Daddy Darkest

by Ellery Kane

  She thought he might laugh. It sounded made-up. Like a scene from a cheesy Bruce Willis movie, the kind that would’ve been his favorite. At the very least, she expected some questions. But he just nodded. “Please put the gun down. Please.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “Please, Clarie. I love you.” And she knew he did in the sick, twisted way he taught her.

  “Me. The cheerleader. Those are the two I know about. Have there been any others since then? Were you doing this to Lisa too?” His pathetic crying slowed like a dripping faucet, and he looked everywhere but at her.

  “Not to Lisa. No.”

  “But to someone else?”

  His shoulders shrugged almost indiscernibly. “It was always you, Clare. You were the first. The one I really wanted. I never got over you.”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. One or two, I guess. A man has needs, you know?” Did she ever. “But I stopped. I stopped. I stopped!”

  She didn’t take her eyes off him—not for one second—because she needed to remember this moment. Every quivering, sniveling detail. It had to sustain her. “Goodbye, Rodney.” And then, she pulled the trigger.

  Clare sat in her car letting the rain fall in sheets around her. She felt sheltered there. No one could see her cry. The tears were not for herself. Well, maybe a little. But mostly for the girls who came after. My fault. She couldn’t help but think it. When she’d exhausted herself, she opened the ashtray, picked out the bullets she put there for safekeeping, and reloaded the clip.

  Slow and careful, she unwrapped the memory savoring that empty click of the trigger. The way Rodney shuddered before he realized he wasn’t dead at all. It’s not gonna be that easy, asshole. You owe me. But mostly, the way he looked at her, revered her. Like she was God. Or the devil. Or something in between. And he knew she had the power now. Power to give life, power to take it away. And someday, she intended to use it.

  December 26, 1996

  The day after Christmas. Ugh. It always irked Clare with its way-too-jolly, overstuffed, post-holiday hangover vibe. On December 25, people went underground, leaving the streets as bare as the end of the world. She could pretend the world belonged to her alone, her own private snow globe minus the snow. Even when Neal had invited her home with him last year and the year before that, she’d politely declined. It crushed him every time, but it was better that way. The last thing she needed was Neal picturing family ski trips with hot cocoa and fireplace chats and matching parkas for their 2.5 children. She’d learned to stomach the 25th. But the 26th, it was entirely villainous in the way it slapped Clare in the face with her utter aloneness.

  But today, this December 26, Clare felt like she could fly. Five-mile run on an empty stomach—effortless. She imagined wings stretching out behind her, one gust away from liftoff. She even called Lizzie at home because she knew she wouldn’t be there. Lizzie did the holidays big like everybody else. Merry Christmas, Liz, she said at the beep. Talk soon. A big, fat lie, but that twinge of guilt couldn’t slow her down. Lizzie would be just fine without her.

  Clare had the day off, of course, but she made the drive to San Quentin anyway, speeding down the blank slate of highway, humming “Jingle Bells” to herself. She cleared the gate with a smile, rattling off an excuse about loads of paperwork to catch up on. As soon as she arrived at her office, she dialed South Block and summoned the Bear. Then, she waited.

  The hours dragged at her wings, weighing her down. She read client files and polished up her notes. Not that it really mattered anyway. Not anymore. But it meant something to Clare. She didn’t want anyone thinking she’d done a lousy job, shirked her responsibilities. She thought of Fitzpatrick, what he might say to the authorities afterward. Did she screw her client? Sure. Help him break out of prison? Yep. But at least she kept good notes.

  Her high-pitched giggle—the first sound of life she’d heard all afternoon—startled her. Like it came from someone else. But then again, she felt like someone else.

  “Clare? Are you in there?” Her heart leapt, and her eyes darted. Nowhere to hide.

  “Dr. Fitzpatrick? Yes, it’s me.” His shadow loomed behind the beveled glass. She would’ve rather it’d been Ramirez or one of his cronies with a strangled bird in hand.

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  She raced to the door, eager to be rid of him. “I just popped in. I forgot my . . . ” She scanned the room. “ . . . scarf.”

  “I see.” He stared at the stack of files on her desk.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

  “I was just asking myself the same question. I suppose I didn’t feel up to being alone. It’s my first Christmas since the divorce, you know. And I’m not much for shopping. So . . . ” He shrugged. “Here I am. Pathetic, huh?”

  She patted his arm, giving a smile. Underneath the fine, dark hair, his skin had the color of alabaster, and the effort required to touch him—the mental teeth gritting—clipped her wings completely. Clare was earthbound again. “I know what you mean. It can get lonely this time of year.”

  He looked at her hand when it rested briefly on his forearm. Instead of the lurid grin she expected, he eyed it like an alien claw sent to gut him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Okay.” She heard heavy footsteps clunking in the hall behind him. The way a bear would sound if it found its way to her office in San Quentin.

  “The other day when you got that dry cleaning slip, you said Cullen worked in the laundry, right?” She made a noncommittal sound and strained to hear past him. There was nothing. “But I checked, and he’s been assigned to building maintenance.”

  “Oh.”

  Fitzpatrick came inside and pulled the door shut behind him. He hadn’t even accused her yet, and her face already flushed. “Remember how I told you I worked at a women’s prison?” Clare nodded.“Well, I was young back then, and believe it or not, I was a bit of a scoundrel. There was this inmate. Teresa Moretti. A real looker. She was in on a murder charge. Bashed in her boyfriend’s head, when she got tired of being his punching bag. I took a liking to her, Clare. And she knew it. I almost crossed the line.”

  She waited for him to say the thing he was thinking, but he didn’t. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “It’s not unusual to be attracted to a client. Or a supervisee, for that matter. That story is as old as dirt. It’s what you do with it that counts. You know what my supervisor told me when he caught on to my little crush? ‘Fitz,’ he’d said, ‘I’d hate to see you be one of those losers they have to walk off prison grounds because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.’”

  “What did you do?”

  “Between you and me?” He stepped closer to her, and leaned in until she could smell the faint odor of tobacco on him. She’d never seen him smoke before, and it made her wonder if she’d figured him all wrong. Just as suddenly, he pulled away. “Nothing. My supervisor transferred her to another therapist. A newbie. That poor sucker never stood a chance. He got walked off three months later.”

  “So him and her?”

  “Yep. Turns out it wasn’t me she had a thing for. She just liked to play the game. And they always win, Clare. No matter how good it feels in the moment, they always win.”

  Clare felt her wings flutter with new life, brought back from the dead with a jolt and a spark of indignation. Fitzpatrick thought he knew her. Worse, he thought her no different than him. “Thank you for telling me. Come Monday, you can reassign Cullen. I think it’s for the best.” The beginnings of a smug smile tugged at his lips, so she went all in. “And how about next week we finally grab that drink?”

  With Fitzpatrick tucked away inside his office, visions of next week’s cocktails dancing in his head, Clare peeked down the hallway. No one. She inched the length of it, as quiet as she could until she reached the stairwell. At the bottom, the Bear leaned against the wall like he belonged t
here. Like the pillar of his broad back held up the entire building. She cleared her throat to get his attention and gestured wordlessly to the bathroom. Then she slipped inside.

  She stared at the white throat of the toilet as she waited for her breathing to quicken, her heartbeat to race. She’d avoided this place, walking the extra floor up to the larger bathroom since Ramirez cornered her here—since she’d cowered on the cold tile in the throes of another flashback. Flashback. Another pointless term her therapist couldn’t get enough of. I don’t like that word, she told him once. It wasn’t so much a flash as an unraveling. One solid tug on the perpetual thread of an ancient memory, and she came apart at all her seams.

  But her heartbeat stayed steady, the push and pull of her breath calm, even when Raul Torres slipped a hand inside the door and lumbered into the space that was much too small for the two of them.

  “Qué pasa?”

  “Have you made up your mind?” she asked him.

  His eyes were dark slits, impossible to read. “I’m interested.”

  “So you do speak English then?” Clare felt a need to poke him just a little.

  “You’re so smart, Doctor. Muy inteligente.”

  “I am smart,” she said, an uncontrollable grin taking over her face. “That’s why you’re going to owe me one when I tell you my plan. Agreed?”

  “Tell me the plan, then we talk terms.”

  Clare shook her head. “That’s not how it works. I have something you need. But you have something I need.”

  He ran his hand across his monstrous belly and down his crotch, rubbing himself. “Do I?”

  “Keep that up, and I’ll press this.” She drew an alarm from her pocket, and his hand stilled. “Unless you want to explain how you ended up in the women’s bathroom, fondling yourself in front of a staff member.”

  He mulled it over, muttering under his breath. “Puta.”

  She shrugged. “You don’t have to like me. As long as you play by the rules, I’ll help you keep your precious paquete from Ramirez and maybe even get rid of a few EME. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes. Entiendo. So what is it that you need, puta? A bullet in somebody’s head?”

  “Two passports—legitimate looking. You have people on the outside who can do that, right?”

  “My people can do anything if the price is right.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Clare didn’t want the day to end. As long as she didn’t sleep, the spell would never break. And she would be strong and fierce and on the verge of another life. One where Rodney Taylor didn’t exist, had never existed. She fished the envelope Cullen gave her out of her purse and opened it, taking the picture in her hand. In it, he’d stood alone, against the mural in the Corcoran visiting room. “A buddy of mine took it a few years ago,” he’d told her. “It’s the only picture I’ve got.”

  “It will work,” she told him, her voice already thick with longing for the weight of him pressed on top of her. But they had to be careful—even more careful—now. And she’d walked away burning. Before she drove home, she sat in her car and watched the waves come in and out until she worried someone might see her and wonder.

  She set the picture on her pillow. Cullen’s eyes looked back until hers were too heavy to keep open. Eyes so blue it seemed the entire sky lived inside of him.

  28

  GRAVEYARD

  Levi ripped the first few pages out of the folder marked Classified and stuffed them inside his jacket. Together, we headed for the door. “I don’t think we can trust McKinnon.” He paused and answered the question I didn’t ask. “And no, I’m not just saying that because she wants to arrest me.”

  “We don’t know how that file got here.”

  “Maybe you don’t. But I’m pretty sure Rodney Taylor didn’t steal it himself.”

  “You’re saying she gave it to him?”

  Levi exaggerated a sigh. “Exactly. Now you’re thinking, Detective.”

  “Because she’s . . . in on it?” When I conjured McKinnon’s face, the cinnamon freckles splashed on either side of her elegant nose, I just couldn’t imagine it. But it seemed no more unlikely than my mother, the psychologist. Or my father, the murderer. “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “Cop’s instinct,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Or paranoia.”

  He laughed. “Same difference.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong.” Or right, I added silently as I followed him outside.

  The last building at Green River Trucking—door number three—loomed across the field of weeds. It was long enough to hold an entire semi and equipped with a garage door. Levi thought it served as a maintenance shed. Outside, the discarded innards of an 18-wheeler: a few gutted bucket seats, four rusty hubcaps, and a weathered steering wheel. “It’s like a truck graveyard,” I said.

  I waited for Levi to respond with a smart remark—let’s hope it’s not our graveyard—or at the very least, shush me, but he didn’t. He beckoned me over to the wall by the entrance, where he pressed himself still and flat as a lizard. Then he touched his ear. Listen.

  Faint at first, muffled by a rumbling engine, the sounds became voices when I leaned closer. Voices I recognized. Kidnapper and victim. Psychologist and patient. Mother and father.

  “ . . . don’t understand why you lied about that. Of all things.”

  “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain, Clare. You just sent me out there to the wolves.”

  “What was I supposed to do? And Dumas, was that a lie too?” Next to me, Levi tensed, waiting for the answer.

  “No, I swear I didn’t do it. Briggs made it all up. Big surprise. That guy would’ve said anything to get in your pants. And he did, didn’t he?” A long time passed with nothing but the low growl of the truck and the whir of the bugs in the tall grass. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about our daughter? You didn’t know for sure if she was mine?”

  “She’s yours.”

  “Yeah, well that’s obvious. She looks just like me.” Did I? I turned to Levi, stricken. Did I? He shrugged back. Meaning yes.

  Another long silence, and my legs started to shake like the last forty-eight hours had finally caught up. I put my hands on my knees to steady them, dug my heels into the ground. Then, “Where the hell are they, Clare? They should’ve been here by now.”

  “They’ll be here. They owe me. Just calm—”

  I couldn’t hear them anymore. I went down hard behind the battered backside of a bucket seat, shoulder to the dirt and a mouthful of weeds. Until I saw Levi next to me, raising his gun at something unseen, I’d assumed I fainted. I would’ve preferred it actually. I waited for gunfire. For bodies to hit the ground. But the breeze rustled the air like any other summer day. Two men. They knew where they were going. They were expected, it seemed. One pounded on the door twice with his tattooed fist—a design that looked like a fancy letter N—while the other stood guard, their guns visible, but not drawn.

  The man spoke into the closed door. “The Bear sent us to drive you to Mexico.”

  My mother let them in. I saw her hand on the door, her ruby sparkling in the sunlight. Behind her, a shadow—so close, so dark—it could only belong to Cullen. “It’s about time,” she said.

  December 27, 1996

  Something felt off. Before Clare phoned in sick, not even bothering to fake a sniffle or a cough. Before she drove into the bowels of the Fruitvale neighborhood in Oakland where a weaselly, mustached man called Pepe forged two passports while she waited on his doorstep. Before she packed it all into Briggs’ ammo can and drove to Muir Woods. Before she counted 350 paces and dug a hole to the right of a tree that looked like a mouth waiting to swallow her. Before all of that, she awakened to the sound of her doorbell and a feeling. The slippery kind she couldn’t put a name to, the kind shrinks don’t stick on a feelings chart.

  Cullen’s photo had slipped from the pillow, one edge bent as if she’d been holding it
all night. Still grasping it in her hand, unable to part with it, she padded to the door.

  Rodney had left the money on her mat like he promised, bundled inside an oversized envelope decorated for Christmas. But he hadn’t followed her instructions. Not that it surprised her. He’d always done what he wanted, to whom he wanted, and when. Leave the money outside my door at 6 a.m. on Friday. Come alone and don’t ring the bell. Drive away right after. Yet, he stood there in the parking lot, gaping at her in her T-shirt that barely covered her underwear.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she slammed the door shut and locked it. And that seed of a feeling grew. She’d felt it before, the morning after Rodney first touched her. Knowing the world had changed completely before she could remember how. Knowing her old life had been broken and could never be put right again. Knowing in her bones she’d set it all in motion.

  That night, Clare floored it back from Muir Woods—her hands caked with dirt that would take effort to wash off and that feeling still sitting on her chest. She’d already pulled into the lot when she saw Briggs’ jeep, parked and running. Too late to turn around. A glance in the mirror told her she looked inexplicably ridiculous. Her face smudged with mud and sweat, stray needles in her hair, and eyes red-rimmed from her near all-nighter.

  “Clare? What the hell happened to you?”

  She squinted in the headlights of his jeep as he rolled up the window and climbed out. “Did you come from Quentin?” she asked, though she knew the answer already. He still was wearing his army-green uniform pants with a thin white T-shirt. “Do you want to come inside?” Clare heard herself talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. Maybe if she kept it up, she wouldn’t have to explain.

  “Not until you tell me why you look like . . . that.”

  “I fell. I went for a run in the woods—just needed a change of scenery, I guess—and I slipped and took a tumble.”