Catherine Coulter - Riptide

The man looked as if he would cry with her, but he swallowed, several times, and cleared his throat. “I’m your father, Becca. I’m Thomas Matlock. I can’t bring your mother back, but I’m here now, and I’ll stay.”

“You’re Thomas? You’re the man Adam and Savich are working for?”

“Well, let’s say they’re helping me out.”

She didn’t say anything then, just frowned a bit, trying to assemble things in her mind, in her memory, to make some sense of them, realizing suddenly that she recognized his eyes because he’d given them to her, realizing-“When he slipped the needle into my arm that second time,” she whispered, looking directly into his eyes, “just before I went under, he said right against my ear, ‘Tell your daddy hello for me.’ ”

His face paled and he grew vague, indistinct, his arms loosening. She grabbed his shirt with her fist, trying to pull him closer. “No, don’t leave me, please.”

“Oh, God, I won’t.” Thomas looked up at Adam. “I guess that says it all.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “At least now we know for bloody sure.”

“Amen to that,” Sherlock said. Then she added, “Why don’t we all go out to get a cup of coffee while Thomas gets to know Becca a bit better?”

When she was alone with the man who’d said he was her father, she looked up at him and said, “Why did you leave us? I don’t even remember what you looked like I was so young when you left. There is this old photograph of you and Mom, and you looked so young and so handsome. Carefree. It’s a wonderful picture.”

He held her very close for a long time, then slowly he said, “You were all of three years old when it happened. I was a CIA operative, Becca, and I was very good. There was this other KGB spy-”

“Krimakov.”

“Yes. I was sent over to what is now Belarus, to stop him from killing a visiting German industrialist. Krimakov had brought his wife, as if they were there on some sort of vacation. It was in the mountains. There was a gunfight and she tried to save him. I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t even known she was there.” He paused a moment, memory stark and alive in his eyes. He said simply, “I shot her in the head and killed her. Krimakov promised me he would kill not only me but my family. He vowed it. I believed him.

“He managed to escape me. I decided that I would have to kill him to protect you. When I tried, I found out that he’d simply disappeared. There was no trace of him. The KGB helped him, obviously, and he stayed buried until very recently, when I was told he was killed in an auto accident in Crete. You know the rest.”

“You left us to protect us?”

“Yes. Your mother and I discussed it. Matlock is a common name. She took you and moved to New York. I saw her four, maybe five times a year. We were always very, very careful. We couldn’t tell you. We couldn’t put you in danger. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life, Becca. Believe me.”

All of a sudden she had a father. She stared at his face, seeing herself in him, seeing also a stranger. It was too much. She heard him say something, heard Adam arguing with someone just inside the door, sharp and loud, then she didn’t hear anything at all. That was a good thing, she thought as she slipped away, back where there were no dreams, just seamless darkness, without him, no worries or voices to tear her apart. Her father was dead, dead since she was very young. It was impossible that he was here, there was just no way. Maybe she was dead, too, and had seen what she wanted to see. Dead. It wasn’t bad, truly it wasn’t. She heard a sound, like a wounded animal. It had come from her, she realized, but then there was nothing at all.

When she awoke, it was dark in her room except for a small bedside lamp that was turned to its lowest setting. The small hospital room was filled with shadows and quiet voices. There were needles in both of her arms connected to bags of liquid beside both sides of her bed. There were two men sitting in chairs next to the window, in low conversation. One was Adam. The other was her father-oh yes, she believed him now, perhaps even understood a bit-and he’d called her his darling girl. She blinked several times. He didn’t fade back into her mind. He remained exactly where he was. She saw him very clearly now, and she could do nothing but stare, breathe him in, settle his face, his features, his expressions, into her mind. He used his hands while he spoke to Adam, just like she did when she was trying to make a point, to convince someone to come around to her way of thinking. He was her father.

She cleared her throat and said, “I know I’m not dead because I would kill for some water. And I don’t believe that if someone is dead, she’s particularly thirsty. May I please have some water?”

Adam was on his feet in an instant. When he bent the straw into her mouth, she closed her eyes in bliss. She drank nearly the entire glass. She was panting when she finished. “Oh goodness, that was delicious.”

He didn’t straighten, just placed one large hand on either side of her face on that hard hospital pillow. He was studying her face, her eyes. “You okay?”

“Yes. I realize I’m not dead, so you must be real. I remember you told me that he threw me out of the car. Is there anything bad wrong with me?”

“No, nothing bad. When he shoved you out of the car yesterday right there at Police Plaza, you were still wearing your nightgown. You got a lot of scrapes, a bruised elbow, but that’s it. Now it’s just a matter of getting the drug out of your system. They pumped your stomach. Nobody seems to know what the drug was, but it was potent. You should be just about clear of it now.” He had to close his eyes a moment. He’d never been so afraid in his life, never. But she would live. She would be fine. He said, “Do the scrapes hurt? Would you like a couple of aspirin?”

“No, I’m all right.” She licked her lips, looked over into the shadows, clutched his hand, and whispered, “Adam, he really is my father, isn’t he? That story he told me, it’s the truth? It happened that way?”

“Yes, all of it is true. His name is Thomas Matlock. He never died, Becca. There is probably a whole lot more to tell you-”

“Yes,” Thomas said, “a lot more. So many stories to tell you about your mother, Becca.”

“My mom said I had dreamy eyes. You do, too. I have your eyes.”

Thomas smiled and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, I guess maybe you do have my eyes.”

Adam said, stroking his chin, “I’m not sure about that. The thing is, Becca, I’ve never before looked at his eyes in quite the same way I look at yours.”

Suddenly, all her attention was on Adam. She said, “Why not?”

“Because-” Adam stopped dead in his tracks. She was actually coming on to him, teasing him. He loved it. He cleared his throat. “Now’s not the time. We’ll talk about that later, you can count on it. Now, are you up to telling us about this guy who took you?”

“You mean Krimakov.”

“Yes.”

“Just a moment, Adam. Sir, you sent Adam to protect me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, he did, but I screwed up, big-time.”

Becca said, “Sorry, Adam, but you can’t take all the credit. What that monster did was very clever. None of us would have ever guessed that he came back to the house while we were out looking for him. How’d he get me out of the house without being seen?”

“Sherlock figured that one out really fast. Also he knocked out Chuck and tied him up. That’s how he escaped with you.” He saw the worry in her eyes and quickly added, “He’s okay-just a headache for a while. I’m sorry, Becca, so sorry. Did he hurt you?” God, it hurt to say it, but he did: “Did he rape you?”