The Boy from Reactor 4 - By Orest Stelmach Page 0,1

goal to go up 2–0.

Boobirds rang from the stands. Bobby found his necklace and limped to the sidelines. The coach chewed him out and benched him for the rest of the period.

During the second-period intermission, Lauren asked her cameraman to replay the incident. Fortunately, he’d kept his lens on Bobby the entire time, even while Iona scored its goal. Lauren thought she’d seen something interesting that could distinguish her interview from others. The video confirmed her suspicion.

The necklace had broken into two pieces. The first was a long gold strand. The second was a locket that must have been attached to the necklace. It landed between Bobby’s skates. Lauren asked the cameraman to zoom in, and saw Bobby scoop up the locket. He fired a quick glance in each direction afterward, as though he feared someone were going to steal it from him.

There it was. Her edge. The other reporters wouldn’t even notice it. They’d give the necklace short study, thinking the orphan couldn’t stomach losing one of his only material possessions, perhaps a family heirloom. But that wasn’t the case. What Bobby feared losing was the locket. That meant there was something precious inside it.

With five minutes left in the intermission, Lauren went down to the visiting coach’s office. Coach Terry Hilliard looked as though he’d allowed too many sirloin hockey pucks past the crease of his lips since his days as a Rangers goaltender.

“Is Bobby okay after that fall?”

“Oh, sure. Kid’s tough as nails. Or ice picks. Or whatever the heck they use up there in Alaska.”

“So we’re still good for that interview after the game?”

“You bet. As long as I’m present and the cameras are off and you take it easy on him. He’s just a kid, Lauren. He’s been through a lot. You brought an interpreter, right?”

“What?”

“Your people told you, right?”

“Told me what? Bobby doesn’t speak English?”

“I wouldn’t say he doesn’t speak English. He’s picking it up quickly. But he’s not fluent enough to make it through an interview without some help.”

“You’re kidding me. What does he speak, then? Some Eskimo language?”

“Nope. His first language is Ukrainian. Second is Russian. English is third.”

“Ukrainian and Russian? You’re kidding me. Why?”

Hilliard shook his head. “Not entirely sure. It’s a Jesuit school. The priests only told us so much. And you don’t push around a Jesuit priest. He’s such a good kid. We don’t want to pry. The priests said the Russians discovered part of Alaska. I guess there’s some history there.”

“Huh. Interesting. But how am I supposed to conduct an interview if we can’t communicate?”

Hilliard scratched one of his chins. “Bobby’s guardian is here tonight. Her name is Nadia Tesla. She’s a young woman. From the city. Like yourself. I could ask her. She might be willing to translate.”

“Would you, Terry? That would be really kind of you, thanks.”

As the third period began, Lauren wondered how an orphan from a small town in Alaska had learned to play hockey so well. She wondered why he spoke Slavic languages better than English. She wondered who his guardian was and how he had ended up in a prep school in New York City.

But most of all, Lauren wondered what was in that locket.

CHAPTER 1

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN in New York City. Any dream can be fulfilled.

After a punishing winter, April revitalizes the dreamers. Scarves loosen, steam evaporates. Subways and sidewalks buzz with renewed hope.

Nadia Tesla bounded through the East Village, soaking in the scene. Tourists mixed with Ukrainian immigrants and rambunctious NYU students in Japanese noodle shacks and bodacious tattoo parlors. Soon she would have reason to party, too. A man had called. A man had called with the answers she needed.

Seventh Street was deserted compared with St. Mark’s Place. A pair of black torches illuminated the sign for The Bourgeois Pig with burgundy-colored light. Nadia peeked inside the wine bar. Still early, a sparse crowd. The oldest guy looked Nadia’s age, mid-thirties. She glanced across the street.

A sliver of a man stood on a corner beside a charcoal garage door, a plume of smoke twisting from his hand. He looked more like a shadow than a person, the offspring of Marlene Dietrich and Checkpoint Charlie, born with a genetic predisposition to survive in the catacombs.

He took a final drag on his cigarette. The tip flamed orange-red. He tossed it to the ground and stomped on it. Inched out of his nook and glanced in each direction, as though confirming he wasn’t being followed. Nadia wondered if something was