by D. A. Keeley
“This isn’t work,” she said.
“No, it isn’t. I just pulled in. I need to let the dog out.”
“Okay. I’ll let you go.”
“I had a great time with Tommy. And, for the record, he laughed at my jokes.”
“I never said he had a good sense of humor.”
“We both had a good time, Peyton. Let’s not press it.”
“Got it.”
“So,” he said, “when can I give you a shoulder rub?”
She grinned. “There must be a bad connection. I think the call is about to drop.”
“Hey—”
She hung up on him, smiling all the while.
7:15 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane
“Can I talk to you?” Bohana said, entering the guest room that was now Aleksei’s.
Aleksei was surprised to see his aunt, more surprised when she closed the bedroom door behind her. He’d been lying on his bed, wearing jeans and a Garrett Bobcats T-shirt, flipping through pages of his Algebra II textbook. He sat up, swinging his legs onto the floor.
Bohana moved to the bed, sitting on the edge next to him.
Why had she closed the door? She’d never entered his room and closed the door before.
“I have some good news,” she said. “Your father contacted me.”
He looked at her, waiting.
“He’s coming here soon.”
“My father? When?”
She told him.
“He call you?”
“Emailed me,” she said. “After only letters for so long, I can’t wait to see him.”
“My mother?”
“He says she’s not strong enough yet.”
“But soon?”
“Aleksei, your father won’t be here long.”
“Why?”
“He needs to return to care for your mother.”
“He not staying?”
“‘He is not staying.’ You forgot the verb.”
“Is my father staying?”
She shook her head. “Only for a few days.” She reached to put her arm around him, but he stood and moved away.
He was trying to process it. Only a few days? “When will he and Mother be coming to live?”
“To live here? Aleksei, I don’t think they are. They sent you here to have a better life. You know that. Your father is staying to fight Putin, right?”
He was staring at the floor, but he shook his head.
“No?” she said. “You told the Border Patrol agent and the social worker that.”
“He tell me they come here to live.”
“Aleksei, you must have misheard—”
“No,” he said. “I heard.”
“Please don’t raise your voice. Did you lie to the authorities, Aleksei?”
His eyes darted frantically back and forth from her to the bedroom door.
“This must be hard,” she said. “Your parents love you, Aleksei. That’s why they sent you here. We’re going to see that you go to college and have a wonderful life.”
Bohana knew the realization must’ve been startling. He now knew things would never be as they’d been. He was living apart from his parents, and that wasn’t changing. This was his life now. In this same position, her own son would be devastated. What had Dariya told him?
“When we be together again?” he asked. “My father say he and Mother come to live in US. When?”
“I don’t know that. Your father has said nothing about that to me.”
He was looking at the floor.
“Listen, Aleksei, I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Nothing else matter,” he said and stood, hands thrust in his blue-jean pockets.
“It’s about your trip here,” she said.
“Keep it secret,” he said. “I know. I know.”
“Do you understand why?”
He nodded. “I don’t like him.”
“I know. And you don’t have to, but your father asked him to help get you here. You can never tell anyone who brought you here.”
“On boat, he told me stay in cabin, even when I was seasick. In the woods, when I tell him I cold, he say walk faster.”
“You needed to get to the border quickly.”
“I don’t like him,” Aleksei said and turned away from her to face the window.
“That’s okay, but you can never tell. You realize that, right?” she asked again, this time her voice was almost pleading.
He nodded, not turning back until he heard her leave his room and close the door behind her.
seven
Sunday, March 9, 10:10 a.m., Garrett Rod and Rifle Club
If you live in Maine, you’re tricked by the weather often, and you learn to doubt the forecasters. But on this day the WAGM weatherman had been correct: overcast, flurries, and a high of thirty-five. All in all, residents would gladly take a March day of thirty-five degrees.
Ted Donovan lowered the barrel of his .30-.30 and squeezed the trigger as he exhaled. The round hit the target at the other end of the range, just missing the center.
“You still breathe out when you squeeze the trigger, just like Dad taught us,” Steven said to him.
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Steven looked through the scope of his .30-06 and fired once, missing the center target. “I don’t think about it,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m here trying to get this rifle sighted. I missed a ten-point buck last fall.”
“Michael’s a good shot. Was he with you?”
“He’s a worse shot than you with your old cowboy gun. No, he wasn’t with me.” Steven looked through the scope again. “Doesn’t feel like hunting this year.”
“Planning a trip? I’ll go with you.”
“Teddy, you just had a nice long vacation to sightsee in Paris and Germany.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Ted was facing him. “Why all the questions? What’s the problem? You approved it.”
“Just don’t ask for any more time off. Bill Neighbor is whining about the amount of time off you get, said some other guys are getting upset.”
Bill Neighbor was the service manager, Ted’s direct supervisor.
Steven fired a second shot that missed the target.
“You seem stressed,” Ted told him.
“A lot on my mind.”
“How’s Aleksei fitting in?”
“That’s what’s weighing on me. Everything’s turned upside down. The kid just arrives out of the blue, and it falls to us to take him in. We had no idea he was coming. I don’t even know how he got here. Nothing against him, he’s a very nice boy. But I have my own son.”
“And now you’re raising Bohana’s nephew?”
“Who I don’t even know. That’s right. You get it. Not sure that thought ever crossed Bohana’s mind when she agreed to take him in. She just told me he was her nephew, so she had to take him in.”
“How’s Michael doing with all this?”
Steven looked at him. “Jesus Christ, you know, I’m not sure anyone really asked Mikey. It’s just been crazy—getting Aleksei clothes, going to the school, Aleksei getting in a fight at the school. We haven’t really stopped to ask, not seriously, not to really talk about it with Mike.”
“Hard on everyone. But it’s got to be best for Aleksei to be here, though, right?”
“Of course.”
The spot next to them was vacant. Two spots away, a man fired a pistol at a target he’d obviously brought there himself—a life-sized headshot of a female.
“Your ex-wife?” Steven asked.
The man looked at them and removed his camouflage shooting earmuffs. He had greasy blond hair and bad teeth and was maybe twenty-five.
Steven repeated the question.
“You guessed it,” the man said. “She ended up with my pickup.” He put on his earmuffs and fired four more rounds.
“Nice fucking guy,” Ted said to Steven.
Steven nodded. “Misogynist.”
“Big word. Guys like him are why everyone hates the NRA.”
“Who hates the NRA?” Steven said, grinning.
Ted said, “What’s Bill Neighbor’s problem with me?” He had to yell over the sound of gunshots.
“He came to ask if the vacation rules are the same for you. I assume some other mechanics sent him in.”
“Because I took some time off ?”
“Yeah. Four weeks is a lot of time. Plus your two weeks last July. I told him it was unpaid.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You’re my brother,” Steven said. “No one has to know that.”
“Was it supposed to have been unpaid?”
“You ever read your employee benefits packet?”
Ted shook his head, lowered his .30-.30, and squeezed off a round. This time, he hit the center of the target.
“Moron,” Steven said. “Read that shit. You only get two weeks, not six.”
“I’ve never taken more than that before, so it never mattered. Christ, I’m there before you every morning.”
Steven nodded and adjusted the scope, sighting the target. Then he fired, finally hitting the center.
Both men turned when an auburn-haired woman stepped into the vacant spot between them and the man who’d lost his pickup.
Peyton looked at the black circular target that stood across the range from her. On the target next to hers, facing the man to her right, a headshot of a woman had been stapled. The man next to her, wearing camouflage earmuffs, raised a .45 and squeezed off a round that not only missed the photo of the woman but missed the target altogether.
The hard-packed snow was level. In the mild winter air, she wore jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece beneath her North Face jacket. She removed her coat, folded it, and draped it over the back of a nearby bench, carefully keeping it off the dirty snow.
In the shooting lanes to her left stood a man she recognized: Steven Donovan, Bohana’s husband and thus Aleksei’s uncle and the man from whom she’d bought her Jeep Wrangler. She didn’t recognize the man with him.
She exhaled and slowly squeezed her index finger, hitting the target easily with the first two rounds fired from her Smith & Wesson .40. She knew Steven and the man with him were watching. The man on the other side of her fired at a woman’s photo—and missed again. Peyton squeezed off five quick rounds, the target leaping with the impact of each bullet. Finished, she raised her protective glasses. There were four bullets arranged in an area the size of her palm.
“You really group your shots well,” Steven Donovan said.
“Thanks.”
“You look familiar,” he said.
“You sold me my Jeep.” She removed her leather gloves and told them her name. The air was cold on her hands. “And I’m here a lot.” She looked at the other man, who said nothing.
“This is my brother, Ted,” Steven said and introduced him.
“You here a lot too?” she asked him.
Ted didn’t answer.
“Weren’t you on TV?” she asked. “I grew up here, remember seeing you.”
Ted smiled momentarily. “That was a long time ago.”
“News,” she said, “right? I saw a profile you did once on area art collections. Not the usual newsfare around here.”
“You’ve got quite a memory,” Ted said.
“These days, he’d rather be alone in the woods,” Steven said. “You’re a great shot.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. Like all agents, she was tested four times a year, firing hundreds of shots with a service pistol, a carbine, and a 12-gauge. An agent who failed to qualify suffered a massive indignity: he or she would acquiesce to individual training sessions before a retest. Among law-enforcement officials, Border Patrol agents were considered elite marksman. And Peyton had never failed a qualifying session; in fact, she’d never even come close to failing.
“I hear you have a houseguest,” Peyton said and smiled at Steven.
“Yes, it’s been busy.”
“Did you know he was coming?” she asked.
Ted said, “Steven, can you help me sight this rifle?”
“Yeah, sure,” Steven said. Then to Peyton, “Had no idea he was coming. We’re not close to his father. He writes my wife maybe every other year.”
She nodded, turned back to her target, and squeezed off another burst of shots. Then she removed her black earmuffs and watched the man to her right fire at the picture of the woman. This time he hit the picture. A corner of the photo tore free and floated in the air for a few moments before gently landing in the snow.
“Divorce me, huh?” the man said. “How’s that feel, you bitch?”
“Excuse me,” Peyton said.
He turned to face her.
She set the safety on her .40 and moved closer.
He removed his camouflage earmuffs. He looked her up and down. “Are you learning to shoot, sweetie? I’d be happy to show you how.”
“It took you twenty rounds to hit a corner of the target. If you had to shoot your dinner, you’d starve.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who finds you totally offensive. I want that photo removed.”
“I brought it here myself. It’s my ex-wife. She took my pickup. Just blowing off a little steam. I’m actually a nice guy. Why don’t you let me show you how nice I am?”
“I want the fucking picture removed,” she said.
“I like a woman who can say fuck like that.” He smiled at her, showing yellow teeth.
“Go take the photo down now. It’s misogynistic.”
“It’s what?”
“Just go get it.”
“How about you and I get some lunch?”
“Take the picture down.”
“Yeah, okay, sure. I’m Jimmy O’Connor. Wait right here. Then we’ll grab something to eat.” He hustled to the end of the range while Peyton, Steven, and Ted waited.
When O’Connor returned, Peyton replaced her sunglasses and went back to work. Several times, O’Connor approached and tried to launch a conversation, but she remained focused on why she was there—firing more than a hundred shots, never missing the target, and tightly grouping shots in various locations on the target board.
She paused to replace a spent clip.
“Christ, you can really shoot,” O’Connor said. “Hey, I’m single.”
“I can see why,” Peyton said.
“What’s that mean?” He held his camouflage earmuffs and pushed his Cabela’s cap back.
She ignored him.
“What time are we going to lunch?” He looked at his watch.
“I’m not going to lunch with you.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
“I’m not wearing it.”
“Married?”
“Sure,” she lied.
“Happily?”
“Very.”
“Ever cheat?”
“Get away from me,” she said.
“Peyton,” Steven Donovan said, “is everything alright?”
She turned to see him approaching.
“Everything’s fine. Thanks. This gentleman was just going back to his target. And I’m about to leave.”
O’Connor turned back to his target and began firing. He shot faster and more erratically than before. Peyton knew he was angry. She also knew he was unstable.
She was leaning over her duffle bag, putting her .40 away, when Steven said, “Are you okay here with this idiot if we leave?”
She straightened and turned to face him. “Yeah
, sure.”
“Jimmy O’Connor is a nut.” Steven motioned to O’Connor, who was still firing—and still missing.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Steven grinned. “Yeah, you seem to be able to hold your own.” He turned to the man with him, and they left.
Ten minutes later, Peyton was in the parking lot, walking toward her Wrangler, when O’Connor stepped between her and the driver’s door.
“I don’t know who you are, but you’re a hell of a shot. And I don’t believe you’re married.”
His arms were folded across his chest. She noticed grease beneath his fingernails and wondered what he did for work.
“Move out of my way.”
“I just want to buy you lunch.”
“No thank you.”
“Playing hard to get?”
“Not playing anything. Step away from my Jeep. This is the last time I’ll ask.”
“You a lezbo or something?”
It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her. In three seconds, he was on the ground, writhing, holding his crotch.
“No, but my little sister is,” Peyton said, stepping over him. “Enjoy your lunch,” she said, started the engine, and drove away.
eight
Monday, March 10, 9 a.m., Gary’s Diner
One week to the day from when she found Aleksei Vann, Peyton and Mike Hewitt saw their breakfast party immediately. Bill Hillsdale from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services sat at a table in back of the diner with a man she’d never seen before and Bohana Donovan. She knew the man was Dariya Vann. He wore a gray sports jacket that looked a decade out of style and a button-down shirt, open at the throat.
“At least it stopped snowing,” Hewitt said. “I can finally run outside.”
There were three vacant seats at the table. When Peyton and Hewitt arrived, Dariya immediately stood and extended a hand.
“Thank you,” he said to Peyton, then looked quickly at Hillsdale.
“Yeah, that’s her,” Hillsdale said.
“Thanks for what?” Peyton said.
“I told him you found his son,” Hillsdale said.
“Actually, Mr. Vann, your son found me,” she said and watched his reaction closely. His son had surrendered to her. Wouldn’t the man know that? Hadn’t that been the plan?
