With hardly a moment’s pause, Quinn said, “You’re right. So we kill them both.”
There was a silence, then Parrish said, “Quinn, what do you suppose is happening in Las Piernas right now?”
“You mean, our plan?”
“No. The mood of the town.”
“On edge. Terrified, many of them.” There was a pause before Quinn added, “I see what you mean.”
“I was certain you would. You wouldn’t really want to question my judgment, I’m sure.”
“Of course not.”
“The legend of Nicholas Parrish and sons can only be enhanced by that fear. While I could have wished for Kai to have more time to exercise his talents in Las Piernas, and for our plans to have proceeded at the pace we had hoped for, I am nevertheless proud of my sons. There is nothing to lead the police from Las Piernas to this place. Nothing at all.”
“You’re right.”
“You didn’t think this out, Quinn. That’s unlike you. But I suppose you were only concerned for my safety.”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “You understand perfectly.”
“Now, I’m going to ask Kai to join us again, and I hope you will be able to control yourself when he returns.”
Kai didn’t wait to hear Quinn’s response. He disconnected the headset and turned off the receiver. He quickly checked on his mother, smiled at her panicked expression, and reached beneath her bed. He retrieved the automatic he had hidden there, assured himself that it was fully loaded and ready to be used, and replaced it as he heard his father call to him. It was one of several weapons he had cached around the house, and he was more certain than ever that he would be making use of at least one of them.
“Coming!” he called back and hurried from the room.
He reached the bottom of the stairs just as Nicholas Parrish’s cell phone rang. As far as Kai knew, only three people had that number, and two of them were staring at each other in dislike.
Parrish listened, hung up without speaking to the caller, then turned to his sons. “Your older brother is efficient,” he said. “We’re about to have company.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I remember this much:
It was about four o’clock. We sat in the bar of the Fireside, a nearby restaurant, quiet in the downtime between lunch and dinner. The place was empty, but that suited us-missing persons stories aren’t exactly best told while competing with happy hour in the background. Donovan seemed a little nervous, so I wasn’t surprised when he offered to buy me a drink-figuring he needed one more than I did, I accepted. He went to the bar, answered a cell phone call while he was waiting for the drinks, then came back to the table with a tray holding a pitcher of margaritas, two glasses already filled from it, and a little dish that contained a few slices of lime.
“A pitcher?” I said, as he handed one of the glasses to me.
“A friend called. She’s going to try to join us a little later-if that’s okay?”
“No problem, but I do need to get home-”
“If she’s not here by the time you need to leave, I’ll still walk you to your car. I’ll just text her and let her know what happened.”
He picked up his own drink and began to tell me of Denise, his first wife, whom he had married at eighteen. Although he had done well in high school, he didn’t have the money for college and, after a couple of years of trying to get by on low-paying jobs, decided to go into the service. He joined the army and was soon sent overseas. Denise filed for divorce less than a month after he left the States.
“Sorry.”
“No need to be,” he assured me. “We had already started to have trouble getting along-about what you’d expect from a couple of immature idiots-and I think, somewhere in the back of mind, I knew I’d be getting a Dear John letter. I’m not really sure how we managed to stay married as long as we did, except that I wasn’t home much during training.” He paused. “It wasn’t a nasty divorce. For reasons I didn’t really understand at the time, she didn’t ask for alimony or stake a claim on my pension-which apparently made her attorney crazy-and we were renting, so there wasn’t a lot of property to be divided. She took a few personal things, put my stuff in storage for me, and went back to living with her mother.”
He fell silent. I sipped at my drink, wondering if he expected me to help him find his ex. If so, I was probably going to have to disappoint him. I was concerned about missing persons cases, and if I could determine that she really was involuntarily gone, I’d do what I could. But so many adult missing persons are hiding of their own volition. Some are avoiding responsibilities, some trying to escape arrest. Plenty of others are trying to survive, to stay safe from someone-especially if their situation is one in which law enforcement can’t effectively provide protection. It was entirely possible that Denise was afraid of him. Although I felt relaxed sitting in that quiet restaurant with Donovan, I didn’t know what he was like at home-for all I knew, she had good reasons to hide from him.
“Not long after the divorce was final,” he said, “I got a letter from her mother, telling me that Denise had died in a car accident.”
“Oh-sorry,” I said again, thrown completely off stride.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but to be honest, it didn’t affect me much. Although I thought it was a shame she had died so young, I was more surprised than sad.”
He fell silent again, so I drank and waited.
After a time, he said, “The biggest surprise was yet to come.” He reached inside his jacket, brought out a photo, and pushed it across the small table. I picked it up.
A beautiful, golden-haired child smiled back from the photo. A little girl, four or five years old, I’d guess.
I looked up at Donovan.
“My daughter. I’m told her name is Miranda,” he said. “She’s ten now.”
“I don’t understand…”
“At first, I didn’t, either. A year ago, someone sent me an anonymous letter with that photo in it. Said the girl was my daughter, that Denise was pregnant when she divorced me, that she had convinced another man the child was his. I started to do some investigating but didn’t need to make much of an effort, because the ‘other man’ called me himself-his name is Charles Chasten. The letter had been sent by his wife. As it turns out, Mr. Chasten had started an affair with my wife about two days after I left the States.”
“Jesus. Denise didn’t wait long, did she?”
He shrugged. “I was disappointed that she chose a married man with children-he had two boys and wouldn’t leave his wife. I don’t think much of him. I have to admit, though, he was generous when it came to giving money for the care of the child to Denise-and, after she died, to Denise’s mom. Secretly, of course-until one day his wife, who had long thought he was too stingy, saw a browser window he’d left open after doing some online banking.”
“And discovered he had a second bank account she never knew about?”
“Exactly. A joint account with Denise’s mom. He’d put money in it for Miranda’s needs.”
“And how did the wife take this news?”
“Madder than hell. Understandably. Chasten found out that she had sent me the photo and the letter. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” He lifted the pitcher, gestured to my half-full glass, but I shook my head. He poured another margarita for himself then said, “After she discovered the account, and after some… very heated discussion, let’s say… Chasten’s wife insisted on a DNA paternity test. He was confident of the outcome, but he got a kit and took a cheek swab from Miranda on a visit. Later she told her grandmother, who gave him some additional heat, but he’d already sent the test swabs off by then.”
He paused and took a drink.
“Since you’ve told me she’s your daughter,” I said, “I can see what’s coming.”