The Witness

first experience with that kind of alcohol, and you consumed nearly five glasses throughout the evening, became ill, slept—or passed out—outside. Yet you claim you can identify the individuals who entered the home and shot Alexi Gurevich and Julie Masters? And at what distance?”
    “About ten feet. But I can be sure. I saw them very clearly. They were in the light.”
    “Wouldn’t you have been impaired after knocking back all that alcohol, after partying yourself sick?”
    Shamed, she stared down at the hands she had clutched in her lap. “I’m sure my reaction time was impaired, and surely my judgment. But not my eyesight or hearing.”
    Pomeroy nodded at one of the men with him. The man stepped forward, laid several photographs on the table.
    “Do you recognize any of these men?” he asked her.
    “Yes.” She pointed to one at the right corner of the layout. “That’s Yakov Korotkii. That’s the man who shot Alex, then Julie. His hair’s longer in the photograph.”
    “Do you know this man?” Pomeroy asked her. “Had you met him before?”
    “I never met him. I only saw him, and only last night, when he shot Alex and Julie.”
    “All right.” Pomeroy picked up that set of photos, and the man set down another pile. “Do you recognize anyone here?”
    “This man. They called him Yegor. I don’t know the rest of his name. He was with Korotkii. He restrained Alex, then pushed him down to his knees.”
    “And once more.” Again, the photos were removed, others laid out.
    “That’s Ilya.” Because her lips trembled, she pressed them tight. “Ilya Volkov. He came in after … after Julie and Alex were dead. Only a few minutes after. He was angry. He spoke in Russian.”
    “How do you know he was angry?”
    “I speak Russian, not very well. They said … this is translated. Is that all right?”
    “Yes.”
    She took a breath, relayed the conversation.
    “Then I ran. I knew they’d start looking for me, and if they found me, they’d kill me because I’d seen. When I stopped running, I called nine-one-one.”
    “That’s good. You did very well, Elizabeth. We’re going to arrest these men. It may be necessary for you to identify them again, in a lineup. They won’t be able to see you.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Your testimony will help put very dangerous men behind bars. The U.S. Attorney’s Office is very grateful.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    He smiled at that. “We’ll talk again. We’ll be seeing a lot of eachother over the next weeks. If you need anything, Elizabeth, anything at all, one of the marshals will get it for you, or you can contact me. We want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
    “Thank you.”
    Tension she hadn’t been aware of melted away when he left.
    As Terry had earlier, Griffith sat on the arm of her chair. “He was tough on you because it’s going to be hard. What you’re doing, what the defense team will do to discredit your testimony. It’s not going to be an easy road.”
    “I know. Are you still part of the investigation?”
    “It’s a joint investigation, because Riley and me pushed for it. It’s the feds’ ball, but we’re still on the court. How are you holding up?”
    “I’m all right. Everyone’s been very considerate. Thank you for getting my things.”
    “No problem. Do you need anything else?”
    “I’d like my laptop. I should have asked you before, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
    “You’re not going to be able to e-mail anyone, go into chat rooms, post on boards.”
    “It’s not for that. I want to study, and research. If I could have my computer, some of my books …”
    “I’ll check it out.”
    That had to be good enough.
    When night fell, they put her in a car with John and Terry. Griffith and Riley drove behind; more marshals took the lead.
    As they sped along the expressway, it occurred to her that only twenty-four hours ago she’d put on her new red dress, her high, sparkling shoes.
    And Julie, eyes bright, voice giddy, had sat beside her in a cab. Alive.
    Everything had been so different.
    Now everything was different again.
    They pulled directly into the garage of a simple two-story house with a wide, deep yard. But for the car, the garage stood empty—no tools, no boxes, no debris.
    The door leading to the interior boasted a deadlock.
    The man who opened the door had some gray threaded through his dark brown hair. Though nearly as tall as John, he was more filled out—muscular in jeans and