The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark

CHAPTER 8

Luo drove to a health clinic thirty miles north of Kyiv on Monday morning. The Division of Nervous Pathologies was located on a campus consisting of four multistoried buildings that resembled concrete slabs. It was an abomination only man could have conjured, and a Soviet man at that. The campus was surrounded by a gorgeous forest, a pleasant contrast that reminded Luo of home.

Luo met with an administrator in a stark office with metal furniture.

“There were four medical classifications for Chornobyl victims,” the administrator said. “Sufferers, evacuees, cleanup workers, and nuclear plant workers. Our job was to formulate diagnostics, create medical classifications, and prescribe treatments.”

“Did you find any records for a boy named Tesla?”

The administrator reached for a manila folder. “I did. There were twenty-eight people named Tesla. Fifteen of them males.”

“How many would be in their late teens today? Between sixteen and eighteen.”

“Three. Two were from Kyiv. One was from Korosten. I remember the one from Korosten. His name was Adam. Incredible case.”

“Why incredible?”

“He was a stage II sufferer. Physical deformity at the ears. Thyroid problem. Not as bad as the girl.”

“Girl? What girl?”

“Adam came for dosimeter updates and treatments with a girl. They lived with the girl’s uncle. What was her name? It began with a vowel. Anna. No. Irina. No. Eva. Yes. That’s it. Eva.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They both had the benefit of being serednjaky.”

Luo frowned.

“Serednjak is the Ukrainian word for middle-of-the-road, as in a wheat field. They say it’s best not to be the tallest or the shortest blade of wheat but somewhere in the middle. That way when the combine passes over you, you’re sure to be cut. The blade may mangle the tall wheat and miss the short one, but it’s sure to cut the one of average height. And so it was here, at the Division of Nervous Pathologies.”

“How so?”

“The short wheat — those who were not sick enough — might not have gotten any treatment. The tall wheat — those who were very sick — might have been too fragile to survive the treatment. The serednjak had the best chance for survival.”

“And to your knowledge they survived?”

“Both of them were stage II sufferers since birth. Their mothers lived in Pripyat in 1986 when the disasters occurred. And they were born in the area. Their symptoms worsened as they aged, which is typical. When the prognosis for Eva’s thyroid condition became grim, she had the requisite surgery. She was fifteen or so at the time. Which would have made Adam fourteen.” The administrator stared into space as though recalling an extraordinary event. “And then it started happening.”

“What started happening?”

“The radiation in their bodies began to gradually recede.”

“What? It went away?”

“Yes. We asked questions but found nothing in their diets or lifestyles that could explain their steady improvement.” The administrator checked his manila folder. “The last record I have of the boy visiting is approximately two years ago. Nothing since.”

“Do you have an address? A next of kin?”

The administrator gave Luo their home address in Korosten. “Eva passed away two years ago. Had an accident that required hospitalization. Died from an infection. Girl overcomes one illness only to succumb to another. What a tragedy.”

“She’s happier in the spirit world, I am sure,” Luo said.

The administrator frowned. “What spirit world?”

“The one beneath the earth.”

The administrator looked like he’d swallowed something bitter. “Where did you say you were from?”

“North of Moscow. Anyone else mentioned in the file?”

“An emergency contact by the name of K. Melnik. There’s an address in Kyiv. Might be a physician. Or a family friend. I don’t know. I never interacted with this person, and there is no record of him in my notes.”

Luo thanked the administrator and went back to his car. He placed a series of calls to Korosten and learned that Eva’s uncle had been a Soviet hockey player before being convicted of manslaughter. He drank and gambled his pension away. He also died seven months ago.

That left one lead, the mysterious K. Melnik noted as an emergency contact for Adam. Luo drove to Kyiv. K. Melnik lived in an elegant old four-story apartment building overlooking the River Dnipro.

A police car was parked at the curb in front of the building. The front door was open, and two uniformed policemen stood chatting near the stairs.

Luo walked by the policemen into the foyer and studied the names by the buzzers and apartment numbers. A person named Ksenia Melnik lived in apartment 4B. Luo wasn’t surprised the contact was a woman. Unlike the administrator, he’d made no assumptions about the person or her relationship to the boy. He’d learned during his tours in Chechnya not to make assumptions about any civilian.

He pressed the buzzer to Ksenia Melnik’s apartment. No one answered.

One of the cops appeared beside him. “You know this person?” He looked suspicious and angry, like most Ukrainian cops.

“I’m a friend of a friend. He asked me to stop by and say hello to her.”

“Tell your friend that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because Ksenia Melnik is dead. Robbery — homicide. Last night.”

“How did she die?”

“A bullet to the head.”

Just like the squatters in Chornobyl. “Anyone in the neighborhood see anything?”

“No, but her son was hiding in the closet the whole time. He says he didn’t see their faces. Said he hid in the closet like a coward and let them kill his mother.”

“Is he home right now?” Luo said.

“Yeah. The detectives are with him upstairs right now.”

“I’d like to extend my condolences when they’re done.”

The cop frowned. “I thought you didn’t know her.”

“I didn’t. But my friend does. And he’ll never forgive me if I don’t pay my respects on his behalf.”