Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

  On his way out, Schilling turned to him and asked, “Do you know who purchased Kandinsky’s fragment in Paris?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I do. It was Mr. Anton Yudkovich. Does that name ring a bell, Mr. Durchenko? Or should I say Mr. Yudkovich?”

  Dmitry’s eyes widened. He was stunned. How the hell could this mudak know about his father? He jerked back when Schilling reached for something from his jacket pocket, but Schilling only handed him a card, “If you ever have any real Kandinskys for sale, give me a call.”

  Dmitry responded by shutting the door in his face. When he turned around, he ran smack into Vanya who was hopping from foot to foot behind him. “Can we talk, Boss?” he asked Dmitry, “in private like.” He glanced nervously around the room at the visitors. The only place they could go without disturbing Sabina was the small half bathroom on the other side of the kitchenette wall. Dmitry led Vanya into the lavatory and shut the door behind them. There was barely enough room for the two men to stand between the toilet and the sink, so Dmitry closed the lid of the toilet and sat on it.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Who was that súka?” Vanya asked in return, pointing towards the bathroom door.

  “A friend of Lolita’s friend. What’s wrong? I’m exhausted and want to go to bed.”

  “Mind if I take a leak?” Vanya asked. “I was out so long and I gotta go.”

  “For Chrissakes Vanya,” he stood up and moved along the wall towards the sink. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Your mother is here.”

  Dmitry whipped around and grabbed him in mid-pee. A stream of urine sprayed back and forth behind the toilet. “What do you mean my mother is here?”

  “Chill out, Dima,” he said, pulling himself loose. He zipped up his fly. “Like I said, your mom’s here.”

  “What do you mean, she’s here? Where?”

  “Here, in the U.S.,” Vanya said. “She called the Pope from the hospital and told him to have you call her back.”

  Dmitry held onto the sink and stared into the mirror but didn’t recognize his own reflection with its sunken eyes, inflamed cheeks, and disheveled hair. “That’s impossible,” he said to himself. “Unless…”

  Dmitry slid to the floor and put his head in his hands. Two decades of looking over his shoulder, worrying about his father finding him and planning his escape, hadn’t prepared him for this moment. If that idiot kid Alexander hadn’t stole the professor’s damned painting and sold it to the Pope. If only the professor hadn’t discovered him in his office when he was hiding the paintings under the floorboard, he wouldn’t have had to give him his copy.

  Just a week earlier, he could have returned everything, the money down to the last ruble, and the paintings if necessary. But now the money, just paper, had burned up with his house, and the paintings could be in some vault or safety deposit box anywhere in the city, or any city. All he had left to pay with was his life. And, probably not for very much longer, knowing his father. His hands were trembling as he remembered all too well what his father did to traitors, especially his flesh and blood. Anton, the Oxford Don, had already had his oldest son executed. Why not kill the youngest one too?

  Again, he was back at the Hospital staring into Sergei’s mangled face, smelling the blood, tasting the fear, hearing the cracking of the frozen concrete walls, feeling the weight of his Wool’s cool steel grip.

  As if it were yesterday, he heard the echoes of the gun’s crash to the floor and the two shots following him out into the frigid night. His father’s words came back to him, “Dispose of him, you are a man not a mouse.” Was his mother now leading him into a mousetrap? Did she even know? He ached to see her again, and would do anything for her, even if it meant giving up his own life.

  “Here’s her number, Cousin. Call and find out what she wants.” Vanya pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. “Here, use my phone.” He bent down and handed it to Dmitry who was still sitting on the floor leaning against the door.

  The past was like a fungus. Just when you thought it was gone for good, you caught yourself scratching again, and Dmitry was itching all over. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. Should he call her or run away? His whole world closing in on him in this cramped, windowless cubicle. It was no use running now. There was nowhere to go. He took the phone and tapped it on when someone knocked at the door.

  “You two okay in there?” Lolita asked.

  “Give me a minute, kotyonok,” Dmitry said. “We’ll be right out.”

  He asked Vanya to read him the number. He was hyperventilating as the phone rang but managed to steady himself against the door. Each ring ratcheted the tension in his cardiac veins until they were wound around his heart so tightly around his heart it might burst.

  After six rings, a small voice answered, “Zdravstvujtye, ah, Hello.” He had obviously woken her up. He had forgotten how late it was.

  “Mamochka.” His voice cracked. “It’s Dmitry. Is that you, Mama?”

  “Dmitry, lyubimyj,” the soft voice said, “I’ve waited so long to hear your voice, malysh, my baby boy.” Sobbing on the other end of the phone made him want to reach out and hold her, his beloved mother, weeping with pain or joy, he didn’t know.

  The last time he’d seen her had been on the train platform, a lifetime ago, his daughter’s lifetime. His mother had been wearing her blue fox coat and hat, wiping the tears from his eyes with her perfumed handkerchief as they parted, pushing him away in order to save him.

  “Mother,” Dmitry said trying to steady his voice, “Where are you?”

  “Come to us, milyi,” she said. “Come immediately. We are at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.”

  “Why?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You will know everything when you get here,” she said. “I can’t talk now. You must come, my son.”

  “Mother, please tell me,” he said.

  “Dimka, know this. Everything changes. Nothing disappears.”

  For the past twenty years, Dmitry had heard her voice over and over again in his head, repeating those five words. Now, he wondered what they meant. Everything had changed and he was safe, or nothing disappears and he was dead… Everything changes. Could his father change? Nothing disappears. Did his mother still love him? Why was she giving him another code to decipher? Like the paintings? How could he tell her he’d lost them?

  “Where are you?” Dmitry asked. He didn’t know what he was asking. There was no roadmap to lead him to his mother’s soul, no directions to her heart. For decades, he’d been searching in Kandinsky’s Fragment. A fragment. He’d always only had a fragment of his mother. A fragment of his mother and a shard of his father. His relationship with his father was like glass, once broken, it could never be mended.

  “Come to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota,” she said. “Tonight. You must come tonight.”

  “Why?” he asked. Why had she forced him to leave Russia? Why had she come back? Why had she given him those two paintings?

  “Dimka,” his mother said, “you must come. Your father is dying…”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dmitry sat on the bathroom floor listening to the dead phone line. He’d always thought of his father as immortal. Given Bratva’s reach, in a sense he was. Everything changes, nothing disappears. He had feared his father for so long and from so far away, he wasn’t sure if the Anton he dreaded was real or imaginary. Even when they’d lived under the same roof, his father had been distant. And yet Dmitry was bound to him, tethered by the bandages of memory he’d wrapped around the wounds of his childhood.

  “Are you okay?” Vanya asked. “Can we leave the toilet now?”

  When they came out of the bathroom, the girls were having a heated discussion over tea.

  “Girls, Cousin Vanya and I have to run an errand,” Dmitry said. “We won’t be back until late tomorrow night. Hopefully,” he said under his breath, “If not by washing, then by rolling.”

  He wrapped
Lolita in a bear hug. “Take care of your mother while I’m gone,” he said. “Ya lyublyu tyebya.”

  “I love you too, Daddy,” Lolita replied. “Are you okay?”

  “Where are you going?” Lolita asked, following him around the small apartment. Dmitry’s mind was turning in circles trying to figure out what he needed for the trip to the Mayo Clinic.

  “A man must risk going too far,” he said, “to see how far he can go.” He was about to face the most dangerous encounter of his life, a reunion with his powerful father. Dying or not, Anton, the Oxford Don, Yudkovich controlled an army, and he had no doubt that he could reach beyond the grave to get what he wanted. His Kryshi were everywhere.

  “I’m going with you,” Lolita said. “Don’t forget your phone.” She unplugged his phone, picked it up from the window ledge, and handed it to him.

  “No, milaya, please stay with your mother. She needs you,” he said gently as he filled two Residence Inn Styrofoam cups with strong sweet tea, and then handed one to Vanya.

  “Tell me where you are going,” Lolita insisted.

  He gathered his watch, keys and wallet before he realized he was still wearing his robe and slippers. Sabina had gone back to bed, and he debated whether or not he should risk waking her to get his clothes.

  “Dammit, Dad, tell me what’s going on,” Lolita demanded. “Where are you going?”

  “Be careful kotyonok,” Dmitry said. “Both of you. And watch out for Mr. Schilling.”

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Schilling,” his daughter winked at her friend, “Jesse has him wrapped around her little finger. Don’t you Jesse?” Jessica stuck out her tongue and made a face, and the girls burst out laughing.

  Dmitry took in the scene, trying to memorize it. His daughter and her friend, happy, safe, and carefree. He seized the image with his mind’s eye and took it with him to fortify himself against whatever the night to come might bring.

  He cracked open the door to the bedroom to see if Sabina was awake. He was hoping she’d gone back to sleep. He didn’t want to tell her where he was going, but he couldn’t lie to her. His wife was a tiny leaf in the king sized bed. Kneeling down next to the bed, gazing at her sleeping face, he stroked her hair.

  He leaned forward and inhaled her scent, sweet cream, and then kissed her on the forehead. She smiled but didn’t open her eyes. “Ya lyublyu tyebya,” he whispered. “I love you too,” she whispered back. This might be the last time he ever saw her. He knelt staring at her peaceful beauty with an artist’s eye, trying to memorize it too. His heart ached with tenderness for his wife, but his love for her gave him the courage to leave her.

  He stood up, tiptoed across the room, then slowly slid his jacket from the back of the easy chair and draped it over his arm. Next, he went to the closet and carefully gathered pants, shirt, and shoes with care, and then quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Back in the tiny bathroom, he quickly changed into his clothes. Until now, he’d never needed a gun, but he wondered if he should buy one on his way out of town.

  When he emerged from the bathroom, Vanya was sitting on the couch with Lolita and her friend. He motioned for Vanya, and Bunin sprang up from the floor and came running. Together, the three of them left the apartment on what may be his last journey.

  The GPS estimated it would take just over five hours to get to the Mayo Clinic. They should arrive before dawn. His mother said Anton was dying and he wondered if they would get there in time. He wasn’t sure which would be better, if they did, or if they didn’t. Did his father’s death mean the end of his torment or just the beginning? His father was dying and instead of sorrow or grief, all he felt was dread. So his father would get to hell before him. Maybe his father was already there, waiting.

  Dmitry cracked his window to get some air. Not even yet out of the city and already Vanya had turned the inside of the Escalade into a fire hazard. Vanya had insisted they stop at a convenience store so he could stock up on cigarettes and Snickers bars. Desperate to stay awake, Dmitry resorted to the foul liquid that tried to pass as coffee. With enough sugar and cream, it barely was drinkable. It was going to be a long night.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  His cousin used his cigarette to indicate a duffle bag behind his seat. Dmitry needed both hands to pull the heavy bag close enough to open it. It didn’t help that sitting between the bucket seats Bunin kept pawing at him, wagging and licking his face. He had to push Bunin away to drag the duffel bag closer. Puffing on his cigarette, Vanya nodded for him to unzip the bag.

  No wonder it was so heavy. Inside, he found a Vityaz 9x9mm Parabellum submachine gun: closed bolt, blowback operated, Kalashnikov variant, standard issue for Russian military and police. And beside it was a Makarov pistol, semi-automatic, just like the one Yuri had used on his brother that horrific last night at the hospital.

  He hadn’t seen weapons like these since he’d left Russia. “Where did you get these?”

  Vanya smiled wide. “Brought them from home.”

  Dmitry didn’t know if he meant his apartment in Skokie or his childhood home in Russia. He decided not to ask. Rummaging through the duffle bag, he found a PSS silent pistol just like the Wool he’d had in Russia. He took it out and turned it over in his hands. He saw D.Y. carved into the pistol grip.

  “My Wool!” Dmitry exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

  He had often missed his Wool. He hated killing, but he’d always loved guns. Even as a kid, he loved to clean his father’s pistols and rifles. A twinge of guilt pinched his heart. He didn’t know if it was caused by his love for his father, or by his love of deadly weapons. In a way, his love for his father was a deadly weapon, luring him into danger.

  Dmitry’s father had given him the Wool on his thirteenth birthday, and he’d been proud that his father had given him such a powerful gift. Delighted, he had held the gun with both hands and instinctively pointed it at his father. Anton knocked the pistol to the floor and growled. “Don’t point that at anyone unless you plan to kill him. Weapons aren’t toys and you’re no longer a child.”

  That same afternoon, his father had taken him to the shooting range to teach him how to use his first Wool. When they reached their designated slot, his father barked out instructions and he tried to follow, but his pistol wouldn’t cooperate. It was heavy and hard to hold straight. He didn’t hit a single target. Discouraged, he asked to go home. But his father had said, “Dima, quit sulking. We’re not going home until you hit this target.” After an hour, his arm hurt and he still hadn’t pierced a target. When he started crying and begged to go home, his father yanked the gun from his hands and fired it five times, perforating the moving targets with every shot.

  Bunin barked, bringing him back to the task at hand. Dmitry put the Wool back and started digging through the duffle bag. Along with boxes of ammunition, he found a beautiful Damascus knife with a gold hilt and jade handle. He held it up so the jade caught the light.

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Was my father’s,” Vanya said proudly. “For skinning bears.”

  “It’s a beauty,” he said as he put it back. He zipped up the bag, pushed it back behind the seat, and Bunin resumed his place between them.

  “One time we were hunting in Kamchatka,” Vanya began in Russian. “We got off our snowmobiles and were on foot. We came around a switchback and seen a monster brown bear about twenty feet away.” He laughed until he coughed. He put out his cigarette and took a drink from his water bottle.

  “Anyways,” he continued, “that Blyad was ten-feet tall. I mean huge. I was only twelve and my father tells me to shoot it.” He was laughing again. “My Mosin-Nagant rifle was bigger than me. And I pulled the trigger, fell on my ass, and pissed my pants. My father yelled his head off, but I shot the damn bear right in the heart. Blyad almost fell on my father.” He started chuckling. “My pants were frozen where I pissed myself, like a popsicle, peesicle.”

  His laugh was contagious. His good hum
or--and the impressive arsenal in the duffel bag--reassured Dmitry. For the rest of the drive, they exchanged stories from their childhood.

  They reached the exit for Rochester. Dmitry asked, “Remember that time when we were playing together at my father’s country house and you fell onto some rocks and broke your front teeth?”

  Vanya gave him a metallic grin. “I didn’t fall. You pushed me. But, I got even, huh, Cousin. That little scar behind your left ear.”

  “Remember how we hunted for your teeth?” Dmitry asked. “So we could glue them back on.” They were both laughing.

  They laughed about their childhoods only because they were so far away. As Dmitry got ever closer to his father’s deathbed, his laughter morphed into terror. When he spotted the exit for the Mayo Clinic, he grew sullen. He rode in silence the rest of the way to the hospital.

  Another hour until sunrise, the brightly lit glass building illuminated the streets around the hospital, a beacon leading him not to safe harbor but his demise.

  Driving around the building, Vanya followed the signs for “Visitor Parking.” The place was a maze and the corkscrew ramp to the parking garage made him queasy. As Vanya expertly swung the Escalade into a spot near an elevator, Dmitry’s stomach soured and a film of stale coffee smothered his tongue. He took a swig from his water bottle. Before they’d left the Residence Inn, he’d filled it with vodka.

  His mother had scolded him when he was a teenager, “Vodka and good sense are mortal enemies,” but with enough vodka, anything was possible. He took another drink from his water bottle and passed it to Vanya.

  “No thanks, chuvak,” he said. “I got some.”

  “Not like this you haven’t,” he said. “It’s Stoli.” Vanya grabbed the bottle and chugged. Fortified with liquid courage, he opened the passenger door and stepped out of the SUV.

  “Should I come with, Cousin?” his cousin asked after him.

  “No, I need to do this alone,” he said, shutting the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine