Beyond the Shadow of Night(82)

“Mykhail,” the man said. And it wasn’t a question.

His throat jammed as if something had grabbed it. His eyes flitted to the man’s hands, fearful that they might hold something more dangerous than a letter. But they were empty. The man’s face, however, held something he wasn’t quite sure about.



Asher knew as soon as the door was opened. Time makes hair thin and gray or even absent, it turns skin saggy and sallow, but it does little to the structures underneath. Or the scars. And Asher didn’t take his eyes off the face of the man he hadn’t seen for over sixty years.

But the man who now preferred to be called Michael didn’t speak. Well, that was understandable after all this time.

“Mykhail,” he repeated. “It’s me, Asher.” As he spoke he felt a tear fall from the corner of his eye and wiped it away before holding a hand out.

The man who was really Mykhail pulled back slightly at the gesture, but Asher thought it was probably the shock. And eventually he did hold his hand out to meet Asher’s.

“It’s so good to see you, my friend,” Asher said, smiling.

Mykhail’s eyes were blinking, his lower jaw moving aimlessly. “Asher?” he said uncertainly. “But . . . Asher?” It looked like he was struggling to breathe. Then he looked Asher up and down. “Is it really you?”

“I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this,” Asher replied.

Mykhail looked like he was in some sort of trance, until a noisy motorcycle behind Asher broke the spell. He stood aside and said, “You’d . . . better come in.”



Ten minutes later, Asher and Mykhail sat themselves down in the sunroom with a cup of coffee each. Asher had recounted how he came across the photograph in the newspaper by complete fluke, and Mykhail had explained that for practical reasons he no longer went by the name Mykhail, and that being Michael Peterson just made life simpler.

Asher laughed. “You’ll always be Mykhail Petrenko to me, but I guess it is a bit of a mouthful for the average American. Asher Kogan isn’t so bad.”

“Okay, I’ll make an exception for you. You can call me Mykhail.”

“I’m not sure I could do anything else.”

“So . . .” Mykhail said, his face stiffening briefly. “A photo in the newspaper, you say? I remember that being taken.”

“I recognized you immediately and I couldn’t stop myself. Isn’t it an incredible coincidence?”

Mykhail nodded thoughtfully.

“After I read the article it just needed a little detective work. You know, I knocked on the door of this huge—”

“It’s all lies, you know.”

“Uh, what?”

Mykhail pulled his lips back, exposing a flash of yellow teeth. “The case against me. The newspaper story. It’s poppycock.”

“Oh, of course.”

“I have legal people working on the case—not that I really need them.”

Asher placed his cup down and clasped his hands as if in prayer. “Mykhail. We haven’t met for sixty years, but nobody changes that much, not inside, not the real person. You were a good kid, so you grew up to be a good man. It’s probably mistaken identity.”

“That’s exactly what my daughter says.”

“You have a family?”

Michael smiled awkwardly. “I have a daughter, Diane.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No, no. I’m not widowed. Jenny left me.”

Asher’s expression didn’t quite know what to do. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“That’s okay. She’s history. I haven’t seen her in a long time. Diane stayed with her at first, then said she preferred living with me.”

“And she still lives with you?”

“She thought about moving out once or twice, but I don’t think she ever seriously wanted to. She’s happy here. I still think she needs me, although she’d never admit it.”

“It must be good having family?”

Mykhail took a sip of coffee. “Oh, I don’t know what I’d do without Diane. Well, yes, I do, but you don’t want to hear that. What about you, Asher? Are you married?”

Asher shook his head. “I had a circle of friends when I was younger, when I worked at Dearborn. I . . . uh . . . I had a difficult time a few years back. Now I like to keep life simple.” He laughed, and looked Mykhail up and down again. “I just can’t believe it. After all these years.”

Mykhail smiled and looked Asher in the eye. “I know. I never thought I’d see you again this side of heaven.”

“We have a lot of old times to talk about.”

Mykhail nodded. “If we can remember them.” He laughed. “Tell me, what are your plans for the next few days?”

“I just stopped the night in a hotel and . . .” Asher took a breath. “I was thinking we could talk about the old days. In Dyovsta.”

“Mmm . . . the old days.” Mykhail thought for a moment, then grinned. “Sure. Of course.”

“Good.”

Asher looked around the sunroom and glanced back into the living room. The wallpaper was clean and neat, there were photographs and ornaments evenly spaced on shelves and cabinets. It was such a contrast to Asher’s own house. “You keep the place nice,” he said.