Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  “You’ve been here since, what, five a.m.?”

  “I read the Sports section twice.”

  Shirley, the two hundred-plus-pound silver-haired waitress who once slapped Stone on the butt before learning he was a state trooper, appeared with coffee. She’d been at Gary’s longer than the specials Peyton had eaten there as a middle-schooler with her late father. This day, over her prominent stomach, Shirley wore a T-shirt that read 70 is the new 50!

  She poured Peyton a cup of black coffee, said, “Morning, Peyton,” and set a tiny carafe of cream down and dropped sugar packets next to Peyton’s mug.

  “I love being in here when it rains,” Peyton said. “That sound on the tin roof. My father used to love it too.”

  “He told me that once,” Shirley said.

  “Really?” Peyton said. “He wasn’t much of a talker.”

  “None of the farmers are. But, in here, after a while, they all open up. I know more about the potato business than newspaper reporters do.” She pointed to Stone’s Bangor Daily.

  “Farming isn’t easy,” Peyton said. She’d learned that firsthand. Most farmers in the region relied on an annual loan to operate their farm, which often included their living expenses. If the price of potatoes unexpectedly slipped, or blight razed the crop, the farmer lost it all in a matter of months. If the work or long hours didn’t kill you, the stress would. In her father’s case, all three contributed to his short life.

  Shirley looked around the diner. She and Peyton were the only females in the room.

  “No, not an easy career,” Shirley muttered, then shuffled off to refill another cup.

  “She knows a thing or two herself about hard careers,” Stone said.

  “She still working alone in the morning?”

  “You mean I don’t count?” Stone said. “I told you I made the coffee.”

  “Cute. But seriously, where is all the young help she hired?”

  “She told me she lets them sleep in if they have night classes at the community college.”

  It made Peyton smile. There was no doubt Shirley would do that. The woman had brought Peyton’s mother, Lois, casseroles for weeks following the death of Charlie Cote.

  “There’s just Stan in the back,” Stone said, “and he wouldn’t let me near the griddle.”

  “Thank God,” she said. “I’ve seen your eggs.”

  Shirley reappeared and took their orders. When she left, Stone looked across the table at Peyton. “So,” he said, “any thoughts on our conversation the other day?”

  “Many,” she said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “First”—Peyton looked at him, tried to read his face; damn him, she couldn’t—“you know where I stand on this, right?”

  “I think so.” Then he frowned, his skin creasing near his eyebrows. “That isn’t a good start. Your talk with Tommy didn’t go well, did it?”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Sorry, but I question people for a living. I know where the conversation is headed.”

  “Tommy is eleven, Stone. He thinks his father will never feel obligated to be a part of his life as long as you’re in it.”

  “I’d never want to hurt him or do anything that takes him away from his father. Hell, you know my past with my own mother. I wouldn’t want anyone separated from a parent. I’ve been there.”

  “And you know Jeff is never coming back into my life. He wanted to, for a while. I said no then, and I’d say no now. He realizes that and has finally moved on. It’s healthy.”

  “And Tommy doesn’t understand?”

  “He doesn’t know everything between his dad and me. He doesn’t need to know that. Not at age eleven. All he knows is that he loves his dad and wishes he could see him more often.”

  Stone stared at her, thinking.

  “This is complicated,” Peyton said, when Shirley crossed the room to freshen their coffees. “Of course, I’d never say a bad word about Jeff to Tommy. That would crush him—not because he doesn’t know it, but—”

  “Precisely because he does know it,” Stone said. “And he knows why.”

  She looked at him. Around them, conversations swirled about crop prices, Red Sox spring training, and Celtics games. But Stone was staring out the window again watching cars move slowly on Main Street like carp roaming a shallow pond.

  “You’ve been there?” she said, slowly stirring her coffee.

  He only nodded.

  “I want you to be a part of our lives, Stone. A larger part. A constant part.”

  “I don’t want to come between you and Tommy. If he has no father in his life, he sure as hell needs his mother.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  They were quiet for a while. Shirley reappeared with eggs for both of them. Peyton ate slowly, watching Stone intently.

  “The thing I keep coming back to,” she said, “is that you have so much to offer Tommy. You know what he’s going through, what it feels like to have a parent …” She didn’t want to say it.

  But he did. “Make you feel unwanted.”

  “You know what he’s going through, Stone. I want you to live with us. I’m going to work on it.”

  “If you force it, I’ll never have a chance.”

  “I know that too,” she said.

  They ate the rest of the meal in silence, Peyton trying—and still failing—to read Stone’s expression.

  She was finishing her orange juice when her cell phone vibrated. She recognized the number. “Our surveillance cameras are ready to be picked up and mounted near the shack,” she said.

  4:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia

  The man in the bed was dying.

  That was clear to anyone who saw him. Clear even to the man himself. Victor Tankov—who, at eighty-one, now barely weighed his age—hadn’t bothered to ask his doctor. Didn’t need to. He could feel the tumor in his throat growing, and he’d read the statistics. A year, at most.

  It was why he’d begun his search in the first place.

  The space on the wall across from his bed was now empty.

  He’d left Moscow a month ago, moved to the country house, the one near the river. Had even put the Moscow home up for sale. He knew he wouldn’t return to Moscow. He knew, too, that in this economy so few people could afford the home that he might die with it still in his possession.

  And what then?

  It wouldn’t be his problem. But Marfa couldn’t handle the business. What would become of it all? He worried about her.

  He looked at the vacant space on the wall. That was where the gift would go. Could Marfa handle that too?

  Through the window he saw Nicolay drag two sleds through the snow, watched as the giant put the old man’s grandchildren on the sleds, and saw them ride toward the frozen pond.

  He couldn’t make out the children’s words through the glass of the double-hung window. His hearing started to fail long ago. But he could see their smiling faces as the sleds bounded down the steep hill.

  The children—the eldest, Rodia, in particular—loved the country home. The 1860s Victorian mansion had eight bedrooms, seven baths, and a small pond. While renovations had updated the home, care had been taken to retain the period charm. Victor Tankov was a man who appreciated antiquity and craftsmanship. And Marfa had taken note and promised the gift of a lifetime.

  His daughter entered the room. “Still in bed?” Marfa asked.

  “It’s hard to get up,” he said, turning back from the window.

  She looked at the art magazine on his bedstand. “I knew Art History professors at NYU who read that.”

  He smiled. “A self-education is an eclectic one.”

  “Not just eclectic,” she said. “You always had a focus. Remember the family vacations? The Louvre in Paris. The Acropolis in Athens. The Met i
n Washington.”

  “It wasn’t Disneyland,” he said.

  “No.” She smiled.

  “You forgot to mention the Hermitage,” he said.

  “Your beloved Hermitage.”

  Outside, Nicolay helped the children up the hill. Marfa moved to her father’s side and sat on the edge of the bed. When the bed moved, Victor flinched.

  “I’m so sorry, Father.”

  “For what?”

  “For the way you feel.” She tried to fix his pillow.

  The old man waved it off.

  “Why don’t you ever let me comfort you?”

  “When you’ve lived like I have,” he said, “suffering at the end is part of the price.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means there is only one more comfort I want. You know what it is.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes running to the wall, “but I thought you’d also want me here. I came to be with you.”

  “I know you did,” he said.

  “And you don’t care?”

  “There’s nothing you can do for me.”

  She knew that, too, although she didn’t say it. She looked out the window. His timetable had greatly impacted her own. She turned back to him. Looked at him closely. Would he die sooner than she thought? She couldn’t have that. She needed to win, to have him see what she’d done. The irony wouldn’t be lost on a man who loved practical jokes as much as he did. She wanted to be there when the size and scope of her plan occurred to him.

  “Dimitri used to love sliding on that hill,” she said.

  Victor looked at his daughter. The pain and anger she saw anytime someone mentioned her late brother’s name was there. Then it passed.

  “He really did,” she said. “I can still hear his laugh.”

  “He had a great laugh. Marfa, take your children and go to the US. Start over.”

  She shook her head. “Remember years ago? When you were hurt?”

  “I was never hurt,” he said.

  “When your tooth hurt. Remember?”

  “When I had three teeth pulled?” he said.

  “You were in bed. I picked flowers for you. I lay next to you and read you a story from my story book. I was six or seven.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh, yes. That was when Dimitri made a painting for me,” he said. “It still hangs in the office.”

  “And you remember that, of course. But not me reading to you. Why would I think differently?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing.” She turned to the window. “Why would I think this gift would be any different?”

  “What are you saying?” he said. “I can’t hear you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Marfa, I wish I remembered more of those days. At my age, it’s better to live in the past, because the past is better than the future.”

  “That makes no sense, Father.”

  “Yes, it does. It means I know the life I’ve led, Marfa. I know what is to come.”

  “You’ve been very generous with some people. Some people would say that. And you know it.”

  “Generous with some, not so generous with others. But that’s in the past now. The businesses are yours.”

  “But not the money?”

  “I’ll give you what you need until I’m gone. Then it’s all yours.”

  That wasn’t good enough. Not because he’d live forever, but because he wouldn’t.

  “I’ll need full access while I’m negotiating,” she said. “Surely you understand that.”

  “Why can’t you give me the figure and let me handle that?”

  “Father, I’m talking twenty-four or forty-eight hours from when I start negotiating at most. But I need to control the money. It’s a complicated transaction. You must realize that.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’ll be complicated. Good experience for you.”

  “Maybe a good experience for you too,” she said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Why don’t you think I can handle the money?” she said.

  “Nicolay will help you.”

  “I don’t need his help. I’m ready.”

  “I wish Pyotr was still here,” he said.

  “Why? The divorce is final. He’s gone. I don’t need him either.”

  “Yes,” he said, “you do. He’s very smart.”

  “I have an MBA.”

  “And I’m proud of you, but it means nothing. I have a sixth-grade education and I know business better than those professors you had in America. Pyotr had a businessman’s mind.”

  “You can’t be serious. He didn’t have the stomach for this life. That’s why I left him.” She shook her head. “You’ll never understand.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “I’ll show you what I’m capable of,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  She turned to him.

  “Are you laughing?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. But she was smiling. “One day, I’ll show you that I’m better than Pyotr.” Then, under her breath, “Better than the son you wish had lived.”

  “Marfa, you don’t have to show me anything—”

  But she held up her hand, and he didn’t bother to finish.

  “I like to think of the good times we’ve had,” he said. “Remember that year you studied in New York City, when your mother and I visited?”

  “I miss her every day. She understood me and what I go through.”

  “I’ll join her soon.”

  “No, Father.” Not too soon, she thought.

  He looked at her, reached, and took her hand. “You’re so young.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “We both know it’s near,” he said.

  “More time,” she said.

  “I don’t get to say how much I get. None of us do.”

  But he’d misunderstood. She needed more time. Needed him to survive long enough to see just what she was capable of. And that had nothing to do with him receiving the gift. Marfa looked out the window.

  He asked, “Are you crying?”

  She turned back to him, her eyes absolutely dry. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Nicolay is a gentle giant,” Marfa said, changing the subject.

  “Giant, yes. Gentle, only to those who deserve it,” her father said.

  “He’s been with you a long time.”

  “When his father went to prison, he was fifteen. I took him in, gave him work.”

  “The Moscow home is sold, Father,” she said.

  He looked at her, impressed. “Really?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Don’t say you want to sell this home too. The fence and security system took six months to put in place and cost far too much.”

  “But we are safer here because of them,” he said and pointed a bony finger to the window. “And the children are safer here.”

  “No one would hurt the children.”

  “Probably not intentionally,” he said. “You actually found a buyer?”

  “I persuaded a buyer.”

  She sounded convincing, but Victor didn’t see the something in her eyes that he knew was in his own. He’d never seen it in her eyes. It hadn’t been in his former son-in-law’s either. But Pyotr was gone now, so that didn’t matter. Nicolay, though, had the look. It was why Victor had initially hired him. Nicolay had begun by doing odd jobs, then driving, and finally doing things few others would do. He knew that neither Marfa nor Pyotr were capable of doing those things.

  “Send Rodia to a boarding school,” he said, startling his daughter.

  “What?”

  “Rodia,”
he repeated, “my grandson. Send him to a boarding school out of the country.”

  “Like you did to me?”

  “Yes. Why do you say it like that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “He’s not cut out for this life either,” the old man said.

  “Either? What are you saying?”

  He watched his grandson fall off the sled and roll. “You should move. I can set up an allowance.”

  “You don’t think I’m capable of handling the money.”

  “I can set up an allowance.”

  “I’m not a little girl, Father.”

  “It has nothing to do with that. You weren’t successful in school.”

  “I earned excellent grades.”

  “No,” he said, “not that. You called home crying. You let people push you around. You lost the money I gave you back then.”

  “That was a long time ago. And why would I leave now? The country is headed in the right direction, with the right people.”

  “Tough people—tough men—are running the country.”

  “I’m not begging for the money, Father. I’m not a beggar. I’m a businesswoman.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She shook her head. He’d soon find out. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. You’ve never given me the chance to prove myself.”

  He didn’t speak. He was pale and looked tired.

  “I have good news about your birthday gift,” she said.

  “Where does it stand? Is it close?”

  “The boy is in place,” she said.

  “The Ukrainian boy?”

  “Yes. He’s in America. It won’t be long now,” she said.

  Outside, snow began to fall.

  9:10 a.m., McCluskey’s Potato Processing Plant

  There was no avoiding him this time.

  Peyton had hoped to once again park at the back of the lot at McCluskey’s, walk to the area near the shack, attach the cameras to various trees, and leave without seeing Leaf Ryan. But that wasn’t happening. She rounded the building in her Ford F-150 service vehicle and found him standing in the middle of the lot, hands on hips, staring straight ahead, as if waiting for her.

  It was too warm, so the early-morning rain had never completely turned to snow. It was drizzling. For some reason Leaf Ryan wore sunglasses. He took them off and raised one hand for her to stop. His hand was raw and cracked, as if he spent a lot of time outside without gloves.