by D. A. Keeley
“I was a year behind you. I’m Barb Michaud. I played JV basketball and remember when they put your banner up.”
Barb Michaud clearly had either just returned from a southern vacation or she spent time in an indoor tanning facility.
“That was a long time ago,” was all Peyton, now thirty-seven, said. She’d been the school’s first (and only) one-thousand-point scorer. The feat enabled her to attend the University of Maine and to graduate debt-free.
“You can have a seat,” Michaud said. “I’ll squeeze you in.”
Peyton thanked her and sat down. She took her iPhone from a pant leg cargo pocket and checked her email. Susan Perry wanted her to do a home visit, checking on Aleksei Vann’s move to his aunt’s home.
“You can go in now,” Michaud said, and Peyton did.
It was good to be Kyle McCluskey. Peyton knew it. So did anyone who drove past his five-thousand-square-foot home or saw his “camp” on Portage Lake. So did the men and women earning ten bucks an hour at the processing plant—and showering to scrub the smell away after every shift.
Peyton had spoken to the man twice since college, both at school events; McCluskey’s son, Peter, was Tommy’s age. Each time, she’d felt as if he considered himself to be the leader of the region’s First Family.
“What can I do for you?”
McCluskey came around his desk and motioned to the sofa along the far wall. His office was larger than the bullpen in Garrett Station and offered a glass wall overlooking part of the plant floor. Peyton recognized men and a few women from the diner, their faces covered with sweat and dirt or oil.
She sat on the sofa. McCluskey took the red leather chair across the glass coffee table from her. He was balding and had a deep voice, and only in his forties, he looked much older; he had a full, fleshy face and looked soft beneath his starched and ironed white shirt. The skin near his chin pooled and spilled over his tie.
It was not a comfortable look.
“You’ve done a few PTO things, right? This some PTO fundraiser? You need money?”
“No,” she said. “When I’m in uniform, I’m working. I don’t dress this way when I’m doing PTO stuff.”
“Yeah, I remember you from the book sale last summer. You wore pale-blue shorts and a white T-shirt.”
If someone had asked her what she’d worn that day, she couldn’t have told them. His memory—and the way he narrowed his eyes while looking at her now—creeped her out. He was thinking of something.
And the sudden redness in his cheeks told her what.
She wanted to slap him, but settled for, “You own quite a lot of land along the border.”
“It’s a large facility, yes.”
“Do you have surveillance cameras along the perimeter?”
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
She’d seen that posture hundreds of times. Either bracing for bad news or preparing ways to avoid it.
“This isn’t going to be good,” he said, “is it?”
She smiled. “Well, I said it’s not a PTO visit.”
“We talking about another drug bust back there?” He motioned his chin toward New Brunswick. The skin hanging over his tie waddled.
“No,” she said, “but it appears someone illegally entered the US from Canada behind your plant.”
“What does that mean? He smuggling something?”
“No.”
“I’m not following you. If it’s not smuggling, why wouldn’t the asshole just cross at Customs?”
“I don’t know if that’s important, Mr. McCluskey. I’d just like to see any surveillance footage you might be able to provide.”
“Call me Kyle,” he said. Then, “Hey, I just realized something. You went to Orono.”
She nodded.
“You were a basketball player, right? I gave you a ride somewhere once, right? You grew up here.”
“You were a senior when I was a freshman both here and at Orono, and you gave me a ride home from U-Maine one weekend. You had a Corvette in college,” she said.
“Yeah. Great car.” He looked through the glass wall, recalling those days.
She didn’t like to. Those hadn’t been great days for her or her family. Her father had lost the farm. Without basketball, college wouldn’t have been an option. And even now, a Corvette still wasn’t an option. Her Jeep Wrangler had 110,000 miles on it.
“Where’d you go after college?” he asked.
“Texas. All agents start on the southern border.”
“And you wanted to come home?”
She nodded, not wanting to go into the details of how, after being shot at, she’d put in for a transfer. “The southern border was a great place for an agent, not for a single mom.”
He looked her over, appraisingly. “I bet you can hold your own.”
“I can. I’d like to see surveillance footage,” she said again.
“Are we talking about an illegal alien?” he asked.
“Do you have video cameras?”
“In the woods? No. It’s about five miles to the border.”
“Your land runs all the way to New Brunswick. It’s one of the only places that’s not separated from Canada by the Crystal View River.”
“Yeah,” he said. “A few years ago I got wind of a marijuana-smuggling operation behind the plant. I called Maine State Police, then I hired my own guys. I have one private security guy on at all times. When did you find this person?”
“Mid-afternoon, yesterday.”
He shook his head. “Hard to see how my guys missed him. One is a former state trooper. Did the asshole say how he got here? I don’t want any assholes using my land to come here and steal public services from our people.”
“You running for office?” She kicked herself for slipping into an informal tone.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I will be soon. I’d like to be mayor of Garrett.”
“Is Marty stepping down?” Marty Bartlett had been mayor for more than a decade.
“When I beat his ass, he will. I’d like to be able to count on the federal employees’ votes. I’m looking for someone to help me reach those members of the constituency. Interested?”
“I’m really busy with the PTO, as you know. Could I interview the security officer who was on duty yesterday?”
“Interview him?”
She nodded.
“He in trouble?”
“No, I just like to be thorough.”
“I like that in a girl.”
Girl, she thought.
“He’s got the day off today,” McCluskey continued. “I’ll tell him to call you. You guys still in that old house?”
She took out a business card and slid it to him. “Thank you.” She stood.
“I like people who are thorough,” he said. “I like you.”
“I’m not looking for validation.”
“I can tell. You’re a confident girl. I like that.”
“I think you meant to say I’m a confident agent.”
“Was I being patronizing?”
“Yeah, but you probably can’t help it,” she said and walked out.
3:15 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane
Bohana Donovan had a Ukrainian forename and an Irish surname and looked as puzzling as the combination suggested. Her narrow face was pale but, Peyton thought, striking—large jade eyes dancing like gas flames when they recognized Peyton; a long smooth jaw line; and somehow, as if her complexion was determined to live up to her married name, freckles dotting her nose.
The temperature had risen to thirty-seven, and the snow was melting.
“Oh, when they told me someone would be dropping by, I guess I didn’t expect you,” Bohana said. “I always forget what you do for a living.”
“Not w
orking for the PTO today,” Peyton smiled and said for the second time in two hours as she entered the foyer. The house had an in-ground pool and was in a cul-de-sac. Peyton smelled onions. “What are you making?” she asked.
“Beef stew, for dinner. Michael loves it, and Steven will eat anything with onions in it.” She had an accent that reminded Peyton of the former Baltic states; clearly she was the boy’s aunt.
“That’s what I smell,” Peyton said. “How long have you been in the US?”
“Oh, about twenty-five years now. Nearly half my life. I never lost the accent, though.”
Peyton knew that while Kyle McCluskey owned the region’s largest company, Steven Donovan owned Donovan Ford, the largest—by far—auto dealership in Aroostook County.
Peyton had witnessed his success firsthand. When no dealer could find a used Jeep Wrangler that met her specifications, it had been Steven Donovan who called to say there was one in Virginia, and he was in the midst of a dealer-to-dealer swap to acquire it for her. And he’d not charged a penny above what Peyton’s research told her she should pay.
Success seemed to run in the family. Bohana was president of the PTO and their son, Michael, now a senior at Garrett High School, was ranked second in his class, according to an article in the Star Herald.
“Sorry to come at this time,” Peyton said. “I know school is over and the bus will be arriving.”
“Michael doesn’t take the bus. Steven gives him the worst used car on the lot in exchange for changing oil on weekends. Actually, he works on a lot of cars—that boy can fix anything. His father says he should become an engineer.”
Peyton smiled politely.
“And have you seen the new high school schedule? Seniors can leave at one every afternoon, if they have no classes. I’m pushing for some sort of in-service program. We have two hundred teenagers with nothing to do every afternoon.”
“That’s why I voted for you,” Peyton said. “You’re on top of things. Can we talk about Aleksei?”
“Of course. Come in. Coffee?”
“Black. Thanks.”
“I wouldn’t recognize you in that outfit—the gun, the baton—based on how you dress at PTO meetings.”
“I wear jeans to those.”
“And no hat,” Bohana said. “If I had auburn hair, I’d grow it to my knees.”
Government regulations dictated that Peyton wear her hair short, in a bun, or beneath her hat. This was still—and would always be—a major concession.
Bohana handed Peyton a coffee cup and led her through a stainless-steel kitchen to a living room with a stone fireplace. The fire was roaring.
Peyton sat on the hearth and held the cup in both hands.
“I love to have a fire,” Bohana said. “Even after all these years away, and even when I don’t need one in order to heat my house. We burn oil, too, of course, and Steven complains about the dry air from the wood. But, to me, there’s nothing like a fire.”
Peyton liked this woman, had liked her the first time they’d met at Garrett High School. Bohana Donovan, who sat in a leather chair beside the hearth, knew who she was and was comfortable in her own skin.
Peyton took her iPad from her bag. “I know you spoke to Mike Hewitt this morning, and I apologize for asking more questions, but I couldn’t be there.”
“It’s okay. I’m happy to help. I just want to be sure my nephew is allowed to stay in the US. He has nowhere to go back there.”
“I should tell you that the decision is not mine to make,” Peyton said.
Bohana looked at the floor.
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Not until my brother wrote telling me Aleksei was en route. Then I got a call from the woman at DHHS after he arrived.”
“Why did the boy land here?”
“I assume Dariya thought Aleksei would be sent to me, if he arrived here.”
Which was, Peyton thought, exactly what had happened. “How is Aleksei adjusting?”
Bohana thought about it. “Overall, well, I’d say. He struggles with verb tenses when he speaks, sometimes using them correctly, other times forgetting the verb altogether. But that’s minor, given what he’s gone through.”
“Have you heard from your brother?”
“Yes.” Bohana looked up. “He wrote me for the first time several weeks ago.”
“For the first time?”
“In almost three years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yes. He said he was glad to finally reach me.”
“Had he tried before?”
Bohana shrugged. “You know how it is. I was here, he was there. We each got caught up in our own lives. We fell out of touch.”
“I see,” Peyton said and continued typing notes.
“Dariya and I came here together, to study in Boston. Neither of us graduated. My father had worked to get us visas and saved for years to send us. I still feel badly about it. But I was in love. I met Steven—through a friend of Dariya’s, ironically—married, and moved here. Dariya went back to Ukraine. He never completed his degree.”
“When was that?”
“March of 1990. I’ll never forget it. I was sad for him, you know? He came here to achieve something, to get a journalism degree from Emerson College, but then he just up and left during his second year. I know he was finding the coursework very difficult—the language barrier, you know, made it so hard for him. I was sad to see him give up.”
“How did things go once he got back?”
“For us, on a personal level, not well. He never called and rarely wrote.”
“That’s too bad,” Peyton said.
“Yeah, but professionally things went well for him. Not immediately. It took him a few years. He traveled a lot for a while. But then he settled down and landed a TV job. After a time, though, he started to be viewed as pro-Western, which hurt his career. And he lost his network position.”
“What did he do then?”
“According to the letter I got last month, that was just two or three years ago. He was freelancing when Liliya was hurt. I think his house was targeted.”
“Targeted?”
“Yes. Aleksei woke up screaming last night. A nightmare. The missile took off one side of the house while they slept. Aleksei said Liliya was awake reading in the living room when it hit.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“A host of things. I don’t know all of the medical details, but she needs twenty-four-hour care. Dariya is with her, providing that.”
Aleksei went to bed with one life, Peyton thought, and woke with another. “And the letter told you all of this?” Peyton asked.
Bohana looked at her, then crossed the room, opened a coffee-table drawer, and retrieved a handwritten letter. She brought it back and handed it to Peyton.
“This is in Russian?” Peyton pointed to the text.
Bohana smiled apologetically. “Yes.”
Peyton counted twelve pages. “May I take it with me? I’ll return it tomorrow.”
“Oh. Can you read Russian?” Bohana said.
“We have a translator.”
“Oh, um, I guess you can take it.”
Peyton found her reaction odd. Had Bohana offered the letter only when she was sure Peyton couldn’t read it? “How’s your brother coping since his wife was injured?” Peyton asked.
Bohana looked at her and pursed her lips, thinking. Finally, she shook her head. “None of them are okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’ll end up dead, is what I’m trying to say. I try not to think about it. He’s my brother.”
“I see. Aleksei told me his father was staying to fight the pro-Russian separatists. That’s what you’re talking about.”
Bohana nodded.
�
��But his father is a journalist?”
She shrugged. “He wrote that he was staying to fight in his note to me as well. I wrote back, trying to convince him to leave too. But he never answered my reply.”
Peyton didn’t respond immediately. There was no way she would encourage Bohana to request her brother enter the country illegally. Overtaking the aroma of the fireplace was the aroma of onions and meat.
“So Dariya, your brother, wrote—his first contact with you in years—to explain that his son was on the way here?”
Bohana nodded. “And to tell me about Liliya, who I never met.”
“How did Aleksei get here, Bohana?” It was the question she’d come to ask.
“His father hired a man, someone he knew, to take him to Germany. There, Aleksei got on a ship with the man—I don’t know who, and it’s probably not important …”
It might be, Peyton thought, if it turns out to be a human-trafficking ring.
“… and he led Aleksei all the way to Youngsville, New Brunswick.”
“And to the woods behind McCluskey’s?”
“Yes.”
“This is a family friend?”
Bohana considered the question.
“Do you know the man’s name, Bohana?”
She immediately shook her head, the denial coming too fast. There was something there. Peyton had seen it many times before. “Bohana, I know your first priority is to keep your nephew here. With that in mind, it’s in your best interest to offer all the details you have. Aleksei has asked for political asylum. His situation is different than the kids who enter the US along the southern border.”
“Yes, that’s pretty clear, Peyton. Why do you feel the need to tell me that? He’s not going back.”
Peyton heard the agitation in her voice, saw it on her face. “Let me be more specific,” Peyton said. “We’re all trying to do right by this boy. However, given what has happened in Texas over the past couple years, the federal government is very leery of allowing that situation to arise again.”
“Up here?”
Peyton nodded.
“The man who brought Aleksei here,” Bohana said, “is no threat to do it again. In fact, I am surprised he succeeded at all.”
“Why?”
“He’d never done it before.”
