Traffyck (33 page)

As Mariya sped through the woods along the river, the flashlight lit up the path only far enough ahead to anticipate turns. The sounds of the militia and another car turning around had diminished, and it was silent and dark except for her breathing and the purr of chain on sprockets.

When she came out of a right-hand curve, she saw something and braked. A man stood in the center of the path. As soon as she saw him, she thought of the man from Opus Dei who had confronted Janos. The back tire skidded to the right, and she lost control.

Skidding, falling, asphalt like a dull file against her knee and elbow. Suddenly, she was grabbed. She screamed and tried to get away, but the man held her down.

“Take it easy! You might have broken something.”

The flashlight was out, the man holding her down by the shoulders a black outline.

“Let me go!” she screamed.

And he did. The man let her go and began lecturing. “I was simply trying to help. You are an idiot riding on the path at night! Especially a woman in Kiev at night!”

When Mariya righted the bicycle and got on, the man moved aside and continued mumbling about her being an inconsiderate idiot. She wanted to say she was sorry, but her throat was dry and hoarse, and her left leg burned as though it had been scraped raw.

She rode ahead slowly on the path, trying to get the flashlight back on. When it would not come on, she got off the bicycle and walked it.

Janos was already at the boulevard crossover near the brightly lit Monument to the Unknown Soldier when she arrived. She took off the front wheel and got into the car while Janos stowed the bicycle in the back. In the light coming from the monument, a patch on the side of her knee the size of a large coin looked like raw meat.

Janos drove fast, winding his way to Chervonoarmyiska, then southwest toward Bojarka. He drove so fast the Audi seemed to fly. While he drove, Mariya took a water bottle from the cup holder, found tissues in the glove compartment, and washed her wound.

That night they made love in a compact place, cozy and snug and away from everyone. The bed in Janos’ rented camper van was small. Afterwards, they opened the side curtain at the window and stared at the stars as they lay in one another’s arms. Here, fifty kilometers southwest of Kiev, away from the ground lighting of monuments and cathedrals, many more stars were visible to the naked eye. Except for the white glow of the bandage Janos had applied to Mariya’s leg, they were naked and tinted blue like the Milky Way.

On Monday morning most other campers, who simply used the camp as a stopover to or from Kiev, left early. A few still folded their tents as Janos walked to the building housing the restrooms and laundry. He went to the pay phone mounted to the side of the building. Miraculously the phone worked, and he called Eva Polenkaya.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I worried something happened to you.”

“You told Mariya Nemeth you had information.”

“It concerns the widower I mentioned, the man whose wife committed suicide.”

“What about him?”

“I just found out. I would have called sooner if I had known. Apparently he spoke with your friend, Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved, a few days before the fire.”

“Many people speak with Shved.”

“But Shved gave this man information to hold should something happen to him.”

A camper van drove past, and Janos pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Did the man give the information to you?”

“No. He told me he was trying to decide whether to go to the militia.”

“I don’t understand,” said Janos. “If the information might help find his missing child, why is he keeping it to himself?”

“This is the puzzling part,” said Eva Polenkaya. “He says it is not important. He says Private Investigator Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved was deceiving us. He said handing over information for someone to hold was simply part of Shved’s deception. Yet, I believe he clings to the possibility someone can help him. Shall I give you his phone number?”

“Yes.”

The widower’s name was Gennady Vorobey. He refused to give information over the phone or even at his apartment on the left bank, but agreed to meet Janos alone in two hours at the Myr Hotel on the right bank near the Central Bus Station.

Janos ran back to the camper van to tell Mariya he would need to leave her alone yet again.

Because the location was far south of the central city, Janos was able to take back roads most of the way. He arrived early, parked the Audi in an alley a block away, and walked to the hotel. He sat with his back to the wall, pretending to read a newspaper while he watched the hotel entrance.

Vorobey had agreed to be careful, saying he would wear a black shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up. If someone else showed up dressed the same way, Janos could look for a tattoo Vorobey said was on his left forearm. The tattoo was a heart with “4 Lesia” written across it. Lesia was his wife, the one who committed suicide after their daughter had been missing three years.

Vorobey was short, in his forties, going bald, and had deep, sunken eyes. His movements were quick and nervous, and he had a deep, scratchy voice. Janos stood when Vorobey walked in. Now they sat opposite one another in soft lobby chairs with high backs. Vorobey pulled the ashtray on the narrow table between them close and kept a cigarette going constantly.

Vorobey took a deep drag, blew the smoke upward, and stared at Janos gravely. “I quit twice. The first time was before my daughter disappeared. The second time was before my Lesia died. I will not quit again. This way, I have death to hold onto.”

Janos waited until Vorobey took another drag. “Tell me everything Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved told you.”

“I will,” said Vorobey. “But I must repeat what I told Eva Polenkaya. Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved was in business. I believe he made his money from false hopes.”

“Have you given up hope of finding your daughter?”

Vorobey nodded and looked down at his tattoo. “Yes, I have given up hope. My Lesia gave up hope before me. I do not blame her. I am too cowardly to commit suicide.” Vorobey looked at his cigarette. “Too cowardly to do it the quick way. Everyone in my simple life is gone. Even Shved, who I trusted. He took trips, and when he came back he would say he was getting closer. He provided fake details, which at the time seemed real. We idiots would chip in, giving Shved more money to keep him fat and happy.”

“I am not here to defend Shved,” said Janos. “But what were those details?”

Vorobey put out his cigarette and lit another. “The latest was when he returned from the Black Sea. A side trip down the coast to the Romanian border was convincing.”

“You have specific information Shved had you hold should something happen to him?”

“He said I could give the information to Eva Polenkaya or to another investigator who might replace him. I suppose you are this other investigator. I suppose someone must make money when parents lose their children.”

Vorobey had not raised his voice, but stared hard at Janos through the cigarette smoke.

“Please,” said Janos. “You can believe what you want about Shved and how he died. You can believe what you want about me. But I will tell you something. I have been on this case a week and have already seen two informants killed and have already had to kill a murderer. Did you hear news of two men found dead in Kharkiv at the Shevchenko Monument? I was there. I had a meeting with one of Shved’s informants. So please tell me what you know!”

Vorobey put out his cigarette and did not light another. Instead of smoking, he spoke.

“After his last trip, Shved came to me and said he felt he was close to something. I did not believe him. But even though I did not believe him, I listened. That is what the parent of a missing little girl does!”

Janos said nothing.

“Shved said he had a clue about missing children being kept in some kind of camp on a peninsula. He said the peninsula was in a marshy area with many tributaries and lakes and islands west of Kilija near the Romanian border. He did not have a name of a lake but said the nearest village was Vasylivka and the property was owned by one of the churches. He said the peninsula was supposed to be unoccupied, and locals thought it might be a radioactive waste dump from submarines in Soviet days.”

Vorobey stared at the ashtray and appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“There is something else,” prompted Janos.

“Yes,” said Vorobey. “Last year Gury and Ziya Goldin vacationed to the area. They were one of the founding couples of our group. They lost their daughter nearly six years ago and kept searching until their deaths.”

“How did they die?”

“They told everyone they were taking a much-needed vacation to the Black Sea. They drove and died in a hit-and-run accident on a back road near Kilija.”

“And you still do not believe Shved was close to something?”

“I feel he used coincidence to his advantage. He could have given the story about Kilija and the peninsula because the Goldins were killed there. All he had to do was look at a map.”

“What do you think now?”

Vorobey looked at him with his sunken eyes. “I do not know.”

“Have you told me everything?”

“I left out one part of Shved’s fable. He stayed at a lodge west of Kilija on the Romanian border during his last trip. That is where the Goldins were killed, on a back road to Vasylivka.”

“Is there a peninsula nearby?”

“Of course,” said Vorobey. “As I said, all Shved needed to do was look on the map.”

“And a church owning the property?”

“This was part of Shved’s story. But religions have acquired land throughout the ages.”

“What if I investigated and discovered religious ownership of a peninsula in this region and a lodge of some kind? Would this change your mind?”

Vorobey retrieved his cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, discovered it was empty, and crumpled it in his fist. “I don’t know. I feel I have been used, but perhaps …” He stood, waved his hand dismissively. “You have my number. If I hear from you, I will decide. If I hear facts, perhaps I will be able to kill those who took my daughter and killed my Lesia.”

Vorobey walked head down through the hotel lobby, stumbling toward a cart of luggage being rolled in. If it had been a vehicle, he would have been crushed. But the hotel porter was quick, veering sideways to let Vorobey live another day with his anguish and helplessness.