Vanishing Act

by Linsey Lanier

  “We have a photo of him.” Once more, she took out her cell and scrolled to the picture.

  Misha took the phone, studied the image, turned it one way, then the other. Then he just stared at it in disbelief. Was that recognition on his face?

  With a strange smile, he rubbed his cheek with his long fingers. “My word. Is that Sasha Pavlovych?”

  Miranda’s heart nearly stopped.

  She looked at Parker. He seemed just as stunned.

  “The young man’s name is indeed Sasha Pavlovych,” he said.

  “Sasha used to come into this store often. He loved books.”

  “So his family and neighbors told us.” Miranda’s heart was beating hard. She couldn’t believe someone had finally recognized the photo.

  “It was about a year before the Orange Revolution,” Misha continued. “Fourteen years ago or so. This picture must have been taken back then.”

  Parker nodded. “Before Sasha left home.”

  “His favorite was the science section, over there.” With a nostalgic look, Misha pointed to a few aisles beyond where they stood.

  Miranda never would have found it.

  “I befriended him. University life can be stressful. At times students come in here needing someone to talk to. I listen, drink coffee with them, give them my opinion on things. I think of myself as something of a counselor to them.”

  And Sasha must have needed that badly. “But Sasha wasn’t a student.”

  “No. He was from a village in the northwest. He had run away from home.”

  “Sounds like you got to know him well.”

  “We had several long conversations about life, philosophy, science. We had him over to dinner a few times. My wife and I. She’s a researcher at KNU in the Biology Department. Sasha was very interested in her work. We tried to help him get into the school. He wanted to go so badly.”

  “But he didn’t go.”

  Frowning, Misha shook his head. “No. Not as far as I know. He refused to request his records from his secondary school. He said his family would find out where he was if he did. He did not want them coming after him. Something very bad happened between him and his father, but he never told me what.”

  The bookstore owner had understood the young man well. “We were hired by the family to find him.”

  Misha seemed confused by that. “After all this time?”

  Better late than never, Miranda thought. But she didn’t think that would be the right thing to say. “What happened to Sasha?”

  With a last tender look at the photo, Misha handed the phone back to Miranda. “I am not sure. He was living in a youth hostel for a while. It was not a good place. Noisy, full of people who steal from you. But it was all he could afford. He was about to run out of money. My wife and I were considering taking him in. I offered him a job here in the store.”

  “What happened?”

  Misha raise his palms. “He stopped coming in.”

  Parker’s expression turned grim. “You don’t know what happened to him?”

  “No. After he did not return for several weeks, I tried to contact him at the hostel, but he was no longer there.”

  Miranda’s heart started to sink to the polished floor. “Do you think he met with foul play?”

  “I do not think so. We would have heard something about it.”

  “Where do you think he went, then?”

  Misha’s face grew very sad. “He might have gone to the streets. It is what I suspect.”

  Her heart sank even lower. “You mean he became homeless?”

  “That is what my wife and I assumed. I tried to find him a few times, but could not.”

  “Where did you look?” Parker asked.

  “Near the train station. Homeless congregate there. Charities often have food trucks for them.”

  “Do they live near the train station?”

  “Some do. They are very bad places, where the homeless live.”

  The idea broke her heart. “He might have gone to a shelter.”

  “He might have. I checked there.” He didn’t have to say Sasha wasn’t there. “Many of the young folk are too proud to go to a shelter. They get addicted to drink or to glue or some such substance. Then they refuse help.”

  It sounded so bleak. If that was what had happened to Sasha, the odds that he was still alive were slim.

  “Thank you for your help, Misha.” Miranda dug a business card out of her pocket and handed it to him. “If you think of anything else, or if Sasha happens to show up out of the blue, give us a call.”

  Misha took the card and looked down at it, sadness in his eyes. “I hope you can find him.”

  “We do, too.”

  They left the store and returned to the BMW.

  Feeling numb, Miranda slid into the seat and waited for Parker to come around and get in.

  They sat in silence for a long moment, processing what they’d just learned.

  Miranda didn’t want to accept the worst case scenario. “Just because Misha didn’t find him,” she said, “doesn’t mean Sasha didn’t go to a homeless shelter. How many of those do they have here?”

  “Offhand, I can’t say.”

  She reached for her phone. “We should make a list and go to each one.” Though that sounded a lot like their visits to the youth hostels.

  Parker squinted up at the darkening sky through the windshield. “I suppose so, but he may still be on the streets if he’s alive. If we’re going to look for him outside, we’re losing light.”

  “Okay. We’ll try the direct approach.” She consulted the map on her phone. “The Kiev-Pas-something railway station is about five kilometers away. We can try there first.” She held the screen out to him.

  Parker studied it a moment, then nodded. “It’s as good a plan as any.”

  “Okay, then. It’s something.”

  “It is.”

  But as Parker started the car and pulled out into traffic, Miranda could tell he was losing hope.

  She didn’t blame him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Streetlamps were twinkling to life as they headed south through another section of old buildings, these a little less elaborate than the ones near the university.

  They turned onto a bridge and Miranda squinted through the windshield. Up ahead she spotted a huge building with a modern gothic-like arc at its center.

  “I think that’s it.” Though the signs told her nothing.

  “It is,” Parker said. “There’s the food truck.”

  As they rolled into the parking area, Miranda got a better look.

  In a far corner of the crowded lot, a dozen or so people in thick coats and woolen hats were gathered around a man scooping food from a large kettle into Styrofoam bowls.

  Other folks were hurrying past them, carrying bags and cursing at the loiterers who got in their way. At the station’s entrance buses and taxis were lined up, dropping people off.

  They found a spot to park, got out, and headed for the truck.

  As they neared it, Miranda could smell the Ukrainian fare the man was feeding to the crowd. Steam from the kettle and his mouth made wisps in the air as he barked out unintelligible orders to the recipients. Before long, they began to shuffle away, and by the time Miranda and Parker reached the spot, the group had all but dispersed.

  There were only one or two left still eating the soup—or whatever it was—near a high concrete wall.

  One of them, a young man in jeans and a long beige jacket, spotted them.

  Looking very frightened, he dropped his bowl and headed into a snowy alleyway where several minivans were parked.

  Parker leaned close and murmured. “Let’s follow him.”

  “Good idea.”

  Picking up their pace, they started for the alleyway. But as they reached it, the young man disappeared behind one of the minivans.

  “There he is,” Parker said as he reappeared at the opposite end of the passage.

  “He’s up to som
ething.”

  They hurried past the minivans and along the lane where spiked fences guarded the rear of utility buildings. At the far end of the fence, the young man slipped through an iron gate. They followed him through it, and ended up in an uneven field that opened into a wide area between a cluster of tall ancient-looking apartment houses.

  The sun was setting and the temperature dropping. It was almost too dark to see, but they pressed on.

  The young man reached a low hill near the building at the far end of the cluster. They hurried toward him, hoping he wouldn’t see them.

  Suddenly he bent down and disappeared into some sort of opening.

  Huffing over the snow, Miranda followed Parker to the spot.

  Parker stared down at the foundation below the brick exterior of the ten-story apartment building. “It looks like an opening to the basement.”

  Miranda eyed the rough concrete and the square shaped access with a rusted iron handle. “It’s an entrance meant for utility workers. Is that where he’s living? Under this building?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Parker bent down and tugged at the door until it gave way. “Shall we?”

  Her stomach tightened at the prospect of climbing in there, but she nodded.

  Parker crouched down and ducked inside. Miranda followed him through the small cavity. Inside they straightened and found themselves in darkness.

  “What now?” Miranda whispered.

  Parker didn’t answer.

  The boy might be somewhere in the shadows. But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she spotted a patch of light up ahead. It was moving.

  Parker gestured toward it. She nodded, and they began to follow the light.

  The air was stale in here, the concrete floor was damp. Water pipes ran along the walls at their heads. Debris crunched under their feet as they went.

  It was a little like something out of a horror movie. The scene where the audience shouts at the screen, “Don’t go in there!”

  After what seemed like an hour, they reached a section where the wall nearly met a large horizontal pipe, forming a narrow gap. At first Miranda didn’t think they could even get into the space, but somehow they managed to squeeze through it. On the other side they found another jagged corridor.

  The young man was nowhere in sight, but they kept going, picking their way through the rubble.

  Miranda’s nerves were on edge. She didn’t want to get lost in some underground maze on the other side of the world. But the only alternative was to give up the search for Sasha.

  They turned a corner and found themselves in a more open space. At the far end of it a well worn wooden door stood open a few inches.

  Light streamed into the space from the opening, hiding the crevices to the right of it. Peering through the crack, Miranda saw more pipes and debris on the floor on the other side.

  Was the open door a trap?

  They’d have to take the chance. She gave Parker a nod and cautiously moved forward.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The walls were damp with condensation here. And the water pipes were thicker. No doubt part of the infrastructure for the many apartments overhead.

  Miranda was almost to the open door when she caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows.

  She turned just in time to see a dark shape hurtling straight for her head. Looked like a three-inch lead pipe. Unattached to the structure. With an arm swinging it.

  Somebody had been hiding in wait for them.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw another shadowy shape going for Parker. Nothing she could do about that.

  Just before it reached her head, she grabbed hold of the wrist holding the pipe. She went with the momentum, and down they both went. The makeshift weapon crashed against the concrete, shot from its bearer’s hand, and clattered across the floor.

  Miranda shoved her attacker onto the floor and laid an arm across his throat, threatening to choke him.

  He began jabbering at her in Ukrainian.

  “English, please,” she growled, unleashing her pent-up frustration at the language barrier.

  A pair of frightened brown eyes blinked at her. “Amerykanets?”

  “Amerykanets detektyvy,” she sneered.

  “Detektyvy?” He looked as if he had seen a movie star.

  He was just a boy. Miranda studied the long narrow face topped by a head of curly brown hair. His wool cap had fallen off in the scuffle. “What’s your name?”

  “Mark.”

  “Well, Mark, my name is Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker.”

  “Do not make us leave. It is cold outside.” The words came from Parker’s attacker.

  She looked up and saw Parker on his feet, with the young man bent over in an arm lock.

  “If you promise not to assault us again,” Parker said in a stern fatherly voice, “we’ll let you go.”

  Beneath her, Mark shivered. “Are you with the police? Do not report us. Please.”

  Miranda let out a sigh of disgust, let the guy up, and brushed off her coat. “We’re not with the police and we’re not interested in causing you any trouble. We’re looking for a young man who left home some time ago.”

  Though he wouldn’t be as young as these two. Not anymore.

  “His family hired us to find him,” she added.

  Mark blinked at his companion as if that were a strange concept. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Sasha Pavlovych. We have a photo.” Once more she took out her phone and scrolled to the picture.

  Mark squinted at the picture then shook his head. “I have not seen him. Nanta?”

  Miranda held her phone out to the other boy, who was a little chunkier and had managed to keep his cap on his head.

  His thick brows drew together, then he too, shook his head. “We do not know him. The others might.”

  “Shut up, Nanta,” the boy named Mark told him.

  Mark held his hands up in defense. “The detektyvy will not make us leave. They just said so.”

  Miranda shot Parker a shocked glance. “There are others here?”

  “Yes. Several of us.”

  “Shut up, Nanta,” Mark said again.

  “It’s all right,” Parker assured them. “We mean you no harm. We’d simply like to speak to your friends.”

  Mark gave him a helpless shrug. “Okay. Follow me.”

  He led them through the half open door, then down another short labyrinth of passages lined with water pipes until they could hear voices.

  As they approached, foul odors hit Miranda’s nose. The smell of spoiled food and unwashed bodies. Along with some medicinal smell she couldn’t identify. She thought about what Misha had told them about glue and drugs. And then Mark opened another door, and she understood why.

  About six young people, were lying about on dingy mattresses along one wall. They looked to range in age from late teens to early twenties. No one over twenty-five.

  A makeshift stove stood along the opposite wall. A paint chipped table with a cooking device and a cord running up to where they’d tapped into the electrical system. Dirty pots and bottles crowded the tabletop, looking and smelling very unappetizing. A few bare light bulbs hung from a string, also borrowing from the electrical system.

  The dank warmth in the room told her it housed the heating system for the apartments above. Probably the sewage system, too.

  “These are American detectives,” Mark said with excitement. “They are looking for a missing person and want to talk to all of you.”

  “It is not me,” someone said from the floor, slurring the words. “No one would look for me.”

  “Me, either.”

  The kids on the floor blinked and squinted up at them as if in a daze. They were high.

  Parker gave Miranda a wary look. “Let me show them the photo.”

  “Sure.” She was tired of doing that, anyway.

  He took the phone and held it out to the residents, making sure none of them touched it
. “Have any of you seen this young man?”

  Sleepily they nodded this way and that, but nobody flashed a sign of recognition.

  “He left home fourteen years ago. This picture was taken then.”

  “Oh,” said the heavyset boy named Nanta. “He is an old man, then.”

  The others laughed.

  “He would be thirty-two,” Parker said.

  One of the young men lifted a lazy shoulder. “I do not know anyone of that age.”

  “Let me see it again,” said the only girl in the group.

  She looked like she couldn’t be older than seventeen. She wore dirty jeans, a glittery jacket, and had dark stringy hair. She made Miranda think of Mackenzie. This is how her daughter might have ended up if the Chathams hadn’t taken her in. The thought made her wish she could do something for these poor kids.

  “Do you know him, Vika?” Mark said to her.

  The girl named Vika sank back on her mattress. “No. I thought I might, but I also do not know anyone of that age. None of us do.”

  A low voice came from behind a blanket in the opposite corner. “You lie.”

  One of the boys pulled the cover back. “What are you saying, Stas?”

  On a mattress away from the rest of the group lay an older man. He had a chunky frame and was clad in a faded plaid shirt and rumpled pants. His hair and beard were long and stringy. He wore an expression of deep weariness, but he managed a scowl for the boy who had pulled back the curtain.

  “You know what I am saying. I am over thirty. I have been here before all of you.”

  This man’s story must have been even sadder than the others, but he was Sasha’s age.

  Miranda took her phone from Parker and marched across the floor, crunching through wrappers and empty cans and plastic bottles.

  She held the screen in front of Stas’s face. “Do you know Sasha Pavlovych?”

  Stas squinted at the photo for several long minutes. “He was a big boy.”

  “He was. His family says he was very strong.”

  “Then the recruiters probably got him.” Stas laid back down and pulled the blanket shut.

  “Recruiters?” Miranda turned around and stared at the group.

  No one answered.

  “Recruiters for what?” she demanded.