Melanie looked back and forth between her godfather and best friend. Maybe it was just her, but she would swear there was a light blush on Ann Margaret's face, a reluctance to meet Jamie's direct gaze. Very interesting.
Melanie climbed onto the stretcher next to Jamie's and offered up her arm to donate while she and her godfather caught up.
Jamie didn't waste any time. “Brian really thinks he's gay?”
“I don't think he merely ‘thinks' it.”
Jamie sighed. “And your dad, being the openminded fellow that he is, tossed him out on his arse.”
Melanie grimaced. “Brian didn't exactly help matters with his method of announcement. I mean, one minute Harper is serving duck à l'orange to the hospital's head of surgery, the next his own son is bolting up, yelling he's tired of the goddamn lies and he's a goddamn homosexual and Harper had better goddamn deal with it. I don't think I've ever seen Dad hold a duck leg in midair for so long. If the whole thing hadn't been really happening, I think it might have been funny.”
“Brian always lets things build too much,” Ann Margaret stated knowingly, having followed the family saga for the past ten years. “Wasn't he seeing a therapist?”
“He stopped. I believe his lover is the therapist's brother, or something like that.”
“You're kidding!” Both Ann Margaret and Jamie managed to be aghast.
“Well, at least tell me your brother is doing okay,” Jamie said to Melanie.
But Melanie couldn't. “I don't know. Brian . . . Brian isn't speaking to me.”
“No.” Jamie shook his head. “Stupid young fool. He and Harper have always gone head to head—they're both too damn thick, that's the problem—but the boy's crazy about you. I used to tease your parents that he mistook you for a puppy, the way he'd run around feeding you toys and feeding you chocolate. He's got no good reason to be taking out this newest tiff on you.” Jamie paused, then asked carefully, “He doesn't have any reason to be mad at you, right, lass? I can't see you caring about his sexual orientation or whatever the hell they're calling it these days.”
“I don't,” Melanie said. “Neither does Mom. But I don't know . . . Brian's always been moody. He has his spells, kind of like Mom, his blue periods, even his angry periods. When I heard him shout that he was a homosexual, some part of my brain clicked. I thought, oh, well, that's why. And now we know, and it's all out in the open, so everything will get better.
“But it didn't get better. Something went off in him. I mean, went off, and suddenly it's like he hates us. All of us. I don't know why.”
Her godfather looked troubled. “You try talking to him?”
“I left six messages, then went over in person. He wouldn't answer the door.”
“That kid just tries your patience.”
“He probably needs more time.”
Jamie didn't look convinced. “He shouldn't need time to know to treat his mom and sister with respect. Well, what's done is done. Has Harper said anything more about it?”
“You know this isn't the kind of stuff he talks about.”
“Harper needs to pull his head out of his ass,” Jamie declared, one of his favorite opinions about Harper. He said it without vehemence though. The two men went back too far to be hotheaded about their differences now.
“Dad's just conservative,” Melanie said. “I imagine not too many of his aging Republican cronies have ever had to deal with sons announcing that they're gay.”
“Your son is still your son.”
Ann Margaret placed two fingers over the gauze pad covering the needle on his arm. “So says the man who doesn't have one.”
Jamie actually flushed. “Just mind your own business, you nosy little—”
Ann Margaret yanked the needle out of his vein. He made a silent O with his lips, then, every inch a chastised schoolboy, obediently lifted his arm above his head and held it there.
“You're doing great,” Ann Margaret declared merrily, and Jamie gave Melanie a long-suffering look that declared he knew he'd met his match—but he still didn't want to hear about it.
Ann Margaret moved on to Melanie next, removing the needle, applying a Band-Aid.
“I think Harper is going to give soon,” Melanie confided when both she and her godfather were allowed to sit up. She moved to Jamie's stretcher, where they sat side by side.
“You think?”
“I found him crying,” she said quietly. “Late last week, on the sofa downstairs, when he thought no one was around.”
Jamie glanced down at the floor, completely subdued. After a moment Melanie looked at him curiously.
“What do you want from him, Jamie? Dad was raised in the fifties, when men were men, women were women, and gays were freaks. I'm not saying that's right, but it's hard to undo a lifetime of thinking.”
“You always were a good diplomat, Mel.”
“It's not world politics, Jamie. It's family.”
They both drifted into silence, and after a while their gazes turned to the glittering crowd.
Melanie picked out her father. He now stood in the left corner of the living room, sharing a laugh with his rival at Mass General. William had arrived and waited at her father's heels. Like Harper, William Sheffield, M.D., prided himself on his perfect appearance. Tonight, though, he looked tired, worn around the edges.
Maybe trying to keep up with three women was finally taking its toll on him.
Melanie quickly pushed that thought away. Not her business anymore, not her problem.
She looked for her mother and found her at nearly the opposite corner of the room from her husband. Melanie's parents rarely kept each other company at parties, and not at all these days, with the situation with Brian causing a rift between them.
They were never the type to argue in public, however. They never even disagreed in front of their children. Discussions took place discreetly, late at night, when they thought Brian and Melanie were asleep, and a united judgment was then passed in the morning. For the most part, Melanie regarded her parents' marriage as solid, if stale. Even now she didn't worry about them. After all, they'd weathered far worse crises.
Presently Patricia set down her orange juice glass and started moving. She passed right by where Harper was standing. Melanie thought her mother would simply keep going, but her father reached out and stopped her with a touch of his hand to her bare elbow. It was hard to say who was the most surprised by the unexpected contact, Patricia or Melanie.
Harper's mood was definitely softening, for whatever he said to his wife, it made her smile. He murmured something more, his blue eyes sparkling, and she actually laughed, looking startled, looking pleased. She turned toward him fully. His long surgeon's fingers skimmed her collarbone before coming to rest on her slender waist, and she leaned toward her husband in a way Melanie hadn't seen in a long, long time.
Jamie shifted beside Melanie, and she realized he was watching her parents as well, his expression hard to read.
“It's going to be all right,” Melanie murmured with renewed confidence. “See, the worst is over.”
“Your mom looks great,” Jamie said softly, and behind them Ann Margaret bound their pints of blood more briskly.
“She's attending her AA meetings diligently. She's a tough one, you know.” Melanie glanced at her watch, then hopped down from the stretcher. “You in town a bit?”
“Coupla weeks, love.”
“Tea at the Ritz?”
“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“It's a date. Take good care of him, Ann Margaret. I'll catch you both a little later.”
MELANIE HAD NO sooner turned down the back hall to the kitchen than she bumped into another guest. She glanced up to apologize and found herself looking at a short, balding man in rumpled streetclothes. She'd seen his overcoat earlier, she realized, heading down the hall, disappearing around the corner.
“Who are you?” she asked sharply.
The man grinned, but it wasn't friendly. “La
rry Digger, ma'am. Dallas Daily. Unh-unh. Don't turn away from me, Miss Stokes. I've spent all night long waiting to catch you alone. Goddamn, you are one busy lady.”
“You don't belong here, sir. This is a private function, and if you don't leave right now, I'm calling security.”
“I wouldn't do that if I were you.”
“Well, you aren't me,” she said firmly. She opened her mouth to summon help. Suddenly the man's hand snapped around her wrist and he stared at her with an intensity that was startling. Melanie couldn't breathe.
Something was stirring in the back of her mind. Ripples in the void. Not now, not now.
“I know about your father,” the man whispered intently.
“H-Harper Stokes?”
“Nah, Miss Stokes. I know about your real father, your birth father.”
“What?”
He smiled. A smile of supreme satisfaction. “Follow me, Miss Stokes,” he said calmly. “I'm gonna tell you a story. A little story about Texas and a serial killer named Russell Lee Holmes.”
THREE
L ARRY DIGGER TUGGED Melanie into the foyer. The Duvets, about to depart, gave them a curious look, and Melanie's lips formed an automatic smile. She was still turning the reporter's words around in her head.
I know about your real father . . . your birth father . . .
Digger twisted them away from the guests and headed down the back hall. Two servers burst through the swinging doors at the end. “Jesus Christ, this place is overrun. How many rich people do you know?”
“Do you want money? Is that what this is about?”
Digger jerked her toward the back patio, but it was also filled with guests who gave them startled glances. “Fuck this!”
He gave up on the house altogether and pulled her across the street to the Public Garden.
The night was warm and humid, the air fragrant with cherry blossoms and hyacinths, the gas lamps soft. May was a gorgeous month in Boston, and people took advantage of it. Melanie could see young couples nuzzling beneath maple trees, older couples herding their children, other people walking dogs. The park was active and well lit, so Melanie wasn't afraid.
Mostly she was confused. A dull throbbing had taken root behind her left eye, and she was thinking Russell Lee Holmes, Russell Lee Holmes. Why did that name sound so familiar?
Larry Digger stopped beneath a tree, shoved his pudgy hands in his trench coat pockets, and squared off against her.
“Russell Lee Holmes murdered seven children. They ever tell you that?”
“What?”
“Yep. That's what he did. Mean son of a bitch. Liked his children young and with curly blond hair. Kidnapped poor children mostly, white trash like himself. Took them to dump yards and messed them up like you wouldn't believe. I have photos.”
“What?”
“Come on,” Digger said impatiently. “Stop playing stupid. Russell Lee Holmes. Killed your parents' first daughter. Raped her and cut off her head. What was her name again?”
Oh, God, that's where she knew the name. Brian must have told her, or Jamie. Certainly her parents never spoke of that time.
“M-M-Meagan,” Melanie whispered.
“Yeah, Meagan, that's it. She was the worst one, all right. Four years old, cute as a button. Your parents doled out a hundred thousand bucks for ransom, and all they got to bury was a headless corpse. Enough to drive a mother to drink—”
“Shut up!” Melanie had heard enough. “What the hell do you want, Mr. Digger? Because if you think I'm going to just stand here and listen to you take potshots at my family, you got another think coming.”
“I want you!” Digger moved in close. “I've been following you, Melanie Stokes. For twenty-five years I've been trying to find proof of your existence, trying to find out if Russell Lee Holmes really did have a wife and child, because that son of a bitch wouldn't tell a soul, wouldn't even tell me on his execution day, the bastard. But I've kept looking. Russell Lee Holmes was front-page news when they got him, and he was front-page news when they fried his ass. And he's gonna be front-page news again when I announce that I've found his daughter. You know what, Miss Holmes—you got his eyes.”
“Look, I don't know what your game is, but I was found in Boston. I don't have anything to do with some guy in Texas.”
“I never said you grew up in Texas, just that your daddy died there—”
“After fathering a child in Boston? I don't think so.”
“Oh, but I do. See, Russell Lee may have lived in Texas, but once he was arrested for murder, it was probably best for his wife and child if they got out of town. The newspapers were overflowing with accounts of what he did, you know—particularly the Stokes girl.” Larry Digger rocked back on his heels. “He kidnapped her right from the nanny's car, sent a ransom demand, and raped and killed her even as your parents were struggling to raise the money. Very ingenious of him, you have to admit. I mean, there he was, coming up with ways to get paid for his work—”
“Goddammit.” Melanie had definitely had enough. “I am not Russell Lee Holmes's daughter. You, on the other hand, are a crackpot. Good-bye.”
Melanie took a step. Larry Digger snapped his hand around her wrist and held tight. For the first time Melanie was afraid. When she turned, however, the reporter said calmly, “Of course you're Russell Lee's daughter.”
“Let go of my arm.”
“You were found the night Russell Lee Holmes died,” the reporter continued as if she hadn't spoken. “They ever tell you that? Yep, Russell Lee goes to the chair in Texas, and a little girl without a past suddenly appears in Harper Stokes's hospital. Awfully coincidental if you ask me. And then you gotta wonder—why was Harper even working that night? The man who killed his little girl is being executed, and he stays home to work? Kind of strange if you ask me. Unless he knows he has a good reason to stick around the hospital.”
“I was drugged and abandoned in the ER,” Melanie said slowly. “My father is a cardiac surgeon. That he came downstairs at all was purely a fluke—”
“Or good timing.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, how many men die a day in the U.S. anyway? A few thousand? A few hundred thousand? Want to tell me I'm their daughter too?”
She gave the reporter an exasperated glance and simultaneously yanked her arm free. Digger appeared unconcerned, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and pounding out a smoke.
“Come on, Miss Holmes. You honestly never wondered where you came from? You're not the teeniest bit curious?”
“Good-bye.”
He smiled. “I know your family, Melanie. Your mom, your dad, your brother. I covered their story when Meagan was kidnapped, and I was with Patricia and Brian the night they fried Russell Lee Holmes. You don't want to listen to me, fine. You go inside and tell your mother that Larry Digger is here to see her. Didn't she just get out of rehab? I understand that since the death of her first daughter, her nerves have never been the same.” Digger exhaled a plume of smoke right into Melanie's face. “What do you think?”
“You are a piece of shit.”
“Ah, honey, I've been called worse.” Digger flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “How's Brian anyway? I remember him pressing his face to the glass in the witness room—you know, back then. When they fried Russell Lee, it was gruesome, just plain sick. Everyone closed their eyes and covered their ears. But fourteen-year-old Brian Stokes pressed his face against the glass and stared at Russell Lee dying as if he was trying to sear it into his brain. Sear it, mind you.
“I hear Brian's gay now. Do you think watching a man die could affect a man's sexual preferences? Just asking.”
The last comment, so cruel in its casualness, struck Melanie like a blow. She had to close her eyes, and then she was so angry she couldn't speak. She wanted to hurt him. The intensity of the desire balled her hands into fists. But she was no match for him, fat and all, and they both knew it.
“I want you away from my family,” she said finally.
“Whatever it is you have to say, you say it here. If you honestly have a story, I'm sure a quote from a killer's child is worth enough to you to stay the hell away from them. Deal?”
Larry Digger pretended to consider it. He took another deep drag from his cigarette and looked at the park around them, but his beady eyes were already gleaming triumphantly.
“I like you,” Digger said suddenly. “I don't like most people, Miss Holmes. But I like you. You not only have Russell Lee's eyes, you got his spine.”
“I'm just so darn flattered,” Melanie spat out, and Digger laughed.
“Yeah, you're a fine piece of work. So tell me, sweetheart, what's it like to suddenly get to live with so much money?”
“Oh, it's just as good as you dreamed, Larry, and everything you'll never have.”
“Yeah? Too bad I'm going to ruin it for you.” Larry Digger stubbed out his cigarette on the tree trunk and got serious. “The hospital,” he said. “I think that's the key. Over a hundred hospitals in this city, and you just happen to end up at Harper's?”
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe, but they all start to add up after a while. First we got the timing, Miss Holmes. You just happened to appear the night Russell Lee is fried for killing little kids. Then we got location. You just happened to be dropped at Harper's hospital and he just happened to have blown off an execution to be there. Then we got you. A little girl. Found perfectly clothed and in good health but nobody ever claimed you? All these years, not a single whisper from the people who must've taken care of you for nine years, bought you clothes, fed you, put a roof over your head, hell, even made sure you were found at a hospital, where you'd be in good hands. And then there's the matter of your amnesia. A healthy little girl who couldn't remember anything about where she came from, not even her own name. And all these years later, two decades later, you still don't remember. Seems strange to me that a nine-year-old child could appear out of nowhere, remember nothing, and be claimed by no one. Strange. Or planned.”
“You know what they say, truth is stranger than fiction.”