by D. A. Keeley
Davey said, “You think it was a cop out there?”
“Who the hell else would spend the night out there?”
“Lots of people tent out in the winter.”
“Out there? Shit, there wasn’t even a fire—no ring of melted snow, no nothing. I think someone was out there waiting for someone to enter the shack.”
“Could’ve been a hunter. Isn’t it bear season?”
“I don’t know, man. But most hunters don’t sleep in the woods.”
“So what are you going to do, Mikey?”
“I’m not sure. I need to get home.” He started toward the stairs.
“Mike.”
He stopped and turned to face Davey.
“Thanks, man. If you can’t do it anymore, no biggie. I get why.”
“I can’t lose my spot in the Honors program at U-Maine, you know?”
“I know.”
“Come to practice next week, Davey.”
He looked at the ceiling. “I’d have to wear one of those stupid masks. And everyone will ask how I feel and all that shit.”
“People want to see you. It’s been a long time.”
“Six weeks. Homeschooling sucks.”
“Come to practice.”
“I’ll think about it. What are you going to do with the generator?”
“My father hasn’t mentioned it,” Michael said. “He doesn’t realize it’s gone. We haven’t lost power for an extended time yet.”
Michael turned to climb the stairs.
“Oh, wait. I got something for you.” Davey reached into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and quickly pulled his hand out and flashed the middle finger.
Both boys laughed.
10:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia
The days were getting shorter, and he knew that made no sense. March had once been Victor Tankov’s favorite month because the days grew longer and hinted at spring. But this March was different; his days seemed shorter. How was it possible?
It wasn’t. And he knew what that meant, too, what it told him about the cancer in his throat. That the doctors were wrong. He’d been given a year. He knew he had weeks.
He rolled onto his side and pulled the covers to his chin. One day soon, he thought, it’ll all be over, and they’ll pull the sheet all the way up.
He stared at the vacant space on the wall.
“What are you thinking about, Father?” Marfa said, entering the room.
“Redemption,” he said.
“Redemption?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“My sins.”
She was walking across the room to move the chair closer to his bed but stopped and stood looking at him. She wore a cream-colored sweater, and the huge diamond on her right hand got caught on the opposite sleeve.
“Don’t talk like that,” she said, trying to ease the ring from the wool.
“Did Pyotr buy that ring for you?” the elderly man asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“No, Father, I bought it myself.”
“It looks like an engagement ring.”
She freed the diamond, went to the red leather chair along the far wall, dragged it bedside, and sat. “Well, I’m not engaged.”
“Are you still married?”
“Father, I have some good news.”
“You are married? Pyotr is coming back?”
“No. The thing you’ve been waiting so long for is coming here, though.”
“The boy has it?”
“Not the boy.” She leaned forward and patted his hand. “I’ve taken care of everything. Now I need access to the accounts.”
“To pay?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
She shook her head. “I’m negotiating. I need full access.”
“Full access to my accounts?” His pale eyes were watery. He looked exhausted.
She knew he wouldn’t fight it for long.
“How much are you willing to pay?” he asked.
“Probably twenty percent of its value.”
“Do you know the value?” he said.
She assumed he did. He knew more about the subject than many of her professors had. “I’ve done my research,” she said.
“Twenty percent would be more than I wanted to pay.”
“But you’re not handling the negotiations, Father. I am.”
“True.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he said, “You look like an American today.”
“Levi’s?”
“And the jewelry and makeup. All of it.”
“Good, because that’s where I’m going. I’ll look the part.”
“When are you leaving?”
She told him.
“And Nicolay?”
“He’s staying here to care for the children.”
“He should go with you,” he said.
“No. He’ll be here. I’ll handle this, Father.”
He thought about that. “Why don’t you take the children with you?” he said. “Stay there. Live in New York. You loved it there. Walk away from this life.”
“I’m going back downstairs now.”
“Why can’t you understand?”
“Understand what?” she asked.
“It’s like when I got you into the Sorbonne and you chose McGill in Canada.”
“I loved McGill. I wanted to go to McGill. That was my choice, Father.”
He tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength. He’d lost fifty pounds since the diagnosis. He’d been living on Ensure for weeks. “I’ve always supported you,” he said.
“Oh, really?”
“When you came home after New York, I went to your grand opening.”
“And then you didn’t invest. And when I looked for other investors, no one would touch me.”
“What are you saying? Are you saying your business failed because of me?”
“No one wanted to partner with me,” she said again.
“You’re saying that’s because of who I am?”
“No one would give me a loan”—she looked away—“for whatever reason.”
“I didn’t pressure the banks. I’d done enough of that for other things.”
“And you obviously didn’t believe in my company, didn’t invest in it. So the business failed. It never had a chance.”
“I see what’s going on now,” he said.
Panic, like a shaft of ice, shot through her spine. Had she overplayed her hand? Given too much away? Did he know what she had planned for the funds? If she could only get him to give her access.
“What?” she said calmly.
“You want to negotiate to show me what you can do,” he said. She heard the ever-present confidence in his voice.
“That’s correct,” she lied.
“You’re a sweet girl.”
“I’m a businesswoman, Father.”
The door opened then. Nicolay entered the room with a pitcher of water.
“I’ll give you access to the accounts until you make the deal,” Victor said.
Nicolay stopped pouring water. He looked from Victor to Marfa, set the water carafe on the table near the bed, and then left.
6:25 p.m., Chandler Pond
Monday evening, Stone’s entire eight-hundred-square-foot log cabin smelled like whatever was in the oven. Peyton liked the smell but didn’t know what Stone had planned for dinner. She had a glass of chardonnay and her Lisa Scottoline novel and was sitting in a Lay-Z-boy chair across the coffee table from Stone and Tommy, both of whom were focused on Stone’s fifty-five-inch TV.
“That TV is too big for this house,” she commented.
“You say that every time you come here,” St
one said and waved the XBox controller. “Kathy St. Pierre found this house for me. She’s meticulous. She found everything I asked her for.”
“She found my house too,” Peyton said. “She dominates the real-
estate market up here. She was on HGTV’s Lakefront Bargain Hunt.”
Tommy, sitting next to Stone on the couch, leaped up and pointed his controller frantically at the TV.
Stone’s cabin was clearly a single man’s purchase: it had a main central room, dominated by the TV he bought to watch the Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox; a counter and breakfast bar area; one bedroom off the main room; one bath; and a loft that he used as a den. The property abutted a small lake, and he’d built a dock the previous summer.
Peyton set her glass on the coffee table and leaned forward. “Which one of you is the eleven-year-old?”
Her young literalist raised his hand; Stone, seeing Tommy’s hand go up, raised his own.
The sight made her smile. “Glad we’re clear on that.”
Tommy was focusing, a bottle of red Gatorade before him on the coffee table, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth.
“Those remotes look like birds,” she said.
“They’re not remotes,” Tommy corrected. “They’re controllers, Mom.”
“Sorry.”
Stone waved his controller wildly and yelled, “Yes!” as the football player on the TV screen crossed the goal line.
“You look like you’re strangling a bat,” she said, “the way you wave that thing around.”
“I’m scoring touchdowns,” he said, “and the controller doesn’t look like a bat.”
“Stop distracting me, Mom!” Tommy said, but he was smiling all the while.
It had been some time since she’d seen him smile.
“Need me to check on the oven?” she asked.
“The meatloaf will take another twenty minutes.” Stone looked at Tommy. “Time for one more game.”
“Let’s play.” Tommy took a drink of Gatorade, the skin between his upper lip and nose turning red.
She set her glass on the table. “You made meatloaf ?”
“What did you expect? I give great shoulder rubs, and I cook a mean meatloaf.”
When they made eye contact, she smirked. “I’ve had your shoulder rubs. They’re overrated. I’ll get back to you on the meatloaf.”
“Ouch,” he said, smiling.
She lifted her glass, crossed the room, and opened the fridge. He’d tossed a salad. The mashed potatoes were finished and in a casserole dish on the counter. She pulled off the lid. Son of a gun, he’d even added chives, like Tommy loved. Gravy was warming on the stovetop.
She didn’t say it aloud, but she thought it: I could get used to this.
She sipped her wine and glanced out the window. The ice hadn’t thawed, but a raccoon emerged from behind a spruce and sipped at the water’s edge where a spring ran to the lake.
Her cell phone chirped, and she went to her purse to retrieve it. She recognized the number and sighed.
Stone heard her sigh and said, “I think we might be eating alone, champ.”
Tommy said, “Can we get pizza?”
“You haven’t even tried my meatloaf.”
“Cote here,” Peyton said.
“Peyton, it’s Jimenez.”
“Yeah, Miguel?”
“There’s a problem, and it’s sort of your case.”
“Tell me,” she said, feeling Stone’s eyes on her back.
7:10 p.m., Garrett Station
The walls of Hewitt’s office were lined with framed photos. Years ago, when Peyton had first arrived at Garrett Station—coming home after her mandatory years working the southern border—the frames held photos of Hewitt’s wife. Now the wife was gone and so were the pictures. Instead, the frames held photos of Hewitt fly-fishing, his new passion.
Bill Hillsdale pulled the tab on a can of Diet Pepsi. In a suit, Hillsdale looked like an accountant, but now rocking dad jeans and a faded Washington Nationals T-shirt, he looked more relaxed, like a guy ready to take his kid to an amusement park.
Except he didn’t look amused.
He glanced at his watch. “I was supposed to be landing at Dulles right now. My youngest daughter has a hockey practice tomorrow morning.”
Peyton nodded. “I had plans too. Supposed to be eating meatloaf.”
“Look,” Hewitt said, “none of us like eighteen-hour days, but it is what it is.” He pointed at Peyton as if remembering something. “You have child care?”
She nodded. “Tommy’s spending the night with Stone. Thanks for asking. So what happened?” She took out her iPad and stylus.
Hewitt said, “Bobby Gaudreau called the desk—Jimenez caught the call—and Bobby said he needed to speak to me immediately. Jimenez said he’d leave the message but wasn’t giving my home number. So, like the self-centered jerk he is, Bobby said that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to talk tonight.”
Peyton, writing on the iPad, looked up. “Miguel got off the phone and called you?”
Hewitt nodded.
“Why the rush?” she asked.
“I know the answer to that,” Hillsdale said. “It’s because Susan Perry at DHHS took Aleksei.”
Peyton leaned back and blew out a long breath. “I really hate using kids this way.”
“Me, too, but I didn’t see any other way,” Hillsdale said.
She knew it was true. In the criminal justice system, situations often dictate what is deemed “ethical” behavior.
“So the story, according to Dariya Vann,” Hewitt said, “is that he doesn’t know who brought Aleksei here.”
“He doesn’t know the man who brought his child from one continent to another?” Peyton leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Has no idea who that might be?”
“You’ve talked to him tonight already?” Hillsdale said.
Hewitt nodded. “He came in here with Bobby Gaudreau, wrote his statement, and I took it. Didn’t answer questions. I let him go, knowing you”—he motioned to Hillsdale with his chin—“would want a crack at him.”
“He says he paid a stranger to bring Aleksei here?” Peyton said.
“Yeah. That’s not unheard of.”
“Giving someone money at the edge of the Rio Grande and having them take your kid to the other side, where a family member will meet them an hour later, is one thing. This trip would’ve taken nearly twenty days by ship. There’s no way I’d leave my son with someone I didn’t trust for the better part of a month.”
Hillsdale nodded. “I’ll need to see the statement. And I’ll want to interview him.”
“I’d like to be in on that too,” Peyton said. “Do you buy it, Mike?”
Hewitt shook his head. “Too convenient. Solves too many problems.”
“Where’s Aleksei?” she asked.
“With Maude O’Reilly.”
Peyton smiled. “Well, we know he’s being spoiled. I didn’t know she took in foster children.”
“I don’t know her,” Hewitt said. “Only heard about her. Susan Perry likes her a lot, though.”
“She was my fourth-grade teacher. She made each student a Valentine’s Day card each year, used to bring in warm brownies. Last time I saw her, she was volunteering at the nursing home.”
“I guess it was quite a scene when they took the boy from the Donovan home.”
“I bet it was,” she said. “He’s been waiting to see his father. Now his father comes to him, and DHHS separates them again.”
“Susan says Bohana was hysterical, threatened to sue everyone from DHHS, to the Border Patrol, to the president.”
“Take a number,” Hillsdale said.
“I think I’ll stir the pot a little,” Peyton said and stood. “I’d like to
go see Aleksei and maybe Bohana and Dariya in the morning. That okay with you, boss?”
“Just don’t push too much,” Hewitt said.
“Why do you say that?”
Hewitt moved a pile of papers from one side of his desk to the other. “I heard a story when I went to the gun range this afternoon.”
“What did you hear?”
“That you had an—um, how to put this?—altercation of sorts there.”
She cursed under her breath. “I was being harassed and defended myself.”
“I heard you about kicked a guy’s nuts to the back of his throat.”
“Jesus,” Hillsdale said, his hand instinctively going to his groin.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Peyton said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.” She shrugged. “So I defended myself.” She stood and started toward the door.
“I want to ride along in the morning,” Hillsdale said. “I still think Dariya Vann and his wife are planning to move here. I don’t trust the medical documents.”
11:55 p.m., Razdory, Russia
The house was dark, and Marfa sat in the leather chair in the great room, staring at the dancing flames. In the mouth of the fireplace they leaped four feet high, their shadows spanning half the room’s length. She held a glass of brandy and sipped it, contemplating the future.
“Is everything alright?”
Startled, she turned to see Nicolay. “Yes,” she said. “Everything is fine.”
“I hope the children were sufficiently washed after lunch today,” he said sarcastically.
She looked at him, saw the anger in his eyes. Also saw the shame —he was considered more than common household help; he was part of the family. But she hadn’t treated him that way.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Why are you still up?”
He sat down on the hearth across from her. “I heard something.” He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and withdrew a 9mm and laid it on the hearth next to him.
“You’re still protecting my father.”
“Always.”
“We’re safe here,” she said. “I arranged for the security system myself.”
“I don’t trust security systems.”
“You should trust mine. I screened several companies myself.”
“You’re always trying to prove yourself,” he said.