The Boy Who Stole From the Dead

by Orest Stelmach

  Not a nice little story. A great story, Lauren thought. One that could catapult her out of the sports section and onto the front page.

  The stairs opened up to a second floor with a narrow corridor and three doors. She followed Victor into what she guessed was originally a bedroom. It contained a rectangular wooden table with two empty chairs on one side, and three chairs on the other. The parties to the dispute sat on the latter side with an empty chair between them. It looked like an imaginary boundary, a buffer to prevent an accidental elbow that might lead to fisticuffs.

  Except the parties to the dispute were grandmothers in Sunday dresses. One wore white gloves, the other a black hat to match her dress. The one with the white gloves held a cane. The other wore a hearing aide. At first Lauren wondered if it was a joke. But then she studied the expressions on the women’s faces and she knew that for them, it was no joke at all.

  One of the nephews marched into the room. He stood beside Victor, who turned to Lauren.

  “We must speak Ukrainian. But my nephew will translate for you.”

  Victor gave a speech. His nephew bent down on one knee and translated into Lauren’s ear.

  “We’re here to settle an argument. One person has been harmed. The other person is accused. The wronged party is demanding compensation from the other for lost income. This is a courtroom. Verdicts are final. There is no appeal. Punishment if you don’t follow the court’s verdict will be quick and severe. Do both of you agree to be bound by this courtroom? The verdict and the sentencing?”

  Both women nodded.

  “Very well,” Victor said. He stood up, moved to the other side of the table, and sat down in the empty chair between the two women facing Lauren. He grasped one woman’s hand with his left, the other’s with his right. “You both grew up in the same village in Ukraine. Together you’ve served the best hunter’s stew in town in your little restaurant for over twenty years. How did it come this far?”

  “She’s a philistine,” one said. “She wants to use cabbage instead of beetroot and add lemon to the borscht.”

  The other one bristled. “We get a customer asking for this every week.”

  “Who cares what the customer asks for? If he asked for turpentine in a glass, would you serve it? Only Russians use nothing but cabbage. Only Russians add lemon to their borscht. I will not serve Russian dishes in my restaurant.”

  And so it went on for ten minutes. Eventually Victor persuaded them to compromise on adding the Russian version of borscht to their specials.

  “A good host is a humble host,” Victor said. “He puts his guests’ desires above his own. And a Ukrainian restaurant should maintain its purity. There’s enough confusion about Ukraine and Russia.”

  Victor’s nephew escorted the women out.

  Lauren followed Victor back to the kitchen. She returned her wallet to her bag, which was exactly where she left it.

  “That wasn’t what I expected,” she said. “Why the concern about security and electronic devices to resolve a dispute between two cooks?”

  “Disputes in my courtroom involve all sorts of people. I found it best to keep a consistent set of rules and apply them to everyone. That way there’s no risk of an unpleasant surprise. People aren’t always who they seem to be. Now, what was this boy’s name again? The one you asked Obon about?”

  “Bobby Kungenook.”

  A light came on in his eyes. “Ah, yes. Bobby Kungenook. I remember that name.”

  “You know him?”

  “No. My daughter does. She runs a bakery in Brighton Beach. Her protégé, a girl named Iryna, is dating him. Or was, at least. You know how kids are. And now that the boy’s in jail—I must have mentioned it to Obon the next day.”

  “What is your daughter’s name? Where exactly is her bakery?”

  Lauren got the address for Tara’s bakery.

  “Have you seen his guardian, Nadia Tesla, recently?” Lauren said.

  Victor frowned. “Who?”

  Lauren studied him. He appeared genuinely confused. “Nadia Tesla.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone by that name.”

  Lauren grabbed her bag and thanked Victor for his hospitality and help.

  Victor bowed. “Good luck.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  “No. I meant with your conscience.”

  Lauren smiled and tried to ignore the comment. She didn’t have time to wrestle with the past.

  As she climbed down the steps to the street, the contents of her bag shifted to one side. She paused at the base of the stairs to adjust the position of her computer. When she reached in and grabbed it, the metal felt hot to her touch.

  That made no sense, she thought. It hadn’t been sitting in the sun and she hadn’t used it for two hours. But it was hot.

  Someone else must have turned it on.

  Victor’s other nephew. The one who’d been reading the men’s magazine. He must have snuck in and turned it on.

  Lauren raced to the Starbucks on Second Avenue. She bolted inside and booted up her computer. There was a way to check if someone had logged on recently. There had to be. But she had no idea how to do it.

  Lauren logged in. She asked herself why anyone would want to hack into her computer. Her address book, she thought. It contained passwords for certain websites but they were coded in a manner only she would understand. Is that what Victor Bodnar was after? Were the nephews identity thieves? She had nothing else valuable on her computer. Nothing of any great personal meaning. Nothing of any professional interest to anyone—

  Except for the video.

  She searched for the video clip of the first time she saw Bobby Kungenook play hockey. It started when an opponent checked him hard into the boards. Bobby fell. But instead of getting up and rushing back to prevent a goal, he paused to pick something up off the ice. A locket tied to a necklace that had come loose from around his neck. Right away Lauren was certain there was something special about that locket.

  She didn’t know how to figure out if someone had accessed her computer, but she knew how to tell if someone had opened a file. She let the cursor hover over the file containing the video clip and right-clicked the mouse. Scrolled down to “get info” and clicked again.

  The file had been opened eleven minutes ago.

  Lauren slammed the laptop shut. Didn’t bother to log out. Didn’t bother to power down. Just sat there stunned. How did Victor Bodnar know to look for the video? Obviously he didn’t. But the minute she showed up asking questions about Bobby Kungenook, Victor made sure one of his nephews got a look at her computer. The video was easy to find. Lauren had labeled it “B.K. Hockey.”

  She took three deep breaths. A simple exercise her mother had taught her. Her mother had used it to fight stage fright. And camera fright. And husband fright. Her mother. How she wished she was here with her now.

  The conclusion was simple. Victor Bodnar was connected to Bobby Kungenook.

  Lauren stored her computer back in the bag. She hurried back to First Avenue along St. Mark’s Place. Tucked her body behind the corner of the block. If Victor came out of his apartment halfway down the block, she’d see him. And she’d be able to pull back before he saw her.

  She checked her watch. Seventeen minutes had elapsed since she’d left Victor’s apartment. Barely enough time to watch the video clip, discuss it with his nephews, go to the john—old men were always going, weren’t they?—and make his next move. The odds were in her favor he was still in the house. What if one of the nephews came out? She’d let him go, Lauren decided. Victor Bodnar was a man who got other people to do what he wanted them to do. If the video clip spurred him into action, he’d be making the move himself.

  Lauren decided she would wait for him.

  And see where he led.

  CHAPTER 33

 
A CURTAIN SHIELDED the light from the kitchen window. Victor finished watching the video of the boy everyone called Bobby Kungenook for the third time.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”

  The Gun’s fingers flew over the keyboard. A few seconds later he closed the electronic notebook.

  It was amazing, Victor thought. The communists would have never had a chance if these gizmos existed in the days of the Soviet Union. They couldn’t have deceived the population the way they did. Information would have travelled too easily.

  “You were right all along,” the Ammunition said.

  “The locket must be money,” the Gun said.

  “Any idea what’s in the locket that makes it so valuable?” the Ammunition said.

  “What’s inside the locket isn’t what makes it valuable,” Victor said. “There’s nothing but a dream inside the locket.”

  “A dream?” the Ammunition said.

  “Yes. A dream you are both living, though you probably don’t even realize it. Forget about the contents of the locket. I have seen the contents of the locket. The money is not inside the locket. The money may be the locket.”

  “How can that be?” the Gun said. “Gold, platinum. It’s not big enough for the metal to be worth that much.”

  “It doesn’t look like a queen’s treasure or an antique,” the Ammunition said.

  “The locket was supposed to contain a priceless formula,” Victor said. “That I know because I was one of the men who chased it halfway around the world. That’s what the boy’s father told Nadia Tesla. It didn’t. But I saw a piece of jewelry recently that made me think. What if it was somehow inscribed under the gold? What if the boy’s father was actually telling the truth? What if there really is a formula? Two things we know for certain. First, his father was the greatest thief I ever knew. If there were a man capable of stealing such a treasure, he was the one. If there were a man devious enough to hide it in such a way, he was the one. Second, we need to acquire the locket.”

  “But where is it?” the Gun said.

  “We know it’s not in his apartment,” the Ammunition said.

  “Indeed,” Victor said. “If it were yours, where would you keep it?”

  The boys answered in unison and without hesitation. “Around my neck.”

  “Which means what?”

  “It’s in storage in prison,” the Ammunition said.

  Silence fell over the table for a moment. Victor allowed the boys to digest the implications of what had been said.

  “We have to get it out of there,” the Gun said.

  The Ammunition said, “Which means we have to get him out of there.”

  Victor smiled. “And how are we going to do that?”

  “We buy a few more cops,” the Gun said.

  The Ammunition frowned at him. “This is America. You may be able to buy your way out of some things but not a murder charge. Be serious.” He turned to Victor. “No. We have to get him out the hard way.”

  “And what way is that?” Victor said.

  A light flickered in the Gun’s eyes. “The legal way,” he said.

  “We have to play chess,” the Ammunition said.

  Victor put his hands together slowly and clapped three times. “Bravo.” He stood up and headed toward the closet.

  “Why did you tell the reporter that Iryna is dating Bobby? Why would you risk letting her get close to Iryna?”

  “It’s public information. Iryna and Bobby are on this Facebook abomination together. I told Lauren Ross what she already knew, or was going to find out. By doing so, I won her trust. And his name is not Bobby Kungenook. He is Damian Tesla’s son from Korosten. Born in Chornobyl to a prostitute from Alaska. His real name is Adam Tesla. He is Nadia Tesla’s younger cousin.”

  Victor slipped into his light overcoat. It was made from virgin wool. He stole it from an American oil tycoon named Hammer in a hotel lobby in Kyiv forty-two years ago.

  “Where are you going?” the Ammunition said.

  Victor frowned. Just as they showed evidence of progressing, one of them asked a moronic question.

  “Not me,” Victor said. “We. We are going to offer the boy’s lawyer our services, of course. How else are we going to get him out?”

  CHAPTER 34

  NADIA CALLED THE National Commission for Radiation Protection of Ukraine, identified herself as an American journalist, and told them she’d met a scientist during a tour of Chornobyl last year. All of that was true, except for the journalist part. After being transferred to the right party, she was told Karel Mak had been declared a prospective invalid by the Division of Nervous Pathologies in Kyiv. It was responsible for monitoring the health of people with injuries related to the nuclear fallout in Chornobyl.

  Another phone call revealed that his disability checks were being sent to his last known address. An apartment in Lviv. Nadia called the phone number on record but it had been disconnected. He wasn’t listed in the Lviv phone book, either. Neither of these developments surprised Nadia, as many people in Ukraine were disconnecting their landlines to save money and relying on their cell phones for primary communication. Karel had probably failed to update his telephone number with state agencies. That wasn’t a surprise either. He wanted to get checks, not phone calls. Nadia decided that if monthly checks were being sent to the address on record, odds were high he’d be there. If corporate America had taught her anything it was to follow the money.

  Nadia and Marko left on the overnight train for Lviv at 10:15 p.m. The trip would take six hours. While Marko slept, Nadia thought about her father. He’d hailed from the western strip of Ukraine bordering Poland known as Galicia or Halychyna, derived from the name of the medieval city of Halych. Lviv was the unofficial capital of Halychyna, historically the epicenter of the nation’s quest for independence. To listen to her father, this was the real Ukraine. People spoke Ukrainian, not Russian. Nationalist sentiment ran hot.

  Now, on the train headed to Lviv, Nadia felt as though she was going home for the first time. A different home. Not her primary home. She was an American. This was her parents’ home. It was the place that had shaped their souls.

  Nadia ate a protein bar during the last half hour of the trip. They arrived in Lviv at 6:35 a.m., fought off the gypsy drivers, and took a licensed taxi from the train station to the Leopolis Hotel. Their rooms weren’t ready but they checked in and stored their luggage, except for a small canvas bag Nadia had packed earlier. She tucked her purse beneath the clothes in the bag, too. A concierge recommended a breakfast place in the center of town. Nadia made sure it had outdoor seating. Afterward, Nadia and Marko sat in the lobby and studied a map like tourists.

  She’d first noticed the bald man with the pointed chin on the train reading a woodworking magazine. He was sitting alone in the same car. The car was only half-full but he’d taken the seat adjacent to the lavatory so the entire cabin was in front of him. Who wanted to listen to the door opening and closing during the entire trip, and absorb the occasional smell that emanated from within? A spy, she thought. That’s who.

  And then when the taxi driver lifted their luggage out of their trunk, she caught his profile in a black Renault cruising past the Leopolis. He didn’t have time to rent a car. That meant there were at least two of them. Each time she saw him Johnny’s words rang in her ear.

  Your life is in danger.

  Nadia and Marko left the hotel and walked along a cobblestone street to Rynok Square in the center of town. Forty-four architectural masterpieces from various eras formed the square’s perimeter. They’d survived centuries of wars and invasions. Their front doors looked like entrances to castles. Some of the mansions boasted elaborate carvings. One featured a row of intricately sculptured knights along its rooftop.

  The air smelled of freshly ground beans. They found their restaurant,
Kentavir, at 34 Rynok Square. It was a few minutes after 8:00 a.m., and the outdoor seating area was already half-full. The patrons spoke authentic Ukrainian.

  Nadia and Marko chose a visible yet private table where no one could hear their conversation even though they were speaking English. They ordered omelets with buckwheat bread and homemade cherry preserves. Nadia asked for tea. Marko chose coffee. After they placed their orders, Nadia panned the crowd.

  There he was. Alone. Wearing sunglasses now. And reading a newspaper. A server arrived at his table.

  “Look at that waitress with the legs and the braided hair,” Marko said. “You see a ring? You think she’s single? I think she looked at me when she walked by.”

  “Focus, Marko. Please?”

  Marko glared at her and took a deep breath. “Feels like home. U-kra-yi-na.”

  “Yeah. Except at home I feel safe.”

  “I got your back, baby.”

  “And I’ve got yours. The problem is we both have to turn our backs to get anywhere.”

  “You think we’re being followed?”

  “Bobby told Johnny our lives are in danger. When a kid not talking decides to talk, you have to consider his words. And I don’t think we’re being followed. I know we are.”

  “No way. I’ve been keeping an eye out. I don’t see anyone.” He started to turn.

  “Don’t look. Don’t look.”

  Marko looked back at Nadia.

  “I don’t want him to know we’ve spotted him.”

  “You sure it’s not your imagination?”

  Nadia described the two times she’d seen him before and her plan.

  “Even if you lose them,” he said, “we’ll have to go back to the hotel. Eventually they’ll catch up with us.”

  “I don’t care about that. I don’t want them to follow me to Karel’s apartment. I don’t want them to know who or what we’re looking for. And I don’t want Karel put at risk.”

  “You’re going to eat first, right?”

  “No,” Nadia said. “I ate on the train. He saw us order breakfast. It’s only natural for him to let his guard down. He’ll be more focused after we finish eating. Don’t forget to get my bag. If no one else takes it first.”