Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  NEXT

  OF KIN

  DAVID HOSP

  MACMILLAN

  For my family.

  Writing about characters who go through the world alone makes me appreciate my own family even more.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  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 SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  PROLOGUE

  1966

  Winter came to New Hampshire early. By Thanksgiving the ground was dusted with an inch of loose, dry snow, the kind easily whipped into funnel clouds as the wind howled across the open fields leading to the Connecticut River.

  The hospital stood at the edge of the river, looming out, its great gothic turrets defiant against the elements. It was an enormous stone structure, ill-suited to its purpose: impossible to keep warm and unlikely to provide comfort. And yet they came. In an endless stream, sent by dishonored families and desperate lovers, young and frightened and alone; it seemed nothing could stop them.

  Emily heard the first scream shortly after midnight. A shriek of terror and agony echoing off the stone floors. She waited, eyes closed. One minute. Two. Three.

  The scream came again, louder this time, panicked and desperate. ‘Please! Somebody help me! Oh God, I’m bleeding! Somebody please help me!’

  Emily opened her eyes and rolled to her side. She switched on the light next to the bed, checked the clock, shook the sleep from her head. Rising, she retrieved the dress from the chair next to her bed, pulled it over her head and looped a white smock around her neck, tying it to her waist. She could hear the pitiful sobs coming from down the hallway. ‘For goodness sake, I’m coming,’ she muttered as she walked out of the room.

  Emily knew who it was. She’d watched the one called Lizzie at dinner. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and she was shifting uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes downcast and worried. Her belly had descended. Emily recognized the signs.

  She walked into the room and flipped the light switch next to the door. Each tiny dorm room had two beds, which were always full. Lizzie was sitting up, her back against two pillows, her knees pulled up under her armpits. Her sobs were now silent, rhythmic gasps, and tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Oh God, please help me,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Emily said. Her tone was cold, and she felt a pang of guilt; after midnight her bedside manner suffered.

  She walked over and lifted up the bottom of the girl’s nightgown. It was pink with a silk hemline. Embroidered into the silk, white rabbits chased each other in an endless circle. Lizzie was no older than fifteen. Even in agony, though, she was beautiful. Most of them were. That was what got them into trouble.

  ‘It’s time,’ Emily said. She looked at the girl in the other bed, who was watching with fascination. Her belly, too, was low, and Emily’s intuition told her that she would be the next to go, perhaps even later in the day. She couldn’t remember the second girl’s name, not that it mattered; the names were fake. All the girls were given fake names when they arrived. That was the point, after all.

  Lizzie screamed again. ‘Oh, God, it hurts! Why does it hurt so much?’

  ‘God punishes evil,’ Emily said. It was cruel, but it was what she believed, and it was after midnight. ‘It will be all right.’ She didn’t bother to infuse her voice with sympathy she didn’t feel. ‘I have to get the doctor.’ She looked over at the second girl, and was tempted to tell her to hold Lizzie’s hand. The second girl didn’t seem the type to give sympathy easily, though. Emily supposed she had problems of her own. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Emily said. ‘Keep her calm; everything will be fine.’

  As Emily walked away down the hallway, Lizzie screamed again, this time louder. Emily quickened her pace.

  Lizzie opened her eyes. It took a moment for her to remember where she was; then it came flooding back, drowning her. She tried to turn so she could see the tiny window in between the beds, but her body shrieked in pain, and she lay still. Judging from the shadows on the far wall, the sun was almost down. It was late afternoon.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the girl in the bed next to hers was gone. She was glad of that; the two of them didn’t get along well. Looking down, her feet were visible for the first time in months. Her belly had popped; the huge, round, heavy balloon she’d carried for so long deflating, leaving her empty. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry and the effort was agony. She swallowed twice and tried again.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ It came out as a croak.

  She sensed movement at the doorway. Whispering shadows. One of them said, ‘Go fetch Sister Emily.’

  ‘Please, is anyone there?’ Lizzie called again. There was no answer, and the shadows pulled away from the threshold.

  A moment later, Emily came into the room, a whirlwind of German efficiency and Irish judgment. She walked over to Lizzie and picked a glass of water off the bedside table. There was a straw in the glass and she fed it into Lizzie’s mouth. Lizzie drank, in spite of the pain, and realized how thirsty she was as the water spread through her. After half a glass, she let the straw fall from her lips. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘It was a breach,’ Emily said. ‘That makes it much more difficult.’ She put the glass down on the table. ‘You had the doctor worried. You lost a lot of blood.’

  Lizzie tried to turn again, but it felt as though her neck were held in a vise. ‘My head hurts,’ she said.

  ‘That’s normal,’ Emily said. ‘They had to use the ether to knock you out. It takes a while to wear off. You’ll have a headache for a couple of days.’ She looked down at the rest of Lizzie’s body, a frown tugging at her lips, and Lizzie felt violated. ‘You’ll feel uncomfortable in other ways, too.’ She picked up the glass again and offered it, but Lizzie shook her head.

  Lizzie’s lips trembled. ‘What happened to my baby?’

  Emily put the water back down on the table and stood. She flattened her smock with her hands against her thighs, straightening her back. ‘That’s none of your concern, now, is it?’

  Lizzie felt the tears running down her cheeks. ‘It is my concern,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Not anymore. The baby is better off with
a family that can take care of it. With a real mother, who isn’t wicked. That’s what everyone agreed.’

  ‘I never agreed.’

  ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Is my baby okay?’

  ‘The baby’s fine. But it isn’t yours.’

  Lizzie’s head pounded. She worked to catch her thoughts, but they slipped just out of her grasp. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  Emily folded her arms across her chest. ‘Why do you want to know? You can never be a part of its life, you understand. You signed the papers. You agreed.’

  ‘I know,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’s just that …’

  ‘It’s easier this way, child. You don’t understand how lucky you are. It will be as if this never happened at all. You can go back to your life. You can make something of yourself. You can be a good girl now. You should be thankful; not everyone in your situation gets to wipe the slate clean.’

  ‘Please!’ Lizzie cried. It felt as though her head had shattered, but she didn’t care anymore. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

  Emily uncrossed her arms, then crossed them again. Lizzie could read the indecision on her face. ‘It was a boy,’ Emily said after a moment.

  ‘A boy,’ Lizzie repeated. She pushed herself up on her elbows, fighting the pain, until she was able to lean back on the pillow, inclined slightly. ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘No.’ Emily shook her head; there was no hesitation this time. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I want to see my baby!’ Lizzie screamed. Her anguish reverberated off the stone walls, echoing down the corridors until it was lost. ‘Let me see my baby!’

  ‘You can scream,’ Emily said coldly. ‘We are used to it here.’

  Lizzie was racked, her body convulsing in pain as she cried out. ‘I want to see my baby! Let me see him! Please, let me see my boy!’

  Emily towered over her, her expression hardening, lips pursing angrily. ‘I’ll be back later, when you’re feeling better and you can be civil. You’ll see eventually. This is for the best.’ She started walking out of the room.

  ‘ Wait! Please!’ Lizzie called. Emily stopped at the door, keeping her back to Lizzie. ‘What will happen to him?’

  Emily turned and fixed Lizzie with a stare colder than the New England wind. ‘He’ll be happy,’ she said. ‘If you let him go, I promise you, he’ll be happy.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  2010

  Scott Finn was not happy. Sitting in his brownstone office in Charlestown, he looked across his desk at Eamonn McDougal. Despite the expensive fabric and expert tailoring, McDougal’s suit refused to sit comfortably on his working-class shoulders. The collar of his custom shirt cut into the fat of his neck; his Italian shoes looked painfully tight. He took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his round nose, rubbing vigorously before slipping it back into his jacket.

  ‘I can’t do it, Eamonn,’ Finn said. He was taking a risk; McDougal was a dangerous man.

  ‘Yes, you fuckin’ can, Finn,’ McDougal said. He still had the accent from the old country; the word came out as fooken. ‘What’s more, you will do it. I don’t send you enough fuckin’ business?’

  ‘You send me business because I win,’ Finn said. He was in his mid-forties and had established a courtroom record that justified the confidence. Tall and thin, with black hair and a face too lined to be called traditionally handsome, he had an ease and charm that juries trusted. All the charm in the world couldn’t help him with McDougal, though. ‘And when you send me a case that can’t be won, I tell your boys to plead it out, or get another lawyer – take their chances with a jury and get ready for sentencing. I play straight; you know that.’

  ‘That’s all I’m askin’ for here,’ Eamonn said. He spread his hands in a gesture of assurance that was comically inappropriate.

  ‘No, it’s not. You and I both know it. This is your son we’re talking about. You want a guarantee; I don’t give guarantees. If I start cheating the system, I lose my credibility, and I won’t be any good to you anymore.’

  McDougal stood up and paced. The office had recently been redecorated, a sign of Finn’s success and growing reputation. The walls had gone from scuffed-gray to eggshell-white. The prints hanging on the walls had been replaced with actual paintings purchased at some overpriced studio down the Cape. The wood floors were refinished and covered with rich, sound-killing Persian rugs. Nearly everything in the office had recently been upgraded, from the computers to the draperies to the chairs. The only thing that remained from the office’s previous incarnation was Finn’s desk, a beaten, blond-wood remnant he’d found years before at a second-hand office furniture shop. The decorator, a chain-smoking divorcee from Newton, had begged him to let her get an appropriate ‘piece’ for him. She argued he needed something to proclaim his authority – something huge and dark and masculine. He told her he needed something functional – something comfortable. The desk stayed.

  The chain-smoker also wanted to put walls up in the open first-floor workspace to create separate offices for Finn and his associate, Lissa Krantz. He and Lissa preferred the shared office, though. They liked to yell at each other; walls would have interfered.

  Given the opportunity, Lissa hadn’t hesitated to pick out a new desk for herself. She’d chosen an antique Chippendale, with polished cherry wood and brass trimmings. She’d always had expensive taste; she was raised with money, and had plenty of her own. Finn didn’t mind. The firm was doing well, and she was a big part of its success.

  At the moment, Lissa was sitting behind her expensive desk on the other side of the room, watching McDougal rail at her boss with his chopped Irish accent and his tailored English suit as his tight Italian shoes sank into the thick Persian rug. She kept her mouth shut; a struggle for her.

  ‘You sayin’ no?’ McDougal demanded from Finn. His eyes had gone dark; not a good sign.

  ‘I’m saying your son won’t take my advice. And the fact that he’s your son doesn’t change what my advice is gonna be.’

  ‘You don’t know nothin’ about the case, and already you know what your advice is gonna be?’

  ‘I know what I’ve read,’ Finn said.

  ‘Papers always get shit wrong,’ McDougal said.

  ‘And I know what you’ve told me.’

  ‘I get shit wrong, too. You know that. Just talk to him. I don’t want him fuckin’ things up any more than he already has.’

  ‘Ironic coming from you, Eamonn.’ Finn knew he’d crossed a line as the words died on his tongue.

  ‘You watch your fuckin’ mouth, boyo.’ McDougal wagged a finger at Finn. His face blossomed red, and he raised his voice. ‘I do what I do. I make no apologies. And I make a lot of people a whole bundle of fuckin’ money – including you. You wanna play Mr Clean, I let you play. But don’t ever think that deep down you’re anythin’ different than me or my people, ’cause you’re not.’ He paced angrily for another moment, took a deep breath and sat down in front of Finn’s desk again. He leaned forward, and regarded Finn with a menacing expression. ‘We go back a ways, Finn. Not like family or nothin’, but I remember you when you was a kid on the street. I remember when you got out of the life. I’ve done right by you ever since. Don’t turn it wrong now. Talk to the kid for me.’

  Finn looked at McDougal for a long moment before he answered. What McDougal was saying was true; he was one of the first who regularly sent Finn business, and was still a significant source of clients. The little firm could survive now without McDougal’s support, but it might not flourish in quite the way it had. Finn wondered whether it was worth it. He didn’t relish the idea of feeling indebted to a man like McDougal. ‘I’m not cheating,’ he said. ‘You understand that?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course,’ McDougal said. ‘Goes without saying. You lose your license, my boys lose the best goddamned defense lawyer in Boston. I want that?’

  Finn watched the man’s eyes. They didn’t blink. ‘Okay. I’ll talk to him.’

&nb
sp; McDougal stood. ‘You’re a good shit, Finn.’

  ‘High praise.’

  McDougal grunted. Turning around, he nodded to Lissa. She made a face. ‘I’ll see you, counselors,’ he said. ‘Keep up the good work.’ He opened the front door and walked out into the crisp October air, to the Caddy double-parked on Warren Street. Two heavy-set men leaning on the fender stood when they saw him. One opened the back door for him; the other climbed into the driver’s seat. Finn stood at the window, watching the car pull away.

  ‘Way to be strong, Boss,’ Lissa said. ‘You set him straight.’

  ‘What did you want me to do?’

  ‘It’s a bad idea, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Finn agreed. ‘It’s a bad idea.’

  A breeze blew withered leaves into piles in front of the three-story brownstone on Massachusetts Avenue near Melnea Cass Boulevard as Detective Zachary Long pulled up to the curb. He looked down at the address he’d jotted on his pad to make sure he had it right. Six-Seventy-Nine. He had it right. He leaned down below the dashboard for a moment, pulling a flask bottle from under the seat, tipping it to his lips, then putting it back.

  Looking up, he could see that the stoops on either side of the building were crowded with faces of varying shades of brown. They regarded him warily as he stepped out of his car. Only one person was on the stoop of the building itself. Officer Ray Washington stood like a uniformed sentry at the front door, protecting the entrance, mirroring the uneasy resentment directed toward him from those hovering nearby.

  Long looked up at the building. Removed from its surroundings and transported ten blocks north to the fashionable Back Bay section of town, it would have been a gem. It stood solid, with tall, arched windows in the four-story front bay, conveying a sense of sullen pride. Two doors down, a similar building stood vacant, boarded up and derelict. Ambulances crawled through the inner-city traffic, sirens screaming, carrying the unfortunate to the nearby Metropolitan Hospital. An argument was breaking out at the bodega across the street, anger shot through in heavy accents. Horns could be heard blaring from the nearby Southeast Expressway.