Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “I love it,” I said, bending forward to kiss her. “And I love you. Always. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied in a small voice.

  I snapped the watch onto my wrist and reached across the table for her hands.

  “Did you speak to Dr. Kim today?”

  “I did. She agrees that it’s time to do more tests.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Only me this time.”

  Candlelight cast nervous shadows on her face. We’d been trying to get pregnant for a year, and Jenna was just a few months shy of her own thirty-fifth birthday. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was: that it had been a mistake for her to wait so long. I’d suggested we try earlier, but she hadn’t wanted to set aside her work and I hadn’t pressed, mindful of her early concerns about our incompatibility. Now we were suffering the consequences.

  “I’m feeling lucky tonight,” I said, pressing my leg to hers beneath the table. “Maybe we should head home and try to cheat Dr. Kim out of a patient.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Jenna said, a small grin flickering. “But let’s sit for another minute. Dr. Kim also suggested we talk. We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do if I have a serious problem.”

  “That’s easy.” I lifted her hands to kiss them. “I want a family with you. I always have. I know the whole in vitro thing is supposed to be an ordeal, but I promise I’ll be there with you every step of the way. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get started the better.”

  “IVF’s an option, Peter, but it’s not the only possibility.”

  I felt my smile slip as I recognized the earnest look on her face. I’d thought about adoption, but only as a last resort. No matter how careful we were, we’d never know exactly what problems someone else’s child might have.

  “Oh?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  “There are a lot of kids out there who need good homes. I’ve been doing some research, and the literature is heartbreaking. Special-needs children almost never get adopted. We’ve been fortunate in so many different ways. It would be great to give something back.”

  I let go of her hands and unsnapped my new watch. Special needs. Unbelievable. Jenna donated a third of her time to Legal Aid’s Juvenile Offender Project, and spent most of our limited time together agonizing over the teenage thieves, drug pushers, and scam artists she represented. I should have anticipated she’d want to go the final step, and make our family one of her vocations as well.

  “You’ve been pro bono full-time for eight years now, Jenna. You give back plenty.”

  She looked at me searchingly.

  “You don’t like the idea of adoption?”

  The waiter interrupted with the check and I searched my wallet for a credit card, feeling the weight of her gaze. When I was a boy, some childless neighbors of ours named Donnelli tried a stint as foster parents. I remembered looking through the front window with my father when I was about twelve, watching a pair of uniformed cops lead the Donnellis’ teenage ward out of the house in handcuffs. I gave the waiter my credit card, thinking the smart response to Jenna would be to equivocate. I was too pissed off to do the smart thing.

  “My dad told me a story once,” I said.

  Her face tightened.

  “Your dad told you lots of stories.”

  “This one was about the cuckoo bird. It lays its egg in other birds’ nests. After the baby cuckoo’s born, it pushes the natural hatchlings out so it can have all the food. The adult birds don’t notice. They go right on feeding the baby cuckoo as if it were their own.”

  “I’m not seeing the relevance,” she said coldly.

  “Adult birds want baby birds,” I said, hearing my father speak the words as the Donellis wept in their driveway. “A baby cuckoo might seem better than an empty nest. But all the care and feeding in the world isn’t going to make a cuckoo a songbird. Nature always trumps nurture in the end.”

  “The apple falls close to the tree,” she said, biting her words off furiously. “Is that your point? If so, we disagree. One reason I married you is that I believe people can overcome ugly influences.”

  It took a moment for her implication to register.

  “Don’t think you can judge my father,” I said heatedly. “You don’t know what it was like between us.”

  “Arguable. But I’m not interested in his opinions. I’m interested in yours.”

  We glared at each other. My temples were throbbing and it was all I could do not to remind her that it was her decisions that had put us in this situation. Glancing down, I saw the watch in my hands, the inscription gleaming. I took a deep breath, reminding myself how much I loved her. Snapping the watch back on my wrist, I laid my hands palm up on the table between us.

  “My opinions are changeable,” I said. “My ambitions aren’t. Years ago, I told you my ambition was to make you happy. That’s still true.”

  A tear formed at the corner of her eye and trickled down her face. She put her hands in mine.

  “You know how important family is to me, Peter. But we’re a couple. Any decision we make has to be right for both of us.”

  I leaned forward and she kissed me. The waiter approached with my receipt. Jenna dabbed her face with her napkin and stood up.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  I signed the receipt and sat alone at our table, gazing at the guttering candle. Dr. Kim had said the odds were in our favor if we started fertility treatment soon and kept at it. And if worst came to worst, and Jenna wasn’t able to bear children, I was prepared to do the legwork necessary to try and make sure we ended up with a kid we could both be proud of. The one thing I wouldn’t do was to take someone else’s flotsam in as my family. I wouldn’t be held hostage to Jenna’s disappointment. My father had warned me about that.

  18

  I’M SEARCHING FOR A CLOCK when I notice Dmitri enter the building forty feet below me, three men in dark overcoats and hats accompanying him. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore last night, but now he has a bandage on his face. One of the men is holding his arm. I step quickly off the bridge into a shadow, wondering what the hell is going on. Pressing the redial button on Andrei’s phone, I see Dmitri and his escorts pause. The man holding Dmitri hands him something.

  “Allo,” he says, raising the phone to his mouth.

  “Which one of those guys is your mother, Dmitri?”

  Dmitri presses the mouthpiece to his coat and speaks to the man holding him. All three of his companions immediately begin scanning the crowd. I step back farther into the shadows, watching. The man holding Dmitri says something to him, shaking his arm for emphasis.

  “They are menti,” Dmitri says, talking into the phone again. “Police. You will be meeting them now or have big trouble.”

  The little prick. Punching the disconnect button, I walk toward the nearest stairwell, forcing myself not to run. I don’t know why a bunch of Russian cops are interested in talking to me, but the bandage on Dmitri’s face persuades me that these aren’t guys I want to meet. Maybe they aren’t even really cops. Either way, I have to get out of here right now. Tugging my hat down over my ears, I fall into step next to a bag-laden woman on the ground floor and ask directions to the Metro. She’s Italian, her English uncertain, and we exit GUM together, conversing as we cross Red Square. My heart hammers as I listen for footsteps or shouting behind me. I turn left randomly as we pass the Historical Museum, ignoring my companion’s admonition that I’m going the wrong way.

  The good news is that Dmitri doesn’t know my real name. The bad news occurs to me a split second later: He knows I was going to see Emily, who does know my name. Pulling Andrei’s cell phone from my pocket, I start to dial Emily’s number and then stop. I used the phone to call Dmitri; if the guys with him are cops, they might be able to track the cellular signal. Reluctantly dumping the phone in a nearby garbage can, I look around for a pay phone. There’s an enormous stained-glass dome t
o my left, the apex crowned by a spotlit statue of Saint George slaying the dragon. The dome was on the cover of the hotel magazine; it’s the cupola of an underground shopping mall. Descending a flight of stairs, I locate a newsstand that can sell me a phone card, then waste five minutes trying to figure out which digits of Emily’s number to dial or omit.

  “Dr. Anderson,” she says when she answers.

  “It’s Peter,” I say, relieved to reach her. “Can you talk?”

  “I don’t have anything else to tell you right now.”

  “Just listen for a second,” I say rapidly. “Dmitri and I were supposed to meet. He brought along a bunch of guys. They might have been cops, and they tried to grab me. Dmitri doesn’t know my last name, but he knows I was going to see you. I don’t want these guys to find out who I am before I’ve figured out what they want.”

  “Are you okay right now?” she asks calmly.

  “As far as I know,” I reply, registering her lack of surprise.

  “Go to the U.S. Embassy. If the police want to interview you, the embassy will arrange it. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. You don’t know anything.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m on my way to the airport. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They can use the local cops to hassle you, but the clinic’s protected. They can’t touch me.”

  “ ‘They’?”

  Ten seconds tick by. She lied to me. She knows exactly who these guys are and why they’re trying to grab me. I was a fool to fall for her down-home innocent act.

  “I can’t talk about it, Peter,” she says quietly.

  “You told me you didn’t know anything,” I reply coldly. “The ‘they’ you mentioned might be the same people who murdered my wife. I’d appreciate it if you did talk about it.”

  “I made a call for you. I might have something to tell you after I land.”

  I struggle silently against my temper, realizing I’m not going to get anywhere by shouting at her on the phone. The Bakelite receiver I’m holding feels like it weighs fifty pounds. I wipe sweat from it onto my coat and put it back to my ear.

  “Where are you going?”

  “New York. I should be able to call you in about twelve hours.”

  I glance at my wrist automatically, then curse the little fuck who took my watch. “What about Vladimir?” I ask. “What will he tell the cops?”

  “Nothing. No one at the clinic will talk to the police without my okay. You should go to the embassy right now. You’ll be safe there.”

  The advice Tilling received from the old cop pops into my head. Never trust anyone who’s already lied to you once.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go to the embassy. Will I be able to call you in New York?”

  “Yes. My cell phone works there.”

  “We’ll talk soon.”

  I hang up. To hell with the embassy. I haven’t got any friends in Moscow, and I’m not about to throw myself on the mercy of some junior diplomat. I tap my pockets, reassuring myself that I’ve got my passport. My hand brushes against the data CD I made at Andrei’s apartment and I swear silently. I can’t risk losing Andrei’s files.

  I trot down a central circular staircase, checking out the shops. There’s an Internet café on the lowest floor. A longhaired boy with a plastic spider hanging from his earlobe sets me up at a workstation in a Lucite-winged cubicle, cheerfully changing the operating language to English in exchange for a hundred-ruble tip.

  Opening a browser window, I create a new e-mail account on Yahoo, insert the CD into the workstation’s optical drive, and mail the files to myself at the new address. After confirming the files are in my in-box, I remove the CD, scratch the entire readable surface with a coin, and then bend it in half. The CD snaps with a bang, projecting a flurry of silver foil skyward. Neighboring customers look over curiously. I sweep most of the foil off the floor and dump it in a trash can as I leave.

  The Moskova Hotel is just opposite the mall. Finding a pay phone in the lobby, I call Dmitri. It’s been about forty minutes since I saw him at GUM.

  “Allo.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Fuck your mother,” he says, sounding exhausted.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “You bringed the fucking menti to Andrei’s flat.”

  “You didn’t call them?”

  “Fuck no, you stupid fuckhead fuck. You used Andrei’s phone. They were listening.”

  Shit. What did I say to Katya? That I was in Andrei’s apartment, and that I thought Andrei’s disappearance might be linked to Jenna’s murder.

  “Did you hear them say anything else?”

  “Fuck off, you.” He hangs up. It’s time for me to leave Moscow.

  The bellman out front flags a taxi for me. The cabbie doesn’t speak any English, but he recognizes the phrase “Domodedovo Airport.” If I hustle, I might be able to catch Emily’s flight.

  19

  THE ONLY FLIGHT TO NEW YORK without an overnight layover was British Airways connecting through London. I walk the length of the plane twice after we’ve taken off. Emily isn’t on board. She might have flown out of Sheremetyevo, the other airport. I settle into my seat, disappointed and exhausted, and ring the call button for an attendant.

  An aproned steward with a clipped mustache brings me two Laphroaig miniatures, a glass smelling of his cologne, and a dish of cashews. I rinse the glass in the lavatory sink, shoot the minis, and press the call button again, ordering two more. The alcohol hits me instantly, my head buzzing and stomach lurching. I can’t remember when I last ate, and I spent the dregs of my adrenaline in the passport-control line, attempting to look bored while a pimply teenage officer tapped my details into his computer. I’ve started trembling so badly that I have to brace my forearms against the tray table to pour the third and fourth minis without spilling them. Downing the liquor, I settle back in my seat and try to think.

  Even setting aside the possibility that Emily will put me in touch with Andrei, I’ve got three solid leads. First, she knows who was chasing me and, once we’re in New York, I can probably get Tilling to persuade her to be more forthcoming. Second, there’s the man with the Felix the Cat tattoo. Tilling’s likely identified him by now. And third, I may well get some answers from Andrei’s files after I’ve had them decrypted. My one regret is not having at least attempted to question Vladimir. If Andrei really did do something wrong, my guess is that Vladimir’s involved right up to his thick neck.

  I should be energized by the prospect of so much to follow up on, but I feel just as desperate and confused as I did when I had my father’s gun in my mouth. The more I learn, the more I’m forced to confront questions I don’t want to approach. Why would Andrei have lied to me? What secrets has he been keeping? And is it really possible that he’s somehow responsible for Jenna’s murder? I ring the call button and order another couple of drinks. I always thought all a guy needed to get through life was a few good friends. Jenna’s dead, Katya’s written me off, and I don’t know what to think about Andrei. Tigger’s all I have left.

  Glancing sideways, I see a small brown hand snatch a cashew from my bowl. The seat next to me is occupied by a dark Asian girl flying as an unaccompanied minor, a ward of the cabin staff, all of whom seem to be ignoring her. She looks to be about eight, and has a plastic packet of paperwork hanging from a string around her neck. Realizing I’ve busted her, she tucks her chin to her chest, staring fixedly at her bright yellow sneakers. I nudge the bowl toward her and she squeezes her eyes shut, making herself invisible. I turn my head to look out the window, watching her reflection in the filmy plastic panel. A minute passes. Fingers darting, she steals another nut.

  The steward brings me a single mini, telling me apologetically that they’ve run out of Laphroaig. More likely he’s cutting me off. I ask for a refill of the cashews, gulp the scotch, and glance at my wrist yet again, too slow to catch myself. I wonder what Jenna would have said about the Gypsy boy who stole
her gift to me. That he was only a thief because no one like us ever took him in and cosseted him? That with a little loving attention he could have become the child we were never able to have—captain of the swim team, president of the Environmental Awareness club, and an Ivy League legacy?

  Leaning my head against the window, I close my eyes. The infertility treatments were tough on my relationship with Jenna, a multiyear cycle of false hopes and cruel disappointments. She threw herself into work after each failure, spending progressively less time at home. The technology kept getting better, though, and we only needed to be lucky once. This past spring, we made it as far as the fourth month. I was in Singapore when she miscarried, blood soaking her dress during a court appearance. It took me a full day to get home to her. I held Jenna while she cried, and swore not to leave the country after her next round of implantations.

  True to pattern, Jenna kept so busy preparing for a major lawsuit during the next few months that I barely saw her. I was almost relieved when she suggested counseling one night. I could live without children, but not without her. The candidates she proposed were Father Winowski or the shrink she’d begun seeing recently, an Indian woman named Subrahmanyan. I opted for the shrink as the lesser of two evils, the notion of discussing my marriage with a religious celibate too ludicrous to contemplate. All the same, when the time for our first appointment rolled around, my resentment at airing our shortcomings to a third party was barely containable.

  Subrahmanyan’s office was two small rooms on the ground floor of an Upper West Side apartment building, with a view onto a barren interior courtyard. A short, energetic woman, she had a prominent mole on her chin.

  “This is Dr. S., Peter,” Jenna said, introducing us.

  “Peter,” she said liltingly. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I replied, scanning the diplomas on her office wall. “Tell me, are you a medical doctor, or do you have a Ph.D.?”