Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  But the pile—it’s still too big. How can I hide all this? My bag is too dangerous. All I need is for the security officer to stop me, rummage through it. I haven’t come this far to get caught smuggling out classified material. My gaze drifts from the file to the picture of Yury, pinned to my cubicle wall, and my mind drifts, too. The necklace. On his body, at all times, just like Dmitri the Dangle said. On his body.

  I stand, grab the pile of papers, head for the table in the back of the vault that houses the printers, the copier. There’s a thick roll of tape there. A large envelope. I grab both. I slide the papers into the envelope. Pull up my sweatshirt, stick it flat against the small of my back, start wrapping tape around myself.

  If anyone catches me like this, it’s game over. All of this will be for nothing. But it’s also the only way I can think of to try to figure out who the threat is. The Bureau would never show Luke a bunch of classified photos. So it’s worth the risk, isn’t it? Of course it is. And besides, they’re not looking for people smuggling out paper. They’re looking for electronic media. The odds of them finding this on me are slim, aren’t they?

  I pull the sweatshirt back down. This might work. It actually might. I walk back to my desk to get my bag, sling it over my shoulder. I’m ready to leave when the drawings catch my eye. The one Luke made, me in the cape, an S on my chest. Slowly, I sink down in my chair and stare at it. Supermommy. That’s how Luke sees me, isn’t it? For all my faults as a mother, he still sees me as a superhero. Someone who can solve any problem, take care of him.

  I think about the man who visited him at school. Who threatened him. How frightened must my little boy be? How much must he be craving a superhero right now, someone who can protect him, fight off the evil, fight the bad guys. “I’m trying, buddy,” I whisper.

  And then my gaze shifts to Ella’s drawing, the one of our family. Six happy faces. That’s the whole reason I’m in this mess, isn’t it? Trying to keep those faces happy, all six of us. Is there still a way to have that? Gears are turning in my head, shifting, trying to sort through how this all might play out, how I can possibly keep my kids safe and keep my family together, at the same time.

  And then I have an idea.

  I bend down to the drawers below my desk, the heavy metal ones bolted to the floor. I spin the dial, first one way, then the other. Find the numbers. Unlock it, pull out a drawer. Flip through the hanging files until I find the one I’m looking for. Inside, a report, red cover sheet, long classification string at the top. And another, farther back, just like it.

  I open them up, first one, then the other. I scan until I find what I’m looking for. A long string of numbers and letters, and then another. I copy them down on a Post-it, fold it, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I head for the exit.

  —

  IT’S THE SAME SECURITY OFFICER on the way out. She’s at the desk near the turnstiles, a small television on in front of her, one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. She looks up as I approach.

  “Leaving already?” Her face is serious.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I flash her a smile. I try to place her. I used to see her here in the mornings, I think.

  “Just a quick visit in the middle of the night?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Some people turn on the television.”

  My heart’s pounding now. “I know. Nerdy analyst here.” I raise my palms in mock surrender.

  She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. “I’m going to need to take a look in your bag.”

  “Of course.”

  She walks over, and I’m sure she’ll be able to hear my heart thumping, see my hands shaking. I fight to keep my face impassive and hold the bag out for her, open. She peers in, then sticks her hand in, moves a few things out of the way to get a better look. I catch sight of a pacifier, a baby food pouch.

  Then she pulls a wand from her belt, starts wanding my bag. “You work nights now?” I say, trying to pull her attention off the search, onto me. Trying to make myself appear less suspicious.

  She takes the wand off the bag, holds it near my head, runs it down the front of my body, close enough that it’s touching me. I start to panic. That packet of papers against my back is thick. Too thick.

  “The pay’s better,” she says. “My oldest is off to college next year.”

  She moves the wand to the other side, starts to run it up the back of my legs. I hold my breath, a shiver running through me. Higher and higher, almost to my lower back now, almost to those papers. Just before it hits, I step away, turn to face her.

  “Do you like it, working nights?” I say, with my best conversational look, one I hope looks natural, because I’m absolutely terrified right now.

  I wait for her to tell me to turn back around. The wand’s still in her hand, but she hasn’t made a move toward me.

  “We do what we need to do for our kids, right?” she says, scowling.

  I hold my breath, hope she won’t remember she didn’t finish with me, or won’t care. Then she tucks the wand back in her belt, and the relief makes me dizzy.

  My body’s gone weak, and the papers taped to my back seem suddenly so heavy. “We certainly do.”

  Then I take my bag and head for the exit, without looking back.

  —

  LUKE SITS ON THE EDGE of his bed between Matt and me. We’re closer than we need to be, almost like we’re trying to give him strength, trying to let him know he’s safe, that he’s not alone.

  He’s in his baseball pajamas, the ones that come up a little short at the ankles: another growth spurt. His hair’s sticking up in the back, the same way Matt’s does when he wakes. He’s still groggy with sleep, his eyes heavy.

  “I need you to look at some pictures,” I say gently.

  He rubs one of his eyes, squints in the light, peers at me in confusion, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s awake or dreaming.

  I rub my hand in slow circles against his back. “I know this is strange, buddy. But I’m trying to figure out who talked to you at school. So we can find him, and make him stop.”

  A shadow crosses his face, like he’s realized that he’s awake, that this is real, but it’s the reality he wishes didn’t exist. I wish it, too. “Okay,” he says.

  I pick up the papers from beside me and lay them in my lap. On top is a photograph, a headshot of a man with a serious expression. I watch Luke as he looks at it. I keep rubbing his back, wishing I didn’t have to do this, make him sit here and relive the fear of being confronted by a stranger.

  He shakes his head, doesn’t make a sound. I turn the page over, facedown on the bed, and a new picture takes its place. A surge of guilt runs through me, showing him these faces that will probably haunt him, the same way they haunt me.

  He looks at it quietly, the same amount of time. I catch Matt’s eye over the top of his head, see my guilt reflected on his face, the same question that’s running through my mind. What have we done?

  Luke shakes his head again, and I go on to the next one. I watch him, the profile of his face. He looks so serious, so much older than his years, and I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.

  I flip through page after page. He looks at each one carefully, methodically, for the same amount of time before he shakes his head. Soon we’ve fallen into a rhythm. One second, two seconds, three seconds, shake head, flip the page.

  We’re nearing the end of the pile now, and desperation is starting to take hold. What do I do next, if this doesn’t work? How am I going to find the man who’s threatening him?

  One second, two seconds, three seconds, shake head, flip the page. One second, two seconds, three seconds…

  Nothing. No shake of the head.

  I go still. Luke is staring hard at the picture. I’m afraid to even breathe.

  “This is him,” he says, so quietly I almost can’t hear him. Then he looks up at me, those wide eyes, like saucers. “This is the man.”

  “Are you sure?” I say, even though I know
he is. I can see the confidence, the determination on his face. The fear.

  “I’m sure.”

  I stand in the kitchen, my back against the counter, mug of steaming coffee in one hand, the picture in the other. Anatoly Vashchenko. I stare at him, the long face, the receding hairline. I’m looking at the face of the ringleader. The man who’s a threat to Luke. To all of my kids.

  I turn the picture over, look again at the text on the other side. The bio data, everything I was able to dig up on Vashchenko that we could use to track him down. It’s short, one of the shortest in the pile, barely any text at all. My eyes focus on one line in particular. Travel to U.S.: None known.

  None known.

  I blink at the words, willing them to change. But they don’t, of course. They stare back at me, taunting. Obviously he’s traveled to the U.S.; he’s here right now. And if we don’t have a record of him being here, he’s using an assumed identity.

  Which means we have no way to track him down.

  Luke’s asleep, and all is silent, except for the occasional clack of typing from the family room. Matt, on the laptop, working on decryption. Typing, then a long pause. More typing, more silence.

  I take a sip of coffee, taste the bitterness on my tongue. I feel like I’m deflating inside. I found the ringleader; I actually did it, and what does it matter? I don’t have enough to track him down, to do anything about it, certainly not in time. Luke dies tomorrow. I can’t get those words out of my head. He’s out there, menacing Luke, and I’m powerless to stop it.

  Powerless to stop it, on my own.

  The thought’s in my head, clawing its way to the front. I’m trying to push it back, push it away, keep it from fully forming. But I can’t. It’s the only way.

  I leave the picture on the counter and walk into the family room, mug between both hands, trying to warm them. Matt’s on the couch, leaning forward, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. A flash drive’s attached, a little orange light lit. He glances up as I enter, his face tight, tense. I sit down beside him, look at the screen, the jumble of text, indecipherable to me, the characters he’s typing, a string of them.

  “Any luck?” I say.

  He sighs, shakes his head. “My encryption code’s not enough. It’s multilayer, pretty complex stuff.”

  “Do you think you can crack it?”

  He looks at the screen, then back at me, regret and frustration all over his face. “I don’t think so.”

  I nod. The fact doesn’t surprise me, not in the least. They’re good, the Russians. They’ve designed this so no one can break in. Not without the other decryption codes.

  “What do we do now?” he asks.

  I search his face. I need to see exactly how he’s going to react, to all of this. Because I think I trust him. I think there’s an explanation for everything. But I need to be sure. “We go to the authorities.”

  His eyes widen, just the smallest bit. I can read surprise, but little else. “What?”

  “It’s the only way to keep Luke safe.”

  “But we know who it is—”

  “And that’s all we know. We have absolutely nothing that can help us find him. Nothing. But the authorities, they would.”

  His eyes haven’t left mine. I see hopelessness, desperation. “There’s got to be some other way—”

  I shake my head. “We have a name. A Russian name. Nothing on his alias, his location. Maybe if we had more time…”

  I watch him process the information, the way I’ve been forced to. It’s the only way. We can’t track him down on our own. Not in time.

  “Luke dies tomorrow,” I say quietly. “What if he comes for Luke, and we can’t stop it?”

  The crease in his forehead deepens. He’s still thinking; I can see it.

  “You’re right,” he says. “We need the help.”

  I wait for it, the next question, the one I know is coming. Because this is when it’ll really matter, his reaction. I need to see how he’ll react when I say it.

  “So what do we tell them?” he finally asks. And I hear the unspoken part of the question, the one I’ve been running through my mind, as well. How do we get their help without implicating ourselves?

  I look up, meet his eyes, memorize the expression, wait to see how it’ll change. “The truth.”

  “What?” He stares at me in utter confusion.

  I watch him closely. “We tell them everything.”

  There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Disbelief, I think. “We’ll go to jail, Viv. Both of us.”

  I can feel emotion welling up in my chest, an intense pressure. Being in jail would mean life as I know it is over. I wouldn’t be there for the kids. I’d miss their childhoods. Their lives. They’d hate me for leaving them, for turning them into a media spectacle.

  He blinks at me, and the incredulity morphs into frustration. “You’re just giving up? Now, when we’re so close?”

  “I’m not giving up.” I’m not, that much I know for sure. I’m just finally standing up, doing what’s right, what I should have done a long time ago.

  “After all of this—”

  “All of this was for the kids,” I interrupt. “And this is still for the kids.”

  “There’s got to be another way. Some story—”

  I shake my head. I need to stay firm here. Because he’s right. There probably is another way. Another lie we could tell. I could sit down with Omar, spin a tale that he might buy, that might be enough to keep us out of jail, to keep Luke and the other kids safe. “I don’t want any more stories.”

  I don’t want something that’s going to bury us deeper, spiral us further down in deceit. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop, terrified I’ve made the wrong decision, that my children are still in danger. I want them in witness protection. I want them safe.

  “And I don’t want to take any chances. They won’t understand how much danger the kids are in, how much of a threat Vashchenko is, or even why he’s threatening the kids, unless we come clean,” I say. “We need them protected. This is what’s best for them.”

  “Both their parents in prison? That’s what’s best?”

  A cloud of doubt is forming over me, because honestly, I don’t know. But in my gut, I feel like this is right. It’s the way to keep them safe. And besides, how can I be the mother I need to be, if I let the rest of my life be a lie? How can I teach the kids right from wrong? All the times I’ve chastised them for fibbing, all the times I’ve told them to do what’s right, they’re all running through my mind like a movie reel. And Peter’s words. I trust you’ll make the right decision, whatever that is.

  “Maybe it is,” I say. I’m still holding on to a fragment of hope that it won’t happen, both of us in jail, but I can’t tell him that, not yet.

  And I know, deep down, that we probably will end up behind bars. But maybe what’s best for them isn’t us all being together, after all. Maybe it’s making absolutely sure they’re safe. That we’re teaching them to do what’s right, even if it’s difficult. Maybe someday they’ll look at everything I’ve done, everything Matt’s done, and they’ll understand. But if we keep going like this, keep living this lie, another ten, twenty years, or until whenever the authorities finally catch up with us, then what? How will we be able to look them in the eye again?

  I pull my phone out, lay it carefully down on the ottoman in front of us. I see Matt look at it.

  I take a deep breath. “I trust you. I hope you can see that now. But you can still leave. I won’t call until you’re on a plane out of here.”

  He looks at the phone a moment longer, then his gaze shifts to me. “Never,” he whispers. “I’d never leave you.” He reaches for my hand. I feel his fingers encircle mine, warm and so familiar. “If you think this is what we need to do, then we’ll do it.”

  This is Matt, my husband, the man I know, the man I love. I was wrong to ever doubt him. So very, ve
ry wrong.

  I let go of his hand, reach into my pocket, pull out the little square of paper. Unfold it, lay it down on the ottoman, the two long strings of characters visible to us both. “There’s one more thing I want you to do.”

  —

  DAWN IS BREAKING WHEN Omar arrives at our house, alone, just as I asked. I greet him at the door and usher him inside. He enters warily, one cautious step forward, then another, his eyes looking around the room, taking everything in. He doesn’t say a word.

  I close the door behind him, and then we stand awkwardly in the hall. I feel a flash of regret for calling him here, an urge to back out. There’s still some time to get out of this. Then I lift my chin. It’s the right thing to do. It’s the only way to keep my kids safe.

  “Let’s go sit down,” I say, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. When Omar doesn’t move, I start leading the way. I hear his footsteps behind me.

  Matt’s already sitting at the kitchen table. Omar sees him and stops, eyes him, then gives him a nod. Still doesn’t say a word. I scoot Chase’s high chair out of the way and drag Luke’s chair to the end of the table, gesture for Omar to sit. He hesitates, and then does so, lowering himself into the chair. I sit in my usual spot, across from Matt. I glance up at him and suddenly I’m at the table weeks ago, the day I learned the news that would change my life, all of our lives.

  There’s a folder in front of me at the table, the paper I need nestled securely inside. I see Omar’s eyes land on it, then travel up to my face. “What’s going on, Vivian?” he says.

  My voice, my body, everything suddenly feels paralyzed. Is this really what’s best for the kids?

  “Vivian?” he says again, confused.

  It is. It’ll protect the kids. I can’t do it on my own. I can’t keep them safe.

  I slide the folder over to Omar, my hand trembling. He puts a hand on it, his eyes on me, quizzical. He hesitates, then opens it gingerly. I see the headshot, the one Luke identified.