by Abbott, Jeff
Best, Grant Pollitt
He wonders if the man might delete the email as soon as he reads it, as the laughter of his legitimate children sounds in the background. The soft voice of his wife asking him when he’d be done on the computer, to come curl up on the couch together with them, to watch a movie. Or he’d read it in his office or on his phone and, embarrassed, trash it immediately and never answer.
Grant presses send. The little stupid whooshing sound does its business, and he stares at his in-box, waiting for an answer. After a moment he shuts down the screen.
* * *
The alert comes, waking him from a deep sleep where he dreams of snow. An email notification on his phone screen. He taps it.
Hello, Grant. Yes, I am your biological father. It’s nice to hear from you, but as I am sure you understand, you are still legally a child and so I cannot just contact you without your parents knowing or permission. But I hope they will forgive me as I can tell you are scared or tense in your email and I want to put your mind at ease. One of the pictures you sent does mean something to me.
The photo of the woman in the rain is Anya, as I called her. Your birth mother, Anna Averina. She was a model in Saint Petersburg and then Paris for a short while, where I met her and knew her well. Yes, it’s a stock photo, but it is her in it. That was the work she did there. Then she came home to Russia. She was homesick and had problems. She was sick in the mind. I don’t know who the pictures of the house and of the cat belong to. Those mean nothing to me. They are not of places where I knew Anya to live, but I only knew her in Saint Petersburg and a little in Paris where I met her and my work took me. She came back to Russia when I did, but I was married, and my wife and I worked out our problems and got back together. This made Anya sad especially after she found out she was pregnant. She decided to have the baby (you) and to give it up. I was not part of her decision, but I do believe she did the right thing and am glad you were taken by an American family. It was all for the best. I wish you well.
Grant reads the email and then writes back: Where is Anya my mother now? Why would she send me these pictures with no explanation?
He almost does not expect an answer, but he gets one five minutes later: I do not know answers to your question and we cannot talk again.
Something cold snaps in Grant. He writes: Yes, you will tell me. If I can find you, I can find your wife and your sons—my brothers. Do they know about me? Maybe they would like to know. I want to know who would send me these pictures. Is it her?
The email comes faster than he expects: My wife knows about you. I did not send those pictures. I can’t think of anyone who would.
Grant responds: What about my mother?
I don’t know where she is and I cannot contact her. She asked me to never contact her again. I have respected that.
Did you ever meet my American parents? he asks suddenly. After all, the Sender said his parents were lying to him. What could they have lied to him about except his adoption? Everything else pales.
The in-box stays empty for five minutes, and he feels his nerves begin to tense up. Then the answer comes: Yes. Briefly. They came to see me one time. Before your hearing. They were concerned your mother Anya wanted you back. They wanted me to help them complete the adoption by keeping Anya away.
They had seen her, Grant guesses. He types that.
Yes. They saw her. She had caused problems at the orphanage. They were afraid of her changing her mind. She had an earlier child, had given it up, wanted it back, and gave it up again. They were afraid she would do the same to you.
Somehow, although it was forbidden, his parents had encountered his birth mother and father both in Russia. And lied about that to him. And now Danielle is dead. He feels a sick twist settle into his stomach. He stares out into the darkness beyond the window.
He types and sends: So she wouldn’t send these pictures to me? You say one is of her. Is she trying to find me?
A terrible dark thought comes to him. Danielle is dead. Someone, maybe his biological mother, is sending pictures to him from a Russian server. And his family is, at the same time, completely falling apart. Is it that Danielle’s death is unraveling them, or is there a deeper danger? But that can’t be. All of the terrible things that have befallen his family cannot be under the control of a woman back in Russia.
What if she’s not back in Russia? What if she’s here? Putting gifts for you in the tree.
Grant’s throat feels thick. No answering email yet. He writes again: Would she try to hurt us? Is she angry?
The longest two minutes of his life tick by. He is about to give up when the message appears: I called her the day of the court hearing for your adoption and she told me she was not going to give you up and she would stop you from being taken to America. But then I never heard from her again. I decided she changed her mind or lost her courage.
Something in the answer…in the words…frightens him. What would his parents have done?
I can’t be involved. She was never well. She gave up the first child TWICE because she was unstable and she should have never had another one. I don’t mean that against you. It was just how it was with her. She would say unwell things to me. People were after her. People were coming for her. All in her imagination. I have to go now. We cannot talk again.
Grant writes: Can you put me in touch with her family? Her parents?
He sends the message, and he sits and waits, but there is no answer. There is never an answer.
So Grant sends a note to the Sender: Is this Anya? Are you my mother?
64
Iris
The Marble Hills apartment complex is so 1970s in its look, Iris thinks it could be named Macrame Hills. Two stories, built of dark stone and arched wooden doors all facing the parking lot, with old-fashioned numbers on brass plates. Maybe twenty apartments, ten on each floor. She parks and stands by her car, wondering if the police have already connected Marland to this place. Did he even rent it under his name?
There’s a manager’s office, but a sign says no one’s in at the moment.
Iris waits ten minutes and then a car pulls in cautiously to the steep parking lot, a young woman finding a spot for her truck. She glances at Iris with a moment of curiosity.
Iris puts on a friendly smile. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a friend who lives here. I don’t know which unit is his.”
The young woman raises an eyebrow. “I’m kind of new. I don’t know everyone.”
“He’s tall, handsome, early forties, dark haired, professor glasses.”
“Ah. The night owl. He lives in number ten.” She points to the far end of the apartment wing.
“Oh. Thanks.”
The woman gives her another glance and Iris walks to number ten. She waits for the woman to go inside her apartment.
She hopes the new neighbor is right. There’s no key hidden under the mat or on the doorframe. Of course not. She walks past the corner of the building, heading toward the back. Each apartment has a small balcony and his, being on the end, means she can crawl over the railing without being noticed. Beyond his patio the ground gives way to a further slope and downward to a creek that leads down to the lakeshore, so no one will see her unless they’re walking to the lake.
She glances, but there’s no one on the other balconies. She kneels by the balcony door. It’s locked. She grabs a rock and smashes the glass. And then again and again. It gives way. It’s hugely loud. Anyone who is home in this wing is probably going to hear it. She doesn’t care. Enough of the glass gives way that she crawls through, taking care not to cut herself.
The apartment is empty. It doesn’t look as though the police have been here yet. There’s a compact living room, with a small flat-screen TV. Cheap furniture that doesn’t match, and not much of it. Like a waystation. She goes past the extremely tidy kitchen, past the dining nook with its one chair at the small table. She finds the bedroom—also immaculately tidy. The bed is made. The closet has three changes of
clothing, all hanging together. Organized. She searches the nightstand and its drawers. In the bottom is a Glock nine-millimeter pistol. She doesn’t touch it. She peers under the mattress. Nothing. Back to the closet. Nothing. She goes into the kitchen. It’s spotless. A single skillet, only a couple of plates. For a man who ran drugs, this is very sparse. That means it’s here for a purpose. But there’s no laptop, no convenient folder of papers or receipts to show her Marland’s associates.
She keeps searching. The police might be on their way if someone heard her breaking the glass; but so far no one has come to investigate either.
The refrigerator is also painfully tidy and bare; a carton of milk, pimento cheese spread, a loaf of bread, butter, packaged salad. The freezer has a neat stack of frozen dinners. And on the bottom of the stack, a box of waffles.
She starts to shut the door, then stops. She can see the expiration date on the waffles: three months ago. She has a thing for expiration dates, as Julia refuses to eat anything that’s past one. She reaches in for the package. Inside aren’t waffles but another Glock and two tidy stacks of cash and a phone. And three passports. All with Marland’s picture, but under three different names and countries: Belgium, Canada, Panama. She takes it all, even the money, stuffing the gun, cash, and phone into her coat pocket.
Who was this man? She feels cold, and not from the open freezer.
There’s nothing else for her here.
She goes back through the broken door, careful not to cut herself.
She climbs the slope back to her car. Two women are standing by the truck that pulled in, one was the woman who told her which apartment was Marland’s.
“Were you down there? Did you hear glass breaking?” the woman asks.
“Yes. I did.” Iris doesn’t stop. She gets in her car, and the two women are looking at her. One lifts her phone and takes a picture.
Iris waves and drives off.
65
Kyle
Kyle’s in the interview room again, waiting for Ponder and Ames. Or his lawyer. Or his wife. He’s not sure. No one has told him why he is back here.
He’s scared they’re going to tell him that Julia is dead.
They’ve told him about Julia’s apparent suicide attempt. He cannot believe it, that their lives have fallen apart so completely so quickly. They let him talk briefly to his lawyer, who updated him on Julia regaining consciousness, but he doesn’t know any more.
And now they’ve pulled him from his cell and made him wait, when a woman comes in.
Alone. The woman sits down across from him. He glances at the door and sees Ames standing there. Then the detective shuts the door.
This woman looks vaguely familiar but he can’t place her. Grayish blue eyes, tiny mole on her cheek, slightly crooked front tooth.
“Hello, Mr. Pollitt. It’s been a long time.”
“Do I know you?”
“We never formally met. I spoke to your wife, not to you.” Her voice is soft, with a slight New England accent. She’s in a somber gray suit, her hair pulled back, minimal jewelry.
Now he sees it. He knows her.
Iris called her “the warning woman.” The one who made Iris nearly lose her mind in the London airport. The one who told them to go home.
“In London,” he says, stunned.
“Yes. And also in Saint Petersburg, but I don’t think Iris ever told you about our meeting there, did she?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Things might have been so different if she had.”
“What—what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help you. But I need to know information.”
“Who are you?”
“If you want to help your family, we won’t spend time on your questions. Do you understand me?”
“No! What is going on…?”
“Do you understand me?”
He stops. He looks at her. Somehow she has gotten into this room, with the blessing of the police. “Yes.”
“Did you kill Danielle? There is nothing to gain from a lie.”
He wonders if Ponder is watching. “No. I didn’t.”
“Why did you say you did?”
“I thought…I thought I would be protecting someone.”
“Iris?”
“Yes.”
“She had a motive to kill Danielle, as did you. You’ve had a motive for a while.”
He doesn’t want to say it, but finally he does. “But we didn’t.”
“Did Danielle ever tell you what really happened in Russia?”
“What really…?” He stops, waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t. So he can only give one answer. “No. I guess she didn’t.”
She slides a phone to him. “Call your wife. Tell her to collect your son and go to an address I’m going to give you. We will meet them there.”
He slides the phone back. “I’m not telling her to go anywhere with you until you tell me what is happening.”
“I can do that, but I cannot do it here. Not here.” He realizes she means not here in the jail.
“Well, I can’t go anywhere right now,” he says.
“They will release you into my custody.”
“Who are you?” Kyle asks.
She doesn’t answer him. She waits. She glances at the phone she’s tried to give him.
Kyle takes a deep breath. “I need you to explain.”
“And I need you to trust me and to call your wife.” The warning woman’s voice is even and strong.
Kyle stares at her, trying to decide. Realizing this might be the most important decision of his life.
66
Iris
“He says you know how to break into computers and stuff,” Iris says to Peter. “Can you break into this phone?”
She’s phoned Peter and he’s reluctantly let her come over to his house. At the front door she gives him an awkward hug, and she notices he doesn’t hug her back.
“Grant was here a bit ago. Dad’s been checking in on him. But he went back home.”
“Can you do this quickly?”
“Yes. I don’t like sounding like a criminal,” Peter says. But he examines the phone, turning it over on its back.
“What?”
“I’m looking to see if it’s modified in any way,” Peter says. “Whose is it?”
She can’t say It belongs to the man Julia is accused of killing. “Someone who I think could clear my daughter’s name.”
His eyes widen. “Then this is police evidence. Take it to them.”
“Well, here’s the deal, Peter. I stole it.”
Peter stares at her for a moment. “This is a mistake.”
“Those people, whoever’s behind this, this is who killed Danielle. Please help me with this.”
Peter sighs but takes the phone and disappears into a back room. He pauses at the door and says, “It’s better you don’t know what I do.” And then the door closes and Iris sits down to wait.
She texts Grant. There’s no immediate answer, and considering that half her family is in dire trouble, this unsettles her.
She wishes she could talk to Kyle and Julia just in that moment. To let them know she is fighting for them, fighting against whatever darkness spread its wings across their lives.
Grant texts her back: I’m fine. Where are you?
She says back: OK I’ll be home soon.
Grant says: something’s wrong with my phone battery.
And then nothing more.
She waits for a few more minutes.
Her phone rings, but it’s not a number she recognizes, so she doesn’t answer it, and she tucks her phone away as Peter comes back down the hall.
“I got into it,” he simply says. “There’s no email on it, and only a few contacts and texts. I don’t know any of these names. Do they mean anything to you?”
She looks at the text list. A note Marland sent to NF—presumably Ned Frimpong. Asking for a meeting, making promises. Things they wouldn’
t have said in the game because that might have been on the game companies’ servers.
And another series of texts.
To ANYA.
The name freezes her on the spot. She stares at it, as though it is a ghost that has taken form. It can’t be. Anya is dead, killed by Danielle, left dead and cold in the Russian winter. She makes a noise in her throat and her chest, and Peter reaches out and touches her. Iris flinches. She turns away from him.
To Anya: I’ve made contact with NF. Have a sense now of the size of the operation he’s running. It’s small, just trading prescription drugs among friends. R U sure you’re interested?
Anya, to Marland: Yes. Make his operation bigger. Supply him. I want it to start to attract attention.
Marland, to Anya: All right it’s your money. Will see how JP is involved.
Anya, to Marland: If she’s not involved, make her involved. Draw her in. Or make it look like she’s involved.
JP, Iris thinks. Julia Pollitt. A few days later, another spate of texts:
Marland, to Anya: JP knows about NF’s operation, he told her; I listened in via the microphone on his regular cell. She tried to talk him out of doing this, he didn’t listen, and he tried to get her involved because I told NF I’d double the payments if he got a student no one would suspect to be involved, as a front. She said no. But she hasn’t called the police, Ned and she were at a movie, he asked to borrow her phone to make a call, passed it to me outside the theater, I hacked it to monitor her calls. She has not called the police on him. He uses this game so many of the kids play as a code and a messenger system. Various drugs have nicknames tied to the game “Critterscape.” I’m sure he thinks he’s being super clever but it’s generating a record of communications we can use.
Anya, to Marland: Whatever it takes. Does his mother know about his activities?
Marland: Not that I can determine.