The Wiseman Revelation (The Wiseman Series Book 2)

by Hightower, R. C.

  Langston looked over at the truck. Carmen had vanished around the back of the truck and he could hear her talking. He approached the SUV. “What’s that?”

  A hand flew to her behind, and she patted her back pockets. “What? What is it? Is it chocolate?” She looked at Michael. “I told you that candy was for Easter!”

  “No.” Langston pointed. “Your foot. What is that mark?”

  She straightened up, slipping her foot back in the sandal, and closing the car door. “I don’t know. It’s a mole or something.”

  “Were you born with that?”

  She checked her watch. “I am so late. My husband’s going to kill me. I have to go.” She walked to the driver’s side. “Sorry you couldn’t catch up with my dad.”

  “Wait.” He followed her. “Does he have a cell number?”

  “Yes, but I can’t give it to you.”

  Langston turned his head and pushed his earlobe forward. When he looked back at her, she was standing perfectly still.

  “Where’d you get that?” she asked.

  “I’ve had it since I was born.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Langston Crump.”

  “How do you know my dad?”

  “I don’t… yet. That’s one reason I need to speak to him.”

  She checked her watch again. “I really have to go.” She got in the SUV and rolled down the window. “Can you meet me at Minty’s tomorrow night?”

  “Can we meet earlier? I have a flight to catch tomorrow afternoon.”

  “The only free time I have besides that is pretty early, like seven.”

  Langston nodded. “I don’t mind meeting early. What’s Minty’s?”

  “It’s a coffeehouse not too far from here.” Her cell phone rang. “I need to go.”

  She started to pull off, but stopped when he touched her door.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s Missy,” she said, pulling off. “See you in the morning.”

  Langston got in his car, relieved. At least he’d get a chance to talk to someone, even if it wasn’t Agent Roswell.

  “Missy,” he repeated to himself. He pulled around the silver sedan and drove slowly down the long driveway. He turned onto the main road and absently rubbed the crescent behind his ear. His phone rang.

  “Hey, Jade,” he answered.

  “Hey! How was your flight?”

  “Good.”

  “Are you nervous about seeing Agent Roswell?”

  “I was, but he turned out not to be home.”

  “You’ve already been? Why didn’t you call me when you landed?”

  “Sorry.” Langston slowed down for a squirrel skittering across the road. “I was preoccupied.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “You know that lady who’s been blowing me off when I call?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She answered the door. Her name’s Carmen.”

  “How do you know it’s the same person?”

  “I recognized her voice.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I think she’s Agent Roswell’s wife.” Langston heard Jade running water.

  “I thought you said he was divorced.”

  “Yeah, thirty-some years ago. He must have gotten remarried.” He heard scrubbing. “Are you washing dishes?”

  “Yep,” Jade said. “I have a big pile from last night.”

  “What did you make?”

  “Baked spaghetti, garlic bread, and yellow squash.”

  Langston’s stomach growled. “Ooo, that sounds good.”

  “What did you eat today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Langston! It’s,” she paused, presumably checking the clock, “almost dinnertime.”

  “I didn’t even think about food. My stomach was in knots.”

  Jade clicked her tongue. “You need to eat.”

  “I know.”

  “Did Carmen tell you anything?”

  “She said Agent Roswell wasn’t there and she’d tell him I stopped by.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “I asked if I could wait for him, but she shut me down.”

  “Aw.”

  “But Agent Roswell’s daughter was there.” Langston pulled into a Sonic. “Hold on for a sec.” He stopped at the drive-thru speaker and ordered a hot dog with a side of tater tots. “I’m back. So I met Missy—his daughter—and talked to her briefly. She and Carmen looked pretty busy. They’re having some sort of party.”

  “Did you find out anything from her?”

  “Not yet, but we’re meeting in the morning. She has that same crescent-shaped mark that I have. Hers is on her heel, though. When she saw mine, she said she wanted to meet at a coffee shop.”

  Jade gasped. “What? Why didn’t you tell me that part first?”

  Langston gave the cashier a ten-dollar bill. “I was getting to it.”

  “Tell me everything. What did they look like? What did the house look like?”

  Langston described the house and Carmen, waving a thank you to the cashier as she handed him his bag of food.

  Jade ran more water. “Sounds swanky.”

  “It was. I’d love to have a house like that one day.” He turned out of Sonic toward his hotel. “Missy looked a little disheveled though. She had two young kids with her, and they were all kind of rushing around. She had dark blond hair and blue eyes. A little shorter than me.”

  “Did you ask her about the mark?”

  “She tried to tell me it was a mole at first, but once she saw mine, she changed her tune.”

  Jade paused. “One of my classmates is calling. I better take this. I’ll call you back okay?”

  “Okay.” Langston hung up as he pulled into the DoubleTree hotel parking lot.

  After he checked in, he found his room and sat on the bed with his tablet.

  “Missy Roswell,” he said slowly, typing her name.

  He found three photos. Missy appeared to be about six years old in the first picture. She was by herself, smiling fervently at the camera, in front of a sky blue background. She was missing a tooth. Her straight brown hair cascaded past her shoulders and her bangs framed her squinting eyes. She wore a sailor dress, and her slender arms rested on the pink armrests of her appropriately sized wheelchair. The other two photos had been taken at William Wiseman’s memorial service several years later. Agent Roswell was pushing her into the Johnson Civic Center, accompanied by a younger Carmen.

  Langston tried to recall when he’d seen a wheelchair-bound person start to walk again. Of course he’d seen the rehabilitation stories of people in accidents re-learning to walk, but Missy’s case didn’t seem to be that type of scenario. Or if she had been in an accident, Langston imagined that the damage would have been permanent, seeing as how she was in the chair for at least ten years, according to these pictures. When he’d seen her this afternoon, she had looked as though she’d never had any trouble with her legs. There was no limping, and she hadn’t appeared to have any weakness.

  The aroma of chili and onions reminded him it was time to eat, and Langston unwrapped his hotdog. His mind wandered to Antoinette Grayson. While he ate he searched for Eve, Lane, and Pope. Since he and Everett had figured that her husband, Eric Lane, was one of the names, he focused on finding Eve and Pope. He sent a text to Everett: Find anything out about ELP?

  His phone chimed, and he read Everett’s text: Nada. You?

  No, still looking, Langston sent back.

  Langston went down a rabbit hole of searching until the shadows grew long on the floor and the tablet’s battery icon started blinking. He put it down in frustration and got up to stretch his stiff back just as Jade called.

  “Guess what?” she asked when he answered.

  “What?”

  “I got my license yesterday.”

  Langston smiled. “Wow. Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

  “If I’m being h
onest, I guess I was being a little spiteful,” Jade said. “I figured if you were going to start running off to places, then I should have the means to do the same. Plus, it’s stupid to keep carrying my cello onto the bus if I don’t have to.”

  Langston didn’t know how to respond to that. “Oh.”

  “I was ticked off enough to go do something a little crazy, for me at least. I went to the DMV and was determined not to leave without a license.”

  “Whose car did you use?”

  “My classmate’s car. Her name is Gloria. She has a cute Fiat, but the DMV guy who rode with me barely fit.”

  “What happened on your road test?”

  “I walked out to the car and felt that same panic I did before, but I thought, ‘No, you aren’t leaving this place without a damn license.’ So I took a deep breath and did it. I thought I was going to have a heart attack the entire time, but I did it.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “How’s it going with you?”

  “I haven’t been able to find anything else.” Langston rubbed his eyes. “Getting anxious about talking to Missy.”

  “I hope you get the answers you need.”

  “Me too.” He yawned. “I need to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? And congrats again.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Night.”

  Langston took a long shower and crawled into bed, setting his alarm to meet Missy in the morning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Minty’s had a rustic chalkboard menu, enormous artisan pastries and a barista with a cheek piercing and pink hair. The coffeehouse was busy, but Langston was able to find a table in a dim corner. He waited for his coffee to cool while he listened to Coldplay over the speakers and stared at a small bunch of wildflowers in a Mason jar on the table. He wondered what Missy was going to tell him. She’d looked like she had something to say yesterday, and he was eager to hear it. He kept checking his phone for the time, worried that she’d changed her mind. He wrapped his hands around the hot mug and blew on his coffee, feeling the steam on his lips and nose.

  The door opened at exactly seven o’clock and Langston looked up. Missy appeared more put together than she had the day before. She spotted him and gestured that she was going to the counter. He nodded and watched. Her hair hung in loose curls, and she wore a turquoise and white dress under an unbuttoned khaki trench coat.

  She got a cup of coffee and a scone and sat across the table from Langston, smiling. “Hi.”

  He returned the smile. “Good morning.”

  “Did you find the place okay?”

  “Yep. No problems.”

  “Good.” She broke off a piece of scone, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

  “I don’t know where to start.” Langston glanced around. “I have some questions about my biological parents, and I think your dad can help me.”

  “Oh.” Missy looked disappointed. “This is an adoption thing?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Can you show me that mark behind your ear again?”

  Langston turned his head to the side.

  Missy chewed slowly. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I’ve had it since birth. What about yours?”

  “I got mine when I was seventeen.”

  “How?”

  She sighed. “The short version is I had a surgical procedure. Afterwards, when I woke up, the mark was on my foot.” She lifted her eyebrows. “I was told it was a scar.”

  “You don’t sound like you believe that.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I never had any reason to doubt my dad until after the surgery. I was an inquisitive kid, and he gave me answers, but they never quite,” she flattened her hand and held it in front of her, “lined up.” She relaxed her hand and touched one of the tiny petals on the small bouquet between them. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. Why?”

  “My surgery was almost twenty-one years ago.” Missy took a noisy sip of coffee as the barista called out a caramel latte. “Do you know anyone else with the mark?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Missy looked down and shook her head.

  Langston took a deep breath, inhaling the intense aroma of coffee beans and croissants. “I did a little research before I came here. I noticed you used to be in a wheelchair. Was that what the surgery was for?”

  She nodded. “I developed a neuromuscular disease when I was very young—still in daycare. My mom decided she couldn’t handle it and left, so it was just my dad and me. He told me he’d do everything in his power to get me out of that chair, but of course I thought he was just saying that to make me feel better. By then I was old enough to know there was no cure or treatment. Then, right after my high school graduation, my dad said he’d met a man—a doctor—who could help.” She looked down at her feet and made a small scissoring motion with them. “And he did. It didn’t happen all at once. I worked hard in physical therapy and got stronger throughout the year and finally put away the wheelchair and walker for good.”

  “What kind of surgery was it?” Langston asked.

  “I was told it was a type of muscle reconstruction. I had sutures behind both knees and on my back. I was sore for weeks. Carmen was my caregiver at the time, and she and my dad made sure I got my shots afterwards.”

  “What kind of shots?”

  “I got regular injections for… six?” Missy squinted at the ceiling. “No, seven weeks. Anti-inflammatory shots.”

  “Who performed the procedure?”

  She looked at him, smiling apologetically. “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you meet the doctor for a consultation?”

  “Nope. Dad took me to a local clinic, and I was put under by an anesthesiologist. When I woke up, I was in my own bed. At home. Two days later.”

  Langston scratched his chin. “You didn’t think that was weird?”

  “Hell yeah, I thought it was weird!” Missy lowered her voice when a man looked at them over his newspaper. “I asked my dad a thousand questions. Who was the surgeon? What did he do? Why was I asleep for so long? What was the mark on my foot? I went on for days before I finally stopped.”

  Langston wiped up a few coffee drops from the table with a napkin. “What did he say?”

  She gave her scone a peculiar look before taking a bite. “You have to know him. He tells you only what he wants you to know. And he doesn’t budge. I guess that’s the agent in him.”

  “You didn’t get anything?”

  “All he said was this man was a great doctor who owed him a favor. He tried to explain the procedure, something about injections and electrical implants, but it all sounded convoluted and impossible.” She held up her hands. “Before you think I’m a complete idiot, remember that I was just a teenager. I totally trusted and respected my dad because he’s always had my best interests in mind. And then, when I saw the procedure was working and I was getting stronger, I felt guilty for questioning him. I didn’t want him to think I was being ungrateful.”

  “But most neuromuscular diseases have no cure.”

  “I’m well-aware.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Who did you say your biological parents were?”

  Langston cleared his throat. “Just a physician and a stay-at-home mom. Died in an accident.”

  “What kind of physician?”

  Langston wasn’t sure how much to reveal. Missy had the potential to be an incredible resource, but he wanted to be careful with how much to tell her. Then again, withholding information could make it harder for her to help him, if she chose to.

  “He worked in genetic research.” There. He hadn’t lied, but Dr. Wiseman was hardly the only person in genetic research.

  Langston and Missy looked at each other as Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” played.

  “I’ve been over this again and again,” Missy said. “There’s no pill or shot or surgery that could have helped. Beli
eve me. I kept up with the research. I could only think of one person,” Missy held up her index finger, “my dad knew who could even come close to a treatment, but he’d already died before my procedure.”

  Langston whispered into his coffee cup. “William Wiseman.”

  Missy smiled. “I had a crush on him. Lots of girls did. He was handsome and smart and charismatic.” She sounded wistful. “I hoped my dad would offer to introduce me, but he never did.”

  Langston listened to the coffee bean grinder and avoided Missy’s gaze, staring at the tabletop. “Do you remember the case with Dr. Fai Chang?”

  “Of course. It was awful.”

  He nodded, still staring at the table. “My mom—my adopted mom—is one of the victims from that case. Your dad asked her to take me in exchange for citizenship.”

  Missy gasped. “He sold you?”

  Langston looked up, seeing the horror in her eyes. “Oh, no, not like that. I love my mom. She’s the best.”

  Her shoulders drooped in relief. “Oh. Good.”

  Langston gave Missy a level look. “Do you know where your dad kept his records?”

  “Are you suggesting I break into his files and try to find something more about the case?”

  Langston held out his hands. “Not break in, per se, but, um…”

  “Too late.” She smiled. “I already tried that. I looked everywhere, but I got nothing.”

  Langston thought of Agent Roswell’s gatekeeper. “Does Carmen know anything?”

  “My stepmom?” Missy pursed her lips. “If she knows anything, she’s not talking.” Langston must have looked as disappointed as he felt because she grabbed his hand. “But I’ll talk to my dad, okay? I’ll see what I can get out of him.”

  Langston nodded. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

  They exchanged numbers.

  “I’d stay longer, but I have to help decorate.” Missy stood. “My husband’s parents are having their fiftieth anniversary party today.”

  Langston got up. “I’m glad I got to meet you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll call if I find out anything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Langston sat down. Missy put her dishes in a plastic tub on top of the trash can, but instead of leaving she came back to the table. “You look like him, you know.”