Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

“You don’t want to catch a cold. You told me the doctor said it could be really bad for you if you caught one.”

  Davey looked away, said again under his breath, “What difference does it make?” He turned back to Michael. “I felt like a circus animal. See how they looked at me?”

  “They’ve missed you.”

  “They didn’t want to touch me, like cancer is contagious,” Davey said. Then his back stiffened as if kicked in the spine. His face contorted, his hand flashing to his side, his breathing turning to short, rapid bursts. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned.

  “What is it? You okay? What happened?” Michael was on his feet.

  Davey waved him away, fighting to get his breathing under control. “Sit down, dude. Nothing you can do.”

  “You want water?”

  Davey’s breathing returned to normal. He smiled at him. “Nothing you can do, Mike. Nothing anyone can do.”

  “Only the doctors?” Michael said.

  “Not even the doctors.”

  Michael was still standing. “What are you saying?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “What are you saying, Davey?”

  “I’m dying, Mikey.”

  “You’re sick. That’s what the chemo was for.”

  “Mike, when you ask me how I feel, I say okay. On certain days, I do. And a joint makes it better for a while. But I’m not getting better. I never sent in my deposit for U-Maine.”

  Michael heard the words, but somehow the processing mechanism failed. “No. No. We’re rooming together this fall.”

  “Mikey, it’s time for you to take me home. When Mom dropped me off, I told her you’d bring me home.”

  Michael didn’t move.

  Davey stood. “Come on, Mike. Let’s go. Don’t cry, man. That just makes it worse.”

  “Sorry. I …”

  “I know. Not much to say.”

  “When?”

  “They don’t know. Within six months.”

  “That would be a month into—” The sentence couldn’t be completed, the words catching, forced back as if spoken beneath water.

  “Let’s go, Mikey.”

  They descended the bleachers, moving slowly toward the gymnasium floor. They drove across town in silence, the only sound in the battered Ford F-150 was sniffling, each teenager thinking about what had been said.

  “I didn’t want to tell you,” Davey finally said. “But I think you need to know.”

  Michael drove, saying nothing. His mind ran to an image, one he thought of often—Jesus Christ on a storm-struck ship riding devastating waves, his presence a calming influence for a group of terrified sailors.

  After he dropped Davey off, Michael headed to the shack in the woods.

  5:10 p.m., Garrett IGA

  The man across the parking lot seemed out of sorts.

  And that made Marfa smile.

  Dariya Vann didn’t seem like the confused drunks or delusional street people she’d seen in St. Petersburg in recent years. But he had changed. Dariya Vann—the man she’d met at the outdoor cafe in Paris, who seemed confident and even brash—now looked confused. The United States could do that to a person, she knew. She, too, had been a confused outsider for a couple weeks in New York before acclimating.

  But Garrett, Maine, wasn’t New York City.

  Dariya Vann had lost some of his swagger.

  She was parked among the after-work shoppers in the IGA parking lot. Americans walked in and out of the grocery store, some pushing carts, others carrying bags. Her rented Buick Enclave idled. It was four degrees (celsius), so her SUV ran with Mozart playing softly. Dariya stood beside a Ford Escape perhaps fifty feet away. Where had he gotten the Ford?

  He held a cell phone to his ear. She couldn’t hear him but watched him speaking rapidly, his face reddening. Anger? Embarrassment? Then he hung up and slid the phone into his jacket pocket, leaned back against the driver’s door, and stood thinking, his idle hand rubbing his temple. Then Dariya opened the car door, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.

  Marfa reacted to this by sliding the Buick into drive, preparing to follow.

  Dariya got out again and started to clear the windshield. What was he doing? The windshield looked clear enough to drive. Was he killing time? Trying to keep busy? If so, why? Was he waiting for someone? Meeting someone here?

  He took out his cell phone again and answered a call. He was animated, waving his free hand as he spoke. The conversation ended abruptly, and he hung up, got back in the Escape. This time he pulled away.

  Marfa followed. She liked this turn of events. Dariya was upset. At whom? About what? She knew why he was here. What he’d come for. (They had that in common.) Was there a problem? If so—if his travel arrangements had for whatever reason stalled or been altered—he might be more willing to play along with her idea and make the transfer here and not in Germany. There was less that could go wrong that way. She had a jet at the ready; it would land and take her and her belongings, including what she would get from Dariya, to her final destination. That was far less risky than letting him take it on the boat. When she’d inquired, he’d told her what happened to the other twelve pieces. And showing up unannounced would give her the upper hand.

  She followed him to Donovan Ford. Dariya pulled to the back of the lot, stopping between two rows of pickups. Marfa rolled past, turning down a row of Escapes. Was this where he’d gotten the SUV?

  A mechanic came out of the building, looked over his shoulder, checking that no one had followed, and walked to Dariya’s car. He slid onto the passenger’s seat and looked around him one more time.

  Marfa turned in her seat to watch the two men. Whatever was being discussed was important, the conversation heated. Dariya was pointing at the mechanic, an accusation of some sort. The mechanic shook his head in denial. His hands before him spread as if to say, What do you want me to do?

  The conversation was brief. When the mechanic got out and went back inside, Dariya drove away.

  Marfa did too. This time, she didn’t follow him. Smiling, she went home. She had some computer work to do.

  7:30 p.m., Troop F Headquarters, Houlton

  Peyton hadn’t expected to be in Troop F headquarters at the end of the day, and she guessed Michael Donovan hadn’t either.

  “Where is he?” she asked Stone.

  Stone, responsible for the northern towns in Aroostook County, had an office in the county courthouse in Reeds but came to Houlton two days a week for paperwork and meetings. When the bust had gone down, he’d brought Michael Donovan to the state police headquarters.

  “Holding cell.” He was in a small office and motioned over his shoulder with his chin as he removed his laptop from his shoulder bag. She saw him open a file to write his report. “I was sitting on the hill above the shack, and he came walking down the trail, wearing the blue jacket with the yellow emblem.”

  “Same jacket as the guy in the video?”

  “Yup. No question he’s our guy.”

  “He confess?”

  Stone nodded. “To everything.”

  “Really?” she said. “Surprised he didn’t say he was just using the hunting shack. You said they’re pretty communal.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve been the smart play. But he was very cooperative. Even helped me pack the aquariums. Asked me if I was coming back to the shack.”

  “Odd question,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him probably not. And he wanted me to leave the generator there so his father could get it. Wanted me to leave it and the portable heater running.”

  “Running?” she said. “Why?”

  “Not sure. I turned the generator off but left it there for his father. He was so scared I figured he was in enough t
rouble. Figured I’d let his old man have his generator back. The kid is scared to death. He’s crying. His parents are on the way.”

  “Thanks for calling me.”

  He shrugged. “You know the family.”

  “They’re not exactly thrilled with me right now,” she said. “So that might not help you. How much dope was in there?”

  “Just the six plants. Not much.”

  “What do you think?”

  “He’s eighteen,” Stone said, “and it’s a class-D. Could get one to three years in jail.”

  “Come on,” she said.

  “I know. Given his record—he hasn’t got one—and the reason for growing it, he’s probably looking at community service.”

  “What’s his reason?” she said.

  “You’re not going to believe it.” He waved for her to follow him. “Come with me. I’ll let him tell you.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  It was the first thing out of Michael Donovan’s mouth. He was in the holding cell, and he didn’t wait for Peyton and Stone to get to him.

  “Will the University of Maine rescind my acceptance?”

  Peyton was in her uniform greens, and her boots slapped loudly against the concrete floor. Stone wore jeans with a 9mm Glock in a shoulder holster beneath his navy blue sports jacket. He didn’t bother to lock the cell door behind them.

  “Michael,” he said, “I can’t answer that. Your parents are on their way.”

  Even in the bad lighting, Peyton recognized him immediately: He still needed a shave, his hair was still a mess, and he wore an orange Moxie T-shirt as he had when she’d first seen him sprawled on the living-room sofa in his home reading a book titled Rembrandt: His Life and Work in 500 Images.

  Michael Donovan didn’t look interested in art right now. His eyes were red, his face pale. “I know what I did is illegal, but it isn’t wrong.”

  “Michael,” Stone said, “I’m going to tell you again, anything you say can—”

  “I know. You said all that already. I told you I get it, and I don’t care. I didn’t do anything wrong. Davey’s parents did.”

  Peyton didn’t speak, but she listened carefully.

  “Davey Bolstridge is dying. Cancer. He’s been my best friend since preschool. He’s in pain.”

  “You’re saying the marijuana was for him?” Peyton asked.

  Michael nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He’s dying.” The words were choked off in a sob, and the octave changed —his voice seemed to get higher—when he continued. “I knew he was sick. I saw him losing weight. We were going to room this fall at U-Maine. Now he’s dying. He’s in pain.”

  “Medicinal,” Stone said quietly. “No sale. He watched a video on YouTube to see how to grow it and says he gave it all to his friend to alleviate the pain.”

  Michael nodded.

  “Michael,” Peyton asked, “why didn’t you do this through your friend’s doctor? Have him write a prescription?”

  “His parents wouldn’t have it. No oxy. No nothing. ‘God has a plan.’ That’s what they kept saying, ‘God has a plan.’”

  “And you didn’t think that involved suffering,” Peyton said; it wasn’t a question, rather a statement to herself spoken aloud.

  “Not like this. Some days he can’t move. The pain—I can see it on his face—it’s unreal. His parents just stood by and watched. So in the afternoons, after school, I’d bring him some dope. We’d go downstairs and he’d smoke. I knew it was helping him.”

  “Michael, did you smoke with him?” she asked.

  “Never. Not my thing.”

  Stone said, “So if I ask you to pee in a cup, we wouldn’t find anything?”

  “I don’t smoke it. Never have. I’ll pee. Besides, I’m playing varsity baseball this season, and I heard they test once in a while.”

  “If you’re clean,” Peyton said, “that’ll help you.”

  “What will happen?”

  “We’ll have to see,” Stone said.

  Michael looked at him, his eyes pinched, fighting the tears. “Did you take my phone?” he said. “I can’t find it.”

  “No,” Stone said. “Did you drop it in the snow at the shack?”

  Michael didn’t respond. He clearly had no idea. His night was going from bad to worse.

  “This is going to be alright, Michael,” Peyton said.

  “What I did was okay?”

  “No. But things will be alright.”

  “Will I lose my place in the Art History program at U-Maine?”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said and heard the boy’s soft sobs as she and Stone left the holding cell.

  “I’m at a loss,” Bohana said. “I don’t know what to think. My son was growing pot?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stone said. “He’s admitted that.”

  The conference room seemed small, Peyton thought. She and Stone sat across from both Donovan parents, their son—who wore handcuffs but no leg irons—and Bobby Gaudreau, who had taken a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and was scribbling notes.

  “Can I get anyone coffee?” Stone asked.

  Bobby looked up from his notes. “Let’s move this along, Stone. Michael has no record and is no risk for flight. You know that. So please take his handcuffs off.”

  Stone ignored him.

  “Why is it that every time I turn around”—Bohana was looking at Peyton—“you seem to be there?”

  “I’m sorry that our paths keep crossing,” Peyton said.

  “Did you have any idea Michael was growing marijuana?” Stone asked.

  “Of course not,” Bohana said.

  “I can answer your questions,” Gaudreau said.

  Steven was shaking his head. “Did we have any idea? Does that even need to be asked? We’re better parents than this. My wife’s on the PTO, and I’ve sponsored a Little League team for years.”

  Michael’s head was down. To the table, he said, “I didn’t grow it for me. Can’t anyone understand that?”

  “Michael,” Gaudreau said, “please stop talking.”

  “Who, then?” Steven slammed his fist on the table. “Jesus Christ, Michael, what were you thinking? Are you a drug dealer?”

  “Of course not. It wasn’t for me! It was for Davey. He’s in pain. I was trying to help him.”

  “Help him?” Steven was shaking his head. “Haven’t we taught you anything?”

  “You?” Michael started to rise. “Oh, you’ve taught me a lot, Dad!”

  Stone put his hand on his forearm, easing Michael back to his seat.

  “Everyone stop talking, please,” Gaudreau said.

  “Yeah, I’ve learned a lot from you, Dad! Like, how about the attic?”

  “What attic?”

  “Bullshit,” Michael said.

  “What’s he talking about, Steven?” Bohana said.

  “I have no idea.” Steven looked at Stone. “Has bail been set?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “What about the attic?” Peyton said to Michael.

  Michael was looking down again, but Peyton could see the tears falling from his cheeks, pooling on the table.

  “We both know what was in the attic apartment, Dad.”

  “What did you say?” Steven said. “Your uncle’s upset about something being taken from him. Do you know about that, Michael?”

  “No,” Michael said softly, his head shaking slowly. “Nope.”

  “Everyone stop talking,” Gaudreau said.

  “Why is she here?” Bohana asked Stone. “Does she have to be here?”

  Peyton stood. “No, I don’t. But before I leave, I’d like to ask a quick question: Steven, why did your brother give up his TV career?”

  Steven was staring at his son.“
Huh? What?”

  “Why did Ted leave WAGM?”

  “No idea, lady. That was a long time ago. Said he wanted a change. Now leave us all alone. What’s it got to do with my son?”

  Peyton wasn’t sure. But she had the adrenaline rush that the visceral sensation of progress made on an investigation always offered.

  9:10 p.m. Paradise Court

  Marfa collapsed onto Pyotr. Seconds later, she got her breathing under control, rolled off him, and started toward the bathroom.

  “Hey, I didn’t finish,” Pyotr said.

  “I did,” she said and closed the bathroom door and peed. She emerged from the bathroom completely dressed, crossed the bedroom, and went downstairs.

  “Marfa!” she heard him call behind her.

  She couldn’t stand this 1970s house. It won’t be long now, she told herself. She sat at the kitchen table, making sure her back was to the wall and faced the open doorway. The upstairs was quiet. He was probably finishing alone.

  She focused on the computer and checked the accounts. The money was all there, and she could access it. She was tempted to move it now and forget the plan altogether. But the money was secondary. That was for her selfish desires (no more 1970s decor). The other—the item Dariya Vann had—was for her father. She needed it to truly show him what she was capable of. She imagined him seeing it—only in a photo, hanging in her apartment, no less—before he died, realizing how wrong he’d been about her.

  She heard Pyotr descend the stairs.

  “You can be a real bitch, you know that?”

  “Certainly.” She looked up and smiled. “Judging from your crotch, you seem to have taken care of what you needed to.”

  “To avoid blue balls.”

  “What was her name?” she asked. “The one people saw you with in St. Petersburg the day after you left me?”

  “What? Is that what this is about?”

  “Partially.”

  “Why are you bringing her up? That’s all in the past.”

  She powered down, closed her laptop, and came around the table. “I know it is.” She leaned to kiss him. As he closed his eyes and prepared for the kiss, a grin crossed her face. She pulled back and slapped his cheek, hard.

  “You bitch!” he said again.