William Lashner - Marked Man

“What with the dog and the gun, Monica, I think I’ll stay out of your neighborhood.”

“Oh, Luke. Luke wouldn’t hurt anyone. And that one guy in the park, well, he was smoking, and Luke has this thing about cigarettes. But I don’t think she was murdered. My sister, I mean. I don’t think she’s dead at all. Remember the girl that was supposed to have been burned to ashes in a fire, but it turned out she was stolen and living somewhere in New Jersey?”

“I remember.”

“I think that’s what happened. I think Chantal was taken someplace, taken because she was so perfect, and given a perfect life.”

“By who?”

“By someone who loved her very much.”

“It’s nice to think it, I guess.”

“I feel her presence all the time, like she’s close, looking over my shoulder, looking out for me. That’s what I meant when I said she’s my St. Solange. Gone but still preaching. Chantal guides my life. Because of her my life has a purpose. I was conceived to fill a gap. That it hasn’t worked out so well is a little sad, but still, it’s more than most people have. That’s why I use her name at the club. As a tribute.”

“I’m sure she’d be touched.”

“Really?” she said, her smile blinding, as if I had complimented her on her hair. “I hope so, though I expect she’ll let me know sooner or later.”

“You think after all these years she’ll just up and call?”

“Oh, Victor, I don’t just think it. I’m certain of it. How about some pie? I could go for some pie. Do you think they make pie here?”

“I’m sure they do,” I said.

It wasn’t lost on me that she didn’t ask anything about how I had come up with her sister’s name. She had waited all her life for the word, I suppose she figured she could wait for it to come out on its own. And in any event I wasn’t about to tell her of my tattoo. It was both too embarrassing and too bizarre to share that with her, especially as I observed her slightly deranged discussion of her sister. Her sister, Chantal, was a strange fire burning within her, she didn’t need me to toss on a bucket of gasoline.

So we ordered pie. I had the peach, she had the blueberry, with a dollop of ice cream on top. Even with the blue streaks on her teeth, she was beautiful. And sad, too. Usually I can spot it right off, that streak of sadness that speaks to some primal part of my personality, but with her I didn’t. It was only as she spoke that it became clear, how her life had been so sadly influenced by the missing girl who was the warp and woof of her existence.

But about one thing I was certain. All of it, the whole sad story of her missing sister, had nothing to do with me. The Chantal Adair she had been waiting her whole life to hear from was not the Chantal Adair whose name I had foolhardily tattooed onto my chest.

Sometimes my head is as dense as a solid block of ebony.

I have a big redfile folder that I keep for special occasions. Sometimes it’s full of documents, sometimes it’s empty, but either way what’s inside is not as essential as the file folder itself. I clutch it close to my breast as if it contained nuclear launch codes, or the phone number of a decent Chinese restaurant, or anything else important enough to belong in a big red file folder.

“What’s in the file?” said Beth as we waited in the hallway of family court for Theresa Wellman.

“Just some information Phil Skink unearthed.”

“Did he get anything on Bradley Hewitt?”

“He’s working on it.”

“Then what’s in the file?”

“Oh, look,” I said. “Here comes our client.”

Theresa Wellman, with her hair done and her dress subdued, approached us warily.

“Are we going on with it today?” she said.

“Of course we are,” said Beth. “Now you’ve got the firm of Derringer and Carl on your side. Bucking the odds is what we do. You’re the first witness. Are you ready?”

“Oh, I’m ready. I love my daughter more than anything in the world. I just want to see her and hug her and take her home.”

“I’m going to be asking you the questions, Theresa,” I said. “There might be some things you don’t expect.”

“Like what?” she said.

“Stuff about your past and how things are going now.”

“What things?”

“It’s best if we do it all in court. You don’t want to seem rehearsed. But whatever happens, Theresa, you have to trust that I’m doing what I can to help you.”

She eyed the big red file folder I held at my chest, bit the bottom corner of her lip. “Why should I trust you?”

“Who else do you have?”

“It will be fine, Theresa,” said Beth. “As long as you can convince the judge that you’ve really changed, we have a great shot for some sort of joint custody.”

“Can we trust the judge?”

“Judge Sistine is impeccably fair and absolutely fearless,” I said. “She might be wrong, but never for the wrong reasons.”

“Just tell the truth,” said Beth. “If the judge thinks you’re hiding anything, it can really hurt your cause.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” I said. “Whatever happens in there, it’s okay to show your anger, it’s okay to show your sadness, it’s okay to show the whole gamut of your emotions, but tell the truth.”

“And you think the truth will get me back my daughter?”

“It’s the only thing that can,” I said.

There was a bustle in the hallway as a small crowd came our way. It was led by a tall gray man in an expensive suit. He was accompanied by a lovely younger woman who held on to his arm, three men with dark suits and briefcases, and a perfectly coiffed man swathed in sharkskin. This last I had dealt with before. His name was Arthur Gullicksen, and the material of his suit was entirely appropriate.

“Victor?” he said as he approached. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought Beth was handling this case.”

“She’s my partner,” I said, “which means we work together on everything. She asked me to help, and so here I am.”

“That’s just fine,” said Gullicksen, letting his gaze stray from my eyes to the big red file folder. “Have you met Bradley Hewitt?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

After Gullicksen made the introductions, the tall gray man said, “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Carl.” His voice was incredibly deep and rich, almost as rich as his suit.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“So many of us, I suppose, hope in vain,” he said. He didn’t smile as he said it, and yet his expression wasn’t unkind. It was as if all of us were together in an unpleasant situation that was not of our own making, all of us but one. When he turned his gaze upon Theresa, something shifted in his expression. Theresa seemed to wilt under his attention, until she turned and fled into the courtroom.

“She just wants to be able to spend time with Belle,” said Beth.

“You think that’s best for my daughter?” said Hewitt.

“A girl needs her mother,” said Beth.

“But not that mother,” said Bradley Hewitt.

“Do you have a second, Victor?” said Gullicksen.

I glanced at Beth, who nodded me on, and so Gullicksen and I huddled at the far end of the hallway, out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.

“You know, of course, that this is a mistake,” he said. “I could understand a motion like this coming from Beth. She has a reputation for not worrying about political realities, but I’m surprised to see you involved.”

“We are representing a woman who simply wants to live with her daughter again. What political reality am I missing?”

“Mr. Hewitt is an intriguing man, with connections to the highest levels of government.”