A few kids on dirt bikes looked at them curiously as David pulled over. He returned their stares with a level gaze of his own and they quickly sped up. There was just something about FBI agents, Melanie thought. You could spot one twenty feet away.
David opened the car door for her. Melanie had to take a deep breath, then she walked ahead of him to the doorway.
The woman who answered on the second knock was not what Melanie expected. In comfortable beige slacks and worn white shirt, she had dirt stains on her knees and a gardening trowel in her hand. Her silver-white hair was all but hidden beneath her straw hat, making her an easy match for someone's favorite grandmother, down to the warm blue eyes and scent of fresh baking hanging in the air.
“May I help you folks?” the woman asked politely, going so far as to smile at the strangers. She had an easy smile. Melanie found herself returning it.
“Mrs. Applebee?” David inquired somberly.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Applebee agreed amiably. “Though I should tell you now, I'm a happy retired woman right down to the fixed income. No encyclopedia sets or nouveau religions for me. At my age, all I need is a pack of sunflower seeds and a few more grandkids—but don't tell my daughter I said that.”
David grinned, then caught himself and struggled for professionalism. Melanie could tell Mrs. Applebee had also taken him by surprise.
“I understand that, ma'am,” he assured her. “Trust me. Actually, I'm Special Agent David Riggs with the FBI, and I'm here about a man you spoke to three weeks ago—Larry Digger.”
Rhonda Applebee stilled, the friendly smile replaced by wariness. She looked at Melanie curiously, then she looked back at David, who was now holding up his credentials. She said finally, “I see. Well, then, I suppose you should come on in. I'll get us some iced tea.”
Mrs. Applebee led them both through a modest, tastefully decorated house to a back patio that was surprisingly lush. Huge palm trees and brightly flowering bushes enclosed a kidney-shaped yard. The dirt was turned over in one shady corner, where Mrs. Applebee had obviously been at work planting before they had arrived. She gestured to a glass patio table, where they took seats, and she adjusted the yellow and blue umbrella for better shade.
They murmured polite comments about the yard. She thanked them graciously and returned to the house for a pitcher of iced tea and a large plate of cookies.
“Oatmeal cookies?” she inquired. “Made them fresh this morning.”
David looked at Melanie. She wordlessly agreed. This woman was so perfectly lovely, and now they were going to pick her brain about Russell Lee Holmes.
“You were a midwife?” David began finally.
Mrs. Applebee gave him a brisk nod. “Yes, I was a midwife. Retired ten years. And, yes, thirty years ago part of my practice was serving poor neighborhoods, where folks couldn't afford a doctor, medication, or hospital. Those were the days when we still put people first regardless of income. You know—the days before the HMOs.”
“Larry Digger tracked you down?” David pressed.
“Yes, but I'll tell you honestly, I didn't care much for him or his questions. The sins of the fathers, my fanny. Each child has its own right to live and let live. I really didn't want to be a part of tracking down some poor soul just because of what its father did.”
“What exactly did you tell Larry Digger?”
“Well, he had a picture, of course, of Russell Lee Holmes. And, yes, I recognized the man. Back then it didn't mean much. I made the rounds, and as much as I hate to say it, one poor, mean skedaddling father was pretty much the same as another. None of them stuck around for the birth of their child, I can tell you that much. They'd show up, give you a once-over, and then go off drinking with their buddies while their wives or girlfriends squeeze out their next progeny on dirty sheets. Childbirth is women's work, and they sure as hell don't want to be involved.”
“Where was this?” David had out his notepad now and was preparing to write but Mrs. Applebee shook her head.
“That neighborhood doesn't exist anymore. It wasn't much more than a shantytown when it did, and the city bulldozed it years ago in favor of middle-income housing. Progress, you know.”
David set down his pad. “Mrs. Applebee, I understand your concern about not wanting to inflict the sins of the fathers upon a child. Frankly I think I know who Russell Lee Holmes's child is, and it doesn't bother me a bit. We need confirmation, however, and we need to know exactly what Larry Digger told you. Last week, you see, he was shot dead.”
Mrs. Applebee's frank blue gaze ran David up and down. Then she gave Melanie the same appraisal. Finally she seemed to make up her mind.
“All right, Agent. What is it you need to know?”
“Let's start with Russell Lee Holmes. Did you spend much time with him?”
“No, not really. I said hi, how is she? He shrugged, told me I'd know better than him, and to call him when it was over. Then he was out the front door and I worked with his wife—at least he called her his wife, though I didn't see any wedding bands.”
“What was she like?” Melanie spoke up urgently. Rhonda Applebee looked at her curiously, and Melanie fumbled. “His wife, I mean. The mother.”
“Oh, she made more of an impression on me than he did. A real tough one, that girl. She was already nearly fully dilated and effaced when I showed up, but she didn't so much as shed a tear. Just twisted those sheets tighter in her hands and held on for dear life. She struck me as smart—she asked good questions. She also looked me in the eye, which requires some self-respect. She mentioned that she'd been using a diaphragm and that people like her had no business having children.” Mrs. Applebee murmured wryly, “Smart and a realist. But I guess her husband found out about the birth control and put an end to it. She wasn't happy, but I suppose she figured the damage was already done.”
“Did . . . did she seem to want the child? Did she seem to care about her baby at all?” Melanie asked.
Mrs. Applebee's face softened. “When that baby finally came bursting out, you could tell she was tired and you could tell she was already worried about its future and hers, but, boy, the smile that lit her face, the glow that filled her eyes . . .”
“What happened next?” David said.
“When I was just cleaning up, Russell Lee finally came home. He was a bit wobbly on his feet—probably had a few congratulatory beers from his friends. Of course the first thing he did was wake up his wife and child.
“She showed him the child. He looked it over, nodded a bit, seemed satisfied. He even stroked his woman's cheek, which was about as nice a gesture I got to see in those parts. He seemed honestly proud of his kid, poofing out his chest, strutting around the house like he'd gotten a new car and done it all himself.
“Finally he asked me what he owed. I told him what he could afford. He gave me ten bucks, inspected the piles of diapers and formulas, and grunted. I told him to call me if they needed anything more, and that's the last I saw of the couple.
“Years later I pick up the paper and lo and behold, there's the same man, now identified as a baby killer. I really didn't know what to think.”
“Did you contact the police?”
“What for? I helped deliver his child, that was all. Besides, I may not be a doctor, but even a midwife values confidentiality.”
“But that wasn't the end of it, was it?” David asked shrewdly.
Mrs. Applebee finally hesitated. “No, it wasn't. Just weeks after the first article appears in the paper, some man shows up on my doorstep with a thick mane of red hair and an Irish brogue. Tells me to forget everything I ever knew about Russell Lee Holmes, his wife and child, and tries to offer me money. Well, I never. I do my job and I do it well and I'll tell you the same thing I told him—I keep my own to my own for my own and he and his dollars could take a flying leap.”
“And what did he say?” David asked.
“Why, he laughed. Very charming really, but still, you could tell . . .” For the first
time, Mrs. Applebee looked troubled. “There was just something about him,” she said finally. “In my line of work I've been about everywhere, seen about every kind of folk, some good, some bad, some kind, some cruel. You realize after a bit it's not in the clothes or the way they walk or in the way they live. You can tell a man by the look around his eyes, and that Irishman, he had that look. He was a man who knew things, who'd done things, who was capable of doing many more things . . .”
She shook her head, shivering a bit even after all the years. “Let's just say I got the message. Whether I took the money or not, it was best that I forget everything I ever knew about Russell Lee Holmes.” Her gaze lowered, and she added more softly, “And for a time I suppose I did.”
David was looking at Melanie. She nodded miserably, understanding his silent message. Larry Digger had been telling them the truth. Jamie O'Donnell had indeed visited the midwife. Her godfather had paid this woman a visit and had threatened to harm her if she ever told anyone about Russell Lee Holmes.
“Larry Digger implied you wanted money,” Melanie murmured finally. “Do you?”
Mrs. Applebee appeared affronted. “Look around you, child. Why would I need money. My Howard provided for me just fine!”
“Why are you telling the story now?” David pressed more diplomatically. “Last you knew, your life had been threatened.”
“Ah, well.” She shrugged. “I was scared, Agent, I can admit that. But I was forty years old then and maybe a bit more aware of my own mortality and my children. I'm seventy now, and my children are grown. What do I care about some Irishman? And what do I care about Russell Lee Holmes? That's all water under the bridge these days. Even you must realize that the world does not rise and fall based on the actions of one man, not even the actions of one bad man.”
“Other than that visit twenty-five years ago, and Larry Digger's visit, has anyone else asked you about Russell Lee Holmes?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen the mother again?”
“No.”
“Do you have a name for her?”
“Angela Johnson, the name she used thirty years ago. Mr. Digger told me it was an alias.”
“Can you describe her?”
“Oh, I don't know, I saw the poor thing when she was giving birth. Not a great time for a woman. She was . . . a little over five feet, I suppose. A short, tough build, like a pistol. Blue eyes. Dark hair, naturally curly. She was in her late twenties, so I suppose she's nearly sixty now.”
David was looking at Melanie. “Does that sound like anyone you know?”
“No—”
“Ann Margaret,” he whispered.
Her eyes went wide. “No!” But in fact, he had a point, and while Melanie was still trying to absorb that shock, David turned to Mrs. Applebee and asked an even more absurd question.
“By any chance have you seen Russell Lee Holmes lately?”
“What?” asked Mrs. Applebee.
“He's dead!” exclaimed Melanie.
David said, “I'm sorry, Mel, I couldn't think of a way of saying this, but we received new information on the scrap of fabric found in your room. It contained two types of blood. The first is yours, and according to the DNA test the second sample most likely belongs to your father.”
Melanie felt the pounding pick up behind her eyeball. Wooden shack. Little girl. Shadow looming in the doorway.
“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Applebee was saying. “You believe she is the child of Russell Lee Holmes?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“What in the world made you believe that?”
“Larry Digger,” David said with equal bewilderment. “Why?”
“Because she can't be his child, Agent. Russell Lee didn't have a daughter. Russell Lee had a son.”
THIRTY-FOUR
I T WAS JUST after noon when Brian Stokes pulled into the Motel 6 in Huntsville, Texas. He'd been traveling since five in the morning, and after a rough night of fitful sleep in the airport, he felt tired, grimy, and anxious. At least he'd also been lucky. For twenty bucks a pop, he'd found a person at each car rental company willing to look into their records. Once he knew Melanie had a car, he'd thought to stop by the information desk, where her big blue eyes had made quite an impression on the older man who worked there. That had brought him to Huntsville, where the first hotel he encountered was a Motel 6.
He stepped out of his car. The heat and humidity slapped him fiercely, plastering his shirt to his skin. Welcome home, Texas, he thought. Christ, he didn't miss this state.
In the motel lobby he got the blushing receptionist to confess that while she didn't have a guest with Melanie's name, she just happened to have a guest matching her description.
Brian rewarded her with a wink. The twenty-year-old blushed harder and stammered she could take a message. Brian decided against leaving one. He wasn't sure what state of mind his sister was in these days and didn't want to spook her into running more. He'd wait, approach her in person.
He walked back into the parking lot feeling much better about life. He had found Melanie. He would take care of her. Everything would be all right.
Then he turned toward his car and found himself face-to-face with his father.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Harper Stokes demanded first. His white dress shirt was soaked through, his dark tie skewed. If Brian had passed a restless night, his father had suffered a completely sleepless one.
“Looking for Melanie,” Brian said, then frowned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What I should've done twenty-five years ago.”
“What, tell the truth? I know what you did, Dad. I know you didn't pay the ransom. I know you sold out your own daughter for the fucking life insurance. How dare you—”
“I held this family together—”
“You ripped us apart!”
“I did what had to be done!”
“By sacrificing your own child?” Brian screamed. “By selling out my sister?”
“You hated her! You ruined her toys.”
“I loved her. She was Meagan. She smiled at all of us, she believed in all of us. Hell, she even believed in you. How could you do that to a four-year-old girl? How could you do that to me?”
Harper's face darkened. He said, in a tone Brian had never heard before, “You ungrateful little shit. You don't know anything, and I refuse to stand here and explain myself to my own son. I raised you. I did everything for you, and this is how you repay me? For the last time, I did not hurt Meagan! I didn't! And now, I've had enough.”
Harper brought up his hand. Brian noticed the white bandage. It looked like such a big wound, and on his father's hand, the place any surgeon felt most vulnerable. Then, much more slowly, the rest of the picture registered. His father was holding a gun. His own father was actually pointing a gun at him.
Brian stared at Harper and felt unbelievably calm.
He realized for the first time that all he'd wanted was his father's love and that's where he'd gone wrong. Harper hadn't been worth it. It was his mother and sister who should have counted. They were the ones who loved him, and now it was too late.
“I won't let you hurt Melanie,” Brian said matter-of-factly. “I won't lose another sister to you.”
“I know. So trust me, Brian, I'm doing this for your own good.”
Harper Stokes ripped off his bandage. Brian saw the raw, bloody wound. A fresh tattoo: 666.
The final present, Brian thought. Then his father's hand whipped toward him with shocking force.
Brian tried to block the blow. He moved too slowly, and the handle of the gun caught him squarely on the nose. He heard a cracking sound. His own bone breaking.
He thought, Melanie, I'm sorry.
Then the world went black.
“I DON'T UNDERSTAND,” Melanie was murmuring in the car. “I don't understand.”
“We just took a wrong turn somewhere. That happens in investigations. We need to backtrack,” Da
vid answered.
The fight had left her. She sagged in her seat, turning morosely toward the window.
“Why do I know the shack, David? I keep picturing that damn shack and Meagan Stokes,” she whispered after a moment. “Why can I smell gardenias, plain as day? Little girl sitting in the corner. Little girl suddenly getting a chance and bolting for the door. Running away through thick, brambly underbrush. But she won't run fast enough. I know. I know.”
David was quiet for a moment. “Maybe Larry Digger steered us wrong. He was the one who made the big leap that you were Russell Lee Holmes's daughter. The rest of us merrily followed him into the sea like a pack of lemmings.”
“But I can see—”
“Can you, Melanie? Remember what Quincy said. He had a picture of Russell Lee's shack in front of him and he told you that you were wrong, that you were not picturing Russell Lee's hut. At the time we both just ignored that. Maybe we shouldn't have.”
“But then, how come I can picture Meagan and Russell Lee Holmes?”
“There's always the power of suggestion. You never knew where you came from, a whole part of you is blank and probably hungry. Then suddenly a man appears and gives you a morsel of fact. You know what Meagan looks like, Mel, her picture has hung in your house for twenty years. Maybe once you even looked up Russell Lee Holmes. His name wasn't completely new to you.”
“No,” she admitted. “I remembered having heard it before.”
“So the seeds were sown deep in your subconscious. And when Larry Digger appeared, your impressionable mind took over. Turned his snack into a five-course meal, adding all sorts of details to round it out. But of course you couldn't get it all right.”
Slowly Melanie nodded. Larry Digger had appeared so out of the blue and had made such a big impression . . .
She was rubbing her temple. “If that's true, David, why did the scent of gardenias work? You were the one who told me that scent would trigger memory. If it was all a fantasy, why would it be triggered by a scent?”