On the screen he saw an image of the lab report he'd taken from Levy, showing Bolton's positive paternity test with Dawn. He pointed to the screen.
"See that logo? Can you copy that onto a blank sheet to make it look like stationery?"
Mouse-click-mouse-click-tap-tap.
"There you go."
Jack blinked. "That's all it takes? I can type a letter on that?"
"I'll save it as a file and you can write dozens of letters from the…" He squinted at the screen. "Creighton Institute."
Jack wasn't crazy about Russ connecting him to Creighton, but the guy wasn't a conniver. And the truth was, Russ having Creighton's logo on his computer was a greater liability to him than to Jack.
"Do it."
Mouse-click-tap.
"Done."
"All right. Back to the lab report." He touched the screen. "See those code numbers? Can you substitute names for them?"
Russ looked up at him. "You're kidding, right?"
"I didn't think I was."
"You weren't kidding." He shook his head as he turned back to the screen. "You really do need me, Jack. At least until you join the twenty-first century."
"I'm not some sort of Luddite. I own a computer, I use it, I enjoy it, but it's not a way of life." He was sure he hadn't tapped one percent of its potential, but getting into it took time—hours before the monitor or reading manuals that he didn't care to surrender. "I've got other things to do. I mean, why should I spend my time learning this Photoshop thing when I can pay you to do it for me? You're better at it than I'll ever be, so it's worth the money."
"Never looked at it that way," Russ said as he moused and clicked. "You're right, man. Save that computer of yours just for e-mail. I can always use the money." He started tapping on the keys. "Okay. We got rid of the numbers, now we've got to match the font and the text size and we're in business. What names we using here?"
Jack grabbed a pen and pad from the desk and jotted down Dawn Pickering and Jerry Bethlehem.
"Make sure Dawn goes in the second spot—she can't very well be anyone's father."
Russ spoke as he typed. "You never know, Jack. You never know. So, you running a number on this Bethlehem guy?"
"Better you don't know. And even better you forget you ever heard these names."
"Gotcha. Okay. There you are: Some girl's found her daddy—or vicey-versey. I'll print this out along with the stationery. How many copies you want?"
Jack thought about that. He needed only one letter, but a number of copies.
"How about I type it right here, and then you print it out."
"Sure thing." Russ rose and gestured toward the keyboard. "Be my guest."
As Jack seated himself he pulled a slip of paper from a pocket and handed it to Russ.
"While I'm doing this, why don't you make yourself useful and look up the next of kin of these folks."
"Don't want me to see what you're writing, right?"
"Right."
"No problem." He looked at the names on the slip and whistled. "This might take a while."
Jack looked up at him. "Then you might want to get right to it. Besides, you're blocking my light."
As Russ wandered away, Jack began to type. He had a two-finger style—slow, but it got the job done…
5
"You sure your phone's turned on?" Jerry said.
"Yes, I'm sure." Dawn hid her irritation. "That's like the tenth time you've asked me."
What was up with him? He knew her phone was never off. Never. The way he kept getting up and limping around his living room, and then sitting down again was getting on her nerves, and she didn't have many left.
Mom… dead… even after identifying the body—which had to be the totally worst moment in her life, ever—she still couldn't wrap her mind around the idea that she wouldn't be down the hall at home or at the other end of the phone anytime Dawn needed her.
God, she wished things between them hadn't got so out of hand.
If I'd been home…
Guilt enveloped her like a cold, damp cloud. She couldn't shake it. A sob burst free.
"It's my fault… all my fault. If I'd been there… if I hadn't moved out…"
Jerry stopped his pacing and stood over her.
"Now, darlin, we been through that. Your momma was on the edge, havin strange thoughts, doing strange things. We didn't recognize the signs. If it's anybody's fault, it's mine. I shouldn't have fallen in love with you. I shouldn't have taken you away from her."
Dawn grabbed his hand and pressed it against her cheek. She needed Jerry now, more than ever. She felt so sad, sad beyond words, beyond belief, and maybe even a little—she didn't like to admit it—angry at Mom for abandoning her. She'd left her totally alone, with no father, no sisters and brothers, no grandparents, nobody. She couldn't even go back to her house because it was a crime scene and the police were still working on it—they called it "processing." Or so they said. Maybe she was the prime suspect and they didn't want her back, covering her tracks.
God, that was totally sick!
"I so should have known something was going haywire with her."
"Look, darlin, I been around crazy people and I know the signs, and your momma wasn't givin a clue that she had this in mind."
Dawn stared up at him. He never spoke about his past. This was the first clue he'd ever given. Despite her fog of depression, she jumped on it.
"You've been around crazy people? When?"
He looked confused for a second, maybe even flustered.
"My momma had a major breakdown when I was in my, um, twenties. Broke my heart when we had to stick her in a loony bin, but we just couldn't handle her. I'd go visit her every day and, believe me, I saw loads of craziness."
"What was wrong with her?"
"I'd rather not talk about it. You're sure your phone's on?"
She wanted to scream. "Yes! Why do you keep asking?"
"I'm just wondering what they found on the tox screen. This mysterious caller—is he right? 'Cause if he is, how does he know? Unless your mother
didn't kill herself." He put his hands to his head. "1 can"t handle this. It reminds me too much of my own mother. It's freakin me. I gotta go out."
"Where?"
"Just out. I need some air."
"I'll go with—"
"No. I just need a little time. I'll be better when I get back. I need to be alone."
"And I need not to be alone."
"Hang on there, darlin. I'll be just a little while."
As he limped toward the door she thought of a way to stop him.
"But you can't drive with that leg!"
"I'll manage. I'll take your car."
And then he was gone.
Dawn picked up the nearest thing she could find—the universal remote—and hurled it at the door. The battery cover popped off when it hit and the batteries went flying.
How could he do this? What was so important that he had to leave her now of all times? It was like totally heartless.
An awful thought crept up on her. What if he didn't love her as much as he said? What if he was sneaking off to see someone else? He'd been looking at his watch as if waiting for a certain time.
No way. Don't be stupid, Dawn. You—
The doorbell rang.
She smiled. So he couldn't drive after all. Told him.
But why was he knocking?
She hurried down the foyer steps and opened the front door. Instead of Jerry, a stranger stood there. She eeked in surprise and went to slam it closed but stopped herself. He held a clipboard and a manila envelope and didn't look the least bit threatening. Longish blond hair and one of those gay little mustaches, wearing some sort of coverall.
"Special delivery. Is a"—he checked the clipboard—"a Dawn Pickering here?"
"Yes. That's…"
Should she identify herself to a stranger? The guy looked harmless enough. Even looked a little familiar. Maybe she'd seen him making deliveri
es before.
Oh, WTF.
"That's me."
He handed her the envelope. "Then this is for you. Just sign here, please."
"What is it?"
He smirked. "They never tell me and I didn't open it."
"Who's it trom?"
"From whoever's on the return address, I'd guess."
She signed. The guy gave her a little salute and was off.
"Wait. Am I supposed to like tip you?"
"Don't worry about it. All taken care of."
She closed the door and looked at the return address: A sticker carried the logo of something called the Creighton Institute. The name J. VECCA, MD was typed under it.
Never heard of either.
She tore open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first was a letter, dated today.
Dear Ms. Pickering—
/ hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I fear if I don't tell you, no one else will. And you must know.
Dawn's gut crawled. Was this about Mom?
It concerns the man you know as Jerry Bethlehem. That is not his real name. I am restricted from giving you his real name, but I can tell you that he was recently an inmate at this facility. When you look us up, as I'm sure you will, you'll find that Creighton Institute is part of the federal penal system.
Oh, God. This couldn't be true. It had to be some awful prank.
The man you know as Jerry Bethlehem was released as part of a special experimental program. He has been under observation. We know that your mother was having him investigated. We tried to discourage that because it jeopardized our release program. But when she discovered that the man you know as Bethlehem was her half brother, we became curious.
You see, we'd wondered why he had gone straight to your town upon his release, and why he had sought you out. The reason was not his blood relationship with your mother, it was his blood relationship to you.
What… because he was my uncle?
Now we come to the difficult part. The man you know as Jerry Bethlehem is a rapist. We weren't certain before, but our tests have confirmed that he raped your mother 19 years ago. She never saw him so
she never could identify him. 'tou were conceived during that rape. This is why she could never tell you who your father was. She didn't know.
The paper shook in Dawn's hands. No way… no fucking way.
/ know what you're thinking. No way. We felt the same. But genes don't lie. Unknown to you, I obtained a sample of your hair and did some testing of my own. The man you call Jerry Bethlehem is your father.
Oh, this was sick. This was so sick.
But even stranger and more baffling than that is the fact that he wants you to have his baby. Please look at the accompanying DNA paternity analysis. It leaves no doubt.
Dawn did just that. She saw her name… Jerry's…
Probability of paternity 99%.
A fake! It had to be!
She went back to the letter.
/ know you're thinking that a report like this can be faked. I assure you it isn't. I also assure you that I am genuinely concerned for your well-being. Especially after what I suspect he did to your mother last night.
Mom? What?
/ cannot prove it yet, but I am reasonably sure that he murdered your mother. She had ordered a DNA comparison between you and him (possibly to try to show you the genetic dangers of involvement with a man she assumed to be your uncle). The test results would have shown her the awful truth—that he was not your uncle but rather your father. And at last she would know the identity of her rapist. We believe he drugged her with Rohypnol (the street name is "roofie," I believe—perhaps you've heard of it) and staged her suicide.
Lies! A pack of lies! Had to be!
But then she remembered that this wasn't the first time Jerry had been accused of murder. Mom had said he'd killed her first detective. Dawn had laughed at the idea back then—Jesus, was it only a week ago?—but she wasn't laughing now.
What Vm telling you is easily verifiable. Simply bring samples of his hair (a dozen strands or so from a brush or a shower drain will do) and yours to any commercial lab and ask for a paternity DNA analysis. The results will confirm what I've told you.
I assure you this is not a hoax. I am a real person and you may call me at the above number at any time to discuss this, or I will be glad to meet with you in person. I must warn you, however, do not mention this to your father. He has a history of violence. Perhaps you have seen evidence of that, perhaps not. Nevertheless, I assure you it exists, and he can explode when things do not go his way.
I have initiated procedures to rescind his release and return him to this facility, but that will take time. Once he learns of this, his personality may become unstable, his behavior unpredictable. I suggest you vacate the premises. We can offer you shelter until he is safely incarcerated again.
Remember, you can call me at any time if you have questions. Julia Vecca, MD Director of Medical Services, Creighton Institute
"Oh, really, Julia Vecca, MD?" Dawn said aloud. "Maybe I'll do just that."
She ran back up to the main floor and grabbed her phone. This had to be some sort of scam cooked up by Mom and her detective before she died. More proof of how far her mind had slipped.
But that would mean she'd known she was going to commit suicide… and planned to use it against Jerry.
Dawn's mind balked at the improbability.
Make the call.
She looked at the number on the letterhead. As if She wasn't born yesterday. The letterhead was probably a total fake and she'd bet the number would be answered by someone coached to repeat all this bullshit.
She called information and asked for the number of the Creighton Institute in Rathburg, New York. Never even heard of Rathburg.
To her shock, the operator gave her a number—the same one on the letterhead.
Her finger shook as she punched it in. She reached a voice mail tree that informed her that the medical offices were closed but if this was an emergency she should hit "0." She did and found herself speaking to a woman with some sort of accent. Yes, a Dr. Vecca was on staff—head of the medical department—and no, she was not available until tomorrow. Another doctor was on call. Could he help?
Dawn hung up and stood there feeling gooseflesh run up her arms as she told herself it couldn't be, it totally couldn't be. Jerry couldn't be a criminal… but what did she know of his past? He always avoided talking about it. It had made him deliciously mysterious before. But now…
As for being her father… they so didn't look anything alike.
And killing Mom? Dosing her up with roofies and killing her? Come on't She knew about roofies—heard a million warnings to be on the lookout for someone slipping a date-rape drug into your drink at a party. Where would Jerry even—?
OMG! Dirty Danny! She herself had taken him down to score some Vi-codin. He could have picked up some roofies too.
Wait-wait-wait. He was with her all night.
Or was he? He could have slipped her one and knocked her out for the night. Was that why she'd felt so totally groggy this morning? And she'd thought he couldn't drive, but he was out driving right now. Last night, while she was zonked, he could have slipped out and—
No. Stop. This is insane.
But putting the letter together with what had been going on… they fit too well. And he seemed so interested in the results of the drug screen. Was that because…?
Coincidence. Had to be.
But if Jerry had bought roofies, where would he hide them?
God, she hated herself for doing this, but she was going to have to search the place. Not finding any wouldn't mean anything, of course—he could have used them all or taken them with him—but she hoped it might ease her mind.
6
Jack had removed the wig, the mustache, the nostril dilators, and the cotton pledgets from inside his cheeks. He hadn't been sure how well Dawn would remember him from their one meeting in Work, but deci
ded not to take any chances.
What a stroke of luck that Bolton had left Dawn home alone on the first day of surveillance. He'd expected—and been mentally prepared for—a wait of up to a week.
He wondered what had drawn Bolton out tonight. Didn't matter—it had given Jack a chance to put the letter and test results in Dawn's hands. Whatever happened next would be a matter of luck and circumstance. Dawn's youth and naivete would work in Jack's favor.
Ideally, she would swallow the whole story—why not? It was all true—and come running out of the house.
More than likely she'd be in complete denial at first; but after a while she'd start to recognize a few parallels between her experience and the letter.
Even if she was so enthralled with Bolton that she stayed in denial and showed the letter to lover boy, it would cause a major disruption in Bolton's life, maybe even enrage him enough or panic him enough to do something stupid enough to throw a big-enough monkey wrench into the Creighton clinical trial to shut it down.
One thing Jack knew he wouldn't do was hurt Dawn—because what hurt Dawn would hurt the baby.
But no matter what she did with it, that letter was going to rock Jeremy Bolton's world.
7
Jeremy sat at a corner table in Work sipping a Bud and waiting for Dirty Danny to show. The guy was usually here by now, bothering everybody to buy his shit. Where the fuck was he? An hour here and no sign of him. Jerry couldn't ask about him because that would connect him and Danny—the last thing he needed. But it hadn't stopped people from asking what had happened to him.
"How's the other guy look?"… "What happen? Step in front of a truck?"… "Dawn catch you with another babe?"… and on and on.
He felt like he was going to explode.
He didn't have a firm plan yet. He figured it best to play it by ear. Get Danny to meet him outside… tell him he had a customer for him, real para-noid but with a major jones. Anybody else and Danny might be suspicious. But he knew Jeremy, knew he wasn't hurting for dough or drugs. He'd come along. Drive him to a secluded spot, use the trusty tire iron—no surprises this time—then strip him of his wallet and of most of his stock. They'll call it a drug deal gone bad. Another pusher gone. No loss.
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