by Jan Burke
The lights in the room were out, but a soft glow came from the display of what looked like a clock radio. He had plugged earphones into a jack on the instrument’s side and was now listening to a conversation being held downstairs. Donovan may have scorned Quinn’s surveillance system, but Kai thought Donovan might have been more impressed if he had known about Kai’s own little system. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell Donovan about it. Or any of the others. But he was especially glad that his two-faced, backstabbing, know-it-all half brother Quinn had no idea about it. His dad should have entrusted a real electronics expert—Kai—to set up security. Quinn didn’t know everything there was to know.
For example, Quinn didn’t know that Kai had placed listening devices in every room of this place.
He had been uneasy when Quinn showed up again so soon after his last visit, and just before their next big event. Quinn was supposed to be in Las Piernas, making sure Donovan was obeying orders. Kai thought that was ridiculous. Who was Quinn to ensure Donovan was obedient? Quinn was the one who was disobedient, or he wouldn’t be here right now.
In contrast, when their father had whispered to Kai, asking for some time alone with Quinn, Kai had immediately left the room, saying, “I have to take care of Mom. Just call me if you need me.”
Before he’d reached the top of the stairs, he could hear Quinn making a remark he doubtless intended Kai to hear.
“I don’t know why you don’t just kill that crippled-up bitch.”
“No,” Parrish had said coldly, “you don’t.”
Kai had smiled to himself and continued on to her room. He knew Quinn’s repulsion would keep him away from Violet Loudon’s room, and Kai’s setup would be safe from at least one pair of prying eyes.
Listening on the earphones now, he could hear Quinn talking to their father.
Urging Parrish to abandon Kai.
“… I’m telling you, he’s going to be the ruin of everything! Look, I’ve got the money you need to go anywhere in the world. Let’s leave Kai and that hideous woman here and take off. I can keep you safe.”
“Don’t you think Kai might say something to the authorities if he was left here to fend for himself?”
With hardly a moment’s pause, Quinn said, “You’re right. So we kill them both.”
There was a silence, then Parrish said, “Quinn, what do you suppose is happening in Las Piernas right now?”
“You mean, our plan?”
“No. The mood of the town.”
“On edge. Terrified, many of them.” There was a pause before Quinn added, “I see what you mean.”
“I was certain you would. You wouldn’t really want to question my judgment, I’m sure.”
“Of course not.”
“The legend of Nicholas Parrish and sons can only be enhanced by that fear. While I could have wished for Kai to have more time to exercise his talents in Las Piernas, and for our plans to have proceeded at the pace we had hoped for, I am nevertheless proud of my sons. There is nothing to lead the police from Las Piernas to this place. Nothing at all.”
“You’re right.”
“You didn’t think this out, Quinn. That’s unlike you. But I suppose you were only concerned for my safety.”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “You understand perfectly.”
“Now, I’m going to ask Kai to join us again, and I hope you will be able to control yourself when he returns.”
Kai didn’t wait to hear Quinn’s response. He disconnected the headset and turned off the receiver. He quickly checked on his mother, smiled at her panicked expression, and reached beneath her bed. He retrieved the automatic he had hidden there, assured himself that it was fully loaded and ready to be used, and replaced it as he heard his father call to him. It was one of several weapons he had cached around the house, and he was more certain than ever that he would be making use of at least one of them.
“Coming!” he called back and hurried from the room.
He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Nicholas Parrish’s cell phone rang. As far as Kai knew, only three people had that number, and two of them were staring at each other in dislike.
Parrish listened, hung up without speaking to the caller, then turned to his sons. “Your older brother is efficient,” he said. “We’re about to have company.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I remember this much:
It was about four o’clock. We sat in the bar of the Fireside, a nearby restaurant, quiet in the downtime between lunch and dinner. The place was empty, but that suited us—missing persons stories aren’t exactly best told while competing with happy hour in the background. Donovan seemed a little nervous, so I wasn’t surprised when he offered to buy me a drink—figuring he needed one more than I did, I accepted. He went to the bar, answered a cell phone call while he was waiting for the drinks, then came back to the table with a tray holding a pitcher of margaritas, two glasses already filled from it, and a little dish that contained a few slices of lime.
“A pitcher?” I said, as he handed one of the glasses to me.
“A friend called. She’s going to try to join us a little later—if that’s okay?”
“No problem, but I do need to get home—”
“If she’s not here by the time you need to leave, I’ll still walk you to your car. I’ll just text her and let her know what happened.”
He picked up his own drink and began to tell me of Denise, his first wife, whom he had married at eighteen. Although he had done well in high school, he didn’t have the money for college and, after a couple of years of trying to get by on low-paying jobs, decided to go into the service. He joined the army and was soon sent overseas. Denise filed for divorce less than a month after he left the States.
“Sorry.”
“No need to be,” he assured me. “We had already started to have trouble getting along—about what you’d expect from a couple of immature idiots—and I think, somewhere in the back of mind, I knew I’d be getting a Dear John letter. I’m not really sure how we managed to stay married as long as we did, except that I wasn’t home much during training.” He paused. “It wasn’t a nasty divorce. For reasons I didn’t really understand at the time, she didn’t ask for alimony or stake a claim on my pension—which apparently made her attorney crazy—and we were renting, so there wasn’t a lot of property to be divided. She took a few personal things, put my stuff in storage for me, and went back to living with her mother.”
He fell silent. I sipped at my drink, wondering if he expected me to help him find his ex. If so, I was probably going to have to disappoint him. I was concerned about missing persons cases, and if I could determine that she really was involuntarily gone, I’d do what I could. But so many adult missing persons are hiding of their own volition. Some are avoiding responsibilities, some trying to escape arrest. Plenty of others are trying to survive, to stay safe from someone—especially if their situation is one in which law enforcement can’t effectively provide protection. It was entirely possible that Denise was afraid of him. Although I felt relaxed sitting in that quiet restaurant with Donovan, I didn’t know what he was like at home—for all I knew, she had good reasons to hide from him.
“Not long after the divorce was final,” he said, “I got a letter from her mother, telling me that Denise had died in a car accident.”
“Oh—sorry,” I said again, thrown completely off stride.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but to be honest, it didn’t affect me much. Although I thought it was a shame she had died so young, I was more surprised than sad.”
He fell silent again, so I drank and waited.
After a time, he said, “The biggest surprise was yet to come.” He reached inside his jacket, brought out a photo, and pushed it across the small table. I picked it up.
A beautiful, golden-haired child smiled back from the photo. A little girl, four or five years old, I’d guess.
I looked up at Donovan.
“My daughter. I’m told
her name is Miranda,” he said. “She’s ten now.”
“I don’t understand …”
“At first, I didn’t, either. A year ago, someone sent me an anonymous letter with that photo in it. Said the girl was my daughter, that Denise was pregnant when she divorced me, that she had convinced another man the child was his. I started to do some investigating but didn’t need to make much of an effort, because the ‘other man’ called me himself—his name is Charles Chasten. The letter had been sent by his wife. As it turns out, Mr. Chasten had started an affair with my wife about two days after I left the States.”
“Jesus. Denise didn’t wait long, did she?”
He shrugged. “I was disappointed that she chose a married man with children—he had two boys and wouldn’t leave his wife. I don’t think much of him. I have to admit, though, he was generous when it came to giving money for the care of the child to Denise—and, after she died, to Denise’s mom. Secretly, of course—until one day his wife, who had long thought he was too stingy, saw a browser window he’d left open after doing some online banking.”
“And discovered he had a second bank account she never knew about?”
“Exactly. A joint account with Denise’s mom. He’d put money in it for Miranda’s needs.”
“And how did the wife take this news?”
“Madder than hell. Understandably. Chasten found out that she had sent me the photo and the letter. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He lifted the pitcher, gestured to my half-full glass, but I shook my head. He poured another margarita for himself then said, “After she discovered the account, and after some … very heated discussion, let’s say … Chasten’s wife insisted on a DNA paternity test. He was confident of the outcome, but he got a kit and took a cheek swab from Miranda on a visit. Later she told her grandmother, who gave him some additional heat, but he’d already sent the test swabs off by then.”
He paused and took a drink.
“Since you’ve told me she’s your daughter,” I said, “I can see what’s coming.”
“Right. He learned he wasn’t the father—his turn to be outraged. Although he told me that he had mixed feelings—he says he’s attached to Miranda, but he felt like he’d been duped. He was in for yet another surprise—when he called to talk about the test results, the number was disconnected. He went over to the house, but Miranda and her grandmother had disappeared. Along with everything in the bank account.”
“Disappeared? It’s actually not that easy to disappear, especially not with a child in tow.”
“That’s what I thought, at first. Even though I was coming in on all of this a little late—they had been gone two weeks when Mrs. Chasten sent that letter—I thought I could use my skills and contacts to find them.” He saw my brows rise and added, “I—I can’t give you details, but some of my experience in the military would, I thought, be useful.”
I let it pass. I was suddenly feeling a little light-headed and wondered if I should get something to eat. He glanced at his cell phone and read a screen. He looked at me said, “Oh, sorry—my friend’s not going to join us after all.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, “just shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, I guess.”
“Should I order something? An appetizer at least?”
“That might be a good idea.” We settled on bruschetta. He went up to the bar again, spoke to the bartender, and came back with a bowl of pretzels. “He’s going to bring us an order, but maybe this will help in the meantime.”
I thanked him, but my stomach started to feel unsettled, so I let them sit on the table.
“Tell me what happened next,” I said, feeling that the most insensitive thing I could do would be to end the conversation at this point but finding it took real effort to concentrate on anything other than my gut.
He studied me and said, “We could save this for another time.”
I shook my head, a bad idea, but he went on.
“I sent a swab of my own DNA in, and sure enough, it matched Miranda’s.”
“Were you happy about that?”
“Yes—but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I was also scared.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“I looked for her, but I kept hitting brick walls. I even tried to get the police interested, but they felt convinced that Miranda’s grandmother had disappeared with her voluntarily.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Forgive me, but you seem to be feeling unwell. Would you like me to give you a ride home?”
At that point, I was feeling very unwell indeed, and also as if I might pass out. “Thanks,” I murmured, hearing myself slur it.
From there my memories of that afternoon become less reliable. There are whole periods of time that I can’t remember at all. Some of what I do remember, I wish I could forget.
I recall the sound of a chair scraping on the bar’s wooden floor. I recall reassuring bits of words from Donovan, my face forming a giddy smile as he helped me stand. I remember being guided into an SUV, and a drive that seemed to last for days but could have taken a few minutes or several hours.
At some point we stopped. He guided me out of the vehicle and into a room. I have no clear memory of the room or what happened there, or much of anything before we were traveling again. I remember cold air and the smell of pine trees, and being helped out of the car again, and immediately throwing up.
I remember Donovan saying something about telling me the truth, and that he’d help me, that I must understand he had no choice, but I’m not sure that really happened. I felt confused, especially about one odd thing he said repeatedly: “Try not to let them take your parka.”
I was barely aware of what was happening at that point, in a state not unlike being roused from a deep sleep—much more interested in falling back to sleep than in anything going on around me. Whole patches of time disappeared—I am sure that I saw Nicholas Parrish, and that he spoke to me, but my only response was to throw up again, which angered and disgusted him. At some point, I was indoors with no idea how I got there or any ability to comprehend where I was. I grew dizzy, and I think Donovan picked me up and carried me.
Parrish argued with Donovan and was saying something to me, and then, just as I felt myself sliding back into unconsciousness, there was gunfire.
TWENTY-NINE
Donovan Cotter heard the shots and saw panic cross Nicholas Parrish’s face. Donovan’s arms were full—Irene had passed out again—and while he was tempted to drop her and pull out one of his weapons, instead he set her on her side behind the large couch and took cover there himself.
“Fuck you!” a voice shouted from upstairs.
More rounds blasted before Parrish, who had stood frozen in the middle of the room, belatedly followed Donovan’s example.
“Get up there and stop them!” Parrish said.
Donovan stared at him.
Parrish scowled back. “Do you want her to live or—”
“You know she is little more than a curiosity to me,” Donovan said calmly. “I am far more interested in staying alive myself.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll be right back …”
Parrish grabbed him. “You’re not going anywhere!”
“I have a—let’s call it a first aid kit—in the back of my vehicle. From the sound of things, if anyone survives, we’ll need it.”
“You fail to return, and I’ll—”
“Yes, I know. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When Donovan returned with his field kit, Parrish eyed it warily, but they were both distracted by screams from upstairs.
They heard more shots, followed by several loud thumps.
Then silence.
Donovan waited.
From upstairs, groaning. Parrish looked increasingly anxious but said nothing more.
They heard another groan.
“Help,” Quinn called weakly. “Help!”
“
Drop your weapons,” Donovan called.
He heard two heavy thumps.
“Kick the guns away from you.”
They heard the sound of one gun sliding. “I can’t,” Quinn said.
“Hurry,” Kai moaned.
Donovan strapped his field kit to his back, stood, and made his way cautiously up the stairs, gun drawn. Parrish crept behind him.
He found Kai and Quinn sprawled at opposite ends of the hallway. He glanced between the bleeding men. Kai had a wounded arm. Quinn had a head wound, and his right thigh had been hit. Donovan told Parrish to help Kai. He picked up their loose weapons, holstered his own, quickly gave Parrish a pair of gloves and packet of gauze, and told him to apply pressure to Kai’s wound. He then moved toward Quinn.
The hallway was in shambles. Wood, plaster, and a small table lamp had sustained more hits than either combatant. What lousy aim, Donovan thought. He made his way over the debris and knelt beside Quinn, who was lying half out of a bathroom.
“That goddamned crazy son of a bitch shot me!” Quinn said, his right hand pressing down on his right leg, the other hand held to his head.
“Looks like you did the same to him,” Donovan said. He took a pair of gloves out of the field kit and put them on. After a quick look at Quinn’s leg, he decided the bullet hadn’t hit an artery and put a thick gauze pad over the wound. He moved Quinn’s left hand away to look at the head wound. “Use both hands to keep the pressure on your leg,” he told him.
“I feel faint.”
“You’ll be all right. Press hard.” Donovan could see that the head wound was superficial, although he was sure it was painful. He took out another sterile pad and pressed it to the wound, then had Quinn put his hand back on it. He returned his attention to the leg wound, quickly cutting away most of the bloody pant leg.