by Kevin Fox
“Mama calls. Better run,” she teased. I glared at her, but turned to go. Sometimes it was easier to placate Theresa Collins. Life could be miserable if you didn’t. I caught up to my mother in the garage, hacksaw already in hand, pointing it at my chest as if she meant to use it.
“You need to make them leave,” she hissed at me over the sound of the rain in the damp garage. “They’ll upset your father if he wakes up,” she told me, glancing behind me to insure I wasn’t followed. The fear of upsetting my father was the excuse for everything my mother didn’t want to deal with, from the reason they never left Staten Island to why I had to buy mozzarella cheese in Brooklyn and deliver it to Tottenville. Apparently Staten Island mozzarella is too tough and might upset Big Jim Collins.
“Bullshit,” I told her. “This is because you and Rigan know each other, right? What happened on the psych floor? Is she some kind of nutter?”
“Jesus, will you trust me for once? The past is done. Gone. Forget it – but nothing good can come of that woman being here. Or that girl.”
“What do you think is going to happen? What do you know about them?”
“That girl has problems, doesn’t she? And the other one is part of it. She’s a psych patient who went into the life and now is dragging poor foreign girls down with her.”
Now it was starting to make sense. ‘Poor foreign girls’ was a phrase that indicated the subtle racism of the native Staten Islander. Anyone coming from off the island, except possibly transplants from Brooklyn, were ‘other’ – especially any girl who might have been abused in any way. They were tainted in my mother’s eyes, and not to be trusted.
“That’s not what’s going on. Rigan’s not some twisted madam selling girls to the highest bidder. She’s helping them—”
“—Rigan, is it? You know her better than you’re letting on?”
“She saved my life the other night.”
“Right… Well, if she did, she had an ulterior motive. That woman is dangerous. She brought that girl here, and all the hell that will follow with her. Get them out,” she said, slamming the hacksaw into my hands. I let her get to the door before I stopped her.
“What if I went and pulled medical records from the hospital to verify this story you’re telling? Or better yet, what if I asked Dad?” She stiffened. I had her attention now.
“He doesn’t need this, Killian. He’s already too caught up in…” she started, but her voice drifted off.
“In what?”
“…In his own head, that’s all.”
“You were going to say the past. How does Rigan bring up the past?”
“She reminds me of bad times, that’s all. I was her nurse. Right after Joe… It was a bad time. You know that. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re being evasive.”
“Goddammit, leave it alone!” she exploded at me. “You and your father, you pick at everything like a scab, making it bleed all over again. Diggin’ up the past like diggin’ up bodies, the both of you. Well, the bodies can’t tell you nothin’ you don’t already know. Drop it, Kill. Get them out before your father wakes up. I’m not asking, I’m not pleading. I’m telling you,” she said tersely, and then slammed through the door, leaving me alone with the sound of the rain.
Mom had made a mistake. She told me what to do, and even though I knew she was trying to protect me and that I should at least consider the fact that she might be right – I couldn’t. Oppositional Defiance Disorder is real, and it can be a dangerous condition.
… But it didn’t mean she was wrong. I’d find out along the way that sometimes mother does know best.
Kat and Rigan held Dariya’s wrist, leaving white imprints of fingers and hands as Dariya whimpered, seeing the hacksaw edging closer to her pale skin, flakes of metal from the bracelet falling hotly onto it.
“Why’s it taking so long? I could’ve cut through two of those by now.” Kat criticized.
“I’m trying not to ruin the GPS as I cut through the bracelet.”
“Why? You want them to be able to track it?” Rigan asked, confused.
“No. But I want to know where it came from and what system it’s on. If we figure that out, maybe we can track the GPS on Alina and find her.”
“Or lure them out to find us.” Rigan said, impressing me with her thought process. The bracelet finally cracked in half. I grabbed it as it fell, took out the battery to disable it, and looked up at Rigan, trying to catch her off guard so I could read her reaction.
“How do you know my mother?” I asked. Her hesitation was unmistakable, but her answer seemed honest.
“We met when I was a kid. I was going through something.”
“Something. Not on the psych ward, was it?” I asked. That stopped her. She was lying.
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. You just did.”
“She was my nurse.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“This is getting good,” Kat muttered. “Hidden secrets, psych wards, and old lies. I’m aces at this part. Practice, you know.”
I ignored her, staring at Rigan, trying to read her body language.
“You know a lot more than you’re saying, and I don’t have time to screw around, so I’m asking you this once – why did you call me down to that boat? Why get me involved at all? Did you know about the old case my father worked with Joe Corrigan?”
“Yes. Obviously I know about all of that,” she admitted. “I also know what the cargo was on that plane and that the only people who might be able to tell me where that cargo is would be you and your father – but since both of you are almost useless when it comes to remembering facts about the crash –”
“—Who told you that?” I asked, interrupting. I kept my issues with memory to myself and was sure that no one I knew would tell Rigan about them.
“You told me. …We met before, even if you don’t remember,” she went on, calmly, pissing me off because I didn’t know if it was the truth or not.
“Now that sounds plausible,” Kat interjected. I shut her up with a glare as Rigan went on.
“I tried getting in touch with your father, but his health’s declined… I’m sorry, but the only reason I called you was because I needed help, and I thought maybe seeing what was going on you’d start to remember.” I stared at her for a long moment, but she held my gaze. There was a lot of truth – or at least what she believed to be the truth – in what she was saying. I could see it in her eyes.
“Not a bad story – but you still haven’t answered how you really know my mother, or how you knew that I might know something about that crash.”
“I don’t appreciate being interrogated. Or being called a liar,” Rigan said as I turned to look at her again.
“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” It became a standoff as I changed tactics. “Dariya. Why don’t you tell me what you know about Rigan? Maybe that will help.”
Dariya glanced at Rigan, looking for guidance, but Rigan didn’t respond, playing her cards close to the vest.
“Did she tell you not to tell me?” I asked Dariya.
Dariya nodded, slightly, looking cornered and scared. Rigan saved her, stepping between us.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks,” Rigan said evasively.
I tried to gauge Rigan’s stake in this. As a professional, she was obviously interested in the girls somehow, but no one risks their lives for lost girls or get involved with cops, the Russian mob and almost thirty-year-old cases without a really good reason. Rigan had something to hide. I was sure of it.
“You want me to tell you what I know so you can make your lies fit the story? Is that it?” I asked.
“You’re paranoid, are you aware of that?”
“You have no idea. Believes in nothing except ‘facts’, and only the ones his fragile intellect can handle,” Kat chimed in. I glared at her, wishing I’d left her tied to the bed at my place
.
“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” Kat snapped. “Okay, fine. You don’t trust each other, so freakin’ what already? Some Russian psychopath is out there collecting young girls like puppy-mill puppies and burning poor boys to death. You get that? If we want to nail his balls to a wall, you two are going to have to share whatever it is that you know.” Kat looked between us, and Rigan nodded. Kat took that as agreement and turned on me.
“So… Who wants to go first?”
I looked away, glancing at Rigan. She knew more than I did. She could start. But Rigan didn’t start. Kat stomped her foot like a toddler.
“OhmyGOD. Fine. You won’t talk, I will. Let me break the ice. First, Kill knows that there was heroin on board and that Anton and someone else took it,” she started.
“Kat, you have no idea who this woman—”
“Shut up, Kill. You won’t talk, so I get to. He also knows that this case is somehow connected to a case his old man and his partner, Joe Corrigan, worked. It involved that plane wreck out behind your house, that there’s a dead boy burned to crisp bacon out there, and that if we don’t find Alina soon, she’s going to be tortured to find out whatever it is that they think that boy knew. You know what they will do…” she stopped herself, unconsciously glancing at Dariya. “…Well, do I really need to say it?”
Rigan kept staring at me, and it set me on edge. It was both a challenge and oddly sympathetic. I said nothing, forcing her hand. Finally, she glanced at Kat and Dariya, then back to me.
“So… you know almost nothing.” Rigan sounded disappointed in me – and for me. It pissed me off.
“Apparently not. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Do you know who that boy was? Anton? The boy Josef Markov killed?”
“Besides being another kid that was kidnapped?”
“He was more than that. Anton was their friend – from birth. Their parents were friends. Supporters of Viktor Yushchenko. After he left power they were persecuted by the pro-Russian Ukrainians and arrested. These kids were used as pawns –”
“– And then sold off to punish their parents?” I asked.
“Their parents are dead. They were sold off as a warning to others. Markov is ruthless. He’s fiercely loyal to Putin and doesn’t want to go back to prison after what happened last time.”
“Last time?”
“His brother Mikhail went missing with a lot of money that didn’t belong to him. They thought he defected or stole it or both. Threw Alik Markov in Lubyanka and tortured him, thinking he was in on it. Only the collapse of the Soviet Union saved him,” Rigan explained.
“That’s what Sean said too. That Markov was messed up by his brother taking off,” Kat chimed in, buying into this half-assed con job.
“Who said that?” Rigan asked, worried, focused on potential witnesses.
“Sean Corrigan. The cute one who actually knows some shit,” Kat told her. Rigan seemed relieved.
“Ahh, Sean. I remember. He’s right. But he doesn’t know as much as he thinks.”
“So, what doesn’t he know? I’m tired of these games. Maybe I should call Burke and have him bring you in for aiding and abetting human trafficking,” I told her bluntly.
I heard Kat suck in air through her teeth, warning me that I was pushing Rigan too hard.
“Kill, you’re being an asshole.” Kat pointed out, trying to diffuse the situation. It didn’t help. Rigan was angry.
“I’m not the one who can’t remember anything before October of nineteen eighty-five. I’m not the one who thinks he’s—” Rigan stopped, abruptly. She’d made a mistake. She’d just revealed that she knew a lot more about me than I did about her.
“How did you know that date? I never said anything about it.” That much I was sure of.
“Yeah, I was right here. He said nada. Zilch. He’s got you on that one, sweetheart,” Kat added, for once on my side.
“Does it really matter how I know? He has Alina.”
“She’s right,” Dariya finally said, softly, holding back the emotion. “You know that. Why does the rest even matter?”
“Girl’s got a point. Who gives a shit about history and heroin? Markov’s got her sister,” Kat agreed and I was being distracted by bullshit.
“And Markov’ll keep her as long as he thinks she can help him find the heroin your ‘friend’ took –”
“–That’s not all he’s after,” Rigan interrupted, frustrated. “There’s a reason Josef’s back here, on Staten Island. This is where his Uncle went missing. His father sent him to find out what happened to Mikhail.”
I heard Kat suck in her breath, as if she had just realized something crucial. “When did the uncle go missing?” Rigan looked at her, as if they were finally coming to some kind of understanding.
“Nineteen eighty-five… Apparently Alik Markov also has it on good authority that the cash his brother stole is still here. Nearby. On Staten Island. That’s why he’s here. Now…”
Her voice trailed off, probably because I was shaking my head as I put the pieces together. Nineteen eighty-five. The missing cargo from the plane, it made sense. “…You think Alik Markov’s missing brother had something to do with that plane crash?”
“Markov thinks he did,” Rigan responded, but I didn’t see how that was possible. The crash was investigated. Yes, the cargo went missing, but if the task force had found Mikhail Markov, it would have been public knowledge.
“They would have found his body,” I said, dismissing that theory.
“Maybe they did, Kill,” Kat muttered, looking at me wide-eyed. “Maybe they found it tonight.” I looked at her for a long moment, seeing the image that she was referring to in my mind –
—A human skull, its empty eye sockets looking back at me, one with a tire iron going right through it. A body that had been there since nineteen eighty-five. There since –
…Something warm and wet dropped onto my cheek and oozed, slug-like, across it. I struggled against him, but the man wasn’t moving. The mud was forgiving and let me slip to one side, wriggling out from under him. When I glanced down at him I saw nothing but his eye and the tire iron in it for a long moment, my hands balled into fists at my side, something small and hard in my right one. When I finally looked away I opened my hand, looking down at my memento mori, the ring that had just slid off the wet and bloody hand of the dead man below me. Mikhail Markov….
“You said the brother was KGB as well?” I asked, grabbing my phone for an image search.
“Yes, why?” Rigan asked, even as the symbol on the ring I found appeared on my screen: A sword over a red star, a hammer and sickle worn smooth and faded underneath. The symbol of the KGB. My memento mori was the signet ring of a KGB officer… I stared at it as I felt Rigan staring at me.
“…Your memories have started to come back, haven’t they?” She asked. “From the night Joe Corrigan died.”
“No,” I lied.
“Dreams then. You have dreams of that night, don’t you? Of the rain? Of what happened to Joe?”
I shook my head, giving her nothing.
“He calls them night terrors. They come when it rains,” Kat ratted me out.
“Did anyone ask you, Kat?” I asked, turning on her, genuinely ticked off. Kat shrugged – a half-assed apology.
“Dreams, memories, it doesn’t matter. We’re wasting time when these psychos have Alina,” I said, seeing their faces go pale. I thought I was finally making an impact until I heard behind me –
“—Theresa… Theresa! Come quick. She found us. Bring my gun!”
I turned to find Dad with a baseball bat and wild eyes in full-on loon mode, ready to take on the world. It was going to be a rough night.
Chapter Eighteen
The curtain tore as my father pulled it closed. He ignored it, moving to the next window, pulling the others closed. Then he checked the locks on the doors while scanning the outside of the house for potential attackers. It’d be amusing if he wasn’t so
palpably tense.
“Theresa! I need those Goddamn guns. Now!” He bellowed.
“Dad, it’s me, Killian. There’s no one out there. We’re safe,” I told him, even though I was unsure that we had disabled the GPS tracker quickly enough to prevent Markov from finding us.
“Safe? Would they be in my house if things were safe?”
He had a point. As I took a breath to figure out how to talk him off his Alzheimer’s-induced ledge, my mother strode in, glaring at me as if I were ten and had just let our muddy Golden Retriever rampage through the house again.
“Jesus, Jimmy. What the hell are you doing out of bed? What did I tell you about getting up in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t remember, Theresa. I’m sick in the head. You have the guns?” He asked, pushing a chair up against the door to the backyard. Dariya stared at him, looking as if she wanted to run. Rigan looked at him with pity, and Kat was smirking at me with a look that said ‘you’re fucked now, aren’t you, Kill’?
I was.
“Jesus, no. I’m not getting you any damn guns. You know you’re not good with guns anymore,” Mom told him firmly. Dad whirled on my mother with a force I hadn’t seen in years – as if his addled mind brought his body back to whatever year he thought he was in.
“Pay attention, Theresa, and don’t give me any crap. You see these kids?” He asked, turning and pointing at Rigan. “Take a good look. She’s right here… you made me stop looking – but I never should have – she got away.” My mother glanced at me, her expression a mix of anger and depressed defeat. After a moment, she moved toward my father, gently taking his arm.
“It’s all right, Jimmy. They’re not who you think they are. It’s fine.”
“It’s not Goddamn fine. If she’s here, they’ll be back, they’ll kill her for sure this time. It won’t be like it was with Joe,” he said, glancing out the windows again before turning to invade Rigan’s space. “Tell them. You know. You remember.” Rigan didn’t back down, but had a soft look of empathy in her eyes.
