Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  “I always have to.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, “but I’ll provide your father with security until the end.”

  “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Why would you question it? I’ll never let anything happen to him.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That kind of loyalty is unique.” She held the dark glass up and looked at the fire through the brandy. The liquid turned orange when the flames danced behind it.

  “I walked you to school for years.”

  “I remember. That was a long time ago.” She smiled. “You didn’t have gray hair then.”

  “If I had no gray hair then it was a very long time ago. Rodia asked if I was Father Christmas the other day.”

  She chuckled. “He means no harm.”

  “I know. You were the same way.”

  She shook her head.

  “No?”

  “No,” she said, then stood and tossed another log on the fire.

  “What makes you say that, Marfa?”

  “I was raised differently. I was alone.”

  “You had Dimitri.”

  “No, Father had Dimitri.”

  “And you spent a lot of time with your mother.”

  “She died when I was eight. Then I was alone.”

  “Your father has given you a lot.”

  She set the brandy on the hearth and looked at him. He was a huge man. She could see why Rodia asked if he was Father Christmas. “He has. Everything. I know. But that’s different.”

  “I don’t follow,” he said.

  “Possessions and love and respect are different things.”

  “He’s been a good father, Marfa.”

  “Yes.” She smiled and patted his hand. “And now I’m giving something back.”

  “What’s that?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “A surprise.”

  He touched his white beard, thinking. “It has something to do with the space on the wall, doesn’t it?”

  “Has he told you?”

  “No. But I heard you talking about the accounts today.”

  She didn’t say anything. The fewer people who knew she’d have access to her father’s accounts, the better.

  “Can I ask what you’re buying him?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “You won’t say?”

  She shook her head.

  “But it’s why you’re going to the US.”

  “Father told you that?”

  “He said I’d be responsible for the children for a few days.”

  “It will be a short trip.”

  Her father had made sure the 1860s home had not been changed, save for the updated kitchen and added security. And now in the silence of the night, the house creaked, and somewhere a furnace rumbled to life.

  “What will you do when he’s gone?” Nicolay asked. “Really? I mean seriously.”

  “When he’s gone?” she said.

  He nodded.

  Then she laughed. “I’m not thinking about that. That’s too far off. I like to think short-term.”

  “But you know he’s dying shortly.”

  She nodded. “And I can think of some things to do when he’s gone, as sad as that day will be.” She leaned forward and kissed Nicolay’s bearded cheek. “I can think of a few things,” she repeated and walked out of the room, leaving the brandy glass where it was, knowing Nicolay would take care of it.

  10:45 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane

  Steven still wasn’t getting it, Bohana thought. He never got it.

  It was late Monday night. Dariya was in the room that had been Aleksei’s, and Michael was in bed. He’d arrived home exhausted and stressed, his mother thought. The last time she’d seen him like that was as a freshman when he failed his Algebra I final. Whatever was bothering him, he didn’t want to talk about it.

  Steven stood and got a bottle of Geary’s Pale Ale from the stainless-steel Sub-Zero fridge. Pots and pans hung above the granite island.

  “What do you want me to do? He’s your brother, Bohana, not mine.”

  “What do I want you to do? How about helping me here? Call an immigration lawyer, use a contact.”

  “Immigration lawyer? He’s not staying, is he?”

  “Eventually, of course, he’d like to move somewhere, once Liliya is well enough to travel.”

  “Look”—he sat down across from her again—“I know you love your brother, but what can I do? Neither of us knew he was sending Aleksei here. We couldn’t plan for that. We have our own lives, right?”

  “I want to help my brother. I always have. And I will continue helping.”

  “What does that mean, continue helping?”

  She shrugged. And when their eyes met, she looked away.

  “Bohana, did you know Aleksei was coming here?”

  “Dariya needed help, Steven. Lord knows we’ve helped your brother enough—for twenty-five years. He quits school, moves home, and you let him live with us. He loses jobs, and you—we—take him in.”

  “Not jobs. And he didn’t lose his job. He quit. I think he was burned out. And I didn’t take him in. He works for me.”

  “We renovated the entire attic space for him! Converted it to an apartment for him.”

  “He contributed some.”

  “He put in central air,” she said. “A ridiculous expense for an efficiency apartment. That doesn’t even make sense.”

  Steven shrugged. “It’s what he wanted.”

  “Well, if I want to help my brother, I have that right. Yes, I knew Aleksei was coming. I didn’t tell you in order to protect you.”

  “So you know this is serious? We’re talking immigration laws, human trafficking.”

  “You’re getting carried away. I didn’t help get him here.”

  “This is serious,” Steven repeated. “You need to know that. The agents are trying to figure out who brought him here. Do you know the answer to that?”

  “What I know, Steven,” she said and stood, “is this is family.”

  And she turned and left him at the kitchen table, twirling his beer bottle before him.

  11:15 p.m., Chandler Pond

  Late Monday night, following her meeting, Peyton parked her Jeep Wrangler next to Stone’s Ford pickup and got out in his snow-packed driveway. The night sky was clear, the stars like ice chips against the black backdrop.

  Stone met her at the door, his finger to his lips.

  She nodded. “He’s asleep?”

  He held the door for her. “Yeah.” He spoke in a whisper. “We ate without you, watched a little ESPN, then I had him read. I have a collection of Hemingway’s stories. I actually think he liked the one he read. It was about fishing.”

  “You got him to read?”

  “He had some trouble.”

  “He’s dyslexic. It doesn’t come easily.”

  They were inside now, and he took her coat. “He’s asleep in my bed. I figured you’d go home, and I’d take the foldout in the loft and drop him at school in the morning for you.”

  “Is he okay with that?”

  “Yeah. He suggested it. I was surprised.”

  “Well, I can stay for a little while,” she said.

  He nodded and hung her coat on the pine rack near the door. A large salmon hung next to the rack. She knew Stone had caught it in Madawaska the summer before.

  She went to the sofa on which Tommy had sat next to Stone playing XBox earlier. Stone sat beside her.

  “I like talking to you at the end of the day,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’d rather be by myself.”

  “Ouch. What a romantic,” he said.

  She leaned forward and kissed his mouth. “Just kidding. I can be romantic.”
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  “I know. Believe me.” He smiled, stood, and got two water bottles from the fridge. “What happened tonight?” he asked.

  She told him about Dariya Vann changing his story. “At breakfast,” she said, “Dariya Vann knew who brought his son to the US. By dinner, he didn’t seem to know it anymore.”

  “Think he was confused this morning?”

  “I don’t think the same father who comes to check on his son—after the boy has been in the US only a week—would put him on a boat with someone he doesn’t know. No way.”

  “Maybe there was a middle man handling the transaction,” Stone said.

  “That’s possible. I’ll ask him. I think what I’ll find is that Dariya Vann wants to play ignorant on all charges.”

  “If that’s the case, why not say the boy came here on his own?”

  “That would have been the smart play. But that would have been hard to believe. Aleksei is only thirteen, and he wouldn’t be as sympathetic that way.”

  “And it would’ve been much harder to get political asylum without the father to tell everyone how much danger there is back home,” Stone said.

  “Yes.”

  “So Dariya has to say he sent his son here. But he doesn’t want to say with whom? Why not? Why not just give up the coyote?”

  “It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Peyton said. “What does Dariya gain by protecting the coyote?”

  “Something,” Stone said.

  She looked at him. “I’m missing it. But, yes, there has to be something to be gained by not giving him up. Aleksei told me the coyote threatened his family. Maybe Dariya heard that same threat.”

  “But if you take the coyote off the street,” Stone said, “the threat goes away. So why not tell you?”

  “Maybe he thinks we won’t be able to find the guy,” she said.

  Stone leaned back and stretched his legs before him. He was still wearing jeans and a gray New England Patriots sweatshirt. “Look for the money trail,” he said.

  “Whoever brought Aleksei here was paid by Dariya, so there has to be a money trail.”

  “Has to be,” he agreed. “And, by the way, I had the shack fingerprinted. We got a few, but they didn’t match anyone in the system.”

  “DEA has no match for anything you lifted?”

  He shook his head. “Surprising, I know. The setup in there looks like someone knew what they were doing.”

  “They know what they’re doing well enough not to get caught, apparently,” Peyton said.

  nine

  Tuesday, March 11, 6:35 a.m., 12 Higgins Drive

  As soon as she was sure Stone had finished his first cup of coffee, she texted: Everything ok?

  He replied, AOK. Leaving for Tim Hortons, then dropping T at school. Tommy says Relax Mom.

  She had to smile.

  An hour later, she was back at Garrett Station, standing outside with Bill Hillsdale as they gassed up and scraped ice from the windshield of a Chevy Yukon service vehicle. It hadn’t snowed overnight, but the temperature had dipped to eight, so the windshield was frosted.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” Hillsdale said. “I called a realtor to ask about buying a cabin.”

  “I’ve got a good real-estate agent for you,” Peyton said, “Kathy St. Pierre.”

  “That’s the name I was given.”

  “She represents three-quarters of the houses for sale. Looking for a summer place?”

  “It’s preliminary. I’d have to sell my wife and daughters on it first.”

  “How old are your girls?” Peyton asked Bill Hillsdale.

  “Lila’s twenty. She’s at URI, majoring in Physical Therapy. Kylie’s nineteen. She’s at George Washington, majoring in Political Science, which is a nice way to say she hasn’t got a clue what she wants to do. And Margot’s a junior in high school. She’s a hockey and lacrosse player. A few colleges have contacted her.”

  Peyton smiled as she scraped the windshield. “I can tell how proud you are. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Hillsdale was pumping the gas. “You haven’t seen my tuition bills. That’s poverty you hear in my voice.”

  “Well, maybe today will count as overtime.”

  “What’s overtime? Never heard of it.”

  “Me either,” she said. “Hey, I’ve arranged for a U-Maine professor of Russian to come with us. He’s worked as a translator for us before.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The gas pump clicked, and he replaced the cap. “You’re right,” Hillsdale said. “I’m very proud of my girls. So is my ex, Lydia. I worked long hours for a long time and missed too many school events and games. It’s why Lydia left. She was always there, alone. She’s been there for everything.”

  Peyton lifted a wiper and let it snap against the windshield. Ice scattered. “It’s not easy to make all the events,” she said. “I know. I’ve missed a bunch myself. I don’t like it.”

  “You’re divorced, too, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Joint custody?”

  “Technically. I moved back here, in part, to let Tommy grow up near his father. But my ex rarely shows interest in him.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. It does. Tommy’s resilient, though.”

  Hillsdale pulled the passenger’s-side door open. “His father will wake up one day and realize what he missed out on.”

  “It’ll be too late,” she said and climbed behind the wheel. “This stuff ever bother you?” Peyton slid the truck into drive, and they crossed the lot and turned onto Route 1A.

  “What’s that? Turning people away?”

  She nodded.

  “A little. My great-grandfather was an immigrant. I get it. I understand why they do it. And I know that if my great-grandfather had been turned away, I wouldn’t be here. This is like our conversation the day this all started.”

  “Sort of,” she said, “except this one’s civilized.”

  “I was an asshole. Sorry.”

  “I was no better,” she said. “I’m sorry, too. And I feel the same way. My family—which doesn’t even go back as far as yours—wouldn’t be here if not for my grandfather coming from Quebec during the 1920s to work in the textile mills.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Have you looked into Dariya Vann’s finances?” she asked. “Seen if he paid anyone to take Aleksei here?”

  “A money trail?”

  She nodded.

  “Nothing stands out,” he said. “We have someone looking at that, but nothing’s showing up so far.”

  She thought about that and continued driving.

  “Want to stop for coffee?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, but stop if you want one.”

  “No,” she said. “At the end of the day,” she went on, “it comes down to me having a job to do. I don’t create the laws. And given the Taliban and ISIS and Boko Haram, I’m vigilant and diligent in my work.”

  “That’s the first priority now, isn’t it?”

  “Terrorism? Oh, no question. Last line of defense and all that. We hear it over and over. Contraband is the focus. And the threat of terrorism raises the stakes.”

  “This was the border where nine-eleven terrorists entered, wasn’t it?”

  Peyton had been in El Paso when it happened, but the institutional failings hadn’t been lost on her. “That’s right,” she said.

  She pulled the Yukon into the Donovan driveway. There was a green Honda Civic parked at the curb. The bearded professor in it was waiting for them.

  “No phone call asking if we can stop by?” Hillsdale said.

  “No. Not this time,” she said.

  “This really isn’t a good time,” Bohana said, holding the door open all of four inches.

  Hillsdale stood
behind Peyton, their breaths riding the morning air like tiny clouds. Mark Rogers stood to Hillsdale’s right. He looked like a raven-haired rabbi, except that he nearly had to bend to enter a room. The Russian professor had played basketball at the University of Pennsylvania before earning a Ph.D.

  Peyton said, “We’re going to need to talk to Dariya, Bohana, either here or at the station.”

  “He gave your boss what he wanted to know.”

  “I know he met with Patrol Agent in Charge Mike Hewitt, but we have a few additional questions.”

  “My attorney can’t be here.”

  “We can wait for him,” Peyton said.

  “He’s in court all morning.”

  “Would you rather we meet later in the day?”

  Bohana stood looking at her, the wheels turning. “What are you going to ask?”

  “Just trying to clarify some details,” Peyton said. “We can meet at the station later.”

  “Dariya is only here a couple weeks.”

  “We need some questions answered.”

  “This really is quite an indignity.”

  “I don’t think so,” Peyton said. “It would be an indignity if I sent a couple state troopers to pick your brother up and bring him in. Actually, I’m trying to spare you and him any and all indignities. I came to you.”

  “How long will this take? My brother is jet-lagged.”

  “Not long,” Peyton said.

  Bohana sat the unwanted guests at the kitchen table and went to get Dariya.

  “Quite a kitchen,” Hillsdale whispered. “These people are not government employees.”

  “Not hardly,” Peyton said.

  “Not a university assistant professor either,” Rogers said. He wore a tweed jacket and carried a small notepad and pen.

  “Thanks for taking the lead outside,” Hillsdale said. “I knew you know her. I’ll ask Dariya some questions.”

  “Fine.” Peyton pulled out her iPhone.

  “Recording this?”

  “Planning to.”

  “Might spook him.”

  She shrugged and left the phone on the table.

  Her iPhone told her it was 8:10 a.m. She had no idea what time that was in Donetsk, Ukraine, but either it was very late there or Dariya wasn’t a morning person. Or both. He entered the kitchen, clearly having been awakened from a dead sleep—still in flannel pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, hair disheveled (a cowlick atop his head), and bloodshot eyes resembling a guy who’d come from a bar, not a bed.