Find You First

by Linwood Barclay

  “Dr. Gold,” Miles said loud enough to be heard over the buzzing of the shredder.

  Gold looked up, startled. He stopped feeding paper into the machine and the buzzing stopped.

  “How did you get in here?” he said.

  “We—”

  But before Miles could say another word, the cell phone tucked away inside his jacket started to ring. He dug it out and saw DORIAN.

  “Hang on.” He tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Look, Dorian, let me call you back in—”

  “We got the results already,” she said.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  Miles turned away from Chloe and the doctor and took a few steps away from them. “Is she okay? Does Chloe show any signs?”

  “Chloe doesn’t have Huntington’s.”

  Miles sighed and smiled. He felt the weight of a dozen cinder blocks lifting from his shoulder. “That’s wonderful.”

  “There’s something else, though.”

  Miles felt the blocks drop back into place. He recalled Chloe’s fear that she might test negative for his disease but be found positive for a totally different condition. “She has something else? Christ, what is it?”

  “She’s perfectly healthy,” Dorian said. “But they compared your profiles. Yours and Chloe’s.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly.

  “There’s no DNA match between the two of you.”

  Miles couldn’t find any words.

  Dorian added, “You’re no more related to her than I am to the Queen of England.”

  Forty-Four

  Somewhere over Pennsylvania

  Rhys Mills normally liked an aisle seat, and as close to the exit as possible. It was a control thing. Whenever possible, he liked to be first off the plane. And he hated the window seat, being hemmed in by someone, having to maneuver around them if you wanted to use the bathroom.

  But today, booking at the last minute, Rhys had few options. He had asked the middle-aged woman on the aisle if she would like the window, trying to make it sound as though he was doing her a favor, but she wasn’t interested. Had a very active bladder and might need to get to the bathroom lickety-split, she told him, like he was dying to hear every possible detail about her urinary situation. So here he was, leaning into the fuselage, looking down through the clouds at the state of Pennsylvania.

  Heading home.

  It was usually a good feeling. But Rhys was filled with dread, as well as heavy-duty painkillers for his knee. The assignment he and Kendra had been sent on was unfinished. Worse, Kendra was dead. If he was to finish this job, he’d need a new partner. This had not been the kind of gig, to use Kendra’s word, one could do alone.

  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lying there, her face a mess of raw hamburger. Saw his hand pointing the gun downward, squeezing the trigger.

  He told himself it was the right thing to do, not just for himself but for Kendra. It was highly likely she would have died without his intervention. He’d spared her considerable suffering. And if she could have been saved, what sort of future awaited her? Years of reconstructive surgery. Plus, if Roben and the girl went to the police, and the cops put it all together, Kendra’d be spending her time in prison instead of the plastic surgeon’s waiting room.

  Rhys, too.

  No, it was better all around that Rhys put that bullet in her brain. Better for the client, too. Had she lived, she might have talked. Once the police had you in a box, you had to do what you could to save your own neck.

  Would have been better if he’d gotten rid of her body, though.

  At least he’d stripped her of any ID—not that any of it was legit—but even fake ID, once police had run some checks, would raise questions.

  Would Roben and the girl report this? Hard to say. The girl would have to admit what she did. A confession would pose considerable risk if the cops didn’t buy her story. By the time Rhys boarded his plane out of Fort Wayne later that day, there hadn’t been a word online about her body being discovered.

  He closed his eyes again, and this time, instead of remembering her as he’d last seen her, he pictured her coming to his motel room in the middle of the night, pushing him onto the bed, having her way with him. Her entire body was hungry, and when it was satisfied, she left. Kendra was no sentimentalist. If he’d been the one caught in the face with that bat, she would have handled things the same way.

  “Well, here we go,” said the woman sitting next to him, unbuckling her seat belt. “The Pepsi’s found its way through me already!”

  Rhys offered a thin smile and looked back out his window.

  When he landed, he’d head home first, have a couple of scotches, take a shower, maybe find a woman—there were a couple he could call on short notice—all before breaking the news to the client and deciding where to go from here.

  There’d been some suggestion, in a cryptic text, that another job, tangentially related to the one he’d been on, awaited him. But he wouldn’t need the bleach this time.

  This one would be on the house. When you fucked up, when you were in the client’s bad books, you didn’t nickel-and-dime him.

  Forty-Five

  New Rochelle, NY

  When his call with Dorian was finished, Miles stood there in the storage facility corridor, unable to move. It wasn’t a symptom of his disease. It wasn’t his muscles refusing to respond. It was the shock of the news just delivered to him that had frozen him to this spot.

  Chloe was not his daughter.

  The hallway seemed to be spinning, and he threw out a hand to steady himself against the wall.

  Chloe said, “Miles?”

  When he said nothing, she ran to him, ducked under his outstretched arm, and put her arm around him. The phone was still in his hand.

  “Who was it?” she asked. “Who called?”

  Miles tried to say something but nothing was coming out.

  “Is something happening to you? Do you need a doctor, because, like this guy is one. I don’t know if he’s the best guy but he might know something.”

  “It’s … okay,” Miles whispered. “Just … something kind of came over me.”

  “Who called?”

  Miles moved his dry tongue around in his mouth, trying to create some moisture. “Dorian,” he said. “They did the test.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I know you said you didn’t want to know the results, but I might as well tell you.” Miles needed a second to form the words. “You’re fine. You don’t have it. Or anything else.”

  Chloe’s face crumpled. “Okay,” she said, her lip quivering. “That’s good, right? Isn’t it?” She gave him a squeeze.

  “It is,” he said, and squeezed her back. “It’s good.” He put his arms around her. “So happy.”

  She hugged him back, and when she pulled back, tears in her eyes, she said, “So that’s why you went all funny? That’s how you handle good news? What would you have done if it was bad news?”

  He offered something approximating a smile. “I felt a little overwhelmed.”

  “Okay, well, this is all great, but remember you asked me to come to help you focus? The doc looks like he’s ready to wet his pants, so maybe we better go talk to him before he has to change his diaper.”

  Miles nodded. “Okay, okay, let’s do that.”

  Together, they made their way back to the open storage unit, where Gold had stopped shredding and was eyeing them like a cornered rat.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked again. Rather than wait for an answer, he looked at Chloe and said, “Who are you?”

  “Chloe Swanson.” She smiled and pointed a hitchhiking thumb at Miles. “This dude’s daughter.”

  Miles felt those invisible blocks on his shoulder grow heavier.

  On the way here, in the back of the limo, Miles had gone over with Chloe the questions he’d intended to ask Gold, but now he could hardly remember what any of them were. She was look
ing at him, as if wondering when the grilling would begin.

  But Miles said nothing. Chloe looked at him expectantly, waiting. After a few seconds, she prompted him. “You up for this?”

  Miles said, “Chloe, wait in the car.”

  Her eyes popped. “Excuse me?”

  “I want to talk to Dr. Gold privately.”

  “Why?” she asked. “We’re a team. What’s the deal?”

  “I’ve reconsidered.”

  “You don’t have to protect me, you know. Whatever’s going on, I can handle—”

  “Chloe!”

  Her body trembled as though he’d zapped her with a taser.

  “Please go to the car,” Miles said.

  A silence hung between them for several seconds. Finally, Chloe let out a theatrical huff and walked off. Miles waited until he could hear her steps on the stairs before focusing in on Gold.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do,” Miles said.

  “Me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Miles almost laughed. “You know, right now, I have no fucking idea. I thought I knew. But now, not so much.” He waved a finger at the pile of shredded paper. “If I could magically tape all that back together, would I find my name? And Chloe’s? And the others’?”

  Gold said nothing.

  “Your assistant says you’re falling apart. Does that have anything to do with Todd Cox? Or Katie Gleave? Or Dixon Hawley? Or Jason Hamlin? Or Chloe?”

  “I don’t know those people.”

  “No? You helped bring them into the world. Their mothers were all patients of yours. Want me to run through them?”

  Gold stared at him. “No.”

  Miles looked down and kneaded his forehead for a moment. “I thought I knew what I’d ask you, but that call … Those names I mentioned, according to the files, I’m their biological father.”

  “How could you know—”

  “Except I’m not, am I?”

  Gold eyed him coldly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Apparently … I’m not Chloe’s father. So maybe I’m not Todd’s. Or Katie’s. Or Dixon’s or Jason’s or Nina’s or Colin’s or Barbara’s or Travis’s. Maybe I’m no one’s fucking father.” He laughed. “How about that! All this worrying I’ve been doing, about these kids, whether they might develop what I’ve got, the plans I had to make their lives better, it’s all a farce.”

  Gold was looking past Miles, as if planning an escape.

  “So, what’s up, Doc?” Miles laughed sardonically at his own joke. “They’re dying, or disappearing. At first I thought, a wild coincidence, you know? No more. Not since the guy under the bed, the lady in the van.”

  “What?”

  Miles waved the question away. “There’s only so many people who’d know the connection between them. You’re at the top of that list. Why are they disappearing? What’s going on?”

  Miles took two steps into the storage unit, prompting Gold to move back without looking where he was going. When he did, he stumbled over one of the boxes of files and landed on his butt. He got back on his feet.

  “I’ve nothing to say. My patients are entitled to their confidentiality.”

  Miles said, “We’re way past that.”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Gold said. “Walk away from this. You’ve got no connection to these people, these grown children. They’re not your responsibility.”

  Miles let that sink in. “So it’s true. None of them are mine.”

  “Walk. Away.”

  “How is that possible? Why’s my name on the files?” Miles felt his anger rising along with his voice. “Who is the biological father of these people? What the fuck is going on?”

  Gold raised a trembling hand and pointed at Miles. “Go away. Just go.”

  Miles suddenly had a realization. “Christ, it’s you. I’ve heard about sick bastards like you. Every single woman who’s been to your clinic, every couple who’s come to you looking for help, the whole thing is a sham. Stupid idiots like me come in, provide a sperm donation, it’s pointless. You’re the one impregnating all those women.”

  Gold said, “You have no idea what you’re talking about. If you care anything about yourself—about that girl you came in here with—then forget all about this.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s good advice.”

  Miles pointed a finger. “Yeah, well, listen up. If you’re not going to answer my questions I’ll find someone who will. Or go to the authorities, who can bring pressure to bear in ways that I can’t. Maybe I’ll bring them back with me.”

  Miles waited another moment, realized there was nothing more to be gained here, and headed back down the corridor for the stairs.

  Gold, breathing heavily, heart racing, found a pile of boxes steady enough to hold him, and sat. He took out his phone, entered a number, and put the phone to his ear. When someone finally answered, he said, “It’s Dr. Gold. It’s urgent.”

  And then he waited more than two minutes to be connected to the person he needed to talk to.

  “Cookson was here … He’s got half of it figured out … Of course I didn’t tell them, but he’s not going to drop this … He’s got one of them with him. The Swanson girl … Whatever he knows, she seems to know … Shredding, that’s what. I’m shredding everything, just like you told me—”

  The other party had ended the call.

  Gold slowly lowered the phone to his lap and started to cry.

  Forty-Six

  New Rochelle, NY

  When Miles got back to the car, Chloe was in the back seat, arms crossed, looking straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him when he got in.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Chloe stayed silent.

  Charise, tucked in behind the wheel, said, “Where to now, Mr. Cookson?”

  He had no idea. Where to, indeed? What should he do next? Was there anything left for him to do? What was his responsibility now? What did he owe the young men and women on the list? He certainly didn’t have to worry about their medical future, at least not where his genes were concerned.

  “Mr. Cookson?”

  The fact he wasn’t their father didn’t mean they were no longer in danger. He still had to warn them. And there was the matter of his name being in those files, recording him as the donor when he wasn’t.

  Was it time to turn this over to the police? Would the FBI be the appropriate body?

  “She’s asking where you want to go,” Chloe said, annoyed.

  “Oh,” Miles said, drawn out of his thoughts. “Um, home, I guess.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charise said, and turned on the engine.

  “That’s not where I’m going,” Chloe said. “Nearest bus or train station will do fine. I’ve got to get to Springfield and get my car.”

  “Chloe,” Miles said. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, if you want to go home, that’s fine. But Charise can drive you there. She can drop me off on the way.”

  “We were supposed to go at that guy together,” she said.

  “Chloe, I’m sorry I sent you away. I needed to talk to the doctor alone.”

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “You get the test result, tell me I’m okay, which should be, like, good news for both of us, but instead of being happy about it, you suddenly freeze me out.”

  “It’s complicated,” Miles said.

  “What’s complicated about my being okay?”

  “Nothing. That’s good.”

  “So what is it? Did something else happen on that phone call?”

  Charise put the car through a three-point turn and powered down the window to enter the code again on the keypad by the gate.

  “So am I heading to the closest train station?” she asked.

  “No,” Miles said at the same moment Chloe said, “Yes.”

  Charise sighed. “I’ll head for New Haven while you two come to a decision. Plenty of train stations along t
he way.”

  “Are we a team or not?” Chloe asked.

  “We are,” Miles said, but the words almost caught in his throat. Were they? Really? Their bond was now based on a fiction, a fraud.

  An overwhelming sense of emptiness washed over him. All these years, even when he hadn’t known the identity of the children he’d believed he’d fathered, their existence had been something of a comfort. He was leaving something behind. He had a legacy. An anonymous one, but still, it was out there.

  But no more.

  No legacy.

  And he was going to have to break it to Chloe that she hadn’t been reunited with her father after all. He was still out there. And he was very likely a despicable fertility doctor who had violated every ethical standard in the book.

  What the hell was he supposed to tell her?

  As Charise headed for I-95, Miles and Chloe entered into a period of silence. About ten minutes went by before Chloe broke it.

  “So what’s next, Pops?”

  It was a peace offering. He turned his head, looked at her, and smiled sadly. Her hand was resting on the leather upholstery, and he placed his on top of it and gave it a squeeze.

  Chloe, so annoyed with him earlier, appeared concerned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You’re holding something back.”

  “No, I told you what Dorian said.”

  Half of it.

  She gave him a brief, skeptical glare, but then said, “I guess we should carry on, find the others.” To Charise, she said, “Forget the train station.”

  Miles said, “Maybe it’s too much for me. For us. Maybe it’s time to go to the police.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like they’d be any help. You know where I’d suggest we go first?”

  “Where?” he said wearily.

  “I was thinking Fort Wayne.”

  “Travis Roben.”

  “Right,” she said. “I’ve already started doing some research.” She waved her phone. “When I got back to the car, I entered in the names, one at a time, to see what I could find on them. Roben’s kind of a weird, geeky guy. I don’t mean that in a bad way. He’s on Instagram. He’s a graphic novel nut.”