ten

Wednesday, March 12, 2:35 a.m., near the Canadian border

Michael Donovan killed the engine, clicked off the headlights, and walked to the tailgate of his battered parts pickup. He dropped the tailgate and struggled to slide out the six-foot-by-five-foot felt-lined case. It was six inches thick.

He’d taken extra precautions, wrapping the whole thing in thick plastic, making it even more bulky and awkward to carry. He placed it onto a sheet of quarter-inch plywood he’d taken from the basement and into which he’d drilled two corner holes and added a piece of rope. Towing the sheet of thin plywood, he started the long walk toward the shack.

He knew he wouldn’t reach it for close to an hour, and the woods at night were dark and full of odd noises. But he had no other choice. His uncle had said in a few days they’d be getting rid of it. And Michael couldn’t have that. He hadn’t decided what to do about it yet. He knew the item’s value, monetarily and intrinsically. Knew all about it’s godlike creator. About the act committed twenty-five years ago, a brazen deed. And he’d thought long and hard about those who committed the act. About how, ironically, that had enabled him to have access to it all these years. He’d spent nights staring at the ceiling, thinking about his uncle, speculating about his mother and father.

Perhaps more than anything that was what he needed—to know his mother and father weren’t involved in what Uncle Ted and Dariya Vann had done. Was that realistic? His father was the businessman in the family. And it all seemed beyond Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted owned art books. Michael had seen them, even read most of them. And Uncle Ted had taken the recent trip to Paris and Germany. Was that trip related to this?

It didn’t matter. Not now. Not as Michael trudged down the trail toward the shack. What mattered was hiding it.

At the shack, he dragged the box inside. He pulled a chair across the room and stood on it as he positioned the box in the space above the ceiling. And, as Michael had read, after nearly four hundred years, not much could damage it, especially in a temperature-
controlled setting. Summer would bring humidity. (He knew why Uncle Ted’s apartment had been kept at precisely seventy degrees all these years.) Of course, the heat lamps and constantly-running portable heater made him nervous. He would have to move it shortly.

The entire drop took two hours. Back at his pickup, he started the engine and wondered how long it could stay in the shack.

Hopefully long enough for him to figure out what to do with it.

3:10 a.m., 7 Drummond Lane

He knew his way around the house and crept into the guest room where Aleksei had stayed. He knew the door would creak. So he turned the knob gently and slowly pushed the door. Inside, he padded across the room until he stood over the bed.

Then, with a stiff index finger, he poked Dariya once on the chest, a firm jab.

“Get your ass out of bed and follow—”

But Ted Donovan never finished his sentence.

In one swift motion, Dariya sat up in bed, his hand emerging from beneath his pillow, the four-inch blade stopping an inch from Ted’s nose.

A desk chair scraped the floor when Ted leaped back.

“What are you doing here?” Dariya said, his throat dry, the words rasping. He stood up, the knife falling to his side.

“Put that away. Who sleeps with a fucking knife under his pillow?”

“Someone whose house was blow up.”

“You’re fucking crazy. Come with me, you asshole.”

Ted didn’t wait to hear Dariya’s reply. He walked down the hall and up the stairs to his apartment.

It took several minutes, but Dariya finally climbed the stairs to Ted’s apartment. The door was open, the lights on.

Ted was pacing, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked up and stopped moving.

“You leave your knife downstairs?” He went past Dariya, pulled the door closed, and locked it.

“Why you locking the door?” Dariya asked. “It’s three thirty in the morning.”

“It’s been locked for twenty-five years. You, of all people, should know that.” Ted stayed near the door. “Where’s the knife?”

“Under pillow. It’s the middle of the night. What you want?”

Barefoot, Dariya wore only the pants he’d worn that day and a white undershirt. Ted saw no bulges in his front pockets.

“Turn around. Let me see your waistband.”

“What?”

Ted repeated the instructions.

Dariya shook his head but did what he was told.

Satisfied that Dariya left the knife downstairs, Ted moved closer. “Got something to tell me, asshole?”

“It middle of the night. Drunk?”

“What?” Ted said.

“Drunk?”

“Am I drunk?” Ted inched closer. He could smell Dariya’s breath. “No. But I am mad. Mad enough to kill you, you motherfucker.”

“What? What are you talking?”

“Where were you all day?”

“Meeting with DHHS about Aleksei.”

“All day?”

“Ask Bohana. She with me.”

Unconsciously, Ted stepped back. Hadn’t expected that answer. Was Bohana in on it? Impossible.

Or was it?

Then it happened. The surge of anger, his own hand flashing, arm outstretched. In a second Ted’s fingers were a vise clamped around the smaller man’s throat.

“It’s not here. Where is it?”

Dariya, gasping for breath: “Let … me … go.”

“It’s not fucking here,” Ted said. “I checked on it yesterday, and I got up to piss and for the hell of it, thought I’d check, and it’s gone.”

Dariya’s eyes refocused, and Ted knew the diminutive Ukrainian understood. He also saw the genuine confusion in Dariya’s eyes. His clenched fist went limp. Dariya stepped away from him, gulping air.

“Don’t you touch me. Next time I kill you.”

“It’s fucking gone, Dariya. You hear me?”

“Where?”

“You tell me, asshole.”

Dariya shook his head, realizing now. “You think me …”

“Who else?”

“Why would I stay here?”

“If you took it? Where the hell else would you go?”

“I don’t even know where you hid, Ted.”

Ted thought about that. In his rage and panic, he hadn’t considered that obvious fact. The man had lived in Ukraine; how could he know where the hiding place was?

“Yeah, well, no one does. But you’re the only one who knows I had it. And you had all day to look for it. No one else.”

“Apparently not,” Dariya said, surprising Ted with his formal English.

Ted turned from him and went to the third-floor window, blackened from the room’s interior light. He stood squinting against the night sky—and noticed Michael’s pickup missing from the driveway below.

8:30 a.m., Main Street, Reeds

“If it was warmer,” Stone Gibson said, “we could walk the bike trail.”

“It would have to be much warmer.” Peyton took his hand as they walked past the old hotel near the corner of Academy and Main streets in downtown Reeds. “There’s still a foot of snow on the bike trail.”

He looked at her hand in his. “I’m on duty,” he said.

“Well, I’m not. And you’re not in uniform, so we can hold hands. We actually look like two regular people.”

“With normal, civilian lives. Imagine what that must be like.”

“Boring,” she said. Peyton’s cell phone chirped. She recognized the number.

“When you’re as old as me,” Stan Jackman said in lieu of a greeting, “you have contacts in lots of places.”

“You found something?

“My friend in the Boston FBI office did. Dariya Vann ever mention Emerson College?” Jackman asked.

She wasn’t walking anymore. And she wasn’t holding Stone’s hand now. “No,” she said. “Emerson College in Boston?”

“Yeah. If there’s a connection, that’s it. Ted Donovan and Dariya Vann were both at Emerson in the fall of 1990.”

“Were they in classes together?”

“Peyton, I just started looking into it.”

Stone was looking at her, eyebrows raised.

“But you’re known as a miracle worker,” she said, “so I expected you to be further along.”

“Of course,” Jackman said. “You think they’re moving something. I read your shift report. What makes you think that?”

“I overheard a conversation.”

“Illegally tapped or spied?”

“Overheard,” she said.

“So spied,” Jackman said.

Stone was smiling now, correctly guessing what Stan Jackman had said.

“I overheard them talking. Ted talked about finding a buyer, and Dariya spoke about negotiating the deal. He said Dariya left the country and left him holding the merchandise.”

“And Stone found some pot plants near where the boy was found?”

“Yeah, but only six plants. I don’t know that Stone’s find has anything to do with it. They were talking about locating buyers. And my sense was they’d had trouble finding one because of resale challenges.”

Jackman was silent for a moment, then said, “If the operation is much larger than we think, and they’re selling pot out of state, resale would be hard. And that would make sense. Why truck it in to, say, Boston when you can get something home-grown nearby?”

“Whatever it was,” she said, “it’s been a long process. Ted Donovan was talking about sacrificing his TV career for this.”

“I don’t know what that’s about,” Jackman said. “Neither man has a criminal history or anything I see involving pot.”

“He’s not sacrificing his TV career for six pot plants.”

“Has Maine DEA looked into the shack?” Jackman asked.

“I don’t think Maine DEA is going to.” She looked at Stone.

Stone shook his head. “They don’t want it. I’m handling it.”

She relayed the message to Jackman.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “they’re selling it for thirty. That was the figure. They were arguing about who got twenty.”

“Thirty grand?” Jackman said.

“I doubt Ted Donovan would throw his TV broadcasting career away for thirty grand.”

Jackman paused. “You think they’re talking about millions?”

“Yes,” she said. “Whatever it is, Ted found the buyer and sent Dariya to negotiate the deal.”

“I’ll keep tugging at my end,” Jackman said. “If I find anything new, I’ll call. And I might swing by your place tonight. I got Tommy a new David Ortiz T-shirt.”

“That’s sweet, Grandpa,” Peyton said and hung up.

Stone was checking his iPhone. When she hung up, he slipped his phone in his pocket. He took her hand, and they started walking.

“Maine DEA doesn’t believe pot use is on the rise in this area,” he said, “but usage statistics don’t mean much when you’ve got a built-in irrigation system. You can grow it and transport it.”

“True,” she said. “You’re talking about the river?”

“This place has always been made-to-order for growing pot,” he said. “Has been since I was a kid.”

“But Dariya and Donovan sure as hell aren’t bringing pot back to the Ukraine.”

They passed the bowling alley.

“Does Dariya Vann have ties to organized crime in the Ukraine or Russia?” Stone asked. “You can’t take the dope back, but you could send money back.”

“You’re thinking they set everything up with dirty foreign money,” she said. “Launder it here and send that back.”

“Turn it into US currency and either wire it somewhere or take it home.”

“A thirty-million-dollar pot industry run by Ted Donovan?” she asked.

Stone was staring straight ahead, thinking. “I know. I know. Not likely.”

“Virtually impossible,” she said. “He works forty hours a week for his brother. And all we have behind this entire theory is six pot plants. DEA doesn’t even think that’s worth looking into.”

They continued to walk, no longer holding hands; now, they were working, both thinking aloud.

“You’ve got to admit,” Stone said, “it’s a good theory. Someone in the Ukraine funds a US-based pot-growing operation in a rural area with little law enforcement and a river. You sell the product for US funds, and the dirty money is changed to US currency. Then you send the profits back to the Ukraine.”

“And do it all over again,” Peyton said. “It’s too elaborate, Stone.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

“Dariya was talking about ships overturning. Said he nearly died and lost his half of the product.”

“What’s that about?” Stone asked.

“Not sure. What we do know is that Dariya and Ted were in Boston in 1990 together. And that Dariya planted his son here to get back into the US. I’m pretty sure Ted brought Aleksei here.”

“Ted?”

“Yeah, Dariya was pissed at him for his treatment of Aleksei.”

“What is Aleksei’s connection to all of this?”

“He gets Dariya into the US.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Good question,” she said. “Maybe he really does want Aleksei here to improve his life, and whatever is going on with Ted is secondary.”

“Too many questions,” Stone said. “Hillsdale must’ve loved hearing that Aleksei is a plant.”

“I haven’t discussed it with him,” she said.

“You haven’t discussed it with him yet?”

“I can’t have Hillsdale throw Dariya out yet. I need him here.”

“You feds,” Stone said. “Always conspiring.”

“That’s not conspiring. It’s playing it safe.”

“I’d call that conspiring,” Stone said. “Want to walk to Tim Hortons?”

“That’s a long walk,” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s not against regs for a high-paid federal conspirator like you to buy a lowly state cop a coffee.” He grinned.

“You’ve got a nice smile, you know that?”

“And I’ll pay you back with a back rub,” he said.

“I told you, I’ve had your back rubs.” She smiled. “They’re nothing special.”

“I’ll try harder,” he said.

“Then the coffee is on me.”

9:30 a.m., Paradise Court, Garrett

“I’m so glad you called,” Pyotr said, his Russian, she thought, barely better than his English. “So glad we’re back together.”

Her head lay on his chest, her eyes steady on the wall. But a slight smile played on her lips. She hated him but was glad he hadn’t lost his touch in bed—that would make the downtime during the next few days better.

“Thank you for coming here early,” she said, “and finding us a place to stay. A hotel room wouldn’t have worked.”

The house was a two-bedroom ranch, its interior dated: 1970s paneling, yellow laminate countertop, and shag carpeting. But Pyotr paid a month’s rent in cash, said he was a college professor come to the US to research Canada Lynx, a rare animal confirmed to live in only a handful of US states. The whole exchange had taken all of twenty minutes, according to Pyotr. Probably because the house had been for sale for years, and the rental market wasn’t good. So the owner, glad for the month’s rent, asked no questions.

She hadn’t seen him in months. His leaving had been hard on Rodia, who cried for weeks. Anna, at three, occasionally muttered “?” But then it passed. It had been hardest on her father, who’d brought Pyotr in twenty years ago as a skinny teenager.

“I understand why,” he said. “You’re welcome.” He ran the back of his hand over her bare nipple. “I missed this. And I missed you.”

His hand felt like ice against her skin, an odd reaction to his touch, Marfa knew, especially since she’d initiated the sex.

“It’s why I called,” she lied. “I couldn’t be without you.”

He moved his hand up, his index finger moving slowly on her jawline. “You sounded worried that I wouldn’t take you back,” he said.

“I was.” She fought to hold back the grin. “I couldn’t live without you. I know that now.”

“I thought of you every day,” he said.

“Every day?” she said.

“Every day.”

“Even two days after you left?”

That gave him pause. She knew he hadn’t expected her to know about that.

“She didn’t mean anything to me,” he said. “I just needed someone to take my mind off you.”

She nearly laughed at the cliche.

“None of that matters now anyway. Now we’re together again.”

“Forever,” she said.

He didn’t see the smirk on her face.

His breathing was slow, rhythmic. In five minutes, she thought, he’d be snoring softly. Some things never change: following sex, he always fell asleep immediately; she never did.

“Does your father know you’re here?”

He was thinking the situation through. She’d anticipated questions.

“He thinks you and I are bringing it back,” she said.

“But we’re not?”

“No.”

“Where exactly are we taking it?”

Pyotr was smart. Her father had been right about that. But he wasn’t as smart as she was. That part her father had been wrong about.

“I bought a house in the Alps,” she said. And with that lie the game was on. So was the act. She tilted her head, her warm smile looking genuine. “You know how I’ve always loved the Alps.”

“It’s where we honeymooned. We’ll go back?”

“And live, yes. The children are on their way now. They’ve missed you.”

“Who is bringing them?”

“A nanny. I hired her.” That much was true.

“Do you have your own buyer?”

“I have something better.”

“Better?”

“Yes, why would I resell? I know its value. And”—she shrugged—“it’s the ultimate bargaining chip.”

“For what?”

“For whatever we need. Literally a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“To be used when?”

“When and if we’re arrested or if my father sends someone.”

“Your father doesn’t negotiate.”

“For this? Are you kidding me? Art has been his whole life. Every vacation we took when I was a child revolved around a museum—a different museum somewhere in the world.”

“His life has been about money and power.”

“And art,” she corrected.

“How are you paying for it?”

He would ask that. Always concerned about the money.

“Father trusts me” was all she said.

“You’re negotiating for your father? Using his money?”

“He knows we only have a two-week window, so he gave me access to the accounts.” And with that financial admission, she knew she could no longer trust Pyotr. The final step of her plan had been decided. “He doesn’t think I’m strong enough to run his operations,” she continued, “but he knows I’m good with money.”

“We have total control of his accounts?” he asked, blue eyes distant now. He no longer looked sleepy.

“I have control of them, yes,” she said. “Go to sleep.” She stood and crossed to the bathroom.

When she came out, he was snoring quietly. He lay in the middle of the bed now. Still slept with his mouth open, his snore still an endless hum.

She slid into her robe, pulled it tight, and paused in the doorway, looking at him and thinking.

His eyes blinked open. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just watching you.” He’s no Dimitri, she thought. “I’ve missed you.”

The lie made him smile.

She could’ve handled her brother being in control after her father died. Dimitri was older and respected her. And he’d saved Pyotr—three times, no less—from mistakes that would’ve cost millions. It was her father’s reaction to the errors that had offered her a glimpse into the future: each time he laughed it off, a deep, rich, boys-will-be-boys laugh. “Pyotr is learning,” her father had said.

But so was she—learning that despite her MBA and her successful boutique, her father had little respect for her abilities. And less for her ambition and fortitude.

Then one night last summer Dimitri left the restaurant in St. Petersburg and was shot once behind the left ear.

One .22-caliber shot had changed everything.

Strategically, it made perfect sense. Taking her father’s right-hand man isolated him, weakened his grip on his dominant market share, and left the old man with only Nicolay (also a gray beard), Pyotr, and herself in his inner circle. And to men like her father, she was seen as weak.

“What are you thinking about?” Pyotr asked.

“How mistaken men can be,” she said.

“What did I say?”

“Not you.” She moved closer, leaned, and kissed his lips, lingering over him a long time.

Then she pulled away.

“It hasn’t been easy being apart,” he said and held up his left hand. “I never took it off.” He showed her his wedding ring. “Where’s yours? You should put it back on. We’re together again. Forever.”

She’d taken hers off ten minutes after he’d left the house for the US.

She kissed him again. “I left mine at father’s. I’m so sorry.” She had no idea where the ring was.

“What were you thinking in the doorway?” he asked. “You looked angry.”

“I was just watching you sleep,” she said and pulled the robe tight again.

But, as she descended the stairs, her true previous thought returned: How would it feel to kill him?

3:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia

Victor Tankov looked up from his book when Nicolay entered the room carrying a plate of sliced cucumbers and apples.

“I brought a snack,” Nicolay said.

“That’s not a snack. That’s what Rodia feeds the guinea pigs.”

Victor hadn’t felt well enough to dress—he was still in his robe—but at least this day he sat near the window in his reading chair.

Nicolay smiled. “Not guinea pig food.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“You’re my boss. How could I laugh at you?”

“I’m not your boss. We stopped that relationship years ago.”

“That’s true, but you’re still my boss.”

Victor didn’t speak, turning to the window.

“What is it?” Nicolay said.

At his age, in his condition, Victor knew it was time. “I’ve never said it before, and that’s wrong,” he said, “but thank you.”

“You thank me all the time,” Nicolay said.

“No. That’s an expression of appreciation for a job well done. And, yes, I do often express gratitude for your excellent work. I’m not expressing gratitude for excellent work now.”

“What are you saying?” Nicolay pulled a straight-backed chair bedside, sat, and retrieved a bottle of Ensure from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. “If you can’t eat the vegetables or fruit, promise me you’ll drink this.”

“That’s what I want to thank you for,” Victor said. “You’ve been a true friend for years. When I can count on no one else, I can count on you.”

“Yes, you can. You gave me a family when I had none. I have no education, and you’ve paid me like a doctor.”

“I’ve paid you a fair wage for what you do and what you’ve been willing to do. And, of course, there is more money to come. You’re in my will.”

Victor set the biography of Rembrandt Harmensvoon van Rijn down and absently glanced at the empty space on the wall. He put his hand on Nicolay’s thick forearm.

“I know, and thank you.”

“No need. But you’re welcome.”

The two men—men who had survived many years doing things few were willing or able to do—held each other’s gaze through a long silence.

“Men like us don’t often get emotional.” Nicolay looked at Victor, saw the pale skin, heard the rasping breath.

“No, not often.”

“I have much to thank you for, Victor. You took me in when I had lost my father and had nothing. Helped me support my mother. I can never repay you.”

Victor smoothed the flannel fabric on his thighs. His eyes were focused on the floor, but he said, “When Maria died, you were there. Not the children. No one else. You.”

Nicolay only nodded, and both men sat looking out the window at the sun-splashed day.

A dry smile creased Victor’s mouth. “I’m tired of rabbit food. You know how long it’s been since I tasted real food?”

“Months?”

“Seems longer. Sometimes I like to think of the past. About what I did. Where I went. What I ate and saw. I pick one day and relive it in my mind. Is that crazy?”

Nicolay was staring straight ahead. His head shook back and forth. This was the closest his friend had come to admitting his death was imminent.

“I think about a summer day,” Victor continued, “when Maria was still alive and Marfa was young. We were in Paris. The sun was shining. We were at the Louvre looking at Carcass of Beef. That was a special day. Marfa was eight. She looked at that painting—not in disgust like other children her age. They looked and turned away. She didn’t. And I knew then she was like me. She appreciated his work. Saw it for what it was.”

“That’s why she’s getting it for you.”

“She wants to be like me. I don’t want that.”

“This is a hard life,” Nicolay said, “for a woman.”

“Impossible for a mother. Maria made it possible for me to do the work. I could leave when I needed to, when things got too bad. And I did.”

“I remember. One summer you and I went to Milan.”

“Yes. A mother, especially a single mother, cannot do that. She has other, higher, responsibilities. And I believe she has different instincts too. But for that I have no proof.”

“Mother’s intuition?”

“Yes. And that instinct makes a woman put her children before all else. You can’t do this work and think about that too.”

“She can’t slip off to Milan for a summer when things get hot?”

“No, she can’t. She provides the children with emotional support. She can’t do that and run this from Milan.”

Nicolay nodded.

Outside, snow melted and water dripped from the roofline. “How are the children?” he said.

“They’re fine. Downstairs. Playing with the nanny.”

“Not fine. Children are never fine without their mothers.”

“I turned out alright,” Nicolay said.

Victor made no reply.

“Something’s bothering you.” The cherry arms of Nicolay’s chair looked like twigs beneath his palms.

“Instinct,” the old man said, “has served me well for many years.”

“And now?”

Victor looked straight at him. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

Nicolay’s bushy gray brows furrowed. “You think Marfa’s in trouble?”

“No. And that’s what bothers me.”

“If she’s not in trouble,” Nicolay said, “what could be wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you worrying about?”

“Me,” Victor said. “I’m worried for me.” He looked at the space on the wall again. “I have a bad feeling.”

10:30 a.m., Donovan Ford

“Can I talk to you?” Ted Donovan asked his brother.

Steven—in mid stride approaching a man and woman in their sixties who stood alone near a new Ford Escape—stopped and came back to Ted.

“That’s Peter O’Reilly,” he said to Ted.

Ted turned to see the white-haired man pointing at the Escape’s window sticker and nodding encouragingly at his wife as they talked.

“Can this wait?” Steven asked. He turned up the collar of his ski jacket, cupped his hands, and exhaled into them, warming them with his breath. “The O’Reillys bought their last two vehicles from us. This is a slam dunk.” Steven smiled playfully at his brother. “Christ, even you could get a commission on this one.”

Ted wasn’t smiling. “Who is home during the day?”

“What do you mean? I need to go to these people, Ted.”

“I need to know who has access to my apartment.”

“Access? What are you talking about?” Steven sighed. “Look, it’s cold out here. What are you asking?”

Ted could feel his face getting red. The last time he’d had a sensation like this was his first day on-air—so nervous he’d felt nearly out of control. He wasn’t nervous now. He was angry. But he was nearing the edge of self-control, nonetheless.

“Someone was in my fucking apartment, Steven. Who was it?”

The elderly man in the red flannel hunting jacket heard the profanity and looked at them, clearly insulted that someone used that language in front of his wife.

“Keep your voice down, Ted. What’s wrong with you?”

“Look at me, Steven.”

“What?” Steven focused on his brother now. “You’re sweating and pale. You sick?”

“I might be. Someone went into my apartment when I wasn’t there.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m missing something.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? Was it something important?”

“Very.”

The brothers stood looking at each other.

Steven started to speak, but then closed his mouth.

“I’m telling you,” Ted said, “it was very important.”

Steven looked at him, their eyes locking. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. “I need to wait on this customer.”

Then he walked away.

11:15 a.m., Garrett Station

“There’s not much there,” Stan Jackman said to Peyton.

She sat next to him, looking at printouts and spreadsheets he’d gathered.

Jackman had an office next to Hewitt’s in Garrett Station. The office was a concession of sorts: since his heart attack, Jackman was doing very little field work, an unspoken accommodation he hated. To that end, Hewitt had given him his own office, making him the only field agent to have one.

Peyton looked around the office. “Very nice.”

“The framed photos are new. I figure Mike doesn’t have to do this. He knows I can’t do what I did, and if this was the southern border, he couldn’t hide me in here. They’d have me on disability and I’d be retired and bored out of my head. That’ll still probably happen, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

“You mind doing research?”

“Something like this is fun. I found a shitload on Dariya Vann.” He paused. “Is Stone joining us?”

She shook her head. “He’s in the woods.”

“At the shack?”

She nodded.

“Anyway, Dariya Vann was a big TV reporter in Ukraine. And Ted Donovan was an up-and-coming TV reporter here.”

“What happened to Ted Donovan?”

“He walked away from the TV news job to work for his brother.”

“For more money?”

“Far less, according to his tax returns.”

“You’re good,” she said.

“I can’t do much. But I still know the right questions to ask. Mitch Cosgrove dug up the financials.”

Cosgrove was unique among Border Patrol agents—a former CPA. This background offered a rare skill set, and Hewitt had snatched him up when his resume had crossed the PAIC’s desk.

“Any idea why Ted Donovan would walk away from TV news?”

Jackman shook his head.

“Think his brother offered him partner status in the dealership?”

“Nothing in Ted’s financials indicates that.”

“Where does he spend all his money?”

“His Visa bill says he eats at Tip of the Hat most nights. Ten, twenty bucks. Four or five nights a week.”

“I’ll look into it,” she said.

“And he worked at WAGM,” Jackman said, “or whatever the local TV station was called back then. I went over there. The place is full of mostly young reporters trying to make a name for themselves so they can move up and move out. No one remembers Ted Donovan. He worked there for about ten years, then more than fifteen years ago, he left.”

Peyton thought about that. Ted Donovan hadn’t moved up and out. He’d walked away from his journalism career but had remained in the region.

“Did Ted graduate from Emerson?” she asked.

“No, actually. He dropped out.”

“Do we know why?”

Jackman shook his head. “Dariya did the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. Dariya Vann also dropped out.”

“When?”

“Here’s where this gets interesting, Peyton. Neither man attended a class after spring break 1990.”

“Emerson College keeps attendance records for twenty-five years?” she said.

“Not attendance records,” he said. “I found something better.”

“What?” she asked.

“I’m getting to that,” Jackman said, “but before I forget, did you know Ted Donovan traveled to Donetsk recently?”

“I didn’t,” she said, “but it makes perfect sense.”

1:45 p.m., Garrett Station

“Thanks very much for coming in,” Peyton said to Dariya Vann.

Stan Jackman sat beside her. Hewitt was to the other side. They were letting her lead.

A manila folder lay before her. She didn’t look at Dariya’s attorney, Bobby Gaudreau, or Dariya’s sister, Bohana, who sat, bookends to each side of Dariya Vann, because she genuinely wasn’t glad to see either of them. Gaudreau and Bohana would only stall the information-
gathering process, and she knew it.

Dariya didn’t reciprocate the greeting.

“How have you been since our last talk?” she said.

Dariya looked at her, then at Gaudreau, who took the cue.

“Why are we here, agent?”

“I have no idea why you and Bohana are here,” Peyton said, “but Mr. Vann has graciously agreed to meet with me. And I’m here because I work days this month.”

“Cute,” Gaudreau said. “Stop wasting my client’s time.”

“I was going to offer coffee. Mr. Vann, you look exhausted. Late night?”

Dariya shifted in his seat. He didn’t like the question. Why? What had she said?

“He’s jet-lagged,” Bohana explained.

“Mr. Vann,” Peyton continued, “it must be nice staying with Bohana and seeing people you’ve missed.”

Dariya looked at Gaudreau, who shrugged.

“We’re just talking,” Peyton assured Dariya.

“Yes, I’ve missed my sister.” Dariya smiled at Bohana.

“And Ted?”

Vann’s eyes swung back to Peyton. “Ted?”

“Well,” Peyton said, “you went to college with Ted. And about a week ago, Bohana told me she met Steven through a friend of her brother. That brother is you. And that friend would be Ted, with whom you attended Emerson College.”

Dariya sat looking at her, the wheels clearly turning. “I guess we both went there,” he said after several moments.

Jackman was writing; Hewitt was leaning back in his chair, listening intently.

“I don’t remember saying that,” Bohana said.

“No?” Peyton said. “We were at your house around three in the afternoon. I was there to see how Aleksei was adjusting.”

Bohana said to the table, “I don’t recall that conversation.”

“Coincidence,” Dariya said, dragging the second i to a long e, “if we both there.”

Gaudreau sat like a seventh grader who didn’t see the pop quiz coming.

“It must be nice to catch up with Ted,” Peyton said.

Dariya shrugged.

“Were you and Ted close at Emerson?”

“No.”

“Did you know each other?”

“I see him.”

“Where? In what capacity?”

He looked at her, not understanding.

“In class? In the hallway?”

Dariya shrugged.

“Peyton,” Gaudreau said, “what are you driving at?”

Peyton opened the folder. “You were both journalism majors and had several broadcast media classes together during the 1989–90 school year.”

“Do you expect my client to remember that? That was a quarter-
century ago.”

Peyton smiled at Gaudreau and looked back to Dariya. “You actually had several classes together during an eighteen-month span. And you and Ted were close friends, isn’t that right?”

Dariya shook his head. “Not close.”

“That’s interesting. Remember Frank Griffin?”

Dariya sat up a little straighter. “Who?”

“Oh, I’m sure you remember him. He sure remembers you and Ted. I talked to him this morning. He’s retired and lives in Florida now. But he spoke about how hard you worked to learn English.”

“I don’t know him,” Dariya said, but his voice was soft as if he realized the futility of his denial.

“Frank Griffin oversaw a maintenance crew you and Ted were on as work-study students. Frank was in that same job for thirty-five years. Says he never forgets a face. Speaks highly of you both. Says it was clear that you and Ted were”—she shifted her papers in the folder until she found one, pointed to a line of text, and read—“‘really good friends. Both good boys.’”

“Where is this going, agent?” Gaudreau said. “Someone remembers my client from more than twenty-five years ago?”

“We’re just looking for honest answers,” Hewitt said. “Would you like tea, Bob?”

“First time someone’s offered tea. No thanks.”

Peyton knew what Hewitt was doing: playing good cop to her bad.

She went on. “You told me you brought your son here.”

Dariya nodded.

She wished she’d been able to record the conversation overheard in the Donovans’ driveway. But that hadn’t been possible. Now she was forced to rely on memory and to use what she’d learned that night to get more information or to force Dariya Vann or Ted Donovan to say something that filled in a blank for her. At a time when technology dominated information-gathering processes, it was far from a perfect science. And with a lawyer in the room, it was a gamble. But Dariya Vann wouldn’t be in the country long. She had to roll the dice.

“That’s not true, Dariya. And we both know it.”

“I brought Aleksei here.”

“Ted Donovan bought a round-trip ticket to Ukraine and flew there just over a month ago. We have copies of his boarding pass. He never flew back, though, never got on the return flight. And we both know why.”

“We don’t need to sit here and listen to your speculation.” Gaudreau closed his briefcase.

Peyton never took her eyes off Dariya Vann. “Because you offered up your son. You needed a way into the country.”

“Let’s go, Dariya.” Gaudreau was standing.

“Come on.” Bohana tugged her brother’s arm.

Dariya didn’t stand. He remained seated across from Peyton, staring hard at her.

“Your son told me what it was like traveling with Ted. I’d call him a child-abuser. You call him a business partner.”

“Come on.” Bohana pulled her brother’s forearm.

This time he stood and followed them out, never turning back.

When the door closed behind them, Hewitt turned to her. “You better know what you’re doing because you just played your hand.”

“Not the entire hand,” she said.

“You have more?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got more.”

7:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia

Nicolay could barely understand what this skinny twenty-something with unkempt hair and tattoos on his ropey forearms said. Although both men spoke Russian, it was like listening to another language. Like the summer he and Victor spent in Milan, and he’d tried to pick up Italian.

“Are you sure Victor Tankov wants me to do this?”

“Yes,” Nicolay said. “He’s been having computer problems.”

“Is the machine slow?”

Nicolay wasn’t sure what Yevgeniy meant. “Yes,” he said.

“Shouldn’t be,” the wispy man said. “Plenty of RAM.” His fingers danced lightly across the keyboard.

Nicolay watched him; this youngster with a soul patch didn’t do the two-finger peck that Nicolay used. Yevgeniy had been here twenty minutes. RAM space and gigahertz—Nicolay had no idea what those words meant.

They sat side by side in the den, the hulking sixty-year-old and the skinny, pale expert with three silver hoops in his left earlobe. The den was on the first floor of the sprawling country home, one of the Victorian’s eight bedrooms converted to an office. Since Victor’s health had declined, Marfa had spent a lot of time in this room, on this computer. But Victor—the champion boxer bracing himself against the ropes rather than go down—had insisted on managing the finances himself. For as long as he could. Whatever it took.

It had taken a lot. Now he was bedridden.

And Nicolay had walked in on Victor’s conversation with Marfa, had heard Victor promise her full access to the accounts until the purchase. Then Victor said he felt uneasy.

So Nicolay knew what he had to do.

“No,” the lanky man dressed in black said, “there’s nothing wrong with this computer. What are you having trouble doing? Give me something specific to work on.”

Nicolay pointed to the screen. “I need to open that.”

“That file?” Yevgeniy’s fingers tapped lightly. Then his head shook back and forth. “Well, that’s the problem. It’s a locked file. You need the password to open it. That doesn’t have anything to do with the software or the machine. It’s password protected.”

Nicolay pulled his chair closer. He understood those words, password protected. Knew precisely what they meant to him here and now.

“I need to see what’s inside that and to open that email account.”

“You need passwords.”

“What if I lost them? Can they be opened?”

The skinny man pushed away from the machine and turned to face him, studying Nicolay’s face. “This is Victor Tankov’s summer home. And you’re asking me to break into his personal email. The other file is some sort of financial document or record.”

“That’s correct.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve heard what happens to people who screw with Victor Tankov.”

“What have you heard?”

“He put an ice pick through one guy’s hand, didn’t shoot him until twenty minutes later. Wanted to watch him suffer first.”

“You have no reason to worry.” After all, Nicolay thought, it hadn’t been Victor who’d done that. “I’m in charge of this computer.”

Yevgeniy looked at him. “You’re in charge of it?”

“Yes. The record and email accounts are mine.”

“Then how’d you lose the passwords?”

“I forgot them. I have several passwords.”

Yevgeniy had heard that before; in fact, he’d even made the same mistake. He sat thinking about the request, balancing it against what he knew of Victor Tankov.

He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

Nicolay stood and took out his wallet, handed him some money.

“People don’t usually pay us in cash.”

“This isn’t for the bill.”

Yevgeniy leaned back in the chair, staring at the money Nicolay held. “Well, it’s not like you’re asking me to hack into a website or something.”

Not yet, Nicolay thought.

“You wouldn’t believe some of the requests I get,” Yevgeniy said. “Yeah, I can open that for you.”

Nicolay leaned back in his chair, looked out the window, watched young Rodia skating on the frozen pond, and waited.

An hour later, when access to the file and email had been granted and the bank account had been opened, he paced the floor of his bedroom, thinking about Victor, about the life Victor had given him, and processing what he’d learned.

4:45 p.m., Garrett High School

“Well, how was it?” Michael asked Davey Bolstridge.

They were alone on the bleachers in the Garrett High School gymnasium following preseason practice.

Michael had been kneeling, making easy tosses to loosen up when he’d seen Davey enter the gym. Wearing the white mask, Davey had shuffled slowly to the sideline. Coach Rowe had hugged him, and one by one, players approached to do the same. Sam Tilton, a sophomore now, who as a freshman had been taken under Davey’s wing, had hugged the senior and returned to the batting cage with tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t recognize him,” he kept saying. “I didn’t recognize him at first.”

“He’s still the same guy,” Michael had told everyone.

Now the gym was empty, the last well-wisher having left.

“It wasn’t great.” Davey pulled the white mask off and flung it. “I felt like a freak, the way everyone looked at me.”

The mask floated away from the side of the bleachers, drifting to the gymnasium floor like a discarded paper caught by a wind gust.

“You should keep that on.”

“What difference does it make?”

“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 trouble. 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.

When he reached for her, she moved quickly, avoiding his hand.

“Now we’re even,” she said. “Now we can start over.”

He looked at her, assessing. “You finally forgive me?”

“Now I do,” she lied. “Come with me. We have something to do.”

He would be useful to her for one more night.

9:30 p.m., Tip of the Hat

Mitch Cosgrove had told her Ted Donovan’s credit card statements indicated frequent trips to the Tip of the Hat, and Peyton had missed dinner anyway. So, after stopping by her home to change and to kiss both her son and her mother, she entered Garrett’s most popular restaurant-bar.

She slid onto a barstool and, as she always did anytime she entered the Tip of the Hat, flashed back to her summers during college: Elise, Peyton, and a host of others, would gather here after a day of shitty college-kid summer work to play pool, eat pizza, and drink pitchers of draft beer. That group had included Pete Dye, her now-ex-boyfriend, who taught US History at the high school by day and made mortgage payments by tending bar at night. Pete was approaching now, flashing his ridiculously cute surfer smile.

“Haven’t seen you here in ages.”

“Been busy,” she said. “How are you?”

“With someone,” he said.

“That wasn’t what I asked, Pete, but I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. I started dating her about a month after we ended.”

“That’s great. Can I have a turkey burger and a Molson?”

“Sure,” he moved off, called out the food order, took a bottle of Molson from the cooler, and returned. “Glass?”

She shook her head.

“I heard you’re with a state cop.”

“It’s busy for a Wednesday, huh?” she said.

“Playing coy?”

“Playing discreet,” she said.

Nearly every booth was filled; four couples were spread around the bar. Some inhabitants she recognized immediately. Some she’d gone to school with, others she’d seen and registered peripherally—people whose faces were familiar. She was good at remembering faces; most agents she knew were.

“Here you go.”

She turned back to Peter, and he slid the turkey burger to her. It had lettuce and tomato slices.

“That was quick,” she said.

“They’re popular. Jimmy has them ready.”

“The sign in the window says, Burgers made fresh,” she said.

Pete shook his head. “You never change.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re ultra-cynical.”

“No,” she insisted. “I’m an optimist.”

“Want ketchup?”

“No, I’m good. You ever see Ted Donovan in here?”

“Teddy? Sure, three, four nights a week,” Pete said. “Becky”—he pointed—“usually waits on him. She’s patient enough to do it. He sits by himself and plays on his computer for a couple hours. Never tips.”

Peyton saw Becky cross the room and return to the bar. Pete moved to her, leaned close, and whispered something. Becky looked at him, then at Peyton. She came down the bar.

“Hi, Becky.”

“Don’t I know you? You went to Garrett High.”

Peyton nodded. “About a hundred years ago.”

“Didn’t we all? You played basketball.”

“I did,” Peyton said and reached in her purse. “I was the short one running for her life. I’m here on business and pleasure tonight.” She slid a business card to Becky. “Do you know Ted Donovan?”

Becky read the business card. “US Border Patrol?”

Peyton nodded.

Becky smiled. “Teddy? Sure. I wait on him several nights a week. He comes in and drinks three or four beers, eats peanuts. Never orders a meal. Gets so wrapped up in whatever he’s doing on his computer. Last week, I made him eat a burger. I paid for it. The guy’s sort of pathetic. Just stares at that computer like my ten-year-old on his phone.”

“Nice of you to feed him. You must really care about him.” Was this a mistake? If Becky cared that much about Ted Donovan, there was nothing preventing her from calling to say a Border Patrol agent had been asking questions about him.

“Care might be too strong a word. We don’t actually talk. He plays on his laptop and says weird shit once in a while.”

“Tell me about that.”

Becky looked around.

“Some place we can go?” Peyton said.

“I’m on the clock.”

Instinctively, Peyton said, “This won’t take long.” In truth, she had no idea how long it would take.

They were in the back office. The desk had framed photos of a man Peyton recognized as Tip of the Hat owner Bill Schute with a silver-haired woman (Schute’s wife) and three little girls (Schute’s granddaughters). Becky sat in Schute’s swivel chair. A newspaper article from the Star Herald was framed and hung on the wall behind his chair. The headline read Schute Family Buys Tip of The Hat.

“Tell me about ‘weird,’” Peyton said again.

“He quotes Dostoyevsky and weirdos like that once in a while.”

“What’s he say?”

“I don’t remember the exact quotes.”

“In general?”

“Something about extraordinary men overstep boundaries because they can.”

“Because they can?”

“Yeah. That’s the gist.”

Peyton shrugged. Not much she could do with that. But she’d remember the line, search it later. See if anything interesting turned up. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“What are you looking for?” Becky said. “Is Ted in trouble?”

“Not at all.”

“You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

“I’m interested in him as part of something I’m looking into. That’s really it.”

Becky shrugged. “I tell him he could’ve been one of those guys you see on the network nightly news shows. He likes that.”

“Ever say why he gave it up?”

“Not really. I asked. He says he’s happier working at Ford than he was at WAGM. I don’t believe him.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. Just the way he says it. He just goes back to looking at art on his laptop.”

“Art?” Peyton said.

“Yeah. He looks at art the whole time he’s here.”

“Anything in particular?”

“He looks at a lot of pictures,” Becky said, “but there is one I’ve noticed him looking at a couple times.”

Peyton was sitting up straight. “Can you describe it?”

10:35 p.m., Drummond Lane

The car ride home wasn’t talkative, but it wasn’t silent either: his mother cried, and his father swore under his breath.

And Michael wasn’t about to start a conversation. The big cop had turned off the generator, which meant the insulated shack wasn’t being heated. The Explorer’s external thermometer read forty-three. That wasn’t great—far from the constant seventy degrees of Uncle Ted’s apartment—but it was above freezing, and the air was dry. He wondered if he’d be alone long enough to get back to the shack in the coming days. He also wondered about Ted, about what his father had said in the conference room. Ted knew it was gone.

His father pulled the Explorer into the driveway next to his mother’s Escape. Uncle Ted’s old F-150 pickup was there.

All three climbed out of the Explorer.

“It’s late,” Bohana said. “Let’s all try to get some rest. I’ll set up a meeting with the guidance counselor in the morning.”

“Mom, why would you do that?”

“Michael,” his father said, “the University of Maine is a big school. They’ll find out about this.”

“Your name will be in the police section of the Goddamned Star Herald within two days,” his mother said.

His father nodded. “It’s much better to get out in front of it.”

“What’s that mean, Get out in front of it?”

“It will probably mean”—his father sighed and blew out a long breath—“you writing a letter to the director of the Art History program explaining what you were doing.”

“We need to see what the judge says,” Bohana said. “Maybe the judge will dismiss the whole thing.”

Michael opened the front door and entered through the mud room into the kitchen. Uncle Ted and Dariya Vann were seated at the kitchen table, neither man speaking. Four beer bottles and a deck of cards were on the table between them.

“Dariya,” Bohana said, “did you see Aleksei?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“That’s all?”

“He was going to math team,” Dariya said.

“He joined the math team?” Bohana said. “That’s excellent.”

“Where were you?” Ted asked.

Steven shook his head.

“Don’t want to talk about it?” Ted said.

“Correct,” Michael’s father said. “What have you guys been doing? Catching up?”

“More like discussing problems,” Dariya said.

Ted and Steven locked eyes.

“Remember what I mentioned at work?” Ted asked.

Steven nodded. “Michael, your uncle thinks someone was in his apartment. You didn’t go up there, did you?”

“I don’t have a key,” Michael said, not answering the question, but not lying either.

Steven nodded, then turned to Ted. “Still no luck finding whatever you lost?”

“No luck,” Ted said, looking at Michael as he spoke.

Michael felt a twinge at the back of his neck. Uncle Ted’s eyes never left him. The conversation overheard in the driveway told Michael the two men planned to move it soon. He couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m going upstairs,” he said.

“Want to stay, play cards with your uncle and me?” Dariya said.

Michael turned to him, saw a desperation in Dariya’s eyes that frightened him.

“No, thanks,” he said.

Ted’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at it absently at first, then he pulled the phone closer and read. He slid the phone to Dariya, who read, shrugged, and nodded.

Both men stood.

“Where are you going?” Bohana asked.

“Out,” Ted said.

The house was sixty-two degrees and he felt cold. Michael didn’t go to bed. In the dark, he stood near the window, looking out at the night.

And thinking.

Why did Dariya and Uncle Ted want him to stay up with them? Did they know he’d taken it? They did know it. He could see it in his uncle’s eyes. What had they wanted to say?

He felt suddenly cold, as if a draft had entered through the window frame.

Oh, God, what had he done?

If Uncle Ted had waited more than twenty-five years to cash in, there was too much at stake to let his nephew stand in the way. Based on the conversation he’d overheard, the number was thirty million dollars.

His father either genuinely knew nothing about it, or was a great actor.

What was he going to do? The night before, he still hadn’t known. He couldn’t turn his uncle in. It wasn’t that he wanted to protect his uncle so much as he needed to protect his mother and father. They’d housed the item—and its thief—for half a century. Could they possibly be considered innocent? Would anyone believe them? He wasn’t even sure he did, entirely. But he would protect them. And it was more than innocence and guilt. It was the item itself and its creator. Who had the right to own it? If Uncle Ted and Dariya moved it, it would be lost again.

As soon as possible, he’d return to the shack, get it, and leave it somewhere where it would be found by the right people. And no one would know where it had been these past twenty-five years.

The question was how to avoid Uncle Ted and Dariya until then.

11 p.m., Tip of the Hat

Marfa had a bad feeling.

She didn’t like the look on the American’s face. He looked scared, like he was in over his head and he knew it. And the little Ukrainian looked angry. About what, she had no idea.

They were at the Tip of the Hat shortly before closing time Wednesday. Pyotr sat next to her, sipping draft beer and glancing menacingly at Dariya. He asked about the little man’s accent.

“I’m from Donetsk,” Dariya said.

“What’s your name?” Pyotr asked.

Dariya shook his head.

“I’m Ivan and this is my wife Sonya,” Pyotr said.

“Can we all speak English, please?” Ted said.

Marfa liked that. She could speak both languages but didn’t want the two men across from her to know it—not yet.

Pyotr ignored him and continued in Russian. “Your town has been at the center of a lot of the fighting.”

“Yes,” Dariya said. “A lot of fighting. You’re from St. Petersburg?”

Pyotr confirmed that.

A waitress appeared. “Hey, Teddy. Who are your friends?”

“Just relatives,” Ted said.

No one at the table spoke.

“Another round?” Becky said.

“Four vodkas,” Ted said.

“No.” Marfa shook her head. “I hate vodka.”

“Great accent,” Becky said.

“Rum and Coke,” Marfa said, “and another round of beer.”

Becky nodded and moved toward the bar.

“You’re both from St. Petersburg,” Dariya said.

“No need to know where we’re from,” Marfa said in Russian, “and we’re not here to talk politics.”

“English, please,” Ted said.

“It’s not politics.” Dariya stared at Marfa, still speaking Russian. “It’s my life. The fighting almost killed my wife. She needs medical care.”

“Once Ukraine falls,” Pyotr said, “Putin will take care of you all.”

Dariya grabbed a water glass and tossed its contents in his face.

Pyotr was on his feet. Dariya followed suit, coming up to the younger man’s shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” Ted said. “What did he say?”

“Hey!” Pete Dye called from behind the bar. “Hey, Ted, what’s going on over there?”

“Nothing. Everything’s okay, Pete.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Pyotr looked at the bartender and sat down.

“Enough,” Marfa said. “We’re here to talk about the transaction.”

“What about Germany?” Dariya said, retaking his chair. “That was the plan.”

“I have the money now. Let’s make the exchange here. It’s easier for you. Much easier.”

Dariya looked at Ted and translated.

“What?” Ted said. Then to Marfa, “Are you moving it yourself ?”

“I have a private plane on standby. Where we’re going is none of your business. Nor is it any of your concern. I can wire the money once you’ve completed your delivery.”

Dariya looked at Ted.

“I don’t like changing plans,” Ted said.

Again, Marfa had a bad feeling.

“How long will it take for the money to go through?” Ted said.

Marfa shook her head. “No more than twenty-four hours. Once I know you have it and can deliver it, I’ll start the transfer.”

“We’re going to proceed very slowly, very carefully,” Dariya said. He was speaking to Marfa but looking at Pyotr.

“I understand,” Marfa said.

“We’ll pick a public place to show you it. When we see the money in the account, we will meet to give it to you.”

Marfa looked at him. “I don’t like that. That leaves you holding both it and the money for a period of time.”

Ted shook his head. “I’ve had the fucking thing for twenty-five years. I want to be rid of it.”

Marfa looked at him. She thought he was on the level, but she still didn’t like it.

Dariya didn’t like Pyotr. He was like all the others Putin had in his back pocket. She probably was too. But she was smart—and sexy, if Dariya was being honest.

Dariya turned from Pyotr to Marfa. “You’ll hear from us. We have your text number.” He nodded for Ted to follow.

Ted stood.

“I thought you might have a celebratory drink with my husband and me,” Marfa said.

“We’ll celebrate when I have the money and can help my wife,” Dariya said, then to Pyotr in Russian, “And when Putin is defeated.”

Dariya and Ted walked out.