Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  Hewitt also shook the man’s hand. Then he and Peyton sat side-by-side at the circular table, across from Dariya, between Bohana and Hillsdale.

  “We’re waiting on one more person,” Bohana said.

  “Oh,” Peyton said, “is your husband joining us?”

  “No. I’ve hired an attorney for my brother and nephew.”

  Hillsdale tensed. He frowned but only for a moment. Then he looked across the table at Peyton and offered a broad I told you so smile.

  “I don’t know that a lawyer is necessary for the questions we have,” Hewitt said, “but that’s certainly your prerogative. Also, if you’d like a translator, there’s a local professor we’ve used in the past.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Bohana said. “My brother speaks English.”

  Spoons clanged the sides of coffee cups, the bell over the front door jangled, and voices at the counter discussed the season’s predicted potato prices.

  Peyton looked across the table at Dariya. “I see the family resemblance. Your son looks a lot like you, Mr. Vann.”

  He smiled. “I miss him very much.”

  “I bet,” Peyton said. “It must’ve been hard to send him here.”

  Dariya Vann didn’t take the bait. He stared at his coffee, then slowly lifted his cup and sipped, never making eye contact with Peyton. She thought she saw him grin.

  “It’s only been a few days,” Hillsdale said.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen Aleksei, Mr. Vann?” Peyton asked.

  Dariya picked up his water glass and drank.

  “How about your sister?” Peyton said. “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

  He looked at Bohana.

  “Oh, years and years,” Bohana said. “Christmas cards, a letter here and there—that’s all.” Bohana leaned toward her brother and kissed his cheek. “Too long.”

  Dariya was short, no taller than five-seven. His pale eyes had dark half-moons beneath them, like the eyes of men who worked the eleven-to-seven shift at McCluskey’s. But his hands were different; they weren’t the hands of a laborer. His hands were smooth, and his belly belonged to a white-collar worker.

  “My sister say you good to Aleksei,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “He’s a nice boy,” she said. “You’ve raised him well.”

  Dariya smiled. “He have his mother’s heart.”

  Hillsdale wore a suit and had a briefcase on the floor near his feet. He leaned forward, popped the case open, and removed a stack of papers. To her surprise, Hewitt didn’t look interested. He was staring at his iPhone.

  The inside of Gary’s smelled like it always did—like bacon and syrup.

  Shirley, the big-boned owner in a gray sweatshirt, approached. “What are you having?”

  “The usual,” Hewitt said.

  “We don’t serve alcohol this time of day, captain,” Shirley said.

  “Cute,” Hewitt said.

  “And for you?” Shirley said to Dariya.

  He looked at Hillsdale. Peyton could tell he was struggling to keep up with the conversation. His English appeared more limited than his son’s.

  Hillsdale rescued him. “Bring us each a couple eggs,” Hillsdale said to Shirley, then looked at Dariya as if to say That okay with you?

  Dariya nodded.

  Peyton leaned toward Hewitt. “Think we should call in the U-Maine professor to translate?”

  “Let’s see how this goes.”

  It had been Shakespeare who’d written Conscience doth make cowards of us all. She remembered her bearded professor reading that line aloud at the University of Maine and recalled thinking about universal truths. Years later, after more than a decade on the job, she’d come to realize language barriers make dependents of us all. She knew Dariya had been a journalist in his home country, but here he couldn’t even order an egg without assistance.

  The irony, of course, was that if Dariya applied to stay in the US, it would be Hillsdale—the man helping him now—who’d reject the proposal.

  “Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, when Shirley moved away, “we’ve got some questions to ask you.”

  Beside her, Hewitt was hitting his iPhone with his index finger. “Worst decision I ever made,” he said under his breath, “getting this stupid … Can’t even check the damned weather.”

  Peyton leaned close to him. “That’s how it always begins, Mike. Next stage is full-blown addiction. You’ll be playing fantasy basketball at your desk like Jimenez.”

  “Not likely,” Hewitt said, shook his head, and slid the phone into his pocket.

  “Mr. Vann has received permission to spend up to two weeks here visiting Aleksei,” Hillsdale said.

  “My wife …” Dariya looked at Hillsdale, searching for help.

  “Mr. Vann’s wife is ill. She needs constant care.”

  Peyton was surprised by the amount of help Hillsdale was offering Dariya, given that he told her he was certain Dariya was using his son to forge a permanent place in the country.

  Dariya nodded. “Yes. Can’t stay away long.”

  “That’s why you let him come?” Peyton said to Hillsdale. “That’s the guarantee he wouldn’t try to stay?”

  “I wanted him to be able to see his son,” Hillsdale said. “That’s why he’s here.”

  “Of course,” Peyton said.

  “And I didn’t make the decision alone.”

  Shirley returned with two more thick, white coffee mugs and creamer. “No decaf babies here, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, darting back to the counter to retrieve the coffeepot.

  “Mr. Vann, we’d like to know why you sent Aleksei here.”

  “Don’t answer that, Dariya,” Bohana interrupted. “We’d like to wait for Bobby Gaudreau, our attorney.”

  Hewitt looked at Peyton, shrugged, and took out his cell phone again. Peyton watched, dumbfounded as he checked the New England Patriots website.

  She cleared her throat.

  “What?” he said. “It’s not fantasy basketball.”

  “Only one step away,” Peyton said, to which Hewitt muttered something under his breath again.

  It wasted twenty minutes, but the lawyer finally appeared.

  Peyton saw him pull into the parking lot and climb out of a GMC Sierra wearing a dark suit and toting a briefcase. Bobby Gaudreau was a man who seemed hard to dislike. If you believed the stereotypes about lawyers, Gaudreau was unrecognizable: a United Way volunteer, a PTO member, a guy who read to kindergartners. Yet she knew him—professionally—to be a first-class asshole; he’d successfully defended three deadbeat dads in town.

  He entered the diner like the star quarterback entering a high school dance. He slapped several men on the back. “Bring me a coffee, Shirley, sweetie.”

  When he reached the table, everyone rose. They shook hands all around.

  “These two agents have some questions to ask Dariya,” Bohana said.

  Just then Shirley arrived with Gaudreau’s coffee.

  “Thanks, good-looking,” Gaudreau said.

  Shirley—already twenty years his senior and looking even older thanks to thirty years spent working inconsistent shifts—made no reply, only walked off, certainly realizing she was being mocked.

  “And I wanted you here for it,” Bohana finished.

  “That sounds entirely reasonable,” he said.

  “We’d like to know how your son got from Donetsk to the US border behind McCluskey’s.” Hewitt had nothing to write with, which always perplexed Peyton, who had her iPad and stylus out. The bastard had only a two-year degree, but he never seemed to fail to recall every detail of a conversation.

  “I want better life for son.”

  Dariya sat stone still, his legs crossed casually, and Peyton, watching him drink coffee and smile, realized
that as a journalist, he’d be entirely comfortable in this setting of asking for and receiving information. He might be more accustomed to being on the other end of the conversation, but he’d know how to answer the questions. They might need to question him in a room in the stationhouse to shake him up.

  “Can you tell us how Aleksei got from Donetsk to Garrett, Maine?” she said.

  “Not important.”

  “Mr. Vann,” Hewitt said, “surely you see why it would be very important to us. Aleksei might be one of”—Hewitt’s eyes darted to Hillsdale—“many others who want to make the same trip.”

  Hillsdale shook his head, his I told you so expression set firmly on his face.

  “We know life is hard in Donetsk, sir,” Hewitt said.

  “No one else coming here. Only Aleksei.”

  “Who brought him?” Hewitt said.

  Dariya looked at Bohana. Bohana leaned toward Gaudreau and whispered something. Gaudreau nodded.

  “My client has assured you that his son is not part of a human-

  trafficking ring, agents, which appears to be your primary concern. So may we move on?”

  “Not really,” Hillsdale said. Then to Bohana, “Were you aware of Aleksei’s trip?”

  “Not until after he’d left. My brother sent me a letter saying he was on the way.”

  “Seems odd that you would have no prior knowledge,” Hewitt said.

  “I’m not in regular contact with my brother. A Christmas card, a letter here and there.”

  Hewitt said, “Phone calls?”

  She shook her head. “It’s why I’m so excited to have him visit.”

  Shirley reappeared. “More coffee for anyone?”

  “How long will we be here?” Bohana said.

  “Not much longer,” Gaudreau said.

  “Don’t rush this,” Hillsdale said, “or Aleksei will find himself back in Donetsk.”

  “No,” Dariya said. “No. He needs be here. Here he have opportunity. In Donetsk, there nothing. Airport is gone now. Running water gone in some places. People dying in streets. He needs to be here.”

  Bohana’s hand instinctively went to her brother’s forearm, a reassuring gesture.

  “Um, I’ll just bring the pot,” Shirley said and drifted back to the counter.

  “The possibility that your son will be returned is on the table, for sure,” Hillsdale said. “To be clear, the United States certainly wants to help your son; however, there need to be certain assurances. And a certain level of cooperation.”

  Dariya only smiled, not buying it.

  That told Peyton a lot. This was a man who knew what he could and couldn’t do and therefore certainly could’ve arranged for his son to escape the Ukraine’s escalating violence and land softly at an aunt’s well-to-do home in northern Maine.

  “You have power to send him back?” Dariya asked Hillsdale, pronouncing him like heem, with a long e. “You send him back?”

  Gaudreau cleared his throat, bringing all eyes to him, which Peyton could tell he enjoyed. “I think, Mr. Hillsdale, we all know the answer to that. Mr. Vann, for very good reason, wishes to keep some facts surrounding his son’s brave journey to himself. That’s legal and more than understandable.”

  Peyton could see Shirley approaching with the coffeepot. She held up her hand for Shirley to pause; she did.

  “And, of course, our need to ascertain certain facts is also understandable,” Peyton said. “Like who the coyote is. If we know that and can learn more about the trip—to the point where we know this is a one-time deal—we’ll be satisfied.”

  “It one-time thing.”

  “You need not worry, Peyton,” Bohana followed her brother.

  “Not good enough,” Hewitt said. “Sorry, but we can’t simply take your word for it. We need to know who brought him here. And we’ll want to talk to him.”

  “I think we have reached an impasse,” Gaudreau said.

  Hillsdale drank some coffee and leaned back in his seat, his turn for casual. “If the boy wants to have the ability to stay here long-term, we’re going to need answers to these questions.”

  “You’ll send him back?” Bohana said.

  “There would be a process,” Hillsdale said. “It might start with foster care.”

  “You’re threatening my client.”

  “Nope. Just answering her question.”

  “The social worker thinks it’s better for him to be with me.”

  “As you will recall, that’s a temporary arrangement.”

  “What if my sister adopt him?” Dariya asked.

  “I think this is a good time for this meeting to end,” Gaudreau said and stood. Dariya and Bohana followed his lead. All three walked out.

  Peyton looked across the table at Hillsdale. “I guess the United States is picking up the tab for the coffee,” he said.

  “At least your sense of humor has returned.”

  “And the coffee isn’t bad.” Hillsdale smirked.

  “It’s weak,” Peyton said. “So what have we learned?”

  Hewitt added sugar to his coffee. “That Dariya is desperate for his son to be here.”

  “Considering adoption?” Peyton said.

  Hillsdale was eating a cinnamon roll half the size of a dinner plate. Peyton knew Shirley made them herself, and she guessed it was fresh and delicious. Focus on the fruit cup, she told herself.

  “And that, for whatever reason, they don’t want us to know who brought the boy here?” She shook her head. “It makes no sense, unless the coyote is still here.”

  “Maybe it’s Dariya himself,” Hillsdale said.

  “That might make sense,” Hewitt said. “It’s nice to see you like your old self.”

  “Well, I was taking enormous heat from the higher-ups. Not easy to feel like you’re about to be fired when you have two kids in college.”

  “That’s why I never wanted to work in Washington,” Hewitt said. “I say something stupid every day. I’d end up working as a fly-fishing guide sooner than I can afford to.”

  “We need to bring Dariya Vann in and question him again,” Peyton said.

  Hillsdale nodded. “We should also start the machine working to extract Aleksei from Bohana’s home and into foster care. She might know more than she’s saying. And this will squeeze her and Dariya to be more forthcoming.”

  Peyton looked out the window again. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t snowing. “I don’t like using the boy to get the father to talk. That’s cruel. They must know they can’t simply adopt the boy to allow him to stay here.”

  Hillsdale looked at her. “I don’t know what they know or don’t know. But I’m done playing games. You have a better idea?”

  Hewitt looked at her as well. She said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought,” Hillsdale said. “I’m going to call Susan Perry at DHHS.”

  3:20 p.m., 31 Monson Road

  “I’m not sure how long I can keep bringing you dope,” Michael said Monday after school.

  Davey was stooped over the workbench, carefully rolling a joint under the silver spotlight his father had clipped to the side of the bench. He stopped and straightened to face Michael. “Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

  “No, Davey. It’s nothing like that. I went out there this weekend.”

  “To the shack?”

  “Yeah. I think someone found it.”

  “And the stuff inside?”

  “Probably,” Michael said.

  Davey’s basement was cold. Michael wore his GHS baseball windbreaker over a dark hoodie.

  “We start throwing in the gym next week.”

  “Pitchers and catchers?” Davey asked.

  “Yeah, you coming?”

  Davey shrugged and went back to rolling the joint.

 
“You should come.”

  “And do what? Clap?”

  “Every time I throw, yeah.” Michael grinned. “That would be awesome—my own fan club.”

  Davey said, “Screw you,” but smiled as he said it. His hand shook as he tried to light the joint.

  “Want me to do that?”

  “I got it.” After three more tries, he lit the joint and puffed, holding the hit for a long time.

  Michael could see the corners of his eyes soften, realizing for the first time that day that his friend’s face was pinched in pain. The marijuana alleviated at least some of the discomfort.

  “Man, you eating enough?” Michael said.

  “Can’t stomach much. Why, do I look skinny?”

  “A little.”

  “You’re lying. I’ve lost a shitload of weight,” Davey said. “Did you clear the shack out?”

  Michael shook his head. “I kind of freaked. Didn’t know if someone was watching me. So I took off.”

  “Watching you?” Davey giggled then.

  “Don’t be an asshole. That shit’s making you laugh.”

  “No, man. No. Just saying, it sounds funny. Who’s watching you out there? I mean, you found the shack by coincidence, right? Even had to cut branches to get to it.”

  “Yeah. But someone hiked all around it. Even spent the night out there at a spot above it.”

  Davey took another hit. “You mean so they could look down at the shack?”

  “That’s what I think. I just walked away.”

  “What about the generator?”

  “I can take the snowmobile and tow it back. I just freaked and left.”

  “Shit, man, I can see why.”

  “But you need pot, right?”

  “Not if you get in trouble. Forget it.”

  “Will your doctor get it for you?”

  Davey shook his head. “Can’t. You’re forgetting about my parents.”

  “He can’t prescribe it on his own?”

  “I’m not eighteen yet. They have to approve it. And they say no son of theirs is”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“‘doing drugs.’ The doctor can give me other stuff, but I don’t like the pills. They make me feel like I’m in a fog, and they don’t even really work.”

  Michael was looking at the floor, torn between the threat of being arrested and his best friend’s needs.