Whirlwind

30

Lufkin, Texas

The ramshackle bungalow sat well back in the shade of the wooded lot on a dead-end street behind a wall of shrubbery that had run wild.

An eviscerated Ford Mustang, hood raised as if it had gasped its last breath, rested on cinder blocks on the side of the earthen driveway.

No sign of any other vehicles, Gromov thought, removing his sunglasses as he and Yanna stepped from the blue Chevy sedan he’d rented at the airport.

It was a long flight from New York to Houston followed by a two-hour drive north on 59, with the air conditioner blasting. With the exception of a stop in Huntsville for a lunch of cheeseburgers and French fries, which Gromov enjoyed, they went straight to the address he had for Remy Toxton.

The neighborhood was tranquil save for birdsong and the barking of a distant dog. Loose boards on the front porch creaked when they stepped on it. Gromov pulled open the screen, knocked hard on the solid wooden door and waited.

Ten seconds, fifteen. Nothing.

He knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound of life inside. Several envelopes stuck out of the mailbox. Gromov shuffled through them, taking what appeared to be bills addressed to Remy Toxton.

“I don’t think you should do that,” Yanna said.

Gromov stared at her, ignoring her protest, sliding the mail into his pocket, returning the flyers.

“Let’s try the back,” he said.

An old Coke machine stood guard by the rear door.

Gromov knocked, then scanned the backyard. A rusted steel drum for burning trash and a forgotten pile of rotting scrap lumber conveyed a sense of defeat.

“No one’s home. Let’s go next door,” he said.

On the adjacent property they found a large two-story home. The yard was bordered by an ornate metal fence. The lush lawn was well kept. The flower beds were a riot of color. Gromov pushed open the unlocked gate and they entered, taking the brick walk to the front door.

No one answered the bell.

They heard the clang of metal on stone and went around to the side, where a man in his sixties was on his knees tending a rosebush. He saw their shadows and turned.

“Can I help you?” He stood, brushing dirt from his knees.

“I’m looking for Remy Toxton, the woman who lives next door. No one seems to be home. Do you know where we could find her, or her partner?”

“Ah, no, not really. My wife may know. She’s in the backyard. Martha! Where are you folks from?”

“Canada.”

“Canada? You don’t sound Canadian.”

“I grew up in Europe.”

“Ah.”

A woman wearing a large sun hat and holding a rake appeared from the back.

“Martha, these nice folks come all the way from Canada. They’re looking for our neighbors to the left, who rent the old Madison place.”

“Oh, the pregnant girl and her beau,” Martha said.

“She’s still pregnant?” Gromov asked.

“Oh, I expect not. She was pretty far along a few weeks ago. Then they just left. Maybe they went to see family with the baby?”

“Yes,” the man added, “the boy’s truck’s been gone for a long time.”

“I understand her boyfriend is a carpenter?”

“That’s right,” the man said. “Sometimes I saw a company truck in their driveway, Triple E Carpenters, I think, down past the Walmart. You could ask them there. They might be able to help you.”

Triple E operated in a light industrial section of Lufkin out of a prefabricated metal building with a corrugated roof. The rear resembled a lumberyard with various types of wood cut in a range of lengths and stored in neat stacks. Employee vehicles were parked at the side of the building.

The reception office, where a couple of people were working at cluttered desks, smelled of fresh-cut wood. The sound of power saws and ringing phones filled the air. Construction supply posters and tool dealer calendars dominated the walls along with a job board with employee names.

Gromov subtly indicated to Yanna to copy down the names. Tightening her jaw in anger, she sat in a vinyl chair in the reception area, snatched up an outdated magazine. She pretended to be interested in the crossword puzzle as she secretly copied names from the board onto a subscription card.

Gromov went to the counter.

“How can we help you folks today?” the man with the name Bobby embroidered on his shirt asked.

“I’d like to speak with Mason Varno.”

“Mace? Afraid he’s not here. He’s off for a few weeks.”

“Didn’t his wife have that baby?” One of the men at a desk spoke up, having overheard.

“I don’t know. I think she was due,” Bobby said. “That must be it. I was away myself last few weeks.”

“Is there any way I can reach him?”

Bobby shrugged. “You try his cell phone?”

“I don’t have the number.”

Bobby stepped back and looked under the counter.

“Why don’t you give me yours, I’ll see if I can reach him and have him call you, if you like. Can you tell me what it’s about?”

Gromov took one of Triple E’s business cards and jotted down the number of one of the disposable cell phones he was using.

“Just some business I needed to discuss with him.”

“Well, is it about a job?” Bobby tapped the card in his palm. “Were you not happy with it, because while he’s away we can follow up.”

“No, nothing about a job.”

“Is it a church matter, because our guy with the fellowship is out right now.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather not say. It’s on the personal side. I don’t mean to make so much trouble.”

“No, no trouble. Okay, I’ll see if I can reach him for you. Oh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Victor Kashin.”

“Alrighty. Say, where y’all from?”

“Europe. Just visiting on business.”

“Okay, sir, I’ll give Mace a call and pass him the message.”

When they returned to their car, Gromov gave Yanna a small video recorder and instructed her to inconspicuously capture all the license plates of the cars located under the Employee Parking sign. Gromov backed the blue Chevy sedan out and passed by slowly as if he were using that section of the lot to turn around.

No one noticed.

A short time later Gromov and Yanna were in a quiet booth of a restaurant.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger platter and Cherry Coke,” he told the waitress.

“A house salad and a Diet Coke will be fine,” Yanna said.

Waiting for their food, Gromov used his tablet to send a list of license plates and names to Yuri in New York.

“Yuri will help me to get closer to this Mason Varno.”

“Why don’t you try Remy’s relatives? You’re good at that.”

“Yuri tried. It appears she doesn’t have any.”

Their order arrived and Gromov had not yet taken his first bite of his cheeseburger when one of his cell phones rang.

“Mr. Kashin, Bobby Jensen at Triple E. You were looking for Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Bad news. I tried calling his cell phone but his voice mail box is jammed. I couldn’t leave a message. I’m sorry.”

Gromov thought a moment. “I understand. Thank you for trying. Do you have any suggestions on how I could reach him?”

“Naw. I asked around after you left, talked to a guy with the fellowship.” He lowered his voice. “They help guys who were on the inside get straight again. Well, I guess Mason and his girlfriend had complications when they had the baby and he’s taken some time off.”

“What sort of complications?”

“I really can’t say, I don’t know. I asked a couple of his friends-no one knows much. They were pretty private.”

Gromov thanked him, hung up, mulled over the call then explained it to Yanna for her thoughts on what “complications” could mean.

“It could mean anything. She could’ve lost it. Perhaps the baby was born with problems, or she simply had a difficult delivery.” Watching concern and heartbreak cloud his eyes, Yanna proposed another option. “If this Remy Toxton is part of this black market operation, she’s likely a surrogate mother. Complications could be a cover story. She could be having second thoughts about giving up her baby for adoption.”

Gromov’s face began contorting with fear and anger before he regained his self-control. He made a fist of one of his hands, touched it to the table and stared out at the street.

“We will find my grandchild. Wherever he is, we will find him.”