The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "We're going to try again," she continues, "but I miscarried. It's not a huge issue, really, but..." Her voice trails off for a moment. "We'd just started to get used to the idea. That's all. I think he's taken it pretty hard."

  "He didn't say anything to me about a miscarriage," I reply, feeling a wave of sadness pass through my chest. Dawson and I have always told each other everything. Sure, I've kept the truth about my cancer from him this time, but that doesn't give him the right to withhold stuff from me in return.

  "Well," Elaine replies, "I guess he wouldn't, would he? Goodnight, Katherine." She starts to push the door shut.

  "Wait," I call out.

  She pauses.

  "Why wouldn't he tell me?" I continue. "Why did you just assume that?"

  "Because it's something that really hurt him," she replies, "and because he probably realized you'd just make a joke about it."

  "I wouldn't," I reply, feeling as if my blood is running cold.

  "Yeah," she says. "You would. We both know that."

  She pushes the door shut, and I'm left standing alone on the sidewalk. I can hear the sound of Elaine struggling to get Dawson off the chair and up to bed, and for a moment I can't help but think about the fact that she's right. Up until tonight, at least, I'd totally have ended up making jokes about their miscarriage; however, after the events of the past few days, I think that maybe - just maybe - I've started to realize that I need to hold back from time to time. I think there's just a chance that I wouldn't have made a joke.

  I hope so. I'd hate to think that I'm such a bad person, my best friend can't even tell me what's going on in his life.

  As I walk along the dark street, I can't help thinking about Elaine's words. I gave the bitch a chance to take the moral high ground, and she grabbed it with both hands. Hearing my cellphone start to ring, I reach into my pocket and see that Jordan Carver's trying to get hold of me. Sighing, I figure I might as well answer.

  "You seen the news?" he asks.

  "No, is -"

  "We've got a situation," he replies, interrupting me. "I think your John Benson guy just struck again."

  John

  "Fuck!" I shout, kicking the side of the car. "Fucking bitch! Fucking asshole!"

  I'm miles out of town and it's almost midnight. Having parked by the side of the road, I've taken a moment to get out and try to calm my anger. All I can think about, however, is Claire, and the fact that right now she's probably blabbing to everyone about the things I told her. How could I have been so stupid? What the hell is wrong with me?

  "Whore!" I scream, kicking the side of the car so hard that I hurt my foot. Hopping away, I soon topple over and land hard in a nearby bush. I swear to God, if that little bitch ruins my empire, I'll make sure she pays.

  I will fucking destroy her.

  Epilogue

  Five years ago

  "Daddy, do you have to go?"

  Stopping at the door, he turns to see that Claire has come through from the kitchen. She looks thoughtful and concerned, and the fact that she has one thumb in her mouth only adds to the impression of childish innocence.

  "Someone has to put food on the table, sweetie," he replies. "All you have to do is stay home and focus on your schoolwork, okay? You also need to get your strength up for the operation in a few weeks. Meanwhile, I'll be out there selling insurance to people all over the tri-state area, and in a few weeks I'll come home and we can have some fun. How does that sound?"

  "Do you go away because you don't like us?" she asks.

  Sighing, her father realizes that his hopes of a quick getaway have been dashed.

  "Claire, it's nothing like that," he says, hoping to get this little confrontation over and done with as quickly as possible. "It's because I love you that I'm going on this long trek, silly. I want to earn money to buy food, and toys and clothes and all the things a little girl deserves. If I didn't love you, would I bust my back like this?"

  No reply. Claire simply stares at him.

  "Stop worrying," he continues. "I'm good at my job, sweetie, so there's really no reason to be concerned. I'll just go and sell insurance to some people, and then I'll get the commission, and then I'll come home and we can have fun. I wish I could be home all day, every day, but the world simply doesn't work like that. Families have to be brave while someone goes out to earn a pay-check, you know?"

  "Sally's father doesn't have to go away the way you do," Claire replies.

  "And what does Sally's father do?"

  "He's a garbage collector."

  "Exactly," he replies. "Would you like me to be a garbage collector, Claire? Would you like me to work so hard all day that I'm exhausted in the evening? Would you like me to come home stinking of rotten fish and meat and whatever else people are throwing out?"

  "No," Claire mutters.

  "Exactly. My job is very good, but unfortunately it takes me away from home sometimes. It won't be forever, though. One day I'm going to come home and stay. Does that sound good?"

  "Annabelle's father's an airline pilot," she replies, "and Kelly's father works for a bank in New York. Why don't you do something like that?"

  "What's wrong?" he asks, with a hint of irritation in his voice. "Is your old Dad not good enough for you?"

  Claire doesn't reply.

  "See you in a few weeks, kiddo," he adds, before heading out the door.

  It's a hot day, certainly not the kind of weather to endure while cooped up in a warm little car. As he throws his briefcase into the trunk, John can't help but feel sorry for all the poor assholes who are really out there working hard and slogging their guts out for a slice of commission. He's never been the kind of person who can work under someone else, and he knew from an early age that he'd have to be his own boss. Of course, he initially assumed that he'd pick up a legitimate, respectable profession, but things didn't quite work out that way and when his big idea came, it turned out to be morally suspect; still, he'd managed to get over those concerns, and he no longer had any moral worries at all.

  He'd even become adept at juggling his three different families.

  He was good at it.

  He liked doing it.

  He enjoyed the sensation of being better than everyone else.

  As he got into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut, he couldn't help but smile at the fact that while he appeared to be an ordinary family man, at heart he was a ruthless businessman who cared nothing for the suffering of others. He liked the incongruity: he had three families, each of which considered him to be theirs and theirs alone, and yet he was playing them off against one another, making fools of them and taking his time as he tried to decide which family he'd choose when the moment came to kick back and enjoy the fruits of his labors.

  Just as he was about to start the engine, however, he happened to glance back at the house, and that was when he saw her. Claire was standing at the window, watching him with cold, intense eyes. Although she was young, she seemed to have knowledge and wisdom beyond her years, and he couldn't help but wonder if in some way she might have been able to pick up on more than he'd realized. Their eyes met for a moment, and yet she didn't flinch, didn't even try to look away; her eyes simply bored into him, and he was convinced that there was a hint of suspicion in her gaze.

  "Fuck off," he muttered as he eased the car out of the driveway. He told himself that she was just a stupid kid, and that there was no way she could know anything about him. She was dumb and naive, and he'd been too careful to keep his secrets safe from his various families. There was no way she could know, and no way she could ever find out. He knew that, barring hideous bad luck, he was far too smart to ever get caught.

  Part Seven

  A Face in the Crowd

  Prologue

  Thirty-five years ago

  He's coming.

  I can hear him.

  I hate him.

  The way he walks down the stairs, the way he smiles as he enters the room, the way he ties his dressi
ng gown so that his bare chest is still visible, with all those curly black hairs bursting out like bristly worms... I swear to God, there's nothing about my father that I don't hate with a passion, and I wish he'd just disappear from my life completely.

  "Morning, kiddo," he says, heading through to the kitchen, where my mother is making breakfast.

  I don't remember why I hate him, but there's never been a time when his presence was welcome. There's just something about him that fills me with hatred, and I desperately want to just make him go away. My mother seems to like him, but I can't help wondering if maybe she's just pretending; after all, she seems so nice, and I don't understand how she can possibly put up with his fake bullshit.

  "You want eggs?" my mother calls through to me.

  "Yes please," I reply politely.

  "You want them fried?" my father asks, leaning through to grin at me with that disgusting smile of his. "Or do you want to have them boiled and runny, like a little boy?"

  "Fried is fine," I mutter, bristling at yet another attempt to make me feel like an idiot.

  As he heads back into the kitchen, I turn and look out the window. One day I'm going to get the hell out of this place and leave everything behind. I won't take anything; hell, I won't even keep my name. I'll strike out on my own, and as far as anyone from my old life is concerned, I'll simply have faded from view. They'll never be able to find me or stop me. I'll just be gone forever.

  It's the only kind of freedom that I've ever wanted. I can be better than this.

  Katherine Shaw

  Today

  "You don't understand!" she screams. "He's crazy!"

  To say that this place is chaos would be an understatement. It's 2am and despite the fact that I'm exhausted and slightly drunk, I've come back to the office following Carver's phone call. Whatever's actually happening right now, there's no damn way I'm going to go back to my apartment and sleep, giving Carver time to pull ahead of me and maybe grab all the glory. It's as if the case has suddenly blown wide open, and although I'm not in the right frame of mind to deal with any of this stuff right now, I figure there'll be time to sleep later.

  "Please try to calm down," Carver says as I enter the room. He's crouching next to a terrified-looking teenage girl, whose leg is being attended to by a paramedic, but Carver has fixed the girl with a determined stare. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened, Claire," he continues. "Don't leave anything out. We don't have much time here."

  "He's insane!" the girl shouts, with tears streaming down her face. "He tried to kill me!"

  "What's going on?" I ask as I reach Mezki, who's sitting at his desk on the other side of the room.

  "Claire Sutter," he replies, keeping his voice low. "Local cops picked her up a few hours ago. She says she barely escaped with her life this afternoon after her father killed her mother and then set the house on fire. Does that kind of set-up seem familiar?" He passes me a printout that shows a familiar face. "This is her father, John Sutter. Remind you of anyone?"

  "John Benson," I mutter, staring at the image.

  "So this guy has now burned down two houses in a week, and tried to kill both the families. I mean, it's clearly the same person, right?"

  I nod, still looking at the printout. John Sutter and John Benson are most definitely the same person, and they also both happen to have the same face as the man who terrified the girls we found. Whatever's happening here, it's pretty clear that this guy is in something of a panic, trying to cover his tracks; it's also clear that he must have been living at least two entirely separate lives, both of which he decided to destroy.

  "Burner families," I say quietly.

  "Huh?"

  "People buy burner phones that they can use and then get rid of," I continue. "Burner debit cards, burner email accounts, burner laptops... This guy had burner families, even burner lives. He used them, and now he's decided to destroy them. He must have thought they were going to cause problems. Clinical, huh?"

  "Please!" the girl shouts from the other side of the room. "You have to stop him!"

  "That kid's gonna be scarred for life," Mezki mutters, before checking his watch. "I should get going. Color me cynical, but I'm expecting a roasted corpse or two in the next thirty minutes. They're always my least favorite. The skin kind of crinkles when you touch them. I'm not gonna be able to eat grilled food for a week." With that, he gets up and slips past me, heading out into the corridor.

  "Claire," Carver says firmly as I make my way through the gathered crowd, "you need to focus for a moment. If we're going to find your father -"

  "He's not my father," she spits. "Not anymore! Don't say that word!"

  "I need to get her to the hospital," says a paramedic as she examines Claire's damaged leg.

  "Not yet!" Carver says firmly. "Claire, if we're going to find him, we need your help. A cellphone number, a car, something that'll allow us to trace him."

  "None of that's going to work," I say as I reach them.

  Carver turns to me.

  "This guy uses stuff and then ditches it," I continue. "If you think you can get his cellphone number and track him down like that, or wait until he logs into his email from somewhere, you're wrong. He created entire fake families and I'm pretty sure he kept them completely separate. He's not gonna do anything stupid that'll let you find him."

  "We need to get her to hospital," the paramedic says. "This wound needs cleaning, and I can't do it here. The bullet only grazed her, but there's a risk of infection."

  "Is she going to be okay?" I ask.

  "She's been very lucky," the paramedic continues as she starts packing her equipment away. "There should be no major nerve damage, but I have to take her right now."

  "I'm going to come and see you in the morning," Carver tells Claire, reaching out and holding her hands for a moment. "What I need is for you to rest. I imagine the doctors will give you something to help you sleep, and then tomorrow we can begin to piece this all together, but right now you have to trust me when I tell you that there's no way in hell your father is going to get near you."

  "What about my Mom?" she asks through the tears.

  "I don't have any answers for you on that," Carver replies.

  "Because he killed her," she says, her voice trembling. "Just like he tried to kill me. I wish he'd succeeded. There's no point living now."

  As the paramedic leads Claire away, it's hard not to feel for the girl. Her mother's dead, her father's on the run, and her family home is just a burned-out shell. She's probably going to find, in the next couple of days, that the Sutter surname was a complete fiction, made up by her father to provide cover for his new life. She's going to feel as if she's not real, and I can't even begin to imagine the trauma she'll face as she tries to live with all of these new truths.

  "You were right," Carver says after a moment.

  "Of course I was," I reply. "About what? Something specific, or everything in general?"

  He takes the printout from my hand. "This John Sutter guy, or John Benson or whatever his name is... We need to find him fast. He's burning through families like they're going out of fashion. Where's Michael Dawson? I need to -"

  "He won't be any use tonight," I reply, interrupting him. "Dawson's kinda tied up."

  "Then untie him."

  "By tied up, I mean blind drunk. Right now, he's probably flat on his back, snoring so loud that his long-suffering wife has to use ear-plugs."

  Carver sighs.

  "It's okay," I continue. "I know his password, so we can get to all his files."

  "He's drunk?" Carver asks, before leaning closer to me. "Seriously? Are you drunk too?"

  "One beer," I reply. "Not even that. I had to abandon it when Dawson got thrown out of the bar."

  "Thrown out?" He pauses. "What the hell kind of operation have you people got running here?"

  "Dawson has problems," I say with a faint smile. "What can I say? Some people just can't handle their drink. But I'm here, and I haven't slep
t for almost forty-eight hours, so I should be right in the zone soon. Just try not to be alarmed if I get a twitch in my left eye. Happens sometimes, nothing to worry about."

  "Why haven't you been sleeping?" he asks.

  "I've been looking at maps," I tell him. "A friend said I should try to get a hobby, so I figured, why not try cartography? Maps are pretty cool, right?"

  "Whatever," he replies, holding up the image of John Sutter. "If you're in the zone, as you call it, and if your famous intuition is as good as I've heard, then tell me where the fuck to find this guy. For all we know, he could be out there torching another family home and burning another wife and daughter. And then another, and another, and another."

  Staring at the photo, I realize that Carver's right. This Sutter guy, or Benson, or whatever his real name might be, is a psychopath, and sooner or later he's going to kill again. Fortunately, I'm pretty sure we don't have to worry about any more burning houses tonight. Something tells me that the guy's panicking, which means that he's probably going to try to shore up his business, or maybe even cash out. Hell, that's what I'd do if I was a maniac with multiple identities and a tendency to kill everyone who cared about me. There's something clinical and efficient about this bastard.

  "He's out of the city," I say after a moment.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Those girls we found," I continue, "were just the girls. There has to be at least one more place where he's storing the men. If he's doing what I think he's doing, anyway. The girls escaped, but that was just bad luck. Somewhere, probably within a few hours' drive, there's another place where he keeps the men."

  "You still think this is some kind of identity farm?"

  "If I had a bunch of people chained up, that's what I'd do with them," I reply. "I'd sell their identities. Useful for a guy who wants to disappear, huh?"

  "Then we need to -"

  "The last place wasn't on any maps," I continue. "This other place probably isn't either. You can go over every map and every planning application in the state, and I doubt you'll find it. It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I promise you, that's where he's going." I pause for a moment as I try to imagine what I'd do if I was in the guy's position. "He probably has a stash of cash," I add, "and more fake identities. If he doesn't have another wife and child out there, he will soon. He'll disappear from trace and change his appearance, and then he'll settle into a new life and we'll never catch him. It's now or never."