by D. A. Keeley
But he still believed in destiny.
“How’s the burger?”
He turned back to Becky.
“Good,” he said, “but I won’t be able to finish it. Just a few bites. Ever read Dostoyevsky?”
She shook her head. “Are you about to say something interesting again?”
“He wrote that ‘an extraordinary man has the right to decide in his own conscience to overstep certain obstacles for the practical fulfillment of his idea.’ Isn’t that great?”
“I love it when you say stuff like that.”
He knew she did. Secretly, he hoped it led to something more between them, even if just for a night.
His eyes left her face and refocused on the dancing ice chunks again. He’d read that line hundreds of times. And he’d faced obstacles his entire life. So why shouldn’t he be allowed to “overstep” a few? No one else had the guts to take the chance. Hadn’t the world been talking about what he’d done for twenty-five years? And maybe he hadn’t fully abandoned his journalism career. Looking at art? Certainly. But researching it, too, for a book. And for much more. After all, he was an expert on the subject. His knowledge of art had distinguished him at Emerson.
She looked at him. “Waiting your table is never dull, Teddy. I’ll say that.”
“I aim to please.”
“I’ve always meant to ask”—she tapped the Boston Globe, which lay before him—“why do you read the Boston papers? Why not the local news in the Star Herald?”
She was right. He always had a copy of the Globe, even if it wasn’t that day’s edition, and he read it cover to cover. The real answer to her question had two parts, but he shared only one: “I like big-city news.”
“You miss doing the news on TV?”
“It’s been years,” he said. “You’re probably the only one who even remembers I was a newscaster.”
“I remember because you were so good,” she said. “Too good for the little station in this town. I always thought you’d start here and end up on the CBS Evening News.” She smiled warmly.
“The next Scott Pelley?”
“That could’ve been you.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m happier working on cars,” he lied, forcing a smile.
Destiny and sacrifice, he thought.
“I respect that,” she said. “Growing a beard?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t like that she’d noticed that, either. In the coming days, the beard would be necessary.
She nodded and pushed her hair behind her ears. He liked the way she wore her hair. Not quite sure why. Maybe it made her look like she had when she’d been in high school, when they’d both been young.
“I like the beard,” she said. “Kind of cute.” And she moved off again, went to the bar and talked to Peter Dye, the high school history teacher who tended bar four nights a week. Were they an item?
He liked Becky, liked hearing her say he could’ve been more. But her compliments, even so many years after his decision to quit his TV job, reminded him why he’d given it up: because six years ago, after waiting nearly two decades, he believed he’d found a way to unload what had become his burden. And with that proposed sale, he might achieve his destiny—to become truly “extraordinary,” as Dostoyevsky explained.
But that first offer fell through. Now the burden remained—just a while longer—tucked away, like the major-market TV career he still thought about.
7:35 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive
The open floor plan allowed her to watch him from across the house. Finally, Peyton shifted in the living room chair and set her Lisa Scottoline novel on her lap.
“Tommy,” she said, “how’s the math homework going?”
He was working at the dining room table and shrugged, not looking up. “You just asked me that a little while ago. It’s going the same.”
He was right. She’d asked that same question not fifteen minutes earlier. But she could see the struggle on his face. And it killed her to watch him—his pencil stuttering across the page, his eyebrows creasing like clenched fists as his face pinched in concentration.
Dishes had been cleared, the woodstove fed. Through the window she could see snow falling hard, and she could hear the backdraft in the chimney. A strong wind was rolling in from New Brunswick, Canada, fighting against the hot air inside the flue. The forecast called for six inches of blowing snow. In this region, where fifty-below-zero temperatures literally occurred, Strong Woman Winter never left without a fight. So a late-season storm was far from unexpected. But unwelcome, nonetheless.
“Might have a snow day tomorrow,” she teased. She set her book on the coffee table, crossed the room, and put another log in the woodstove. She’d received a quote for a pellet-burning stove and was setting aside a little money from each paycheck with that in mind. Next fall, the new stove—and a winter without the hassle and mess of wood—would be her Christmas gift to herself.
“A snow day?” he said. “You think?”
She zipped her fleece up to her chin. “Don’t risk it, Tommy. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. Finish your work.”
But it was not to be.
The power went out five minutes later.
She walked around the house with her iPhone serving as her flashlight and lit strategically placed candles. Power outages were a way of life in Aroostook County.
She heard Tommy chuckling. “Guess I can’t finish my homework now. Too bad. I really wanted to, Mom.”
“Oh, I can hear the sadness in your voice.” She turned quickly and tickled his belly.
He squealed with laughter. Then, when she stopped, he said, “I’m too old for that, Mom.”
“I’ll be tickling you on your wedding day.”
“That’ll never happen. I’m not getting married. I’ll be a Border Patrol agent.”
They’d reached the kitchen, and she lit the candle on the center island. She pulled out a stool, sat, and he followed suit.
“Border Patrol agents get married, Tommy.”
He shrugged.
“I was married. You know that.”
“Yeah, but I just think it’s better if you don’t.”
“Don’t get married?”
He nodded. His eyes were focused on the candle. Deliberately? Was he uncomfortable?
“Why shouldn’t Border Patrol agents get married, Tommy?”
“I don’t know. I just think about you and Dad sometimes. It’s easier if you’re not married.”
“A lot of the men and women I work with are married and never get divorced. Your dad and I getting divorced has nothing to do with my job. Sometimes a marriage just doesn’t work out.”
He looked up. “Well, it’s too hard when it doesn’t. So I’m just not going to do it.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but then she did something wise: she closed it. She got up, went to the fridge, and rummaged in the dark for orange juice. Poured two glasses and returned to her stool at the island.
“You’re talking about how the divorce made you feel, and I know that, sweetie. And I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt me,” he said, tears in his eleven-year-old eyes—eyes that had seen the world get very big very quickly. For a split-second she thought of Aleksei Vann. Maybe the boys weren’t so different. Part of her wanted to tell Tommy what really happened: Jeff simply walked out, left her to raise him alone in Texas. But she wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t turn him against his father, no matter what said father was like.
She would, however, try to provide a better role model for him.
“Are you ready for your karate competition this weekend?”
He nodded.
“You’ve been working hard,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Is Stone a tough teacher?”
; He nodded. “But he says I’m ready.”
“That’s great,” she said. “I’m so proud of you, of how you’ve stuck with it. Not everyone does. Not everyone has it inside them to do it. It takes a lot of work and discipline to earn belts. You ought to be proud.”
“I am kind of proud.” He was looking at her now, smiling.
She’d positioned Stone into the conversation—had manipulated Tommy to do so and didn’t feel great about that. But it was a conversation they needed to have.
“I want to talk about Stone, Tommy.”
“What about him? He’s my karate teacher. That’s all.”
“He might be someone you can do things with, someone you can talk to.”
“I don’t need that. I have you.”
“You do have me.”
“And I’m the man of the house, Mom.”
“That’s an awful big burden, pal.”
“Don’t call me pal. I’m not a little kid. It’s not a burden.” He turned and looked at the candle flame.
“Tommy, nothing between you and I would change if Stone moved in. I would never do anything unless I thought it would benefit you. I think this could make your life better. I want you to know that.”
“We don’t need anybody but Dad.”
“Tommy, we still have Dad,” she said, but her statement made no sense, and the conversation was getting away from her.
“Well, he can’t come back if Stone’s here.”
She looked at him and inhaled deeply. “Tommy, I don’t think you should wait for Dad to come back.”
He turned away from the candle to look at her, eyes suddenly wide.
She only nodded—knew it would hurt him, but had to.
He got off his chair and started across the room, into the dark house.
“Tommy,” she said.
“No. Don’t talk to me!”
She heard him climb the stairs in the dark and heard his bedroom door slam. She didn’t give chase. He needed time. She finished her orange juice, rinsed both glasses, and went to bed.
The house remained dark.
five
Friday, March 7, 7 a.m., Razdory, Russia
“I’m not an invalid,” Victor Tankov said.
Although, at eighty-one and unable to walk, he knew that was precisely what he was. In fact, unbeknownst to his daughter, Marfa—sitting bedside with her own three-year-old daughter, who played with her dolls on the floor—he knew he was dying soon. He’d gotten worse since she arrived. Maybe it was the excitement of having the grandchildren in the house. Maybe it was his desire to rejoin his late wife, Dunya, who’d passed long ago. Maybe it was the stress of Marfa desiring to step into his shoes. Whatever it was, although the doctor had told him he had upwards of a year, he knew it was far less.
Esophageal cancer. Stage IV.
“What are you thinking about?” Marfa asked.
His eyes blinked, as if he were coming back from some faraway place. “Your mother. What would she think of her granddaughter?”
“Don’t talk like that, Father. It makes me too sad. She was so strong, so inspirational.”
“She was stubborn,” he said. “I’m glad you’re not like her.”
“That’s an insult.”
“I worry about my grandchildren. Take care of me, grant my final wish, then leave the country, Marfa. You’re a mother.”
“And a businesswoman, Father. You misjudge me—always have.”
“I did not mean to upset you.”
“I have an education in business, Father.”
“Yes, I know. Take it. Go to America or Italy or Canada. Use it. Be safe, and be well.”
Outside, the snow had stopped falling. Sunlight shone brightly in the window and reflected off the crusty white landscape surrounding the estate. Nicolay, up early, stood on the frozen pond. Rodia skated around him, laughing as the giant feigned to grab him.
“You sound like Pyotr, Father. He thought I would be content as his housewife, so I left him.”
“I know. I should have spoken to you before it came to that.”
“What would you have said?”
“Think of your mother. She was fulfilled.”
“As a housewife, Father? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Mother always felt that you held her back.”
She saw his face redden. “Don’t speak like that. You know nothing of our relationship. I only want you to be happy. Pyotr was a good husband.”
“He was a chauvinist.”
“I only want you to be happy and safe.”
“I’m alone,” she said, “and I’m happy now.”
“I wanted more for you.”
“But I want to follow in your footsteps.”
He raised his hand and pounded the bedsheets, a sound no louder than someone fluffing a pillow. But it took all his strength. “No,” he said. “I don’t want that.”
Three-year-old Anna started to cry.
“It’s okay, darling,” Marfa said. She took her daughter in her arms.
Victor leaned back, still looking at her. “Don’t you see? Look at yourself.” He pointed to the wall mirror across the room.
Marfa’s reluctant eyes betrayed her and sought out the mirror. She saw herself instinctively rocking Anna as she had when the girl had been an infant and awoke at night.
“You’re a mother, first and foremost,” Victor said. “That is not a weakness. It just is. Leave. Promise me you will leave.”
“The only one who has left is Pyotr.”
“I hope you see him again soon. Maybe he’ll take you back. Why are you smiling?”
She didn’t answer, only thought of the irony of his statement. If he only knew. “Remember when you asked Mother if I was gay?”
“I was worried.”
“No, just confused,” she said. “You’re still confused. You don’t understand independence among women. I was independent, even at sixteen. I didn’t need a boyfriend, Father. And now I don’t need a husband. I’m a strong woman. You’ll see just how strong I am.”
“When you get me what I’ve asked for?”
“Sure,” she lied. “That’s it.” Marfa turned and walked out of the room.
8:10 a.m., Garrett Station
Peyton entered the office and handed Miguel Jimenez a Tim Hortons coffee.
“Thanks. What’s this for?”
“No reason,” she said.
He pushed back from his desk, the wheels of his chair squealing. “I thought you liked espresso in the morning.”
“I do,” she said, “but I thought I’d bring you a pick-me-up instead.”
Much to Tommy’s chagrin, there had been no snow day, so they’d stopped at Tim Hortons for a hot chocolate on the way to school.
Jimenez set the coffee on the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “This is because Mike yelled at me yesterday, isn’t it?”
“No, I was just thinking of you. The way I do a pain-in-the-ass brother.”
“You don’t have a brother.”
“But if I did, and if he were a pain in the ass, he’d remind me of you, I’m sure.”
He smiled at her and reached for his coffee. “Tim Hortons,” he said. “This might be the one thing I miss when I transfer back to Texas.”
“And my jokes,” she said.
“Not so much.”
She was still standing, about to head to the locker room to change from jeans into field greens. “Still talking about leaving us?” she said. “Want to go back south, huh?”
Jiminez was a lifer, that much she knew. He’d gotten a tattoo featuring the Border Patrol emblem as soon as he’d graduated from the Academy. But she always knew he wasn’t long for the northern border. And she knew why.
/> “It’s home, Peyton. You get that.”
She nodded. “Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“I knew I’d need experience along the northern border if I ever want a shot at being a PAIC. Now I have that experience.”
“You want to be a Patrol Agent in Charge?” she asked. “After seeing what Mike goes through? Fighting for funding, meetings all day.”
“Yeah. Why not?”
Her backpack was slung over one shoulder. She set it on her desk and shook her head. “Not me. I like being in the field.”
“You can still do some of that.”
“Not enough.” She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her fleece and slid it into her backpack with the items she had for hiking: Clif Bars, VitaminWater, extra wool socks, spare gloves, and a rescue flare.
Jimenez set his coffee on the desk and scrolled through a map on his iPad. “What are you up to this morning?”
“I’ll snowshoe the area along the Canadian border where Aleksei Vann entered the US.”
“The Ukrainian boy?” he asked.
She nodded, left her cup and phone next to the backpack on her desk, and started for the locker room to change.
“Peyton,” Jimenez called, “your phone is vibrating.”
She came back, saw the name—as did Miguel—and answered it.
“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Stone said.
“I know.” There were only two female agents at Garrett Station, so she knew she could find privacy in the female locker room.
“How’s Tommy?”
“A work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” he said. “Hey, this is a business call. Have you had a chance to review the video footage from your cameras?”
She sat on the chair in front of her locker and looked around the empty room. Ten lockers lined the east wall across from a shower and two toilet stalls. “The video from my tree cameras?”
