by Beth Flynn
“Mom told us to make sure you were awake before we left for the bus stop,” Mimi told him from the doorway.
Jason had moved past his sister and ran to the edge of the bed where Tommy had started to sit up.
“Where’s your mother?”
Jason wrapped his arms around his father. “Dexter had another seizure and Mrs. Winkle was too upset to drive him to the vet, so Mom drove them.”
Dexter was their neighbor’s dog. Mrs. Winkle was an elderly widow who lived across the street. She’d lost her husband in the Korean War and never had children or remarried. She was completely alone except for her dog, Dexter. This wasn’t the first time Ginny had driven Mrs. Winkle and Dexter to the vet.
Tommy nodded in understanding.
“Have a nice trip, Dad,” Jason said. “Will you be back in time for my game Sunday night?”
“Sorry, buddy, my flight doesn’t get in until Monday afternoon, but you call me as soon as it’s over. I’ll want to know all about it.”
He ruffled Jason’s hair and looked up to say goodbye to Mimi, but she’d already left.
“Mom said to tell you the coffee is fresh, and there are some buns or something in the warming oven,” Jason called over his shoulder as he chased his sister down the stairs.
Tommy looked at the clock on the nightstand and realized it was only 6:55 a.m. He had plenty of time before he had to leave for the airport.
Soon he found himself sitting at the kitchen table sipping on his coffee and reading the newspaper. There was nothing about Moe in the local newspaper. Good.
The recent unearthing of Moe’s remains and the technology used to positively identify her had been on his mind. He thought about his past and what he’d found out after Grizz’s trial—and all the research he’d done on the woman he suspected was his mother, Candy. Everything pointed to him being Grizz’s son, but he’d never confirmed it with DNA testing.
He took a big sip of coffee and remembered how he’d tried a long time ago to see if he was related to Grizz. It was back when they all still lived at the motel, years before Grizz’s arrest and trial. Long before Tommy had even heard the name Candy. At that time, Tommy had suspected Grizz was his older brother, not Blue. Grizz had come home with a gunshot wound, and Tommy used the opportunity to sneak a blood-soaked bandage to a friend at the school’s science lab. The test confirmed he and Grizz shared a rare blood type.
It wasn’t a DNA test, but it was the closest you could get back then. That had been back in the late seventies when tests could only determine blood type since DNA profiling was still years away. He’d confirmed in his mind that Grizz was indeed his older brother, not Blue. But now, he wondered whether it was possible to get a DNA sample from Grizz to compare to his own. He supposed he could just visit Grizz in prison and ask him for one, but he wouldn’t do that. Grizz didn’t know Tommy had found his original birth certificate listing Jason William Talbot as his father. As far as Grizz was concerned, Tommy was still living under the ruse that he was Blue’s younger brother.
Then it occurred to him. Mimi was his half-sister. There was no doubt in Tommy’s mind that Mimi was Grizz’s biological daughter. If Tommy was Grizz’s biological son, then he and Mimi would share similar DNA patterns.
He stared at the sticky bun that sat untouched on the plate in front of him. He downed the rest of his coffee in one healthy swig. He looked at the clock on the stove. He still had time before his flight.
Less than twenty minutes later, he stood in the bathroom that Jason and Mimi shared and stared at the bathroom counter. A cup held a green toothbrush. That was most likely Jason’s. Where was Mimi’s? He quickly spotted it. A bright pink toothbrush off to the side, almost hidden completely by a carelessly tossed hand towel. He carefully placed it in the clear plastic bag and promptly headed downstairs and out to his car.
Less than thirty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store. He spotted his friend, Dale, standing next to an SUV with a surfboard strapped to the roof.
“Hey, man, long time no see. How’ve you been, Tom?” Dale asked as Tommy got out of the car.
Tommy smiled at his old friend and gave him a quick man hug with the obligatory slap on the back.
“It’s been too long, Dale. Things have been good. How ’bout you?”
Dale was the youngest son of one of Tommy’s first clients when he’d started out at the Monaco, Lay & Associates architecture firm all those years ago. They were close in age and had hit it off immediately. They didn’t really stay in touch, but Tommy knew Dale was someone who could be trusted. Not because he’d shared secrets with Dale. No, Dale could be trusted because he basically didn’t give a shit. Besides, he was too busy chasing waves and women to care about anybody else’s business.
“I’m good. I’m busy,” Dale answered with a sheepish grin. “Still a lab rat. Haven’t felt the desire or inclination to move up the corporate ladder. Happy to do my nine-to-five in my sanitary cubicle and hit the waves on weekends.”
“So not much has changed since you graduated college?” Tommy gave him a grin.
“Nope, and I don’t want it to. I know you said you were in a hurry. You have the stuff?”
Tommy reached into his pocket and pulled out two plastic bags. One held a pink toothbrush. The other held a cotton swab, which he’d used to swipe the inside of his own cheek. He handed them to Dale.
“I just need a simple DNA test. I need to know if these two items contain DNA from biological relatives. That’s all.”
“Yeah, man, I get it.” Dale held up the bag with the pink toothbrush. “You want to know if this is your love child. You’re not the first guy to ask for this test, man.”
“No,” Tommy snapped. “Listen, I know for certain I’m not this child’s biological father. I just want to know if we’re related. It’s that simple. Will you be able to tell me that?”
“Yeah, sure, that’s easy enough. I’ll call you.”
“Don’t call me, Dale. I’ll call you. Is a week enough time?”
“Yeah, a week should be good, Tom.”
“I really appreciate this, Dale.” Tommy reached for his door handle. “I have to catch a plane. And thanks, man. I owe you.”
Tommy watched as Dale climbed back into his car. He turned the key to start his, and headed for the airport.
**********
Seven days later, Tommy sat in his office and dialed a number. Just when Dale picked up, Tommy saw his next client waltz into the office and approach Eileen’s desk. Shit, he’s early.
Dale picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Dale, it’s Tom. Wondering if you got those lab results?” he whispered.
“I did, my man, and I have your answer,” Dale said.
“Well?”
“Yes. The two samples you gave me share the same DNA. You are most definitely related,” Dale said. “And I think you should—”
“You’re sure. No doubt?” Tommy asked, his voice low but urgent as his client, obviously ignoring Eileen who was following him, approached the office door.
“No doubt at all, man. As a matter of fact—”
Disappointment weighed heavily. Mimi was his half-sister. He didn’t have time to dwell on it.
“I owe you, Dale. I’m sorry, man, gotta run. Thanks, though. Like I said, I owe you,” Tommy replied, hanging up before Dale could comment.
On the other side of town, Dale sat in his cubicle and reviewed the test results for the second time. He’d wanted to double check because he distinctly remembered Tom telling him, “I know for certain I’m not this child’s biological father.”
“Well, my friend,” Dale said to no one as he shook his head. “I know for certain that you are this child’s biological father, but you probably already guessed that.”
Chapter Thirteen
Leslie
2000, Fort Lauderdale (Seven Months Before the Execution)
Leslie Cowan’s head pounded as she squinted at the mailboxes in the rundown neighborhoo
d. It was New Year’s Day, and she had celebrated last night with a combination of too much cheap wine and watered down beer. Her stomach churned as the bright Florida sun burned a hole through her windshield and caused her head to ache even more. Not even her darkest sunglasses could ward off the brightness that served as a glaring reminder of last night’s debauchery. She’d woken late this morning to find herself in an unknown bed with an unfamiliar and extremely heavy arm draped over her.
She shook her head as if to erase the disgust she felt with herself. What was his name? She couldn’t remember and realized it didn’t matter. She would never see him again.
The neighborhood she now drove through was old, and most of the homes had seen better days. She could see some residents still made an effort, but unfortunately, most of their attempts at a neat and tidy yard were thwarted by the person living next door. Overgrown lawns, junk filled porches, and cars on blocks must be sinking these home values. Why doesn’t somebody call code enforcement?
Oh, well, not her problem. She thought back to last week, and how a friend had casually mentioned that her boyfriend’s father knew some guy who used to belong to a motorcycle gang. Leslie had heard about a big magazine that would be dedicating an issue to celebrity bikers later this year. That rumor, combined with her friend’s knowledge of someone who’d actually been in a biker gang, sparked an idea—what if she could impress the big magazine with an exposé on a real gang? Even if the special issue rumor wasn’t true, she could certainly get some notice with a true-life biker gang article.
Her heart sank when she found the address she was looking for. It was one of the worst on the block.
She’d been surprised when William Jackson, the supposed ex-gang member, suggested she meet him on New Year’s Day. Most people liked to reserve today for recovering from the previous night’s festivities. She would’ve liked that, too, but she was never one to turn down an opportunity, regardless of how strange it was. If he was up for a conversation, then so was she, even if her head and stomach disagreed.
She pulled up to the curb and let out a big sigh. There was so much junk in the yard that she could barely see a pathway to the front door.
Reluctantly, she gathered her things and got out of the car, sure to lock it behind her. It wasn’t the best or newest car, but it was all she had. Shouldering her purse and her bravado, she walked as confidently as she could to the porch and rang the bell. There was no sound. It must be broken. A dog barked in the distance. She knocked on the weathered front door and turned her back to it as she surveyed the obstacle course of trash she’d just made her way through. A beat-up old car was in the driveway. The rest of the yard was full of everything from an old kitchen sink to stacks of tires. Her eyes slowly scanned the yard, taking inventory of bicycle parts, an oven door, several toilet seat lids, and an orange beanbag chair. It reminded her of a sad and deflated pumpkin.
“You must be the reporter,” she heard a male voice say from behind her. She swung around and was at a loss for words. This couldn’t be William Jackson, the old gang member. She was staring at a very tall, very handsome young man with bright blue eyes, full lips, and shoulder length curly black hair. She couldn’t gauge his age, either late teens or early twenties. He had the kind of classic good looks that belonged on the front of the magazine she was trying to impress. He was wearing jeans and a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The tops of his forearms and what she could see of his upper chest were heavily tattooed. He appeared slender but solidly built. He needed a shave and a haircut.
She liked what she saw.
“Mr. Jackson?” She was immediately aware of her disheveled appearance. After climbing out of John Doe’s bed that morning, she’d only had a few minutes to clean herself up in his bathroom before coming straight to the interview.
“No. You want my uncle.” He stepped aside and waved her inside the house, silently shutting the door behind her.
She was surprised the inside wasn’t as horrible as the outside. It smelled like cigarettes and bacon, and even though it was filled with outdated and worn furnishings, it was tidy.
She immediately zeroed in on a man sitting on the couch. He was wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt that said “drop dead.” He had clear tubes draped over each ear, and they were obviously feeding him some much-needed oxygen. She started to walk toward him to extend her hand when she stopped. He was smoking a cigarette. That seemed awfully dangerous.
“This is Uncle Will. Don’t let the oxygen tank and cigarettes scare you. If he hasn’t blown us up by now, he probably won’t.”
Leslie gave Mr. Cute Nephew a half smile. He took this opportunity to extend his own hand.
“I’m Nick Rosman.” He saw the question in Leslie’s eyes as she extended her own hand. “Uncle Will isn’t my real uncle. My mom used to date his younger brother. I grew up calling them both “uncle.” Paul still lives here with him, but he’s currently doing his third stint in rehab. Prescription drugs and alcohol. I’m just here to help out till he comes home.”
As was his general practice, he’d decided it was best to tell her some things up front and avoid the chitchat and questions that would inevitably follow. He wasn’t one to make small talk. He’d noticed the interest in her eyes at the front door and known immediately this was one piece of snatch he wouldn’t be chasing. And if it was chasing him, it certainly wouldn’t catch him. He could spot trash a mile away.
“So your mom dates Mr. Jackson’s brother, Paul?”
“Dated,” Nick emphasized as he waved her toward a chair. “They broke up years ago. But like I said, I grew up around them. I still do what I can to help.”
After Leslie seated herself and pulled her notepad and pencil out of her bag, Nick offered her something to drink. She politely declined, and after introducing herself and quickly thanking William Jackson for agreeing to talk to her, the interview began. Nick parked himself on the arm of another chair and only half listened as his adopted uncle shared stories of his younger years in the motorcycle gang that had been headquartered in a rundown old motel off State Road 84.
Nick had been hearing these stories since he was a kid. Uncle Will considered this bygone era to be his glory days and would occasionally brag to the boy that he was the one whose testimony helped put Jason “Grizz” Talbot on Florida’s Death Row. Nick had heard it all. Or at least thought he had. His ears perked up when he heard his uncle reply to the reporter’s last comment.
“That name. Jason Talbot. That’s kind of familiar.” Leslie’s brows drew together in concentration. “An excavating company found the remains of a woman last year who was linked to him or something. I can’t exactly remember. It made its way around the reporters’ gossip circuit, but it seemed nobody wanted to touch it. I don’t know if they were afraid to or it just wasn’t newsworthy. I can’t even remember her name.”
“That would’ve been Moe,” Jackson said casually as he took a short drag on his cigarette.
“You knew the woman they found?” Leslie sat up straight.
“Knew her in the most intimate sense. If you know what I mean.” William Jackson winked at her, a glint in his eyes.
Leslie leaned closer. Now this was getting interesting.
“This gang, this ‘club’ you’re talking about. You’re telling me it was run by a guy who’s now on death row? Jason Talbot went to prison for having this motorcycle gang?”
“He went to prison for a lot of things.” Jackson gave her a serious look. “He was the most evil son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever come across. I watched him snap a woman’s neck like it was nothing and toss her in the swamp. It was my testimony on the stand that helped put him on death row. He’s still there. Why don’t you try and get an interview with him? You want a real biker story, that’s who you wanna talk to. Or better yet, you should probably talk to his wife. You know, he kidnapped her when she was fifteen. Forced her to marry him. Well, at least she used to be his wife. Ended up marrying one of the other gang member
s before Grizz was even sentenced. I think they still live right here in South Florida somewhere.”
Leslie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was chomping at the bit to get this interview over with so she could get home and fire up her computer to see what she could find on Jason Talbot. She didn’t remember hearing anything about him being a biker when she heard about Moe’s remains being found. Then again, she’d never asked or tried to dig deeper. This changed everything.
She ended the interview as quickly and politely as she could. She asked Mr. Jackson if she could come back if she needed to ask him some more questions. She was certain she wouldn’t have to. She knew she’d be able to find everything she needed on the Internet.
**********
Less than a week later, she found herself sitting in the same chair across from William Jackson as he sucked on a half-smoked cigarette. Nick was perched in the same spot as before. This time he was shirtless, but Leslie barely noticed. She was infuriated, disappointed, and maybe even a little desperate.
“Nothing.” She scowled. “I can’t find a damn thing on anybody or anything that had to do with this Jason Talbot. I’ve scoured the Internet for old news reports, and I can’t find anything about a girl kidnapped in the seventies. Well, that’s not true. There were lots of missing girls, but none I’ve been able to link to a biker gang kidnapping. I’ve typed the name ‘Grizz’ into every search engine there is, and all I get are pictures of grizzly bears and off-brand hunting supplies. I’ve typed in his real name and I get online phone books for every Jason Talbot in the country. Obviously, none of them are him. I’ve even tried the gang’s name, and some scary-looking cult websites come up. I’ve tried the courts. No record of a trial. If it’s there, it’s been hidden or sealed. It’s almost as if this man doesn’t really exist.”
She narrowed her eyes then and gave William Jackson a suspicious look, waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she added, “I mean, he’s obviously real. I found the prison where he’s at, so I know a Jason Talbot is on death row. I was able to talk to someone there, but they told me he was sentenced to death because of a carjacking gone bad. Yes, he obviously murdered some guy whose car he stole, but the man I talked to at the prison also told me he had no biker gang affiliation they’d ever heard of.” She crossed her arms. “So right now, I’m guessing you’ve had a lot of time to sit on your couch, and I’m thinking your need for oxygen has given you hallucinations, Mr. Jackson. You were never part of this big, bad motorcycle gang, were you? It’s all in your head. Jason Talbot exists. But his gang never did.”