voice trailed off and she shrugged.
“How did I manage school if I couldn’t speak the language?” John asked.
“They sent you to an English-speaking boarding school. You were really only in Slovo for a few weeks in the summer and that was just for three or four years.”
“More like six,” John said.
“I had gone off to college by then,” Irina said with another shrug. She narrowed her eyes as she added, “I heard that you visited the Ognevas a month or so ago.”
John nodded. “I was told the fire happened soon after I left.”
“That night, as a matter of fact.”
“I heard that. Do you know if I visited anyone else on that trip?”
“I do not,” she said, her expression perplexed. “Wouldn’t you remember if you had?”
“Ordinarily, but things are a little fuzzy right now. Listen, Irina, I was also told that Sergi shot Galina, set fire to his house and killed himself.”
Irina arched her eyebrows, and when she spoke it sounded as though she chose her words with care. “Yes, that was the official finding.”
There was a
but
in her voice no one could have missed.
“Do you have reason to believe otherwise?” John asked.
Irina looked over her shoulder toward the room she’d exited a few minutes before, then scanned the faces of the others in the waiting area.
“Meet me in the lobby,” she said softly, then disappeared through yet another door. They left the office, aware of the expressions of those waiting.
Irina came into the lobby through a narrow door in the back and joined them on one of the benches. She kept her voice soft as she spoke. “You have to remember I knew Sergi my whole life. He was an arrogant man when he was young and Galina was very cold. But they had grown old and frail, well over eighty, you know. I cannot imagine either of them committing suicide or murder unless it was guilt brought about when you came home so suddenly. But then why destroy their house? It makes no sense.”
“Is there any proof it happened another way?”
“Just a phone call,” Irina said. “It was made earlier that night to an untraceable number in Traterg. My superior wrote it off. I tried to uncover who it was made to, but I gave up.”
“You’ve no idea?”
“None.”
“And your superior isn’t concerned?”
Irina’s shoulders lifted and dropped. In barely a whisper, she added, “He is new, a transplant from Traterg. I am not so sure he is completely honest.”
“What do you think happened, Irina?” Paige said.
Irina studied their eyes for a second, then glanced over her shoulder as though to make sure they were alone. It seemed she was reluctant to say what she thought in any plainer terms.
“You’re talking murder,” John murmured.
Eyes wide, Irina nodded.
“But there’s something else,” Paige said.
John looked puzzled as he threw Paige a glance. “What do you mean, something else?”
“About your grandparents,” Paige told him, then looked straight into Irina’s eyes. “You started a thought a few minutes ago, and then you let it go. You said your parents used to say something. What did they used to say?”
Irina shook her head. “It was just gossip.”
“I’d like to know,” John said.
“But it probably isn’t true.”
“Still, I’d like to know.”
“It was my mother,” Irina said, looking down at her hands, then back at John. “I overheard her tell my father that Galina Ogneva once told another woman in the village that she found out when she was just a young woman that she couldn’t have children but that she was fine with that. She said she didn’t like children. And then a year later, you show up and are introduced as a long-lost orphaned grandson who couldn’t remember a moment of his past.”
“How did she explain me?” John asked.
“She told everyone she’d had a daughter who she gave to her sister to raise. Then that daughter married an American professor and the two of them died in a traffic accident and you were sent to live in Kanistan with her and Sergi.”
“Did your mother believe her story?” Paige inquired.
Irina shrugged again. “I don’t think so. But after all, it was a time of some trouble here—”
“What kind of trouble?” John interrupted.
“Well, let’s see. It was a long time ago. Okay, there was a scandal concerning the police chief in Traterg that ruined his career. He was a war hero and everyone thought much of him. He committed suicide rather than face criminal investigation. Then two young mothers were shot by soldiers during a riot. Oh, and an ambassador and his whole family were killed and everyone thought it was the Russians.”
“Was it?”
“No, turned out to be domestic. He was having an affair, the girl got pregnant, he got rid of her, her family retaliated…sordid stuff.”
“Anything else?”
“Endless border disputes,” she said with a sigh. “Every week the newspaper was filled with statistics about how many died on each side. It was a restless year, that’s all I’m saying. People were distracted.”
“So, in other words, no one knows who I really am.”
Irina looked shocked for a second and then nodded. “Like I said, though, it started with a rumor, nothing more.”
John thanked Irina and got to his feet, walking away with stiff legs.
The knot in Paige’s stomach hinted the rumor was true. And just where did that leave John now?
Chapter Thirteen
That night they fell asleep on pink satin sheets in a heart-shaped bed located in the honeymoon suite at the Hotel Traterg. It had been the only available room and they’d taken it without discussion, too tired and preoccupied to care about the exorbitant price or the questionable decor.
They’d ordered dinner from room service, eaten in numb silence, then fallen asleep after sharing a few kisses, wrapped in each other’s arms, more for comfort than sex.
John awoke in the middle of the night. He’d been dreaming but it wasn’t about owls for a change, and the trancelike disassociation he was getting used to waking up with wasn’t present.
He’d been dreaming about the people in the photograph taken beside the bridge. It had been hot outside and he’d been swimming in the lake. Then suddenly he was in a room with the woman. She was cooking. The man read a book. Neither of them looked at him or spoke to him. Feeling invisible, he’d climbed wooden stairs to a stuffy room and closed the door—and woken up.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the loneliness of the dream from his head. What was worse? Owls and screams or emptiness?
The mattress moved and he glanced down. Paige’s arm was draped over his chest, and in the light coming through the curtains, he could just ascertain a sparkle in her eyes.
She inched closer, her fragrant hair spilling against his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
“Don’t tell me I was thrashing around or talking in my sleep,” he said with dread.
“No,” she assured him. “But it was kind of a rough day.”
“Yeah,” he said, gathering her in his arms. He relished the feel of her bare skin pressed against his. “It was tough, but I’m okay. Now.”
“It’s just sometimes when you wake up—”
“Not this time.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she said as she slipped one of her silky, luscious legs over his hips. Her fingers caressed his backside in a wonderful, sensual way. “It seems a shame to waste this gaudy bed, doesn’t it?” she added.
He touched her breast, wrapping his hand around the gentle curve, loving the weight of it and the texture, the way his thumb running over her nipple brought an immediate response. And not just from her. His own body was on fire, too.
“Ooh, I can see you share the sentiment,” she whispered against his ear.
“We did pay extra for the heart,” he murmured.
“I know. That’s just what I thought.”
“And I believe I gave you a rain check on the airplane,” he added, pulling her even closer as his legs tangled with hers and her belly pressed against his excitement.
She sighed softly, her mouth against his neck now, the tip of her tongue soft and moist against his skin. “Yes, and I intend to collect right now.”
* * *
T
HE OWLS WERE THERE AGAIN
, swooping low over his head. He began to run, faster and faster, his feet pounding the ground. He had a flashlight and he held it aloft to shine at the owls, to frighten them away.
They each had the face of a child—
He awoke outside the hotel, standing on the sidewalk, out of breath. The doorman was staring at him and asked a question John couldn’t understand above the fading call of the owls.
He shook his head and looked around. It appeared to be very early in the morning and he was standing there in nothing but his boxers. It was freezing cold and raining, and he wasn’t sure what to do.
The doorman, who appeared to be damn near unflappable, took a rain slicker from over his uniform and handed it to John with raised eyebrows. John shrugged it on, nodded his thanks and walked back into the hotel.
The front-desk crew stared at him, their startled expressions making it clear they’d witnessed him running through the lobby moments earlier. He directed a nod at them and tried to look as normal as possible as he went to the elevator and got inside.
He was turning into a damn freak show.
The room door was open. Paige was still asleep in the heart-shaped bed, long limbs tangled in pink satin sheets. He thought of crawling back into bed and waking her. Instead he took a shower and ordered breakfast from room service.
She awoke as the aroma of coffee and toast filled the room, and they ate breakfast sitting on the bed. He didn’t tell her what had happened. He didn’t know how.
Three hours later they arrived at the airport, and by then Paige had grown kind of thoughtful. John suspected she was worried about being out of touch with her family. He had to admit her mother and sister appeared to be on the flighty side. Paige had some of the same characteristics, however. She wouldn’t have gone on this crazy trip with him if she didn’t.
Was it possible Irina’s mother was right, that the people he’d thought were his grandparents weren’t? Was the first dream he’d had last night trying to tell him something? Was it really a reflection of what life with them had been like, or was it just a dream? And where did any of this leave him now?
And don’t even start with the owls.
Irina believed Sergi and Galina were murdered. If they weren’t murdered then they killed each other or themselves—who knew? Murder or suicide, was it just happenstance that it occurred on the same day he’d paid them a visit? Had he gone to see anyone else while he was in Kanistan a few weeks ago? And who had the Ognevas called after he left Slovo and before their deaths?
Dead ends. One after the other, and still not a concrete memory he could claim.
Paige’s car was right where they left it in long-term parking, and as John went over the undercarriage making sure it wasn’t fitted with another tracking device, she walked around in circles, fooling around on her phone as she paced.
It was obvious she’d reached somebody when she started talking, but the call didn’t last long. “That was my mother,” she said as she rejoined him. He unlocked the trunk and she set the suitcase in the back as John retrieved his gun and holster and put them on under his jacket. Then she grabbed her laptop from the heap.
“How is she?”
“She broke up with what’s-his-name.”
“Has she heard from your sister?”
“I don’t think so. She was crying so hard I couldn’t understand her.”
“It was a short call,” he said, smoothing her hair away from her face.
“That’s because she got an incoming from the ex-fiancé while we were talking. She had to take it. I give up. On to other things,” Paige said as she slipped behind the wheel. “We need to get someplace where there’s internet. It seems we’ve been out of touch for two weeks instead of two days.”
He nodded, too caught up in thought to offer anything more.
What did he do now? Where did he go? Maybe it was time to turn himself in to the police and get some decent help. Maybe with what he and Paige knew about Anatola Korenev, the authorities could apprehend him.
“Aren’t you curious if you’re still wanted for murder?” she asked.
John grunted in a distracted manner as he stretched out his long legs and drummed his fingers against the armrest. His mind was racing.
“Are you worried the Ognevas aren’t your grandparents?” she asked with a sideways glance.
“What?” He looked at her and shook his head. “Sorry. No, I don’t remember them, but I have a feeling we weren’t close anyway. Think about it. I left as soon as I was old enough and never went back until the day they happened to die.
“Anyway, when my memory returns, I’ll go back to Kanistan and I’ll find out more about them and about myself. That must be why I went the first time, and I’m betting it was something my aunt told me that connected a few dots. I’ll connect them again. The bottom line is it’s time to admit I need help. Looks like I’d better find a shrink.”
“If you find a shrink and you’re still wanted for murder, won’t he or she have to turn you in?”
“I’m not sure.”
She pulled over and guided the car into a hotel parking lot and got out her laptop, plugging the adapter into the cigarette lighter to boot it up. “Before you give up, let’s just see where things stand,” she said.
“While you’re on there, search psychiatric ethics on Google. Can’t hurt to be prepared.”
She cast him a wry smile, then spent the next few minutes surfing the web. At last she whistled. “They reported this morning that John Cinca is now listed as a possible victim of a man known as Anatola Korenev. They mention Korenev’s fingerprints were at the murder scenes and several other related sites of violence, including Cinca’s residence. Oh, look, someone helped the police make a composite sketch. It’s hard to see his face under all that hair.” She turned the computer toward John. “What do you think?”