Beyond the Shadow of Night(81)

Seven numbers to call.

He called the first, and heard that he’d reached the voicemail of Matthew and Gillian Peterson.

He tried the second. Malcolm wasn’t too amused at being woken up this early.

He checked the third number, and his finger hovered over the phone.

What exactly would he say if the man confirmed his name was Michael? Hell, he’d only just considered that.

Hi there. Is your real name Mykhail by any chance?

What if he hadn’t been called that for a few decades? Would he slam the phone down when he heard his real name being uttered? Would he be angry or scared, thinking it was someone asking about these war crimes? If so, then Asher might never find him again.

And Asher didn’t want him scared off; he wanted to be friends. Sure, turning up on the doorstep would be more of a shock than a phone call, but he could explain better in person.

He scribbled down the five addresses and checked out.

He bought a pocket map of Pittsburgh and circled the addresses—his targets. Two were way to the south, and it made sense to try the closest ones first, so he took a cab to the Hill District.

He stood in front of the door, his collar suddenly feeling too tight, and took quite a few large breaths. His hand trembled as it knocked on the door.

Asher held his breath when the door opened, and was a little startled when a black man appeared. A very large one.

“Yeah?”

Asher felt his chest tightening, his sticky throat closing up.

The man looked beyond Asher and up and down the street.

“Say, you want somethin’, buddy?”

His tone didn’t suggest aggression, just no nonsense, but it hinted at a pretty damn scary aggression if the need arose.

“I’m looking for someone called Michael Peterson.”

“You found him.”

“Oh.”

The man shrugged. “And?”

The next moment, Asher felt the man holding his shoulder.

“You okay, old fella?” he said. “You don’t seem so good on your feet there.”

The man was right. Asher did feel slightly dizzy. He looked more closely at the man. There was no anger in his eyes, just concern.

Asher had to do this. He had to. And the quicker, the better. He took more deep breaths. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Thank you for your help. I just . . . made a mistake. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

Ten minutes later, Asher had managed to hail another cab.

“Could you take me to the Troy Hill district please?”





Chapter 27

Pittsburgh, 1997

Michael Peterson had long since finished breakfast. An early riser all his life, he was just back from his morning stroll and was about to settle down, fishing magazine in hand, in the sunroom that was tacked onto the back of the house.

He sat, but found it hard to get comfortable. He tried to read, but found himself scanning the lines without taking anything in. He tried a newspaper instead, but movie reviews or sports scores or what some politician had or hadn’t said to “a source” didn’t seem to matter. Everything else faded into sepia when you stood accused of something that could wreck your life and destroy everything you’d spent fifty years building up.

Okay, so he’d changed his name when he’d come to this country all those years ago. So what? It avoided all the “How do you spell that?” and “Is that Russian?” crap. It was simpler, goddammit, just SIMPLER. Easier to spell, pronounce, remember, write down. If changing your name to fit in was good enough for Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis, then it was good enough for him. But the rule seemed to be that unless you were a star, it was assumed you were trying to hide some part of your past.

A few days after the police interview he’d had a legal briefing. He’d been told that any witness statements from that long ago would be torn apart by any half-decent attorney, and that was if it even got to court. As long as there was no physical corroborating evidence, such as photographs or official records, there was no way they would be able to lock him up or extradite him for trial elsewhere. Add the fact that the legislation quoted was relatively new and had little precedent, and there were a hundred and one legal obstacles they could put in the way.

So they said.

But could he trust legal people?

Some music might take his mind off these things. Perhaps a little André Rieu.

He groaned as he pushed himself up and out of the chair, and groaned again as the doorbell went off before he reached his tape player in the kitchen.

The press? he thought as he approached the front door. He’d had one or two of those damn parasites visit him since his picture had appeared in the papers. Then again, it could be the mailman with one of those certified mail things that had to be signed for. He’d received a few of those in the past few days: one from the court, some from his attorney.

He froze.

There’s nobody home, whoever you are.

The doorbell went again. He waited, his only movement a chew on a nail. It went a third time. He took a few deep breaths and told himself not to be so damn paranoid. He’d spent decades worrying about every knock at the door and every phone call. He didn’t want to go back to those dark days.

He opened the front door and saw an old man. Well, about the same age as him.

“Yes?” he said, but even as he spoke he felt weak and nauseous. The man in front of him had a familiar look about him. His memory was sprinting to catch up and failing badly.