Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “ Wait .” She didn’t want to hear any more lies—if in fact they were lies.

He fell silent.

She took a long drink of her coffee. It tasted wonderful. Grabbed another doughnut and took a big soft bite. Stay in the moment . She tried to relax, but the real question she wanted to ask, the one she’d been avoiding, kept coming back again and again to her mind, and so she finally swallowed and asked it.

“What’s up with all those packages and letters in your closet?”

Jack stared at her. “You saw them?”

“What went on, exactly? Why did you just leave and… never call? For fifteen years?”

He looked at her, surprise and sadness mixing on his face. “Duette wouldn’t let me call you, said you didn’t want to talk, and… and I understood that. But I sent you something just about every week, Corrie. Presents, whenever I could afford them. As you grew older, I tried to guess what you might be into, what you might like. Barbie dolls, children’s books. Every birthday, I sent you something. Something nice. And when I couldn’t afford to send gifts, I sent you letters. I must have sent you a thousand letters—telling you what I was doing, what was going on in my life, giving you advice for what I guessed might be going on in your own. And it all came back. Everything. I figured Duette stopped it. Or maybe she’d moved and left no forwarding address.”

Corrie swallowed. “So why did you keep on sending me things when you knew I wouldn’t get them?”

He hung his head. “Because someday I hoped to be able to give them to you myself—all of them. In a way, they’re kind of like a diary; a diary of my life, and—this may sound strange—of your life, or your life as I imagined it. How you were growing up. What your interests were. If you’d started dating. And…” He paused, embarrassed. “Having those letters and packages around, even though they’d been returned… well, after a while it almost felt like having you around, too. In person.” Another pause. “I’d always hoped you’d write me, you know.”

When she saw the closet full of letters and packages, Corrie had guessed—in fact, hoped—that this would be the explanation. But the last thing had never occurred to her: that, all the time she was waiting to hear from her dad, he’d been waiting to hear from her. “She said that you refused to pay child support, that you shacked up with another woman, couldn’t keep a job, spent your time drinking in bars.”

“None of that’s true, Corrie, or at least…” He colored. “I did spend way too much time in bars. And there were… women. But I’ve been clean and sober for nine years. And I tried to pay child support when I could, I really did. Sometimes I went without eating to send her a check.”

Corrie shook her head. Of course what her mother had told her all these years wasn’t true. How could she have been so dense as to believe it—believe her lying, embittered, alcoholic mother? She suddenly felt horribly thickheaded and stupid. And guilty—for fifteen years of thinking bad thoughts about her father.

And yet her overwhelming feeling was one of relief.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not realizing all that. For… being so passive .”

“You were just a kid. You didn’t know.”

“I’m twenty-two years old. I should’ve figured this out a long time ago.”

He waved his hand. “Water under the dam.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “ Over the dam.”

“I never was any good at sayings and speeches. But I do live by a philosophy, and it’s a good one.”

“What’s that?”

“Forgive everyone everything.”

Corrie wasn’t sure that was going to be her philosophy—at all.

He finished his cup, rose, picked up the pot. “More coffee?”

“Please.”

He poured them each another mug, sat down. “Corrie, I do want to tell you about this so-called bank robbery. I was framed by someone at work, I don’t know who. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with their scamming the customers, overcharging them on the financing. That’s how they make their money, you know—on the financing. Problem is, they all do it. Except for one—Charlie, the only decent guy there.”

“But you ran ,” she said again.

“I know. I’ve always done stupid, impulsive things. I figured I could hide up here while figuring out the truth. But obviously I don’t even have a phone here, and I had to toss my cell phone, because they’ll use it to track me. So now I’ve no way to investigate—and by running I’ve made myself look guilty as hell. I’m stuck here.”

Corrie looked at him. She wanted to believe him.

“I’m not stuck here,” she said. “I could investigate.”

“Come on,” he said, laughing. “You? You don’t know the first thing about being a detective.”

“Yeah? For your information, I’m studying law enforcement at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, I’m getting straight A’s, and back in Medicine Creek I worked as the assistant to one of the country’s top FBI agents on a famous serial killer case.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, no. My daughter, a cop ?”

26

THE MAN APPEARED SO SUDDENLY IN THE DOORWAY OF Madeleine Teal’s office cubicle that she literally jumped. He was a very strange-looking man, dressed in black, with a pale face and gray eyes, and he radiated a restlessness bordering on agitation.

“My, you gave me a start!” she said, pressing a hand to her ample bosom. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve come for Dr. Heffler.”

Now, that was a strange way of phrasing it—he did look more than a little like the grim reaper—but the man did have a mellifluous voice with a charming southern accent. She herself came from the Midwest, and the various New York accents still grated on her nerves.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“Dr. Heffler and I are old buddies.”

Old buddies . Somehow the way he said it didn’t sound right. Nobody would use the word buddy to describe Dr. Wayne Heffler, who was a pretentious, pseudo-upper-class, condescending twit, as far as Teal was concerned. She had known plenty of Hefflers in her long career, but he was truly the worst: one of those types whose highest pleasure was found in reviewing the work of subordinates, with the sole purpose of finding fault and pointing it out in front of as many people as possible. Meanwhile, he neglected his own work and left others to scramble to cover for him, knowing they would be blamed if something went wrong or fell through the cracks.

“And your name, sir?”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Oh. As in FBI?”

A singularly disturbing smile spread over the face of the special agent as a marble hand slipped inside his suit coat and withdrew a wallet, opened it to display a shield and ID, then gently closed it and reinserted it into the folds of black wool. With a not-displeasing sense of anticipation, Madeleine Teal pressed the intercom button and picked up the phone.

“Dr. Heffler, there’s an FBI agent named Pendergast here to see you, no appointment, says he knows you.”

A short pause. “Pendergast, did you say?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Send him in.”

She hung up. “You may go in.”

But the agent didn’t move. “Dr. Heffler may come out.”

Now, this was different. She got back on the phone. “He wants you to come out.”

“You tell that son of a bitch that if he wants to see me, I’m here, in my office—otherwise send him away.”