The Romanov Cross

by Robert Masello

helicopter didn’t even cut its engines. It simply touched its runners to the ice of the hockey rink, and as soon as the hatch was opened, Slater, Kozak, and Sergeant Groves were virtually ejected from the cabin, along with their backpacks and gear. The professor’s GPR was rolled out of the cargo bay, and a moment later, the propellers, which had never stopped turning, lifted the craft back into the night sky. Slater watched as it headed back toward the devastation on St. Peter’s Island, his heart filled with a sense of deep regret—nothing in his life had ever gone so

in denying it? The colonel, whose hands were full as it was, told him he could keep his notes and records, and file a full report from Port Orlov, “or anywhere else you go. Personally, I don’t ever want to lay eyes on you again, and trust me on this, they feel the same way at the AFIP offices in Washington.” Indeed, he’d been right about that. Frank had made one last call to Dr. Levinson, who’d listened coldly as he gave her an edited account of what had happened at the site—omitting any mention of the

Goood

asked, dreading the answer, “or casualties?” “Not so far. We think we got there in time and established a suitable quarantine zone.” There was a pause on the line. “Needless to say, your report will be classified top secret. You, and the remaining members of your team, are under a strict information embargo.” “Understood.” “Is it, Dr. Slater? Because nothing else on this mission seems to have been.” He took the shot. He deserved it. “I’ll look for your report in one week. And oh,” she said, icily, before abruptly hanging up, “don’t expect any references.” If it hadn’t been so painful, he might have laughed. But

bringing you guys back,” he said. “But if you’re looking for the mayor, she’s already at the celebration.” “What celebration?” Kozak asked. Even Slater had forgotten that it was scheduled for tonight. “The rededication of the totem pole,” Geordie said, as if it were world news. “You remember how it was crooked? Some people in town, and some of the stores, have gotten together to have it fixed up again.” “How come you’re not there then?” Groves asked, and Geordie glanced at the clock on the wall. “City hall officially remains open until six P.M. I’ve got almost a half hour to go.” The men shared a chuckle, and Slater said, “I admire your work ethic, but if everybody’s at the party, who’s gonna call?” Geordie mulled it over for a second or two, then grabbing his

there. Squinting into the darkness, she raised a hand, and Slater went around to the door. By the time he got it open, she was already in his arms. He kicked it closed, and they simply stood there, cradling each other in their arms, wordlessly. And if Slater had still had any doubts at all, if he had any lingering reservations about the decision he had already made but not yet shared, they melted away in the heat of their embrace. Before he could find the right words, Nika, with her face still pressed against his chest, said, “I was working on what to say.” “About the totem pole?” “I can’t forget to mention any of the donors who helped

her eyes. It was a sight he knew he would never tire of. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, his voice faltering; already, he regretted that he hadn’t come up with some better opening. “About?” “About what I’m going to do now that I’m no longer working for the AFIP. I was thinking that—” There was a banging on the door and a snowball hit the window as a bunch of teenage boys, horsing around outside, hollered, “Get a room, Mayor!” and “So when do we get to see the totem pole?” Nika, laughing

said, pulling out an opaque plastic baggie labeled Nome Regional Health Center. “The orderly gave it to me on the way out.” Slater took the bag and unzipped it. “I found it on the bridge, and they gave it back to me along with my other personal belongings.” Slater could hardly believe what he was seeing. A Russian Orthodox cross, made of silver, and studded with emeralds. “It must have been Charlie’s, or maybe it belonged to his wife.” Slater knew better. “But now Charlie’s dead,” Nika said. “And Harley, too.” Slater knew that a memorial service for the Vane boys

stood alone with the sky shimmering above them. Slater wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned back into his embrace. Together, they gazed up at the spectacle unfolding in the night, the green now joined by a flickering orange flame that spiraled like a staircase up into the heavens. Even the air seemed to crackle with the electrical energy. “The spirits are rising,” Nika said, her dark eyes shining in the orange glow. Across the black waters, Slater could swear that he heard the wolves on St. Peter’s Island baying at the sky. “They’re going home.” And he believed it.

Nika saw him raise his arm, and heard a distant splash, and when he came back to her, she didn’t ask him what he’d done. She didn’t have to. The lights in town flickered back on, and arm in arm, they walked toward home together … as the hawk settled into its perch atop the Yardarm. There, it went about devouring its hard-won meal—a tiny white mouse, with an orange stain on its