Nathan looked both ways down the street. “So can I go?”
“No, I need to ask you something. Where did you grow up?”
“New York City. Morningside Heights. Why?”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Why? You planning on calling her?”
“No, no,” John said quickly. “I just …” Blood rushed through his ears, a supersonic whooshing of terror. “So, um, do you need a ride anywhere?”
“No, man, I’m good,” said Nathan. He was shifting, restless, clearly anxious to get on his way. John nodded.
As Nathan’s heavy footsteps rang down the street, John became so light-headed he had to sit on the stairs.
35
Isabel lay on her side, hugging her pillows. She’d been awake for two hours, although the sun showed no signs of rising. The television played in the background, muted, because she was hoping that Ape House would begin airing again. It had not, and Isabel was pretty sure it wouldn’t, because Rose had called her and told her that the Corston Foundation was readying the isolation unit for incoming apes. She wasn’t sure it was the bonobos, but the longer the show stayed off the air, the more likely it seemed. Somebody at the studio, an interpreter or, more likely, Peter, had recognized the implications of Sam’s statements and pulled the plug. Not only had Peter participated in blowing up the lab, but now he was going to consign them to a living death at a biomedical facility.
Someone banged on her door. She shrieked, once, and the banging stopped. After a few seconds, a hesitant rapping took its place.
Isabel peeled back the covers and made her way to the door in darkness. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t there, but the bolt was on, and hotel security was a minute or two away, at most. She put her eye to the peephole, which revealed John Thigpen, nose enlarged by the fish-eye lens, nostrils flaring in and out, leaning with one hand against the door frame. She swung the door open and ushered him in.
He staggered forth. She flicked on the ceiling light.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He just stood there, looking bewildered, his eyes wild, not landing on anything. They finally focused on her. “Did I wake you up?”
“I was already awake,” she said. “What is it? What happened?”
“I think I’m his father.” His eyes were as wide as a lemur’s.
“Whose?”
“That green-haired vegan eco-feminist.”
“Nathan?”
John nodded, still panting.
“What on earth would make you think that?” she said.
“How many seventeen-year-old Pinegars can there be in the world?”
Isabel suddenly wondered whether she should have let him in. Was he drunk? He didn’t smell like it, and she was preternaturally good at discerning alcohol on people’s breath. Was he high? She examined him more closely—his pupils were the same size and not dilated.
He seemed to sense her apprehension. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come,” he said, and while he continued to shiver, he no longer looked crazed. He just looked miserable and pathetic. He took a step toward the door.
“No, it’s okay,” Isabel said, touching his elbow. “Come, sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
He reeled toward the couch, and she followed. As the tale of his long-ago indiscretion spilled out, Isabel ended up sitting beside him, facing him, legs tucked beneath her.
“I didn’t even know if we’d done it,” he said, “but apparently I knocked her up. Why didn’t she just say something? I was stupid and a kid, but maybe if my parents or I had been in his life he wouldn’t have turned out like this.”
“He’s not that bad,” said Isabel.
“Yes, he is,” said John.
“Yes. I suppose he is,” Isabel conceded.
John dropped his head against the back of the couch and groaned.
“Okay. Look,” she said, swinging her legs around and straightening up. “There’s no point in panicking yet. You don’t know for sure that he’s yours.”
“He’s seventeen. He’s a Pinegar. He grew up in New York City.”
Isabel couldn’t deny that he had a point. She got up and retrieved her computer. John sat like a splayed lump, a limp starfish flung over the left side of the couch, unmoving except for the occasional rise and fall of his Adam’s apple.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked as she typed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“For what?”
“For dumping all this on you.”
“It’s okay,” said Isabel. “Obviously you needed to talk to someone. I can understand why your wife wouldn’t be your first choice.”
“She’s going to kill me. Kill me. What am I going to do?”
Isabel shook her head sympathetically, still typing.
John added, “I could have been a good dad, I think. I had a good role model. My dad is a good dad. What about your dad?”
“Gone,” said Isabel.
“Oh God. I’m sorry.”
“About what?” she said, still typing. Isabel glanced over quickly and realized where his mind had gone. “Oh. No, he’s not dead. At least, I don’t think he is. Just gone. He may not be my father anyway. That was part of the problem.”
“I’m sorry,” John said again.
“I’m not. I like knowing there’s a chance I’m not related to him. Of course, I’d also like not to be related to my mother, but unfortunately there’s no room for doubt there.” She turned her laptop around so he could see the screen. “Here. DNA paternity testing. Super-expedited service. Twenty-four-hour turnaround. No blood samples needed. Email or phone results. We can order it right now, if you like.”
He opened his eyes further, transforming from lemur to owl. He blinked a few times. “What kind of sample do I need?”
She handed him the computer. “A glass he’s drunk from. Or a cigarette butt, or a single hair—apparently you can use it even if it’s been dyed.”
John looked around hopefully, as though a green hair might magically appear.
“He’s never been in my room,” Isabel said. “But I’ll get a sample tomorrow. Today,” she said, glancing at the window and realizing that morning was threatening to break at any second.
John stared at the online form. He began filling in the fields, timidly at first, and then so quickly his fingers tripped over themselves and he had to back up to make corrections. Isabel scootched over so she could see what he was doing. He was already punching in his credit card number.
As he prepared to leave, he stood awkwardly at the door. Finally, he dropped his chin and said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” As he turned to leave, her own anxieties flooded back. What if this new crisis of his pushed hers from the spotlight? “You’re still going to nail Faulks, right? Because now that Ape House is off the air, I can’t even watch to see if they’re okay. What if the baby isn’t nursing properly? What if Makena gets an infection? What if they’re still just eating cheeseburgers and M&M’s?”
He turned back. “Absolutely. I’m sending my dispatch tonight. The issue will hit the stands late afternoon tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” she said. “Because you know what’s at stake here, right? If the county seizes the apes, they’ve agreed to send them to the San Diego Zoo, where I found us temporary housing until I figure something else out. But if you don’t expose him, and he gets to keep ownership, God only knows where they’ll end up.…”
She realized she was clutching his arm, probably hard enough to hurt. She let go as soon as she noticed, and squeezed her eyes shut.
John folded her into a hug. “Don’t worry,” he said, and she felt his voice resonate through his chest. “I’m not going to let that happen.”
To Isabel’s astonishment, she believed him. She even allowed her arms to meet behind his back.
——
Almost as soon as John left her room, Isabel called Celia and ordered her to come and bring Nathan.
He wa
s bedraggled, although he didn’t look as bad as John. Isabel studied the bones of his face and the color of his eyes. He and John were about the same height, and while Nathan still had that stringy, gangly youth thing going on, he might fill out into a similar build. Certainly it was not impossible—
She suddenly became aware that he was returning her stare.
“Have you called your parents yet?” she said.
“No,” he said. “And I’m not going to either.”
“Listen, mister, you better make that court date. You understand?”
He shrugged, looking beleaguered.
“If you don’t, how are you going to pay John back?”
“I don’t know. Maybe get a credit card. Take out an advance …”
“Nathan. You’re seventeen. You don’t have a job. No one’s going to give you a credit card.”
Celia spun to face him. “Seventeen? You’re seventeen? That’s, like, jailbait!” She whacked him in the arm.
“I’m eighteen in two months,” he muttered, rubbing his arm.
Celia addressed Isabel. “He told me he was nineteen.” Her head whipped around, lightning bolts of displeasure forming between her eyes. “You told me you were nineteen!”
“I suggest you tuck him into his own sleeping bag tonight,” said Isabel.
Nathan stuck his hands in his pockets and looked uncharacteristically subdued. Celia crossed her arms, stared straight ahead of her, and tapped her foot.
Isabel rubbed her temples. “When did you kids last eat?”
“The last time I ate was about noon yesterday,” Celia answered. “Probably the same for him—unless they fed you in jail!” she said, throwing Nathan a scorching look.
“Celia, this isn’t helping. Are eggs murder?” Isabel inquired, addressing Nathan.
He looked sideways, and said, “Technically not if they’re unfertilized, but the conditions under which the laying hens are kept are—”
“Right,” Isabel said brightly. “So unbuttered toast and orange juice for you. Celia?”
“You’re ordering up?” asked Celia.
“The bar isn’t open yet, and we can hardly go to the restaurant, can we?” she said, staring pointedly at Nathan, who studied the pattern on the carpet carefully.
“Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and grapefruit if they have it,” said Celia.
Isabel picked up the room phone.
What Isabel didn’t add was that it was also infinitely easier to steal a glass from a room service tray than a restaurant. She just had to keep track of who drank from what.
——
Within an hour of collecting the glass from Isabel, John had dropped a package containing it and a swab from his own cheek into the FedEx box at the corner. Given the amount of sleep he’d had, John should have been the walking dead. Instead he was completely wired, worrying in stereo about potential fatherhood and his dispatch.
The paternity issue had his stomach in knots. He hadn’t even managed a cup of coffee since staggering back to the Buccaneer from Isabel’s room just before dawn.
Why hadn’t Ginette told him? His life would have been so different—all their lives would have been so different. If he’d stayed with Ginette, there would have been no life with Amanda. And whether he’d stayed with Ginette or not, he would have had to drop out of college and find a job. Ginette could not possibly have made enough money waiting tables to support herself and a child, and yet she must have done exactly that. Unless she had married someone else, his child had grown up without a father—it didn’t make a lick of difference that John hadn’t known and therefore had no opportunity to do anything differently. It was Nathan who had suffered, Nathan who had grown up without the advantages of two parents, and John was going to make it up to him. He and Amanda were going to be a part of his life from now on. Of course, that led to the unpleasant proposition of telling Amanda—who was actively trying to conceive his child—that not only did he already have one, but that the existing child was a green-haired vegan juvenile delinquent.
This avalanche of fatherly responsibility had John hyperventilating again, clenching his hands into fists as he walked.
And what Isabel had said haunted him almost as much:
“ … where I found us temporary housing,” she’d said.
Us.
They were as much family to her as any human had ever been to him. If Nathan actually was his son, even closer.
His dispatch was due by midnight, and although it promised to surpass Topher’s wildest dreams, it would not contain the type of indisputable evidence that would make the FBI take him seriously. The Weekly Times had published too many unfounded stories in the past. If only he were still with the Inky …
He shook the thought from his head. He needed something solid on Faulks. He had no idea how, but for Isabel’s sake, and for the sake of the apes, he was determined to come up with the final nail.
36
John pored over the contents of Peter Benton’s inbox, chewing and picking his cuticles and regretting all the caffeine he’d downed. It was already creeping toward 11:30, and his dispatch was due at 12:00. It was written and ready to go, but he just couldn’t make himself hit Send. He was seeking one last detail that would transform it from a piece of Weekly Times malevolent fluff to the news story of the year.
At 11:37 John’s phone rang. It was Ivanka. “He’s here,” she shouted, competing with a deafening background of music and voices. “Very drunk, very mean, but I say I call, so I call. I no supposed to work tonight, but he ask for me. I stay long enough for lap dance, then I leave. Come if you like, but I think tonight is not good night for talk.”
“Ivanka! I need you to do me a favor. Go where no one can hear you.”
She did, and then listened as he pleaded his case.
“Sure,” she said. “I can do that.” John could practically hear the shrug that accompanied her statement.
The waiting was agony: John turned on the television and tried to watch. He paced, bit his nails, ran his hands through his hair, and scratched his scalp. He ran his hands up and down his arms, seeking something. When he went to the bathroom, he was startled by the image he saw in the mirror. He took several deep breaths while staring himself in the eyes. He smoothed his hair with wet hands, then went and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned the TV off as he passed it.
At 12:01, his phone rang. “I’ve got it,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“In my room.”
John hung up, leapt off his bed, and thrust his feet into his shoes. His phone rang again immediately.
“I’m coming right up,” he said, hopping as he forced one recalcitrant heel into submission.
“You shouldn’t be doing a damned thing but sending me my file,” said Topher.
Before he could continue his rant, John said, “It will be late, it will be the most explosive thing you’ve ever published, and you will publish every word of it exactly as I wrote it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Topher.
“Of course you will,” said John. “And believe me, you’ll do it.”
Moments later John rapped on Ivanka’s door. She opened it a crack and handed him a BlackBerry. “Katarina’s shift starts in twenty-five minutes. Bring back in ten. She will take to Lost and Found.”
John ran downstairs, clutching Ken Faulks’s BlackBerry, beginning to forward himself all the settings, emails, and text messages before he even reached his room. The email application led to an anonymous proxy server, and contained the emails from Peter Benton. There was absolutely no question that he was in collusion with Faulks before, during, and after the explosion, and no question that Benton had tried to extort more money after the fact. There were other interesting nuggets as well, such as files that contained ratings and subscription information that conflicted dramatically with Faulks’s public proclamations.
“Come on, come on,” he said, watching the clock and checking his laptop. Although he had
selected and forwarded them simultaneously, each file arrived separately and out of order—that, of course, didn’t matter but he had to be sure he was in possession of every last piece of information before he took the thing back. When the correct number of messages showed up in his email, he returned his attentions to the BlackBerry and deleted all traces of the emails having been forwarded. Then he ran the BlackBerry back up to Ivanka.
She answered the door in a fluffy bathrobe. She was still in full makeup, but was removing hairpins, sliding them over the edge of her pocket, lining them up like staples.
“What took you so long?” she said.
John thrust the BlackBerry into her hands, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed the streak of blush on her powdered cheek. “Ivanka, you’re the best.”
A white stretch car pulled up beneath the balcony, pounding with Russian techno-pop.
“Katarina,” Ivanka called over her shoulder.
Katarina emerged from the bathroom in pink vinyl go-go boots, sequined boy shorts, and a matching halter top. She plucked the BlackBerry from Ivanka’s hands without slowing down, and pushed past John. Although she didn’t say a word, he thought he saw a smirk.
“Katarina!” he called after her. “Wipe off the fingerprints before you hand it in!”
Katarina held the BlackBerry up over her shoulder by way of acknowledgment before elegantly descending the concrete stairs. The car door opened, the music grew louder, and then the door shut and the car pulled away.
Ivanka sauntered over to the bed and lay on it. She crossed her feet, which were encased in high-heeled slippers adorned with feathers. She lit a cigarette.
“Thanks again for your help, Ivanka,” said John. “This is really huge.”
“My pleasure,” she said. She pointed her cigarette at a miniature fridge that was decorated with magnets and stick-on daisies. A brand-new turkey baster, still in its cellophane, rested on top. “Besides, if all goes well, I can retire. I am set for eighteen years.”
“What?” John said helplessly.
“I always use condom,” she explained. “This time, I keep. He thinks I’m too old for cougar. Well, maybe not too old for baby. Ha. That will teach.”
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