Karen Cleveland - Need to Know

A warm breeze blows by, swaying the fronds of the palms that dot our little beach. I close my eyes and just listen for a moment. The soft crash of waves, the rustle of the palms, the sounds of my kids, content and happy. The most beautiful, mesmerizing symphony that could possibly exist.

Matt comes up behind me and sits down in the sand next to me, close, his leg touching mine. I look at them, our two legs, both tanner than they’ve ever been, almost brown against the fine white sand. He smiles at me, and I at him, and then I turn back to watch the kids, content to sit in companionable silence. Luke catches a big wave, rides it in, all the way onto the sand. Caleb takes a tottering step, then another, then sinks down to the sand and scoops up a large shell, examines it.

Twenty-four hours after we sat at our kitchen table with Omar, we were on a private plane, heading for the South Pacific. At first, when Omar said to pack our bags, the thought was terrifying, packing up our lives into suitcases, knowing that anything we left behind, we might never see again. And so I focused on the things most important to me, the things that were irreplaceable: photos, baby books, that kind of thing. As it turns out, that’s all I really needed. All the other stuff in our house—the closets full of clothes and shoes, the electronics, the furniture—well, I still don’t miss it. We started over here, simply. Bought the essentials. We have one another, and our memories, and that’s all we really need.

My parents came with us. Omar offered it up as an option, and I went to them with it, even though I didn’t think they’d do it, didn’t think they’d want to be ripped away from all they knew. But once they heard they wouldn’t be able to communicate with us for a year, maybe more, there was no hesitation. Of course we’ll come, my mom said. You’re our child. You’re everything to us. And that was it, decision made. One that I understood completely.

And things between Matt and me are solid again. I forgive you, he said, the first night in the new house, as we lay in an unfamiliar bed. If he could forgive me for doubting him, for making him feel like he had to kill to earn my trust, surely I could leave the past in the past. I curled up into his arms, the place I knew I belonged. I forgive you, too.

I hear a helicopter in the distance, the faint whir of the propellers. I watch as it comes into view, growing more distinct as it approaches, louder, the gentle whir becoming a rhythmic thump-thump-thump . The kids have all stopped what they’re doing to watch. It passes right over us, so loud that Ella and Luke cover their ears; Chase and Caleb just stare in wonderment.

Helicopters aren’t something we see here. They settled us on a remote part of the island, two houses set on bluffs overlooking the ocean, bookending a little crescent stretch of beach below. I never knew how Omar managed to do it—the houses, the living expenses, all of it. He told me not to worry, that after all we’d done for our country we deserved it. And I didn’t press it. It was the first time in as long as I could remember that I didn’t have to worry about money.

I look up at my parents’ house now and see my mom step outside. She slides the glass door closed behind her and starts walking down to the beach, the breeze billowing her long skirt around her legs. I turn around and see the helicopter hovering above the bluffs behind us, coming down slowly, perpendicular to the ground, for a landing.

Matt and I exchange a look. Wordlessly we both stand, brush the sand off. We wait for my mom to reach us. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll keep an eye on the kids.”

The sound from the propellers quiets as we trudge up the hill to our house, over white sand dunes that slide away with each step until we reach the wooden stairs, dusted with more sand. We walk up until we reach the top, the patchy grass that passes as a lawn, the square two-story house with the sharply slanted roof, terraces all around. I see Omar approaching the house from the direction of the helicopter, wearing khaki cargo pants, a flowered Hawaiian shirt. He breaks into a smile when he sees us.

We reach the front of the house at the same time. I embrace him, hugging hard, and Matt shakes his hand. There’s something oddly thrilling about seeing him here; he’s the first person from back home we’ve seen in a year. He warned us, told us we’d be on our own for a year, possibly longer, but still we were unprepared for the strange sensation of being completely cut off from everything—the people we knew, the routines, even things like email and social media. He’d given us a cellphone, but with strict instructions to power it on and use it only in case of emergency. Short of that, we were just to wait. Wait for him to make contact. And now, here he is, a year to the day later.

“Come on in,” I say to him, opening the front door and leading the way. The house is airy and full of light, all white and blues. And it feels more like home than our home ever did. Seashells adorn the place, ones we’ve gathered from walks on our beach. And photographs. So many photographs. Black-and-white shots of the kids, of the palm trees, of anything that catches my eye. It’s nice to have time for hobbies again. Most of all, though, it’s nice to have time for my kids.

I lead him into the family room and sit down on the couch, a well-worn blue sectional, the one we all crowd onto for movies and game nights. He sits on the opposite side. Matt comes in a moment later, a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses in his hands, and sets them on the coffee table. He gives me a smile. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” he says. I don’t stop him, and neither does Omar.

When he’s out of the room and we hear a door close upstairs, Omar leans forward. “So how’s life here?”

“Wonderful,” I say. And I mean it wholeheartedly. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I don’t feel trapped anymore, stuck in a life that’s just happening to me. I feel in control of my life. And my conscience is at peace. I’m going to finally have the life I want.

I pick up the pitcher and pour lemonade into each glass, ice cubes clinking against the sides.

“School? I know you were worried about that.”

I hand him a glass. “We’ve been homeschooling. It’s not a long-term solution, but it’s been working. The kids are actually learning a ton.”

“And Caleb?”

“Doing so well. Walking, even saying a few words. And he’s healthy. You were right, the cardiologist on the mainland is fantastic.”

“I’m glad. You have no idea how often I think of you guys. How much I’ve wanted to check in.”

“Me too,” I say. “There’s so much I want to know.” I pause. “How have you been?”

“Great, actually.” He takes a sip from his glass. “I’m the new deputy director, you know.” He’s trying—and failing—to contain a grin.

“That’s amazing.”

The grin breaks free.

“And you deserve it. Totally.”

“Well, this case did a lot for me. Not gonna lie.”

I wait for him to say more, but he’s quiet, the smile slipping away. My mind drifts to Peter and I wonder if his has, too. Finally I speak. “Can you tell me anything about the cell?” It’s a question that’s been at the forefront of my mind for a year now. I’m desperate to hear what he has to say.

He nods. “You were right about Vashchenko. He was the ringleader. We tracked him down pretty quickly. Found the flash drive embedded in the pendant, just like you said. And decrypted it with the keys you gave us.”

I clasp my hands tightly in my lap and wait for him to go on.

“From there, we arrested the other four handlers. Three days later we had a major operation, arrested all twenty-four members of the cell.”