Stevens Chevy - Never Knowing

The phone finally rang at eight. As soon as I saw Evan’s cell number I answered in a rush, “We have to talk.”

“What’s going on?”

“That Web site — it spread somehow, maybe they didn’t do a Google sweep. But now it’s on other blogs. It’s mostly about Julia, but there are all these disgusting comments — some of them mention my name . Then this teenager called and said he’s my father. Reporters are calling, but I’m not answering, and Dad said—” “Sara, slow down — I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.” I took a deep breath and began again. At the end Evan was silent for a minute, then said, “Have you called the cops?”

“Dad said they can’t do anything.”

“You should still tell them what’s going on.”

“I don’t know … he said he’ll deal with it.” The last thing I wanted was Dad pissed at me for going against him.

“So let him, but get something on record.”

“He’s right, though. They can’t do anything about someone playing a joke.”

“You asked for my advice. Call the police in the morning — and don’t comment on any of these blogs.”

“Okay, okay.”

After I hung up the phone, I climbed into bed and watched late-night TV until I fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning the phone rang. Without looking at the call display I reached over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Good morning. I understand you restore furniture?”

I sat up. “I do. What can I help you with?”

“I have a few pieces, a table, some chairs. I don’t think they’re worth much, but they were my mother’s and I’d like to give them to my daughter.”

“Value isn’t always what you can sell something for — it’s what it means to you.”

“This table means a lot. I spent most of my time there — I like food.” He laughed and I laughed back.

“Kitchen tables tell the story of a family. Sometimes people just want me to clean them up a little but preserve marks their children made, things like that.”

“How much do you usually charge?”

“Why don’t I have a look and give you an estimate.” I climbed out of bed and threw on a robe as I headed to my office for a pen. “I can come to your house, or a lot of my clients just e-mail me photos.”

“You go to strangers’ homes?”

I paused in my hallway.

He said, “Do you go alone?”

Okay, there was no way I was taking this job. My voice flattened, turning cold. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m your father.”

That explained it, just another jerk playing a prank.

“ Who is this?”

“I told you — your father.”

“I have a father and I don’t appreciate—”

“He’s not your father.” The voice turned bitter. “I wouldn’t have given my kid away.” He paused and I heard traffic in the background. I almost hung up, but I was too mad.

“I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing—”

“It’s not a joke. I saw Karen’s photo and recognized her. She was my third one.”

“Everyone knows Karen was his third victim.”

“But I still have her earrings.”

My stomach climbed into my throat. What kind of person pretends to be a murderer?

“Do you think this is funny? Calling someone and trying to scare them? Is this how you get your kicks?”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To get to know you.”

I hung up. The phone rang back right away. The call display showed a BC area code, but I didn’t recognize the prefix. Finally the ringing stopped, only to start up again. My hands shook as I unplugged the phone.

I raced down the hallway, woke Ally up, told her to get ready for school, and jumped into the shower. Out in minutes, I made her some peanut butter and toast while she brushed her teeth, slapped her lunch together while she ate, then tore out of the house.

When I walked into the police station two older men in plainclothes were manning the front desk. As I headed toward them a policewoman came through the door behind the counter and picked up a file off a desk. I guessed her to be First Nations, with high cheekbones, coffee-colored skin, big brown eyes, and thick straight dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.

At the counter I said, “I want to talk to someone about some calls I’m getting.”

One of the men said, “What kind of calls?”

The policewoman said, “I’ll take it,” then led me to a door with a metal plate reading “Interview Room” and motioned me in. It was bare except for a long table and two hard plastic chairs. On the table was a pad of paper, a phone book, and a phone.

She settled in a chair and leaned far back. Now that she was facing me I saw her name badge: “S. Taylor.”

“How can I help you?”

It occurred to me that what I was about to say was going to sound crazy as all get-out. I was just going to have to give her the facts and hope she believed me.

“My name’s Sara Gallagher. I’m adopted and I recently found my biological mother in Victoria. Then I hired a private investigator and he found out she’s Karen Christianson.…”

She stared at me blankly.

“You know, the Campsite Killer’s only living victim?”

She sat up straight.

“The private investigator thinks the Campsite Killer’s probably my father. Then the Web site Nanaimo News for Now somehow got hold of the information and it spread all over the Internet. Yesterday I got a prank call from teenagers pretending to be my father. Then this morning a man called, also saying he was my father. But this time he said he had her earrings.” “Did you recognize his voice?”

I shook my head.

“What about the phone number?”

“He called from a 250 area code, but the prefix was 374 or 376, something like that. I wrote everything down but I forgot the paper and—”

“Did he tell you why he was calling?”

“He said he wanted to get to know me better.” I made a face. “I know it’s probably just a joke, but I have a daughter, and—”

“Has your birth mother confirmed you were conceived in the process of a sexual assault?”

“Not in so many words, but yeah.”

“I’d like to record your statement.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

She stood up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

While I waited for her I glanced around the interview room and fiddled with my cell phone.

The door whipped open. She sat down, set a small recorder on the table in front of me, and pulled her chair close. She said her name, my name, and the date, then asked me to repeat my full name and address. My mouth went dry and my face felt hot.

“In your own words, I’d like you to tell me why you think the Campsite Killer is your biological father and the details of the phone calls you received recently.” Her serious tone made me even more nervous and my heart sped up.

She said, “Go ahead.”

I did the best I could, but I occasionally meandered off course and she brought me back with a quick “And what did he say next?” She even wanted to know Julia’s address and any information I had on her. I felt weird giving it, considering I basically got the information by stalking her. I also told her we’d been trying to reach the PI and that he’s a former cop. Her neutral expression never changed.

When we were done I said, “So what happens now?”

“We’ll look into this.”

“But you don’t think it’s actually the Campsite Killer calling?”

“When we have more information we’ll let you know. Someone will be in touch soon.”

“What if he calls again? Should I change my number?”