Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

nickname but always called her friends by their last names, in the formal manner, which she thought indicated superior breeding.

He left St. George as the last rays of the sun slid across the windows of McSorley’s Old Ale House, across the street. He resisted the urge to head straight for the bar — he would go there later, after his mother was in bed. He turned east and walked the half a block to his apartment, trudging up to the third floor on narrow, creaky stairs worn by decades of feet. The hall always smelled of boiled cabbage; the Polish couple on the second floor seemed to cook little else.

He unlocked the door quietly, in case his mother was napping. He often found her asleep in the big green chair, their fat orange cat purring in her lap. He opened the door to the smell of homemade soup and the sound of snoring. After his father died, four years ago, Aleks invited his mother to come live with him — not that he had much choice. It was expected that a good Ukrainian son would look after his mother. After all, he wasn’t married and needed a woman’s touch around the place, as her friends declared over coffee and cheese blintzes.

He hung his hat and coat on the rack and crept into the living room, where his mother lay in her usual position, mouth open, her snores rattling the windowpanes. Their orange cat was perched on top of the back of the chair and regarded Aleks through half-closed eyes. A white lace antimacassar had slipped from the top of the chair onto his mother’s head. It sat at a rakish angle, like a lace yarmulke, the edges fluttering delicately with each racking snore. He stood watching her for a moment, then tiptoed to his room. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

It wasn’t long before he heard a soft tapping at his bedroom door. Aleks opened it to find his mother smiling up at him. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, but sturdy and stout, with the broad, rosy-cheeked face of a Slavic peasant. She wore her thick gray hair in a long braid, and her blue eyes were clear and sharp. In spite of her obsession with illness, Aleks felt she would outlive everyone around her.

“Hello, myla,” he said, using the Ukrainian term of endearment. His mother liked that. “How are you tonight? It looked like you were having a nice nap.”

She sighed dramatically. “I’m feeling badly today, Aleksander.”

The heat rose to his face, and he fought to control his irritation. “You mean you’re feeling bad today. If you were feeling badly you would be having trouble with your sense of touch.”

She waved him away impatiently. “Don’t carp at your sick old mother, Sasha. Lord knows I have enough to worry about with Mrs. Petrenko’s boils acting up. I shall have to get up early tomorrow to make her my special poultice. She is counting on me; the doctors can do nothing for her, you know.”

Aleksander Milichuk had no idea if anyone counted on his mother for anything, and he murmured a vague response. Perhaps the ladies at the senior center were enjoying her ministrations whether her remedies actually worked or not. Sometimes it was just pleasant to have someone who cared enough to go out of her way for you. That was one reason he kept Mrs. Kovalenko on as his secretary. She was an incorrigible gossip and a busybody, but she fussed and clucked over him in a manner that both irritated and pleased him.

Dinner tonight consisted of homemade split-pea soup, brown bread, and cheese. His mother was a superb cook and enjoyed cooking for her “little Sasha,” just as she had for his father. Aleks knew that the standard Ukrainian diet was not the healthiest in the world, but there was little hope of training his mother in new cuisine techniques at this point in her life. He sometimes thought his father’s overindulgence in his wife’s excellent cheese and potato pierogi had contributed to his fatal heart attack — but in his darker moments, Aleks felt that his father had died of a broken heart.

As if reading his mind, his mother said, “I dreamed about her last night, Sasha.” He gazed down at his soup, which was so thick that the croutons didn’t so much float as perch on top of the viscous mass of dark green liquid.

“She came to me as I slept, Sasha — she looked just as she did that last day of her life.”

He continued to stare at his soup. Ten years had passed since his sister, Sofia, had been killed by a hit-and- run driver, and yet the rage shivered within him like a wind that would not be stilled. His father had never been the same afterward. When the police failed to make an arrest or even come up with a viable suspect, he began to wither like an unwatered houseplant, until finally his heart gave out. Aleks coped with the loss by drinking too much, and his mother … well, she had her physical ailments to keep her company.

Ignoring his silence, she rattled on, as if helpless to stop. “When she comes to me like that, I know something is going to happen. Mark my words, Sasha, something will happen — something big.”

“Yes, Mama,” he said. He was too troubled by the events of the day to pay much attention to his mother’s words. The last thing he needed was to think about his sister; it only made him angry. He refused a second bowl of soup and rose from the table. The cat lurked nearby, hoping for scraps of cheese.

“Are you going out tonight, Sasha?” his mother asked, slipping the cat a piece of cheese under the table.

“Just for a while,” he replied, putting on his coat. “I told Lee Campbell I’d meet him at McSorley’s for a drink.”

“That handsome policeman friend of yours?” she asked, all smiles.

“He works for the police department, but he’s a psychologist, not a cop.”

“As you say, Sasha — but he is good-looking, you have to admit.”

“Yes, Mama. Thanks for the soup — it was delicious.”

“Don’t be too late, Sasha. You’re looking a little peaked.”

“I won’t — don’t worry.”

“And you won’t have too many, will you, Sasha?”

“You know I’ve cut back lately, Mama.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He kissed her and slipped out, locking the door behind him. Outside, the evening was crisp and sharp, the late days of April hugging the streets in a feathery embrace. It was the time of year when trees blossomed overnight and flower beds came alive with riotous bursts of yellow.

Inside the bar, Lee Campbell was sitting at a window table with four beers in front of him. Beer at McSorley’s came two at a time, in heavy glass mugs wielded by stocky, red-cheeked waiters — fresh off the boat, if they were young, and former policemen if they were older. Their waiter was a retired cop Aleks had seen numerous times here, a burly man with the heavy shoulders and head of a mastiff. He nodded at the priest, which made Aleks unaccountably nervous.

Aleks slid into a seat across from his friend, resting his elbows on the ancient, scarred oak table. McSorley’s Old Ale House was the oldest pub in continuous operation in the city, dating back to 1854. It hadn’t changed much since then: the floors were still covered with sawdust, and the potbellied woodstove in the front room still huffed out heat during the cold winter months. Decades of dust lay on strands of abandoned spiderwebs hanging from ancient knickknacks over the bar. There was hardly an inch of bare space on the walls, which were crammed with photos, paintings, and mementos.

“Sorry I’m late,” Aleks said, reaching for the icy mug of ale that Lee pushed across the table.

“I got us one of each,” Campbell said, nodding at the twin mugs, one dark and one amber. Only a single beverage was available at McSorley’s: ale. You could order it dark or amber, but either way you got two mugs of it.

“Thanks,” Aleks said, drinking deeply. “The next one’s on me.”

“It’s a deal,” Lee said. “I have a head start on you already.”

The two men had met at St. Vincent’s in the dark days following 9/11. Aleks had had a series of anxiety attacks, something he’d never experienced before, and by the time he showed up at the hospital for psychiatric treatment, he needed very much to talk to anyone who would listen. Because of his position, he was used to giving comfort and advice to others but was not very good at taking it himself.

In the weeks after the attack, a lot of people needed help, so he wasn’t alone. Psychiatric wards all over the city were seeing a record influx of patients. Lee Campbell was another patient at the St. Vincent’s clinic, and they struck up a friendship. Campbell’s position as New York City’s only full-time criminal profiler was unique, and Aleks was drawn to the tall, charismatic Scot. After all, they each dealt with matters of morality, good and evil, though perhaps from different viewpoints. They had other things in common: Both loved music, had played rugby in college,