Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

Nadia had been a member of a Ukrainian youth group called PLAST. Summer camps occupied the middle ground between American scouting and ROTC training. Nadia had trained for the three-day survival test since age eight. She knew to find high ground. She knew how to build a lean-to. She knew how to start a fire, and she could boil water and set traps to catch small game. She knew how to defend herself even though she was only twelve. Three days and two nights alone on the Appalachian Trail should have been a routine exercise.

But, of course, it wasn’t.

After a half hour wait, Marko cast a shadow in front of the cathedral. He was breathing heavily.

“Valentine visited the nuclear power plants at Chornobyl every year between 1985 and 1990,” he said.

Valentine. Power plants. Chornobyl. 1985 to 1990.

The words sounded too good to be true. They provided a possible link between Valentine and Bobby.

“That’s incredible,” Nadia said. Then she remembered Marko was not a forensic securities analyst. “Are you sure?”

Marko sat down, took the napkin from under her coffee, and wiped his forehead. “The Ecology Committee had a bunch of sub-committees. One of them was the Chornobyl Nuclear Power Plant Monitoring Committee. It was created in September, 1986 after reactor four exploded. The three guys on the Chornobyl Committee were the three youngest guys on the Ecology Committee.”

“Because the old guys didn’t want to get exposed.”

“Who would? They put Valentine on the Chornobyl Committee as soon as he showed up. So we’ve established a connection between him and Chornobyl. We know he visited the area regularly. The only problem is that was 1985 through 1990. And Bobby wasn’t born until 1996. So we’re back at square one.”

“Not necessarily,” Nadia said. “The Ukrainian government took over sole management of the plants when it proclaimed independence. If you were assuming responsibility for a mess like that, and there were people with previous knowledge of the disaster, wouldn’t you hire them as consultants? At a minimum they’re a low cost insurance policy against missing valuable information.”

“And if that’s the case, Valentine might have kept making trips to Chornobyl for years.”

“He might have done just that.”

“How do we find out if he did?”

“We ask someone who’s intimate with the Zone.”

“The Zone?” Marko said.

“The Zone of Exclusion. No one’s allowed within a nineteen mile radius of the reactors without permission.”

“You know someone like that?”

Nadia remembered Karel, the botanist with Einstein hair who hit on her as soon as he saw her in the café near the nuclear power plant, only to reveal he knew exactly who she was and what she was doing in Chornobyl.

“I do,” she said.

LAUREN CLIMBED THE stairs above a clothing boutique named Cry Wolf and rang the doorbell. The door opened within five seconds, as though Victor Bodnar was expecting her. A strikingly handsome young guy with short blond hair let her in. He said hello with a thick Russian accent. As he closed the door behind her, his short sleeve inched up to reveal part of a tattoo. A girl with snakes for hair. Poor guy, Lauren thought. Still in his early twenties but he already held the opposite sex in low regard.

“Please allow me to escort you to the kitchen,” he said. “Mr. Bodnar will visit guests in his kitchen.”

He bowed, turned, and led the way. As though that wasn’t weird enough, when they walked past the living room on the right, she spotted his clone reading one of those soft-core men’s magazines with some actress on the cover. They were identical twins. Had to be. And to top things off, the twin stood when he saw Lauren and gave her his own little bow.

“Good morning, madam,” he said.

Not gay, she thought. Just super polite. A little odd, but there was nothing wrong with that. Lauren had a healthy respect for eccentricity.

The kitchen looked like an insane asylum for a chef. It was entirely white, with linoleum and appliances from the 1980s. Not a speck of dust or dirt. Toaster, microwave, and cookies jars perfectly centered and standing at attention.

The kid pulled the chair out for her at a small circular table. Lauren thanked him and sat down, put her bag on the adjacent chair. Who would have thought? One Russian kid had more manners than all the men at the Sports Network combined.

She heard footsteps. Coming rapidly down some stairs. Too fast and too many to belong to one person.

A tuxedo cat appeared in the kitchen. Tail up. It studied Lauren. Her mother had been a cat rescuer. Never fewer than two in the house. Lauren slid her chair out and patted her legs. The cat trotted forward and jumped onto her lap. It arched its back to accept Lauren’s pets.

“Damian, leave the young lady alone.”

Lauren twitched. The cat flew off her lap.

A short old man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in vintage immigrant tweed. He was unremarkable in every way. And in that way, he was remarkable. He seemed as though he could blend with air. There was something relaxing about him. Lauren felt immediately at ease.

He introduced himself as Victor Bodnar.

“Vodka?” he said. He reached into a pantry and pulled out a bottle and two glasses.

“No,” Lauren said. “The last time I had a shot things didn’t turn out so well for me.”

The creases in his face deepened. Lauren feared she was insulting him, but too bad. She’d learned her lesson on Little Diomede Island.

His disappointment vanished as though he could read her thoughts. “A wise move,” he said. “Drinking in the morning is never a good thing. But sometimes an old man needs a little encouragement to get through the day.”

He poured himself a shot and raised the glass in her direction. “ Na Zdorovya .” He knocked it back, and sat down across the table from Lauren.

“Mr. Obon said you once mentioned a boy named Bobby Kungenook to him,” Lauren said. “I’m a reporter—”

“Obon says nice things about you. I love young people. So nice to meet a new one. Tell me some things about yourself first. Indulge an old man, please.”

Lauren took a breath. She sensed if she refused she wouldn’t get anywhere. “What would you like to know?”

“Where were you born?”

“Hawaii.”

“What is your father’s given name?”

“Remy.”

“Where was he born?”

“Mississippi.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a sister.”

“When you were a child, did you play with dolls or other girls?”

“Neither. I didn’t have any friends. Or dolls.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Whose voice from childhood do you miss the most?”

Lauren didn’t know why she was answering him honestly except that there was something compelling about him. And therapeutic about the moment. “My mother,” she said, her voice cracking.

“And where is your mother now?”

“She’s gone.”

Victor nodded sympathetically. “And if I offered you a clear conscience or ten million dollars, which would you choose?”

Lauren remembered getting the phone call from her father on her mother’s last day. He hadn’t been home the night before. Another starlet, no doubt. He told Lauren her mother wasn’t answering her phone. When Lauren called her mother a minute later, there was still no answer. She should have left the house immediately.

“That depends,” she said.

“On what?”