This Much Is True (38 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Tally ~ Need you now

E
arly November finds me walking down an unfamiliar street in Moscow having taken a wrong turn from the restaurant where many members of the dance company met up for lunch. I left early, not in the mood for banter and the ever-increasing questions about me and my personal life.
What do you do with your free time, Talia? Where do you go? Enjoy your two days off in a row whatever you do.

I’m intent on keeping my eyes on the pavement, not daring to meet the probing eyes of every Russian I pass. I’m still a bit intimidated and fairly cautious here in Moscow. I’ve had a few close calls in this city—an almost mugging and a strange encounter with some avid fan at the theater last month, who tried to follow me home to The Savoy where most of the dancers stay.
Moscow.
Moscow scares me in all these distinctive ways, especially as a foreigner. I’m afraid all the time now and more than ready to return home—to New York, to Rob even, to wherever and whoever may be left for me back in the States. Rob and I remain wary after what happened at Marla’s wedding nine months before. He still calls me though. And, after this tour ends, Rob wants me to move in with him again. We’ve spent a couple of long weekends in Europe together over the last several months since I’ve been away. It’s been a half-hearted attempt to try to repair things between us.

There’s nothing going on with Nika
, so he tells me.

There’s nothing going on with Linc
, so I tell him.

He flies in when he can break away from classes at NYU or work; but even Rob is beginning to understand what I mean by
we can’t do this anymore
. We haven’t had sex since July while I was in Paris, and he’d flown in as part of his continual pursuit of reconciliation, but, even then, it was per functionary on my part. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I’ve tried to wrap my head around why I was feeling that way at the time. I told him we should see other people. I’ve demanded that we do this. I didn’t want to tie him down. I didn’t want to be tied down. I’d been with a few others since then in a vain attempt to figure it all out. It was a salvo—a blatant attempt—to return to the old Tally from almost four years before in what really was a whole other lifetime. There was Ian from the Corps, probably one of the few straight guys in our company. He tried to show me the way. He said it would help with the lifts if he knew me intimately. There was a time in Italy when I thought that was true but Ian had a temper and got jealous easily. In the end, I realized that I didn’t need any more emotional baggage that what I was already carrying enough for myself. And, he was boring. All Ian wanted to do was talk about the other dancers and what he’d done with them—all these private, salacious things that he thought would turn me on but just as swiftly turned me off. He didn’t take kindly to my decree that he was a bigger slut than I’d been. In the end, I told Rob about Ian, and he flew over to Milan from New York and convinced me to give us another try—begged me to give us another try. Rob insisted we didn’t need a break and what we really needed was each other.

I remain unconvinced of this, but agree to give us another try when I get home.

I’ve been named the principal ballerina for our next performance opening night. It’s all wrong. I’m still too young. I still lack experience and every understudy and former principal tell me this; but the choreographers and directors love me, especially Sasha Belmont. Now they all give me the best parts whenever they can. They want me because I give them my all every single day and night. There’s nothing left for anyone else. There’s nothing left of me.
I wonder why they can’t see how tired I am.

I lift my eyes from the snowy pavement and catch the intense gaze of a tall Russian in a long threadbare wool coat as he passes me. I hear the heels of his boots crunch the snow and just as suddenly instinctively sense his turning back toward me. I pull my coat around me tighter, pick up my pace, and wildly cast my eyes around the unfamiliar surroundings while my heart races.

No one is paying any attention to me. This is a desolate part of town—a shabbier section that resides just before the swanky cosmopolitan hotels actually come into view. I look up for a few seconds and thankfully spy the spires of the taller buildings of the hotel district just up ahead. They beckon to me. I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m close, so close, to being home free. I berate myself again for not taking a taxi back to the hotel and instead electing to take this ridiculous, stupid walk—these ten long blocks in this questionable neighborhood because of my stupidity.

I hear the deep sigh from behind me and then look up again into the dark eyes of the man who passed me just minutes before. He smiles slightly and then roughly grabs at my arm and pulls me into the side alley that suddenly appears to my right. Within seconds, he’s dragged me into an offshoot of the alley into a shadowed doorway. I dully note the peeling blue paint and vaguely listen to the ever cloaking quiet, just as he wields a long knife and deftly holds it to my throat. The passing cars on the street are muted now and that no one can see us.
No one.

Fear and adrenalin take over as he cruelly presses me up against the alcove’s stone wall. I scrape the side of my cheek against the rough surface when I turn my head to avoid his searching mouth, while he attempts to devour my face with his lecherous tongue. I feel his hardness through his wool coat and mine.

I have seconds before this ends badly.

“You are a pretty little thing, Talia Delacourt,” he says in broken English.

“Do I…
know
you?”

“Such a beautiful dancer,” he says, breathing hard, and then mutters more words in Russian.

Tremblay’s words of almost three years before come back to me.
Be careful in foreign country. You’re beautiful, a star, just be careful, Talia. Always.
And here I am living the nightmare of all of that. The man’s movements get more frantic. He seems to already know he has only so much time before we’re discovered. His searing breath practically burns my skin as much as the cold Russian air does. Still, I try not to panic. I try to maintain a semblance of control looking for any chance of an escape from him. I take a jagged breath and try to breathe even as he covers my mouth with one of his gloved hands smothering my very first scream.

Why didn’t I cry out sooner?

Suddenly, I fight the engulfment of all-out fear and the filmy edges of a panic attack, as I desperately try to pull away from his vice-like grip. He slaps my face so hard with his raised palm that my head crashes back against the rough stone for a second time, as he presses in on me further and roughly bites at my lip, drawing blood. Then he crushes my mouth with his while at the same time he pushes up my skirt. I hear the ominous sound of his zipper. My right hand feels his waistband come apart. I fight for my freedom and yank down on his erection causing him instant pain. My reward is a knifing pain at a gut level. For a brief moment, we’re both surprised by it.

Blood pours profusely from my stab wound, and I go perfectly still. Now, I’m fully aware of how dangerous the situation has become. The knife glints down at his side now and streams with my fresh blood.
Seconds.
There are only seconds left before the last of my strength is gone, and he completely overpowers me. His right hand steadily grips the knife and in the next instant, he swiftly cuts the buttons off of my long, wool coat and expertly slices down the front of my skirt leaving deep slashes on my thighs. His fingers tear at my panties and push their way inside. I scream out in pain and shock as my clothing starts to fall away. He starts to work his way inside. The knife clatters to the ground when he lets go of it. He pushes me downward and I land hard on the ground. He roughly lands on top of me. I can’t breathe. I dully watch as he picks up the knife again and holds it to my throat.
What I can live with? He’s going to rape me or kill me or both.
I fight hard to get away from him, and that’s when he plunges the knife into my side only deeper.
He’s going to kill me.

He withdraws the knife and violently shakes me against the pavement. My head hits the stone hard for a third time. My vision blurs.
I can’t pass out. I can’t pass out.
I can’t die. Not here. Like this.

I turn my head to the right and see my blood pooling. Just the sight of it makes me gag. In that moment, he loosens his grip on the knife again, and I grab for it and plunge it deep into his chest. He goes limp for a few minutes, and it takes me what seems like forever to push out from underneath him. I try not to look at his dazed, agonized face. Then, I see him blink and the terror starts up inside of me again. I start to scream as he tries to pull me back to him by grabbing my left ankle and twisting it hard.

“Bitch!” he screams.

I’m focused on the ankle pain when he takes up the knife and stabs it directly into the top of my foot. Fury takes over. I kick at his arms and face with my good foot but that just makes him angrier. He growls in Russian and gets up and starts coming after me. When he reaches me, he pulls me hard by my hair, and I push back at his chest hard with all the strength I have left. He lands at an odd angle on the pavement and stops moving, and his eyes start to glaze over. Rebar sticks up from his chest. He’s pinned to the ground by it. The horror of it all descends upon me. I move slowly, gripping the rough stone wall for balance and can only wonder where all this blood is coming from. Every few seconds, I look back to make sure he isn’t coming after me again, but he just lies there now. I don’t feel relief of any kind. There’s only this soul-crushing terror. The fears come. Falling. Losing. Failing. I experience them all. I think of Holly’s last moments, and I finally start to scream.
I can’t breathe. I have to get away.

Fast-moving cars speed by in both directions. In shock, I walk out into the middle of the street and raise one arm, like I’m flagging down a taxi, while maintaining a firm grip around my injured mid-section with the other. Finally, a taxi brakes hard and screeches to a stop and barely avoids hitting me.

Shaking uncontrollably, I grope my way along the car for balance to the passenger side. When the door opens, I helplessly cower in the arms of a stranger and seek protection inside the safety of his long grey wool coat. Strong arms close around me and steady me.

“Some guy,” I say unevenly. “Attacked me. Don’t know him. Do you speak English? Help me.”

“Are you hurt?”

“He had a knife. There’s blood everywhere.” I point toward the alley and stare at the bright redness that coats my entire hand. I shove it into my coat in the next and grip my side tighter with my arm. I’m transported back to a different time and place and think of Holly.
Oh, Holly.
My breathing gets jagged, and my mind starts to splinter.

“Did he hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my face further into his chest as the sick reality of the situation overcomes me.

I need to get out of here. Take a bath. Assess the damage. Remember all that just happened. Stay awake and think.

Then my mind clicks with recognition because I
know
that voice. I shake more violently as a new kind of fear surfaces. I look up at him. I’d recognize those amazing grey-blue eyes anywhere.

No. Not a stranger. Lincoln Presley is in Moscow.

“Tally?” Linc looks astonished when he gets a glimpse of my upturned face. “Jesus, what are you doing here? Who are you running from?”

“I’ve got to get out of here.” I begin to hyperventilate. “That guy. He’s—” I can’t finish the sentence. The reality is too horrible.

Linc guides me into the waiting taxi and shouts at the driver to stay with me and turns in the direction of the alley. In a few seconds, he returns and instructs the driver to get to the nearest hospital.

My entire body convulses with pain as he slides in next to me. His arm goes around me.

“Let’s go,” he says urgently to the driver. “It’s going to be okay, Tally,” he says to me.

I look away, unable to meet his questioning eyes quite yet, and whisper, “You think?” toward the taxi’s dirty car window.

Thankfully, Linc doesn’t say anything more. After a while, I steel a glimpse of him. He watches me closely and makes a Good Samaritan attempt to wipe the blood from my face and body with his wool scarf, but it makes more of a sickly mess, and it hurts like hell, which I finally admit to him with a shaky, inappropriate laugh. Dulled by shock and excruciating pain, I again look out the car window at the buildings we race past them.

“Where are you staying?”

Why is he asking such an innocuous question? I’m tired. I’ve been stabbed, apparently. Almost raped. Why does it matter where I’m staying? “I’m staying at The Savoy.” I take a jagged breath.

“The Savoy?”

“We’re on tour here. Close to the Bolshoi and the Moscow Theater. Fairly close,” I answer tiredly.

“The Savoy.
I guess things have been good for you, Ms. Landon.”

I wince at his subtle sarcasm and glance up at him. “Things are okay, except for today,” I say.

He gets this subdued look. It seems we both still harbor anger toward each other.

I suffer in silence with physical and mental pain. I try not to let him see I’m shaking or how badly I’m hurt. It seems to be a combination of what just happened and being this close to him again after all this time.
But we are worlds apart, he and I.
This much I can sense already.

I press against the back of my head and say “Ow,” again. I stare absently at the palm of my hand that is now covered in even more blood. Linc gasps when he seems to realize that my injuries are more severe than I’ve let on. He makes a desperate effort to stem the blood flow on my right side by making a tourniquet out of his wool scarf.

He doesn’t meet my gaze, and I avoid his, too. There is too much to say but neither one of us will say it. There’s nothing left between us. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“We’re supposed to go to the ballet later this week and see that performance.”

“We?” I ask dully.

“Nika and I.” Linc gets this defiant look.

All the sins from the past separate us like an invisible wall. “Nika.” I don’t attempt to hide my disenchantment.

“Yes.”

There’s an apology in there somewhere. He gets this anguished look, and I know he has more to say about Nika. Why do I expect it to be any different? I had it right all those months ago when it came to Nika. “Oh,” I manage to say.

His fingers brush across my lower lip. He gently caresses the side of my face with the palm of his hand. “I was scared back there. You’re so brave, Tally.”