by Chris Culver
Bowers blinked. “I’ve heard the nickname, but I wouldn’t look too much into it. Every time you’ve been involved in a shooting, you’ve been cleared.”
“So you know that’s me.”
“I didn’t think it was a secret,” said Bowers.
“It was to me.”
“Now you know,” said Bowers. “Does that change anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Ash. He squinted. “Have I really been involved in that many shootings?”
Bowers stood up. “Just work the case. Once we get Rebecca back, you can take a long vacation to think about your life.”
Perhaps he was right; introspection could wait. Rebecca couldn’t. “I’ll do that.”
Bowers left, and Ash glanced at his watch. It was half past eight in the morning. If John and Kate Doe received the first cut of the morning, Doran should have been out. Ash dialed the detective’s phone and waited through three rings for him to pick up.
“Doran, it’s Ash.”
“Hey. I heard what happened last night. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
“Coroner’s office. We just finished John Doe’s autopsy. We’ve got Kate Doe up next.”
Rodriguez must have been running behind. “You learn anything new?”
“Our shooter tapped John twice in the head with a twenty-two. Entry wounds were so close together it looked like one shot. The rounds broke up in his skull, so we don’t have anything for ballistics matching. I’m guessing we’ll see the same thing with Kate.”
Ash allowed himself to sink deep in his seat.
“Sounds like our shooter’s had some practice.”
“Yeah,” said Doran. “Seems that way. Did you see Chief Lombardo on TV this morning?”
Ash rubbed sleep out of his eyes and stifled a yawn.
“No, but I can guess what she said. We’re undisciplined barbarians rampaging across the countryside. We don’t know what we’re doing. I should be in jail for murder. Things like that.”
“She was a little more subtle than that, but you got the gist. Rebecca’s family made an appearance, too.”
“What’d they say?”
“About what you’d expect after last night. They’re concerned about the direction of the case. They also pleaded with whoever has Rebecca. They want her home. They also asked us to bring in the Bureau.”
Ash sighed. The FBI had great investigators, so he wouldn’t have hesitated to bring them in if he thought it appropriate. They didn’t need them for Rebecca’s abduction, though. The man who took her didn’t know who she was, which meant he probably wouldn’t be making any ransom demands. Without those, they wouldn’t need the Bureau’s technical support or their operational expertise. To find Rebecca, they’d just have to kick down every door covering every shit-hole apartment, tenement building, and abandoned warehouse in the county. The Feds would just get in their way.
“What are you doing the rest of the day?” asked Ash. He pulled his phone away from his ear as it beeped, signaling another call. He didn’t recognize the number, so he ignored it and continued his conversation.
“I’ll witness Kate Doe’s autopsy next and then type up some notes. You got other plans for me?”
“No, but I need you to do me a favor. Call Tim Smith and tell him to get the vehicle identification number from John and Kate Doe’s Mercedes. We couldn’t find who they were through the BMV, so we’ll think outside the box. Tell him to buy a vehicle history report on their car from the Internet. That should at least give him the name of the dealership that sold it. Even though they registered the car to a corporation, someone drove it off the lot. The dealership should know who that is, so he should be able to get a name. If the dealership doesn’t want to work with him, tell him to get a warrant.”
“All right. I’m on it. I’ll call you as soon as I get anything.”
“Good.”
Ash hung up the phone and glanced at the screen. In addition to the call he had ignored, someone had sent him several text messages requesting a call back. He had to thumb through three of them before finding one with a name. Detective Joan Pace, and she needed to see him as soon as possible. That couldn’t be good.
9
Near Voroshilovsk, Ukraine, 1948.
The temperature had dropped well below the freezing point, and a thick pad of snow blanketed the hills surrounding the farmhouse. Kostya’s aunt and uncle used to own the farm outright, but now they shared it as part of a collective and sent most of what they grew far away. At least they had been able to keep a plot of land for themselves. Kostya held his hands near his aunt and uncle’s coal-fired stove, trying to warm himself. He was eleven, and the Great Patriotic War had been over for three years, long enough for many wounds to heal but not nearly long enough for others. His younger sister, Anastasiya, huddled beside him. Their clothes fit only just, but the small farmhouse kept out most of the chill, and its garden provided an adequate supply of food, something few of their neighbors could boast.
A figure scrambled to Kostya’s left, running toward them at full speed before tapping both Anastasiya and Kostya on the shoulder.
“Go to jail, robbers.”
Kostya’s cousin Fedor had taught them Cossacks and Robbers a year earlier, but neither Kostya nor Anastasiya had mastered it. They had grown up during the Siege of Leningrad and, until recently, had very little time or energy for games. Immediately Kostya sprang to his feet.
“That’s not fair. We weren’t hiding.”
“Too bad,” shouted Fedor, already running out of the house. Kostya slipped on a pair of shoes and followed, his feet crunching in the snow. It still felt strange to stretch his legs and run for the enjoyment of it. During the war, if he had seen anyone running, Kostya would have dived into the nearest shelter for fear of a bombing run. Now he ran knowing that the worst that would happen was a wrestling match with his cousin. He smiled and laughed without realizing it.
“I’ll get you.”
Fedor looked over his shoulder and mocked his cousin as he rounded the corner of the family’s old barn. He didn’t see the man standing there and slammed directly into the lower body of Vladimir Orlesky, the area’s representative from the Ministry of State Security. Many had hoped that life would improve after the Patriotic War, that the state would become more liberal in its dealings with the people. In fact, the opposite had occurred. Those considered a threat to the state were arrested and sent to forced labor camps or executed. All the MGB needed was a name whispered by an informant, a suspicion of anti-Soviet sympathies, or evidence of a conversation with the wrong person.
Kostya hurried to reach his cousin. Along with Vladimir, three men carrying machine guns stood by the barn, their faces impassive.
“He’s sorry,” said Kostya, pulling his cousin back. “He didn’t mean to hit you.”
Vladimir knelt down. “Of course he didn’t,” he said, putting a hand on Kostya’s and Fedor’s shoulders. “You’re good boys. We need more strong boys like you two.” He squeezed hard and looked at Fedor. “Is your father home?”
Fedor shook his head.
“Then get your mother.”
“I’ll get her,” said Fedor, looking down at the ground, his breath shallow and weak. Everyone knew to fear Vladimir, but never had he bothered the Abramoffs before; they had never given him reason. Kostya followed his cousin back to the house, trembling. Myra stood at the stove when they arrived, stirring a pot of cabbage and potato soup. She was his mother’s younger sister, and every day that passed, she looked more and more like Kostya’s mother. He had begun to see her more and more like that as well. His sister, Anastasiya, stood beside her aunt.
“Vladimir is here for you,” said Fedor.
Myra immediately handed the spoon she had been holding to Anastasiya and turned to the boys, her face drained of color.
“Then why is he outside? Invite him in.”
Fedor scurried off, but Kostya stayed in the kitchen. Myra turn
ed to him.
“Go find something better to do outside. Take Fedor and Anastasiya, too.”
Anastasiya and Kostya both ran after their cousin and met him near the front door. The soldiers stayed outside, but Vladimir walked through the home as if he owned it. The state had no private property—no private means of production—but its citizens still had personal property, including their homes. Vladimir had no right to be in there, but no one had the power to stop him. Even though Myra had tried to send the kids outside, they stayed in the front room and watched while the adults spoke in the kitchen.
“Your son ran into me and nearly knocked me down,” said Vladimir. “He’s a strong boy. You should be proud.”
“I’m sorry he hit you,” said Myra. “I’ll punish him for that.”
Vladimir made a shushing noise. “No need. He meant nothing by it. Boys will be boys.”
“Thank you.”
Kostya crept around the corner so he could see the adults speaking. Vladimir put a hand on Myra’s shoulder.
“I’ve heard rumors that there are men in the area stirring up trouble.”
Myra tried to take a step back, but Vladimir kept his hold on her shoulder.
“I haven’t heard that,” she said.
“Of course you haven’t,” he said, his eyes passing up and down her. “Where’s your husband been lately?”
“He works in a steel mill in Zaporozhye.”
“Ahh,” said Vladimir, nodding. “It must get lonely without him.”
Myra twisted her shoulder out of his grasp and went back to the stove. “He was asked to go, and we’re happy to do what’s needed.”
“Still, these are dangerous times, especially without a man in the house. With your permission, I would like my men to search your home in case there are things here that might be dangerous for you or your family.”
Myra hesitated. Even Kostya knew he could search without permission. He wanted something else.
“We have nothing to hide.”
“I certainly hope not,” said Vladimir, running a finger along Myra’s cheek. He barked an order for his men to come inside and search. The house had few rooms, but the soldiers took their time anyway. They started in the sleeping loft and uncovered a trove of books that belonged to Kostya’s uncle Piotr, a former history professor. Most of the books were benign—Marx, Engels, and Lenin—but others provided grounds for an arrest. One—The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith—had Kostya’s bookmark in it, a piece of fabric torn from his mother’s favorite dress before she died during the siege of Leningrad. Kostya kept the fabric in it so he wouldn’t lose it.
Vladimir conferred with his men outside while Kostya and his family stayed in the kitchen. No one spoke, but Myra prayed. Kostya had never heard his aunt pray before, but it seemed right. He closed his eyes and joined in. Eventually, he heard Vladimir’s footsteps traipse through the home again.
“This isn’t good, Myra,” he said, palming Piotr’s book. “We found sacks of wheat in the basement. Whole sacks. What are we going to do about this?”
Myra pushed ahead of the children. “We grew the wheat in our garden. I’ve paid the taxes. We have every right to it.”
Vladimir shook his head. “I’m not here about taxes. Where’s your son?”
She pointed to Fedor, and Vladimir slapped her hard across the cheek. Myra gasped, and Fedor surged forward, but Kostya held him back.
“I don’t want to do this,” he said, looking at the two boys. “I’m not interested in Fedor. I’m interested in Vanya, your eldest. Where is he?”
“He left three or four months ago. I haven’t seen him since.”
Vladimir slapped her again, knocking her back. When she straightened, blood trickled from the side of her mouth. Kostya felt his shoulders rise as anger built in him. Myra had taken him in when no one else would. She’d cared for him. She’d protected his sister. Every fiber of his being wanted to lash out at the man hurting her, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything, even stop his cousin. Fedor had his father’s wide shoulders and powerful legs. He writhed against Kostya’s grip before breaking free and charging across the room. He didn’t even make it halfway before one of Vladimir’s soldiers struck him on the temple with the butt of his rifle. The boy went down hard, unmoving. Frustrated, helpless rage coursed through Kostya, and he squeezed his hands into fists.
“I don’t want to be here, Myra. My men don’t want to be here,” said Vladimir, looking at Fedor. “And none of us want to hurt you or your family, but you’re not letting us do our jobs. I have reports of your son conspiring with traitors, and now I find you stockpiling food. Is it for you, or is it for him? I don’t know, and that troubles me. If you were in my position, what would you do?”
Myra looked down at Fedor, who still hadn’t stirred. She started toward him, ignoring Vladimir, but before she could reach him, the MGB officer grabbed her by the hair and slammed her against the wall beside the stove, rattling a row of teacups resting on a shelf beside her. Dust flew into the air, and Myra gasped in pain. Kostya wanted to rush forward and attack Vladimir, but he’d just get hurt like his cousin.
“Look at me when I speak to you. What would you do if you were in my position?”
“I don’t know.”
Vladimir’s grip seemed to relax some. He sighed disgustedly. “Tend to Fedor.”
She immediately knelt down at Fedor’s side and cradled his head in her lap. She shed no tears, but it wasn’t because of a lack of empathy or love; Myra had already lost two children during the Great Patriotic War, and like most women in Eastern Europe at that time, she had cried enough to last a lifetime. She rolled him onto his back and checked his chest for breath.
“If you’re going to arrest me, then arrest me. Just leave my children alone.”
Vladimir knelt down and took her hand. “I don’t think it will come to an arrest,” he said, sliding his arm up her shoulder and then to her cheek. Myra’s back stiffened at the intimate, tender gesture. “With your husband gone, I think we can come to an arrangement.”’
Myra’s breath momentarily stopped. At the time, Kostya didn’t understand what Vladimir had proposed, what his aunt had sacrificed, but he did later.
“Kostya, take your sister and get out.”
“But Fedor—”
“Do as your aunt says,” said Vladimir. “This isn’t your business.”
Kostya looked at Myra and then at the soldiers Vladimir had brought with him. They leered at his aunt.
“Please, don’t hurt her,” said Kostya.
Vladimir stood and smiled. “I promise that I’ll be gentle.”
Kostya took his sister’s hand and led her to the barn. The soldiers followed a few steps back, laughing. Time lost meaning as they shivered outside. When Vladimir emerged from the house, he carried Fedor’s still unmoving body. They took him to the hospital, where a surgeon said his skull had been fractured and his brain had begun swelling uncontrollably. He died a couple of days later, and Kostya saw his aunt cry for the first time. The soldier who struck him lost a week’s pay for his excessive use of force. Vladimir visited the farm once a week from then on out, always when Uncle Piotr was gone. Neither Myra nor Kostya nor Anastasiya ever discussed those visits, and unlike their neighbors, they never went to bed hungry.
Kostya never forgot the look his aunt had when she welcomed Vladimir into the house and asked the children to go to the barn. Fear, pain, emptiness. He loved his aunt and his family; Myra protected them as best she could. Kostya vowed that one day, he’d protect her as well.
10
When Kostya looked out of his windows, he saw cornfields amid subdivisions stretching for miles. He and Lev were headed to New Palestine, a largely rural bedroom community on the city’s east side. Iskra Konev, the young woman he had met at his daughter’s home, gave him the general location, while Leonard Wilson, a local politician and soon-to-be prosecutor, gave him the specific address. As he gazed out his window, he saw a community
on the precipice. New roads stretched through once-pristine fields, while road crews hurried to complete projects designed to accommodate the expected deluge of new residents.
Almost an hour after leaving his downtown house, the road narrowed and forests once again surrounded the street. They had reached the east side of the suburb, well past the area the developers had touched. Lev slowed the car, and Kostya peered left and right, looking for a break in the tree line that would indicate their turn. He pointed at a carved, wooden sign for the Dandelion Inn about half a mile up the road.
“That’s it.”
Lev grunted and turned onto the gravel road Kostya had pointed out. A thick copse of trees shielded the inn from prying eyes, but in the center of the glade stood a two-story farmhouse with a slate roof and a porch running the entire length of the first floor. Two young women in bathing suits sunned themselves on the front lawn. They looked up when Lev parked but quickly went back to their lounging when he didn’t acknowledge them.
“Women,” he said.
“I see,” said Kostya. “Let’s try not to disturb them.”
The Dandelion Inn occupied a historic Greek revival mansion that looked very much like the White House. Kostya walked through an unlocked wooden front door that was twice as tall as him and into a formal oval-shaped entryway. A gently curving staircase on the right side of the room led to a second-floor landing, while hallways branched left and right into additional rooms. It smelled like cinnamon potpourri.
Kostya cleared his throat, hoping to get someone’s attention. Almost immediately, a woman with shoulder-length straw-colored hair, softly tanned skin, and a set of very full lips stepped out of the hallway on the right side of the room. Fashionable wire-rimmed glasses covered emerald green eyes and a white blouse that accentuated rather than concealed curves covered her torso. Under other circumstances, Kostya would have thought she looked like a very attractive librarian. Her eyes told a different story, though. They moved quickly from him to Lev and then back, probing and evaluating both men in a glance.