Dead Secret

by Ava McCarthy

  Moonlight leaked through the sky, and the snow glowed like phosphorous in the dark. Visibility restored.

  Jodie’s extremities tingled. She got to her feet, edged away from the fire and stared at the brutal wilderness below her.

  Ethan was out there somewhere, his trail already growing cold. Only one place left she knew to look. What if he disappeared before she had the chance? What if he whisked Abby off some place new, obliterating his tracks for good this time?

  Tendrils of panic snarled up inside her chest. It was time to move. She shot a glance at the overhang above her, darted her gaze back to the slope below.

  Down, not up. Up was prehistoric mountain. Down meant valleys. Civilization.

  Dousing her fire with snow, she grabbed her belongings and headed down the ravine. The terrain was treacherous. For what felt like hours, she slid and scrambled, zigzagging between trees, clambering through undergrowth and rocky outcrops. The snow was deep, and sometimes she plunged into it up to her knees, blundering into invisible potholes. She scrabbled on, kept her eyes down, intent on the next immediate obstacle. Refusing to contemplate the vast wilderness ahead.

  And through all of it, the same whirling thought. Where is Abby? What if I can’t find her? Then a countering whisper. But what if you can? Think of that! What if you can?

  Bit by bit, the terrain levelled out. The darkness thinned to a grey chiffon light. She dragged herself on. Heard the trickle of water. The delicate chimes of waking birds. Then the blessed sound of tyres swishing in the wet. She emerged, exhausted, onto a dark, winding road.

  It didn’t take long to hitch a ride. The truck driver who stopped watched her clamber into his cab, stared as she sank back against the seat, then wordlessly handed her a flask of coffee and half a Hershey bar.

  After she’d thawed, he told her she’d emerged from Mt Hood National Forest, three hundred thousand acres of designated wilderness about twenty miles east of Portland.

  Three hundred thousand acres.

  If she hadn’t fallen into that steep ravine, who knew what deadly direction she might have taken?

  The trucker was headed north, so he took her as far as the next highway service stop, where she disembarked and managed to negotiate the rental of an old Mazda for a cash deposit far exceeding the car’s value. She tried calling Novak from a pay phone in the store. He didn’t pick up.

  Following the salty scent of fried food, she found a diner at one end of the service station, where she stoked up on energy with bacon and eggs and three mugs of scalding-hot coffee. She availed herself of the single-occupant bathroom, then grabbed a sandwich and coffee to go for the long drive ahead.

  Firing up the rental, she navigated her way to Interstate 5, heading south towards Grants Pass. The journey took hours. She slogged on through heavy rain and hail, icy pellets peppering the car like bullets. By the time she reached the motel, her head was thick with fatigue. She killed the engine, climbed out of the car, ducking through the sleet as she raced for cover.

  ‘Novak!’ She rapped on his door. ‘Novak, open up!’

  No answer.

  She pounded again. Felt the door give. She paused, hand still raised in the air. Then she eased the door open, peering in from the threshold.

  ‘Novak?’

  The bed was unmade, the single chair knocked over. Papers were strewn across the floor.

  ‘Novak!’

  She reached the bathroom in four quick strides.

  Empty.

  Jodie’s chest hammered. She snatched up the phone beside the bed, called Novak’s number. Got his voicemail.

  Shit!

  She sprinted the thirty yards to reception, found a matronly-looking manageress huddled over coffee, eyes glued to a TV behind the desk. The woman seemed half-asleep, and it took a while to get the message through.

  ‘Room 34? He’s still here, honey, hasn’t checked out yet, far as I know.’

  ‘Have you seen him, do you know where he is?’

  ‘I don’t keep track of comings and goings.’ Her eyes strayed back to her TV screen.

  ‘What about visitors? A black jeep, did a black jeep pull up here?’

  ‘Well now, I do recall a black jeep. I noticed it on account of my brother-in-law wants to buy—’

  ‘Did you see who got out? Did my friend go with them?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, hon, my favourite programme was on.’ The woman turned up the volume on her TV. ‘I hate being interrupted when my programme is on.’

  Jodie cursed, spun away, scudded back over the snow to Novak’s room. She rifled through his things. His clothes were still there, but his laptop was gone. Had he taken it with him on some routine errand? Or had Ethan taken it, disposing of Novak’s files in case they pointed his way?

  Her stomach churned. She set the chair back on its legs, then gathered up the papers from the floor. Tried not to read the mess as signs of a struggle. But a merciless image shoved into her head: Novak being strong-armed into the jeep, abandoned some place remote where he’d disappear. Jodie clapped a hand over her mouth, shook her head.

  No! Not Novak!

  Maybe he was just out somewhere following a lead, maybe he’d found Joshua Brown. Jodie scoured the papers she’d picked up from the floor, searching for something to say where he’d gone. The pages were mostly blank, just doodles and scribbles. The last one had a single list of handwritten names.

  Peter Rosen

  Mrs Blane

  Ives and McKenzie

  Celine Rosen

  Jodie frowned. She paced the room, dragging her hands through her hair. The list made no sense.

  Where the hell is he?

  Another brutal image: Novak handcuffed, on his knees; Caruso’s gun pressed to the back of his head.

  Jesus! Think!

  She had to get help. Maybe the cops could find the jeep, maybe they could stop Caruso. She could make an anonymous call. Jodie grabbed the phone, began to dial 911. Caught sight of the motel caller ID on display. Her finger hovered over the last digit.

  What if the cops came after her instead? Her description of Novak might just trigger an alarm, linking them both to the breach at airport immigration. As soon as she dialled, they’d know where she was. They could probably have a patrol car at the motel in five minutes flat. A description from the manageress would confirm their suspicions: that she was the Framingham fugitive they’d all been looking for.

  Jodie slid the phone down from her ear, clutched it to her chest.

  Novak needs help!

  But they’d find her, no question. And they’d lock her up, snatching away her only chance to find Abby.

  Jodie bowed her head. Her innards felt shredded, ripped in two. She pictured Novak’s sun-burnt face, the grey-green eyes.

  I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry

  Slowly, she returned the handset to its cradle. Then sank to the floor, slumped back against the wall. Spent, empty.

  No luxury of tears.

  Would Novak understand? She had to believe he would. Had to believe that in her shoes, he’d make the same choice. He’d choose to find his son.

  35

  ‘Samantha, please! I need to talk to Lily.’

  ‘And I told you, you can’t.’

  Jodie gripped the phone hard. ‘I only need a minute—’

  ‘You’re not listening. I told you, she can’t talk to you. She’s out of it.’

  ‘You’re still sedating her?’

  ‘This isn’t sedation. She’s turned catatonic. Mute.’ Samantha’s tone was accusing. ‘No movement, no eye contact. Just stays crouched on her hunkers, palms pressed up against the wall. Same rigid position for thirty-six hours now. She’s shut herself down, and you won’t get a word out of her.’

  Jodie sank down on Novak’s bed, closing her eyes against the image: feisty Lily, with her braids and her knee-highs; frozen and silent.

  Jesus.

  ‘I’m coming out there.’

  ‘You won’t
get in. We’ve got security guards on the door. If you show up, they’re under orders to call the cops.’

  Jodie tensed. ‘Under orders from who?’

  ‘From Celine. Seems she doesn’t want to see you either.’ The girl paused. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Samantha, wait!’

  But the girl had already hung up.

  Shit!

  Jodie slammed the phone down. Now what? Ethan’s visit to Lily was the only lead she had. She cast a desperate look around Novak’s room. Couldn’t bear the reminders of him, of the choice she’d had to make. She got to her feet, strode towards the door. She’d camp outside Celine’s house if she had to, stay as long as it took for the woman to talk to her.

  She made a quick detour to her own room, where she dropped Novak’s list of names on the bed, then rifled through her bag for a set of dry clothes. She unzipped her parka, and the canvases fluttered to the floor. There were only two left: Abby’s painting, and the sketch of her father as a boy.

  Jodie bent to retrieve them. The sketch was topmost. She took in the figure of the cowering child, huddled in bleak misery on the floor. Like Lily’s catatonic crouch. A cold churning started in her gut. What kind of monster did this to his own children?

  Averting her eyes, she set the canvases on the bed. Harrowing as the sketch was, she was glad she hadn’t burned it. It was the only picture she had of her father.

  She kicked off her boots, peeled off her cold, damp clothes and scrambled into dry layers. A hot shower would’ve eased the stiffness in her bones, but she didn’t have time. She bent to lace her boots, then straightened up, reaching for her coat.

  A sudden dizziness swirled through her. She groped for the bed, perched on the edge, dipped her head low between her knees.

  Damn it!

  Muggy heatwaves flashed over her skin, hot and cold at the same time. Slowly, the blood drizzled back into her brain. She took a minute, then eased herself upright, her gaze unfocused as she waited for the giddiness to pass. Her eyes came to rest on the bedside table. On Ethan’s dossier.

  Jodie stared. She’d forgotten she still had it. She’d assumed Caruso had taken it from Novak’s room. Not that it mattered any more. She’d been through the damn thing so many times, there was nothing left to find.

  She groped behind her for Novak’s list of names, then reached for the dossier and slotted the sheet inside. The movement stirred up another dizzy rush, and the folder spilled to the floor. Shit. Her skin felt clammy. She gripped the mattress, tried not to move. Stared, unblinking, at the scattered paperwork on the floor. Two of her letters were still unopened.

  The faintness subsided. With slow-motion movements, Jodie took the two envelopes onto her lap. Opened the first one. A credit card statement, dated a few days before the fireworks. No activity on the account. No surprise. After Abby’s funeral, she’d hardly ventured out of the house.

  The second envelope was plain and white. Discreet-looking. Unmarked, apart from her address and the date stamp of July 4th 2012. She slid her thumb under the flap, extracted the contents. Three pages, stapled together. She took in the headed paper and frowned.

  Boston Biolabs.

  A dim memory stirred. Echoes of recurring, age-old arguments.

  ‘You want me to arrange a paternity test, Ethan? Is that what you want? I’ll do it, I’ll prove it to you!’

  And Ethan’s smug look, the one that said he was baiting her. He’d known without doubt that Abby was his. Her likeness to him was unmistakable.

  Jodie had forgotten. She’d forgotten the same old row they’d had the day before Abby died. Forgotten that, unknown to Ethan, she’d made good on her threat and finally sent the samples off. But with everything that had come after, it had no longer mattered.

  She scanned the cover letter.

  ‘ … apologize for the delay … unforeseen backlog … Overleaf are the results of your DNA Paternity Test … ’

  Jodie flipped over the page, aware of an unexpected flutter in her chest. She stared at a complicated table of numbers, its columns headed with obscure terms: STR Locus, Allele Sizes, Paternity Index. Row after row, column after column, of meaningless numbers and codes.

  She turned to the last page which showed a boxed-in section labelled Statement of Results. She read the summary. Frowned at the page. Read it again.

  She shook her head. That wasn’t right. Couldn’t be right. There had to be some mistake. The words seemed to flicker and lift off the page.

  ‘ … alleged father … Samples A and C share insufficient genetic markers … Probability of Paternity is 0% … excluded as the biological father … Sample B … Combined Direct Index … Probability of Paternity greater than 99.999% … is therefore the biological father … conclusive results … conducted in accordance with the standards set forth by … ’

  Jodie shook her head, over and over. They’d got it wrong, mixed up the samples. She’d labelled everything so clearly, how could they have made such a ludicrous mistake? She noticed her breathing was ramping up, and she thrust the pages away from her onto the bed. What did it matter? They’d screwed up the tests. So what? It didn’t matter, not any more.

  But a nagging, sickening voice in her head told her that it might.

  She made herself look at the report again, and located the contact number on the first page. She hesitated for a moment, then lifted the phone and dialled. A low charge frizzled along her skin.

  This is pointless! It doesn’t matter!

  ‘Good morning, Boston Biolabs, how may I help you?’

  Jodie explained, and got put through to a senior manager in the lab, who searched his archives, double-checked the results, then assured her with conviction that all was correct. No confusion was possible.

  ‘We don’t make those kind of mistakes,’ he added. ‘Frankly, if we did, we’d soon be out of business.’

  To prove it, he stepped painstakingly through the records of Jodie’s samples, confirming the labels noted at the time, detailing the chain of custody within the lab and the provenance for each sample as it passed through the DNA tests.

  ‘We run a tight ship here, Ms Garrett. No room for error.’

  Jodie hugged an arm around her waist, started to rock back and forth on the edge of the bed. ‘But that result, it’s all wrong, it’s just not possible.’

  The lab manager paused. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. ‘I appreciate this is difficult for you. Finding out something like this. It’s … well, it’s an abnormal case, no doubt about it. The tragedy is, it’s not the first time we’ve seen it. I’m very sorry.’

  An abnormal case.

  Sudden nausea lurched through her. A boiling sickness. She dropped the phone, staggered to the bathroom and vomited violently into the sink. Her legs almost buckled. Her torso convulsed, gut-clenching heaves that wracked her body, purging, disgorging, on and on. She couldn’t breathe.

  It isn’t true!

  The churning wouldn’t stop. Jodie retched and strained until the cords in her neck felt like they might break. She shut her eyes, blocking all thought, blanking it out. Yet remembering, remembering.

  Jesus Christ!

  She gagged, almost choked, the truth reaching deep down into her gut, ripping her insides out through her throat. Reaching far back into her childhood, plunging, eviscerating, spinning her into a vile, sickening place.

  DNA … mistakes are hard-wired … imprinted on the brain.

  She dry-heaved, her throat raw, until at last, the convulsions released their grip, melted away. Jodie clung to the cold enamel of the sink, her body spent. She glanced at the mirror. Her face looked clammy and white with shock. Bloodless, like a wraith. She didn’t recognize herself any more. But then, everything was different now.

  Everything had changed.

  And she knew where Abby was.

  36

  The Mazda swivelled on black ice. Jodie snatched her foot off the accelerator, curbed an urge to slam the brakes.<
br />
  She held her breath. The car coasted sideways, skating till it found traction. Her third skid in less than a mile. Jodie peered through the windscreen, coaxing the car forward. Faint lights glowed in the distance, leaden clouds darkening the day to dusk.

  She’d eventually found the strength to leave her room. She’d cleaned herself up, rinsed her mouth, held her wrists under cold running water till an icy rush streamed through her veins. Then she’d packed up her belongings and left the motel behind. Time to leave this godforsaken wilderness.

  Her heart lifted at what lay ahead. She’d get to Abby, take her away. Take her some place safe and warm, where no one could find them.

  Hibiscus and frangipani. Hot and fragrant.

  Rain hissed against the car, crackling as it froze on contact with the roof. The pewter sky was spitting an ice storm. Not a violent squall, but a steady downpour of freezing rain. She stared at the icy glaze on the road, formed by super-cooled drops that froze on impact. The glossy sheets were lethal.

  Jodie’s limbs twitched with the need for action, the need to cover ground and get to Abby fast. She nudged her speed up a few notches. Outside, the world seemed made of glass, every object encased in its own crystal membrane: branches, cars, gates, pylons. The rain spilled over every surface, following contours, staying liquid till the last second before freezing solid, dripping icicles down like an icy fringe.

  She focused on the road, on where she was going. So many things had fallen into place. She knew now why Ethan had been to see Lily. Why he’d travelled to Grants Pass, why he’d collected so much information on Jodie’s family. She knew everything now. Down to his last monstrous secret.

  A sickening coldness slopped into her gut. Jodie inhaled through her nose, breathing against it, not sure she had the strength to survive what she’d found out. Her fingers tensed on the wheel. She’d deal with it later. All that mattered now was getting to Abby.