Chapter 6: The Desperate Call
The buzz was a violence in the dark, a jackhammer jolt that tore him from a thin, uneasy sleep. The screen’s blue light sliced through the bedroom, illuminating the ghost of his service weapon on the nightstand. 2:17 AM. Elena.
He thumbed the answer button before the second ring. “Elena?”
The sound on the other end was not a voice, but a landscape of ruin—wet, ragged sobs, the gasp of someone drowning on dry land. “D-Dimitri… I… I need you. I can’t—I can’t breathe.”
He was moving, the sheets a tangled prison at his feet. “Where are you? Home?”
A whimper of confirmation. He was already pulling on the jeans discarded from the day, the fabric stiff against his legs.
“Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up. I’m coming.” He didn’t wait for a reply, shoving the phone between his shoulder and ear as he grabbed his keys, his boots, a plain black t-shirt. Her broken breaths were the only soundtrack as he threw himself out the door, the slam of his apartment door echoing in the empty hall.
The night was a wet, black mouth. He gunned the engine of his truck, the tires barking against the asphalt as he pulled out onto the deserted street. The phone lay on the passenger seat, her hitches and whimpers tiny, pathetic things that made his hands clench on the wheel.
“Talk to me, solnyshko. What happened?” His voice was low, a forced calm he didn’t feel.
“He… he came back,” she managed, the words splintering. “The window… it’s all over the floor.”
He knew. The neighbor from earlier that day, the one in the rundown duplex next to hers who’d been shouting obscenities at a stray cat. Dimitri had sized him up with a single, dismissive glance—harmless, all noise. He’d been wrong. The mistake tasted like copper in his mouth.
“I’m three minutes away. You are safe. You hear me? You are safe because I am coming.” He wove through the sleeping city, running red lights that bled their color across the hood, his world narrowed to the path to her.
Her little house was a dark shape against the deeper dark, but the porch light was on, a sickly yellow beacon. The front door was locked. He pounded on it. “Elena! It’s me.”
The lock clicked, a frail sound. He pushed inside.
The scene in the kitchen hit him in a wave of wrongness. The warm, lavender-and-broth scent was fouled by the sharp, clear odor of broken glass. The single bulb flickered overhead, casting jumpy shadows over the wreckage. A chair was on its side, another shoved against the table. Shards of what had been a vase—probably the one with the wilting roses he’d noticed last week—glittered like malignant ice across the peeling linoleum. And in the center of it, small enough to break with his hands, was Elena.
She was curled into a ball, knees to her chest, her long blonde hair a messy curtain over her face. Her whole body trembled, a constant, fine vibration. She looked up as he entered, and the sight of her face—pale, tear-streaked, those huge blue eyes wide with a terror so profound it seemed to have hollowed her out—stopped his heart for a full beat.
His rage was immediate, a geyser of pure, annihilating cold that filled his veins. It had a target, a face, a name. It wanted blood and screaming and the satisfying crunch of bone.
But she was looking at him.
He forced the cold fire down, banked it, locked it away in a deep, dark part of himself. He crossed the room in two long strides and dropped to his knees, the glass crunching faintly under his weight. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate. He simply pulled her into his arms.
She came willingly, folding against him with a sob that seemed to tear from her very core. She buried her face in the cotton of his t-shirt, her tiny fists clutching the fabric. He could feel every one of her ribs, the frantic bird-beat of her heart. He held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other a firm band across her back.
“Vse khorosho, myshka. Ya zdes’. Ya tebya ne opustu.” The Russian was a low, continuous rumble in his chest, meaningless words of comfort to her, but the only true ones he had. All is well, little mouse. I am here. I will not let you go.
He rocked her slightly, his cheek against her hair. He didn’t shush her. He let her cry, let the terror drain out of her onto him. Each shuddering breath she took was a victory. He scanned the room over her head. The window over the sink was a gaping maw, a few jagged teeth of glass still clinging to the frame. A brick, probably from the crumbling garden border, lay near the overturned chair.
“He’s gone,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “He just… threw it and yelled and stumbled back… I couldn’t move.”
“You called. That’s all that matters.” He shifted, his muscles protesting the hard floor. “Can’t stay here, kotik. Come.”
He stood, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. She was pliant in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, exhaustion already seeping in after the adrenaline crash. He carried her into the small living room, lowering her onto the worn couch. He tucked the afghan from the back around her, his movements deliberate, gentle.
“Breathe with me, Elena. In… and out.” He took exaggerated breaths, his eyes holding hers until her own began to slowly, shakily match his rhythm.
He checked the front door lock again, then the back. He found a spare plywood panel in her tool shed and nailed it over the shattered kitchen window, the bang-bang-bang of the hammer a stark, angry punctuation in the quiet night. Each strike was a promise.
When he returned, she was watching him, her eyes clearer now but shadowed. He sat on the floor beside the couch, his back against it, his shoulder level with her side. He reached up and his fingers carded gently through her hair, smoothing the tangled strands.
“You should sleep,” he said, his voice gravel.
“I’m afraid to.”
“I know. I’m not going anywhere. Close your eyes. Just listen to me breathe.”
He stayed there, a sentinel in the dim light from the hallway. Her breathing evened out, deepened. The tension slowly left her small frame. His own jaw ached from being clenched so long, the promise of retribution a hard, settled stone in his gut. He had a badge. He had the law. But looking at her, pale and fragile against the cushions, he knew with a chilling certainty that neither would be enough for what he needed to do.
Her hand, small and cool, slipped from under the blanket and found his where it rested on the couch near her shoulder. Her fingers didn’t grip, just settled over his knuckles, a whisper of touch.
He turned his hand over, engulfing hers completely, and finally, she slept.