Gone Cold (25 page)

There it was, the piece of the puzzle that linked all the others. Including the name the bartender at Knight’s End had given me—the name of the current owner of Terry’s Pub back in Washington, D.C.

“Nigel Cummings,” I said.

My father’s eyes narrowed. “Nigel Cummings? No. No, I know no one by that name.”

“Then who the hell are you talking about?” I said.

He motioned with his chin at my sister and said three words that startled us all: “Tuesday’s biological father.”

Chapter 52

The story sounded familiar though there were some differences in the telling. Like the solicitor, for instance, he was gone, replaced by a man of medicine. A doctor.

“Until just now,” my father said from his seat on the bed, “I couldn’t know for sure.”

“So what finally convinced you?” I said.

“The name of the pub, of course. The Knight’s End. That’s the name of the pub my medical school mate told me about. Before I heard those words come out of your mouth, I couldn’t be a hundred-percent certain, you understand? Or else I would have phoned you, Simon.”

“Get on with it,” I told him.

“Turns out,” he said in his measured cadence, “this is all about two boyhood mates. Born in the same city in the same month of the same year.” He rose as though to emphasize the importance of what he was about to relate. “London. November, 1943. FDR and Winston Churchill were meeting with Chiang Kai-shek in Cairo and would then meet with Joseph Stalin in Tehran.”

“Spare us the World War Two history lesson,” Ostermann interjected, “if you don’t mind.”

“Pardon,
Herr
Ostermann.” My father shifted his body so that his back was to Ostermann. “So, back to the two boyhood mates. They hailed from the same social class, you see. Both boys were well-built, sharp as swords, and competitive, to boot. In academics
and
athletics. They were both handsome devils, who attracted the same type of young lady. Smart, sophisticated women every bit as ravishing as Grace Kelly, Jayne Mansfield, or Marilyn Monroe.”

I said, “Let’s fast-forward a bit, shall we?”

His iron-gray brows bent inwardly, nearly meeting above his nose. “You never did demonstrate much patience, Simon. It’s why I knew you’d never fit into medicine. Cop was more your speed, then
and
now, apparently.”

“Two boyhood mates,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

“Two boyhood mates,” he repeated, trying to recapture his rhythm. “One of whom would grow up to be a doctor, the other a gangster. The doctor would go on to marry a wealthy woman. The gangster would have a child with a drug-addicted harlot.” He paused, looked sympathetically at Zoey. “The gangster’s daughter, as you may have guessed, was born less than a year before the doctor’s son.”

“Christ,” I muttered.

The gangster, he went on to say, named his daughter Tuesday.

The doctor named his son Simon.

“Despite their different lots in life—all of which resulted from the boys’ respective decisions, good
and
bad, and don’t let anyone dare tell you otherwise—the doctor and the gangster remained mates.
Good
mates, I’d add. The doctor going so far as to risk his medical license in order to treat the gangster and his goons. Gunshots, stab wounds. Venereal disease, even. Oh, the venereal disease in the late sixties, early seventies. It shocked the conscience. You’d be amazed, Simon—”

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

He huffed then finally pursed his lips and continued. “Their children, being roughly the same age, played together, of course. They were toddlers, they became close; as close as toddlers can be, anyway, given their degree of emotional maturity. But close enough that their fathers often joked about how the boy and girl would inevitably marry and have children of their own someday.”

Zoey scoffed. “Since we’ve spent our entire lives believing we’re brother and sister, I think we can skip this part as well.”

Alden Fisk lowered himself onto the bed, folded his hands neatly in his lap, as he was apt to do. He’d always hated being interrupted. Some things, I suppose, never change.

He turned to her. “Although I wasn’t your father, Tuesday, I
was
your doctor. And I cared for you very much. So when you were a toddler, and I began noticing unusual bruises on you—bruises that didn’t completely jibe with the stories your parents provided as explanations—I became incensed.” He lowered his head. “I gave it some time, however. Longer than I would have any other patient. In hindsight, longer than I
should
have.”

After a brief pause he gathered his strength and looked at us. “See, I was torn about what to do. It
ate
at me for weeks. Ultimately, I decided to approach my mate. He told me times were tough, that things at home weren’t going so well and, by the way, Alden, mind your own bloody business.” His eyes moved to my sister. “But you, Tuesday, were my patient. And, as my patient, you
were
my business.”

To speed things along I said, “So you reported your best mate to social services.”

“That’s right, Simon. As was my duty as a physician. The process, however, wasn’t one I was entirely familiar with. I wasn’t a pediatrician, after all. I didn’t treat children. Only Tuesday as a favor to my friend.

“Anyway, I assumed Tuesday’s parents would receive a phone call, be invited to the government offices for a conference. Maybe receive some counseling or be asked to attend a parenting course. But these were unusual circumstances, as I was later told. Because Scotland Yard, by that point, had been aware of the gangster’s illicit activities. And this incident gave them the probable cause they needed to enter his premises unannounced.”

“And they found your friend’s stash,” I said.

“That they did. And quite a stash it was. They arrested the gangster and the prostitute and took the child. Later, a hefty sentence was handed down to both of them. I spoke with my wife, Tatum, and we agreed we would take the child.” He looked at me. “You were only three at the time, Simon. Tuesday, an immature four. So on the day we brought her home, Tuesday became your sister.”

I glanced over at my sister. But she wasn’t my sister. Not even a half sister. Not a sister at all. Four days after finding the only family I thought I had left, I was losing her all over again. And it stung like all hell. Because, although I hadn’t said it in thirty-plus years, I loved her. Loved the little girl she’d been, and loved even more the warm, tenderhearted, fearless woman she’d become.

He turned to Zoey. “As time went on, Tatum began to take you to see your father at the prison. I wasn’t fond of the idea; I thought it better you didn’t know him at all. I wanted us to legally adopt you. You were still young enough that we could even hide the fact that you weren’t our biological daughter.

“But Tatum insisted you see him, and I eventually dropped my objections. Choose your battles, and so on and so forth.”

“What about my mother?” Zoey said.

“A lost cause, I’m sorry to say. Her drug use became even worse in prison and last I saw her, she was wasting away to nothing.”

“Ah, there’s Dr. Alden Fisk’s famous bedside manner,” I said.

“You want me to
sugarcoat
this, Simon?” he snapped. “What’s the bloody point?”

Zoey turned to me. “Believe me, little brother, I can handle whatever your father can dish out.”

I stared at my father, hoping he wouldn’t be callous enough to point out the discrepancies in Zoey’s statement. He glared at her in that condescending way of his but didn’t challenge what she’d said.

“What happened to her?” Zoey asked. “My mum, what became of her?”

“Ultimately, she hung herself by her bedsheets and was buried in the prison cemetery.”

Silence.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Leaving the doctor’s wife to fall in love with the gangster.”

“If you could call it love,” he said with disgust. “He didn’t seduce Tatum out of love, he seduced her out of revenge. ‘You destroyed me family,’ he said the last time I ever saw him in prison. ‘So I am going to
take
yours, Alden.’

“From that day forward, Tatum became cold to me. Slowly, she poisoned Tuesday against me as well. Then the gangster’s mates started coming round my office all hours of the day. Harassing me, telling my patients I was a quack, trying to intimidate me into writing prescriptions for them. This lasted for nearly three years. Then Tatum—your mother, Simon—started to go to work on you. Tried to poison you against me. That’s when I knew I had no choice but to take you and leave for the States.”

My expression didn’t change.

“Do I wish I did things somewhat differently?” he said, leaning forward. “You bet I do. But at the time, I was frightened of losing the only person I had left. I was afraid of losing
you,
Simon. I was afraid of losing my only son.”

“Just how does all this fit in with Hailey’s abduction?” I said.

“I only know bits and pieces,” he conceded. “And even those, I only came to learn recently. But I’ll tell you what I do know. A couple years after you and I left London, the gangster was released from prison. For good, this time. He’d been paroled on previous occasions, but each time he violated the conditions of that parole and was placed back behind bars. This time he was out. Officially, with no conditions. He’d served his time, you see.” His head dropped and he stared at the floor. “And once he was out he went to live with Tatum and Tuesday.”

Zoey and I exchanged looks. So this was the “clingy” guy, the man more fatherly than Alden Fisk. Mum’s man, the one Zoey had mentioned back at the library at Gerry Gilchrist’s house.

“After prison, the gangster became more violent than ever, I’m told. He struck your mother viciously for loving me in the first place. For ever marrying the man whom he insisted destroyed his life. He struck Tuesday whenever she dared mention your name, Simon. Finally, Tatum could take no more of it. She ran from him and changed her name.” He looked at Zoey. “Yours as well, from what I’ve heard.”

“My name is Zoey,” she said without expression.

“Apparently, the monster blamed me for this as well. I’d somehow destroyed his family yet again, this time from abroad. He went into a rage. Started doing more and more blow. Taking greater risks, looking for bigger scores.”

“Still in London, though,” I said.

“Then. But not for long. According to a source Eli Welker never disclosed to me, the gangster was watching me all that time. He hired some lowlife private detective in Providence to keep an eye on me and my son. He wanted to
hurt
me the way I’d hurt him, if not worse. In a coke-induced psychosis, his life became all about vengeance.” He paused. “Then, roughly ten years after we left for the States, he picked up a score so great, he could retire if he so desired. Not long after that, he supposedly started feeling the heat coming round the corner. The police were wise to him again, and he was determined not to return to prison. So he left for the States.”

I stared at Ostermann, who remained speechless.

“He wanted a normal life,” my father said. “A normal family. He wanted what I’d supposedly stolen. Only now he simply called it the American dream. As far as he was concerned, he’d timed things perfectly. You, Simon, had just left Rhode Island for American University in D.C. So that was where he decided to set up shop. A bar. An Irish pub, to be more specific.”

“Terry’s,” I said, still grappling with my disbelief.

Chapter 53

TWELVE YEARS AGO

Tasha’s funeral in Richmond, Virginia, is brief. Marked by a hard rain. Tasha’s parents are holding a mercy dinner at their country club after this but I’ve declined the invitation. Standing under an oversize umbrella in my only black suit, I watch the mourners head for their vehicles and try to decide how I feel about what Mr. Dunne told me earlier at the church.

“My daughter’s death is being ruled accidental,” he said.

I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“The coroner’s report will be released on Monday. I just thought you should know so that there aren’t any surprises.”

Stunned, I looked away.

He grabbed me firmly by the arm, insisted, “This is as much for you, Simon, as it is for Tasha. So don’t make any trouble. Tasha’s mother has already been through quite enough as it is.”

Now, as the rain pelts my umbrella, I realize how carefully he chose his words. Tasha’s suicide is going to be ruled an accident to aid Mr. and Mrs. Dunne in avoiding any further embarrassment. But he wants me to know that he knows what’s been rattling around in my head in the days since Tasha’s death. That I blame myself for her committing suicide.

He was suggesting that others would too.

Well, to hell with others.

Still, I’ve decided I’m not going to interfere. What appears on Tasha’s death certificate is meaningless to me. I know the truth. That she took her own life. And I know I’m largely to blame for it. Rather than playing the role of loving husband and supporting my wife through our most trying times, I’d decided to hate her. To accuse her.

In the end, I unwittingly condemned her to die.

Special Agents John Rendell and Candace West look my way and bow their heads to offer their condolences. At first I think they’re going to approach and I’m grateful. Because I never really thanked them for how hard they searched for Hailey. As a federal cop myself, I sympathize with their plight. Despite the books and movies and television shows, despite the legal pundits and bloggers and sensationalist reporters, results are not always the most precise indicator of whether you performed your job as well as you could have. Whether, like Rendell and West, you’ve gone above and beyond in your investigation and lost.

Aubrey Lang moves beneath my umbrella, stands on her toes, and wraps me in a warm embrace. Kisses my cheek before settling back on her feet.

“I’m so, so terribly sorry, Simon.”

What she means is:
I was there with Tasha the entire time. And I don’t blame you for her death.