The Voter File

by David Pepper

  “And she quoted Pushkin and Tolstoy?”

  “She sure did. Didn’t you read them when you were eighteen?” she asked sarcastically.

  “I hadn’t heard of them at eighteen. I still haven’t read them now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So a Princeton and Oxford grad likes Russian literature. How do you know some Russian has been helping her?”

  “Someone with serious money has been helping her for years. She started out in poverty. Then went to that ritzy high school, then Princeton—and none of it on financial aid. A few years later, still a grad student, she wore the most expensive stuff you can buy.”

  “Good for her. So how do you know who helped her?”

  “Because she thanked him.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah, in her high school yearbook. Right after the Pushkin and Tolstoy quotes, she wrote, ‘Thank you, Dyadya.’”

  “Sounds like a nickname. That could be a best friend or something. Maybe a boyfriend.”

  “Jack, it’s not a nickname. Look it up.”

  I sighed, the back-and-forth exhausting me.

  “Sounds like you already did.”

  “Yep. It means uncle.”

  She paused again.

  “In Russian.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As the ferry chugged through choppy waters, I stepped out of my car and leaned up against the orange metal wall that encircled the boat. Ohio’s northern shore offered a stark contrast: the old Marblehead Lighthouse in the foreground, the spiraling tracks of Cedar Point’s roller coasters behind it to the left.

  My goal had been to use the twenty-five-minute trip to research the best places to hole up on Kelleys Island, the ferry’s destination. But Cassie’s news shattered my focus. Even the cool breeze didn’t bring it back.

  My stomach churned. A secret I’d successfully buried deep for three years was clawing its way back out.

  No one knew.

  Not Mary Andres. Not Cassie. Not Alex Fischer or Bridget Turner. Not the chief.

  None of them knew because I’d kept it hidden all that time.

  And I didn’t dare tell Tori.

  I stared down, studying the water as it splashed up against the sides of the ferry.

  The story that had made me an overnight sensation also involved a deal with the devil. And that devil’s name was Oleg Kazarov.

  Three years earlier I had let the authorities and the public believe that an American congressman was behind the Abacus vote-rigging scandal. And for many reasons that snake of a politician deserved the takedown I delivered. But he had not been the mastermind of the scheme; that distinction went to Oleg Kazarov, a Russian oil and gas oligarch. I’d figured it out late in the game, but to protect my family and myself, and because I wanted America to end the curse of gerrymandering, I hid that inconvenient fact from everyone. And it worked.

  Kazarov had emerged again a year later. As I dug into the Dronetech scandal, I’d called out of desperation. He owed me, and he repaid that debt, protecting my team and helping me stymie the plot before it wreaked havoc on the country.

  That was the last time we’d communicated. We were even, and that was that.

  Two deep wails of a horn snapped my attention back to the present. Off of our left bow, an identical orange ferry plowed in the opposite direction, white water splashing up around it. Passengers from both boats waved at one another. And as we passed the halfway point, the contours and colors of Kelleys Island took shape ahead of us.

  The last time I’d even thought about the Russian was months ago. An article in an energy journal had reported that, facing a bleak cancer prognosis, the mysterious oligarch had given up daily control of his oil and gas empire. While the article speculated about whether his vast operation could survive his demise, my glass-half-full response was that at least my secret would die with him.

  But did Cassie’s discovery mean Kazarov was orchestrating all this? He was the right age to be an uncle of Katrina’s. The Russian was capable of anything, including the type of brutality we had been witnessing. And if our hunch was right, this scheme was all about gerrymandering—and no one understood the role of gerrymandering in American politics better than the Russian energy baron.

  At the same time, there were lots of Russian oligarchs out there willing to cause trouble. And in our extensive conversations, not once had Kazarov discussed a member of his family, let alone one playing a central role in his operation.

  Finally, how in the world would someone orchestrate all this from his deathbed?

  The ferry’s horn blared twice more, jolting me from my stewing. We passed the southern tip of Kelleys Island, the engine slowing as we plowed through the choppy waters parallel to a small beach, then a rocky hillside, then a series of modest homes. A larger marina, most of its docks empty, lay directly in front of us.

  In theory, I had the option to communicate with Kazarov: his number was in my phone back in Youngstown. But if he was involved, doing so would only tip him off that we knew, putting us all in immediate danger.

  And what would I do anyway? What would I say?

  As the ferry pulled into the dock, I climbed back into my car and started the engine.

  CHAPTER 86

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The call came from a 410 area code.

  “Is this Cassie Knowles?” the voice asked loudly.

  “It sure is. Councilman?”

  “Please call me Razi.”

  “I appreciate your time this morning.”

  “Thank you. Sorry we got rushed at the end. I hope I was helpful.”

  “Very much so. I was ab—”

  “I need to tell you something that might help more.”

  At her desk, she reached for a pen and a notepad, bottling up her breath to sound calm.

  “Go for it.”

  “It’s about . . . when Katrina disappeared. And why.” His halting voice made him sound less sure of himself than he had this morning.

  “It was shortly after you got to England, right?”

  “Yes. She just stopped calling back. I was heartsick. I’d never told her, but I was convinced I was in love with her.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “That obvious, huh? Well, two days after she went dark, I hopped on a train and visited Oxford. I went to her dorm room and knocked on her door.”

  “So this would’ve been in late August or September?”

  “Early September. A Sunday. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  She wrote the details down.

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “She wasn’t there. But I knew something was wrong as soon as her roommate opened the door. She looked so upset.”

  “Did she tell you what happened?”

  “Katrina’s mom and younger brother were killed. Back in Brooklyn.”

  Cassie gasped. She’d assumed something big had spurred Katrina’s dramatic change, but not that big.

  “Killed how?”

  “Killed as in murdered. Even now, I can see her roommate shaking.”

  “So where did Katrina go?” Cassie asked, trying to stay focused.

  “She’d already headed back to the States for the funeral.”

  “And you never heard from her after she got back?”

  A quiet sigh came through the phone. “No. I think for security reasons she didn’t stay on campus. When I checked with her roommate, she said she no longer lived with her but knew nothing else.”

  “Had she returned to school by then?”

  “I think so, but I really don’t know. I couldn’t get a return call, then the number I’d been calling went dead. She never responded to emails after that. I did all I could to put her out of my mind. I met my wife two months later an
d never looked back.”

  “Good for you.” She let a few beats pass before posing her next question.

  “Razi, did Katrina ever mention an uncle to you?”

  “An uncle? No. Her family never came up in our time together. I didn’t even know she had a brother until the day he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 87

  PORT CLINTON, OHIO

  The single-prop airplane jostled violently from the moment it lifted off the small runway, causing the Butcher to tighten his grip on the leather strap above the small cockpit door.

  The turbulence only intensified as they climbed out over the lake. Unlike the mild bumps of larger jets, the bursts of wind lifted or dropped the small plane meters at a time. And the entire aircraft twisted left and right as though it were on a swivel.

  “You gonna be okay, buddy?” the young pilot asked as he banked the plane so steeply that the Butcher faced the dark waters of the lake.

  The Butcher cringed, worried one big gust might flip them upside down. “I’ll be fine. I assume this is typical.”

  “Oh, yeah. These fall northeast winds always make for a fun ride. Cedar Point’s got nothing on us.”

  Even as his stomach fluttered, the Butcher grinned at his good fortune. In most parts of the world, arranging a private flight—even one this short—involved days of planning. Bribes. Connections. But in Ohio it only required a single phone call, $110, and a fifteen-minute drive to the small airport.

  His targets’ last-minute ferry ride was an attempt to smoke him out, something he was not going to oblige. So he’d decided within minutes that a plane or a private boat offered his only options. But he wouldn’t have guessed he’d find one so quickly.

  The plane leveled out from the roll, placing the island square in the middle of the small windshield. The pilot pointed to a small radar monitor at the center of the flight’s console. A dark green splotch with a bunch of tiny arrows took up the left third of the screen.

  “A front’s coming in from the west,” the pilot said. “That might shut us down for the rest of today.”

  “I won’t need a flight back.”

  “If it’s bad enough, it might shut down the ferries, too.”

  The Butcher nodded, pleased to learn this useful detail. No ferry meant his targets had no way to escape.

  CHAPTER 88

  KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO

  Inside the dockside restaurant, I downed the best perch sandwich yet as I waited for word on the assassin.

  Outside, a storm was blowing our way. The abandoned docks rattled and squealed as wave after wave slapped against them before rolling into shore. The gray, billowy clouds in the distance and near-black horizon meant that the worst was on its way.

  Only one more boat is getting out today, the chief texted me. My guy’s getting on it.

  So what’s this do to our plan?

  It may make you safer for the time being.

  Funny. I feel more than ever like a sitting duck.

  I understood the chief’s point. But not knowing where the guy was was still turning my stomach.

  No sign of him in Youngstown?

  A few seconds passed.

  Nope. But what’s he going to do? Break into a police station?

  He broke into a jail, didn’t he?

  Fair.

  A loud crash outside the window jolted me in my seat. On the restaurant’s patio a round, wooden table with a closed umbrella sticking out of it had toppled over and was now rolling back and forth. A bunch of chairs also lay on their sides.

  Your guy better have a hearty stomach. It’s getting nasty out here.

  A few minutes passed without a response, then my phone rang.

  Since he had just been texting, the fact that it was the chief was a bad sign.

  CHAPTER 89

  LONDON

  Katrina had kept busy all day. And she’d purposely surrounded herself with other people.

  But in the early evening, after completing his daily update, Drac stepped away from her office, leaving her alone at her desk.

  With no distraction from the emptiness, she leaned forward, her head in her hand. As it did every year, the soreness started in her lungs and climbed to her throat while cold chills shook her limbs.

  Eleven years ago.

  To the day. Almost to the hour.

  Two phone calls. First from Brooklyn. Then from Dyadya. Two short calls, delivering permanent news. The life she’d lived up to that point ended when she hung up. The new life she was hoping to live? Never even started.

  She opened her top desk drawer and removed a framed photo, taken the day she’d left for England, the Brooklyn Bridge behind them. The snapshot of their final time together perfectly captured the dynamics of their small family.

  Mother stood on the left, a fragile smile that mixed the pride she carried for Katrina with the worry that her only daughter was moving so far away for so long. Mother had devoted all she had to Katrina’s success, which also meant she’d fretted over her endlessly, urging her not to forget where she’d come from, not to become like the rich girls from school, not to let Dyadya’s largesse change her. To remain her idealistic self.

  Dark-haired, bespectacled Katrina towered over her mother in the middle, mustering as playful an expression as she ever did back then—nervous to leave home but excited about the upcoming journey and her new life. The distance would be liberating.

  And her even taller, bushy-haired brother, Mikhail, stood to the right, his white teeth gleaming through a wide-open smile as he flashed devil’s horns with two fingers held over her head. He’d struggled through his childhood and teen years, getting in trouble often, always providing excuses, running with the wrong crowd. His recent tattoos, visible on his left biceps and knuckles, had greatly upset Mother. Still, he’d always kept Katrina laughing, warming her spirits.

  Through it all, he’d found the joy in life. Knowing that, she’d always prayed he’d never seen the gun that had killed him.

  Her phone rang.

  “Katrina?”

  She closed her eyes, steadying her breath.

  “Dyadya, how are you?”

  He always called on this day, around this time.

  “I am well. But today is the day I ask how you are.”

  “I’m fine,” she said with a choked voice. “We are proceeding well—”

  “Katrina, you can mask it with others. Not me. How are you?”

  She laid the photo on the desk and brought her hand up to her mouth. The emotion she’d kept buried all year finally burst out, large teardrops falling onto the mahogany top of her desk. Several fell on the picture frame itself.

  “I will be fine. Tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 90

  KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO

  Airport? What airport?” I asked.

  The chief replied. “It’s more like a strip. No tower or anything. Or terminal. It’s on the east side of the island.”

  “How in the world—”

  “There’s a service out of Port Clinton that flies single-prop puddle jumpers back and forth. But outside of tourist season, few people use it.”

  “Let me guess. Except today.”

  “I’m afraid so. The local cops gave the company a call and they said one flight went out. They’re on their way there now.”

  “Who? The flight?”

  “The flight landed. The cops are heading to the airport.”

  “Jesus. It already landed?”

  It was a small island. The airport couldn’t be more than a few miles away. I pushed the plate of perch away, having instantly lost my appetite.

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Has anyone talked to the pilot?”

  “He took off again right away to beat the storm. They’re trying to reach him now.”

  “Next you’re gonna tel
l me there was a limo waiting at the airport at the end of a long red carpet.”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “If it’s him, he’d have to walk.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “A cop is coming to get you now.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yeah. The other two headed to the airport.”

  “So there’re only three? And you’re telling me to be calm?”

  “Sharpe?” a voice boomed from behind me.

  I wheeled around to see a barrel-chested guy in a black police uniform, tattooed biceps stretching his sleeves to the breaking point.

  “We know the situation. Let’s move.”

  “Your cop’s here, Chief. But he may count as two all by himself.”

  I hung up and stuck my laptop in the small backpack I’d been lugging around, and we hustled out the door.

  * * *

  • • •

  The ride lasted all of two minutes, and if the size and gruffness of Officer Eric Bosko lifted my confidence, the tiny Kelleys Island police headquarters sent it plunging back down. The one-story gray-stoned building looked like a police station on the streets of Disney World as opposed to a real town.

  “Can you fit in there?” I joked as we jumped out of the car and sprinted through the door.

  “You’re funny,” he said in a mocking tone, implying the opposite. “It may be small, but a tank couldn’t knock this old jail over. It’s as old as the lighthouse and built like a fortress.”

  He shut the door behind us, bolting three locks up the door’s side. The front room was a typical if small lobby of a police station. Through an open door, I could see the iron bars of several cells in the other room—but instead of prisoners they held filing cabinets.

  “I see what you mean: those will never escape.”

  He finally cracked a wry smile. “Sharpe, they told me you were a reporter, not a comedi—”