Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  “I wouldn’t be here if you’d just done what I asked. This would all be over.”

  I glare at him. “Leave them out of it.”

  “This is the last time I’m coming to see you, Vivian. The last warning.” He holds my gaze, eyes boring into mine.

  I hear footsteps approaching and I turn. It’s a mother I don’t recognize, a toddler on one hip, a preschooler by her side, their hands clasped tightly. She’s talking to the older one, not paying the slightest attention to us. They walk to the SUV a few spaces away from Yury’s car. We’re both silent as she loads in the kids, gets them strapped in, then gets into the car herself.

  When her door closes, Yury speaks again. “Obviously the threat of jail isn’t enough.” He smirks, ever so slightly, and his hand brushes across his hip, touches the holster through his shirt. “But luckily, I have four more points of leverage.”

  My body goes cold. Four. My kids. He’s threatening my kids.

  The engine of the SUV starts; the sound makes me jump. I take a step closer to him. “Don’t you dare.”

  The smirk deepens. “Or what? You see, I call the shots here.” He jams a thumb into his chest, enough to make the gold pendant bounce against his skin. “Me.”

  The police. I need to go to the authorities. To Omar. Forget the blackmail, forget staying out of jail. I don’t care in the least what happens to me. I’d gladly spend the rest of my life behind bars right now, if it meant my kids would be safe.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, and I blink at him, my attention drawn back, away from what I should do, back to what’s right in front of me. “And the answer is no.”

  I look at him, his eyes, his expression. Does he really know? Can he really know what I’m thinking?

  “If you go to the authorities,” he says, and I realize that yes, yes he knows what I’m thinking, “then you’ll never see Luke again.”

  I’m immobile, frozen in place, as he turns around, gets into his car, the one I’d just driven all over D.C. looking for. I watch as he starts it, pulls out of the spot. There are people all around, parents walking inside, alone, returning to cars toting kids, the smallest ones on hips or in car seats, the older ones skipping along holding hands, little backpacks on their backs. I’m just standing there, staring at the car as it pulls out of the space, out of the lot, and finally turns out of sight.

  Then a breath escapes me, a great choking gasp, and my legs buckle, suddenly too weak to hold me up. I reach out to the nearest car to keep from falling. Luke. My Luke. How can this be happening? My God.

  I’ll do it. I’ll do what he says. I picture the flash drive, inserting it into the computer, letting the Russians in, being responsible for the lives lost, those nameless, faceless individuals whose information makes it into the reports I read, I rely on. At least it’s not Luke. I picture his smile, his laugh, his innocence. At least it wouldn’t be my baby.

  Not right now, anyway.

  I feel like all the air in my lungs is gone, again.

  Because it would be my baby, eventually. One of them. It wouldn’t be over. He’d know that all he had to do is threaten my kids, and I’d do whatever he wanted. It would only be a matter of time before he’d threaten them again.

  I make my feet move. I don’t know how I do it, because they might as well be lead. My insides are coiled tight. Everything seems unreal and yet so, so real. I see the front door of the school, but my path’s not taking me that way. It’s taking me to my car.

  I get in and fasten my seatbelt, hands shaking. Then I pull out and away, faster than I should. I turn the way he turned, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching into my bag, pulling out the burner phone. I fumble with it, punch in numbers I know by heart, hold it to my ear.

  “Mom?” I say when she answers. I hear Luke in the background, talking with my dad, and relief floods through me, knowing that he’s home safe. “Could you pick up Ella from school?”

  —

  WE STOOD IN THE FARTHEST LANE of the shooting range. I watched Matt load one of the rented pistols, his motions fluid. Shots reverberated around me, loud even through the ear protection I wore.

  “When was the last time you did this?” I asked, my voice practically a shout, everything sounding muffled. He’d been shooting before; it was one of those things I knew about him, even if I couldn’t remember when I learned it, or the details. Like fishing, and golfing.

  “Ages ago,” he answered. He flashed me a smile. “It’s like riding a bike.”

  I loaded the other pistol as he got the target ready, a paper one, the outline of a person, little zones we were supposed to aim for. Chest, head. He clipped it onto the pulley system, sent it to the back of the lane. “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded, got into position. Lined up the sights like I’d learned long ago, one eye closed. Racked the gun, moved my finger to the trigger. Pulled back slowly, the voice of my old instructor ringing in my ear. Let it surprise you.

  Pop. The gun bounced back hard, my hand, my whole arm moving with it. Like riding a bike, indeed; everything had come back to me, quicker and clearer than I could have imagined.

  Matt started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I said. I could feel my defenses going up. It’d been years since I’d shot; he could at least give me a chance to warm up.

  He pointed to the target. “Look.”

  I followed his line of sight. There, in the dead center of the target’s chest, was a small round hole. “I did that?”

  He had a big grin on his face. “Let’s see it again. Put it right through that hole.”

  I took a deep breath, lifted the gun, aimed. Finger on the trigger, slow pull. Pop. This time I looked, saw another hole, close to the last one, heard Matt’s laugh again.

  “You sure you haven’t been practicing?” he said with a grin.

  It was my turn to laugh. “Let this be a lesson. Don’t mess with me.”

  The grin faded from his face, and he stared at me for a long moment. “Could you do this, if you were ever threatened?”

  I looked at the target, tried to imagine shooting a real person. “No,” I answered honestly. “I don’t think I could.”

  “If someone threatened you, you don’t think you could shoot?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t picture myself in a situation where I’d ever have a gun. If I were being threatened, I wouldn’t want a gun anywhere near me. Odds were I’d be the one who’d end up shot.

  His eyes didn’t leave mine. They were searching, penetrating. Making me uncomfortable. So I turned away, back to the target, lined up the sights again. Finger on the trigger. I was about to press down when I heard his voice. “What if someone threatened the kids?”

  The target morphed, before my eyes, into a person, a real one, one who was a danger to my kids, one who wanted to hurt them. I pulled back on the trigger, heard the pop. The hole I was aiming for, the first one I made, in the center of the chest, had widened, just the smallest bit. I’d hit it, dead-on. I turned to Matt, my expression as serious as his. “I’d kill him.”

  —

  IN A FEW BLOCKS, I’ve caught up. I see the rear of his car, that black sedan, a handful of car lengths in front of me. His brake lights, glowing red, as he stops at a light. I slide down a bit in my seat, a reflex almost, and watch the red spots.

  I have the Corolla, thank God. I’m as nondescript as he is. Still, though, he could be watching for me, looking for some sort of tail in his rearview mirror. Could be a habit, even.

  I learned how to do this ages ago. One of those classes at work I never imagined I’d use, another box checked. I hang back, keep those cars between us, keep myself out of his sight. I watch the lanes on either side, wait for him to switch, to make a turn, anything.

  Finally the sedan pulls into the lane on the right. I stay in my lane, hang back, watch. Now will be the test. Is he watching for a tail? Or is he sure I haven’t told a soul, that I’m crumpled into a ball in the parking lot, or dragging m
yself home, terrified and helpless?

  A short time later he turns, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. A car behind him turns, too, then another. I could do it, too; there are so many cars following the same path, it wouldn’t be alerting. I’m getting closer to the turn, and then I see the sign. The distinctive blue M, a right arrow. The Metro’s this way.

  I look to the right as I approach. The turn leads directly into a parking garage. The sedan is at the gates, stopping for a ticket. I only have a split second to decide. I can’t follow him into a garage. Too confining, and besides, it’s not like I could follow him on foot, alone. He’d spot me for sure.

  I press down on the gas, accelerate past the turnoff. I look as I drive past, see the gate opening and his car driving in. I’m breathing fast now, braking to slow myself. I feel lost, now that he’s no longer in front of me.

  But I can’t be lost. I can’t be helpless. I need to fight.

  I fumble for the paper in my bag, the one from Omar. Pull it out, open it up, my eyes darting between the road and the paper. I look closely at the little map until I see a blue M, a Metro station, in the center of the marked zone.

  Then I lay my foot down on the gas.

  —

  IT’S A LONG SHOT, REALLY. I know it is. It could have been part of a surveillance detection route—pull into the garage and out again, continue on his way. And even if he actually got on a train, he could have gone anywhere in the city. Anywhere.

  But I find a spot along the street nevertheless, one with the Metro exit in my line of sight, and I sit. I wait, and I watch. In the silence of the car, I think of my kids. All I ever wanted was to be a good mother to them. And now everything is in jeopardy.

  “Please, God,” I whisper. “Protect them.” I haven’t prayed in years, and it seems wrong to be doing it now. But if there’s even a chance it could help them, it’s worth a shot. Because every second that ticks by, every second I don’t see Yury come out of that Metro exit, makes it more likely this won’t work. And if this doesn’t work, I don’t know what to do next.

  I cast my eyes up, at the roof of the car, like somehow that’ll make God more likely to hear. “I don’t care what happens to me,” I say. “Please just keep them safe.”

  And I’m incredibly conscious of the fact that my dad’s gun is sitting right beside me, buried deep in that bag.

  —

  I ALMOST DON’T SEE him when he emerges from below ground. He’s wearing a baseball cap now, a faded red Nationals one. A jacket, too—black windbreaker. He’s walking my way, on my side of the street, a fact that makes my breathing go shallow, my entire body go stiff, but his head is bent down, the cap the only thing I can see. I watch him from behind a pair of sunglasses, stock-still, silently imploring him not to look up. I don’t breathe as he passes, and then I exhale noisily, catch sight of him in my rearview mirror, head still down, body hunched forward.

  I keep my eyes glued on him as he gets smaller and smaller in the distance, then panic begins to take hold. I need to follow him. I need to see where he goes. But if I pull out now, I’ll lose sight of him. I’ll have to double back, follow him down the street, and by then he might already be gone, or he might catch sight of me and it’ll all be for nothing.

  I turn the key in the ignition with trembling fingers, my eyes still on the rearview mirror, on his back, heading into the distance. My eyes leave him for just a second as I check for traffic, get ready to pull out of the spot. They’re back on him a second later, and just as I’m about to pull away from the curb, I stop. He’s turned. He’s walking up steps. He’s at the door of a townhouse. Letting himself in.

  A rush of adrenaline runs through me, a burst of relief. I watch until he’s out of sight. I memorize the door, blue, the arch above it. White mailbox. Three down from the fire hydrant.

  I reach for the burner phone in my bag, tap the last number I called, hold the phone to my ear. Then I set my eyes back on the blue door.

  “Hello?” my mom says.

  “Hi. It’s me. How’s everything with the kids?”

  “Oh, they’re fine, dear. They’re all home, safe and sound, happy as clams.”

  “Thanks for getting Ella.”

  “Of course.” There’s an awkward pause. I hear dishes clang in the background. Ella’s high-pitched chatter.

  “I’m going to be late tonight,” I say.

  “That’s fine,” she says. “Take your time. Your dad and I can get them into bed.”

  I nod and blink quickly, willing the wall of emotion inside to stay put, just a little while longer. I glance over at the bag on the seat next to me, the one that holds the gun. “Tell them I love them, okay?”

  Then I angle the rearview mirror down, sink down in my seat, set my eyes back on the blue door, and wait.

  It’s a few minutes before ten o’clock in the morning when the blue door finally opens. I’ve already talked to my parents, apologized for being out all night, made sure the kids are okay. I sit up straighter in my seat and watch as Yury steps outside. He’s wearing a new hat—a black one this time—and track pants and a dark T-shirt. He turns and locks the door, then walks down the steps, head lowered. He presses a button on one of the keys in his hand, and a car across the street flashes and beeps. Another sedan, this one white. He slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb.

  My mind goes immediately to the kids. But he’d given me time after our talk, time to do what he wanted. They’re safe, for now.

  I take the gun from my bag, tuck it into the waistband of my pants. It’s cool against my skin, and hard. Then I reach for the credit card that I laid on the console last night, and the bobby pin lying next to it—one I dug up from the bottom of my bag, another stray from Ella’s ballet buns. It’s bent now, the way Marta taught me. I hold them tight in my fist as I slip out of the car, then walk quickly toward the house, my own head down, too, like Yury’s.

  At the blue door, I pause, and I listen. I don’t hear anything from inside. I rap my knuckles against the door, once, twice. Hold my breath and listen. No sound. A vision floats through my mind again. Matt, tied up in a chair, duct tape over his mouth.

  I take the bobby pin, slide it into the lock, move it around until it makes contact. With my other hand I wedge the credit card into the space between door and frame, apply pressure. My hands are shaking so hard I nearly drop the card. I’m afraid to look around, just praying no one’s watching, that my body shields what I’m doing from any passersby.

  The lock disengages. Dizzy with relief, I turn the knob and open the door a crack, half-cringing, half-expecting an alarm, something to happen, but nothing does. I open it farther and look inside: a living room, sparsely furnished, just a couch and a big TV. A kitchen beyond that. A carpeted staircase leading up; another, down.

  I step inside and close the door behind me. No Matt. But maybe somewhere deeper in the house? And if not, can I at least find the evidence? That file, the one Yury’s using to blackmail me?

  Suddenly I’m filled with doubt. What if Matt’s not here, and I can’t find the evidence? Worse, what if Yury comes back? What would he do if he found me?

  But I need to try. I force myself to take a step forward, then another.

  And then I hear something.

  Upstairs. Footsteps.

  Oh my God.

  I freeze. I pull the gun from my waistband, swing it out in front of me, aim at the stairs. This can’t be happening, can it?

  But it is. Footsteps, coming down the stairs now. I’m absolutely frozen in fear. I see feet come into view—bare feet, men’s feet. I watch through the sights. Now legs come into view, muscular. Athletic shorts that are too big, too baggy. White undershirt. I keep my gun trained on him, wait for his chest to appear, so I can line up the sights.

  “That was quick” comes his voice.

  Matt’s voice.

  That fact registers at the same time he comes fully into view. Matt. I take my eyes off the sights, look over the g
un, into his face. Impossible. But it’s true. It’s Matt.

  He sees me and freezes, pales like he’s seen a ghost. His hair is damp, the way it is when he’s just gotten out of the shower. He looks…like he belongs here. I keep the gun pointed at him. A storm of confusion is brewing inside me.

  “Oh my God, Viv, what are you doing here?” he says, and then he’s rushing down the last steps toward me, his face open now, full of relief. I wish he would stop, slow down, give me time to process this, because this isn’t right. None of this is right. I had visions of him tied up somewhere. A captive. Not alone, unrestrained, showering in Yury’s townhouse.

  He’s almost to me now, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him, smiling at me like he couldn’t be happier to see me. And I lower the gun, because this is my husband I’m looking at, pointing a weapon at, but it’s almost hard to do, almost like my arms are protesting, or my brain, or something. He wraps me in an embrace, but my body stays stiff.

  “How did you find me?” he asks, incredulous.

  I still haven’t moved my arms, haven’t returned his embrace. I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. He pulls away, holds me at arm’s length, looks at me intently, his eyes searching mine. “Viv, I’m so sorry. He came to Luke’s school. He talked to Luke. I couldn’t wait. I had to go….”

  I stare at him, his face so open, so honest. The confusion feels like it’s starting to melt at the edges, the smallest bit. It’s what I thought, isn’t it? He left us to protect Luke, to tell Yury to stay away from our kids. So why is my mind still screaming that this is wrong?

  Because he’s here, alone. He wasn’t a prisoner, bound to a chair somewhere in the house; that image that was haunting me wasn’t the truth. I look him up and down, the damp hair, the clothes. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. Why are you still here? Why didn’t you leave?

  “He said if I left, he’d kill Luke.”

  The words send a chill through me.

  “Maybe I should have tried…I didn’t know if I could take him….” He looks ashamed when he says it, and I feel a pull in my chest. “I didn’t leave you, Viv. I swear.” He looks like he’s about to cry.