Unseen

Mark Graham

Description

Martin and Jenny Johnson chose to do something different with their vacation and went with a team to an orphanage in Southern Ukraine. Once there, the childless couple fell in love with a little girl, Oksana, and made steps to adopt her. But they soon met with mysterious resistance to the adoption and the child went missing for the rest of their time working at the orphanage. Martin made plans to stay behind a few days longer to learn more about Oksana's situation. Then days turned to weeks, and then months. With the help of his taxi driver, Dima, and Dima's friend Sasha (mafia) he learned more than he expected. Jenny worked from America to expedite paperwork in the hopes that Martin would be able to bring Oksana home. Neither could have imagined the strange people and twists and turns that would soon arise. Martin would come to find the depths of a father's love he had never known himself hidden within him.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780989324816
• Langue: English

Extrait

UNSEEN
Mark Graham
Copyright © Mark Graham 2013
EPUB Edition
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.
Published by Bumblebee House Ink Publishing
2933 NC HWY 39 N | Louisburg, North Carolina, 27549 USA | 1.919.622.8284
www.bumblebeehouseink.com
Book design copyright © 2013 by Bumblebee House Ink Publishing. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Mark Graham
Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-0-9893248-3-0
1. Fiction, General, Suspense, Literary
2. Fiction, Multi-Cultural
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Mariupol, Ukraine
T he grounds-keeper caught the director watching him from behind the tall white linen curtains of her office window. He had seen her do this for many years and drive by him on his daily long walk to the bus-stop. He sensed her still observing him as he ambled to the newly installed nine foot high steel front gate at the entrance to the orphanage. He let himself out first, double-wrapped the chains, and relocked it. He stood there for a while looking at what had been his place of work for the past thirty-two years, the old large three-story building of imperfectly placed sandy bricks. Located central to one of the many Soviet era apartment sections of town, the orphanage was surrounded and blocked from all sides. The whole of the property, his kingdom, surrounded by a low endless and expansive wall of the same brick. He had given his best to it, inside and out, to make it appear less like an industrial warehouse. But at each day’s end, the view of it and his efforts disappointed.
His last day. He was still trying to believe it. It would be months before he started receiving his pension and he had made no other plans for the gap. He never even considered his pension, only assumed he would work until his body gave out completely.
Directors came and went over the years, one or two that were good and the rest bad. This latest one being the worst. Many children came to know him well and he always focused on the ones, the few, who could potentially find work when they left. But he was a learner. A man who read and thought. He learned to only invest himself in certain ones eventually and worked to build them up, making them assistants and getting them duty with him in the gardens or strapping on them a tool-belt to follow him around with, cleaning and fixing. Hoping they would grasp something lasting from his ethic and take on some confidence. It had become to him his real job.
He turned from the building. He had eleven blocks to walk to the bus stop. His longevity was in part due to this exercise blended with the breeze coming from the nearby Sea of Azov. At the corner of the fourth block he would normally stop into the store, buy a paper and meet his friends. His friends used to include the customers but that had changed over the years.
He passed the storefront by this evening.
As he walked, he thought of the empty flat that awaited him at the other side of town. His wife had died long ago and too young. He was without children; they had wanted children so badly. When no one was around he would still speak to her about all their children that he tended to. About his love and dreams for them. Each year he looked to celebrate a day when he helped one of his children get a job. Or when he found one had gone off to University on a government scholarship. He bought the little store out on those days. There were six such celebrations in his years at the orphanage. The past five years had been hopeless because of the new director. He managed his work around the other bad ones, but this one was different, maniacal and unpredictable. Also she was in total control while pretending to be at odds politically with some workers and administrators. It took him several years before he understood her act, her lies. And another couple of years to keep himself from the bottle when he returned home.
Part of him was relieved that he witnessed what he had on the second floor, while the part of him, concerned with paying his rent now, wished he had not stayed to listen and been found out. The work was so hopeless anyhow. And the director’s future would probably outlast the remainder of his life. But he had seen them and heard them. He had some skills and sober many years so he did imagine he might still find work, even at his age.
The grounds-keeper reached his stop and was surprised to see her alone there sitting under the canopy. He had been so much in his thoughts that he had not noticed her shiny new car parked in front of the bus-stop. He was certain she had not passed him on the walk, he always noticed that. And her new car was the latest talk of her around the orphanage. He approached her cautiously and sat down at the opposite end of the bench without acknowledging her.
“You know I had to fire you,” the director said.
He did not answer.
“Those girls have a roof and some money. That’s more than they would have on the street and you know it. And they don’t pay for anything.”
The grounds-keeper leaned his body slightly more away from her.
“I know you heard us talking. I don’t need to know how much you heard, you understand. That is enough to know.”
“Why are you talking to me?” he asked.
“I want you to know how serious this is. You know the cook – she was here only six weeks.”
He did remember. The woman had simply disappeared one day. But she had made friends in her short time and they tracked her down to her home town in time to attend the funeral. Because she had accidentally drowned three days before. Drowned in a river she had grown up swimming in every summer of her youth.
The bus pulled up to the curb and the man stood with no intention of a response. Something in him, some primal survival message, told him to speak before boarding the bus. “I understand,” he said.
“Good. Very important.”
“Da,” he replied.
The man stepped onto the bus, found his window seat and dropped into it. He knew she was looking at him but he could not look back. The bus moved and after some time he found the interest to look out the window as they passed the city port and then flowed through downtown Mariupol. The bus slowed and he peered down at two policemen talking it up with each other. He recognized the short one from a day in the director’s waiting room. The grounds-keeper had been there replacing a telephone the director had ripped from the wall and thrown against another wall. The short policeman had been there to get paid for turning a blind eye. When he was young, he believed the uniformed men were really something. They were the people’s refuge and ambassadors of the law. He knew now that the Soviet dream was just a prelude to a nightmare. His people were stronger than that and their heritage deeper. He had always imagined his last days to be of respect and honor. But the image was only four hours old and remained with him. He had been on that wing of the second floor a hundred thousand times before. This day was just unfortunate.

Three blocks from his Kiev hotel, he stood in front of the doors. The doors to the shop were obviously locked but Martin Johnson shook them anyhow. His need for caffeine hoped in any possibility. Even that which was seen with his eyes was not necessarily true, not absolutely. Dawn was breaking but the shopkeepers were not yet active. He turned around to see only old men slouching on park benches, chatting, feeding pigeons breakfast, and one set playing chess. Martin remembered Benjamin Franklin’s saying of “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise”. From the looks of the men, Martin learned that health and wealth had very subjective and circumstantial definitions. He had left a note for his wife, Jenny, early in the morning that he would be venturing out alone and scribbled down the number to his new cell phone. He started to approach the old men but changed his mind. Six months of hard study prior to this trip and he was still not confident in his Russian enough for random conversations.
This first cool morning in-country, an overwhelming pang settled in his gut as he left the storefront to walk the city sidewalks. It was mostly because of his need of coffee but he could not ignore the fact of his new anxiety. The last time he felt something like this was prior to his wedding day. Not a foreboding, instead a kind of concentrated gravity, deep in meaning and personal.
Martin didn’t like radical change or discomfort of any kind. Joining up with the little group on their mission to help an orphanage was something he had committed to for a lack of something better to do. He was diligent in this and in life to always count the cost, to never blindly leap into anything new. With all of his preparation, and being just a day into Ukraine, it did not feel like a honeymoon. He couldn’t even get coffee the instant he wanted it and feared that there might be more inconveniences that lay ahead.
As he walked the endless broken and cracked asphalt sidewalks of Kiev, the mix of grand Stalin period buildings with their tall columns, carved stone window frames and inlaid with first floor cheaply built modern store-fronts enthralled Martin. He worked his mind away from his normal inclinations and passions, thinking of p