nine
Tuesday, March 11, 6:35 a.m., 12 Higgins Drive
As soon as she was sure Stone had finished his first cup of coffee, she texted: Everything ok?
He replied, AOK. Leaving for Tim Hortons, then dropping T at school. Tommy says Relax Mom.
She had to smile.
An hour later, she was back at Garrett Station, standing outside with Bill Hillsdale as they gassed up and scraped ice from the windshield of a Chevy Yukon service vehicle. It hadn’t snowed overnight, but the temperature had dipped to eight, so the windshield was frosted.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Hillsdale said. “I called a realtor to ask about buying a cabin.”
“I’ve got a good real-estate agent for you,” Peyton said, “Kathy St. Pierre.”
“That’s the name I was given.”
“She represents three-quarters of the houses for sale. Looking for a summer place?”
“It’s preliminary. I’d have to sell my wife and daughters on it first.”
“How old are your girls?” Peyton asked Bill Hillsdale.
“Lila’s twenty. She’s at URI, majoring in Physical Therapy. Kylie’s nineteen. She’s at George Washington, majoring in Political Science, which is a nice way to say she hasn’t got a clue what she wants to do. And Margot’s a junior in high school. She’s a hockey and lacrosse player. A few colleges have contacted her.”
Peyton smiled as she scraped the windshield. “I can tell how proud you are. I can hear it in your voice.”
Hillsdale was pumping the gas. “You haven’t seen my tuition bills. That’s poverty you hear in my voice.”
“Well, maybe today will count as overtime.”
“What’s overtime? Never heard of it.”
“Me either,” she said. “Hey, I’ve arranged for a U-Maine professor of Russian to come with us. He’s worked as a translator for us before.”
“Sounds good.”
The gas pump clicked, and he replaced the cap. “You’re right,” Hillsdale said. “I’m very proud of my girls. So is my ex, Lydia. I worked long hours for a long time and missed too many school events and games. It’s why Lydia left. She was always there, alone. She’s been there for everything.”
Peyton lifted a wiper and let it snap against the windshield. Ice scattered. “It’s not easy to make all the events,” she said. “I know. I’ve missed a bunch myself. I don’t like it.”
“You’re divorced, too, right?”
She nodded.
“Joint custody?”
“Technically. I moved back here, in part, to let Tommy grow up near his father. But my ex rarely shows interest in him.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does. Tommy’s resilient, though.”
Hillsdale pulled the passenger’s-side door open. “His father will wake up one day and realize what he missed out on.”
“It’ll be too late,” she said and climbed behind the wheel. “This stuff ever bother you?” Peyton slid the truck into drive, and they crossed the lot and turned onto Route 1A.
“What’s that? Turning people away?”
She nodded.
“A little. My great-grandfather was an immigrant. I get it. I understand why they do it. And I know that if my great-grandfather had been turned away, I wouldn’t be here. This is like our conversation the day this all started.”
“Sort of,” she said, “except this one’s civilized.”
“I was an asshole. Sorry.”
“I was no better,” she said. “I’m sorry, too. And I feel the same way. My family—which doesn’t even go back as far as yours—wouldn’t be here if not for my grandfather coming from Quebec during the 1920s to work in the textile mills.”
They drove in silence for a while.
“Have you looked into Dariya Vann’s finances?” she asked. “Seen if he paid anyone to take Aleksei here?”
“A money trail?”
She nodded.
“Nothing stands out,” he said. “We have someone looking at that, but nothing’s showing up so far.”
She thought about that and continued driving.
“Want to stop for coffee?” she asked.
“I’m fine, but stop if you want one.”
“No,” she said. “At the end of the day,” she went on, “it comes down to me having a job to do. I don’t create the laws. And given the Taliban and ISIS and Boko Haram, I’m vigilant and diligent in my work.”
“That’s the first priority now, isn’t it?”
“Terrorism? Oh, no question. Last line of defense and all that. We hear it over and over. Contraband is the focus. And the threat of terrorism raises the stakes.”
“This was the border where nine-eleven terrorists entered, wasn’t it?”
Peyton had been in El Paso when it happened, but the institutional failings hadn’t been lost on her. “That’s right,” she said.
She pulled the Yukon into the Donovan driveway. There was a green Honda Civic parked at the curb. The bearded professor in it was waiting for them.
“No phone call asking if we can stop by?” Hillsdale said.
“No. Not this time,” she said.
“This really isn’t a good time,” Bohana said, holding the door open all of four inches.
Hillsdale stood behind Peyton, their breaths riding the morning air like tiny clouds. Mark Rogers stood to Hillsdale’s right. He looked like a raven-haired rabbi, except that he nearly had to bend to enter a room. The Russian professor had played basketball at the University of Pennsylvania before earning a Ph.D.
Peyton said, “We’re going to need to talk to Dariya, Bohana, either here or at the station.”
“He gave your boss what he wanted to know.”
“I know he met with Patrol Agent in Charge Mike Hewitt, but we have a few additional questions.”
“My attorney can’t be here.”
“We can wait for him,” Peyton said.
“He’s in court all morning.”
“Would you rather we meet later in the day?”
Bohana stood looking at her, the wheels turning. “What are you going to ask?”
“Just trying to clarify some details,” Peyton said. “We can meet at the station later.”
“Dariya is only here a couple weeks.”
“We need some questions answered.”
“This really is quite an indignity.”
“I don’t think so,” Peyton said. “It would be an indignity if I sent a couple state troopers to pick your brother up and bring him in. Actually, I’m trying to spare you and him any and all indignities. I came to you.”
“How long will this take? My brother is jet-lagged.”
“Not long,” Peyton said.
Bohana sat the unwanted guests at the kitchen table and went to get Dariya.
“Quite a kitchen,” Hillsdale whispered. “These people are not government employees.”
“Not hardly,” Peyton said.
“Not a university assistant professor either,” Rogers said. He wore a tweed jacket and carried a small notepad and pen.
“Thanks for taking the lead outside,” Hillsdale said. “I knew you know her. I’ll ask Dariya some questions.”
“Fine.” Peyton pulled out her iPhone.
“Recording this?”
“Planning to.”
“Might spook him.”
She shrugged and left the phone on the table.
Her iPhone told her it was 8:10 a.m. She had no idea what time that was in Donetsk, Ukraine, but either it was very late there or Dariya wasn’t a morning person. Or both. He entered the kitchen, clearly having been awakened from a dead sleep—still in flannel pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, hair disheveled (a cowlick atop his head), and bloodshot eyes resembling a guy who’d come from a bar, not a bed.
“What you want?” he said. “You bring Aleksei back?”
He pronounced Aleksei differently than anyone she’d heard say the name previously. He seemed to say the name more fluidly, more rapidly—Alek-SAY. Even Bohana, after so many years living in the US, pronounced it more stiffly and Americanized: Alec-SIGH.
“Mr. Vann,” Hillsdale said, “you realize that neither Agent Cote nor I make the laws, but, like you, we must follow them.”
“You’re using my son for getting what you want.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “this is Mark Rogers. He’s a Russian professor at the University of Maine at Reeds. I asked him to join us in case you have any translation needs.”
“I will not,” Dariya said.
“Just want to be sure,” Peyton said.
“I lived in Boston for a year.”
That surprised Peyton. Dariya Vann’s English wasn’t even as strong as his son’s.
“Okay. I’m going to record this conversation so there is no confusion about what was said later on.” She reached toward her cell phone as if he didn’t have the right to stop her, and the red light started blinking. “We need you to speak openly and honestly about your son’s entry into the United States.”
“I bring Aleksei here,” he said.
“You brought Aleksei here yourself ?” Peyton said.
He nodded.
“Dariya,” Hillsdale said, “this is the third version of the story.”
“It was me. I bring him here.”
“Okay,” Peyton said, “then tell us about the journey, from start to finish.”
“Would you like coffee?” Bohana asked, suddenly amiable. The room smelled of cinnamon. She’d baked something recently. Coffee cake before school? Peyton had arranged for her own son to sleep away from home so she could work last night. Hadn’t even seen Tommy off to school today. And this Martha-Stewart homemaker was up early to prepare coffee cake?
Hillsdale accepted the offer; Peyton did not.
“My wife get hurt. Very bad.”
Dariya looked at his hands. Peyton watched him. He had the face—weathered, wrinkled, eyes tired and sagging—of a man who worked outdoors, a laborer’s face; but his hands were thick with manicured nails, the hands of someone who made his living behind a desk. Dariya was twirling his wedding band.
“Putin, you know, taking over. Donetsk a mess. No airport.”
Peyton had read about the Donetsk airport, about how fighting between pro-Russian separatists and the Ukraine forces had left it in ruins.
“Liliya need me there. I care for her.”
“What are her injuries?”
“Broken bones and stomach.”
“What happened to her stomach?” Peyton said.
Dariya thought about that for a moment. “Shrapnel,” he said. “Long operation to remove.”
Peyton was surprised he came up with the word; maybe his English was better than she thought.
Hillsdale nodded. “So you’ll return in a few days?” He knew as much, Peyton assumed, since he’d signed off on the man’s stay here.
“Yes, I go back. Doctor says she needs more surgery. But she must get stronger first.”
Hillsdale nodded reassuringly. “Why did you send Aleksei here?”
“People dying every day. Boys his age fighting pro-Russians.”
“And you have stayed behind to fight?”
“Not like that. I cover the war.”
“As a reporter?”
“Yes, I tell the truth.”
“Dangerous?”
He nodded.
“When did you decide Aleksei needed to come here?” Peyton said.
“Long time ago.”
“Please tell us about the trip,” Peyton said for what felt like the umpteenth time.
“I brought him.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You told Mike Hewitt that you paid someone to bring Aleksei.”
“I did myself.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you tell Mike something different?”
“To”—he searched for the word, smiled when he found it—“simplify things. I thought Aleksei would be take back to Bohana.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “Aleksei led me to believe that you and your wife might be in grave danger if he told me who brought him here. Then you told a similar version of the story but claimed you didn’t know who brought your son here. Now you’re taking responsibility for his illegal entry into the US.”
Dariya said nothing.
“That’s three versions of the story,” Hillsdale said.
“And Alien Smuggling is a felony punishable by ten years in federal prison.”
“You can’t arrest my brother.” Bohana was on her feet.
“Your brother seems to be highly proficient in getting people here,” Hillsdale said. “I’d like to know this isn’t—or won’t become—a habit.”
Dariya shook his head.
Peyton said, “Can you describe the trip?”
“Very long.”
“Mr. Vann,” Hillsdale said, “we need details.”
Bohana got up from the table then and brought more coffee cake from the counter.
“We need to know the date you left, where you went, how much you paid, when you arrived, and who helped you,” Peyton said.
“No one helped.”
“Tell us how you did it.”
“Does that matter?” Bohana asked.
“Yes,” Hillsdale said.
Dariya ran a hand through his hair.
His sister reached over and touched his shoulder. “I know it’s hard. You were just being a good father. And these people are questioning what you’ve done.” Bohana stared at Peyton.
Peyton smiled warmly and sipped her coffee.
“So you put Aleksei in the back seat of your car and started the engine,” Hillsdale said. “Then what?”
“Drove to Hamburg.”
“It’s nearly thirty hours away,” Peyton said.
Dariya nodded.
“Did you do it in one shot? Stop somewhere for the night?”
“One shot.”
“Thirty hours?”
He nodded.
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Boat.”
“Tell us about the boat.”
Dariya shrugged. “Cargo ship. I slept the first two days.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said. “I’ve done a little research into this, as you can imagine. The trip from Hamburg to Halifax, on a cargo ship, usually takes longer than half a month.”
Aleksei nodded.
“Who took care of your wife while you were away?”
“Neighbor.”
“Were you in contact with your wife while you traveled?” Peyton said.
“No.”
“How long did the trip take?”
He shrugged. “Three weeks.”
“And you didn’t speak to your ill wife the whole time?”
“No.”
“How did you eat on the ship?” Hillsdale asked.
“With the crew.”
“And Aleksei?”
“Same.”
“What ship were you on?” Hillsdale said.
Dariya shrugged.
“Want me to ask for specifics?” Mark Rogers asked.
“Sure,” Hillsdale said.
“I know what you asked,” Dariya Vann said.
“Name of the ship?” Peyton said. “Captain’s name? Cargo company?”
Again, Dariya shrugged.
“You’re not going to tell us?” Peyton said.
“Hard to remember.”
“You’re telling me you won’t answer those questions?” Peyton said.
Bohana said, “That’s not what he told you. We should’ve waited for Bobby Gaudreau.”
Peyton moved on: “Where did you land?”
“Halifax. Then we drove—I rent car; I have the rental receipt—to New Brunswick border. And Aleksei walk to you.” Finished, he leaned back in his seat and looked from Peyton to Hillsdale.
“How much did you pay for the boat?” Hillsdale said.
“I don’t remember.”
“Who did you pay?”
“I don’t know the man’s name.”
“Mr. Vann,” Peyton said, “Aleksei was asked these same questions.”
Peyton saw something—not quite fear but certainly concern—cross his face.
“And he told us you paid someone to bring him here. That you didn’t make the journey.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
Dariya sat up straight in his chair then and looked Peyton in the eyes. “Excellent. He do what I tell him.”
“You told him to lie to us?”
He nodded, lifted a piece of coffee cake, and took a bite. “Good,” he said to his sister.
“Thank you,” Bohana said. She looked pale.
“What purpose would your son’s lying serve?” Hillsdale asked.
“Don’t like people to know my—” He paused to think, shook his head, and said something to his sister in Russian.
“Business,” Rogers translated.
Dariya turned and stared at Rogers as if he’d just remembered Rogers was in the room.
“And you flew back?” Peyton said.
“My wife is ill. Had to get back.”
“Do you know what your son told me about the trip?” Peyton said. “And I tell you because, if none of this is true and you really paid someone else to bring him here, whoever that person is should be held accountable. Aleksei said he was locked below the deck of the ship where he got seasick and ate alone. That’s a long three weeks, Mr. Vann. I’d even call it child abuse.”
Dariya turned to look at Bohana. She sat stoically. Then he spoke rapidly in Russian.
Rogers said, “He wants her to tell him if that’s true.”
Dariya heard Rogers and looked at Hillsdale then at Peyton.
“He’s a good boy,” Dariya said. “He did what I tell him.”
“You told him to say that?” Peyton asked. “To make all of that up?”
Before he could answer, there was a knock at the back door, which swung open before anyone stood.
The man took one step into the kitchen and paused.
“Bohana, is this a bad time?” he asked.
Bohana shrugged, eyes falling to the floor, hands restless in her lap.
Peyton recognized the man immediately. She’d seen him with Steven Donovan at the gun range. He was tall and lean with thinning sandy-blond hair and wore navy blue work clothes. Beneath the unzipped Carhartt jacket, Ted was stitched into one breast pocket, Donovan Ford into the other.
He looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on Dariya. Dariya looked at him, then at Peyton and Hillsdale. His sister saw him staring at the agents.
“Yes, Teddy, this might be a bad time,” she said. “But help yourself to the coffee.”
Peyton and Hillsdale watched the man—waiting to continue the interview—as he not only filled his travel mug but opened the refrigerator and added cream. Peyton looked at Hillsdale, who offered a tiny head shake. She shifted, adjusting the .40 on her service belt that was digging into her side. The eight-pound Kevlar vest was—after all these years—a routine hassle. But the gun digging into her side was an indignity she refused to tolerate. Coffee made, Ted moved to the pantry and took out a bag of bagels, cut one, and popped it into the toaster.
“Friendly neighbors,” Hillsdale said. “I wish my neighbors fed me breakfast.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bohana said. “I should’ve introduced him. This is my brother-in-law. He lives in the upstairs apartment.”
The man failed to acknowledge the statement. When the toaster popped, he took his bagel, wrapped it in a paper napkin, and started for the door.
“You all going to be home tonight?” he asked Bohana.
She shrugged. “As far as I know.” She looked at Peyton. “We’re having Aleksei over for dinner, so he can spend time with his father.” She turned to Hillsdale. “That okay with you, sir?”
“Fine,” Hillsdale said.
“I’ll be by,” Ted said and left.
When the door closed behind him, Peyton said, “So that we’re all clear on this, Mr. Vann, you told your son to lie to agents about being mistreated on the ship?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see the receipt for the rental car you used to get from Halifax to Youngsville, New Brunswick, Canada.”
He stood and left the room for several minutes before returning with the receipt.
Hillsdale took it from him, examined it, and put it in his pocket.
“Why didn’t you fly here?” Peyton asked.
“Passports,” Dariya said cryptically.
“Meaning you don’t have them?”
“Aleksei do not.”
“Why not get one?” Peyton said. “Or even falsify one for him?”
“Not that easy,” Dariya said. “Besides, no time.”
“I’m trying to understand how this was time-sensitive,” Peyton said.
“After the Buk hit my brother’s house, he knew he had to leave.”
Peyton looked from Bohana to Dariya. The diminutive man was staring at the crumbs left in his plate.
“So it didn’t take you long to line up the ship, the car, and even map the route,” Peyton said to Dariya.
“What?” Bohana said.
Peyton saw Dariya scowl at his sister.
“You see what I’m saying, Mr. Vann. Don’t you?”
“No. I do not.”
“I think you do. From the time you decided to bring your son to the US, it seems like the logistical aspects of the trip took shape very quickly. That doesn’t seem possible.”
Dariya looked at his sister.
“May I assist?” Rogers said.
“I don’t need help,” Dariya insisted. Then to Peyton, “You think all of this was planned?”
“Had to be, Mr. Vann. There are simply way too many moving parts.”
“No.”
“No, I guess there is one scenario that would work the way you’ve explained it.”
Dariya leaned back in his seat and waited.
“You hired someone who knew how to do this and had done it before. Or you spent several weeks, probably months, getting the logistics ironed out before you left.”
“You call me a liar?”
It was her turn to not answer.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Peyton,” Bohana said.
“That’s fine.” She stood.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Bohana said and did. When she held the door, she said, “I’ve never seen this side of you before, Peyton.”
“And what side is that?”
Bohana started to speak, then stopped. Finally she said, “You can be a real bitch.”
“That’s on my business cards,” Peyton said. “Right beneath my name.”
5 p.m., Interstate 95
Rodia. Anna.
Thoughts of them wouldn’t let her go. The flight had been long, and the six- and three-year-olds dominated her mind. Marfa tried to focus on what was to be done. But thoughts and memories of her children returned as if part of an unwanted video loop.
Had her father been right? As a woman, was she instinctively maternal? And, if so, would that hold her back? She’d spent years denying her father’s theory. Her father had no problem shedding parental duties when business called. “Go play,” he’d say. “Daddy’s little girl, you go play.” Then, years later, “This is something Dimitri and I must discuss. Why don’t you go shopping?”
Shopping. The irony struck her for the first time. She was shopping now, alright. She’d turned off the Nokia phone she’d had in Russia (always a Nokia in Russia) and had purchased an iPhone (when in Rome …). Driving seventy, classical music playing, she laughed. She wished she could see her father’s face when he realized the enormity of it all. When he realized that, yes, she could have simply waited for him to die—just a few months, maybe a year. She wanted to see his expression upon realizing not only was she taking it all sooner, but also why she was doing it: only to spite him. And, if that wasn’t enough, what she was doing now—driving to northern Maine to get (and, unbeknownst to him, keep) the gift he treasured above all else—would be the final insult.
The rented Buick Enclave shot north into the midmorning sunlight, had just crossed into Maine, when her iPhone chirped.
She answered it. The voice was familiar.
“It’s good to hear you,” the voice said. “I’ve missed you.”
She spoke in Russian, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” she lied.
“And our kids?” he said.
“They’re home. That will come later. I have to get something first.”
“The money?”
“No, not the money,” she said. “Something else.”
“Well, here’s the address for your GPS. I’ll be waiting.”
Mozart played on the radio. She was glad Pyotr was there already. That meant the house was set. She passed the service plaza in Wells, Maine, not needing gas yet.
Garrett, Maine, she thought, and looked at the GPS. It would take her five more hours.
Where the hell was she going?
And how could it have stayed hidden there for a quarter century?
5:15 p.m., Route 1A, Garrett
Tommy used to say it “smelled like spring” on days like these. It was forty degrees, and Peyton recognized that the early-evening air seemed somehow different after such a long winter. A precursor of what was soon to come, she hoped.
Her thoughts had drifted to Tommy because she planned to miss dinner with him. Again.
Tommy was eating with Lois, who was making shepherd’s pie (delicious, but with far too much salt) and crepes for dessert. Given the menu and Tommy’s love for his grandmother’s French-Canadian cooking, Peyton almost felt no guilt about missing the evening meal with her son.
Almost.
But she did feel guilty. Had seen Tommy little in the past twenty-
four hours. Worse, now, driving back to the Donovan home, she couldn’t say she was providing for him because she knew Mike Hewitt would never okay overtime for a fishing expedition. And that’s what this was: another round of interviews with Dariya Vann—just short, she knew, of harassment—which explained her street clothes and the use of her own vehicle. Off duty, just dropping by, she’d say.
She hit her blinker and slowed to turn onto the Donovans’ street. The truck in front of her turned first, and in the flash of his rearview mirror, she spotted Ted Donovan.
She slowed, leaving space between her Wrangler and Ted’s battered Ford pickup. He pulled into the driveway but stopped short, brakes yelping. Peyton rolled past, catching a glimpse of what led to the sudden stop: Dariya Vann, wearing only a T-shirt and pants in the evening’s crisp air, shoes untied, stood in the middle of the driveway, holding a garbage bag.
She pulled to the curb at the end of a row of vehicles, five cars away from the two men. This far north, the sun set early during winter months, and dusk was upon them.
Ted climbed out of the truck, approaching Dariya.
Dariya turned to look at the house. Leaned to see in the kitchen window. Nothing. Then he turned back to Ted, whose expression was all business.
Peyton sensed the moment and leaned to roll down the passenger’s window.
“I was wondering when we’d get a few moments alone,” Ted said extending his hand. “The bank called. Thanks for separating the accounts.”
Dariya didn’t shake hands. “There were always supposed to be two accounts.”
“You don’t trust me?” Ted said.
“It’s been a long time,” Dariya said.
Ted nodded. “And people change.”
“Like you?” He pointed at Ted. “My son was seasick.”
Ted tilted his head. “What?”
“Aleksei was seasick. And you do nothing. He tell me that.”
“That’s not true, Dariya. You’re exaggerating.”
“No. She say same this morning.”
“Who? The Border Patrol woman? You’ve always exaggerated, you know that? You were like this twenty-five years ago. Remember? Your brilliant goddamned idea? Remember that? Except you left the fucking country. And I got stuck with the merchandise.”
Instinctively, she reached for her iPhone to record the conversation. But fifty feet away, the recording would be spotty at best—and maybe even impermissible in court. She slid the phone back into her pocket and leaned closer to hear, peering out the passenger-side window.
Dariya stepped back, shaking his head, disbelieving. “Got stuck with it? You? You loved it.” His face was red, his finger pointing, shaking inches from Ted’s chest. He struggled to find the words “This was all your idea. You the expert.”
“Yes,” Ted said, “I am. Even more so now. And I’m saying I’m the one who has done the hard work here. So much work that I should get two-thirds.”
“Two-thirds?”
“Yes, twenty.”
Dariya took a step back, obviously confused. He started to speak but closed his mouth.
“What is it?” Ted said. “Think about it.”
The sun was setting rapidly now, but she saw Dariya’s face color. “You fucking think—” he blurted.
“Keep your voice down.”
“I’m taking it back. My son here. Think all of that easy? Is that what you think?”
“You speak the language, Dariya. But I have the contacts. I found the buyer.”
“And I met with her. Negotiated price.”
“And in a few days,” Ted said, “it will be off our hands for good. But let’s be clear, I located her, Dariya. I reached out to you, sent you to her. I gave you the details, told you what it was worth, estimated what we could get.”
Peyton watched as they stood looking at each other, neither man speaking for what seemed like minutes.
“Listen,” Ted said, “I gave up everything. We both know that. You’ve had a network TV job. Look at me.” Ted waved a hand before him, inviting Dariya to look at his shirt front: the same outfit Peyton had seen him in that morning, but now the shirt was covered in motor oil. “This is my journalism career,” Ted said. “Oil stains and grime.”
“That not my—”
“Fault? Is that what you’re going to say?”
Dariya nodded.
“I know it’s not your fault. I know that. But there was nowhere to move here. I turned down an offer in a major city. And then I quit. Where could I go? I couldn’t take it with me. And I’ve been responsible for keeping it all these years. Especially after your fiasco.”
“The boat overturn.”
“And two hundred million dollars are on the bottom of the ocean,” Ted said. “Jesus Christ, what a waste. Look, I’ve cared for mine.”
“The boat overturn. I almost died.”
“Well, I took care of mine. And it’s come at a price. I even had to put in central air.” He stopped. “I can see you don’t give a shit. At least I appreciate it. More, I’m sure, than the buyer.”
Dariya smiled then and shook his head. “No. Not more than him. His daughter tell me he special. Waited his life to get it. Now he’s dying.”
“She’s granting his last wish?” Ted thought about that. “Makes sense.” He nodded, thinking. “So that’s why she’s willing to buy. She and her old man would know they can never sell it. I wondered about that. It’s because they don’t want to sell it.”
“Is ready to move?”
“To be moved?” Ted said.
Dariya nodded.
“Almost,” Ted said. “But I want twenty, Dariya. I’ve earned two-thirds.”
“My son, my trip.”
“We had to use your son. He’ll understand. Someday. That’s not a big deal. And, Christ, if you don’t want him to know, he never has to find out.”
“Me. I know. You aren’t a father.”
“So?”
“So I use my son for this. Send him here.”
“For a better life.”
“That only part of it. I know what I done. I used my son.”
“You can argue with your conscience all you want. I want two-
thirds, Dariya. It’s my contact.”
“Ted”—Dariya’s voice was soft in the night, but even in that one word Peyton heard something reminding her of Aleksei’s statement about being knocked down (I got up. I will always get up.)—“if you take twenty, I kill you.”
Ted heard it too. “Whoa.” His hands went up defensively. “Slow down, Dariya. This isn’t life or death here.”
“Ted, my wife need a lot of”—he searched for the word—“treat.”
“Treatment?”
“Yes. I get my money, Ted.”
Ted looked at him, nodded once. Then he moved to the wooden stairs leading to the third-floor apartment. Dariya walked to the line of trash cans. Peyton was low in her Jeep. When she heard the lids clatter and footsteps receding, she looked up.
Dariya re-entered the house. But as he did so, someone—wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a dark jacket with a yellow emblem on the collar—rounded the side of the garage.
The person stood in the driveway, head down, thinking about what had been said. After several moments, whoever it was walked to the front door.