Orest Stelmach - The Boy from Reactor 4

“Would you, Terry? That would be really kind of you, thanks.”

As the third period began, Lauren wondered how an orphan from a small town in Alaska had learned to play hockey so well. She wondered why he spoke Slavic languages better than English. She wondered who his guardian was and how he had ended up in a prep school in New York City.

But most of all, Lauren wondered what was in that locket.

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN in New York City. Any dream can be fulfilled.

After a punishing winter, April revitalizes the dreamers. Scarves loosen, steam evaporates. Subways and sidewalks buzz with renewed hope.

Nadia Tesla bounded through the East Village, soaking in the scene. Tourists mixed with Ukrainian immigrants and rambunctious NYU students in Japanese noodle shacks and bodacious tattoo parlors. Soon she would have reason to party, too. A man had called. A man had called with the answers she needed.

Seventh Street was deserted compared with St. Mark’s Place. A pair of black torches illuminated the sign for The Bourgeois Pig with burgundy-colored light. Nadia peeked inside the wine bar. Still early, a sparse crowd. The oldest guy looked Nadia’s age, mid-thirties. She glanced across the street.

A sliver of a man stood on a corner beside a charcoal garage door, a plume of smoke twisting from his hand. He looked more like a shadow than a person, the offspring of Marlene Dietrich and Checkpoint Charlie, born with a genetic predisposition to survive in the catacombs.

He took a final drag on his cigarette. The tip flamed orange-red. He tossed it to the ground and stomped on it. Inched out of his nook and glanced in each direction, as though confirming he wasn’t being followed. Nadia wondered if something was wrong or if he was just a paranoid old soldier. As he limped quickly toward her, Nadia scolded herself. The man was just crossing the street carefully. She was the paranoid one. After the last six months, who could blame her?

“Mr. Milan?” Nadia said in Ukrainian.

He nodded. His peppercorn eyes were kind but steeped in worry. “Nadia Tesla?”

“Yes.”

“The mathematician?”

“Well, I majored in math.”

He peered over his shoulder again. “The odds are not in my favor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We have to keep moving. This way.”

He pointed toward Avenue A. They walked side by side.

Nadia hugged herself. “Is something wrong?”

“Let’s speak in English.” He spoke with only a slight accent, suggesting he’d immigrated a long time ago. “You work on Wall Street?”

“No. I used to work for a private investment firm, but my job was eliminated. I’m starting a business on my own as a forensic security analyst.” Nadia didn’t add that she was starting her own business because she couldn’t find another job. There were always too many applicants.

He turned to her and frowned, as though that were the wrong answer. Shrugged and kept moving.

“You knew my father?” Nadia said.

“What?”

“How did you know my father? When you called and offered to meet me, you said you knew my father back in Ukraine. That you could tell me stories about him. Were you in the Partisan Army with him?”

“Oh. That. No. I’m afraid I wasn’t being honest.”

Nadia stopped in her tracks. “What? What do you mean, you weren’t being honest?”

“I know of him. But I didn’t know him. It was just an excuse to meet you.”

Nadia stepped backward. Now she was the one glancing over her shoulder. There was no one behind her. “Meet me ? Why?”

“To discuss a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” She forced a smile. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’ve made a mistake.”

“No. You must listen for a moment.” Milan’s eyes shone with intensity. “The fate of the free world depends on it.”

Nadia croaked with laughter. The man was nuts.

Her giggling must have sounded rude. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” She took another step back. “Really, I am—”

Nadia bumped into a display window. A sign said MUSEUM JEWELRY REPRODUCTIONS. The name of the store was stenciled in tiny white print: THE SHAPE OF LIES.

When Nadia turned back, Milan was a foot away from her, the creases in his face looking like a grid of tunnels. “I beg of you, please—”

A car backfired. Milan collapsed to the pavement.

“Oh my God.” Nadia dropped to his side. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Eyes wild, mouth agape, he clutched the left side of his chest.

Heart attack. Had to be a heart attack. Nadia leaned over. Her shoulder bag slid to the ground. She opened his gray sports jacket.

His crisp white dress shirt was drenched in blood.

Nadia screamed. Not a heart attack. He’d been shot. By whom?

A symphony of horsepower rose to a crescendo.

Her head swiveled to the street.

Ten feet away. Big old American sedan. Driver’s window open. Barrel of a gun aimed at her.

A finger squeezed the trigger.

ASECOND CAR crashed into the rear of the sedan. A clap of metallic thunder erupted. The big old American sedan lurched, sputtered, and quaked.

The barrel of the gun disappeared, as did the hand that held it. Tinted windows prevented Nadia from seeing more.

The second car was a muscular coupe. Its nose was smushed, but the engine was still burbling, ready to go again. The door opened—

Nadia’s head snapped downward. Milan’s hand grasped her collar. He pulled until his lips almost kissed her ear.

“Find Damian,” he said, his spittle warm and disgusting as it rained against her flesh. “Find Andrew Steen… They all… Millions of dollars… Fate of the free world—”

His hand fell limp to his abdomen. His chest stopped heaving and his eyes went dead.

“Mr. Milan!”

Nadia grabbed her shoulder bag and tore it open. Get cell phone. Dial 911. Check pulse, check airway, begin rescue breathing —

A man in her peripheral vision. Coming at her from the sports car.

Nadia looked up. Blue jeans. Long legs. Cobalt button-down shirt stained with white chalk. Short dark hair, touch of gray on the side. Face practiced in composure. Moving fast.

“He’s been shot,” she said. “I don’t know if he’s—”

“I called for help,” the man said, his tone even but incredulous. “They were going to shoot you next. I’m a doctor, let me—”

A second gunshot exploded.

Nadia ducked. The doctor did the same. A man in the American sedan pointed a weapon through his window at her. Nadia caught a glimpse of a round face and a shock of red hair.

A third gunshot.

Nadia fell flat to the ground.

“My car,” the doctor shouted. He grabbed Nadia by the arm and urged her toward his car, shielding her from the gunman. “Let’s go.”

A fourth gunshot.

Nadia grabbed her bag, kept her head low, and raced around the car. The doctor flung her door open. She jumped in.

The interior smelled of talcum powder and gas. A partially deflated airbag hung from the center of the steering wheel. Nadia tossed her bag between her legs and strapped on her seat belt.

The doctor jammed the gear into reverse, put his right hand behind Nadia’s seat, and sent the car hurtling backward. He swerved onto Avenue A, powered into second gear, and took off uptown.