Seraphim (31 page)

Finally, she said to Kathy, “From here, could a person shoot a bullet into that man’s head?”

“I guess so.”

Patricia stood, just long enough to seal the thought, then headed for the stairs.

“Oh, shit,” Duncan moaned.

Rachel went after her. “Patricia, let’s think about this.”

“My daddy left a gun case just full of rifles and shotguns and pistols,” Patricia declared as she bounded the stairs, three at a time. “I’m gonna find the biggest one and blow his goddamn head off!”

As she passed the face in the stained glass window, it said, “Patricia, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

She stopped, turned. Pointing at the face, she said. “And you’re next.”

“So,” Chris said to Joan, “do you think she’ll do it from the book depository or the grassy knoll?”

Just then, the priest got up from his chair and disappeared from the living room, leaving the opposite way he’d entered.

“Señor Duncan!” Juanita cried moments later, pointing.

In the scene, located at the far end of the hallway, was a boudoir mirror. Upon exiting the living room, the priest had entered the kitchen area, leaving the door ajar. This allowed the mirror to reflect part of the kitchen counter, cabinets, half a table and two chairs, and the window above the sink, beyond which stood a telling landmark. It was a good distance away, and a thick haze was rendering it nearly invisible. Still, there was no mistaking what it was.

“The Space Needle,” Duncan whispered. “Seattle.”

Chris stepped in, peered closer. “You a Mariners fan?”

“No,” Duncan said distantly, staring at the structure. “But then, neither is anybody else.”

Kathy looked up at Duncan. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he said. “You did great.”

She pulled her hand from the glass, and instantly the Bently’s front yard—not half as stark and fallow as it had earlier seemed to Duncan—materialized before them.

Patricia was descending the stairs with a rifle in one hand, a shotgun in the other, and two semi-automatic pistols stuffed into her jeans. Duncan recalled the old west picture of her and Kathy, and thought she looked more like an outlaw there than she did here. Now, she just looked like a frightened, desperate mother who, for all she knew about firearms and getting even, would have been better off hurrying down the stairs with her monogrammed bowling ball.

Rachel was right behind Patricia, still trying to reason with her. Burdened now with boxes of ammunition, she was having a hard time gesturing with her hands.

“Think about the possible repercussions,” the face in the stained glass window pleaded with Patricia as she hurried by.

“Fuck off,” she said. Then, as she neared the front window, she blurted frantically, “What happened? Where’d he go?”

“I couldn’t hold it anymore,” Kathy said, as if she’d just wet her pants. “Sorry.”

“Well, young lady, you just march right back over there—”

“She can’t,” Duncan said, stepping in front of Kathy, “so leave her be.”

As Patricia stared at Duncan, she let both weapons fall from her hands. They struck the wood floor like fetters on a gallows.

Her eyes were venomous. “Don’t you ever tell me to leave my daughter—” She stopped, frozen in mid-sentence. Finally, she said, almost inaudibly, “You people tricked me. She’s not my daughter, not my daughter at all...”

With an understanding smile, her mother held out her hand. “C’mon, dear, I’ve got some pills that’ll take the edge right off.”

As they started for the kitchen, Duncan pointed to the guns in her jeans. “Why don’t you just leave those with me.”

Avoiding his eyes, staring into a place only she could see, she handed both guns to Duncan.

“Don’t you worry, Patty,” Chris promised. “We’ll catch the bastard. And when we do, he’s all yours.”

“Easy, Romeo,” Duncan said, his words sliding down a sidelong glance. “Don’t start writing checks your balls can’t cash.”

8.

The tranquilizers her mother prescribed had calmed Patricia considerably; however, there wasn’t likely a pill in existence that could have relieved the affliction in her eyes. With the exception of Katherine, who was close by in the living room, playing fetch-the-toy with the dachshund (who she’d complained of being considerably less feisty than she remembered), everyone was sitting at the dining room table, poring over the photo albums Patricia had brought down earlier, absorbed in Kathy’s maturation from infancy to a pretty, bright-eyed girl of ten.

Her evolution from there, of course, was pure speculation. Well, perhaps not entirely, Duncan thought, given what they’d just recently learned from a plate-glass window.

When someone asked about a particular photo, Patricia would answer with a short, precise history, delivered in the same stolid yet unerring manner of a bored tour guide, one shuttling her ticket-holders through her own conchology exhibit, explaining the symmetry and color and geographical distribution of every seashell. And sometimes, in spite of herself, she still couldn’t help but point at a particular one and smile at its beauty.

Duncan thought she probably had the creased and grainy features of every photograph entrusted to memory. Not just duplicates of the still images before her, but titanium rolls of film, expertly counterfeited and strung along the reels of her memory should thief, flood, or fire ever take the originals.

The only person not thoroughly engrossed was Chris, who looked like he’d rather be on the carpet with the dog, chasing rubber balls.

“I have a question,” Chris said lazily. “Why did you name the dog Pillsbury? I mean, it doesn’t look anything like the Dough Boy.”

“We didn’t name her that because we thought there was a resemblance,” Patty explained. “Classic case. See, one day while coming home from work, I saw her lying on the side of the road. Just a puppy then. I thought she was dead, but pulled over anyway, just to make sure. Well, she wasn’t of course, but almost. Thought she’d been hit by a car, so I rushed her to the veterinarian. Found out she hadn’t been run over, but probably would have been better off if she had, according to the vet. Turned out she was nearly dead with parvo, a bad doggy virus. The vet strongly suggested that I let him put her to sleep, put her out of her misery, but I said no. So, I brought her home, and the three of us—me, Mom, and Katherine—did everything in our power to get her to eat. She’d take water, but no food. We tried everything from fresh veal to Snickers bars, but she refused. Then, just when we were ready to call it quits and dig a hole in the backyard, Mom accidentally bumped the table as she was setting dinner and dropped this steaming bowl of chicken stew. It went crashing to the floor, bowl breaking, stew everywhere. Gawd, what a mess that was. Anyway, smelling this, that dog literally crawled over to the closest splatter and began eating! But she was only picking out one ingredient—the
biscuits
mom put in the stew.” Patricia took a sip of coffee. “
That’s
why we named her Pillsbury.”

Chris looked troubled. “But then, wouldn’t Dumpling have been a more appropriate name?”

Patricia laughed. “Shut up, Chris.”

“These pictures, they give me the goose bumps,” Juanita said. “They are one in the same, Kathy and Amy.”

Patricia said to Duncan, “After having met you, I was never again able to look at Katherine and not see your face in hers.”

Rachel looked up, as if she wanted to comment on that. Then her eyes rolled diffidently down to the pictures again; reserved, for now.

“The resemblance is striking,” Joan agreed. “To Mr. McNeil, I mean.”

“Where is her real father?” Juanita said.

“Long gone.” Pouring from a carafe, Patricia warmed her coffee. “I met him at church, of all places. Well, I shouldn’t say it that way. I was actually going to church at that time just to meet men. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“Of course not,” Duncan said. “Episcopalians have been doing it for years.” He flipped to the next page in the photo album. “Besides, I can’t think of a better reason to go.”

Juanita’s huge bosom rose ever so slightly in indignation, then caught there. Duncan could see she wanted so badly to remind them both that, yes, just as in the church, so could a copy of the Holy Bible be found in a motel room—but similitude stopped there, white linens included.

Contritely, Patricia smiled at Juanita, her left dimple far more prominent than her right. And Duncan was reminded that it had been just those very features with which he’d fallen in love so many years ago.

“So, what was her father’s name?” Rachel prodded.

“Jack Fortune,” Patricia said, her smile yielding to the words.

“Really?” Rachel said. “Sounds like some sly character from
The Young and the Restless
.”

Patricia nodded. “Being tall, dark, and mysterious, he could have played a good one, too.”

Chris piped in. “You forgot handsome.”

With a puzzled expression, Patricia said, “That’s the funny thing. I don’t remember what he looked like. I couldn’t even tell you for sure if he was black, Asian, Hispanic—although he obviously wasn’t any of those. It’s just...hard to explain. It’s as if...well, as if his features have been stricken from my memory, and—and I know this sounds crazy—my mind won’t even let me make up a face to put in the void.”

“Sounds like you retired his jersey,” Duncan said, “and now no one else can wear that number.”

“Yeah, exactly,” she said. “I didn’t know if I was making any sense.”

Recalling his own bout of bowdlerized memories, Duncan said, “No, you’re making perfect sense. I’m beginning to think there’s a...glitch in the program.”

“Anti-virus program, dude,” Chris sagely offered, then excused himself to the kitchen.

Duncan wasn’t sure if Chris was offering a solution or defining the problem.

Still perusing the photo album, Rachel pointed to a picture of a man standing beside a large, if not stately, playhouse. Kathy, maybe six years old then, was at his side, gaping at the structure, the surprise on her face immeasurable. “This is her late step-father, Charles?”

“Yes,” Patricia said. “He built that for her.”

“Impressive,” Rachel said. “But no pictures of Jack Fortune?”

Patricia shook her head.

“You mentioned his ‘mysterious’ side,” Duncan said. “Mysterious how?”

“He was...eclectic,” Patricia explained. “You know, one of those well-dressed, anal-retentive types who strut around pretending to be the cock of the walk.”

Rachel laughed. “That’s not mysterious—it’s compulsory.”

Wearing that baffled look again, Patricia said, “Well, he did have a...an ambiance about him that was convincing. An air of nobility that I never second-guessed.” She glanced back down at the pictures, appearing both charmed and ashamed. “He made me laugh.”

Rachel leaned forward. “He was rich, in other words.”

“That too,” she said. “Yeah, he was loaded. I mean, that was the impression I got. He never worked but always seemed to have an unlimited supply of cash. All he would ever tell me was that he was ‘the epitome of rags-to-riches.’”

“So,” Rachel said, “as long as he kept getting the check, you minded your own business.”

Patricia squirmed in her chair. “No. Maybe.” She laughed. “Hell, I guess I did.”

Rachel pressed on. “How long did you date him?”

She sighed. “About two months.”

Back from the kitchen with Twinkie in hand, Chris looked shocked, and just as he was about to comment, Juanita kicked him under the table. “Keep your remarks pleasant and to the point.”

Speechless under these new conditions, Chris just gaped.

“Just two months?” Rachel said, almost haughtily. “Well, that would at least explain the lack of pictures.”

Duncan, however, silently translated his wife’s words into their true meaning:
“Well, well, you wasted no time in attempting to corner him into marriage, or a sizable alimony check—you slut.”

In self-defense, Patricia said, “When I told him I was pregnant, he vanished. I mean, it’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth. I’ve never seen or heard from him since.”

“Prick,” Rachel said.

Duncan said, “Did you ever file a claim with the child support division?”

“No. All I had was his name, and that was probably bogus.”

“Jack Fortune,” Duncan guessed, “charming and debonair as he may have seemed, is probably
the
model for bogus wear.” He gave the face in the window an impugning glance, then looked down at Kathy playing on the floor. He whispered, “Hell, I’ll even wager that Jack Fortune isn’t human at all.”

Patricia, staring also at Kathy, said, “Jesus, I don’t want to consider that.”

*****

An hour later, still at the dining room table, Duncan and Patricia found themselves alone.

Taking what was surely going to be a short-lived opportunity, Patricia said, “You know, after Katherine disappeared from the boardwalk, I was told to make a list of all the people who’d ever been involved with her, to whatever degree. A list of potential suspects. And you were right there at the top.”

It was no mystery to Duncan why she’d named him her prime suspect, at least initially, and for two very good reasons. One, just months before Kathy’s disappearance, he’d been an influential—if not patriarchal—figure in her life. Having Patricia create such a list was just standard police work, and whether she’d included him or not, his name would have eventually made its way there in the course of the investigation. Two, she would have naturally assumed—again, at least initially, frantically—that he’d kidnapped Kathy for ransom. For his share of the money. Or maybe all of it. This she wouldn’t have divulged (and obviously hadn’t) to the authorities, as she would have implicated herself in any number of felonies, some carrying a penalty as severe as kidnapping itself. He wondered how close she’d come to telling, though, in those first twenty-four hours.

“The FBI quickly cleared you, of course,” Patricia said, “seeing how you were on the other end of the continent when Katherine disappeared.”

He shook his head. “Still, it would have been procedure for the FBI to contact me, to—”