The Other Daughter (26 page)

“Ah, decades, of course. I suppose even beauty queens don't look quite the same after thirty years—”

“You're an idiot, Harper.”

“That's what you'd like to think. But I'm the one who won the girl in the end, aren't I? And
I know
that still galls you, O'Donnell. You just can't handle that you've never understood Pat any more than you've understood me.”

“Hap, you're missing the point.”

“What point?”

“Somebody knows, Harper. After all these years, somebody knows about Meagan.”

Harper shut up. He turned his attention to business, and together they ran through the facts. It wasn't encouraging. Harper had received a note. William had gotten a pile of organs and a note, and Jamie now had a pickled penis. Plus there were the hangups Annie had been receiving. Finally, Larry Digger was in town after all these years.

“It could be him,” Jamie said after a moment.

“He doesn't have the imagination. Never did.”

“What about Patricia? Has she received anything?”

“Hasn't said a word to me.”

“She wouldn't say anything, Harper, at least not to you.”

Harper didn't argue the point. No matter what he liked to say, his marriage had fallen a long way from being a love match over the years, and they both knew it. “She'd tell Brian though,” he said at last. “And Brian would be angry enough to tell me.”

“Even now?”

“I think you know as well as I do, O'Donnell, that my own son hates me more than ever. I would think that would make you happy.”

“No,” Jamie said honestly. “It doesn't.”

Harper cleared his throat. He was shaken up about his son. Handling it badly, in Jamie's opinion, but genuinely shaken up. That made Jamie feel something he wasn't prepared to feel after all these years — pity.

Sometimes he hated Harper Stokes. He saw all the things Harper did that his family knew nothing about, and at those times he thought Harper Stokes could very well be the devil. Then there were moments when he confused even Jamie. Harper did seem to love his son. He had been honestly betrayed by Brian's little announcement.

“Melanie's migraine,” Harper suddenly said.

“What about it?”

“I assumed it was due to stress, but what if it's not? Melanie hasn't had a migraine in ten years, not even when she split with William. So why now? Unless it's more than just stress. Unless it's her memories.”

“It could be. It could be.”

Jamie couldn't say anything more. He could tell Harper was equally spooked. Her memory was the wild card, the one thing that could undo it all. In the beginning they'd obsessed about it constantly. But after twenty-five years, all of them, he supposed, had grown comfortable.

“The truth has a life of its own,” Jamie said at last. “Maybe the only real surprise is that it took it this long to find us again.”

“Who the hell could be doing this?” Harper exploded.

“I don't know.”

“What about you? Or maybe Brian?”

“What would we possibly have to gain, old man? How could we come out ahead? Melanie would hate our guts, and maybe you don't care, but I know I do. And I'm sure as holy hell that Brian does.”

“It's too late, O'Donnell. All of us have gained too much to lose it all now. I'm taking the family to Europe, that's it.”

“Europe?”

“Oh, I didn't tell you?” Harper's voice grew innocent, and Jamie knew his old friend was moving in for the kill. “I asked Pat this morning. We're taking the whole family, including Brian, on vacation. Just gonna pack up our bags and go, to hell with everything. Very romantic, Pat said. She seems quite excited about it. I know I am.”

Jamie didn't say a word. He simply gripped the phone tighter and listened.

“Don't you get it yet,
sport
? Patricia loves me. She's always loved me. I do know how to make her happy, O'Donnell. I am
just her kind
. So take care of this
person
, okay? We both know that getting dirty is your line of work, not mine.”

Harper hung up. But Jamie whispered into the phone anyway. “Yes, she's always loved you. But you've never
cared
, old sport. You got the goddamn perfect family and you've never, ever
cared
!”

He slammed down the phone. And then he simply felt tired.

Four A.M. A one-minute roundup of local news came on. Jamie watched the report of a shooting in a downtown hotel. Reporter Larry Digger was dead.

Jamie froze. Harper had not mentioned it. Jamie certainly hadn't arranged it. What was going on?

He turned up the volume. The gunman had escaped and was being considered armed and dangerous. A sketch flashed on the screen and Jamie recognized the face.

He hurled the remote across the room and watched it smash into pieces. It wasn't enough. He tipped over the glass coffee table and listened to it shatter.

“You fucker. You panicked, shitless, spineless fucker. How dare you betray me like that?
How dare you betray me
!”

The bedroom door opened. Ann Margaret stood there, wearing a white bedsheet and looking at him in confusion.

“Jamie?”

“Go to bed!”

Ann Margaret didn't move. “Jamie, what's wrong?”

“Get away. Just get away.”

Ann Margaret moved closer. Then she said calmly, “Nonsense, Jamie. There is nothing you can do that I can't handle. I love you, sweetheart. I do.”

Jamie hung his head and groaned.

He knew he shouldn't. He did it anyway, crossing to her in three strides, his chest thundering, his body covered in sweat. He took her in his arms and he was at once awed and humbled.

This woman had her own kind of beauty and her own kind of strength. This woman had an indomitable spirit and a tough, sensible shell. No pedigrees, no fancy words, no phony pretenses. She was right; whatever he did, she could handle. Neither of them was better than the other, and neither of them was worse.

And he loved her for that. He loved her deeply, and it was one of the few things in life that scared him.

Jamie pulled out of her arms. There were things he had to do and they were errands best done in the dark.

The TV was still on, casting its ghostly light on the room. He'd left the canning jar out in the open without thinking. Ann Margaret suddenly spotted it.

“Jamie?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. “It came today,” he said gruffly. “Someone's sick idea of a joke, I guess.”

“It's about her, isn't it?”

“Annie, it was a long time ago—”

“But not long enough, Jamie. Not so long ago that someone still isn't remembering, that someone still doesn't want to see you pay.”

Jamie couldn't reply to that.

“Do you still love her?”

“No, Annie, I don't.”

“Did she get an adulterer's penis? Maybe a chastity belt?”

Jamie took her arm, forcing her to look at him. “Annie,” he said softly, “it's not just about Patricia.”

“How do you know?
What is going on
?”

“Harper got a note,” he said steadfastly.

“What kind of note?”

“The kind that says you get what you deserve. Plus, Larry Digger is in town and Melanie is having migraines and, Annie, William got …he got a note too. ‘You get what you deserve.'”

“Oh, God.” Her tough, sensible shell shattered. “Why doesn't it ever end?”

“I don't know. Must just be the way of things, I suppose. Some people get a good life, and some people don't.”

Jamie strapped on his gun. “Don't let anyone in, Annie, and don't answer the phone.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Jamie…”

He walked to the door. Opened it. Took a step. Turned again. He came as close as he could to saying what was in his heart.

“I'll look after you, Annie. You and Melanie. I swear it.”

BRIAN STOKES JERKED awake. It was the fifth time in five hours, and his lover finally said, “Do you want to talk about it or should I just get you a package of razor blades?”

“Leave me alone.”

“You were dreaming, you know. I heard you call a name.”

Brian rolled away. “Shut up.”

Nate sat up instead. Besides Melanie he was the only person Brian had ever trusted. He always pressed and he always saw too much. Now he tossed back the covers and adjusted his pajamas over his middle-aged frame, a sure sign he was gearing up for a serious discussion.

“You called out for Meagan,” he said gently. “Brian, even when you're awake you never say that name.”

Brian thought he was going to cry. “Fuck you.” He got up, walked to the window, and stared out at the still-sleeping city. But the images in his head were all he saw.

The funeral on the gray, dreary day. His mother keeling over halfway through the service from grief and gin. His father, stony-faced, looking at her as if he hated her.

The silence in the days afterward. The huge house empty of little-girl squeals.

Harper screaming one night, “Where the hell were you all day? If you'd just come home…”

His mother replying, “I didn't mean …I didn't know …I thought Brian needed some time alone with me. You know how he can be, especially around her.”

“Well, he's got you all to himself now, doesn't he? He's got that, all fucking right.”

I'm sorry. I can't even tell you why I was so cruel.

Nate came up behind him. “You're worried about your sister, aren't you?” he asked, rubbing Brian's arms. “You've been like this ever since you went to see her.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Of course not,” Nate agreed amiably. “So how long are you going to hate yourself, Brian? And how long are you going to hate Melanie for daring to care?”

“I don't—”

“She came to you for help. You haven't even called her since.”

“You don't understand.”

Nate gave him a look. He'd seen Brian at his worst, when he was so filled with self-loathing he could barely crawl out of bed. Nate understood plenty. He said, “Then explain it to me. Give me one logical reason for blowing off your poor sister.”

Brian shifted uneasily. “She's better off without me. She is.”

“Hah,” Nate said. “Your sister adores you. First sign of trouble, who does she call? Big-brother Brian. That's because she knows you care. Because you've always looked out for her. She
trusts
you. She loves you. Why are you being so difficult now?”

Brian gritted his teeth. “It's different.”

“Your sister needs help. Not that different.”

“It's complicated, all right? She doesn't know about Meagan. No one knows about Meagan. Dammit,
I
don't want to know about Meagan!”

Nate said quietly, “You know, you're the only person I know who came out of the closet to hide a bigger secret.”

“I did not—”

“I've been around the block a few times, I know the signs. I've watched other men come out of the closet, and it isn't easy. But generally there is a moment of relief afterward. You haven't gotten that sense of relief, have you, Brian? Six months later you are just as tense and troubled as before. Why is that? If you are finally at peace with who you are, why are you somehow
angrier
?”

Brian couldn't answer. Nate didn't need him to. “Because that wasn't
the
secret, was it, Brian?”

Brian didn't answer.

FIVE A.M. DAWN was just breaking over the horizon, washing Boston's streets in shades of gold. The man finally turned away from the window. He was tired from a long, hard night, but also exhilarated.

The game was in full motion now, the players not just assembled, but moving around the board. He found it interesting that for a group of people who half hated one another, for twenty-five years they had stayed close together. It made it easy to monitor them.

Harper was looking over his shoulder. William was carrying a gun. Brian Stokes was suffering from long, sleepless nights. The rest of them were working frantically to keep their secrets.

A shooter had been unleashed and the first death recorded.

And Melanie? He wasn't even sure where she was, but assumed she was safe. Otherwise he would've heard.

Melanie was the king. She was the prize in the game, the one reason it all unfolded and the only thing he had to gain.

Come on, Melanie. It's all up to you now.

Time to remember, sweetheart. Time to put the pieces together.

Time to come home to daddy.

Time to come home to me.

"ALL RIGHT,” LAIRMORE said crisply. “What the hell is going on?”

At seven A.M. sharp, there was no messing with the supervisory agent. His double-breasted gray suit was impeccably tailored, his white dress shirt sharply pressed, and his military-cropped hair perfectly even. He sat behind his oversized walnut desk, while behind him, the blue FBI seal provided a halo of thirteen stars and a white banner declaring Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity. Even during internal meetings there was always the feeling that Lairmore was conducting a press conference.

Still, David liked him.

At nearly fifty years of age, the head of the Boston healthcare fraud squad could tell you what
every
color and object in the FBI shield symbolized. He'd also go to his grave swearing that Hoover never so much as touched a pair of women's underwear; it was all a horrible misunderstanding. He was conservative, he was bureaucratic, but he also believed that healthcare fraud was the worst crime epidemic sweeping the United States since organized crime — ten cents of every dollar wasted, not to mention shoddy treatment, unnecessary procedures, and the risk of human life — and he worked his ass off to do something about it. A man who believed in his job. In David's mind, a rarity these days.

Now, Lairmore stared down two agents who hadn't slept a wink.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” he finally exclaimed, “couldn't you two at least have showered and shaved? This isn't a bachelor party.”

David and Chenney looked at each other. They shook their heads.

“Watching Sheffield,” Chenney mumbled. His eyes lit up. “Got a
big
break.”