by LS Sygnet
I flipped through the address book I pulled out of my travel bag.
C: Carter, Chambers, Czerny… Ronnie.
“Second chances, Dad.”
I doled out more than a few in my history in law enforcement. Would that make him proud? Was that the lesson he intended to teach?
I pulled out the cell phone, last of my untraceable accomplices.
“Czerny Garage.”
“May I speak with Ronnie, please?”
“Who is calling please?” Wary.
“Ronnie, is that you? It’s… Special Agent Eriksson.”
“Helen?” he said. “Oh my God. I swear on my mother’s soul, whatever it was, I did not do it!”
His thick accent took me back in time to a happier memory. We’d been working a series of suspicious deaths in Buffalo, tenuous to call them murders at best. It seemed improbable that the string of fatalities all caused by hit-and-run motorists weren’t something more. Ten dead in half as many weeks, all without a speck of conscience on the part of the driver. The real clue to my way of seeing the case was that eye witnesses all described the same make and model of vehicle. The rub was that none of the colors of the vehicles ever matched.
Ronnie lied to the FBI. It was my brilliant idea to start canvassing body shops looking for the same make and model that required frequent repairs with the rainbow of paint colors our witnesses described. We talked to everybody. Nobody knew nothin’. Ronnie was the unfortunate nervous cog in the steely wheel of auto body repair.
Everyone else got heavy handed with him, started throwing out threats about felonies and lying to the FBI and even accessory after the fact.
Ronnie was the recipient of a second chance after I quietly suggested to him that perhaps he wasn’t guilty of any of those things, should perhaps, his English be a little less than perfect.
We caught the perp, and the fact that it was Ronnie’s nephew by marriage didn’t change the fact that in the end, his eager cooperation after the failure to communicate was corrected, there were no charges against him.
I knew better. “You need to keep your nose, clean, Ronnie. The cops will be watching you from now on, and I think we both know why.”
“I knew he was wrecking the car, Helen. I did not know he was killing people with it.”
Who knew if it was true or not? I didn’t care. Ronnie had a skill, and today, the second chance I gave him would be repaid, with interest.
“Ronnie, relax. I need a favor.”
“Anything, name it.”
“It’s dangerous, and illegal.”
You could’ve heard a pin drop from thirty miles away.
“And the less you know, the better. Just like with your nephew. Remember that, Ronnie?”
“Of course I remember. What I can do to help you?”
I explained what I needed, right down to a case of sabotage that would prevent the real emergency medical service from reaching Attica. “Can you do it?”
“I would need to get some things, the lights I can handle. Even the decals would be easy to make. Take me one week.”
“You’ve got until tomorrow night, Ronnie. It doesn’t have to be 100 percent authentic, just close enough to look real in an emergency. Do you know anyone who can perform CPR?”
“Yes, yes, my brother in law is how you say… paramedic.”
“Excellent. I can give you money.”
“No, no, no. You say I owe you favor, yes? After this, we even, okay?”
“More than even, which is why I insist that you let me pay you, at least for what it will cost to put this fake ambulance together.”
“It is fair, yes. I give the money to my brother in law. He is not part of this business between us.”
“Whatever you say, Ronnie. I’ll need the van ready for action by nightfall Thursday. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon and let you know a more specific time. You’re going to be picking up an inmate from Attica.”
“Oh dear,” he fretted. “This is illegal part, yes?”
“Yes, but he’s not a dangerous man. I’m giving him the same second chance I gave you. That’s all you need to know. And Ronnie, remember that I know the truth. If you tell anyone about our little deal, your second chance disappears. You could still be prosecuted for helping your nephew. For the rest of your life.”
“Yes, yes, I remember what you told me all those years ago. I keep this secret. I help you give some other poor soul his second chance.”
I disconnected the call and breathed a sigh of relief. Another call confirmed that a private jet would be waiting for us at the Genesee County Airfield, in a hangar awaiting my instructions. I’d get Dad to the airport, and the jet would fly us to Montreal. From there, forged Canadian passports would insure our seats on a trans-Atlantic flight to Europe.
I spent the next half hour brushing up on my French. A little villa in the south of France, my father, a quiet life where I could raise my children away from monsters and mayhem. “We’re so close, Dad. Please cooperate. Please trust that I know what I’m doing.”
I pulled a single vial of succinylcholine out of my bag. I wouldn’t be able to smuggle the whole thing into the prison thanks to the metal top. No problem. I had a ten milliliter luer-lock syringe waiting to be filled. All Dad would need was ten seconds with unobserved access to his IV line – provided that the infirmary knew what the symptoms of a heart attack looked like and started one – and boom! He’d crash, they’d start emergent life support, call an ambulance – and Ronnie would show up to do his thing.
Did I believe it would go off without a hitch? Not likely. But I had to try. Even in failure, I would have the knowledge that I tried to undo the wrong that I allowed to happen all those years ago.
I’d have to talk Dad into cooperation. It could be a tricky proposition, all dependent on his answers to my direct questions.
No, I haven’t completely lost my mind or all objectivity. I came here to get answers. Dad’s second chance is dependent on his ability to convince me that he’s telling the truth.
I love my father, but there are no blinders. Research and a good memory helped fill in a few of the blanks. Dad should’ve never given me a name, never asked what’s the harm. I knew who Thomas Peterson was, at least superficially. And I suspected that I knew exactly how Dad had given him a second chance.
Thomas Peterson Senior, by all accounts, was a real son of a bitch. He racked up five DUI’s back before the state played hardball with the infraction, and had social services camped out on his doorstep for most of his son’s life. Habitually unemployed or underemployed. Habitually drunk. Habitually taking out his rage and stupidity on an innocent child.
On the last night of Peterson’s life, he hauled his son out barhopping with him. Apparently, according to the widow, it was a fairly regular occurrence. Best way to teach your son how to be a complete dick was to let him watch the process unfold.
Dad happened upon the wreckage, according to the official police report. It explained why he came home reeking of oily smoke. There were barely skeletal remains left after the vehicle exploded. A couple of molars imbedded into a fragment of jawbone. A few carpal bones and two fleshy feet in melted high top sneakers. No trace of young Tommy Peterson had ever been found, not surprising, considering that the car had been burning for some time when Dad came upon the accident scene.
It didn’t take much imagination on my part to figure out what really happened. Chronic drunk driver Peterson passed out at the wheel of his car, rolled off the road, hit a tree. Enter Dad, finding a young boy about to douse his father with the bottle of alcohol charred in the wreckage and light a match.
I could almost hear Dad talking him into handing over the matches, coaxing the frightened child out of the car, soaking his own hands in more blood to spare the boy of living with patricide on his conscience for the rest of his life.
Dad lit the match. Dad made sure the car would burn long and hot. Dad bought time to whisk a little boy away, to retrieve him and put him in a
good home.
Had he seen something horrible in Aidan Conall’s character too? Why leave Crevan behind? The questions plagued me like no other I could recall. My heart went to battle with my head again, this time, unrelated to Johnny Orion. My father was a good man. I knew it as much as I recognized his flaws. I could not conceive of a world where he engaged in something as reprehensible as selling women and children into slavery.
My stomach churned.
“I need food, whether the thought disgusts me or not,” I said.
The vending machines outside the motel provided enough calories to quell any guilt I felt for depriving my body – and my children – of nutrients.
It seemed that over night, a baby bump popped out of my belly. I laid on the bed after a dinner of Ho-Ho’s, cheese and crackers, Doritos and powdered mini-donuts. I sipped from a can of ginger ale, which made me think of Johnny. Think. More like miss him so much it hurt. The thought that I would never see him again, be unable to risk speaking to him, hurt enough to suck more tears from my eyes.
I reached over the nightstand and set the alarm for five-thirty. Whether I wanted tomorrow or not, it was coming. I needed to be ready.
Chapter 13
I sat stoically on the bus transporting visitors to Attica. I patted my breast pocket once before I climbed on board.
Fake federal ID. Check.
Syringe full of succinylcholine. Check.
Baggie with thirty tablets of an anticholinergic. Check.
Wallet containing fictitious photo ID and credit cards in the name of Thomas Peterson. Check.
No metal. No weapon. How would I explain that after flashing the FBI credentials with personally earned ease? Simple. I’ve been through the drill before. I know better than to bring my sidearm to a prison.
Passing a baggie of drugs and a syringe filled with a paralytic anesthetic in a common visiting room would be tricky. The absolute lack of privacy would make the questions I had impossible.
I crossed my internal fingers that the guise of professional courtesy meant something, even to the department of corrections. Their officers didn’t command a whole lot of respect from other law enforcement agencies, even though they held one of the most important jobs there was in the field. Guarding incarcerated monsters.
No, Dad didn’t belong there.
At the prison, we were herded into a line and brought in groups of five into the visitor processing center. My insomnia and intention to rise early paid off. I was in the fourth group of five to enter the holding area.
I waited for the officer to beckon me forward where I would announce my name, who I wanted to visit and fill out the requisite forms.
Dammit.
Handwriting. It was virtually impossible to do this without leaving some kind of evidence that could be used to prove I was here. Even though the closed circuit monitors were recording my face for posterity, I looked nothing like Helen Eriksson. Or Helen Eriksson Orion.
I won’t be her for much longer.
Desperation weighed heavily with each footstep. I took a gamble when I reached the officer.
“Identification and name of the prisoner you’re here to see.”
I pulled the FBI credentials out of my pocket and flipped the leather case open. “Special Agent Thomas Peterson.”
“Hell, sir. You’re not supposed to come through here to access prisoners. Who are you here to see?”
“It’s a personal visit,” I said, gave a small tight smile. “This is my own time, Officer…” Badge read Timmons. “Officer Timmons.”
“Personal, huh?”
“When I was a young boy, this man saved my life. I lost track of him naturally, I was just a kid. Recently, I was reminded of what he did for me and thought I’d try to find him. Imagine my shock, learning that he’s been here nearly twenty years.”
“Old timer, eh? Who is he?”
“Wendell Eriksson.”
Timmons’s eyes widened. “Would this good deed have taken place when he was still a cop?”
“It did,” I said. “Regardless of what he became after that night, I wouldn’t be standing here today, or had the good life I’ve had if he hadn’t saved me.”
“Well, that complicates things a bit,” he said. “See, Eriksson’s in segregation, on account of his history on the job. Lotta guys up here would love nothing more than to shove a shank in his kidney.”
I struggled to suppress the cringe.
“So it violates protocol to put him in the general visiting area. Only a handful of people have ever showed up to see him. They were cops, if you can imagine. We put ‘em in one of the private rooms, but that was more of a case of official versus personal business.”
If he only knew. I glossed right over the other cops, assuming it was David Levine or someone else from the real bureau looking into why my husband visited my father.
“I understand.”
“Let me make a phone call and see how they wanna handle this,” Timmons said. He gestured back to the chairs. “Wait over there, Agent Peterson. At the very least, we can find out if ol’ Wendell even wants another visitor. Hard to tell with that guy.”
I crossed fingers and toes and all my internal organs in the hope that Dad would at least be spurred by curiosity when he heard the name Thomas Peterson.
Five minutes felt like five weeks. Timmons beckoned again. “Gonna have to have you check your weapon, agent. Eriksson agreed to see you, and we’re gonna put you in a private room.”
“I left my sidearm at the hotel,” I said. Forced a smile. “This isn’t my first visit to a penitentiary, officer.”
“Oh, right. This way.” The electronic lock on the door hummed. I stepped through and followed with a brisk step. Moment of truth.
How would Dad react?
Timmons pointed to the door marked Private Interview. “Right through there, sir.”
“Interview room?”
“Yeah, the guys with appeals meet their lawyers in there. Or one like it. Don’t worry. We won’t record this – unless there’s something you’d like on an official record.”
“No, as I said, this is completely personal.” It was the single truthful statement I made all day. “Thank you so much, Officer Timmons. When I’m done…?”
“Buzz from inside the door. Someone will come and escort you out of the facility. Good luck. Prison changes a man. I doubt Eriksson is quite what you remember.”
Of that, I had no doubt. I swung the door open and stepped inside.
My father, my strong, proud father, stood before me in prison garb, shoulders slumped, hair ragged, overgrowth of gray whiskers jutting from his chin.
His eyes fixed on me, narrowed. “You are not Thomas Peterson.”
I didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but the waterworks were certainly rushing to the surface.
“Thomas Peterson was an African American boy. Unless things have really changed on the outside, I’m pretty confident that you’ve come looking for the wrong man.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not, Dad.”
His jaw dropped with the gasp that escaped. “What have you done?”
“Daddy, it’s me, it’s Helen.”
“You’re… you look ridiculous. You’re fat.”
“It’s just a disguise.”
His eyes narrowed. “What have you done, Helen, to necessitate an extreme disguise like this? Why are you impersonating an FBI agent?”
I suddenly felt like I was thirteen again, being scolded for trying to pick the lock on the liquor cabinet. “Daddy, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Christ,” he hissed. “That buffoon couldn’t even follow a simple plan, could he? That’s why you’re in disguise, on the run. He fucked everything up and the FBI is still harassing you –”
“Daddy, no. Johnny took care of all that. The FBI ruled Rick’s death a suicide.”
His eyes impaled me. I fidgeted under the probing gaze.
“Was that the way of it? He killed himself?”
“Ah shit,” he said. “Come here, and give your father a proper hug.”
I nearly stumbled across the room until his strong arms wrapped around me. “Baby girl, why? The feds had him. Why would you do something so reckless? I taught you better than that.”
“I know, Daddy. You told me that it could never be personal.”
He pulled away and thumbed the tears from my whiskered cheeks. “I was talking about the job, not killing suspects.”
“He tried to blackmail me.”
“I surmised as much. I’m so sorry, honey. I never wanted any of this for you. What happened to medical school?”
I shrugged.
“This Orion character says you became an FBI profiler.”
“I got a doctorate in psychology instead of going to med school, put my skills to work in the family business.”
“How I hope that isn’t true.”
“Daddy, I need to ask you some questions, and you’ve got to tell me the truth. No matter how painful this is, the answers are safe with me. I would never betray you, no matter what.”
My father gestured toward the table and chairs. “Please, let’s sit.”
He waited until I had the additional bulk of my fat suit situated. “All right, what are these questions you’ve got for me?”
“I need you to tell me about the day I was born, Dad.”
“That old tale? I’ve told you that story a hundred –”
“The truth this time. Please. Don’t leave out the painful parts, Dad. I… I need to know all of it.”
“All right,” he nodded. “But before I say anything else, I want you to know that I have loved you like no one else, and I have never regretted having you, Helen. You’re correct that there’s an ugly side to the story. Sometimes there are things in life that blindside us, things that we believe are mistakes that turn into something quite… opposite.”
Preachin’ to the choir on that one. I wished my hand could burrow through the bulky padding and caress the babies growing inside me.