Lena's Bequest

By Paul Ross

Disclaimer: The material in this book contains scenes, language and/or thematic content that some readers may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Ross
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989996020

Book preview

Lena’s Bequest

Paul Ross

Copyright 2013 by Paul Ross

Published by Chandler 3 Press at Smashwords

Table of Contents

1 Yelena

2 Holodomor

3 Karl

4 Volhynia

5 Bequest

6 Return

7 Yulia

8 Feodor

9 Tourist

10 I-80

11 Baseball

12 Duke

13 Feral

14 Scheers

15 McKean

16 Recovery

17 Granted

18 Wioletta

1

Yelena

2004

Once the rain completed its assault on the dry earth that Lena considered a potential garden, she wiped a hand across her damp forehead, eager to begin the task of hand digging. Plunging into the rich Ohio dirt with a broken-tip shovel was not an easy plan, but it was good to grow something and a nice way to pass time until law school. The plan was to live simple, lie low and preserve assets. Leaving city life for summer in the country before starting school in the fall was a fantasy realized. Recalling the teasing her New York friends delivered, she imagined them grinding away at desks, while she nurtured budding crops.

Overhead, a crow cawed as the sun and clouds played shadow games. It was hard being new in a small community where everyone was a nodding acquaintance. She pondered ways to meet people and the possibilities shifted quickly. Church? Maybe, but what congregation does a skeptic join? Local watering holes were out since she quit drinking, still missing the inebriated familiarity of strangers willing to share. Maybe there was a festival or parade in town this summer. Maybe there was. . .

Not everyone has it, but Lena was blessed with the sixth sense of a twitchy cat; feeling the presence before hearing or seeing him. The invisible wave attacked her space. She shivered and heard faint breathing behind her.

What are you planting? the voice inquired.

‘Who wants to know?’ she thought. ‘And who the hell are you coming up behind me out here with nobody closer than half a mile.’ She paused and turned around, trying not to rush, Corn, eggplant, tomatoes, and things like that.

Lena held the smooth-handled shovel firmly, keeping it between her and the stranger as she studied the face before her. Around seventy years, he looked older than he probably was and his teeth were a bit crooked. The intruder offered a phony smile and reviewed the scene before him. Lena wondered where he’d come from. Did he walk, drive or just appear out of the woods? There was not a car or person in sight. ‘Damn it, I should have a dog,’ she thought, regretting the decision to avoid furry commitment. The house was 200 yards away and crazy thoughts were picking up speed.

The stranger wore a tan barn coat over black pants and hiking shoes.

I’m Karl. I was in the area and thought I’d stop and introduce myself. He had a mixed European accent.

What do you want? What can I do for you? she said, looking around for hand tools. It was never going to happen again. This time she was prepared, if she could just manage her pounding heart and rubbery legs, trembling from the stealthy visitor’s appearance.

I’m looking for the renter of this house, he said.

Can’t help you. They’re not here now, but should be back soon, Lena lied. She was renting from the Gundersons. With a very serious look on his face, he faced Lena.

If you’re Lena Burchak, he said, I’ve got a surprise for you.

The creepy feeling slammed her when he said that.

Well, Karl, I don’t think I want your surprise. In fact, I think you should leave.

She strode hard toward the house, two minutes away, spreading the distance between them with a firm hold on the shovel. The man followed twenty yards behind. Lena felt in the pocket of her field coat for her cell phone, flipped it open, hit speed dial number three and called 911. Turning the speaker on, she waited for the operator to pick up.

I was with your father when he died, and he wanted me to tell you something – show you actually, was the stunning reply from the man.

Perspiring freely in the humid air, she walked slower, looked at her phone, and turned to face the shocking statement.

Who are you? What do you mean by this? she said, holding the phone to her side, opened up for show. She could faintly hear the operator answer. Why have you come to the Gunderson house on Bagley Road? Leave now. You are bothering me. Leave now or I’ll call 911. She was satisfied with how clever she was and hoped she had regained some control.

Please let me show you. I see we’re headed for the house. I need a table to show you and tell you. You must be patient and give me a little time. I won’t hurt you.

These last words were unnecessary. If you are planning to hurt someone, the first thing you say is that you’re not going to hurt them. These words were a lie more than ever. She had heard them before and knew they were the crudest falsehood of all, designed to disarm the terrified or buy calm before further harm. Lena started to run, then stopped and swung the shovel at Karl, in a warning. She missed, regrouped and started walking backwards with Karl in sight. She gave her address to the 911 operator.

Listen to me. I am not going to hurt you. I promised your father I would find you and give you some information you need to know.

I’ve never known my father. He is a nothing. If you knew me, or my father, you would know that. If you claim to have known him, then fuck you and fuck him. Thanks for being there father. Now get the hell off this property or there will be problems.

Lena stood her ground and lifted the shovel parallel to her waist, ready to go.

He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a book. It was worn, with a shiny leather cover and binding, about the size of a small Bible, but clearly not that. It was once red in color, now showing splotches and stains from many rooms and hands. He tucked it under his arm, went to his side pocket, pulled a folded manila envelope, and produced its contents. It held photos and some papers.

I said get the hell off my property, Lena said, now in the yard, near her car and the Ladysmith. If she could get to the trunk and her safety purse, she had the upper hand; except the trunk remote was inside with the keys. She had to either get to the house and keys or pull the front release to open the trunk for the Lady. While considering her odds, strange Karl spoke again.

Lena, I have been looking for you on and off for about two months. Your father was my friend and comrade. I know you never knew him, but he knew you. I would like to talk to you about him now, please. Just hear what I have to say.

How do you know my name? Who are you? Stay right there. He remained motionless, trying to show calm. Okay, she continued, do you have any ID? That was all she could think to say, buying time until the sheriff arrived. If he stayed there and told the story, she would listen and watch, and sort out the scene. This was nuts.

Lena had never met her father, but after thinking about the issue for years, on her sixteenth birthday she gave up on the normal plan. Her mother’s stories were vague, never nasty, not like he was the love of her life. Her friend Bradley took the missing father thing harder. Before his father died, they got in touch and spent an uncomfortable afternoon in Santa Cruz. Lena’s father was no more than a question, a forgotten wish.

She told Karl to sit in the chair by the pole barn in the side yard. He stood looking at her, as if sizing up his options. He was not going to make a move on her. He just wanted to talk and meet his commitment to a companion and friend. Lena sensed a bit of calm now. This man was less threatening when he was 30 feet away and they could still talk. Missing from his demeanor was the vibe of a predatory stalking, nor did he close the distance. He stepped back and dropped his hands with the book in one hand and the envelope in the other. Before he spoke again, there was a whooping sound. It was the sheriff’s deputy about to turn into the driveway, hitting his siren once to signal his arrival. Further discussion would have to wait.

The deputy got out of the car and adjusted a belt that held five kinds of police gear. When he put on his hat, it sat on the upper third of his head, revealing a bad fit. What he lacked in height he made up in muscle in a short-sleeve shirt that revealed a commitment to bulk. He brought swagger to a scene in transition between tense and puzzled.

"I’m responding to a 911 alert. I was about a mile down the road. Is everything okay here?

Karl spoke first. Well, he said, pausing to look at Lena, there is no problem here. I am a friend of the family and I think she got a little scared because she wasn’t sure who I was.

Is that right, ma’am? the deputy asked.

Well, I’m not sure, Lena demurred.

What she really needed was a few minutes to decide if she should listen to this character, but she also wanted the deputy to work security while she figured it out. She could let him make the stranger leave and then sort it out. It was probably for the best that she didn’t get to the Lady Smith and Wesson after she dialed 911, now that the cavalry was here.

Okay, I have a plan. Let’s see identification all around.

Seems reasonable, she thought, in fact a great idea. Before she asked permission to get her purse from the house, the deputy turned to the stranger who was barely shaking his head.

I’ll just leave. I don’t mean to create a problem. My identification is in my vehicle, off the property.

He started backing out of the yard, looking at Lena with a resigned flicker of disappointment. The decision set off the deputy.

Wait a minute, sir. Hold the hell on. I need to see identification and if you don’t have it, I am going to get a name. ID or name; you gotta have one. So just stay there.

Karl continued his departure as if the order was only a suggestion, irritating the officer.

Hold it, old man. I don’t want to get physical, but you are going to cooperate or you’re going to jail. The deputy was in the mood now and ramped up the tension when he mentioned getting physical and jail. Totally unnecessary, Lena thought. Sneaking up on Karl’s turned back, the deputy moved to his belt and pulled out what looked like a small black can. It was either mace or pepper spray. Lena could not imagine he would go so far as to subdue an old man who would probably stroke out.

Just wait, Lena called out.

Karl turned and noticed the deputy was almost upon him, having closed the distance in a run-walk. He reached to grab Karl’s right shoulder, intending to turn him around. When his left hand raised the can into aiming position, the old man lifted his right arm up and then down on the deputy’s right hand, clamping it at the wrist under his armpit, followed by a kick or sweeping motion with his right leg. Instantly the deputy lost his balance, his face a picture of surprise as he dropped the can and reached behind to break his fall. Like clothes tossed on the ground, he collapsed when his arm snapped at the wrist of his right hand.

Grabbing at his belt, the old man beat him to his pistol, a gun-show Glock, pulled it free from the belt and threw it into the tall grass. Either by anger, frustration or pain, the deputy would not quit. When he screamed that he would kill him, Karl kicked him in the left arm, staring silently as the deputy cursed in pain and frustration. When he stopped, the old man started to walk away. After about ten seconds, he turned and looked at Lena.

I didn’t seek this, but I won’t be trifled with. Remember, I have to tell you something.

Lena looked at the stranger as he disappeared into the woods. He was moving swiftly, clearly no longer the creaky relic of first impression. He probably used the stretch of woods near the cornfield off Upton Road, she thought, where he could park a car.

Call 911, call 911 now. Tell them Deputy Sadler is hurt – right now.

Are you okay? Lena asked the deputy, realizing he was still there.

Call 911 now. Give them your address and tell them Deputy Sadler is down. The deputy was crying. I hurt so bad. Jesus Christ, that old man was trying to kill me, he moaned, unable to rise. The right arm appeared much worse, but both looked crooked.

I’m sorry, I’ll call right now. I think he thought he had no choice, she said, looking in the direction of Karl’s departure.

Instantly, she wished these words never left her lips. What was she thinking? The deputy came to help in response to her 911 call and now she was criticizing him. She pulled out her phone and dialed 911 for the second time in the last fifteen minutes.

Listen, lady, I came because you called us. That man was acting strange and now you’re defending him. I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. When I get a hold of that guy, he’s going to pay. Big time!

He was on his feet, arms barely moving as he bent sideway slightly to rub his ribs with the middle of his arm. He yelped in pain, continued a river of curses and looked at Lena with a resentful glare.

A car didn’t arrive for nearly fifteen minutes, hard to believe since she reported just as he’d asked. Lena tried to make Deputy Sadler comfortable, but he told her to get away and stayed by himself, muttering. She returned to her garden to gather tools. They came with the house, but she hoped to put them to good use. Now she was glad she did not plant a lot. It would be wrong to have planted, but not harvested, leaving seeds to sprout among weeds and pests, yielding a survivor harvest, or maybe nothing.

When the sheriff arrived, he said he had called an ambulance, but Deputy Sadler insisted on going to the hospital now. Trying to hold his arms steady, he eased into the patrol car, slowly maneuvering into the front seat, sat down, bounced slightly and then screamed and swore some more, telling the sheriff to get going. The patrol car pulled away and then stopped. The sheriff stood at the open door and told Lena to meet him at his office in an hour.

Dust kicked from the shoulder of the road as the car moved down the road. She should not have criticized the deputy’s approach, but could not stop thinking about the stranger. Suddenly, it seemed like she was the one who overreacted. What started as a chilling presence was now a curiosity to her. How had a man who looked like a barfly suddenly turn into Bruce Lee with knowledge of her father, who she had long stopped thinking about? Her churning head was out of balance. What a day so far.

The pre-war county building was clad with crumbling red brick and served as the office, jail and home of Sheriff Downs, whose grandfather was sheriff when the town fathers laid the cornerstone. Given the rural population, there was no need for more than four deputies, but because of budget cuts, the department had two full- time deputies and an unpaid retiree on its staff. Bruce Young was not officially working when Lena walked in the building. He more or less hung around. His half pension, added to a full pension from the Toledo PD, paid most of his bills. Since the front desk was vacant and he had more years on the job than anyone in the building, he poked Lena for information.

I heard the 911 call on the radio, he said when she arrived.

Yeah, I made the call. I got the creeps from some old man who suddenly appeared at my place. Maybe I shouldn’t have called, but I thought he looked creepy.

Better safe than sorry, Young said.

I guess.

What happened between the guy and the deputy, he asked, trying to pry details to share with the sheriff.

Lena looked around the room. She did not like police buildings. Men like Bruce Young were annoying because they were compelled to return to the job they quit just to yap it up with the boys, to tell each other cop lies. She decided it was best to keep the conversation clipped. Just give the straight story and get out.

Well, the deputy was asking us for ID and the old guy started to leave and the deputy asked him to stop and he wouldn’t, so he tried to stop him and the old guy jumped him real quick.

She picked at her fingernails. A nervous habit, but also a chance to gather her thoughts

You never know what’s going to happen when you make a call. It could be the calm and then it turns into all-out free-for-all. Just like that, Young said.

That was pretty much it. I never would have suspected the old guy was capable of what he did.

What did he do? Young queried. He and the sheriff were at lunch when the call came in.

Before she answered, a slammed door announced the arrival of Sheriff Downs, his shirt wet at the pits and lower back from the August heat. A balding man, he balanced an extra eighty pounds on a slight limp from an off-duty accident on the Interstate. Looking at Lena, he gave her the ‘come here’ signal with his right index finger and went into his office, next to the bathroom. She walked towards the room, ready to tell what happened, mentally sorting the events.

Sit down, the sheriff ordered brusquely. He remained standing and moved to the edge of the desk, took out a pad from his pocket and brushed his lapel.

"What is your name and address?

Lena Burchak, 2611 Bagley Rd. I’m renting the house and property of the Gundersons.

Date of birth, Social Security number?

Seemed like an out-of-order question, she thought. What about what happened at your house or why did you call 911? Lena was irritated, but tried not to show it.

I was born in 1971. And did you say Social Security? I have a driver’s license. It’s from Michigan. Lena hoped she would not have to produce the temporary paper license from the Michigan Secretary of State, certain to flunk the genuineness test. I moved here about six weeks ago. Are you going to ask about the weird man at my house? The man I never saw before he beat up the deputy. I don’t know this guy. Lena decided to throw old Karl to the sheriff; there was no advantage to claim the deputy overreacted when she was sitting in his station building talking to his boss.

I am going to need your Social Security number, please. Let me worry about what questions to ask, he said.

Lena stopped for a second to gather her thoughts before giving her number, acting like she was remembering, thinking about what it might reveal. Maybe a different one, a number or two off, she thought. In the end, she relented and gave it. The sheriff wrote it down and went to a separate keyboard.

My deputy says you warned the guy who beat him up. Is that what happened?

That man is a nut. I was just . . . I was thinking, for some reason, maybe the deputy overreacted by pulling out pepper spray. It seemed like it was just a creepy dude. I didn’t mean to warn the old guy.

The sheriff hunched over the monitor, read the screen and looked at Lena. Except for the short hair-style, her public records description matched; height, five foot eight inches, about 130, blue eyes, no marks, round face with high cheeks. He hit print and seconds later, held a piece of paper in his thick fingers.

What was your name again?

Lena Burchak.

What? Again?

Burchak, Lena, from Michigan. I just . . .

How about Yelena Burchak, do you know her?

The sheriff was toying now and she was not going to let it continue. She knew her legal rights and knew she could only make it worse by lying. She had nothing to hide. Maybe a few questions to clear up, but nothing that would merit keeping her.

"I have a picture of you from Michigan, Flint actually. Never been there, but I hear it’s like the new murder capital of the world. This picture and information has you with a criminal record for assault, about twelve years ago, to be sure. Ring a bell, Yelena Burchak?"

Once again, loyalty to Gail Freeman returned for another visit. Apparently, beating the abusive boyfriend of your best friend is not legal. When Gail’s boyfriend tossed her down some concrete steps, he got bail and she got a fractured skull. Lena waited for the opportunity and caught the jealous one pulling in the parking lot at Angelo’s Coney Island. She surprised him with a hammer to the back of the head, the face, his balls and the knee.

She went to trial and claimed self-defense, but the dishwasher catching a smoke testified against her. Actually, he had a different story completely, like he wasn’t there, but he was, and he supported enough of the ex-boyfriend’s story to convict her of a lesser felony of attempted aggravated battery, a legal oxymoron for sure. Lena got one year of probation and an anger-management class full of dysfunctional people with hilarious stories, so justice was served after all. Even though her vigilante moment was criminal, the judge took into account the abuser.

Yes, my birth name is Yelena, I shorten it to Lena. So what? The jerk beat up my friend and then attacked me; he got what he deserved. But I shouldn’t have done it, obviously. She caught herself and stopped talking.

How do you know the guy who beat up Deputy Sadler?

I don’t know him. He surprised me completely. I’m in my garden and he came up on me; scared the shit out of me. The sheriff’s reaction indicated she was too crude. Better to ease up, she thought. Sorry. He was acting strange and then he said. . . Lena hesitated. I called 911 because I’ve been in situations like that before. I didn’t know if I was going to be robbed, raped or whatever. And then he followed me to the house.

Who around here knows you? asked the sheriff.

`‘Around here’ was northern Ohio rust belt transitioning back to farming. Around here was nowhere, except where Lena thought she could move for a few months before starting school again.

Who knows me? I don’t know; I just moved here. I guess Mr. Gunderson. I paid him rent and a deposit on the first, no, the second . . . I’m starting Michigan Law School in the fall and was minding my own business.

Lena noticed outside eavesdropping when Bruce Young’s shoes creaked as he moved closer to the warped door. It was becoming clear that a straight police report was not going to happen.

The sheriff pulled up taller and tried to shift his girth. However, it had already settled in.

So what it appears that we got here, correct me if I’m wrong, is an evasive female stranger, with a felony background and name changes, and an unknown male who broke Deputy Sadler’s arms in several places and may have broke some ribs. Oh, by the way, the female stranger warned the missing stranger that Deputy Sadler was approaching. Am I right so far?

I didn’t warn him. I said ‘just wait’

The man said he knew you, the sheriff said.

Annoyed, Lena snapped a bit, I am getting the message that I’m wasting your time. What do I have to do to convince you to focus on what happened? It has nothing to do with me or my name.

All right, describe the man who was at your house.

Finally, they appeared to be making progress.

At first I thought he was older, kind of broken-down looking, a smoker and hard living type. But then, he appeared more vital somehow, when he defend . . . no, when he turned on the deputy and beat him up. The man was probably average height and kind of slim. He wore a barn coat, had clean hands, black and grayish hair. That’s all I can think of, I guess, right now. She redacted the curious accent from the description.

Lena was not going to cooperate much longer. She knew she was pushing the wagon up the hill and that never worked. She would let the sheriff have his say, but was reluctant to stick around and answer personal questions. That could take a long time. Bruce Young knocked and walked in. The hospital had called. Taking the call on his extension, he scribbled notes on a message pad and passed out grunts of agreement. Turning back to Lena, he hung up the phone.

Tell me, he began again, had you ever seen this man before?

Never saw him before. He just walked up on me and starting asking strange questions like . . . well, like, I don’t know, what was I planting. He gave me the creeps, followed me to the house and asked me who lived there. I’ve had some bad experiences in the past. I was visiting a friend at Rutgers and her other roommate had a friend, a boyfriend or something, who sold pot. One afternoon when everyone was at the football game, some criminals came over to rob him. They tied everyone up. Some people were beat up badly and they raped my friend. I’ve been very twitchy since then.

Sheriff Downs gave a vacant stare, watching and thinking at the same time.

Rutgers? Never heard of it; interesting story though. Suppose you can give me some details on that event, ma’am?

Yes, I can, but what? I just gave you the details. It was a bad scene.

No, I mean dates, where it happened? Is there a police report?

Sheriff, that event is not related to the man who beat up your deputy and scared me.

I don’t really want to hear you tell me what is related and what isn’t. You see, I have a strange theory in my head that the man today was someone you do know, someone from your past, your public record past, if you know what I mean. I think that man and you have history and when you tell me who he is, I will arrest him for attempted murder of Deputy Sadler.

There it is again, Lena thought. First, Barney Fife was going to mace the old man, behind his back no less, and now they wanted to charge him with attempted murder for defending himself. If the deputy handled it a little better, Lena would probably still be weeding her garden. Attempted murder was his way of saying that when the department looks bad, they are still the law, so screw the rest of the story.

The choice for now was to stiffen her resolve and go back and forth with the sheriff or tell the story about the stranger and her father. It might get easier or it might not. He might start asking questions, like, who is your father and what is his name? On that subject, Lena was a stranger herself.

Sheriff, I was at my place, weeding my vegetables, and out of nowhere this man appeared. He frightened me. I was defensive. He asked questions about whether I lived there and whether I lived alone. I walked to the house, dialed 911 and kept the connection open, thinking 911 would hear. I swung my shovel in his direction.

Wait. Hold it there for a minute. Why did you swing the shovel? Did he physically threaten you?

Not really. He had a book and something else, I don’t recall. He said he knew my father and that scared me because I knew he was lying. I have never known my father. I was raised by my mother, more or less. What the hell, she thought, might as well get it out.

Do you know your father’s name?

Not really. He was from Poland or Russia. He met my mother and when she announced my arrival, he left. My mother raised me in Michigan. He never contacted my mother and she never spoke of him. I gave up caring years ago. This man can’t know my father.

The sheriff watched Lena as she spoke, twisting his lower lip and concentrating on his witness. Abruptly, he put his hand in the air to halt the proceedings, looked away, then back again, got up and told her to leave a phone number and copy of her driver license with the front desk and then she could leave.

Lena was out of the building in three minutes and went straight home. When she walked into the kitchen, the weird day rolled on. On the counter, next to the sink, was the book that Karl held in his hand. While she was at the sheriff’s office, somehow he had gotten into the house and left the book. Perhaps he was still around. Lena whirled through the living room, out the screen door and ran to the car. As her shoes crunched gravel, she hit the trunk remote and turned back to look at the house. No one was following. Reaching the trunk, she pulled the Lady from her purse, took a breath and walked back to the house with a loaded 38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver pressed to her left hip. Hearing the lyrics in her head, she knew Joe Ely’s song was right. Lena drew a deep breath, walked toward the house and softly sang, I only use my gun whenever kindness fails.

Creeping towards the west side entrance, she was determined not to banter with Karl what’s-his-name. Just follow the training. Be ready to shoot. Do not put your finger on the trigger unless committed to shoot and then shoot twice and hold. She listened for any activity from inside the house, but heard only the whisper from the willow tree. Birds were completed their songs as dusk arrived. No sound came from the house as she opened the door and stepped inside to more silence. She crouched low, looked around corners, room to room, and did not see or feel anyone. Again, she checked every room carefully. It occurred to her that Karl had been there, but left. Once again, Lena turned to the book on the counter.

Pressed tight were the pages, as if soaked and dried repeatedly, yet they turned easily. The language was English and Russian. Lena had a good understanding of Slavic languages from her mother and her early years included a strong dose of Eastern Orthodox and Russian culture. There were perhaps a hundred pages in the book. There were numbers, words in Cyrillic and writing by different hands. It was not so much a book as a bound compilation. The cover overlapped by almost an inch on the sides and old creases showed the use of cord or rubber bands to keep it closed.

Lena put the book down and listened to the night quiet, broken only her slow breathing. Cocking the hammer on the Lady, she again walked room to room, upstairs and down, looking for anyone or anything strange or out of place. With a double-action revolver, a good squeeze was all it needed, but she wanted to relax while reading the book and wanted one last bit of recon. She was no longer pensive with the Lady. If someone was there, they would be shot, but again, no one was found and everything was in order, except for the book on the counter.

When she returned to study the volume, she noticed something she missed on her initial review. Opened halfway, a note was stuck to the inside. Lena, it said, I’m sorry for the problem, but I must speak with you. Please meet me at the Rusty Nail at nine tomorrow night. She immediately thought of a bar in Romulus, near the Detroit Metropolitan Airport, about a fifty-mile drive. She went there with friends when they picked her up from New York during her college years. She insisted they stop for a roadie because she liked the Rusty Nails served there. She had to have at least two before she could