Past Never Dies

by Cate Clarke

  “That night when I went to meet those kids that asked for money. One of them told me that Wesley had put them up to it—”

  “What?! Our Wesley?”

  “Rex.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He told me that Wesley set it up to get the money. They asked for ten thousand dollars. But before I even left to meet them… Wesley was adamant about me not going. So I think he may have gotten wrapped up in something he doesn’t know how to handle. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but I’m not in a good state to hash this out right now. So if you move back in—” Diana left that in the air, waiting for Rex to interrupt, but he didn’t. “—then you can keep an eye on him. Maybe, bring it up... gently. I know my son, and I know he couldn’t have asked those kids to bring guns. I’m one hundred percent on that. But there is something he’s not telling me.”

  They reached the end of the park and the path turned on a U toward the next exit. Rex let out a sharp breath, vibrating his lips together as he thought.

  After another moment, he said, “I mean, maybe he tried to tell you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Di. You’re not exactly the most warm and receptive to tough conversations. Or in general—”

  Diana punched him on the arm, not that hard but not that soft either.

  “Ow. I’m just saying that Wes is a pretty open kid, and I bet you he tried.”

  Swallowing hard, Diana looked forward. That ability to turn off her emotion and focus on one thing was what had gotten her through the toughest moments in her life, but it was pushing away her kids. She’d known that for a long time—since Wesley had spoken his first words.

  “Hey.” Rex moved to grab her arm and then decided not to. “I talked to someone after I got back…he really helped me adjust back to life, you know? Have you talked to anyone about what happened over there, Diana?”

  “Sure I have.”

  “I mean to someone that didn’t also serve,” Rex said. “Someone unbiased.”

  Diana raised her eyebrows, Rex surprising her with the use of a word she didn’t think he knew the meaning to. They kept walking, eventually reaching the other exit of the park, heading back toward and into the suburbs.

  “So I’ll swing by tomorrow then?”

  “Yeah,” Diana said. “That’d be nice. Wes will be happy.”

  “And you?” Rex asked with a slight smile.

  “I’ll be looking for Kennedy.”

  Chapter 10

  Taras Kushkin

  Kharkiv, Ukraine

  From the lavish lakeside mansion to the blacked-out Audi to downtown Kharkiv, Taras kept his head down. There were always people looking for him—business partners, reporters, enemies. He avoided them all until he’d stepped inside the brick warehouse with faded paint across its walls.

  “Over here, sir,” a man in a tactical vest called to him from down the dimly lit hallway. Andriy took the lead, walking in front of him with his hands in his pockets. Two other guards walked behind him, girls on their arms, hanging off of them like the guns on their belts.

  They came to an open room, shelves of pallets piled high, reaching almost to the ceiling. A decommissioned forklift sat in one corner and above them hung a pulley system at one point used to transport electrical transformers through the warehouse. Now, they were used to hang suspects in the middle of the room—a man, younger than he’d expected. Too-long brown hair was falling into his eyes and the bottom half of his face was covered in blood, a pool beneath his dangling feet.

  “We’ve already gone over the basics,” the man said into Taras’s ear as they got closer.

  “How old is he?” Taras muttered in Russian to the guard.

  “Nineteen.”

  Taras clicked his teeth, looking the boy up and down.

  “Family?”

  “Foster mother. Stage four cancer. Can’t even get out of bed.”

  Taras nodded. He took off his blazer coat, one arm at a time, and draped it over one of the guard’s arms. Looking at the guard’s raised eyebrows and searching eyes, he said, “Do not put that on the floor.”

  Then he turned back to the hanging boy and said, “Lower him.”

  Taras rolled up the sleeves on his white-collared shirt as the pulley system lowered the boy’s bare feet to the concrete, squishing his toes into the sticky pool of blood. The boy finally lifted his head, bright eyes searching the room and the new faces in front of him—fear, so obvious and so pitiful across his young features.

  “Your name?” Taras asked in Russian. The boy whimpered, tears pushing out of his eyes and cutting lines into the dried blood across his chin.

  “English?” Taras leaned down, crouching so he could meet the boy’s gaze. The boy nodded furiously.

  “The failures of the American school system,” Taras stood, speaking in English so the boy could understand everything he needed to. “By the time I was your age, I spoke four languages fluently. They give you one hour of Spanish a week and call it education.”

  Andriy and the guards laughed as Taras paced in front of them.

  Stopping in front of the boy again, he asked, “Your name?”

  “J-Jeremy,” the boy said, and then sputtered, “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Why would I kill you?” Taras raised his hands, reaching for the knife tucked into the back of his pants.

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.” Jeremy shook his head, more tears falling to the concrete.

  “No. No.” Taras leaned forward, brushing the hair out of Jeremy’s eyes. “Firstly, that brings me no use. Secondly, your hair is much too long, and I want you to be able to see me as we speak.”

  “Wh-what?” The boy tried to find words as Taras brought the knife to his face. In two motions, he cut the hairs, leaving Jeremy with a sharp fringe, but at least Taras could see the creasing of his eyebrows and the shape of his nuclear American face.

  “Better,” Taras muttered and gave Jeremy a small tap on his cheek with the butt of the knife. The boy recoiled, shrinking back into the chains that were keeping his hands behind his back. He was muttering, whispering.

  Taras wiped the blade on his sleeve, hairs floating down to the concrete floor as he said, “Speak up, now.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Ah, yes. We didn’t bring you all this way for no reason,” Taras said. “Though, perhaps, it shows you our power…dragging you out of your twin bed to come to our land—simply to have a quick chat.”

  “You guys ever heard of cell phones?” Jeremy said.

  With the knife still in his hand, Taras slapped him across the face. It immediately left a mauve-colored splotch on the boy’s cheek—so much easier to appreciate with his new haircut. The boy spat out onto the ground, strings of saliva hanging from his trembling bottom lip.

  “Again, something Americans were never taught,” Taras said. “Manners.”

  The smell of oil still hung in the air of the warehouse—the previous transformer company had used vegetable oil to insulate their products, leaving the entire place with the smell of a fast-food restaurant. The guards shifted from foot to foot, one of them leaning onto the girl in his arms like she was a piece of furniture.

  “Jeremy,” Taras began. “Now is the time that I will speak and you will listen. If you do not listen, you will die. Very simple. In three days’ time, you will go to Las Vegas. Just outside of the city, on the 95, there is a gas station. It is small and privately owned. They call it ‘Red Roof Stop.’ You will meet her there—your friend—and you will bring her to the McCarran Airport. You may need to lie, but she trusts you. You know that already, I’m sure. I am a strong believer in honesty, Jeremy. I hope for your sake that you do not have to lie, but at times we must bend the truth to our will. Right now, I speak to you with nothing but truth: if you do not do this, you will die. Your mother will die. And she will die. You give her the ticket and drop her off at the airport—that is all. A most simple task for a most simple Ameri
can.”

  Turning away from the boy on the ground, Taras gestured to the guard with the girl. He shoved her forwards, and Taras caught her by the shoulders. He shoved her in front of the American boy, forcing her to her knees and putting the knife to her throat.

  “Jeremy, do you want her to die?”

  The blade pressed against her skin, a red line forming across her pale neck. She whimpered but she showed less fear than the boy did, likely thinking she was just for show and for intimidation, and that Taras wouldn’t actually kill her. Another fool.

  “N-no,” Jeremy mustered, looking at the woman with wide eyes, his gaze lingering on her body.

  “You want to fuck her then?”

  Taras shoved her forwards and then lifted her up by her hair so her lips were just inches away from Jeremy’s pool of blood.

  “I—” Jeremy stammered.

  “Spit it out,” Taras growled. “Fuck or kill?”

  “Another option, please!”

  “There are no other options, Jeremy!” Taras pulled at the girl’s hair and she screamed as he dragged her across the concrete floor, throwing her back at the boots of the guards. Crossing back to the American, he crouched down where she’d just been presented. “You see. You see now, Jeremy? There is no such thing as choice. Not in this world. There is direction, and there is compliance. I am the director, making you, what? I’m confident you get this one right.”

  More spit dropped out of Jeremy’s mouth as he lifted his head, tired eyes resting onto Taras. He said, “I'm compliant, sir.”

  Taras smiled. “I knew you could do it.”

  Tucking the blade back into his pants and standing up, he nodded at the guards and his brother. Andriy had a grin on his face, one that reminded Taras of their father.

  “One day, he’ll make a great soldier,” he said to the room. “Get him on a plane. Now.”

  Through the narrow hallways of the warehouse, Taras left his entourage upstairs as he descended into the concrete labyrinth beneath them. His father had built it out a few years before his death to provide them with more interim storage. For some, however, it was far from interim.

  His leather boots snapped against the pavement, echoing off the empty gray walls.

  Standing in front of door three, Taras took a deep breath, promising himself he wouldn’t lose his temper this time. He swiped his fob and opened the door.

  “I could smell your cologne through the door. You should really consider swapping out your Eau du Shite for something new.”

  Nelson was sitting on the tattered loveseat, his feet propped up onto a plastic bucket that he sometimes used for his waste. One blank eye tried to move its way to Taras.

  “I thought I’d check in with you,” Taras said.

  “How kind,” Nelson snapped.

  “I know that the sarcasm keeps you happy, Nelson. But it certainly doesn’t do the same for me.”

  “Good.”

  Taras moved forward, passing the flickering TV in the corner, VHS tapes scattered around the concrete, some of their black reels pulled out and strewn across the floor like glossy snakes. The chains around Nelson’s ankles clanged as he dropped his bare feet off the bucket.

  He asked, “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Your spirits are high today.”

  Nelson moved his head toward the TV, listening closely to the American action film that was playing. He was completely blind after taking that bullet to the temple, but he still had one eye that could at least pretend as if it were seeing, rolling around in the socket. The other eye—only flesh—as empty as his brain.

  “Why won’t you just let me die?” Nelson grumbled. “They don’t even know I’m alive. You have no bargaining chip here, Kushkin.”

  Taras stiffened. His father’s name—that was now his—still felt foreign and painful.

  “I thought you enjoyed my updates, Nelson.”

  “Sure,” Nelson said. “When you had something to say… Now, I just think you miss me.”

  Taras chuckled, moving forward and sitting down on the loveseat next to his prisoner. He placed a hand on Nelson’s leg and said, “Perhaps, that’s true.”

  A hard lump formed in Nelson’s throat as Taras leaned into him, body odor assaulting his nose and mouth.

  “Don’t…” Nelson whispered.

  “So weak,” Taras said, mirroring his low tone. “How far you have fallen.”

  Lifting his fists, Nelson tried to push Taras away, but Taras grabbed his wrists with both of his hands, shoving them down into the couch cushion between them.

  “All I wanted to tell you,” Taras continued, stroking his fingers along Nelson’s chafed wrists, “is that you will have a visitor soon—an old friend, if you will.”

  Nelson lifted his head, his one eye searching.

  “Diana?” he started and then stammered, “No. You couldn’t have gotten her. She’s in the States with her family—”

  Taras slapped him across the face but not too hard, not wanting to bruise him. “Don’t be so naive! You’re so much better than that, soldier.”

  “What did you—”

  “I did not get her, Nelson.” Standing up from the couch and crossing back to the door, crushing one of the well-used VHS tapes with his boot, Taras said, “She is coming to me…to us. What is that American song? Reunited and it feels so—”

  “Fuck you.”

  Taras clicked his teeth, sighed and shook his head. Then he left the room, waiting at the door for the crying to begin. After a few moments, Taras clicked the locks back into place to the soundtrack of Nelson’s wailing beyond the door.

  Chapter 11

  Diana Weick

  Seattle, Washington

  It was another evening in the house without Kennedy. They’d searched all day and actually found some things, but not what they were after. Still, there were signs that she was alive—a small strip of cloth from her yellow T-shirt, the bed of a fire and a dug hole for water.

  The kettle popped, the red light flicking off and leaving the kitchen in darkness.

  Downstairs, Rex and Wesley were playing video games, laughing too much.

  After pouring her tea, she went to the front door to grab the mail that she hadn’t even looked at for a week. Having Rex here was convenient. Diana could admit that at least. She wasn’t as worried about Wesley, and he’d actually done the dishes that had piled up as high as the Cascade Mountains over the past few days. However uncertain she was that this would last, Diana would at least take advantage of it while she could.

  Upon opening the door, at first it was the regular yellow ambience of streetlamps, but then the flashes of cameras. Reporters started screaming as news cameras began to roll, lighting the front lawn with red.

  “Diana! Any progress on the search?”

  “Ms. Weick, over here!”

  “Any comments on the guide?”

  Diana paused, pulling the mail quickly into her chest but staring out into the sea of blinding white.

  “What guide?” Diana called. At the sound of her voice, the reporters charged in, rushing down the manicured sidewalk to try and get something quotable.

  “Ms. Weick, Channel 5,” a woman with dark features said at the front of the pack. “How do you feel about the accusations laid out by the Lake Chelan guide today?”

  “Accusations?” Diana asked. Before she could say anything damaging, Rex was there. One hand on her shoulder and the other waving the reporters back, microphones being pushed into his space.

  “All right, that’s enough!” Rex said. “Go home, will you? Don’t you all have families?”

  Not waiting to be dragged back inside, Diana stumbled through the doorway with Rex right behind her. Rex closed the door and clicked the deadbolt into place.

  “Why did you even go out there?” Rex breathed.

  “They’ve doubled!” Diana said, gesturing toward the door. “Just since I got home!”

  “I know. I know,” Rex sighed, moving past her and pluckin
g the mail from her hands, laying it out on the kitchen island. “Because of the boater stuff.”

  Diana shook her head, following him into the kitchen and placing her mug next to the mail. “What the hell are they talking about?”

  Rex raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t see? Jesus, Di. You really need an Instagram or at least a Facebook.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure that would help with the privacy problem.”

  “The guide—the guy who boated you guys out to the trail said some…stuff today,” Rex said, gripping against the island, readying himself for something—probably Diana’s reaction. “He didn’t paint you in a very nice light.”

  Pulling the iPad off its charger, Diana went to the first news tab she could find, madly scrolling through with one finger.

  “Di, it’s probably best that you don’t. It’s not going to do you any good.”

  Shooting a look over her shoulder, she continued to scroll. About halfway through the latest headlines, she found it: Guide Boated Missing Girl to Trail—Says Mother Is to Blame.

  Her finger stopped, staring down and reading, feeling Rex’s concerned gaze on her.

  Local fisherman and Lake Chelan guide, Kevin Knipe, says that the mother is to blame in the missing Tennison-Weick case.

  “I remember her from that day because I didn’t like the way she talked to the kids,” Knipe says. “She was short with them, and it was obvious there was lots of tension.”

  Knipe offered transport to Diana Weick and her two children Kennedy and Wesley on Saturday, March 13th to the Domke Lake Trail in Okanogan-Wenatchee National Park. Kennedy never returned from that trail. Knipe reports that the recent divorcée had several arguments with her children along the way—

  Diana slammed the iPad down.

  “Di—”

  She was already heading for the door, grabbing her coat.

  “Diana, don’t,” Rex said.

  Wesley was coming up the stairs behind them, rubbing at bloodshot eyes from staring at screens all day.

  “Your dad’s going to watch you, Wes,” Diana said before her son could even get up to the landing. “I’m going for a drive.”