Authors: Chris Culver
By Any Means (6 page)
I
ndianapolis, 2002. Despite the manicured lawns, the landscaped flowerbeds, the expensive suburban homes, and the numerous people he saw, Kostya had never driven on a lonelier road in his life. He supposed he would have felt that way driving from any gravesite, though. His daughter Kara sat in the passenger's seat of his Jaguar, staring out the window. She appeared thinner and paler than he remembered, but she still had her mother's rounded cheeks and naturally straw-colored hair. Storm gray and cold, her eyes seemed to be the only physical characteristic he had passed on to her.
“It was a dignified service,” he said, pulling the car into traffic and away from the cemetery. “Your mother would have liked it.”
“You have no idea what my mother would have liked. You weren't around enough to find out.”
“I wasn't around very much because she asked me to stay away. Believe it or not, I cared about Alicia enough to respect her wishes.”
He glanced over, catching Kara's gaze. She quickly withdrew and turned to face the window again.
“What makes you think my wishes would be any different from hers?”
“It was just a hope.”
Kara didn't even look at him that time. He glanced in his rearview mirror. A navy blue Ford followed two car lengths back. He didn't know what agency its occupants worked for, but it
didn't really matter. They followed him wherever he went and had since he relocated to the state four years prior. They hadn't even bothered trying to hide during his ex-wife's funeral.
“I'm going to get a cup of coffee,” he said, braking suddenly. The vehicle behind him came to within two feet of hitting him. Kara either didn't notice or pretended not to. “Would you like something?”
“It doesn't look like I have much of a choice.”
“You always have a choice. I've worked too hard for you not to have that.”
She ignored him, and he turned into a coffee shop with a covered concrete patio and a bright red awning over the front door. Several people sat on wrought-iron chairs outside; most looked happy. Kostya parked in the first open spot he came to and checked to see if his escort had followed him in. They continued driving, though, giving him a welcome moment of privacy with his daughter.
“I can take you home if you'd like.”
“We're here,” she said, opening her door. “We might as well get something.”
Kostya followed her, noticing several men stare at his daughter. As soon as they saw him, most of those stares turned away quickly; those who kept eyeing his daughter turned after receiving an extended glance from him. Kara had her mother's good looks and had likely become inured to the attention over the years, but Kostya didn't like people looking at her, not like that at least.
“I'll get coffee if you sit down.”
“Black, no cream,” said Kara, slowly lowering herself into a plush armchair big enough to accommodate two of her. Kostya ordered and paid for two small black coffees before sitting
across from his daughter on an identical plush chair. A young man read the paper on a love seat nearby, but Kostya ignored him and said nothing until a barista arrived with their coffee.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling slightly as the young woman walked away. The coffee tasted good, but he hadn't stopped for a drink. After his first sip, he settled the cup on the table and looked at his daughter, trying to draw her glance. “How are you?”
She turned toward him, her eyes indifferent.
“Why are you interested? After Mom kicked you out, I saw you, what, twice a year? You didn't seem interested in me then.”
He looked at his cup. “It was complicated.”
“No, it wasn't. If you really cared, you would have been there. We needed help, and you just...I don't even know what to say to you. Mom's dead, and you think you can waltz back into my life? It doesn't work like that.”
The man reading the paper folded it slowly and left. Kostya grimaced.
“I may not have been a very good father, but I don't want to lose you like I lost your mother.”
“You already have,” said Kara, reaching into her purse and pulling out a thin, white roll of paper. Kostya recognized the smell when she lit it and exhaled in his direction. He stood and looked at their growing audience.
“It's time to go,” he said, motioning her forward. “This isn't the place for this.”
Kara removed the joint from her mouth and looked at it, her eyebrows raised.
“This bothers you? A little dope?” She looked him up and down before standing. “You probably sold this to my dealer.”
He nodded apologies to the shop's other patrons before escorting his daughter back to their car. She threw the remnants of her joint out the window as they drove away, but the smell lingered in his vehicle.
“I lost my mother and father when I was young,” said Kostya, adjusting the vents on his car to rid it of the smell. “I know what it's like.”
“That sucks. I never had a father, so I didn't lose much.”
As much as he tried to restrain himself, the barbs hurt, and Kostya felt his temper rise.
“I tried to be there for you both. I truly did.”
“Great. I feel better now,” said Kara. “You killed my mom, but that's okay because you were always there for us.”
“I didn't kill your mother. She died because she was sick. I sent her to clinics, to doctors, to retreats. I drove her to therapy. I sat up with her at night when she cried herself to sleep. I loved your mother, and I did everything I could for her. I will not tolerate you saying otherwise.”
“You can't even say it, can you?” said Kara. “She killed herself, and it's your fault.”
Kostya felt his heart ache, but something deep inside him refused to let that show.
“I loved your mother very much. I would have given anything for her. She knew that.”
“Mom never loved you. She was scared of you,” said Kara, shifting on her seat so she could face him. “She went to those clinics to get away from you, and I can see why.”
“She had no reason to be scared of me. No one does.”
Kara scoffed. “Do you think I'm stupid?”
“Of course not,” said Kostya, straightening. “You're my daughter. I'd never think you were stupid.”
“I know what you do for a living.”
He didn't say anything for a moment. “And what do you think that is?”
She looked forward and started to say something, but quickly shut her mouth. Finally she asked, “What do you want from me? You want me to sit on your lap and call you Daddy? It's too late for that. It's too late for a lot of things.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I'm not.”
Kostya drove for another twenty minutes in silence before pulling to a stop in front of a two-story brick home near Butler University. Alicia had planted yellow mums beside the door; she loved flowers. Kostya didn't say anything, not knowing what to say.
“Don't worry,” said Kara, opening her door. “I'll be out of here in a month so you can sell the place. You won't ever have to see me again.”
“The house is yours. It's part of the trust fund I started for you. You can stay in it while you finish college, or you can sell it. Mr. Evans, the lawyer we met with yesterday, will assist you with whatever you want.”
Kara's back stiffened, but she didn't get out of the car. “What do I have to do for it?”
“Nothing. Just please try to be happy.”
She put one leg out of the car but didn't try to leave. “I don't think we need to see each other again.”
“If that's what you want,” said Kostya.
“It is,” she said, standing. Kostya watched his daughter walk into her house. She lived up to her word. He never saw her again.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Despite having written its address on letters twice a year, Kostya hadn't set foot in front of the small, redbrick home in well over ten years. Little had changed. The yellow mums in the front lawn had been swapped with azaleas, and someone had painted the trim around the windows gray. A hose snaked across the front lawn to a crab apple tree. Somewhere along the way, it appeared her mother's house had become Kara's home. He wished he had been part of it.
“Park out front instead of the drive. I want to be able to leave quickly.”
Kostya's nephew Michael nodded and slowed their paneled van. Kostya owned two such vehicles, and both had magnetic panels that could be affixed to the sides to disguise the vehicle's ownership. Tonight, they had attached panels with the logo of a local HVAC company on the outside; that should keep them from arousing the attention of the neighbors.
As soon as Michael brought their van to a stop, Kostya stepped out and walked toward the home, stopping only to bend and pick up a decorative rock from a flowerbed to the right of the door. His knees and back creaked with the strain of the motion as he bent farther to retrieve the tarnished brass key underneath. Alicia had placed that rock on the porch to hide a house key fifteen years ago when Kara went to high school. Seeing it again made Kostya smile.
Within thirty seconds of arriving, four men stood in what had once been Kara's entryway. Lev and his two sons, James and Michael, immediately began searching the home for information about Kara's life, while Kostya stayed in the entryway and looked around. He saw his daughter in every corner of the room and wished he had seen it while she was still alive.
The entryway opened into an open-concept living room with attached kitchen and stairway to the second floor. When he bought the home for Alicia, cheap oak paneling had covered the walls, but Kara had pulled all that down and replaced it with drywall painted a cheery yellow. The hardwood floor creaked as he walked around. She had dusted the wooden coffee table, end tables, and fireplace mantel. Vacuum lines crisscrossed the rug in the center of the floor. When he knew her, Kara didn't even seem to understand how a vacuum worked. He missed watching her grow up.
While his nephews searched the bedrooms, Kostya walked toward the mantel above the fireplace and picked up a black-and-white picture of a wedding. Kara smiled as her new husband fed her a piece of cake at the reception. She looked happy. He hadn't planned to take anything from the house, but he tucked the picture beneath his arm and walked to the kitchen, feeling a dull hollowness build inside him.If Kara had kept the home's original layout, the upstairs had three bedrooms and two bathrooms; he doubted anyone would find anything there, though. Assuming it still existed, he wanted to find the home office.
He passed a small powder room beside the kitchen before stopping at the last door on the left. The office had been a large corner bedroom at one time, but upon buying the house, Alicia had hired a contractor to refinish the hardwood floors and install built-in bookshelves along two of the walls. Kara hadn't changed it much except to fill those bookshelves with legal textbooks. Her diploma hung on the wall. His daughter had become a lawyer apparently, one more major event he had missed in her life.
Lev looked up from his search of the desk when Kostya walked in.
“Have you found anything?”
“Kara changed her name. Her last name is Elliot now, like her husband. She saved your letters,” he said, sliding a thick stack of opened envelopes across the desk. Kostya added them to the portrait under his arm. Twice a yearâon her birthday and Christmasâhe wrote her a letter asking for her forgiveness, and twice a year he told her that he would be at a park near the White River downtown if she'd be willing to see him. She never showed, but he kept going year after year in the hopes that one day she'd change her mind.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said Lev, reaching down to a drawer and picking up a stack of folded color pamphlets. He slid them across the desk and took a step back. “Tell me what you think of these.”
The pamphlets had been written in half a dozen languages and contained pictures of smiling men and women carrying backpacks and walking through a bucolic college campus. Kostya flipped through the pamphlets until he found one written in Russian, a language he understood. They advertised a student exchange program that would allow young women to come to the United States from abroad and study and work part-time to pay their way. The pictures looked innocuous, but the pamphlet read like a sales pitch.
“What does this company get out of its exchange students?” asked Kostya.
“Nothing according to their literature. They're a charity.”
Lev sounded suspicious and rightfully so. Everybody had an angle, even supposed do-gooders out to save the world.
“See what else we can find.”
They searched for another ten minutes. Kara kept a copy of her taxes in her desk; in addition to dispersals from her trust fund, she had made just over a hundred thousand dollars each year for the past three years from a company called Commonwealth Financial Services. As they left the room, Lev bumped into a wooden filing cabinet beside the desk, causing it to slide across the floor on wheels hidden in the base, revealing a safe built into the wall. Lev immediately bent and tried to open it, but its handle wouldn't budge.
“We can remove this, but we'll make some noise,” said Lev, standing. “It's your call.”
“Let me try something,” said Kostya, kneeling before the safe and feeling his knees creak. Kara's safe had a keypad like a telephone instead of a spinning dial, making it easy to use. He typed in her birthday, but that didn't work. He then tried Alicia's, but that didn't work either. He didn't bother trying his own; she wouldn't have used that. As a last resort, he typed 05-22-02, the date Alicia passed away. The lock clicked, and the door swung open, exposing the interior.