CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was after nine o’clock at night when Kaitlyn borrowed Zoë’s phone and donned a jacket. Out on the front deck, she slid a chair over where she could see the lights of New Canterbury sparkling like a nest of fireflies. Draping Mrs. VanDyke’s quilt over her legs, she leaned back and found herself yawning.
She hadn’t slept well last night, visions of the scrapyard’s shadows and silhouettes in the glare of harsh lights intruding as she would start to drop off. Before she’d gone to bed, Aunt Zoë had offered her a Benadryl, but she’d left it on her nightstand. What if she ended up like Stella and all her pills? But she’d searched Benadryl, and everything said it wasn’t addicting. Maybe she’d take one tonight, depending.
It was so quiet out here. Only the occasional sigh of a distant car. After days of clouds, the sky was clear. No moon, just stars that were so much brighter than back in Dayton where streetlamps burned from dusk to dawn and trucks roared by on the highway at all hours. This sky was magical. Staring up, she wondered what the stars were all about. Why were there stars instead of just nothing? Why was there anything at all? It was not a frightening thought. Just mysterious. She hadn’t been to church since before her father died. As a sense of wonder blossomed, she resolved never to forget this moment. She keyed in Aishia’s number on the cold glass of the screen.
“Who is this?” answered Aishia.
“Hi, it’s me. This is Zoë’s phone. I wish you were here. I’m out on the deck and the stars are amazing.”
“Isn’t it cold?”
“I’m under a quilt.”
“I like to be outside when it’s snowing and I’m dressed for it,” Aishia said. “But I don’t like the wind so much. Especially when you’re wearing a dress. In college, I’m only going to wear dresses when I go on dates with handsome millionaires.”
“Why don’t you just become a banker or something?”
“Too boring. So, tell me! What did your uncle say? You don’t sound sad, so it must be good news. I’m so excited.”
“I didn’t ask him yet.”
“Kaitlyn! You have to. Don’t put it off.”
“He got home late again tonight. He looked so tired—I felt sorry for him. He went right to bed after supper.”
“Are you sure they really fired him? I’ve never heard of a doctor getting fired.”
“I know. But as soon as he comes home tomorrow, I’m going to get him and Zoë together and talk.”
“Have you told her yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re procrastinating!”
“By tomorrow I’ll have more information about the lawyer that Mr. Brady is going to talk with. Whatever it costs Uncle Jack to keep me here, I’ll pay him back. I’ll even sign a legal IOU.”
“You’re so funny. Hey, listen, tomorrow’s a half day at school. Why don’t you ride the bus home with me at noon? Hassan can drive you home after supper. Then you can talk to them.”
“I promised Zoë I’d babysit. She’s got a doctor’s visit tomorrow afternoon and then a hairdresser’s appointment. Seriously, I wish you were here to see this crazy beautiful sky. I’ll Instagram you.” Kaitlyn couldn’t stifle a huge yawn that morphed into a long sigh.
“Are you okay?”
“Just super tired.”
Marianna Kovalenko was also having difficulty sleeping. For the past nine hours, she had been mulling over the past week’s events as she sat cramped between a large Polish woman and a tall Polish man in the middle aisle of an Airbus A330. It was only when the flight attendant announced they would be on the ground at Kennedy Airport in fifteen minutes that her concentration, like the legs of a marathon runner just past the finish line, gave in to gravity and relaxed. The attendant’s voice became a lullaby as she described the sunny weather and the temperature as a mild fifty-eight degrees. The aircraft bumped through some turbulence, swaying, and she let her eyes drift shut. The past folded back over the present and the Polish man’s snoring became the rustling of her footfalls and her own breathing as she fled through the forest. She had struck out eastward toward the river, but fearing they would intercept her, she’d angled south then west, using the sun to keep her bearing, halting every few minutes to listen. She could no longer hear Liski shouting at the goons. The beech trees gave way to oak and poplar. Half an hour later she came to a road and waited for a break in traffic, then darted across and climbed an embankment into dense trees again. Then came a smaller road where she saw a Renault pull up to the single pump of an ancient gas station. A woman in a black dress emerged. A man came out and pumped. After he went back inside, Marianna approached the woman. Yes, she was going to Kyiv. Yes, she would take her.
The woman kept glancing over at her and finally said that if she was running away from someone, she should go to the police. Marianna shook her head. Even after the reforms of 2014, many police still could not be trusted. The woman turned to talking about God, Christ, and Satan. She was a Jehovah’s Witness—and she’d lectured Marianna on how to save her life and seek justice.
It was early afternoon when the woman had dropped her off, giving her a handful of pamphlets. Her own apartment wouldn’t be safe, so she had gone to her old friend Anatoly, using the back stairs. Once there, she called her sister Olesia and described what had happened. You must take your husband and daughters and flee immediately. Just go. Then with Anatoly’s help, she withdrew money, secured travel, and called another friend for a new passport. She got a burner phone and hair dye. It would not be safe to depart from the Kyiv airport, so shortly after midnight, she had lifted off from the little private strip in Bucha in a single engine plane flown by the friend of a friend who navigated them to Chopin Airport in Warsaw, three hours of flying through darkness. At five in the morning she boarded LOT Flight 2587 in Warsaw and flew westward, the sunrise always behind them but slowly gaining as they passed through six time zones
The impact of the wheels slamming onto the runway jolted her awake. For a panicked moment she feared she was packed in a cell with the others. Then the lights came on and window shades slid up. The flight attendant welcomed them to New York. Remembering her burner phone, she grabbed it and switched off the airplane mode. The man beside her was shuffling things in his briefcase. A skyline appeared outside. She’d always wanted to visit New York, but not like this.
The phone suddenly vibrated, startling her. Two text messages, initially sent sometime during those hours above the ocean, had hit her inbox. The first was from Olesia, who had promised to give her regular progress reports as she and her family made their way to Rennes in northwestern France, where Olesia’s husband had a close friend. The message had been posted six hours ago while Olesia was passing through Frankfurt. They were safe and making good time.
She opened the second message. It was from Aleksander, her graphic designer friend who had created her new passport. A tingle of horror crept up her spine. Anatoly, whom she had gone to first, was in the hospital, badly beaten, still unconscious. They had tortured him for information. Marianna, be on high alert. He may have told your plans.
A bell chimed, and the sound of seatbelts clicking open was like the scuttling of crabs. She could not repress a sob. The Polish lady asked if she was all right. Waves of guilt and anger washed over her. Inhuman monsters. They had left Anatoly for dead. All he had done was try to help her. He had known where she was going. It was possible that American henchmen of the oligarch were already waiting, scanning flights. Their reach was very long. Her only disguise was her hair, now short and black instead of long and chestnut. The passengers were rising. She stood, pulled her hat low—it was a Boston Red Sox baseball cap Anatoly had lent her—and retrieved her bag, a small canvas valise, from the overhead. It was all she had. Please God, let Anatoly survive.
She followed the others past the flight attendant. Cold air carried the smell of a city and jet fuel. She strode up the ramp, head down, gazing at the legs of the kind Polish lady who was wearing red flats, her ankles puffy. She needed to find someplace private to make the call. In the wide hallway of the terminal, sunlight poured through huge windows and the sky was a pale hazy blue. She kept pace with the others. The English language flowed around her like a muddy river.
She came to a concourse lined by restaurants and stores and felt a stab of hunger. The last thing she’d eaten was a package of smoked salmon in Warsaw, the taste of which still clung to her teeth. To her left she saw a men’s clothing store. It was large and empty. She strode in between a rack of dress shirts and a display of ties and belts. She came to the rear by a row of blazers. Taking out the burner phone, she looked around. A young Black man with dreadlocks was coming toward her. He was dressed in a black suit with a thin orange tie.
“Could I help you find something?” he said. His smile displayed silver braces.
“May I make a call here?” she asked. “I will try not to bother anyone.”
He smiled with cheer. “Not much danger of that. I thought you were going to be my first customer. Sure, help yourself.”
While waiting in the Warsaw airport, she’d found the number on the internet, committing it to memory. It rang twice before a man answered. “FBI,” he said. “Callahan, here. How can I assist you?”
She took a deep breath. “Sorry, my English is now a little rusty.”
“Take your time, ma’am.”
She thought of the earnest, gray-haired Jehovah’s Witness woman in the Renault who had driven her to Kyiv, proselytizing her faith. “It is urgently necessary that I be placed under witness protection.”
“I’m afraid the Witness Protection Program falls under the US Marshals Service.”
“They are not you?”
“It’s a separate branch of the Justice Department, ma’am. You’ve reached the New York Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“You cannot help me with witness protection?”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I was kidnapped in Ukraine and my identity was stolen. I escaped. They will be searching for me to kill me. I have information of great value to you about Russian criminals.”
“Where are you right now?”
“I am at the JFK airport. I just flew from Poland. I was taken off the street in Kyiv by the men of a Russian oligarch. But I was able to get away.”
“And when did this all happen?”
“My escape was yesterday. I made my way to Kyiv where friends helped me. But one of them was tortured for information, so they know I am here.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police there?”
“These have too many connections. Too much corruption in Ukraine.”
“But you said you just flew in from Poland.”
“Yes. I was flown in small plane to Warsaw. I leave under a new passport with a different name.”
“You’re using a false passport?”
“So that I could escape, yes. But I believe they now know I am here, and they will kill me if they find me. When I am in witness protection, I can give you much important information. I know witness protection is very safe in this country. I wrote about it one time. That is my work. I am a journalist. I believe these men work for the oligarch Mikhail Potemkin. Do you know who he is?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid that Russian oligarchs are not my area of expertise. Why would they kidnap you?”
“It was to steal my identity as journalist so that someone could impersonate me and come to New Canterbury Medical Center to spy on Dr. Forester. I do not know why. I can only ask you to please help me. Do you know of Dr. Forester?”
The man made a sigh then he chuckled. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
She was breathing faster, her palms moist. “Can you help me find the right person to talk with? My life is at risk. The woman impersonating me was killed, and they proved with some fake DNA that she was me. To keep their lies hidden, they must kill me. Can you follow what I am saying?”
“Sounds like the plot of a spy novel.”
“This is not a story, and I cannot help you if I am dead.”
“I agree with you there,” he said. “And you say the person they proved was you with DNA is dead?”
“Yes. And my sister will need protection too. They will seek revenge. And her family. They are fleeing to France now.”
“Listen, ma’am, do you know how many prank calls we receive any given week?”
Her jaws tightened. “What are you saying?”
“Are you a Ukrainian citizen?”
“I am, yes.”
“And you entered the US on a false passport, correct?”
“Thanks to my friends in Kyiv, yes.” A band of frustration tightened around her chest. “Please, I don’t think you under—”
“Here’s what I think, ma’am. You should go to the Ukrainian consulate. It’s on 49th Street in Manhattan. Let me check.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “Yes. 240 East 49th Street.”
“The consulate?”
“They should be able to help you.”
“But I cannot trust anyone there. These people are smart.”
“Are you talking about the consulate staff?”
“No! Those who kidnap me, who send the woman who died here.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to hang up now. To get to the consulate, take the AirTrain from Kennedy to Jamaica—”
“Jamaica?”
“Jamaica, New York. It’s not far from JFK. You can catch the subway from there into Manhattan. The subway maps will tell you how to get to 49th Street. The consulate can deal with your passport issue and help you apply for asylum. If your story checks out, they can put you in touch with the US Marshals Service for witness protection. If that’s warranted.”
Her arm holding the phone trembled. “You do not believe me.”
“I don’t believe or disbelieve. This is the best advice I can give you.”
“But I need your help. I am not crazy!”
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She brushed them away. Sharp pains were stabbing her chest and her fingers tingled. The clerk was walking toward her, a concerned look on his face.
“But please, I need help,” she said. “I can make you understand if you’ll let me try. Can we meet?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’m going to hang up now. Good luck to you.”
The connection went dead. Her hand holding the phone dropped and the phone fell to the carpet. The clerk bent and picked it up. “Doesn’t sound like that went well,” he said.
She grabbed tissues from her purse. “I could not make him understand.”
“Would you like to sit down? A water, maybe?”
She sighed, her chest shuddering. “I am not sure now what to do.” She brought the tissues to her face and then looked sharply at him. “How much did you hear of what I said?”
“That he didn’t want to meet. Looks like you’ve come a long way. You just arrived from overseas?”
“Yes. Warsaw.” She stuffed the tissues into her coat pocket. “It is my fault. I thought it would be more simple. Stupid.”
“You can hang out for a while here, if you need.”
“I cannot stay. But thank you.” She picked up her valise. “Do not concern yourself.”
“Do you have any friends here? Have you ever been to New York before?”
“No.” She straightened her shoulders. “The only one I know of here in America is the enemy of my enemy,” she said.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Maybe to him is where I should go. I will find out how to do this. Thank you for the kindness. I must leave.”
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “I might be able to help you.”
“Why are you so kind? I have nothing to offer.”
“Why? Listen, my mother was a refugee from Ghana. She came here with ten dollars. When we were growing up, we heard all these stories of people helping her. She would have wanted me to do the same.”
“This might put you in danger.”
“I can take care of myself. So, you’re from Poland?”
“Ukraine.”
“And you said you didn’t have a friend, but you have the enemy of your enemy. Is this a good person?”
“Yes. He is in New Canterbury in the state of New York. Do you know?”
“I’ve heard of it. Let’s go look on the computer. My name is Cornell.”
Cornell found New Canterbury and showed her the map. It was reachable by bus and only three hours away. He bought her a Greyhound ticket online and printed it. She tried to give him more than the amount, but he wouldn’t take any extra. The bus was leaving from the Port Authority Bus Terminal in an hour and a half.
“Not much time,” he said. “There are lots of ways to get lost for somebody new to the city. I’ll take you to Port Authority myself.”
He laughed away her protests. He would not get into trouble if he wasn’t gone long. His boss owed him favors and was a friend of the family. He would get his car and meet her at the Uber pickup area out front in five minutes. He drove for Uber when he wasn’t at the clothing store or studying.
She wended her way out of the terminal, staying within groups of people and looking for any sign of men following or lurking. Waiting close to a pillar outside, she saw him pull up. There appeared to be no one even looking at her. Sprinting out to the car, she climbed in and held her valise on her lap as he drove through the city of Queens and across the bridge onto the island of Manhattan, pointing out sights. He told her he was going to school at night to become an occupational therapist. He was learning the saxophone. If she had not been carrying the weight of Anatoly and Olesia and everything else, she would have enjoyed the conversation, the buildings, the people out walking, the broad river, and the wide streets.
He did not ask her too many questions, which was good—she hated to lie. When they came to the bus station, she thanked him from the bottom of her heart. “If all Americans are similar to you, Cornell, I know why this is a great country.”
“Don’t worry,” Cornell said. “They’re not.”