The Other Daughter (17 page)

Secrets, she thought. Hers. His. And last night she suspected Melanie had them too. There had been too many long pauses in her daughter's speech. Too many guards on her eyes. Melanie always had kept too much to herself. Did she really think her parents hadn't figured that out?

You get what you deserve. You get what you deserve.

Oh, Jesus God.

Patricia felt exhausted. She could barely lift her spoon or summon the energy to eat. Life was spiraling away on her again. Her breath was coming too quick and fast. An anxiety attack. At her age you would think she would know better. She didn't.

She went in search of her daughter. If she could just see Melanie, just know that her little girl was all right, not kidnapped, not murdered, not dead, it would help. If she could reassure herself that this was the present and the past was truly the past and long dead…

But Melanie was nowhere in sight. At ten-thirty in the morning Patricia Stokes crawled back to bed.

She knew she should be stronger. Today she wasn't.

MELANIE WOKE UP late again, then had to scramble to be ready by ten. She yanked a dress over her head while dialing Ann Margaret to tell her she wouldn't be at the donor center today. She wasn't feeling well. Maybe a touch of the flu. Ann Margaret was sympathetic. Don't worry, dear. Get lots of rest, dear. You know how much we worry about you.

Melanie went downstairs feeling about two inches tall. She hated lying and was doing too much of it these days.

She burst out the front doors eight minutes after ten. David Reese was waiting across the street, leaning against a cherry tree, his legs crossed, his hawkish face showing impatience. He looked as if he hadn't slept a wink the previous night, and the moment he spoke he sounded in a sour mood.

“Was that William Sheffield who just walked into your house?” David asked as a form of greeting.

“Yes. He probably has some meeting with my dad.” She was fidgeting with the strap of her purse, trying to get it to stay on her shoulder, but apparently David had had enough of waiting. He pushed away from the tree and immediately started walking.

“Do they always meet at your house?”

“Well, no, not always.”

“Why this morning?”

“I don't know. I just caught the tail end of things as they walked into the study, but William was upset. Sounded like his house was broken into last night.”

David came to an abrupt halt. “
His house
was broken into? Like yours the night before?”

Melanie saw where his thoughts were heading and immediately shook her head. “I'm sure this has
nothing
to do with our house. William has a slight
bingo
problem, you know? No doubt he got a little over his head again and a few creditors decided to help themselves. That's what Dad was grumbling when he showed him into his study. ‘Well, William, what do you expect?' I guess the intruder even left a note.”

David grabbed her arm. The intensity in his eyes caught her off guard. “A note? What kind of note?”

“I …I don't know. I didn't hear that much.”

“Did you hear William say something was actually taken?” David demanded. “Did he actually complain about losing money?”

Melanie tried to remember. She honestly hadn't paid that much attention. “I think he did deny it; he said he'd won last night. But my father didn't believe him. Said his record spoke for itself.”

“What about the note?”

“He just kind of went, ‘Well, if it was just a creditor, why the hell would he leave a note? Creditors take money, not write poetry.'” She paused. “Basically, William was upset and my father was trying to calm him down. End of story.”

David was still frowning, but he finally let go of her arm. “I'd like to know what the note said.”

“
Why
? What could possibly be so important?”

“‘You get what you deserve,'” David said. “Isn't that what Digger's caller told him?”

“Oh.” Melanie had forgotten about that. She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “William's just an associate of my father's. He has enough problems of his own.”

David let the matter drop. They both resumed walking.

The morning was bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky and not a tourist-free space on the tree-lined street. Men in double-breasted blazers window-shopped at Armani's, while college coeds with pierced navels walked into Ann Taylor and coffee shops. She and David wove their way through the throngs. The hotel was only fifteen minutes away by foot.

Melanie finally looked at her silent companion. David had dressed up for the occasion in black slacks and sports jacket. Brooks Brothers would be her guess. Looked nice on him. Very nice.

They went four blocks down Newbury before Melanie's nerves couldn't take the silence anymore.

“Did you have a relaxing evening?”

“Dandy.”

“You're limping less today.”

“Lucky me.”

“You're not much for conversation, are you?”

“I grew up in a household of men. Mealtimes were for chewing.”

“I bet. So what happened to your mother?”

“Cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So was she.”

Melanie refused to be fazed. “So then it's just your father and…”

“One brother. Younger.” He added, “Steven. Currently married, two children, baseball coach at Amherst. Good pitcher. Better?”

“A regular speech,” she assured him, and thought he might have smiled.

They crossed over to Boylston Street, passing the Pru Center, where the Stokeses did all their shopping, then turned at the Shari Theater, where Melanie had watched the re-released
Star Wars
trilogy in a single afternoon. The hotel was nearly in sight.

“You didn't call Larry Digger, right?” David checked.

“Of course not—”

“Good. I want to catch him off guard, before he has a chance to perfect his story. What about your parents? What did you tell them last night?”

“Nothing—”

“And your brother? Hear anything more from him?”

“No.”

“He didn't even call?” David seemed surprised by that. “So much for the protective-older-brother act.”

“Brian's one of those people who require a lot of space. He'll call when he's ready. He will.”

“Always the diplomat, huh?”

She looked him in the eye. “Don't knock it until you try it.”

“Touché,” he said. “Touché.”

They arrived at the First Church of Christ, Scientist, just a block from the hotel. Melanie watched shouting children splash in the long reflecting pool. God, it was a beautiful day.

A moment later she followed David into the Midtown Hotel.

THERE WEREN'T MANY people in the lobby. One man was buried behind a newspaper in the corner, while an exhausted mom tried to rein in two racing children. The counter was manned by a short, pert redhead whose eyes lit up at the sight of David. She managed to ring Larry Digger's room while giving David a blatantly suggestive glance.

Melanie decided she didn't like the redhead much.

David himself barely seemed to notice her. A mood had swept over him upon entering the hotel. His face was shuttered, but his hooded eyes were observant. He stood differently, up on the balls of his feet with his left leg back for balance. He was on alert, Melanie finally realized. Studying the lobby, its occupants, its exits. He was preparing for Larry Digger.

The redhead got off the phone with Larry Digger and pointed them down the hall, giving David a last generous pout. He turned away without a backward glance.

They found Larry Digger waiting for them at the door to his room, his face smug, then faltering when he saw David.

“Who the hell are you?” Digger demanded.

“Your helpful hardware man,” David said. He led Melanie inside, then kicked the door shut with his foot and stood, arms across his chest.

“Shit, you're the waiter.” Digger turned to Melanie. “Why the hell did you bring him? This is between us.”

“I want to see your proof, Mr. Digger. Mr. Reese offered to escort me. Now, do you want to talk, or should I leave?” She sat on the edge of a chair, making it clear she was ready to get up again at any time.

Digger looked at David unhappily. “Can't you at least wait in the hallway?”

David did Melanie the favor of answering. “No.”

Digger gave up, pacing the small room. He was wearing the same pants from last night but a fresh shirt. There was no evidence of a suitcase in the room, just one worn duffel bag and a pile of notebooks on the bedside table. A tape recorder rested in the middle of the bed, the top open and gaping hungrily.

“You can start talking anytime,” Melanie prodded him. “That is, if you have anything useful to say.”

Digger stopped pacing and gave her a belligerent gaze. “Oh, no, that's not the way this is going to play out. You want your proof, you have to answer
my
questions first. That's the way it works.”

“Why? At this point I'm still not sure you're telling the truth. Maybe you're making this all up for money.”

“And that's such a sin? Jesus, what would you know? Living in that town house, every need taken care of, every wish fulfilled, and what did you do for it, sweetheart? What did you ever do to deserve the life you lead?”

Melanie's lips thinned; his comments struck too close to home. “I was lucky,” she said stiffly. “So far, much luckier than you have ever been.”

“Well, doesn't that just make you special? Hey, for your information, I don't even need you anymore. I've talked to the intern who found you at the hospital. I've gotten in touch with the social workers assigned to your case—”

“What about Harper and Patricia Stokes?” David asked from the doorway. “Did you contact them?”

“Not yet, but since Melanie's not cooperating…” Larry Digger made a show of shrugging, but his gaze was shrewd. He leaned against the bureau and eyed them both.

“I figure I can write this up by end of week,” he announced. “Auction it off to the highest bidder, with or without a quote from Miss Holmes. Welcome to journalism in the nineties.”

“Then it is about money. When all is said and done, you are simply after a buck. Well, that answers my question. Good day, Mr. Digger, and good riddance.” Melanie shook her head in disgust and stood.

Digger grabbed her arm. Bad move. David immediately strode toward him.

“Oh, what are you gonna do, gimpy?”

David's face turned to stone, and Melanie felt the hair prickle at the nape of her neck. David Reese was angry, a deep anger that made him dangerous. At that moment Melanie had no doubt he could inflict as much or as little damage as he intended.

The reporter was not a dumb man after all. Very slowly he brought up his hands. “Hey, hey, hey, we've gotten off track here. We all want the same thing. I'm sure we can work it out.”

David relaxed just slightly, but his gaze held a warning. Digger tried to plead his case to Melanie instead.

“It's not about money,” he said sourly. “
It isn't
.”

“Sure it is.”

“Goddammit! Don't you think I'm tired of chickenshit tabloid journalism too? I have a
real
lead, Melanie Stokes, whether it violates your precious little world or not. And I intend to write a
real
story whether you like it or not.”

“Tell me the truth,” Melanie said curtly. “Tell me something convincing.”

Digger crossed to the bedside table and picked up a handful of ragged papers. “You want your truth, here it is.
This
is the story of Russell Lee Holmes and the woman who bore his child.”

“How do you know?” Melanie pressed. “
How do you know
?”

Digger was silent for a moment. He seemed to be contemplating his options. Maybe his greed was warring against what appeared to be his genuine pride in a job well done. Maybe he just wasn't sure how seriously to take her. Then he spoke.

“Russell Lee Holmes had a tattoo on his upper arm. This was all documented when he was arrested. The tattoo said ‘Trash loves Angel.' Now, Trash is Russell Lee's nickname. He wouldn't tell anyone who Angel was, just said he wasn't ‘no fuckin' virgin.' But, unfortunately for him, Russell Lee sometimes spoke in his sleep. He liked to say the name Angel. And every now and then he'd have these little conversations with his baby — with his own kid.

“Even before they brought him to the electric chair, I started looking into it, trying to find his wife and child. I wanted to know what it was like to be married to Russell Lee. You know anything about child molesters, Miss Stokes?”

She shook her head.

“There are several types. You can be either a preferential child molester — meaning you really do prefer children — or a situational molester, which means you'll turn to children if they happen to be around, but adults will do just as well. Make sense?”

Melanie nodded, though she wasn't sure something so horrible could make sense. Larry Digger continued more enthusiastically now, warming to his subject, pleased to show off his research.

“Most child molesters are situational offenders,” he said. “They fall into four categories — repressed, morally indiscriminate, sexually indiscriminate, and inadequate. A repressed guy will molest his own children versus risking approaching anyone else. He's not only a sick son of a bitch, he's basically a spineless bastard as well. The morally indiscriminate, on the other hand, is a true equal opportunity monster. He'll rape his children, he'll rape his neighbor's children, and then to top it all off, he'll rape his wife and his neighbor's wife. He has no conscience at all, and preying on kids is just part of the fun. Then we got the sexually indiscriminate. He'll prey on anyone too, but for a different reason. He's sexually bored, likes the risk, the sense of adventure. What do you think is worse, Melanie? Preying on your kids because you can or preying on your kids because you have nothing better to do with your time?”

He didn't give her a chance to answer, which was just as well. Melanie suddenly had a feeling where the reporter was going, and it was a freight train straight to hell.

“The fourth type is the inadequate,” Digger announced. “He's a loner, probably has no adult relationship to fulfill his needs, and in the end lures children he knows or has easy access to, because they are nonthreatening and he knows he's a wimp and not capable of much. So there you go, four types of sickos. Wanna cast your bet as to which type fits Russell Lee Holmes?”