“I’m not killing anybody,” I told her. “We’re going to the police.”
“We can’t.”
“I’m not part of this.” I pointed to the stagnant mayhem all around us. “I’m not part of any of whatever this is. I’m gonna turn myself in and I’m gonna be safe.”
“You’re not safe.”
“Exactly. I’m not!”
She walked over to the other guy. Oleg. She was barely engaged with me, staying focused only on what she was about to do with him.
“I mean . . . thank you . . . by the way,” I said to her, finally realizing it needed to be said. “For, uh, rescuing me. Thank you. I owe you more than . . . more than I can, uh . . .” She had blood on her neck. I couldn’t tell if it was hers. “I want to help you do whatever you need to do to confirm your story with the police. I’ll vouch for your side. I’ll help you prove whatever you need to prove to them.”
“The police can’t help.” She grabbed Oleg by the calves. “They can’t help me, they can’t help you. It’s bad if we stay out here. We need to take these men into the van.” She nudged the door open wider with her back foot. “And it must be quick.”
She started dragging Oleg to the back door. I had no idea how any of this worked—not just the basics of moving a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound male up to the cargo bay of a van but the broader concept of administering justice within the gaping absence of it. What exactly was a “right” thing to do here? My hands were jittery. My stomach felt like it puked inside itself. I was both debilitated and hypersensitive, discerning every individual noise around me yet having no capacity to make a moral decision. Oleg stirred. A burbling sound came from his mouth as he started to slightly struggle. Katarina let his legs fall and moved behind him, quickly, quietly, efficiently sliding herself into a combative hug. He’d found a new lease on life and she was right there to quell the uprising, holding him in a headlock, trapping half his arm across the top of her own. I wasn’t alert enough to realize I should probably rush over and help her but she didn’t need me anyway. She sat there blankly gazing at nothing for six seconds while neutralizing him. You got the distinct feeling that today wasn’t the first time she’d fought with a grown man.
“Take the helmet,” she said to me.
I looked around. I saw the helmet. I picked it up.
“Get the driver,” she said.
Oleg started grunting in protest.
“How?” I said.
“Get him.”
Get him? Jesus, did she mean for me to beat him unconscious? Get the driver? I didn’t argue. In the throes of dealing with the potential revival of three of the nastiest humans I’d ever known, I saw no convenient morality. I saw only panic and pragmatism. I hurried around to the front of the van. I looked. I crouched. I turned. I looked. I shifted. I crouched. I looked more. I turned more. I looked again. I turned again. That driver was gone.