Karen Cleveland - Need to Know

And then my gaze shifts to Ella’s drawing, the one of our family. Six happy faces. That’s the whole reason I’m in this mess, isn’t it? Trying to keep those faces happy, all six of us. Is there still a way to have that? Gears are turning in my head, shifting, trying to sort through how this all might play out, how I can possibly keep my kids safe and keep my family together, at the same time.

And then I have an idea.

I bend down to the drawers below my desk, the heavy metal ones bolted to the floor. I spin the dial, first one way, then the other. Find the numbers. Unlock it, pull out a drawer. Flip through the hanging files until I find the one I’m looking for. Inside, a report, red cover sheet, long classification string at the top. And another, farther back, just like it.

I open them up, first one, then the other. I scan until I find what I’m looking for. A long string of numbers and letters, and then another. I copy them down on a Post-it, fold it, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I head for the exit.

IT’S THE SAME SECURITY OFFICERon the way out. She’s at the desk near the turnstiles, a small television on in front of her, one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. She looks up as I approach.

“Leaving already?” Her face is serious.

“Yes, ma’am.” I flash her a smile. I try to place her. I used to see her here in the mornings, I think.

“Just a quick visit in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Some people turn on the television.”

My heart’s pounding now. “I know. Nerdy analyst here.” I raise my palms in mock surrender.

She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. “I’m going to need to take a look in your bag.”

“Of course.”

She walks over, and I’m sure she’ll be able to hear my heart thumping, see my hands shaking. I fight to keep my face impassive and hold the bag out for her, open. She peers in, then sticks her hand in, moves a few things out of the way to get a better look. I catch sight of a pacifier, a baby food pouch.

Then she pulls a wand from her belt, starts wanding my bag. “You work nights now?” I say, trying to pull her attention off the search, onto me. Trying to make myself appear less suspicious.

She takes the wand off the bag, holds it near my head, runs it down the front of my body, close enough that it’s touching me. I start to panic. That packet of papers against my back is thick. Too thick.

“The pay’s better,” she says. “My oldest is off to college next year.”

She moves the wand to the other side, starts to run it up the back of my legs. I hold my breath, a shiver running through me. Higher and higher, almost to my lower back now, almost to those papers. Just before it hits, I step away, turn to face her.

“Do you like it, working nights?” I say, with my best conversational look, one I hope looks natural, because I’m absolutely terrified right now.

I wait for her to tell me to turn back around. The wand’s still in her hand, but she hasn’t made a move toward me.

“We do what we need to do for our kids, right?” she says, scowling.

I hold my breath, hope she won’t remember she didn’t finish with me, or won’t care. Then she tucks the wand back in her belt, and the relief makes me dizzy.

My body’s gone weak, and the papers taped to my back seem suddenly so heavy. “We certainly do.”

Then I take my bag and head for the exit, without looking back.

LUKE SITS ON THE EDGEof his bed between Matt and me. We’re closer than we need to be, almost like we’re trying to give him strength, trying to let him know he’s safe, that he’s not alone.

He’s in his baseball pajamas, the ones that come up a little short at the ankles: another growth spurt. His hair’s sticking up in the back, the same way Matt’s does when he wakes. He’s still groggy with sleep, his eyes heavy.

“I need you to look at some pictures,” I say gently.

He rubs one of his eyes, squints in the light, peers at me in confusion, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s awake or dreaming.

I rub my hand in slow circles against his back. “I know this is strange, buddy. But I’m trying to figure out who talked to you at school. So we can find him, and make him stop.”

A shadow crosses his face, like he’s realized that he’s awake, that this is real, but it’s the reality he wishes didn’t exist. I wish it, too. “Okay,” he says.

I pick up the papers from beside me and lay them in my lap. On top is a photograph, a headshot of a man with a serious expression. I watch Luke as he looks at it. I keep rubbing his back, wishing I didn’t have to do this, make him sit here and relive the fear of being confronted by a stranger.

He shakes his head, doesn’t make a sound. I turn the page over, facedown on the bed, and a new picture takes its place. A surge of guilt runs through me, showing him these faces that will probably haunt him, the same way they haunt me.

He looks at it quietly, the same amount of time. I catch Matt’s eye over the top of his head, see my guilt reflected on his face, the same question that’s running through my mind. What have we done?

Luke shakes his head again, and I go on to the next one. I watch him, the profile of his face. He looks so serious, so much older than his years, and I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness.

I flip through page after page. He looks at each one carefully, methodically, for the same amount of time before he shakes his head. Soon we’ve fallen into a rhythm. One second, two seconds, three seconds, shake head, flip the page.

We’re nearing the end of the pile now, and desperation is starting to take hold. What do I do next, if this doesn’t work? How am I going to find the man who’s threatening him?

One second, two seconds, three seconds, shake head, flip the page. One second, two seconds, three seconds…

Nothing. No shake of the head.

I go still. Luke is staring hard at the picture. I’m afraid to even breathe.

“This is him,” he says, so quietly I almost can’t hear him. Then he looks up at me, those wide eyes, like saucers. “This is the man.”

“Are you sure?” I say, even though I know he is. I can see the confidence, the determination on his face. The fear.

“I’m sure.”

I stand in the kitchen, my back against the counter, mug of steaming coffee in one hand, the picture in the other. Anatoly Vashchenko. I stare at him, the long face, the receding hairline. I’m looking at the face of the ringleader. The man who’s a threat to Luke. To all of my kids.

I turn the picture over, look again at the text on the other side. The bio data, everything I was able to dig up on Vashchenko that we could use to track him down. It’s short, one of the shortest in the pile, barely any text at all. My eyes focus on one line in particular. Travel to U.S.: None known.

None known.

I blink at the words, willing them to change. But they don’t, of course. They stare back at me, taunting. Obviously he’s traveled to the U.S.; he’s here right now. And if we don’t have a record of him being here, he’s using an assumed identity.

Which means we have no way to track him down.

Luke’s asleep, and all is silent, except for the occasional clack of typing from the family room. Matt, on the laptop, working on decryption. Typing, then a long pause. More typing, more silence.

I take a sip of coffee, taste the bitterness on my tongue. I feel like I’m deflating inside. I found the ringleader; I actually did it, and what does it matter? I don’t have enough to track him down, to do anything about it, certainly not in time. Luke dies tomorrow . I can’t get those words out of my head. He’s out there, menacing Luke, and I’m powerless to stop it.