Hide in Place

by Emilya Naymark

  Alfie pressed the man’s body closer, buried his face in his neck. He knew no words of sympathy, no comforting platitudes. But he recognized pain and he offered solace through acceptance, because even though Owen had kidnapped him and locked him away and was obviously unhinged, his sorrow was a clean, clear thing, an understandable thing, and Alfie would never withhold comfort from someone who needed it.

  They stood like that for a long time, swaying gently to relieve their weight from one foot to the other. The branch stopped smoking. The fire in the stove’s belly died, leaving gray wood and lumpy ash behind. Owen dropped his arms and let them hang on either side of Alfie’s, then lowered his head so his chin rested on the boy’s crown.

  “My son needed a father,” Owen said. “Every boy needs a father to keep him in line. To set an example. Otto needed that more than most.”

  Alfie released his hold and extricated himself, then slumped to the floor. He sat cross-legged, his head in his hands. Fatigue dragged him downward, every limb as heavy as if double, triple the gravity pulled at him.

  “My father left,” Alfie said. He never talked about Theo, not even to his mom. Especially not to her. “I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t even call me on my birthday.”

  Owen continued to stand over the boy, as if movement was unthinkable, unbearable. “Maybe he’s dead,” he said. “Or maybe he’s in prison. It’s what your mother deserves. To have no one.”

  Alfie raised his head and met Owen’s eyes.

  “Will you kill me?” he asked. There was a time, once, about a year after his father left, when he wanted to die. He had gotten in trouble in school—a moment of anguish over some failure that marked him as disruptive, sent him to the principal. His mother came to get him, and although she didn’t reprimand him, the defeat in her eyes cut him deeply, and he’d cried with self-loathing and desolation, unable to see any brightness in his future. He whispered his death wish into her ear that night, his chest tight and his heart sore. He knew he said something untenable when she grabbed his shoulders and shook him and told him he should kill her first in that case, because how could he expect her to go on living. His mother’s misery sobered him, and he calmed. She needed him. Therefore, he couldn’t kill himself. Therefore, he’d just have to keep going.

  But now he realized he wanted to live for purely self-centered reasons. He wanted to keep breathing. He wanted to play music. He wanted to go to a concert, at least once in his life. He wanted to grow and then grow old. Very old.

  Owen stared at him as if thinking this over. Nodded.

  “How?” Alfie asked.

  The man looked away, then walked to the TV cabinet and opened the glass door. He withdrew a leather pouch roughly the size of his hand, untied the string that held it closed, and removed the contents. A syringe. A plastic baggie filled with a light-brown substance. A small, metal measuring cup. A green rubber ribbon. He opened the baggie and tipped the contents into the cup, then added a few drops of water from a plastic tumbler that’d been standing on the cabinet. He patted his pockets for something and, not finding it, disappeared into the kitchen, then emerged with a long-reach Butane lighter, held it under the metal cup, and waited. Alfie watched, mesmerized, as the man let the lighter drop, stirred the cup’s contents gently, dipped the syringe in and pulled an amber liquid inside.

  “Like my Otto,” Owen said.

  Alfie had seen Jordan try this a few weeks ago, but he’d abstained, always saying, “No, thank you,” unwilling to ever again feel out of control. Had Owen been trying to kill him even then?

  “I don’t want to die,” he said.

  “I don’t expect you do, no. But it has to be done. Your mother needs to feel this. What I’ve felt. Fuck. Still feel. It’s unavoidable.”

  But yet Owen held the lethal syringe without making a move toward the boy. He could have overpowered him easily. Alfie had some wiriness to him, but not the kind of strength to fight an adult man eighty pounds heavier.

  Alfie said, “I’m scared.” Because he was. Because a part of him didn’t think Owen would really kill him. Because a part of him couldn’t believe he would die like this, now, and the discrepancy between his childlike belief in his invincibility and the grown man proclaiming otherwise made him ill.

  Owen nodded again. “It’s to be expected. Why don’t you lie down on the couch? You’ll be more comfortable.” He tangled the green ribbon between his fingers, one-handed, knotting and rearranging it, shaking it loose, tangling again.

  Alfie placed his hand on the thing he’d taken from the bathroom cabinet. The door was still bolted and padlocked. The windows were still nailed blind. The only other door led to the basement, and Alfie would never go down there again.

  And he was still unsure. Owen could have killed him many times. Could have forced an overdose on him when Jordan conked himself out, could have run him down in the street instead of kidnapping him. Alfie looked away lest the man guess his thoughts. He never quite knew if others saw through him, could read his plans from his expressions. He often believed his mother knew what he was thinking, and before that believed the same of his father. So why not all adults?

  The fact that other people had no clue of what happened in his mind had been a difficult one for him to learn, and he still wasn’t totally convinced this was the truth. But if Owen wanted him dead and hadn’t taken the opportunity to kill him yet, then maybe he was hesitating. And being hesitant was another thing Alfie knew plenty about.

  “I missed my father at first,” Alfie said, and got to his feet. “Then I figured he was off to live a new life.”

  He placed his hand in his pocket.

  “I didn’t mind him leaving after a while. I didn’t mind.” He was always a terrible liar, and the flatness in his voice undermined his words. It was clear from his tone, from the warmth in his face, that he had minded a lot. Still minded a lot.

  Inside his pocket, he wrapped his fingers around the lemon-yellow lighter.

  But Owen didn’t seem to notice. Not the lie, not the movement. His eyes had a swollen, red look to them, and his mouth was slack, open slightly. When he spoke next, he was gentle, almost kind in his tone. “Lie down, Alfie. Let’s get you comfortable. I’ll even tell you a story if you want.” He smiled. “Otto loved when I told him stories. Oksana was terrible at it. She was not a reader. She had no patience to sit and tell stories while the little guy tried falling asleep.” He shook his head, as if a particularly memorable night came to mind. “He always asked me for more. More, more, more, Daddy.”

  Owen patted the back of the couch. “Come on. Lie down. You’re a good boy. I can tell you’re a good boy. You don’t deserve to die, but neither did my Otto. He was a good boy too. The best. Why should she have you when I don’t have him? It’s not right.” He smiled and patted the couch again. “Come on. I know you believe in what’s fair, Boy Scout. I know you understand why this is right. It’s the equalization method. Each side of the equation must be made equal.”

  Alfie said, “I’m cold. It’s cold in here. Can I have a blanket?” And this was true. His words puffed white as he said them. The room was freezing, easily below fifty degrees now.

  Owen frowned. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get you a blanket. Lie down.”

  And Alfie did. He placed his head on a stinking, flattened throw pillow and curved his knees up to his chest. His right hand on the lighter, his left hand over the can in his sock. He had time to rehearse the maneuver in his head three times before Owen came back with a stiffened crocheted blanket gritty with dirt and dust.

  CHAPTER

  38

  ED BOSWELL CALLED Laney late in the day, startling her from an ethics dilemma. She didn’t think Theo deserved to know about Alfie’s disappearance, but the moral (pain-in-the-ass) part of her had been nagging that she should at least try contacting him. She’d been staring at the same web page for an hour, Theo’s name listed in a tasteful, elegant font next to his horrible orifice paintings. It was his gallery�
��s site, and she only needed to dial their number and pass on the message. They’d take it from there. She need not speak with him if she didn’t want to; he could get his information from the police. And yet she hadn’t moved, her phone dormant by her hand until Ed rang.

  The house had grown dark and cold, and she wondered if a power line had gone down, knocking out the heat. She’d need to go to the basement and check the boiler. With numb hands, she answered the phone, her voice scratchy and weird sounding.

  “Hi, Laney,” Ed said. “Are you okay?”

  She stared at the phone. Was she okay? Really? She cleared her throat. “Yes, Ed,” she said.

  “Good. I was wondering if you had a minute. I’d like to stop by.”

  “Yes,” she said. Then, “Did you find something?”

  “Erm. Nothing about Alfie, no. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She flipped the light switches—dead. She’d need to call the power company and report the outage. After digging through the closet, she lit some candles and torches. The stove started with a match, and she had time to put the kettle on for coffee and set two cups on the kitchen table before he pulled into her driveway. A polite man, he wiped his feet on the welcome mat and asked if she’d like him to take off his shoes, something he hadn’t done the first time he came by. She wondered if this meant she was no longer a suspect.

  He kept his coat on, unbuttoning it so it flared awkwardly over the kitchen chair when he sat. His suit was rumpled and too small, obviously bought when he was younger and thinner.

  “Thank you,” he said, stirring sugar into his instant coffee. He put down the spoon, his face guarded and watchful. “Do you have someplace to stay tonight? They might not fix the power until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “You can stay with us. Allison will be happy to have you.”

  She wondered if he made the offer knowing she’d never accept. “Thank you, Ed. That’s kind. No, I’ll be fine. There’s plenty of blankets.”

  “Okay then.” He tapped a finger on the table. “We have an ID on the body at Hopper’s apartment.”

  Well? What was he waiting for? “Okay,” she said.

  “We’ve identified the body as Victor Orlov. That was your racketeering case, right?”

  She nodded, her teeth grinding with distress. He knew perfectly well it was her damned racketeering case. She was sure it was all in that thick binder he’d had with him the last time he questioned her at the precinct about her connection to Hopper.

  “Laney?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Orlov was my case.”

  “Right. May I ask how well you knew him? Did you ever meet Orlov in person?”

  She coughed, her throat so dry it took two tries and a gulp of piping-hot coffee to get the next words out. “I did, once, yes.”

  “I see. And this was during the case you worked with Owen Hopper?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m here confidentially, Laney. The Orlov murder case is still open, with Owen Hopper as our primary—and, frankly, only—suspect.” He sat back, as if debating what to say next. “There’s something else. He didn’t die in Hopper’s garage. He was killed elsewhere and then dumped in the garage.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why Hopper kept the body. Seems creepy. But we’re estimating he died sometime at the beginning of December. The NYPD had a missing-person report on him as of November twenty-eighth, but it was nothing but dead ends until now.” He smiled briefly. “So to speak. Laney, it’s not just Hopper who knows your real identity. Your name and address were in Orlov’s phone. His wife gave us the passcode. We’re assuming his entire crime family knows who you are.” He looked away for a second, picked up his spoon, tapped it on the edge of his mug. Placed it on the table again. “I’d like you to come and stay with us. Please. It’s not a good idea for you to be alone. Especially now.”

  She rose from her chair and placed a hand on the wall to steady herself. Cold. She was cold, her fingers numb.

  “Why, Ed? So I can drag your family into this as well?”

  In the dark, with only the candles lighting his tired face, he was a solid bulk, warm and serious. “My family is used to it,” he said.

  “If Orlov knew my name and where I lived all along and wanted me dead, I guess I’d be dead already.” She met his eyes. “But I’m not.”

  “Laney?”

  “What?” Hopper had moved to Sylvan just after killing Orlov. She imagined him driving around with a murdered Russian mobster in his trunk, renting an apartment, moving in, transferring the rotting body to the garage. She suspected Orlov was the one who gave her up to Hopper just before Hopper killed him. And the only way Orlov would have known her real name was through the NYPD, and it sure wasn’t her who told him.

  “Laney, a lot of people seemed to know who you were. Can you tell me anything about that?”

  She laughed, surprising herself, a dry, cackly guffaw. “I can’t tell you how he knew my real name.” She could though, because the answer was obvious, and not just to her, but to anyone who had looked through both Owen’s and Harry’s case files. Ed was looking at her with concern and that insufferable pity he seemed to reserve just for her. Yes, she could tell him it was Harry Burroughs who sold her out, or maybe even Mike Stegner. She could admit to being a gullible and idiotic detective on top of being a failure as wife and mother. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to show her soft underbelly to anyone ever again.

  Ever.

  “I’m sorry, but I must ask again. How is your son connected to Hopper and Victor Orlov?”

  Laney realized she was outside. She had no memory of walking down her hallway and out the door, but there she was, on her iced-over porch steps in Alfie’s sweats and wool socks, her body so cold she was shaking. Boswell stood behind her, propping the door open with his foot, his hand on her arm, steadying her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

  He was saying something, tugging her back into the house, but her mind had muted him, instead going over the details of Alfie’s last month.

  “Jordan,” she said, interrupting him.

  Boswell had managed to maneuver her indoors and closed the door. Gently, he led her to the couch and sat her down, then crouched in front of her.

  “Are you saying little Jordan Rogers is connected to Victor Orlov?”

  Sluggish. Her mind trawled from thought to thought—Owen Hopper and his voluptuous, painted wife, his wolfish son. Harry and his shiny new Mustang. Harry, dead of an overdose from the drug he hated most in the entire world. Mike, gone. Orlov, murdered. And her son, her Alfie, who knew where.

  “Laney.” Boswell was lifting her hand, wrapping her fingers around the coffee cup, leading it to her lips. After a few gulps she forced her mind to settle, to focus on the man in front of her. He was important. He was supposed to help. She had to hope he could help.

  “Hopper gave them drugs.” Gave it to them. Of course he gave it to them. It was never about selling the drugs or hooking them or their friends. It was always about her. He had known who she was all along. Because Orlov told him.

  She gripped his sleeve, wringing the loose fabric in her hand. “He’s not after Alfie. I mean, he’s after Alfie, obviously, but his target is me. He wants to hurt me, and he’s doing it by going after my son.” She let go of him, her hands tugging her hair. She had to focus.

  “Why?” Boswell asked. “Why through your son? What does that mean? Why not attack you?”

  She stopped, the realization hitting her like a cold wave. “He wants me to feel what he felt.”

  “When? What he felt when, Laney?”

  She slapped her hand against her mouth. It was one thing to think this but another altogether to put it out into the universe. To name it. He gripped her wrist and pushed it down, away from her face.

  “What he felt when?”

  “When his son died,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  39<
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  SHE’D MET VIKTOR Orlov only once, a dinner date arranged by Hopper two weeks after the chocolate heist fiasco. Hopper called her a dozen times after she got jumped, never leaving messages. During those weeks, Harry and Mike visited him at home, a move so threatening he didn’t sleep for seventy-two hours afterward. Or so he said when she finally picked up her undercover phone after coming back to the precinct.

  “Kendra, I swear, one more visit like that and I’m dead.”

  She had gone outside so he wouldn’t hear the precinct’s ambient noise.

  “Fuck,” he whispered. She could hear him shutting a door. “Listen, I didn’t know Orlov was going to mess with you like that.”

  “I know,” she said, because that’s what Kendra would have said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Nothing broken,” she said. “I tried to pop one of them but missed. Too bad.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Too bad. Look, I need to speak with you.”

  She almost groaned with frustration. She was off the case, officially. Desk duty until everyone figured out where to put her. “No, Owen. I’m not … I can’t talk to you anymore. They won’t let me.”

  “Do you still work with them?” She understood he meant if Kendra still worked for Harry and Mike. She paused, as she wasn’t sure anymore. She certainly was no longer privy to their cases, mostly spending her time doing checks for the various detectives at the precinct. They treated her fine, smiled and asked how she was doing, but gone were the lunches and the conversations, and she wasn’t sure if it was them all being busy or if something else kept them from her.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t. I’m leaving for Buffalo in a few days. I can’t stay here anymore.”

  “Shit! I need to talk to them, but I can’t be seen with them again. Can you imagine how that looked, when the cops showed at my door? I had to force my wife and kid out of the apartment for two days after they left, just in case. I need to get a message to them, and I can’t do it over the phone. I won’t even tell you over the phone.”