by Ricky Fry
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Special Agent Monroe with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have a warrant, signed by a judge, to search the premises.” He held up an official looking document, complete with an original stamp, and passed her a black and white photocopy.
“Very well,” she said. “Would you like some coffee while you work? Inez was just preparing a fresh pot.”
The number rang for a long time before a sweet voice picked up on the other end. “Good morning. You’ve reached the law offices of Anthony J. Bennett. How may I direct your call?”
“I’m trying to reach Mr. Bennett,” she said. “Please tell him it’s an emergency.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Bennett is currently away from the office. Can I take a message?”
“This is Nancy Hardaway. I’m calling on behalf of my husband. Mr. Bennett should be expecting me.”
The voice on the other end shifted into a deeper tone. “Of course, Mrs. Hardaway. Please hold a moment while I connect you.”
She stayed on the line for what seemed like an hour while her call was connected to the lawyer’s cellphone.
“Hello? Yes. I’ve been expecting your call, Nancy.” The man spoke in short bursts as if his thoughts were occupied with several things at once.
“They’re here,” she said. “Agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Hmm. That was quicker than I’d hoped. Were you prepared for their arrival?”
She knew he couldn’t ask directly if she’d shredded her husband’s documents. The government had a warrant, and one could never be sure who might be listening. But she was smart enough to take the hint. “Yes, Anthony. I was prepared. They’re helping themselves to my coffee while they ransack Byron’s study.”
The man on the other end of the phone released a long sigh of relief. “You’re a saint, Nancy—a real angel. I’m on my way to Byron as we speak.”
“Is he okay? These bastards won’t tell me anything.”
“It’s better that way,” he said. “We don’t want them thinking you know something. If they ask any questions, tell them you won’t speak without your lawyer present.”
“Yes, of course. But where are they taking him? We only had a moment before the call was disconnected.”
“He’s being booked at the county jail, Nancy.”
Jail.
The word hit her hard. She imagined her poor husband stuffed into the back of some agent’s car. It was a small relief they’d come for him at the office. At least the neighbors, who would surely be peering through their windows at the black vans parked in front of the house, wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing Byron led away in handcuffs. “When can I see him?”
“Not today, I’m afraid. They’ll take their time booking him and trying to conduct interviews. But don’t worry, Nancy. I’ll be with him and I won’t let anything happen. Try to relax.”
How was she supposed to relax while agents tore apart her house? She was afraid to ask the question that weighed on her mind. “And when—when will he be coming home?”
“They’ll hold a preliminary hearing in a couple of days, and the judge will set bail. He should be home by the end of the week.” The lawyer paused and sighed again. “But Nancy, these things can be complicated. Believe me, I’ll do my best.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s what we pay you for.”
From her place in the kitchen, she heard Baby Nora begin to cry upstairs in the nursery. One of the agents must have disturbed her. “Anthony,” she said, “I have to go. It’s the baby.”
“Of course. Please trust me, Nancy. Your husband is in good hands.”
She hung up the phone and climbed the stairs to where Nora had been sleeping. There was an agent beside the crib, rummaging around through a small cabinet while the baby kicked and wailed. Did these people have no sense of human decency?
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Our orders were very clear. We need to search everything.”
“There’s nothing in here but stuff for the baby.” She took Nora in her arms and soothed her. She was surprised to feel such motherly instinct. Perhaps in moments like these, she thought, we have no choice but to become better versions of ourselves.
The agent gave her a flat smile and went back to his work. “You wouldn’t believe where people hide things.”
She took up position in a wicker chair in one corner of the nursery, Nora cradled in her arms, and waited for the brave men and women of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to finish their dispassionate work. She found some comfort in the baby’s presence. Maybe it was love, or maybe the needs of her child gave her something to think about other than herself. Either way, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful Nora had become. It was as if she was seeing her for the first time since they’d brought her home from the hospital.
If only Byron could see us now, she thought. He’d be so happy. But Byron was on his way to jail.
The house was a disaster. Inez went from room to room in a fevered pitch, a desperate attempt to return some semblance of order. Nancy sipped tea on a stool at the kitchen counter. Her thoughts were cloudy—it was as if her whole body and mind had gone very numb.
“I can stay late,” said Inez. “My sister can watch the kids tonight. I’d hate to leave you alone in this big old house.”
“No, dear. You’ve been so wonderful.” Nancy fumbled through her wallet for a few bills and pressed them into Inez’s hand. “Skip the train tonight and call a taxi. The kids will be happy to see you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Now don’t you worry about the house, Mrs. Hardaway. I’ll come back first thing in the morning and we’ll get everything cleaned up and put back in place. You’ll see.”
The woman was so kind, but Nancy wondered if it even mattered. She couldn’t imagine they’d be hosting parties anytime soon. “Thank you, Inez.”
A taxi arrived shortly to whisk the Hardaway’s loyal housekeeper back to her waiting family. Baby Nora slept peacefully upstairs while Nancy sat alone in the kitchen, pots and pans still strewn on the floor around her.
She would have to take control now. Byron was in jail, and in the weeks and months that followed he’d be preoccupied with his legal defense. It fell on her shoulders to make decisions for the family, and her first decision was to hire the nanny.
The line rang and connected.
“Hello?” The old woman’s voice, with its peculiar accent, felt immediately familiar.
“It’s Nancy,” she said. “Nancy Hardaway.”
“Oh, wonderful. I was hoping you might call. I’d considered stopping by again but I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“Then your services are still available?”
“Of course, dear.”
Byron wouldn’t approve. But what did it matter what her husband thought? Everything had changed in a matter of hours, and Nancy would be left to pick up the pieces. She wasn’t planning on doing it alone.
“Great,” she said. “Can you be here in the morning?”
“How about eight o’clock?”
“Better make it nine.” She’d never been one for early mornings. “Do you remember the address?”
“Yes, my dear,” said the old woman. “How could I forget?”
TEN
The harvest had been bountiful. Their bellies remained full throughout the long winter and they had much cause to celebrate the arrival of spring. But there was no celebration in the village. Yekaterina’s death still hung in the air, and they went about their business in silent mourning.
Bogdan stood before her grave and wept. Tiny blades of grass had sprouted on the mound of dirt beneath which she rested. That was the way of things, he thought. In the end, nature takes back everything it has given.
“You should see the baby,” he said. “He’s so strong. He takes after his mother. And his eyes, as blue as the sky on a clear summer day.”
There was no ans
wer, only a warm breeze which rocked the trees in the forest beyond. He imagined the wind might carry his words to her, wherever she might be.
He stayed until dusk. When darkness had finally consumed the last ray of light, he made his way back to the house where they had made love together and talked of growing old.
The baby was asleep in a wooden cradle, snuggled among fur and animal skins. Bogdan had given him no name. Instead he waited, night after night, for Yekaterina to come in his dreams and whisper a name in his ear. But she never came, and as the weeks passed he worried he might one day forget her sweet face.
The priest, ever pious, had grown impatient and counseled him to make a decision. “It’s important,” the old man would say as they strolled together through the village. “He needs a name for the baptism.”
Such things seemed of little consequence to him now. He’d lost his faith in God.
The house smelled of meat stew. Svyatoslav’s wife stirred a large pot hung above the hearth. She’d come every day to watch the baby while he sat in silent vigil beside Yekaterina’s grave.
“Supper’s ready,” she said.
“I’m not hungry.” He was the only one in the village who’d lost weight during the winter.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” She put a bowl down in front of him and forced a spoon into his hand. “Eat, or I’ll bend you over my knee like I did when you were just a babe.”
She was a tough woman, and he knew there was little use in arguing. He raised a spoonful to his mouth and swallowed. It tasted of garlic and onion and sent a warm sensation down his throat.
“That’s better.” The woman he’d known his whole life smiled. “You’ll be no good to anyone, least of all the baby, if you don’t eat. We can’t have you wasting away.”
She’d just gone back to stirring the pot when there was a knock on the door.
“That’ll be my husband,” she said. The pair had taken to joining him for dinner in the evenings.
The big man took a seat opposite from him at the table and helped himself to his wife’s cooking. He wore a look of concern on his chiseled face. “There’s some disagreement in the village.”
Despite his loss, many of the villagers still sought regular guidance from Bogdan on matters big and small. His miraculous survival had not been easy for them to forget.
“Oh?”
“It’s been nearly a year,” said his friend, “since the eve of your sacrifice.”
He took another spoonful of stew and waited for Svyatoslav to continue.
“Some say we should hold a new ceremony. They speak of old times, when many a soul vanished in the night, and argue for the safety of their children. Still others say there’s no need, that the curse was broken when you survived.”
They’re wrong, he thought. The curse was never broken. His wife was dead, and the evil spirit still lurked in the forest. “And what of the priest? Has he anything to say?”
Svyatoslav had just finished licking his bowl clean and went back to the pot for seconds. “The priest? You know as well as anyone the priest only has eyes for miracles.”
His friend was right. The priest was doing his best to spread the miracle of Bogdan the Great far and wide. There was talk of nearby villages foregoing their own ceremonies in the hopes that a single man, just a boy really, had finally put an end to the old tradition. But Bogdan had also heard the heated exchanges between the people of his village. There were those who insisted on another sacrifice, driven by fear of the spirit’s revenge. A few of them had even threatened to see it through, with or without the help of the priest. It weighed on his mind in the moments when he wasn’t lost in grief for his beloved wife. He tried to imagine what she might say if she was still alive to offer wise words and a steady hand. The strength he’d found in her presence diminished by the day.
“And who is next in line?”
“Young Ilya.”
Ilya was a sweet boy, who had a habit of picking fresh wildflowers for his mother. Not long ago, Bogdan had been in the boy’s place, though there had been no uncertainty about his fate. It must be worse, he thought, to sit idle while those who would never make such a sacrifice debate your destiny.
Svyatoslav dabbed stew from his beard. He had always been a messy eater. “The people need answers. Someone has to make a decision. I’d rather it come from you than an angry mob.”
His friend was right again. He wouldn’t have young Ilya dragged from the arms of his mother by villagers armed with pitchforks.
It was settled. He’d gather them together in the morning and announce his decision. He’d offer himself once more. If the spirit was determined to have his life, he could come and take it.
The old priest was unrelenting in his attempts to dissuade him. “This is madness,” he said. “Do they have such little faith in the miracles of our Lord—such little faith in Bogdan the Great?”
“People don’t want miracles. They know only what they can see, and deal in whispers and rumors.”
“I wont—I can’t allow this.”
“I’m afraid it’s not your decision to make.”
“Then I’ll have no part,” said the priest. “I’ve spent my whole life offering up young lives to feed the evil spirit. I won’t do it again.”
“You must, father.” He put his arm around the old man and leaned in close. “Everything must happen exactly as prescribed by tradition. Should I live, it will put an end to this once and for all. And should I die, then bury me beside my beloved.”
The priest rubbed his temples. “What of the baby?”
"He will go to Svyatoslav and his honest wife, who will raise him as their own.”
The old man sighed. “Are you certain I can’t convince you of another course?”
Bogdan smiled. For the first time since Yekaterina’s death, he felt a sense of resolve and purpose.
“I’m truly sorry,” said the priest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when it happened.”
“Pay it no mind. Think only of the coming ceremony, for you shall have the honor of sending me to my death for the second time.”
He sat on the same fallen tree where, one year before, he’d contemplated his fate. He was only a boy then and much had changed. He’d been married. He’d been blessed with a strong and healthy son. But still it fell on his shoulders to protect the village.
Earlier in the day, he’d said goodbye to his mother and father, brothers and sisters. Now, as the hour of the ceremony quickly approached, he wished only for peace and quiet.
There was no jubilant feast that night. No songs were sung of his glory nor was he married off to another fresh-faced wife. When the hour finally arrived, he found himself, with the priest and his closest friend by his side, leading his own procession to the edge of the forest.
Svyatoslav bound him to the tree with leather cords and kissed him on the forehead. “Go with God, my friend, and may you return to us in the morning.”
The priest repeated the old legend and anointed Bogdan with holy water. The villagers prayed together, and when it was over he was left alone once again to wait for death to come.
He wasn’t the only one who waited, for no sooner than they’d left did the shadowy figure emerge again from the darkness—red eyes burning in the night.
Bogdan greeted his arrival. “Here I am,” he said. “Come and take my life. I am not afraid.”
The evil spirit’s deadly grip tightened around his throat and a heavy weight bore down upon his chest. He couldn’t breath. Blood beat wildly in his ears. Everything went dark, and his final thought before the life ran out of him was of Yekaterina.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself walking in a bright field among an endless sea of wildflowers. She was there in the distance, a beautiful silhouette framed by the blue horizon—rays of sunlight shimmering in her long, blonde hair.
He called to her, the wind lifting his voice up and carrying it across the warm and open expanse. She turned and smiled. And he ran.
He ran as fast as his feet could carry him.
Dawn was breaking when the cold, bony hands of the priest shook him awake. “My son,” said the old man, “you still live.”
A terrible pain split his head. The priest cut him down, and he stretched his stiff muscles until the blood flowed freely once more. There was the village, and the tree, and the dark forest beyond. Yekaterina was gone, and he wondered if it had only been a dream.
The villagers gathered around him as they’d done a year before, lifting him above their heads and echoing triumphant cheers. Surely, they cried, he was not only Bogdan the Great, but the greatest man to ever walk among them.
“Let there be no doubt!” The priest raised a hand and pointed to the sky. “God has heard your prayers and found cause to repeat his miracle.”
At this they cheered again. But the joyous celebration was cut short by the violent screams of a woman who Bogdan recognized as young Kyrill’s mother. She pushed through the crowd and threw herself at his feet. “Please, you must come.”
“What’s happened, good woman?”
“It’s Kyrill—my handsome Kyrill.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face. “He’s dead, Bogdan. Kyrill is dead.”
ELEVEN
It was like a scene from a movie, or one of those cheap romance novels she enjoyed reading by the pool. There had always been something sexy about it, a beautiful woman staring longingly through a thick pane of plexiglass at her hot and steamy jailbird. But now, as her husband was escorted into position wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, she thought there was little to find sexy. Things were always better in books.
She lifted the plastic telephone receiver off the wall and wondered when it had last been cleaned. She tried not to think about the kind of people who might have used it before her. How silly she had been to leave the house without cleaning wipes in her purse. “What the fuck, Byron?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“They tore up the house—even the nursery. Nora wouldn’t go back to sleep for hours.”
