Destiny's Pawn

by D. A. Keeley

  “Would you like to purchase any maps today, sir? Don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  Nicolay didn’t answer. He took the car keys and walked out the door. Maps weren’t necessary. He knew where he was going.

  Outside, he went to the car, opened the trunk, and tossed his bag in. He remembered how easy these trips had been years ago, in his thirties and forties. Once, he’d landed in Burma at 8 a.m., done what Victor had asked of him, walked casually away from the scene as cops descended upon the place, and was back on a plane before lunch. The thought made him smile.

  These trips—business trips, he called them—had been easy twenty years earlier. He still took the trips and did the jobs. But now they took so much more out of him. This day, he was bone tired: The funeral arrangements, making sure the nanny was set, and, of course, this trip was different—it was about Marfa.

  Why did she hate Victor so much? Why couldn’t she understand?

  He pulled the Camry out of the lot and looked at the GPS on the dashboard. The voice spoke English, and it was hard to understand, so he concentrated on the screen’s blue line.

  Marfa. Like Victor, he, too, had memories: playing dolls with her when she’d been Anna’s age; it had been him, not Victor—who was fifty when she was born—who’d built her tree house; and he’d been there at her graduations from McGill and NYU. Until the day before, a photo of him with her at Christmas stood on his nightstand. Years ago, she’d called him Uncle. Until the day before, she’d been the daughter he never had.

  This trip would certainly be different.

  He thought of the children, Anna and Rodia. In this life, in this business, he thought, children were often orphaned. He knew that happened. Knew, too, that he’d been responsible for it in the past. But he’d never known any of them. He told himself it might not come to that.

  But, although he hadn’t cried in years—not since Victor’s late wife Dunya had passed so many years ago—for the second time in two days, tears streak his cheeks. He knew what he had to do, and there was no avoiding it.

  3 p.m., Garrett Station

  “We have everyone and everything in place,” Frank Hammond said. He held an energy drink, forearms resting on the picnic table.

  “Bohana’s phone?” Peyton asked.

  “We’re listening to every incoming and outgoing call. And Ramirez is outside the house.”

  Peyton was staring at the whiteboard. She was reading from a list of circled words. “You have a trace on Ted’s cell phone?”

  “He hasn’t used it.”

  “So he knows we’re looking for him?”

  “Or he just hasn’t used his phone today,” Hammond said.

  “I guess it’s possible,” Peyton said. “Ted will show up.”

  “If they’re in the area. If they have the painting, they probably aren’t in the area. And given the dimensions of the flattened spot on the carpeting, they have the painting.”

  “Thirteen works of art were stolen in that heist,” Hammond said. “Think they have only one?”

  “Who knows?” Peyton said, but then she thought back to the conversation she’d overheard in the Donovans’ driveway. “I think they lost the rest.”

  “Lost them? You’re talking close to three hundred million dollars worth of stuff.”

  “I overheard Dariya say a boat overturned,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Hammond said. “I’m going to be sick, if you’re saying what I think you are.”

  “I don’t know,” Peyton said. “It was a cryptic conversation between Dariya and Ted.”

  “Think Dariya would leave his son and take off ?” Hewitt said.

  “Probably,” Peyton said. “He used him to get in the country, and the boy is probably safer here than in the Ukraine.”

  “Bohana said her brother’s been staying with her,” Hammond said. “We’ll see if he shows up there tonight.”

  The microwave over the stove beeped, and one of the FBI agents got up and took ramen noodles out.

  “You feds are starting to like our meeting room, aren’t you?” Hewitt said.

  “An army marches on its stomach,” the agent said. He looked like a weightlifter to Peyton.

  “Roosevelt said that, right?” Hewitt said.

  The agent nodded. “I think so.”

  “You want to find Dariya Vann,” Peyton said, “stake out his son.”

  Hewitt turned to Hammond. “The son is at a foster home. Foster caretaker’s name is Maude O’Reilly.”

  Hammond nodded.

  Hewitt turned back to Peyton. “We are. Sandy Teague is at Maude O’Reilly’s house for now. But you have a relationship with the boy. He might talk to you.”

  Sandy Teague was the station’s other female agent.

  “Think he knows where Dariya is?” Peyton asked.

  Hewitt shrugged.

  “I can relieve Sandy,” she said.

  “No,” Hewitt said. “Tomorrow morning. Go home. When was the last time you slept?”

  She didn’t answer, only stood and started for the front door. “Call me if something breaks,” she said over her shoulder.

  3:25 p.m., 12 Higgins Drive

  “Hi, pal.” She met Tommy at the bus. “Tell me all about karate last night.”

  “We worked on a lot of things. It was fun. Stone said I’m improving. I can tell I really am.”

  “How was school?” She took his backpack. They were walking up the driveway. He had his winter coat unzipped, something that drove her crazy. It was only thirty-four degrees, after all.

  “I did well on my spelling test.”

  “You got it back already?”

  “No. I just know I did.”

  “That’s great,” she said, and held the front door for him. What a difference a year makes, she thought. A year ago, he was in the Special Ed room during his free time, believing he was the “dumbest kid in school.”

  He kicked his boots off into the closet. They banged against the back wall, but she let it go.

  “The new ways of studying the words are really helping, huh?” she said.

  He nodded. “I like bouncing the ball as I say the letters. It helps me remember things.” And sitting on the ball also helped him to concentrate when he worked at his desk.

  She unzipped his backpack and took his lunchbox out. They walked to the kitchen. She left the L.L.Bean lunch cooler on the counter, then poured him a glass of milk.

  “It was nice of Stone to get you. Gram told me about it.”

  “Gram really likes Stone.” Tommy smiled.

  “What about you?”

  “I like him too. He likes cool things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Karate, the Red Sox, XBox.”

  It made her smile. “Let’s have an early dinner,” she said, and yawned.

  “I told Stone I invited Dad to my karate match last weekend. I kept looking for Dad during the match, but he never showed up.”

  “That’s why you were distracted?” she said.

  He shrugged. “He was probably with his new family.”

  “He doesn’t have a new family, Tommy. He’s just dating someone with two sons.”

  “I saw him with them at a Red Sox game. It was on Facebook.”

  Jeff was such an asshole.

  “You still come first with him, Tommy,” she said. “I’m certain of that.”

  He didn’t reply. He sat staring at his milk.

  “How come you didn’t tell me you invited your dad?”

  “I wanted him to come—he said he’d be there—and you could see that he wants to be with us again.” He wasn’t looking at her, and his shoulders started to shake.

  She knew he was crying.

  “You did that because I mentioned Stone moving in?” she said.
>
  He only shrugged, but it was all he needed to do.

  7:05 p.m., Garrett High School

  Michael didn’t see Aleksei. And he wondered why the text asked him to meet in the back parking lot. It was never lit, and the cloud cover made the back lot even darker than usual.

  The inside of the truck was warm. He’d drove around Garrett for a while, thinking. Now he cracked the window. He thought about Davey, about how he flinched and spoke of the “knife” in his side. What must that feel like? And there was no way to help him now.

  And now his younger cousin needed help. He looked around the parking lot and slid the truck into park. His headlights illuminated nothing of consequence—a dumpster, milkcrates, cardboard boxes. The last text message Aleksei sent made it sound like whatever was going on was serious: I really need yr help.

  He knew it was Aleksei because he had Aleksei’s phone number saved to his Contacts. He’d had to save it when his mother insisted he take Aleksei to the basketball game with him. He did, but he sure as hell didn’t sit with Aleksei. He went there to see Jenny. (He couldn’t care less about the boneheads who played basketball.) And when he and Jenny went below the bleachers, he lost track of Aleksei, so he texted him when it was time to go home.

  Now he texted where r u?

  This whole thing felt wrong. Aleksei was supposed to be at Mrs. O’Reilly’s house. She’d been Michael’s grade-school teacher, so he knew she was nice but strict. If Aleksei was supposed to be there, she’d make sure he was there.

  He slid the truck into reverse and started to back up.

  Then he saw headlights behind him.

  8:15 p.m., Reeds Inn and Convention Center

  She smelled vomit.

  She checked her hands. Had she gotten it on her? She didn’t see anything, but Pyotr’s shirtfront had been crusted with his dried vomit, and the smell seemed to be following her. She’d left the Buick’s windows cracked to try to alleviate the problem when she’d entered the bar.

  Pyotr had been a large man, so it had taken Marfa several hours to dispose of his body. She had to wait until after dark and then to drag the stiffening corpse down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the back seat of the Buick. And, of course, there had been the disposal location to consider. It had taken longer than an hour to find a secluded spot that didn’t require dragging the body too far from her car, but was still remote enough to allow it to go undiscovered for days or longer. She wasn’t sure the spot would work, but she couldn’t leave the body in the house for the landlord to find. The discovery of a naked body in the woods was a far better option.

  Next, she’d showered and sent three messages to Ted Donovan. He’d finally responded, cryptically saying they were reluctant to move the painting before the actual sale, but that he wanted to “talk things over” with her, wanted to meet at the bar in the Reeds Inn and Convention Center.

  She didn’t trust him and wasn’t in a hurry to talk. So now she was sitting across the room from him, the Thursday-evening crowd providing plenty of cover, watching him for a while. So far, he was alone. College kids were at the bar, reminding her of her time in Montreal at McGill. She wore a winter ski hat and glasses and sat at a tall table in the back. She been in bars where old men watched sports on TV, and some drank vodka in the morning. Those were depressing places. This bar was different. College kids bantered back and forth. Most drank beer, and the place was dark. A boy and girl were kissing across the room, and a band was setting up in the front.

  She saw Ted check his phone, a draft beer before him. He typed something.

  Her phone vibrated. Are you at the bar?

  On my way, she replied.

  She saw him shake his head. She wondered where Dariya was. Probably with the artwork.

  After thirty minutes, she figured Dariya wasn’t coming. She pulled off her hat and slipped it, along with her glasses, into her purse. At the next table, a college boy was looking at her. She winked, and the college kid blushed. The guy next to the young man slapped his friend’s arm.

  She moved to the bar and sat down beside Ted.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked. “I was watching the door.”

  “Where is Dariya?”

  “Why? Sonya, I thought you and I could get to know each other. For instance, I don’t even know your last name.”

  “That’s right,” she said. He had no idea he didn’t even know her forename. “And I doubt Ted is your real name. And that’s fine. This is business. Do you have the painting?”

  “Of course.”

  “Here? In your car?”

  “No, like I said, I don’t want to move it twice. That’s too risky.”

  “I’m starting to think there’s something wrong here”—she looked directly at him—“like you’re FBI or something, and this whole thing is a setup.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong. I want to see the painting. And you’re running out of time.”

  “That’s what I wanted to meet you about,” he said. “We’ll have the painting for you in the morning.”

  “The morning?”

  “Yes, now why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

  She shook her head. “Call me when you’re ready to do business. Tell Dariya I’m leaving town tomorrow, and I won’t be coming back. So it’s now or never.”

  She stood to go.

  Ted’s cell phone vibrated on the bar. He looked down. The text was from Dariya. He’s w/ me. Where to go with him?

  “Sonya, where are you staying?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “If it’s secluded, we need your help,” he said.

  twelve

  Friday, March 14, 12 Higgins Drive, 2:10 a.m.

  Peyton needed a good night’s sleep, but didn’t get one.

  When Tommy had gone down at the usual hour (9 p.m.), Peyton followed suit. She’d gone to bed with her Lisa Scottoline novel but woke two hours later with the hardcover book under her. Unable to fall back to sleep, she returned to the book but couldn’t concentrate. After two hours of thinking about Ted Donovan, Dariya Vann, and a painting that had been missing for a quarter century, she finally drifted off.

  She was dreaming about a ship in a storm with a man asleep on the deck while those around him scurried to and fro. She was one of the scurriers—until a rumbling vibration and annoying gong woke her. She reached for her cell phone, the call terminating the dream before she learned how it ended.

  “Yeah?” Her voice was raspy, her throat dry and sore. Had she been snoring?

  “Peyton, this is Bohana Donovan. I don’t know who else to call. They’re all missing.”

  “Who?” Peyton asked. “Who’s missing?” She rolled onto her side, saw the clock, and ran her hand through her hair, trying to clear her head. “Bohana, tell me what this is about.” She was sitting up now.

  “Neither Dariya nor Ted came home tonight. And Michael still isn’t home. I called his best friend, who admitted he spent the day at his house. But he says Michael left before dinner.”

  Peyton was struggling to take it all in. “Start again,” she said.

  “I don’t know where any of them are. Steven and I have been waiting up all night.”

  8 a.m., Garrett Station

  “We don’t usually do missing persons,” Mike Hewitt said. “Up here, with so few local and state police, we go as backup on a lot of calls, but we don’t usually do missing persons.”

  “Unusual circumstances,” Peyton said, “call for unusual actions.”

  “These are desperate times?” Frank Hammond smiled.

  Peyton wanted to say, Desperate enough to get FBI agents out of bed before nine, but Steven Ramirez, the one she wanted to insult, wasn’t in the room, and besides, she liked Hammond.

  They
were sitting around the break room picnic table. There were paper coffee cups, sugar spilled on the table, and new notes on the whiteboard: “Dariya Vann,” “Ted Donovan,” and “Michael Donovan” were written on the board with the last known sighting of each. Nothing there helped Peyton.

  “We knew neither Dariya nor Ted came home last night,” Hewitt said. “The stakeout came up empty.”

  “And Maude O’Reilly’s house?” Peyton asked. “Did Aleksei come home?”

  “He was home after math team practice as planned.”

  “Does he know his father is missing?”

  “Not that we know of,” Hewitt said. “Sandy Teague couldn’t have known because she was with Aleksei all night, so we assume he knows nothing of it. Sandy is at the middle school now. We thought you were the logical choice to talk with him, Peyton.”

  “I’m to relieve her?”

  “That’s right,” Hewitt said.

  “BOLOs came up empty?”

  Hewitt nodded.

  Peyton looked at Hammond. “Even with the feds looking for Ted’s pickup?”

  Hammond nodded. “And we added Michael to the BOLO list.”

  “Because you think there’s a connection between Michael and the other two men?”

  “They’re his uncles.” Hammond shrugged and bit into a blueberry muffin. “No place has better blueberries than Maine.”

  Peyton said, “Yesterday, Bohana thought Michael was avoiding the consequences of his drug bust.”

  “What drug bust?” Hammond said.

  Hewitt filled him in.

  “Could be separate,” Sally Hann, the young female FBI agent who’d measured the flattened carpeting at Ted Donovan’s apartment, said. She pushed her green and orange glasses into place.

  “The boy is planning to major in Art History, or something to do with art,” Peyton said. “I remember his mother mentioning it.”

  “What are you saying?” Hammond said.

  “Peyton,” Hewitt said, “something make you think he’s involved?”

  “They all lived under the same roof. He and his uncle were apparently interested in art. It’s something they had in common. Now they’re both missing.”