The Bad Daughter

by Joy Fielding

  Your father is invincible, Robin told herself. He isn’t about to let a little bullet to the brain slow him down. And Tara’s no shrinking violet. At the very least, she’s a survivor. Hell, the word was coined for her. And little Cassidy will be fine. She’s twelve. She’ll bounce back in no time. You’ll see—all three of them will pull through. You’ll visit them in the hospital, they’ll laugh in your face, and you’ll get the hell out of Dodge.

  Robin was feeling almost peaceful as the bus passed the State Theatre and the gold-hatted clock tower—both regularly referred to in local guidebooks as “historic”—before pulling to a stop at the far end of the street.

  Then she saw Melanie waiting by the side of the road.

  Robin stepped off the bus, the colorful Victorian architecture of Main Street blurring behind her as she took her small suitcase from the bus driver’s outstretched hand, then walked toward her sister.

  Melanie wasted no time on pleasantries. “Tara’s dead,” she said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Approximately 14,000 people live in Red Bluff, most of them white and straining toward middle class. The town’s motto is A Great Place to Live, although Robin had always thought A Great Place to Leave would probably be a more suitable slogan. Unless you loved rodeos, she thought. The annual Red Bluff Round-Up had become one of the West’s largest rodeos and most anticipated events, ranchers coming from all over the country every April to have their bulls compete. She said a silent Thank you, God, that she had just missed it.

  Aside from its rodeo, Red Bluff was perhaps best known for being the place where a seventeen-year-old girl was kidnapped by a deranged couple and held captive in a box under their bed for seven years. The kidnapping had occurred back in May 1977, and as far as Robin knew, nothing much of note had happened in the town since.

  “You look like crap,” Melanie said as they climbed into the front seat of her candy wrapper–strewn, decade-old Impala.

  Robin had been thinking the same thing about Melanie, but was too polite to say it. There were deep bags under her sister’s hazel eyes, and her preternaturally dark hair hung in lifeless waves past her rounded shoulders, her hair the victim of years of bad dye jobs, her shoulders the victim of years of bad posture. “I didn’t get much sleep. How’s Dad?”

  “Still breathing.”

  “When did Tara die?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “That’s so awful.”

  Melanie lowered her chin, looking sideways at Robin with undisguised skepticism as she threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. “You were hardly her biggest fan.”

  “I never wished her dead.”

  “No? Guess that was Alec. Were you able to reach him?”

  Robin nodded, taking note of the few trees scattered across the vast expanse of mostly empty space between downtown Red Bluff and the hospital on its outskirts. Nothing much had changed since she’d left. “I don’t think he’ll be joining us.”

  “Not exactly a big surprise.” Melanie glanced toward Robin without taking her eyes off the road. “You don’t think…”

  “I don’t think…what? That Alec had something to do with this?” Robin heard the defensiveness in her voice, a leftover from her childhood. It had always been Robin and her brother against the world, “the world” at the time being Melanie.

  “You said it,” Melanie replied. “I didn’t.”

  “You thought it.”

  “Don’t tell me it never crossed your mind.”

  “Alec loved Tara,” Robin said, refusing to admit there was even the possibility that Melanie could be right.

  “And hated our father.”

  “Not enough to do something like this!”

  “You’re really so sure of that?”

  “Yes.” Was she? Wasn’t there a tiny part of her that had wondered the same thing?

  St. Elizabeth Community Hospital was located on Sister Mary Columba Drive, about five minutes from downtown. Robin repeatedly stole glances at her sister, waiting for her to ask questions about Robin’s life, about Blake, about her health, about anything. “Have there been any other developments?” she asked when Melanie failed to do so.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Did Tara say anything to the police before she died?”

  “No. She never regained consciousness.”

  “What about Cassidy?”

  “It’s touch and go. The bullet hit just below her heart and exited out her back, what the sheriff calls a through-and-through. Miraculously, it missed her lungs, but she’s lost a tremendous amount of blood, and her condition is still critical. The doctor said it could go either way.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “She drifts in and out. They’ve tried talking to her, but so far she hasn’t said a word.”

  “So they still have no idea who’s responsible.”

  “They are absolutely clueless,” Melanie said, emphasizing each word.

  “Does she know about her mother?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Melanie turned off the road into the small hospital’s surprisingly large parking lot. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She located a parking space across from two police cars and shut off the car’s engine, then opened her door. An explosion of hot air shot toward Robin, as if someone had tossed a grenade at her head. “Coming?”

  “Wait,” Robin urged, feeling an unwelcome tingle of anxiety in her chest. Clearly the Valium was starting to wear off.

  “What for?”

  “I just thought…Could we sit here for a few minutes?”

  “And do what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we could talk.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “Not really. I was just kind of hoping to get acclimated.”

  “Acclimated,” Melanie repeated, drawing out each syllable. “Fine. I guess Dad can wait. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.” She sank back against her seat, although she left her car door open. “Okay. So…talk.”

  Robin felt beads of perspiration line up across her forehead and didn’t know whether she was reacting to the heat or to her sister’s directive. The years hadn’t softened Melanie one bit. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good.”

  “Are you still working?”

  “Yep.”

  “At Tillie’s?” Tillie’s was a combination antiques-and-gifts shop located in the middle of Main Street. Melanie had worked there on and off for the last twenty years.

  “Yes. At Tillie’s.” She paused. “Of course, I’ll have to take some time off now.”

  “What about Dad’s office?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is there anyone in charge…?”

  “His CFO is managing things temporarily.”

  Robin waited several seconds for Melanie to volunteer more information. She didn’t. “How’s Landon?”

  An impatient release of breath. “Fine,” Melanie said, managing to make the one-syllable word sound even shorter.

  Robin debated asking more questions about her nephew, aware that Landon had always been a sensitive subject where Melanie was concerned. The product of a one-night stand with the captain of the high school football team when Melanie was just seventeen, Landon had been diagnosed with autism at the age of three. As far as Robin knew, his father had never contributed a dime toward supporting his son. In fact, he had moved to Colorado soon after graduation and worked as a personal trainer, then eventually bought into a moderately successful fast-food franchise. Meanwhile Melanie had been forced to abandon any hope of the modeling career she’d always dreamt of to stay in Red Bluff and look after the boy.

  Even though Landon was relatively high functioning, he was also subject to wild mood swings and was for the most part silent and uncommunicative, a prisoner of his own mind. Despite living under the same roof for years, Robin couldn’t remember the last time he’d said more than two words to her or the last time he’d looked her in the eye.
>
  Of course, having a son with autism had only increased Melanie’s anger. At the world in general. At Robin in particular.

  “He must be pretty tall now.”

  “Six feet, two inches.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s doing great. Why all the questions about Landon? He had nothing to do with what happened.”

  “Of course not. I wasn’t suggesting…”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the police: Landon was home with me that night. All night. Just because he’s autistic doesn’t mean he’s violent. He hasn’t had any major outbursts in years. He’s certainly not capable of anything like this. He would never hurt anyone, let alone his grandfather. Or Cassidy. For God’s sake, he loves that girl.”

  “Melanie, please. I was just curious about how he’s doing. He’s my nephew.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess you’ll have to remind him of that.”

  Robin unfastened her seat belt. “Okay. Let’s go inside.” Safe to say I’m sufficiently acclimated. She climbed out of the car, her shoulders slumping in the oppressive heat that was rising in almost visible waves from the pavement. Or maybe her defeated posture was the result of the load of shit her sister had just dumped on her.

  “Dad’s in the east wing,” Melanie said, marching past Robin through the parking lot to the front entrance of the sprawling single-story white building.

  The powerful combined odors of sickness, disinfectant, and flowers hit Robin as soon as she stepped inside the hospital. The smell of suffering, she thought. Instantly she was seven years old again, holding her mother’s hand and clutching her own broken nose as they followed the doctor down the winding corridor. In the next second it was twenty years later, and she was standing beside Melanie at their mother’s bedside, watching her waste away, the color of her skin grayer than the sheets she was wrapped in. She remembered reaching for Melanie’s hand and her sister pushing her away. “Nice of you to make it back for the grand finale,” she heard Melanie say. Would she say the same thing again if their father succumbed to his wounds?

  “Place looks the same,” Robin said, glancing only fleetingly at the warren of familiar corridors as they walked by the reception desk. Her cell phone rang as they were passing a sign reminding visitors that the use of cell phones was forbidden. Robin quickly removed the phone from her purse and raised it to her ear.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Blake demanded, his voice filling her head. “I must have called you at least ten times last night. I called again this morning,” he continued before she could speak. “I left half a dozen messages. Why’d you turn off your phone? Why didn’t you call me back?”

  Robin stared at her cell phone, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “I’m sorry. I haven’t checked my messages. I took some Valium and I’m still a little loopy.”

  “You took Valium? Who gave you Valium?”

  “It’s a long story. Can we talk about it later?”

  “I don’t know. Can we?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s going on, Robin?”

  The phone started making crackling noises.

  “My father…He’s been shot.”

  More crackling noises, louder this time.

  “What? I didn’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Did you say something about your father?”

  “I said he’s…”

  “Hello? Hello, Robin? Are you there?”

  Robin followed her sister as she turned down a hall leading to the east wing. “Blake? Can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, that’s better.”

  “We’re not supposed to use our cell phones.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “This way,” Melanie directed, leading Robin past another nurses’ station, where two policemen were conferring with a bald, heavyset man wearing a beige uniform. “That’s Sheriff Prescott,” she said, acknowledging him with a nod.

  “What’s that about a sheriff?” Blake asked.

  Robin gave Blake a quick recap of everything she knew. “We’re at the hospital now.”

  “This is it,” Melanie said, stopping outside the closed door to room 124.

  “Holy shit. Are you all right?” Blake asked.

  “I don’t know,” Robin replied honestly.

  “You need to turn that off now,” her sister said.

  “Look. This really isn’t a good time. Can I call you back later?”

  “I’m in meetings all day. I’ll have to call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll answer your phone?”

  “I’ll answer.”

  “You won’t take any more Valium?”

  “I don’t have any more,” Robin said, her voice a whine.

  Blake chuckled. “Good. You’re strong. You don’t need it.”

  I’m not strong, Robin thought. I need you.

  “Robin,” Melanie said again. “Are you coming?”

  “I have to go.” Robin disconnected the call before Blake could say goodbye and returned the phone to her pocket.

  “Ready?” Melanie opened the door to their father’s room and stepped inside.

  Robin took a deep breath, feeling it waver as she released it.

  “Robin?” her sister said again.

  Robin forced one reluctant foot in front of the other, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her.

  Her father was lying in a narrow bed in the middle of the small private room, his heavily bandaged head elevated by two pillows. Myriad wires and tubes connected him to life, a monitor registering his every breath and heartbeat. Amazingly, he still managed to look imposing. Or maybe that wasn’t so surprising. At sixty-two, he was still relatively young and in excellent shape. He exercised regularly and often boasted of never having been sick a day in his life. His skin was tanned, his arms muscular beneath the short sleeves of his hospital gown. “I can’t believe how good he looks,” Robin stammered.

  “He’s a handsome devil, all right.”

  Hooray! Something we agree on.

  Robin approached the bed, staring down at the man under the stiff white sheets. Who did this to you? she asked silently, running her fingers along the bed’s railing and fighting the urge to cover her father’s fingers with her own.

  “Are you crying?” Melanie asked.

  Robin wiped the tears from her eyes. Truthfully, she was as astounded as her sister by their sudden appearance. Their father was a bastard. There was no other word for it. Oh, wait…there were actually a bunch of other words: prick, cad, asshole. How about jerk, scoundrel, son of a bitch? In fact, there was no shortage of words she could use to describe her father, almost none of them complimentary.

  She heard the sound of a door opening behind her and turned to see Sheriff Prescott step into the room. He was a big man, at least six and a half feet tall, with a barrel chest that strained against the buttons of his khaki shirt, his sheriff’s badge—a seven-pointed star framing a picture of a bull, the words “County of Tehama” scrawled above the bull’s head, the single word “Sheriff” below—proudly on display. His hard stomach protruded over his belt, and his khaki pants were too short, revealing scuffed brown leather cowboy boots. His eyes were small and close together, his hands large, his head bald and shiny, as if he’d just waxed it. A large-brimmed cowboy hat dangled between his thick fingers. A casting director’s dream sheriff, Robin couldn’t help thinking.

  “Sheriff Prescott,” Melanie acknowledged.

  “Melanie,” he said in return.

  There was no warmth in either of their voices.

  “This is my sister, Robin.”

  “Sheriff,” Robin said.

  Sheriff Prescott nodded. “I was wondering if we could have a few words. When you have a minute…”

  “Certainly.” I have nothing but minutes.

  “I’ll be in the hall. Take your time. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Robin glanced back at her father. Serves you damn right, she thought, figh
ting back another onslaught of unwanted tears. “I’m ready now,” she said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “How are you holding up?” the sheriff asked, leading Robin toward a small waiting room at the end of the hall and motioning for her to sit down.

  “I’m okay.” Robin sank into one of the green vinyl chairs in front of a window that showcased the mountains in the distance. Sheriff Prescott lowered himself into another chair and pulled it toward her, their knees almost touching. He leaned forward in a gesture that was curiously both intimate and intimidating.

  “I understand you just got in from Los Angeles.”

  Robin nodded. “That’s right. What can you—”

  “You drive?” he interrupted.

  “No. I flew to Sacramento yesterday, then took the bus here this morning. What—”

  “I guess Red Bluff’s not the easiest place to get to anymore,” he said, interrupting again, clearly determined to be the one conducting the interview. “They tell me you’re a therapist.”

  “That’s right. What can you tell me about what happened?” she asked in one breath, refusing to give him the opportunity to interrupt a third time.

  “Unfortunately, not much more than what I assume your sister has already told you,” Sheriff Prescott answered. “I was actually hoping you could tell me a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as if there’s anyone you can think of who might have had a motive to shoot your father or Tara.”

  It would be harder to think of someone who didn’t, Robin thought. “I haven’t seen or talked to either of them in over five years,” she told the sheriff. “I have no idea who might have done this.” She stopped abruptly. “Wait. I thought it was a home invasion.”

  “That’s one of the scenarios we’re considering,” he said. “But until little Cassidy is able to tell us something, we have to consider all possibilities.”

  “How is she?”

  “Hard to say. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, but they said it might be some time before she’s out of the woods.”