“Right. He learned he wasn’t the father-his turn to be outraged. Although he told me that he had mixed feelings-he says he’s attached to Miranda, but he felt like he’d been duped. He was in for yet another surprise-when he called to talk about the test results, the number was disconnected. He went over to the house, but Miranda and her grandmother had disappeared. Along with everything in the bank account.”
“Disappeared? It’s actually not that easy to disappear, especially not with a child in tow.”
“That’s what I thought, at first. Even though I was coming in on all of this a little late-they had been gone two weeks when Mrs. Chasten sent that letter-I thought I could use my skills and contacts to find them.” He saw my brows rise and added, “I-I can’t give you details, but some of my experience in the military would, I thought, be useful.”
I let it pass. I was suddenly feeling a little light-headed and wondered if I should get something to eat. He glanced at his cell phone and read a screen. He looked at me said, “Oh, sorry-my friend’s not going to join us after all.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, “just shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, I guess.”
“Should I order something? An appetizer at least?”
“That might be a good idea.” We settled on bruschetta. He went up to the bar again, spoke to the bartender, and came back with a bowl of pretzels. “He’s going to bring us an order, but maybe this will help in the meantime.”
I thanked him, but my stomach started to feel unsettled, so I let them sit on the table.
“Tell me what happened next,” I said, feeling that the most insensitive thing I could do would be to end the conversation at this point but finding it took real effort to concentrate on anything other than my gut.
He studied me and said, “We could save this for another time.”
I shook my head, a bad idea, but he went on.
“I sent a swab of my own DNA in, and sure enough, it matched Miranda’s.”
“Were you happy about that?”
“Yes-but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I was also scared.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“I looked for her, but I kept hitting brick walls. I even tried to get the police interested, but they felt convinced that Miranda’s grandmother had disappeared with her voluntarily.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Forgive me, but you seem to be feeling unwell. Would you like me to give you a ride home?”
At that point, I was feeling very unwell indeed, and also as if I might pass out. “Thanks,” I murmured, hearing myself slur it.
From there my memories of that afternoon become less reliable. There are whole periods of time that I can’t remember at all. Some of what I do remember, I wish I could forget.
I recall the sound of a chair scraping on the bar’s wooden floor. I recall reassuring bits of words from Donovan, my face forming a giddy smile as he helped me stand. I remember being guided into an SUV, and a drive that seemed to last for days but could have taken a few minutes or several hours.
At some point we stopped. He guided me out of the vehicle and into a room. I have no clear memory of the room or what happened there, or much of anything before we were traveling again. I remember cold air and the smell of pine trees, and being helped out of the car again, and immediately throwing up.
I remember Donovan saying something about telling me the truth, and that he’d help me, that I must understand he had no choice, but I’m not sure that really happened. I felt confused, especially about one odd thing he said repeatedly: “Try not to let them take your parka.”
I was barely aware of what was happening at that point, in a state not unlike being roused from a deep sleep-much more interested in falling back to sleep than in anything going on around me. Whole patches of time disappeared-I am sure that I saw Nicholas Parrish, and that he spoke to me, but my only response was to throw up again, which angered and disgusted him. At some point, I was indoors with no idea how I got there or any ability to comprehend where I was. I grew dizzy, and I think Donovan picked me up and carried me.
Parrish argued with Donovan and was saying something to me, and then, just as I felt myself sliding back into unconsciousness, there was gunfire.
TWENTY-NINE
Donovan Cotter heard the shots and saw panic cross Nicholas Parrish’s face. Donovan’s arms were full-Irene had passed out again-and while he was tempted to drop her and pull out one of his weapons, instead he set her on her side behind the large couch and took cover there himself.
“Fuck you!” a voice shouted from upstairs.
More rounds blasted before Parrish, who had stood frozen in the middle of the room, belatedly followed Donovan’s example.
“Get up there and stop them!” Parrish said.
Donovan stared at him.
Parrish scowled back. “Do you want her to live or-”
“You know she is little more than a curiosity to me,” Donovan said calmly. “I am far more interested in staying alive myself.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll be right back…”
Parrish grabbed him. “You’re not going anywhere!”
“I have a-let’s call it a first aid kit-in the back of my vehicle. From the sound of things, if anyone survives, we’ll need it.”
“You fail to return, and I’ll-”
“Yes, I know. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When Donovan returned with his field kit, Parrish eyed it warily, but they were both distracted by screams from upstairs.
They heard more shots, followed by several loud thumps.
Then silence.
Donovan waited.
From upstairs, groaning. Parrish looked increasingly anxious but said nothing more.
They heard another groan.
“Help,” Quinn called weakly. “Help!”
“Drop your weapons,” Donovan called.
He heard two heavy thumps.
“Kick the guns away from you.”
They heard the sound of one gun sliding. “I can’t,” Quinn said.
“Hurry,” Kai moaned.
Donovan strapped his field kit to his back, stood, and made his way cautiously up the stairs, gun drawn. Parrish crept behind him.
He found Kai and Quinn sprawled at opposite ends of the hallway. He glanced between the bleeding men. Kai had a wounded arm. Quinn had a head wound, and his right thigh had been hit. Donovan told Parrish to help Kai. He picked up their loose weapons, holstered his own, quickly gave Parrish a pair of gloves and packet of gauze, and told him to apply pressure to Kai’s wound. He then moved toward Quinn.
The hallway was in shambles. Wood, plaster, and a small table lamp had sustained more hits than either combatant. What lousy aim, Donovan thought. He made his way over the debris and knelt beside Quinn, who was lying half out of a bathroom.
“That goddamned crazy son of a bitch shot me!” Quinn said, his right hand pressing down on his right leg, the other hand held to his head.
“Looks like you did the same to him,” Donovan said. He took a pair of gloves out of the field kit and put them on. After a quick look at Quinn’s leg, he decided the bullet hadn’t hit an artery and put a thick gauze pad over the wound. He moved Quinn’s left hand away to look at the head wound. “Use both hands to keep the pressure on your leg,” he told him.
“I feel faint.”
“You’ll be all right. Press hard.” Donovan could see that the head wound was superficial, although he was sure it was painful. He took out another sterile pad and pressed it to the wound, then had Quinn put his hand back on it. He returned his attention to the leg wound, quickly cutting away most of the bloody pant leg.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Quinn asked.
“You’d better hope so,” Donovan answered distractedly. The leg looked like hell, and there was a lot of blood, but Donovan had seen many gunshot wounds and knew Quinn was relatively lucky. He’d need to get to a hospital, but it was survivable.