Sins of the Father (14 page)

“I suppose it was. Partly at least. He
doesn’t have to worry about the bad father any more. He’s safe now,
and can have a new daddy who will love him and be kind to him.”

“Are you going to be his new daddy?”

He laughed softly and squeezed my waist.
“No, I’ve already got my one and only. I don’t need another child.
You’re my shining star, Sprout. And I love you more than anything
and anyone in the whole wide world.”

“Daddy, what was the sad little boy’s
name?”

“He doesn’t have that name anymore, honey.
It’s part of his second chance.”

“But who was he before the second
chance?”

Dad patted my head indulgently. “I guess it
can’t hurt. His name was Thomas Peterson. And now, he’s a brand new
little boy, with all the happiness he could ask for right in front
of him.”

As I sped north from D.C., I hoped Dad
remembered Thomas Peterson. He was about to have an unexpected
visit from the sad boy who got a second chance. How fitting, since
I was about to give the best father in the history of mankind the
second chance he so richly deserved.

Chapter 12

The drive from Washington Dulles to Attica
took just over eight hours, thanks to the trampoline that my
bladder had become. Even though I couldn’t feel them dancing around
in there, I knew that they were doing it. Why else could I go from
perfectly comfortable to an urgency I’d never known before in less
than five seconds?

I patted my padded belly. “I hope you’ll
forgive me one day too.”

The guide for families and friends of
inmates in the New York correctional system was comprehensive and
vague at the same time. I did plenty of research over the past few
months to know the particulars about Attica.

The odds of easier visitation improved
during the week. From what I’d read, weekends were a different
proposition altogether. I could expect to remove clothing if any
metal was present at all.

Check. The business suit, while a little on
the cheap cut side, had a plastic zipper and buttons. I didn’t need
a belt, thanks to the fat suit.

The ace up my sleeve was a little bit of
evidence I hoarded after shooting Alfred Preston. It wasn’t a
permanent misappropriation, just long enough to have a replica of
his badge, complete with transposed numbers, commissioned from the
photographs I was able to snap before everything was bagged and
tagged. I could forge the rest of a bureau ID in my sleep. It had
only had to be convincing, not perfect to work.

I checked into a local motel, a bit on the
fleabag end of the spectrum, and scrubbed the adhesive and facial
hair from cheeks and chin. To make the disguise fly in the morning,
I’d have to be much more careful in the application. Couldn’t show
up to the prison looking shabby while impersonating a federal
agent.

That act alone was a felony. The rest of my
plan danced so far over the legality line, there was certainly no
turning back.

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.