by Jan Burke
“I’m not so sure about this next part, because I only have the observations of another child to go on — an eight-or nine-year-old boy.”
“A great observer. Just didn’t know what he was seeing.”
“I’m much older than he was then, and although it was there before me, I didn’t see it either, not until we had our talk the other day.” I turned to Max. “Conn O’Connor was a nosy child, dedicated to Jack Corrigan, and not overly fond of Lillian — although he later became her friend. He spied on his hero one night and learned that he was going on a date with Lillian, a married woman. He probably didn’t know that Lillian was in the early stages of a pregnancy. There was a car accident — a horrible accident, one that left Jack partially lame the rest of his life. But what few others know — what O’Connor didn’t know until many years later himself — was that Lillian was injured in that same accident. She miscarried.”
“I’ll let you ask Lillian about her part of this story,” Helen said.
“Perhaps the injury was worse, because she never conceived another child. And there was the possibility, if her husband returned from Europe, that he would ask questions about when and how the pregnancy ended.”
“He was an ass,” was all that Helen would say on that subject.
“Helen liked Lillian, and perhaps she even wondered if Lillian’s child might have been a half brother or half sister of her own. Whatever the case, Helen and Lillian comforted each other, and somewhere in all this time of worry and woe, they came up with a solution. Helen would quit the paper, ostensibly to help Lillian with her new project. They would live in the mountains, away from the prying eyes of local society. Lillian’s name would be on the child’s birth certificate, and she would raise him or her in a life of privilege. She swore, in exchange for Helen’s secrecy — and her child — that she would never deny Helen access to the little girl who was born up in the mountains that winter.”
Max was staring at her, obviously having trouble taking it all in.
“You’d probably like to hate me,” Helen said to him. “Maybe you do. I won’t blame you at all. The promises I made to Lillian were the hardest I’ve ever had to keep. But they were promises.”
He shook his head, saying, “I don’t hate you, but … my God, Helen…”
She began to cry. I wanted to go to her, but Frank put a hand on my shoulder.
Max hesitated only briefly, then embraced her.
“You have questions, I’m sure,” she said, still crying. “I can’t answer all of them, but I’m sure I can get Lillian to see the wisdom of letting some part of these secrets out now.”
“Did Jack Corrigan ever know?” he asked.
“Yes. I think at first he suspected — well, I’ll leave that part of the story to Lillian. One day O’Connor announced that he was marrying a woman he’d only bedded once, because she was pregnant, and Jack was a horse’s ass about it. So I confronted him, and in turn he confronted me, and after calling Lillian and threatening her with all sorts of ridiculous things, he learned the truth from us.”
Max sat silently, then said, “Can we test to make sure, just so we know I’m the child who…”
“Of course.”
“And Lillian — do you think she’ll help me bring this out in public? Some of it, anyway?”
“We’ll work on that together. I think if she realizes that the Yeagers can finally be punished for what they did to Katy, and our lives, then … yes.” She smiled. “She really isn’t one tenth as selfish as she pretends to be.”
We left them to talk together. I went out to check on Ethan again. We arrived just in time to hear a doctor express cautious optimism about his survival. We learned that he was out of surgery and about to be moved to ICU. “No visitors for a while, please — except — is there someone named Irene here?” I came forward. “If you can keep it very brief, I think it would be good for him to see you’re alive.” He smiled. “He thinks we’re lying to him.”
Frank came with me. Ethan was pale, connected to a lot of machinery, obviously full of painkillers. He smiled at us and said, “Thought I’d lost you.”
“No. Rest and recover. We’ll get a room ready for you at home.”
He looked toward Frank. “You sure you want me there?”
“You saved her,” Frank said. “You’re family now, like it or not.”
“Family,” he said. “Sounds good.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to several members and former members of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department for their kind assistance with the research for this book, most especially Detective (Ret.) Ike Sabean, Homicide Bureau Missing/Abducted Children, who was so generous with his time; Detective Elizabeth Smith, Homicide Bureau; and Barry A. J. Fisher, Scientific Services Division.
My thanks also to Edwin L. Jones, Forensic Scientist with the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department Forensic Sciences Laboratory, whose awareness of historical crime lab processes, expertise in serology, and willingness to answer my questions was much appreciated. Jim Giddings of Genelex helped me to better understand DNA testing and changes in its applications within forensic science and paternity testing. My thanks to Ed German, CLPE, FFS, for his superb Web pages on fingerprint examination at www.onin.com/fp, including valuable historical information on the development of this field. Additional help was provided by John Mullins, forensic anthropologists Diane France and Marilyn London, and Dr. Ed Dorhing and Dr. Doug Lyle.
Robert M. Flynn, who wrote for the Evansville (Indiana) Press and was inducted into the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame in 1992, was undoubtedly the first person to inspire my interest in the world of newspaper work. Many years before this book was completed, I talked to Uncle Bob about the background and story idea, and his reminiscences contributed much to it. I have also received generous and patient help from those he would have referred to as his “ink-stained friends,” most especially Debbie Arrington of the Sacramento Bee; and a number of authors who were also part of that world for many years, including Charles Champlin, Michael Connelly, Peter O’Donnell, T. Jefferson Parker, Kathy Hogan Trocheck, and Elaine Viets.
My heartfelt gratitude to the staff and management of the Long Beach Press-Telegram, most especially to my friend John Futch, Executive News Editor, who gave so much time and assistance, and to Executive Editor Rich Archbold, who allowed me to sit in on meetings and to have access to the paper’s newsroom and staff. Veteran reporter and copy editor Richard Stafford was also generous in speaking to me of his experiences.
Librarian Richard Partlow’s father was a journalist who was blacklisted in the 1950s, and I thank Richard for helping me to better understand the impact the blacklist had on some reporters’ careers.
Rob Bamberger, host of Hot Jazz Saturday Night on WAMU, a public radio station covering the Washington, D.C., area, helped me with music research of the kind that only someone with a true appreciation of his field can provide, and his program (accessed via the Internet) gave me great vintage jazz to listen to as I wrote. Thanks also to Dick La Palm, who was Nat King Cole’s publicist, and who helped track down information about “Send for Me.”
Matthew Godwin of www.earlytelephones.com helped me keep my nickel and dime pay phones straight, and provided other helpful information through his Web site.
Melodie and Greg Shaw, Bill Pratt, and Bob Phibbs not only provided the support of their friendship throughout the writing of the manuscript, they told me about the tunnels that still exist between some of the homes near the Long Beach shore and the bluffs. Bill also helped me with research regarding Rolls-Royces.
James Lincoln Warren, a commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve, took time from writing historical fiction to provide assistance with the scenes off the coast of Las Piernas. If I’ve run aground in any of those passages, it isn’t his fault. Andy Langwiser of Andy’s Books in Cypress, California, kindly allowed me to make use of his expertise from his years in major construction work, and O’Malley and his crew are the bet
ter for Andy’s help. Many thanks to these gracious friends.
The Long Beach Public Library’s periodical, local history, photograph, and map collections were used extensively in the research for this book, and I thank the library’s excellent staff for their assistance.
Thanks to my family, especially my husband, Tim, and my sister, Sandra, who read nearly every version of this book as it evolved through rewrites. And to my friend S.G., thank you for teaching me a way back to the heart of the matter.
Marysue Rucci helped me find my way to a better manuscript and gave me room to write and rewrite it. Her patient championship made this book possible. To her, and to all of those at Simon & Schuster who lived with changing schedules, my deepest thanks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAN BURKE is the recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award® for Best Novel, the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Award. She lives in Southern California with her husband, Tim, and her dogs, Cappy and Britches.
ALSO BY JAN BURKE
Goodnight, Irene
Sweet Dreams, Irene
Dear Irene,
Remember Me, Irene
Hocus
Liar
Bones
Flight
Nine
18
FB2 document info
Document ID: efa89fe8-e2de-4e4a-82ea-e1b319cccd23
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 6.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Jan Burke
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
