by Barbara Ross
“Why were you on the island?” Binder asked. “You’re not open for business today.”
I told them about the journal and the Russians and what Alex had told me. The room was silent. Everyone was listening to me. “This man, Alex, who’s been helping me, is in danger,” I said. “You have to go out there and save him.”
“We will,” Binder said. “Just a couple more questions.”
A man I didn’t recognize put on gloves and came to take the journal from me. He lifted the notebook out of my tote and put it in a plastic bag.
“You handled it.” Binder nodded toward the journal.
“I did. Alex did. My cousin Tallulah and my cousin Marguerite did. And maybe my mom. And maybe Floradale Thayer. I can’t remember.”
“We’ll talk about this later. The Russians were on the island when you left,” Binder confirmed.
“Yes, though that was”—I glanced at the clock on the wall—“thirty minutes ago.”
A woman was in the corner of the room, talking on the phone in a low voice, no doubt coordinating with the Marine Patrol, the harbormaster, and the Coast Guard.
“Please wait out in the reception area,” Binder directed. “Call Chris. Tell him you’re here and you’re fine. Don’t give him any details. Tell him you’ll call him when he can pick you up.” As I left, I saw the man who had been at the whiteboard step to the middle of the room.
Minutes later they charged out of the multipurpose room. Through the glass front door of the station house, I watched as some of them ran for the town pier. Others headed in the direction of Bayview Street. A few stayed at the station to coordinate, but no one I knew. I sat on the hard wooden bench across from Marge and waited.
* * *
It was almost dark when the part of the group that had gone out to the island returned. They went into the multipurpose room and closed the door. Most of the agents who’d gone to Bayview Street had been back for a while, but no one would tell me anything. Finally, Flynn called me inside.
He introduced me to the man who had been at the whiteboard, Special Agent-in-Charge Winton. The man sat, hands folded on the hard plastic top of the table. Lieutenant Binder was in the chair next to him. “Please join us, Ms. Snowden,” Agent Winton said. I sat across from him. Flynn sat next to me.
“Thank you for your help today,” Winton started.
“Was there a body in the channel?” They’d been gone so long there must have been. “Was it Dmitri?”
“It was Special Agent Daniel Petrov, working undercover as Dmitri Mikhailov. He had infiltrated the demo crew because we had credible information they were human smugglers.”
I could barely process what they were telling me. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Thank you, for your condolences and for spotting his body and reporting it today. He could have been there much longer if not for your eagle eyes.” Winton sounded sincere.
“It was low tide when I was there. I got lucky. I wasn’t looking.”
“Understood, but you brought your suspicions to us,” he said. “You also brought the journal to us. We have a Ukrainian speaker available to the team and we’ve already had it translated.”
I waited, hoping he would tell me how the journal had been important.
Eventually, he did. “We have been on the trail of the Russian you know as Joe for a long time. He’s a naturalized US citizen who appears to run a legitimate business doing challenging demolition jobs all over New England. However he also has a side business smuggling people into the United States.”
“Human trafficking,” I said.
“There is no doubt that some of the people Joe has brought in are ensnared in the sex trade or placed in forms of servitude that amount to slavery. Others like the young woman who wrote in the journal are simply desperate to get into the United States for their own reasons.”
“What were hers?”
“Here’s what we know about her.” He opened his hands and laid them flat on the table. “Her name is Sofiya Makarenko. She is Ukrainian. During the civil war in Ukraine her family was endangered and applied to come to the west as refugees. Sofiya’s mother suffered from advanced breast cancer, so mother and daughter were accepted into a UN program that resettles people with serious medical issues. They went to Canada. The rest of the family, Sofiya’s aunt, uncle, and cousins, were brought to the United States by a program that fast-tracks immigration by Christians in former Soviet Bloc countries. Unknown to both Canadian and US officials at the time, Sofiya was actually raised mostly by her aunt because her mother had been sick and was undergoing treatment on and off throughout most of Sofiya’s life. When her mother finally succumbed to the disease late last year, Sofiya felt isolated in Canada. She was still a Ukrainian citizen. She applied for a visa to travel to the US but ultimately decided not to wait for it to come through. It would be a temporary travel visa if she got it, in any case. Her plan was to stay.”
During the telling Agent Winton had switched from using “Ms. Makarenko” to “Sofiya,” and I felt he had some sympathy for the young woman. He didn’t glance at any notes. He knew her story.
“She decided not to wait. Contacts in the community put her in touch with Joe. She paid him everything she could put her hands on, almost twenty thousand dollars, to bring her into the US.
“We’d had our eyes on Joe for a long time. We believe he used to bring people in via a boat he owned to downeast Maine just over the border, and then overland from there. In the last couple of years that’s been more difficult, and we picked up a few of his customers.”
I nodded to show I understood. Regulations allowed the Border Patrol to put checkpoints up to a hundred miles from all land and coastal borders, which encompassed the entire state of Maine. They’d set up regularly on Route 95 in Penobscot County, snarling traffic and aggravating people just trying to get around. They also patrolled the bus stations and train stations.
“We knew Joe had switched to bringing people farther down the coast,” Agent Winton continued. “Someone was meeting up with his boats at sea and taking his clients to Portland or even farther south. For a long time we had no suspicions as to whom. It’s a big ocean.
“By that time, Special Agent Petrov had gone undercover as a part of Joe’s demo crew. When they came back to Busman’s Harbor for the third time in a year, we got very interested. It could have been that Mark Cochran was giving them lots of legitimate work, but Agent Petrov believed there was more to it.
“Once he got to the harbor, in what little spare time Joe gave him, Agent Petrov hung out at the marina looking for boat owners who might be working for Joe. It wasn’t hard to spot Jason Caraway and his big boat. He didn’t seem like much of a lobsterman. He came and went at strange hours. Often he appeared to have been away overnight. Based on the information Agent Petrov developed, we got a warrant and began looking into Caraway’s finances.”
“Did Jason know you were on to him?”
“Doubtful. We hadn’t got far and we certainly hadn’t brought him in for questioning,” Winton said. “By that point we’d identified all the parts of the operation, Joe’s contacts in Canada, Caraway the transport, and Joe himself and his crew, handling the financial transactions and the logistics, and taking the lion’s share of the money.”
“And then the storm came.” I had figured that part out.
“Exactly. Terrible timing if ever there was—for us and for Sofiya Makarenko. Caraway set out to get her in fine weather. Even though the storm existed, it was predicted to pass much farther to the east when he left. But then it turned and headed straight for the Maine coast. Caraway realized he’d never make it farther south to whatever harbor town where they’d arranged to let Sofiya off. He headed to Morrow Island and left the girl there. Then he limped into Busman’s Harbor, getting in at the last possible moment.”
“Why did he leave her on the island?”
“We think he figured the marina would be bustling with people securing their boats before t
he storm and she’d certainly be seen. By the same token, he couldn’t stay out on Morrow Island himself. As a divorced man, he was free to come and go, but with a major storm coming, someone was sure to check if he was okay, particularly if his boat was missing. They would probably raise the alarm and get out the Coast Guard, the last thing he wanted.”
“I’m sure he wanted the Money Honey in a safe port as well,” I said.
“Quite so.” Winton shifted on the uncomfortable chairs.
“Jason’s ex-wife, Pru, found a carryall with a woman’s clothing in it aboard the Money Honey after the storm,” I told the men. “She described the contents as ‘intimate things.’”
“Probably whatever Sofiya could carry discreetly,” Agent Winton said. “Where are these things now? There was nothing on Caraway’s boat when we searched it after he was killed.”
“Check with Pru Caraway,” I told him. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she chucked them into the harbor. She thought they belonged to someone Jason was sleeping with.”
That almost brought a smile to Agent Winton’s face, but he was exhausted and he’d lost a colleague. He went on. “We know from her writing in the journal, when the storm hit, it was terrifying for Sofiya. She took refuge in the hidden room. It was the only room that was furnished and the single, high window made her feel protected from the storm. Caraway hadn’t left her with food or water and at the height of the storm she was afraid to go to look for any. She had no idea when or if he was coming back. She cried and prayed and wrote in the journal.
“When the storm cleared, she waited, but the seas were still high. She did find the pavilion and drank from the water cooler in the dining room. There wasn’t any food around, only ingredients. She ate the packaged cookies in the gift shop, the ones shaped like lobsters.”
“My mother thought the inventory was light. Where is Sofiya now?” I asked.
“We don’t know. The ballpoint ran out of ink and she stopped recording what had happened.”
“Did Joe kill Jason?”
Agent Winton ducked his head. “We believe so.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Our working theory is Sofiya left the island somehow. Either she swam for it, or she was able to flag down a passing boat. We don’t think she completed the journey with Caraway. We believe that nevertheless, Caraway demanded his cut from Joe. Caraway had gotten Sofiya into the US. He’d fulfilled his end of the bargain. A fight developed and Caraway threatened to inform on Joe, or something similar. It got him killed.”
“What about Agent Petrov?” I asked.
“We believe he may have tried to intervene in Caraway’s murder. As a law enforcement professional, he wouldn’t have stood by while someone was murdered, no matter what they had done.”
“Or,” I said, “while bargaining for his life, Jason told Joe that Agent Petrov was law enforcement, and that’s what got him killed.”
“Why do you say that?” Winton was clearly surprised.
“They recognized each other at the clambake the day before the murder. I saw them exchange a look. Each was startled to see the other. I told Lieutenant Binder and Sergeant Flynn about it. I think, based on what you’ve told me, Jason had seen Agent Petrov at the marina, maybe even realized he was an agent. Jason was shocked when he saw him with Joe’s crew, but probably thought the information might come in handy later.”
“She did tell us about that look,” Binder confirmed. “That could have been what happened.”
“Why did they leave Jason’s body under the woodpile, but put Agent Petrov’s in the channel?” I asked.
“We think they wanted Caraway’s body to be found. As a member of the community, Jason would be missed. Joe had observed the fight between Jason and Terry Durand and he thought it might take us off the track.” Winton cleared his throat. “Agent Petrov, on the other hand, they hoped we’d never find.”
“So the dogs you brought to the island weren’t looking for the murder weapon.” I had figured that part out.
Winton shook his head. “Cadaver dogs. They didn’t find him because he was in the water.”
“Where are the Russians now?” I asked.
“They were gone from the island when we got there. The Coast Guard picked them up headed for the next peninsula. They weren’t going to get very far very fast in the tub they were in.”
“Was there a skinny, young guy with them?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“I don’t have descriptions,” Winton answered, “but there were five of them.”
Thank goodness. “I believe the one named Alex wasn’t involved in any of it, not the human smuggling or the murders.”
“We’ll determine that.” Agent Winton was all business.
I didn’t know what would happen to Alex, but at least he was alive. “And Sofiya?” I asked.
“We don’t know. She may be on the move. She may have drowned. If she shows up at her aunt’s house, we’ll be there.” He paused. “We’ll need you to come back in the morning to make a formal statement, about where you found the journal, how you spotted Agent Petrov’s body, all of it.” Winton stood. Our talk was at an end.
Flynn walked down the hallway and surprised me by giving me a hug before he sent me out into the night. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “I called Chris to come and get you.”
“I will.” My throat closed and the emotions of the day flooded over me.
Chris was in his truck, waiting at the curb. He jumped out when he saw me and met me on the walk. I was in his arms before I started to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Later that evening, Terry came up the stairs into our studio apartment. I was resting on the couch but I got up so we were all standing, awkwardly and spaced apart. Terry wore a wool red and black checked shirt as a jacket. I recognized it as an old one of Chris’s.
Terry stared at his work boots. “Julia, I’ve come to say thank you. Lieutenant Binder has let me know Jason’s death was related to something he was into that had nothing to do with me, or any old scores we had to settle, or with Emmy. Chris said you would help me and you did.”
I was moved. This wasn’t easy for him. “I’m not sure I did help. As you say, it had nothing to do with you.”
“Chris told me you found the body and the notebook with the foreign writing. You had figured out enough of what was going on to know what the notebook meant. Don’t say you did nothing. I owe you a lot. I want to do something for you. I don’t have any money, but I can do you a favor. Name it.”
My eyes met Chris’s across the room. He gestured toward Terry. “This is between you and him.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the offer very much,” I said to Terry. “I give my favor to Chris.”
They both laughed. “Oh, man,” Terry said. “What does this mean? What do you want, little brother?”
The mood had lightened when they’d laughed but immediately turned serious again. Chris’s face said he wasn’t joking. “I want you to go to Emmy. I want you to compare your memories and determine if you could be Vanessa’s father.”
“What if she doesn’t want to sit down with me, a guy she hardly knows, and compare our histories of nights barely remembered?”
“She’ll do it,” Chris said, “because you’ll explain to her why it’s important.”
Terry’s eyes widened. He knew what Chris meant.
“If it is possible,” Chris continued, “if you could have crossed paths, I want you to take a paternity test, to be sure. And if you are Vanessa’s father, I want you to take the Huntington’s test and share the results with Emmy, so she knows. So she, and eventually Vanessa, can be prepared for the future.”
“You haven’t taken a test.” Terry’s temper flared and I thought for a moment he might back out of the whole thing.
“I’m not a father,” Chris said quietly. “If I was, or if I thought I might become one”—he looked across the room at me—“I would take it in a heartbeat. I don’t expect a cure in my lifetime.
Maybe not even an effective treatment. If I’ve got it, I’ll show symptoms soon. But Vanessa’s eleven years old. You don’t know what could happen. If a cure comes, she may not seek testing or treatment before it’s too late if she has no idea she might have the gene.”
Chris’s logic was irrefutable. Terry, who had closed his arms over his chest when Chris started talking, dropped them to his sides. “Okay. I agree. I’ll find Emmy and we’ll have the conversation. But if I need to take the Huntington’s test, I’m going to do it in Florida.” The Huntington’s test would take months. There was mandatory counseling before the test could be given and more before the results would be released.
“You’re leaving town?” Chris hadn’t expected it.
“If all this has taught me anything, it’s there’s nothing for me here,” Terry said. “It’s too complicated, too much history.”
“I thought you were going to help me work on the cabin.” Chris was plainly hurt.
“Better to get a clean start.” Terry smiled. “Besides I think you might need the cabin soon.” He looked around the studio and then at me. “This place might get too small. And it’s time for me to see Mom. The last chance. Cherie’s already there.”
“You’ve talked to Cherie?” Chris was astonished.
“She wrote to me in prison, regular, and I wrote back. She moved down to help your dad five years ago. She visits Mom in the . . . place where she is.”
“Last I heard she was in San Diego.” Chris had been the one who stayed home, lost his chance at college so Cherie could finish high school. As far as he knew, she wasn’t in touch with any of them. He didn’t say it, but I could feel his pain. If she’d reached out, it should have been to him.
“Mom won’t know you,” Chris said. “She won’t even know you’re there.”
Terry nodded to show he understood. “But I’ll know I’m there. That’s what’s important.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saturday morning, the family gathered at Mom’s house to say good-bye to Marguerite and Tallulah. Chris would drive them to Portland to meet the train. Tallulah’s husband, Jake, would meet them at North Station in Boston and see them home.