“Anatoly.” A sneakered foot sketched a triangle in the dirt, as precisely equilateral as if he’d used a ruler. “You don’t call him Dad? In the movies . . .” He stopped himself, having already learned the hard way that movies weren’t as accurate as they could be.
“When I was younger.” Much, much younger. I hadn’t exactly lived the Brady Bunch family life, particularly after the kidnapping. We had our share of dysfunction, same as anyone else. It hadn’t been too noticeable before Lukas was taken, with merely a father who worked far too much and secrets a child couldn’t penetrate. Later, I’d either become more cynically aware or Anatoly had tried less to hide his business. If my brother had still been around, I don’t think I would’ve ended up in that same business. I hadn’t cared enough to stop it from happening and my father had seen it, oddly enough, as a way of keeping me safe. In his realm, he felt he had control.
“He’s used to being in charge. I guess it’s rather like having a father who’s a general in the army. He’s a boss first and a parent second. That’s not to say he didn’t—doesn’t—love us. In fact, he thought the sun rose and set in you. The day you were born he passed out Cuban cigars as if they were candy and named you after his father.” The memory was so fresh that I could all but see the blue balloons floating, cheerfully proclaiming “It’s a Boy!” for anyone who cared to know. “It didn’t matter that you were practically a carbon copy looks-wise of Mom and her side of the family. He saw something in you, something special.”
And he hadn’t been wrong.
Lukas had been born special, but not the kind of special that Jericho embraced. His was a rare but completely natural special, a shining quality that made a father beyond proud, a mother doting, and a seven-year-old boy think his new baby brother was the best kid in the world, even if the butterball didn’t do anything but eat and poop.
“Anyway,” I forged ahead before Michael could comment on how our father loved Lukas, not him. “Anatoly’s on the run from the government. They have more indictments against him than they did Capone. But if we could find him, he knows more about going under the radar than I ever will, not to mention the money he has socked away in off-shore accounts. That kind of cash would take us far from here—far enough.” Sitting up again, I turned off the phone. “And he’ll want to see you . . . to see his son. He won’t be able to believe I found you.” Even in my imagination, I couldn’t picture that scene in my head. “He just . . . won’t believe it.”
“Why not?” The triangle disappeared beneath the erasing scuff of a sole. “Why wouldn’t he believe? Wasn’t he looking for Lukas too?”
How do you tell a boy his father had given up on him long ago? And he had. Anatoly had lost hope with a speed that had seemed shocking to a fourteen-year-old kid. It still seemed just as shocking to a twenty-four-year-old man. So, how do you tell a boy that? How do you tell him he was assumed dead by everyone but me?
You don’t.
“I think he trusted the authorities to do their job. More than I did at any rate,” I temporized. “Weird as shit, I know, considering his occupation, but the FBI did write the book on missing kids. It’s what they do. And I’m sure he had his contacts working day and night for a long time.” I didn’t remember if that had been the case or not, but it must have been. The first few weeks after Lukas had been taken were still hazy to me. Emotional trauma, I guessed, but there hadn’t been any therapists to verify my self-diagnosis. Anatoly, old-school Russian and old-school mob, didn’t believe in that kind of thing. Still, whether I remembered or not, I knew Anatoly would’ve pulled out all the stops for his missing son . . . whether he had hope or not. He loved Lukas. Criminals could love. They killed, they stole, but they were capable of love—in their way. It was a mental litany I’d repeated doggedly more than once or twice during my teenage years. Some days I had even believed it.
“But you kept looking yourself—personally. Long after a lot of people would’ve given up.” This time it was a circle he traced, as geometrically perfect as a soap bubble. “Why?”
It was a difficult question with an easy answer. I searched because he was my brother, but that wasn’t the whole truth. I also searched because I had been the one to lose Lukas, and “personally” wasn’t the word for the way I took that. “I’m smelling more Freud here, kiddo,” I dissembled as the wings of a bird beat overhead. “There’s a leather couch and two hundred bucks an hour in your future; I can see it now.”