Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Dante
The Orthodox church where Tatiana directs me sits between factory shops and renovated business outlets.
Small and obscure, the stone building is almost invisible amidst the skyscrapers surrounding it.
The gothic bell tower and ornate carvings of angels around the heavy wooden doors speak of a former glory.
Back in the day, before high-rise offices crowded the street, the isolated church must’ve been imposing. I imagine it had the power to inspire awe and mysticism in the eye of the beholder.
Now, it’s neglected. A few roof tiles are missing, and pigeon droppings run white down the smog-blackened walls.
A lonely tree with winding branches stands in front of the church.
It’s the only greenery in miles of concrete and bricks, although the scant leaves look black in the night.
The chalky beams of the moon that shift through the dreary branches illuminate piles of shiny leaves on the ground.
Tatiana gets out of the car before I can come around and open her door.
Except for giving me directions, she’s been quiet on the way.
She stops on the sidewalk and looks up at the tower, pulling the beige coat tighter around herself.
A chill has descended with a light mist that rises between the buildings, carrying the scent of a freshly tarred road and a whiff of decay that marks the pending arrival of winter.
I motion for the men in the car that pulls up behind us to keep watch.
At this hour, the old neighborhood is quiet.
There are no houses or restaurants around, and the people who work here have long since knocked off for the day.
A few lights shine in the higher floor windows of some buildings, maybe workaholics burning the midnight oil, but otherwise, there’s no one and nothing moving about.
Tatiana’s chest rises with a deep intake of breath. It’s as if she needs to steel herself before moving forward. I take her elbow to prevent her from tripping over the uneven paving in her high heels, but she pulls away.
Even though her rejection doesn’t sit right with me, I ignore it… for now. Keeping vigilant, I let her go ahead and follow short on her heels. She uses a narrow walkway that’s barely wide enough for me to squeeze through to go around the side.
A blackberry vine creeps over the wall separating the church from the neighboring property and slithers over the path to climb up the tower. The thorns hook on my jacket and scratch the back of my hands. The cobwebs I disturb stick to my face.
Using my arm, I clear a path for Tatiana. She navigates five stone steps obscured beneath a thick carpet of ivy as if she’s done it enough times to find her way blindfolded.
A hidden alcove looms out of the shadows.
She stops in front of a small wooden door reinforced with metal bars and chunky bolts. “Give me a light.”
I take out my phone and switch on the flashlight before directing it toward the door. A twig crunches at the end of the spindly passageway. In a second flat, I have my gun in one hand, pointing the barrel toward the sound, and Tatiana pressed firmly behind my back.
“Stay,” I whisper, using my body to shield her.
When I’m certain she’s not going to move, I bring my free hand around and point my phone light in the same direction as my aim.
A black cat darts from behind the church and jumps with a bloodcurdling meow onto the wall, its eyes glowing red in the beam of my torch.
I lower my gun. “Motherfucker.”
“Light,” she says again.
With a last glance at the cat that retreats with lithe steps until he melts into the inky blackness of the night, I turn the light back to the door.
Judging by the thick, grayish cobwebs that span across the alcove, the door hasn’t been used in years.
Tatiana lifts the necklace that hangs around her neck from under her coat. Gripping the cross, she pulls it apart.
Fuck me.
I didn’t see that one coming.
The long end of the cross fits like a sheath against the top part.
An old-fashioned key is attached to the sheath.
The joint has been so well crafted, hidden by engraved roses, that it’s almost impossible to spot it.
I’ve seen that necklace countless times, and I never would’ve guessed that it could open.
Her hand trembles a bit as she brings the key to a lock with an ornate black metal frame.
I touch her elbow. “Wait.”
She jumps before cutting me a look.
I scan the walls for cameras. “What about an alarm?”
“It’s a church, Dante. Who’s going to break in here?” When I only raise a brow, she huffs a sigh. “Trust me, they don’t have the money to pay for a security service that comes with an alarm.”
The place is clearly in need of renovations, so money is definitely an issue. Perhaps in these modern times, there are fewer believers and therefore less people to give the customary tenth of their earnings for the upkeep of the church.
“Give it to me.” I hold out a hand. “I’ll do it.”
Her knuckles turn white around the key. “I’ve got this.”
She’s clearly not keen on handing over something that belonged to her mother.
It takes a few attempts and some wiggling before she gets the key to work, but finally, it turns with a rusty squeak. She pushes down the ornamental handle and puts her full weight behind opening the door, but it doesn’t budge. The wood probably swelled from damp, and the door got stuck.
This time, when I grip her elbow and pull her away, she doesn’t argue.
I put my shoulder to the door and shove.
It scrapes over the floor with the sound of nails being dragged over a blackboard, relenting an inch.
One more push, and the door gives way. Indeed, the wood has expanded, which explains why it’s difficult to move the door.
Leaving it open to prevent it from getting stuck again, I step into the somber interior.
A few votive candles flicker beneath a statue of Mary with a crown on her head, their red glow reaching into the shadows.
Wrought iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, but the only light comes from the candles.
The musky scent of incense fills the air. A thin ribbon of smoke curls from a stick that burns in a holder on the altar, telling me the church is still in use. Right now, however, the main doors are closed and barred from the inside. Another door gives access to the back.
My steps echo on the concrete floor as I walk to the center aisle.
Paintings depicting scenes from the Old Testament and gold leaf statues of patron saints decorate the interior.
The church is an unexpected jewel amidst the newer buildings with much less character.
Beneath the dilapidated exterior hides a beautiful gem.
The pale moon that cuts wedges through the high arched windows cloaks the altar in silver light.
Even I, who am not religious, am not untouched by the quiet melancholy and secretive mysticism of the place.
I turn to Tatiana, finding her still standing by the door with her arms wrapped around herself and that same melancholic vibe I get from the place etched on her features.
Her voice carries softly in the cavernous vault. “My mom used to come here to pray.”
Of course. Milena was deeply religious. But still… “She had her own key?” I should’ve known there was more than sentimentality to that chain and cross she always wore around her neck.
Tatiana’s expression is wistful as she looks at a painting of Christ on a throne with a halo around his head.
“She donated a lot of money to the church. The priest knew her from when she was just a girl, barely seventeen, and already married to my father. He gave her a key so that she could pray whenever she needed to, even at night.” A sad smile plays over her lips.
“Maybe he knew how much she needed her prayers answered.”
And this is the one place Pawel Teszner would allow his wife to visit at liberty. He’d never risk the ire of the bishop by forbidding his wife to pray. In the circles Teszner moved, even the criminal ones, the church had too much power.
Seeming to pull herself from her reverie, Tatiana walks with determined steps to the altar. “Come.”
I follow, taking in her slight frame under the coat and how she still walks like a queen, like someone who isn’t even a little scared. So brave.
“Here.” She stops behind the altar and kicks away the once plush but now worn rug that covers the raw concrete floor. “Help me.”
I stop her with my fingers around her arm when she makes to kneel.
My tone leaves no room for argument. “I want to know first.”
She purses her lips. In the milky moonlight, her eyes shine brighter than I’ve ever seen.
They almost seem translucent, like the clear water of a green river.
The haunted look reflected in their stunning depths makes her appear like a ghost—a beautiful, untouchable apparition that can evaporate before I get a secure hold on it, something that can slip through my fingers and drift away with the thin mist.
“I want to know, Tatiana. Who took you?”
She relents with an exhale that bends the ribbon of smoke from the incense. “I don’t know their names, but they had a Russian accent.”
The smoke disperses, becoming a loose, fluffy cloud that escapes to the ceiling where it dissolves into nothingness.
Suppressed violence taints my voice with anger. “The men who died in the explosion?”
“There was a woman too. They called her Oxo. She only came in at the end to feed me. She helped me get cleaned up and dressed.”
My fury rises like a demon from hell. “At the end? Are you saying they starved you?”
“I suppose withholding food and water was a form of torture better suited to their needs. Cutting or bleeding me would’ve been too risky. I may have died before telling them where the necklace was hidden.”
“So that was indeed what those motherfuckers were after.” I grind my teeth so hard the crunch echoes in my skull. “When did they take you?”