eight

Monday, March 10, 9 a.m., Gary’s Diner

One week to the day from when she found Aleksei Vann, Peyton and Mike Hewitt saw their breakfast party immediately. Bill Hillsdale from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services sat at a table in back of the diner with a man she’d never seen before and Bohana Donovan. She knew the man was Dariya Vann. He wore a gray sports jacket that looked a decade out of style and a button-down shirt, open at the throat.

“At least it stopped snowing,” Hewitt said. “I can finally run outside.”

There were three vacant seats at the table. When Peyton and Hewitt arrived, Dariya immediately stood and extended a hand.

“Thank you,” he said to Peyton, then looked quickly at Hillsdale.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Hillsdale said.

“Thanks for what?” Peyton said.

“I told him you found his son,” Hillsdale said.

“Actually, Mr. Vann, your son found me,” she said and watched his reaction closely. His son had surrendered to her. Wouldn’t the man know that? Hadn’t that been the plan?

Hewitt also shook the man’s hand. Then he and Peyton sat side-by-side at the circular table, across from Dariya, between Bohana and Hillsdale.

“We’re waiting on one more person,” Bohana said.

“Oh,” Peyton said, “is your husband joining us?”

“No. I’ve hired an attorney for my brother and nephew.”

Hillsdale tensed. He frowned but only for a moment. Then he looked across the table at Peyton and offered a broad I told you so smile.

“I don’t know that a lawyer is necessary for the questions we have,” Hewitt said, “but that’s certainly your prerogative. Also, if you’d like a translator, there’s a local professor we’ve used in the past.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bohana said. “My brother speaks English.”

Spoons clanged the sides of coffee cups, the bell over the front door jangled, and voices at the counter discussed the season’s predicted potato prices.

Peyton looked across the table at Dariya. “I see the family resemblance. Your son looks a lot like you, Mr. Vann.”

He smiled. “I miss him very much.”

“I bet,” Peyton said. “It must’ve been hard to send him here.”

Dariya Vann didn’t take the bait. He stared at his coffee, then slowly lifted his cup and sipped, never making eye contact with Peyton. She thought she saw him grin.

“It’s only been a few days,” Hillsdale said.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Aleksei, Mr. Vann?” Peyton asked.

Dariya picked up his water glass and drank.

“How about your sister?” Peyton said. “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

He looked at Bohana.

“Oh, years and years,” Bohana said. “Christmas cards, a letter here and there—that’s all.” Bohana leaned toward her brother and kissed his cheek. “Too long.”

Dariya was short, no taller than five-seven. His pale eyes had dark half-moons beneath them, like the eyes of men who worked the eleven-to-seven shift at McCluskey’s. But his hands were different; they weren’t the hands of a laborer. His hands were smooth, and his belly belonged to a white-collar worker.

“My sister say you good to Aleksei,” he said. “Thank you.”

“He’s a nice boy,” she said. “You’ve raised him well.”

Dariya smiled. “He have his mother’s heart.”

Hillsdale wore a suit and had a briefcase on the floor near his feet. He leaned forward, popped the case open, and removed a stack of papers. To her surprise, Hewitt didn’t look interested. He was staring at his iPhone.

The inside of Gary’s smelled like it always did—like bacon and syrup.

Shirley, the big-boned owner in a gray sweatshirt, approached. “What are you having?”

“The usual,” Hewitt said.

“We don’t serve alcohol this time of day, captain,” Shirley said.

“Cute,” Hewitt said.

“And for you?” Shirley said to Dariya.

He looked at Hillsdale. Peyton could tell he was struggling to keep up with the conversation. His English appeared more limited than his son’s.

Hillsdale rescued him. “Bring us each a couple eggs,” Hillsdale said to Shirley, then looked at Dariya as if to say That okay with you?

Dariya nodded.

Peyton leaned toward Hewitt. “Think we should call in the U-Maine professor to translate?”

“Let’s see how this goes.”

It had been Shakespeare who’d written Conscience doth make cowards of us all. She remembered her bearded professor reading that line aloud at the University of Maine and recalled thinking about universal truths. Years later, after more than a decade on the job, she’d come to realize language barriers make dependents of us all. She knew Dariya had been a journalist in his home country, but here he couldn’t even order an egg without assistance.

The irony, of course, was that if Dariya applied to stay in the US, it would be Hillsdale—the man helping him now—who’d reject the proposal.

“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, when Shirley moved away, “we’ve got some questions to ask you.”

Beside her, Hewitt was hitting his iPhone with his index finger. “Worst decision I ever made,” he said under his breath, “getting this stupid … Can’t even check the damned weather.”

Peyton leaned close to him. “That’s how it always begins, Mike. Next stage is full-blown addiction. You’ll be playing fantasy basketball at your desk like Jimenez.”

“Not likely,” Hewitt said, shook his head, and slid the phone into his pocket.

“Mr. Vann has received permission to spend up to two weeks here visiting Aleksei,” Hillsdale said.

“My wife …” Dariya looked at Hillsdale, searching for help.

“Mr. Vann’s wife is ill. She needs constant care.”

Peyton was surprised by the amount of help Hillsdale was offering Dariya, given that he told her he was certain Dariya was using his son to forge a permanent place in the country.

Dariya nodded. “Yes. Can’t stay away long.”

“That’s why you let him come?” Peyton said to Hillsdale. “That’s the guarantee he wouldn’t try to stay?”

“I wanted him to be able to see his son,” Hillsdale said. “That’s why he’s here.”

“Of course,” Peyton said.

“And I didn’t make the decision alone.”

Shirley returned with two more thick, white coffee mugs and creamer. “No decaf babies here, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, darting back to the counter to retrieve the coffeepot.

“Mr. Vann, we’d like to know why you sent Aleksei here.”

“Don’t answer that, Dariya,” Bohana interrupted. “We’d like to wait for Bobby Gaudreau, our attorney.”

Hewitt looked at Peyton, shrugged, and took out his cell phone again. Peyton watched, dumbfounded as he checked the New England Patriots website.

She cleared her throat.

“What?” he said. “It’s not fantasy basketball.”

“Only one step away,” Peyton said, to which Hewitt muttered something under his breath again.

It wasted twenty minutes, but the lawyer finally appeared.

Peyton saw him pull into the parking lot and climb out of a GMC Sierra wearing a dark suit and toting a briefcase. Bobby Gaudreau was a man who seemed hard to dislike. If you believed the stereotypes about lawyers, Gaudreau was unrecognizable: a United Way volunteer, a PTO member, a guy who read to kindergartners. Yet she knew him—professionally—to be a first-class asshole; he’d successfully defended three deadbeat dads in town.

He entered the diner like the star quarterback entering a high school dance. He slapped several men on the back. “Bring me a coffee, Shirley, sweetie.”

When he reached the table, everyone rose. They shook hands all around.

“These two agents have some questions to ask Dariya,” Bohana said.

Just then Shirley arrived with Gaudreau’s coffee.

“Thanks, good-looking,” Gaudreau said.

Shirley—already twenty years his senior and looking even older thanks to thirty years spent working inconsistent shifts—made no reply, only walked off, certainly realizing she was being mocked.

“And I wanted you here for it,” Bohana finished.

“That sounds entirely reasonable,” he said.

“We’d like to know how your son got from Donetsk to the US border behind McCluskey’s.” Hewitt had nothing to write with, which always perplexed Peyton, who had her iPad and stylus out. The bastard had only a two-year degree, but he never seemed to fail to recall every detail of a conversation.

“I want better life for son.”

Dariya sat stone still, his legs crossed casually, and Peyton, watching him drink coffee and smile, realized that as a journalist, he’d be entirely comfortable in this setting of asking for and receiving information. He might be more accustomed to being on the other end of the conversation, but he’d know how to answer the questions. They might need to question him in a room in the stationhouse to shake him up.

“Can you tell us how Aleksei got from Donetsk to Garrett, Maine?” she said.

“Not important.”

“Mr. Vann,” Hewitt said, “surely you see why it would be very important to us. Aleksei might be one of”—Hewitt’s eyes darted to Hillsdale—“many others who want to make the same trip.”

Hillsdale shook his head, his I told you so expression set firmly on his face.

“We know life is hard in Donetsk, sir,” Hewitt said.

“No one else coming here. Only Aleksei.”

“Who brought him?” Hewitt said.

Dariya looked at Bohana. Bohana leaned toward Gaudreau and whispered something. Gaudreau nodded.

“My client has assured you that his son is not part of a human-
trafficking ring, agents, which appears to be your primary concern. So may we move on?”

“Not really,” Hillsdale said. Then to Bohana, “Were you aware of Aleksei’s trip?”

“Not until after he’d left. My brother sent me a letter saying he was on the way.”

“Seems odd that you would have no prior knowledge,” Hewitt said.

“I’m not in regular contact with my brother. A Christmas card, a letter here and there.”

Hewitt said, “Phone calls?”

She shook her head. “It’s why I’m so excited to have him visit.”

Shirley reappeared. “More coffee for anyone?”

“How long will we be here?” Bohana said.

“Not much longer,” Gaudreau said.

“Don’t rush this,” Hillsdale said, “or Aleksei will find himself back in Donetsk.”

“No,” Dariya said. “No. He needs be here. Here he have opportunity. In Donetsk, there nothing. Airport is gone now. Running water gone in some places. People dying in streets. He needs to be here.”

Bohana’s hand instinctively went to her brother’s forearm, a reassuring gesture.

“Um, I’ll just bring the pot,” Shirley said and drifted back to the counter.

“The possibility that your son will be returned is on the table, for sure,” Hillsdale said. “To be clear, the United States certainly wants to help your son; however, there need to be certain assurances. And a certain level of cooperation.”

Dariya only smiled, not buying it.

That told Peyton a lot. This was a man who knew what he could and couldn’t do and therefore certainly could’ve arranged for his son to escape the Ukraine’s escalating violence and land softly at an aunt’s well-to-do home in northern Maine.

“You have power to send him back?” Dariya asked Hillsdale, pronouncing him like heem, with a long e. “You send him back?”

Gaudreau cleared his throat, bringing all eyes to him, which Peyton could tell he enjoyed. “I think, Mr. Hillsdale, we all know the answer to that. Mr. Vann, for very good reason, wishes to keep some facts surrounding his son’s brave journey to himself. That’s legal and more than understandable.”

Peyton could see Shirley approaching with the coffeepot. She held up her hand for Shirley to pause; she did.

“And, of course, our need to ascertain certain facts is also understandable,” Peyton said. “Like who the coyote is. If we know that and can learn more about the trip—to the point where we know this is a one-time deal—we’ll be satisfied.”

“It one-time thing.”

“You need not worry, Peyton,” Bohana followed her brother.

“Not good enough,” Hewitt said. “Sorry, but we can’t simply take your word for it. We need to know who brought him here. And we’ll want to talk to him.”

“I think we have reached an impasse,” Gaudreau said.

Hillsdale drank some coffee and leaned back in his seat, his turn for casual. “If the boy wants to have the ability to stay here long-term, we’re going to need answers to these questions.”

“You’ll send him back?” Bohana said.

“There would be a process,” Hillsdale said. “It might start with foster care.”

“You’re threatening my client.”

“Nope. Just answering her question.”

“The social worker thinks it’s better for him to be with me.”

“As you will recall, that’s a temporary arrangement.”

“What if my sister adopt him?” Dariya asked.

“I think this is a good time for this meeting to end,” Gaudreau said and stood. Dariya and Bohana followed his lead. All three walked out.

Peyton looked across the table at Hillsdale. “I guess the United States is picking up the tab for the coffee,” he said.

“At least your sense of humor has returned.”

“And the coffee isn’t bad.” Hillsdale smirked.

“It’s weak,” Peyton said. “So what have we learned?”

Hewitt added sugar to his coffee. “That Dariya is desperate for his son to be here.”

“Considering adoption?” Peyton said.

Hillsdale was eating a cinnamon roll half the size of a dinner plate. Peyton knew Shirley made them herself, and she guessed it was fresh and delicious. Focus on the fruit cup, she told herself.

“And that, for whatever reason, they don’t want us to know who brought the boy here?” She shook her head. “It makes no sense, unless the coyote is still here.”

“Maybe it’s Dariya himself,” Hillsdale said.

“That might make sense,” Hewitt said. “It’s nice to see you like your old self.”

“Well, I was taking enormous heat from the higher-ups. Not easy to feel like you’re about to be fired when you have two kids in college.”

“That’s why I never wanted to work in Washington,” Hewitt said. “I say something stupid every day. I’d end up working as a fly-fishing guide sooner than I can afford to.”

“We need to bring Dariya Vann in and question him again,” Peyton said.

Hillsdale nodded. “We should also start the machine working to extract Aleksei from Bohana’s home and into foster care. She might know more than she’s saying. And this will squeeze her and Dariya to be more forthcoming.”

Peyton looked out the window again. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t snowing. “I don’t like using the boy to get the father to talk. That’s cruel. They must know they can’t simply adopt the boy to allow him to stay here.”

Hillsdale looked at her. “I don’t know what they know or don’t know. But I’m done playing games. You have a better idea?”

Hewitt looked at her as well. She said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” Hillsdale said. “I’m going to call Susan Perry at DHHS.”

3:20 p.m., 31 Monson Road

“I’m not sure how long I can keep bringing you dope,” Michael said Monday after school.

Davey was stooped over the workbench, carefully rolling a joint under the silver spotlight his father had clipped to the side of the bench. He stopped and straightened to face Michael. “Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

“No, Davey. It’s nothing like that. I went out there this weekend.”

“To the shack?”

“Yeah. I think someone found it.”

“And the stuff inside?”

“Probably,” Michael said.

Davey’s basement was cold. Michael wore his GHS baseball windbreaker over a dark hoodie.

“We start throwing in the gym next week.”

“Pitchers and catchers?” Davey asked.

“Yeah, you coming?”

Davey shrugged and went back to rolling the joint.

“You should come.”

“And do what? Clap?”

“Every time I throw, yeah.” Michael grinned. “That would be awesome—my own fan club.”

Davey said, “Screw you,” but smiled as he said it. His hand shook as he tried to light the joint.

“Want me to do that?”

“I got it.” After three more tries, he lit the joint and puffed, holding the hit for a long time.

Michael could see the corners of his eyes soften, realizing for the first time that day that his friend’s face was pinched in pain. The marijuana alleviated at least some of the discomfort.

“Man, you eating enough?” Michael said.

“Can’t stomach much. Why, do I look skinny?”

“A little.”

“You’re lying. I’ve lost a shitload of weight,” Davey said. “Did you clear the shack out?”

Michael shook his head. “I kind of freaked. Didn’t know if someone was watching me. So I took off.”

“Watching you?” Davey giggled then.

“Don’t be an asshole. That shit’s making you laugh.”

“No, man. No. Just saying, it sounds funny. Who’s watching you out there? I mean, you found the shack by coincidence, right? Even had to cut branches to get to it.”

“Yeah. But someone hiked all around it. Even spent the night out there at a spot above it.”

Davey took another hit. “You mean so they could look down at the shack?”

“That’s what I think. I just walked away.”

“What about the generator?”

“I can take the snowmobile and tow it back. I just freaked and left.”

“Shit, man, I can see why.”

“But you need pot, right?”

“Not if you get in trouble. Forget it.”

“Will your doctor get it for you?”

Davey shook his head. “Can’t. You’re forgetting about my parents.”

“He can’t prescribe it on his own?”

“I’m not eighteen yet. They have to approve it. And they say no son of theirs is”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“‘doing drugs.’ The doctor can give me other stuff, but I don’t like the pills. They make me feel like I’m in a fog, and they don’t even really work.”

Michael was looking at the floor, torn between the threat of being arrested and his best friend’s needs.

Davey said, “You think it was a cop out there?”

“Who the hell else would spend the night out there?”

“Lots of people tent out in the winter.”

“Out there? Shit, there wasn’t even a fire—no ring of melted snow, no nothing. I think someone was out there waiting for someone to enter the shack.”

“Could’ve been a hunter. Isn’t it bear season?”

“I don’t know, man. But most hunters don’t sleep in the woods.”

“So what are you going to do, Mikey?”

“I’m not sure. I need to get home.” He started toward the stairs.

“Mike.”

He stopped and turned to face Davey.

“Thanks, man. If you can’t do it anymore, no biggie. I get why.”

“I can’t lose my spot in the Honors program at U-Maine, you know?”

“I know.”

“Come to practice next week, Davey.”

He looked at the ceiling. “I’d have to wear one of those stupid masks. And everyone will ask how I feel and all that shit.”

“People want to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“Six weeks. Homeschooling sucks.”

“Come to practice.”

“I’ll think about it. What are you going to do with the generator?”

“My father hasn’t mentioned it,” Michael said. “He doesn’t realize it’s gone. We haven’t lost power for an extended time yet.”

Michael turned to climb the stairs.

“Oh, wait. I got something for you.” Davey reached into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and quickly pulled his hand out and flashed the middle finger.

Both boys laughed.

10:30 p.m., Razdory, Russia

The days were getting shorter, and he knew that made no sense. March had once been Victor Tankov’s favorite month because the days grew longer and hinted at spring. But this March was different; his days seemed shorter. How was it possible?

It wasn’t. And he knew what that meant, too, what it told him about the cancer in his throat. That the doctors were wrong. He’d been given a year. He knew he had weeks.

He rolled onto his side and pulled the covers to his chin. One day soon, he thought, it’ll all be over, and they’ll pull the sheet all the way up.

He stared at the vacant space on the wall.

“What are you thinking about, Father?” Marfa said, entering the room.

“Redemption,” he said.

“Redemption?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“My sins.”

She was walking across the room to move the chair closer to his bed but stopped and stood looking at him. She wore a cream-colored sweater, and the huge diamond on her right hand got caught on the opposite sleeve.

“Don’t talk like that,” she said, trying to ease the ring from the wool.

“Did Pyotr buy that ring for you?” the elderly man asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“No, Father, I bought it myself.”

“It looks like an engagement ring.”

She freed the diamond, went to the red leather chair along the far wall, dragged it bedside, and sat. “Well, I’m not engaged.”

“Are you still married?”

“Father, I have some good news.”

“You are married? Pyotr is coming back?”

“No. The thing you’ve been waiting so long for is coming here, though.”

“The boy has it?”

“Not the boy.” She leaned forward and patted his hand. “I’ve taken care of everything. Now I need access to the accounts.”

“To pay?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

She shook her head. “I’m negotiating. I need full access.”

“Full access to my accounts?” His pale eyes were watery. He looked exhausted.

She knew he wouldn’t fight it for long.

“How much are you willing to pay?” he asked.

“Probably twenty percent of its value.”

“Do you know the value?” he said.

She assumed he did. He knew more about the subject than many of her professors had. “I’ve done my research,” she said.

“Twenty percent would be more than I wanted to pay.”

“But you’re not handling the negotiations, Father. I am.”

“True.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he said, “You look like an American today.”

“Levi’s?”

“And the jewelry and makeup. All of it.”

“Good, because that’s where I’m going. I’ll look the part.”

“When are you leaving?”

She told him.

“And Nicolay?”

“He’s staying here to care for the children.”

“He should go with you,” he said.

“No. He’ll be here. I’ll handle this, Father.”

He thought about that. “Why don’t you take the children with you?” he said. “Stay there. Live in New York. You loved it there. Walk away from this life.”

“I’m going back downstairs now.”

“Why can’t you understand?”

“Understand what?” she asked.

“It’s like when I got you into the Sorbonne and you chose McGill in Canada.”

“I loved McGill. I wanted to go to McGill. That was my choice, Father.”

He tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength. He’d lost fifty pounds since the diagnosis. He’d been living on Ensure for weeks. “I’ve always supported you,” he said.

“Oh, really?”

“When you came home after New York, I went to your grand opening.”

“And then you didn’t invest. And when I looked for other investors, no one would touch me.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying your business failed because of me?”

“No one wanted to partner with me,” she said again.

“You’re saying that’s because of who I am?”

“No one would give me a loan”—she looked away—“for whatever reason.”

“I didn’t pressure the banks. I’d done enough of that for other things.”

“And you obviously didn’t believe in my company, didn’t invest in it. So the business failed. It never had a chance.”

“I see what’s going on now,” he said.

Panic, like a shaft of ice, shot through her spine. Had she overplayed her hand? Given too much away? Did he know what she had planned for the funds? If she could only get him to give her access.

“What?” she said calmly.

“You want to negotiate to show me what you can do,” he said. She heard the ever-present confidence in his voice.

“That’s correct,” she lied.

“You’re a sweet girl.”

“I’m a businesswoman, Father.”

The door opened then. Nicolay entered the room with a pitcher of water.

“I’ll give you access to the accounts until you make the deal,” Victor said.

Nicolay stopped pouring water. He looked from Victor to Marfa, set the water carafe on the table near the bed, and then left.

6:25 p.m., Chandler Pond

Monday evening, Stone’s entire eight-hundred-square-foot log cabin smelled like whatever was in the oven. Peyton liked the smell but didn’t know what Stone had planned for dinner. She had a glass of chardonnay and her Lisa Scottoline novel and was sitting in a Lay-Z-boy chair across the coffee table from Stone and Tommy, both of whom were focused on Stone’s fifty-five-inch TV.

“That TV is too big for this house,” she commented.

“You say that every time you come here,” Stone said and waved the XBox controller. “Kathy St. Pierre found this house for me. She’s meticulous. She found everything I asked her for.”

“She found my house too,” Peyton said. “She dominates the real-
estate market up here. She was on HGTV’s Lakefront Bargain Hunt.”

Tommy, sitting next to Stone on the couch, leaped up and pointed his controller frantically at the TV.

Stone’s cabin was clearly a single man’s purchase: it had a main central room, dominated by the TV he bought to watch the Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox; a counter and breakfast bar area; one bedroom off the main room; one bath; and a loft that he used as a den. The property abutted a small lake, and he’d built a dock the previous summer.

Peyton set her glass on the coffee table and leaned forward. “Which one of you is the eleven-year-old?”

Her young literalist raised his hand; Stone, seeing Tommy’s hand go up, raised his own.

The sight made her smile. “Glad we’re clear on that.”

Tommy was focusing, a bottle of red Gatorade before him on the coffee table, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth.

“Those remotes look like birds,” she said.

“They’re not remotes,” Tommy corrected. “They’re controllers, Mom.”

“Sorry.”

Stone waved his controller wildly and yelled, “Yes!” as the football player on the TV screen crossed the goal line.

“You look like you’re strangling a bat,” she said, “the way you wave that thing around.”

“I’m scoring touchdowns,” he said, “and the controller doesn’t look like a bat.”

“Stop distracting me, Mom!” Tommy said, but he was smiling all the while.

It had been some time since she’d seen him smile.

“Need me to check on the oven?” she asked.

“The meatloaf will take another twenty minutes.” Stone looked at Tommy. “Time for one more game.”

“Let’s play.” Tommy took a drink of Gatorade, the skin between his upper lip and nose turning red.

She set her glass on the table. “You made meatloaf ?”

“What did you expect? I give great shoulder rubs, and I cook a mean meatloaf.”

When they made eye contact, she smirked. “I’ve had your shoulder rubs. They’re overrated. I’ll get back to you on the meatloaf.”

“Ouch,” he said, smiling.

She lifted her glass, crossed the room, and opened the fridge. He’d tossed a salad. The mashed potatoes were finished and in a casserole dish on the counter. She pulled off the lid. Son of a gun, he’d even added chives, like Tommy loved. Gravy was warming on the stovetop.

She didn’t say it aloud, but she thought it: I could get used to this.

She sipped her wine and glanced out the window. The ice hadn’t thawed, but a raccoon emerged from behind a spruce and sipped at the water’s edge where a spring ran to the lake.

Her cell phone chirped, and she went to her purse to retrieve it. She recognized the number and sighed.

Stone heard her sigh and said, “I think we might be eating alone, champ.”

Tommy said, “Can we get pizza?”

“You haven’t even tried my meatloaf.”

“Cote here,” Peyton said.

“Peyton, it’s Jimenez.”

“Yeah, Miguel?”

“There’s a problem, and it’s sort of your case.”

“Tell me,” she said, feeling Stone’s eyes on her back.

7:10 p.m., Garrett Station

The walls of Hewitt’s office were lined with framed photos. Years ago, when Peyton had first arrived at Garrett Station—coming home after her mandatory years working the southern border—the frames held photos of Hewitt’s wife. Now the wife was gone and so were the pictures. Instead, the frames held photos of Hewitt fly-fishing, his new passion.

Bill Hillsdale pulled the tab on a can of Diet Pepsi. In a suit, Hillsdale looked like an accountant, but now rocking dad jeans and a faded Washington Nationals T-shirt, he looked more relaxed, like a guy ready to take his kid to an amusement park.

Except he didn’t look amused.

He glanced at his watch. “I was supposed to be landing at Dulles right now. My youngest daughter has a hockey practice tomorrow morning.”

Peyton nodded. “I had plans too. Supposed to be eating meatloaf.”

“Look,” Hewitt said, “none of us like eighteen-hour days, but it is what it is.” He pointed at Peyton as if remembering something. “You have child care?”

She nodded. “Tommy’s spending the night with Stone. Thanks for asking. So what happened?” She took out her iPad and stylus.

Hewitt said, “Bobby Gaudreau called the desk—Jimenez caught the call—and Bobby said he needed to speak to me immediately. Jimenez said he’d leave the message but wasn’t giving my home number. So, like the self-centered jerk he is, Bobby said that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to talk tonight.”

Peyton, writing on the iPad, looked up. “Miguel got off the phone and called you?”

Hewitt nodded.

“Why the rush?” she asked.

“I know the answer to that,” Hillsdale said. “It’s because Susan Perry at DHHS took Aleksei.”

Peyton leaned back and blew out a long breath. “I really hate using kids this way.”

“Me, too, but I didn’t see any other way,” Hillsdale said.

She knew it was true. In the criminal justice system, situations often dictate what is deemed “ethical” behavior.

“So the story, according to Dariya Vann,” Hewitt said, “is that he doesn’t know who brought Aleksei here.”

“He doesn’t know the man who brought his child from one continent to another?” Peyton leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Has no idea who that might be?”

“You’ve talked to him tonight already?” Hillsdale said.

Hewitt nodded. “He came in here with Bobby Gaudreau, wrote his statement, and I took it. Didn’t answer questions. I let him go, knowing you”—he motioned to Hillsdale with his chin—“would want a crack at him.”

“He says he paid a stranger to bring Aleksei here?” Peyton said.

“Yeah. That’s not unheard of.”

“Giving someone money at the edge of the Rio Grande and having them take your kid to the other side, where a family member will meet them an hour later, is one thing. This trip would’ve taken nearly twenty days by ship. There’s no way I’d leave my son with someone I didn’t trust for the better part of a month.”

Hillsdale nodded. “I’ll need to see the statement. And I’ll want to interview him.”

“I’d like to be in on that too,” Peyton said. “Do you buy it, Mike?”

Hewitt shook his head. “Too convenient. Solves too many problems.”

“Where’s Aleksei?” she asked.

“With Maude O’Reilly.”

Peyton smiled. “Well, we know he’s being spoiled. I didn’t know she took in foster children.”

“I don’t know her,” Hewitt said. “Only heard about her. Susan Perry likes her a lot, though.”

“She was my fourth-grade teacher. She made each student a Valentine’s Day card each year, used to bring in warm brownies. Last time I saw her, she was volunteering at the nursing home.”

“I guess it was quite a scene when they took the boy from the Donovan home.”

“I bet it was,” she said. “He’s been waiting to see his father. Now his father comes to him, and DHHS separates them again.”

“Susan says Bohana was hysterical, threatened to sue everyone from DHHS, to the Border Patrol, to the president.”

“Take a number,” Hillsdale said.

“I think I’ll stir the pot a little,” Peyton said and stood. “I’d like to go see Aleksei and maybe Bohana and Dariya in the morning. That okay with you, boss?”

“Just don’t push too much,” Hewitt said.

“Why do you say that?”

Hewitt moved a pile of papers from one side of his desk to the other. “I heard a story when I went to the gun range this afternoon.”

“What did you hear?”

“That you had an—um, how to put this?—altercation of sorts there.”

She cursed under her breath. “I was being harassed and defended myself.”

“I heard you about kicked a guy’s nuts to the back of his throat.”

“Jesus,” Hillsdale said, his hand instinctively going to his groin.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Peyton said. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.” She shrugged. “So I defended myself.” She stood and started toward the door.

“I want to ride along in the morning,” Hillsdale said. “I still think Dariya Vann and his wife are planning to move here. I don’t trust the medical documents.”

11:55 p.m., Razdory, Russia

The house was dark, and Marfa sat in the leather chair in the great room, staring at the dancing flames. In the mouth of the fireplace they leaped four feet high, their shadows spanning half the room’s length. She held a glass of brandy and sipped it, contemplating the future.

“Is everything alright?”

Startled, she turned to see Nicolay. “Yes,” she said. “Everything is fine.”

“I hope the children were sufficiently washed after lunch today,” he said sarcastically.

She looked at him, saw the anger in his eyes. Also saw the shame —he was considered more than common household help; he was part of the family. But she hadn’t treated him that way.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Why are you still up?”

He sat down on the hearth across from her. “I heard something.” He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and withdrew a 9mm and laid it on the hearth next to him.

“You’re still protecting my father.”

“Always.”

“We’re safe here,” she said. “I arranged for the security system myself.”

“I don’t trust security systems.”

“You should trust mine. I screened several companies myself.”

“You’re always trying to prove yourself,” he said.

“I always have to.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, “but I’ll provide your father with security until the end.”

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Why would you question it? I’ll never let anything happen to him.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That kind of loyalty is unique.” She held the dark glass up and looked at the fire through the brandy. The liquid turned orange when the flames danced behind it.

“I walked you to school for years.”

“I remember. That was a long time ago.” She smiled. “You didn’t have gray hair then.”

“If I had no gray hair then it was a very long time ago. Rodia asked if I was Father Christmas the other day.”

She chuckled. “He means no harm.”

“I know. You were the same way.”

She shook her head.

“No?”

“No,” she said, then stood and tossed another log on the fire.

“What makes you say that, Marfa?”

“I was raised differently. I was alone.”

“You had Dimitri.”

“No, Father had Dimitri.”

“And you spent a lot of time with your mother.”

“She died when I was eight. Then I was alone.”

“Your father has given you a lot.”

She set the brandy on the hearth and looked at him. He was a huge man. She could see why Rodia asked if he was Father Christmas. “He has. Everything. I know. But that’s different.”

“I don’t follow,” he said.

“Possessions and love and respect are different things.”

“He’s been a good father, Marfa.”

“Yes.” She smiled and patted his hand. “And now I’m giving something back.”

“What’s that?”

She shook her head and smiled. “A surprise.”

He touched his white beard, thinking. “It has something to do with the space on the wall, doesn’t it?”

“Has he told you?”

“No. But I heard you talking about the accounts today.”

She didn’t say anything. The fewer people who knew she’d have access to her father’s accounts, the better.

“Can I ask what you’re buying him?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“You won’t say?”

She shook her head.

“But it’s why you’re going to the US.”

“Father told you that?”

“He said I’d be responsible for the children for a few days.”

“It will be a short trip.”

Her father had made sure the 1860s home had not been changed, save for the updated kitchen and added security. And now in the silence of the night, the house creaked, and somewhere a furnace rumbled to life.

“What will you do when he’s gone?” Nicolay asked. “Really? I mean seriously.”

“When he’s gone?” she said.

He nodded.

Then she laughed. “I’m not thinking about that. That’s too far off. I like to think short-term.”

“But you know he’s dying shortly.”

She nodded. “And I can think of some things to do when he’s gone, as sad as that day will be.” She leaned forward and kissed Nicolay’s bearded cheek. “I can think of a few things,” she repeated and walked out of the room, leaving the brandy glass where it was, knowing Nicolay would take care of it.

10:45 p.m., 7 Drummond Lane

Steven still wasn’t getting it, Bohana thought. He never got it.

It was late Monday night. Dariya was in the room that had been Aleksei’s, and Michael was in bed. He’d arrived home exhausted and stressed, his mother thought. The last time she’d seen him like that was as a freshman when he failed his Algebra I final. Whatever was bothering him, he didn’t want to talk about it.

Steven stood and got a bottle of Geary’s Pale Ale from the stainless-steel Sub-Zero fridge. Pots and pans hung above the granite island.

“What do you want me to do? He’s your brother, Bohana, not mine.”

“What do I want you to do? How about helping me here? Call an immigration lawyer, use a contact.”

“Immigration lawyer? He’s not staying, is he?”

“Eventually, of course, he’d like to move somewhere, once Liliya is well enough to travel.”

“Look”—he sat down across from her again—“I know you love your brother, but what can I do? Neither of us knew he was sending Aleksei here. We couldn’t plan for that. We have our own lives, right?”

“I want to help my brother. I always have. And I will continue helping.”

“What does that mean, continue helping?”

She shrugged. And when their eyes met, she looked away.

“Bohana, did you know Aleksei was coming here?”

“Dariya needed help, Steven. Lord knows we’ve helped your brother enough—for twenty-five years. He quits school, moves home, and you let him live with us. He loses jobs, and you—we—take him in.”

“Not jobs. And he didn’t lose his job. He quit. I think he was burned out. And I didn’t take him in. He works for me.”

“We renovated the entire attic space for him! Converted it to an apartment for him.”

“He contributed some.”

“He put in central air,” she said. “A ridiculous expense for an efficiency apartment. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Steven shrugged. “It’s what he wanted.”

“Well, if I want to help my brother, I have that right. Yes, I knew Aleksei was coming. I didn’t tell you in order to protect you.”

“So you know this is serious? We’re talking immigration laws, human trafficking.”

“You’re getting carried away. I didn’t help get him here.”

“This is serious,” Steven repeated. “You need to know that. The agents are trying to figure out who brought him here. Do you know the answer to that?”

“What I know, Steven,” she said and stood, “is this is family.”

And she turned and left him at the kitchen table, twirling his beer bottle before him.

11:15 p.m., Chandler Pond

Late Monday night, following her meeting, Peyton parked her Jeep Wrangler next to Stone’s Ford pickup and got out in his snow-packed driveway. The night sky was clear, the stars like ice chips against the black backdrop.

Stone met her at the door, his finger to his lips.

She nodded. “He’s asleep?”

He held the door for her. “Yeah.” He spoke in a whisper. “We ate without you, watched a little ESPN, then I had him read. I have a collection of Hemingway’s stories. I actually think he liked the one he read. It was about fishing.”

“You got him to read?”

“He had some trouble.”

“He’s dyslexic. It doesn’t come easily.”

They were inside now, and he took her coat. “He’s asleep in my bed. I figured you’d go home, and I’d take the foldout in the loft and drop him at school in the morning for you.”

“Is he okay with that?”

“Yeah. He suggested it. I was surprised.”

“Well, I can stay for a little while,” she said.

He nodded and hung her coat on the pine rack near the door. A large salmon hung next to the rack. She knew Stone had caught it in Madawaska the summer before.

She went to the sofa on which Tommy had sat next to Stone playing XBox earlier. Stone sat beside her.

“I like talking to you at the end of the day,” he said.

She smiled. “I’d rather be by myself.”

“Ouch. What a romantic,” he said.

She leaned forward and kissed his mouth. “Just kidding. I can be romantic.”

“I know. Believe me.” He smiled, stood, and got two water bottles from the fridge. “What happened tonight?” he asked.

She told him about Dariya Vann changing his story. “At breakfast,” she said, “Dariya Vann knew who brought his son to the US. By dinner, he didn’t seem to know it anymore.”

“Think he was confused this morning?”

“I don’t think the same father who comes to check on his son—after the boy has been in the US only a week—would put him on a boat with someone he doesn’t know. No way.”

“Maybe there was a middle man handling the transaction,” Stone said.

“That’s possible. I’ll ask him. I think what I’ll find is that Dariya Vann wants to play ignorant on all charges.”

“If that’s the case, why not say the boy came here on his own?”

“That would have been the smart play. But that would have been hard to believe. Aleksei is only thirteen, and he wouldn’t be as sympathetic that way.”

“And it would’ve been much harder to get political asylum without the father to tell everyone how much danger there is back home,” Stone said.

“Yes.”

“So Dariya has to say he sent his son here. But he doesn’t want to say with whom? Why not? Why not just give up the coyote?”

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Peyton said. “What does Dariya gain by protecting the coyote?”

“Something,” Stone said.

She looked at him. “I’m missing it. But, yes, there has to be something to be gained by not giving him up. Aleksei told me the coyote threatened his family. Maybe Dariya heard that same threat.”

“But if you take the coyote off the street,” Stone said, “the threat goes away. So why not tell you?”

“Maybe he thinks we won’t be able to find the guy,” she said.

Stone leaned back and stretched his legs before him. He was still wearing jeans and a gray New England Patriots sweatshirt. “Look for the money trail,” he said.

“Whoever brought Aleksei here was paid by Dariya, so there has to be a money trail.”

“Has to be,” he agreed. “And, by the way, I had the shack fingerprinted. We got a few, but they didn’t match anyone in the system.”

“DEA has no match for anything you lifted?”

He shook his head. “Surprising, I know. The setup in there looks like someone knew what they were doing.”

“They know what they’re doing well enough not to get caught, apparently,” Peyton said.