John Locke - Lethal Experiment

I lingered the slightest bit on the landing before joining them, giving extra weight to what Kathleen had said. She was right, of course. After today, my life would never be the same.

And that was a good thing.

Two hours later, celebration dinner.

I don’t know any restaurants in New York City that are the exclusive domain of little girls, but Serendipity 3 comes close. With its giant clock, colorful Tiffany-style lamps, white tea party tables and chairs, the interior made me feel as though we’d fallen into a movie set of Alice in Wonderland. It wasn’t all about the décor. I’d been told the deserts, especially the frozen hot chocolate—was to die for. Addie raced around the little restaurant store while Kathleen and I waited for a table. When we were seated, Kathleen looked at me and burst into laughter.

I raised my eyebrows. “What?”

“You sitting here,” she said.

“Uh huh.”

She laughed again. “It’s so, I don’t know…”

“Incongruous?”

She looked at me and mouthed the word and made a funny face to express her disbelief.

“Okay,” she said, “that settles it. You’re the homework parent.”

I nodded.

She cocked her head and peered at me curiously.

“What now?” I said.

She reached her hand across the table and took mine. “I love you, Donovan,” she said, “and I’m looking forward to our first picnic together.”

“You want to have one tomorrow?”

“I want to have one in six weeks.”

“Why six weeks?”

“That’s when Addie will be able to stay outside more than a few minutes at a time.”

“Cool. Six weeks then.”

“It’s a date,” Kathleen said.

Addie ran back to the table, took a seat, and told us about the treasures she’d discovered. Like a perfect BFF, Kathleen was enthralled listening to her, matching her new daughter’s level of animation and enthusiasm. No doubt about it, Kathleen was going to be a great mom.

While they chatted, I couldn’t help but notice the curious stares from the other kids in the restaurant as they took in Addie’s horrific deformities. The house fi re that killed her family had done a number on her face, neck and arms. But I was pleased to see that no one was pointing at or making fun of her.

I didn’t envy what this plucky kid would have to go through in the years to come, though I’m sure she was depending on me to be there to help. Would I be part of her life? Part of her family?

At that moment, I believed I would.

Chapter 37

The four days and three nights I spent in New York City with Kathleen and Addie could not have been better. We hit the aquarium, the planetarium, and several museums, and Addie settled easily into her new life with Kathleen. Our evenings were spent on the internet. Addie loved virtually touring houses for sale near Bedford, Virginia, and we found several that we planned to visit as soon as my schedule permitted.

One happy surprise for me: Kathleen appeared totally content with our relationship such as it was, and never once mentioned or even alluded to marriage. It must have been obvious to her that I cherished my time with the two of them, but it was probably just as obvious that I wasn’t ready for full-time duty yet. I tried not to show it, but by the fourth morning together in that cramped little house I was starting to climb the walls.

I hadn’t entirely ignored my work, I’d made some calls. Quinn was still with Alison. She’d finished her work in Dallas and the two of them were heading to Phoenix, where she’d be conducting next week’s audit. She hadn’t heard from Afaya yet, but Darwin was certain she would, and soon.

Speaking of Darwin, he called to tell me that the new head of the Texas Syndicate was a slime ball named Darryl Hobbs. Darwin was putting together a profile on him, but because Hobbs would be paranoid these first weeks, we’d have to take extra precautions before arranging a sit down with him.

I’d also put together a plan for dealing with Tara Siegel, assuming I could locate her. I’d need Callie for backup, and at least one other soldier. My diminutive, power-crazed employer, Victor, claimed to have an army of little people scattered all over the country. I hesitatingly called to ask if he had any capable associates in Boston I could contact in case things got too hairy with Tara. Victor was less than enthusiastic when I explained what I had in mind, since he preferred that I go to Nashville to kill Rob and Trish. Nevertheless, he gave me the contact information for a little person named Curly.

“Watch out for Curly,” Victor said.

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a real lady’s man.”

“Uh huh.”

“You and Callie really can’t handle this woman by yourselves?”

“Tara might have soldiers of her own,” I said.

Chapter 38

The odds of finding Tara my first night in Boston were less than zero, so I decided to let her find me.

The Life after Suicide Therapy class (LAST) meets weekly at Boston’s Norton Community Center on Franklin Street, near Devonshire. I purposely walked in a few minutes late hoping to catch Tara by surprise, but she wasn’t there. It had been nearly two years since I’d been to one of these sessions, and I didn’t recognize any of the attendees. The instructor was the same, and he remembered me well enough to frown. I nodded at him and took a seat and he continued his lecture.

“More people commit suicide in New York City than are murdered,” he said. “And it’s the same here in Boston and most major cities in America. Suicide has become the third leading cause of death among adolescents and young adults between ages fifteen and twenty-four.” He paused to let his words sink in.

Then he said, “What’s going on, here, people?”

Then he proceeded to tell us.

I listened as long as I could, which was about twenty minutes, before making an early exit to avoid becoming thoroughly depressed. His words, as always, brought back the memories.

Tara and I had hooked up during my dark days, when Janet and I were first separated. We were brooding, depressed people with several things in common: we were both freshly abandoned by our significant others, both worked for Darwin as assassins, both orphaned at a young age, and both of us were the offspring of suicidal parents. Tara’s parents committed suicide together. They tried to take Tara with them, but at the last minute, for reasons unknown, failed to follow through. Both my parents attempted suicide several times, but only my mother succeeded, and that didn’t happen until my father died from a heart attack. Tara and I had gone to these sessions for a while, as well as the annual convention held at the Park Plaza Hotel.

Those who have been affected by a suicide in the family—five million of us in America—are called survivors. As a group we have a tendency to dwell on death, and because only twenty percent of suicides leave notes to explain their behavior, most of us spend an inordinate amount of our adult lives trying to divine some sort of meaning from our devastating losses.

Suicide affects the surviving family members in a unique way. Sure, it saddens, confuses and angers us. But more than anything else, it worries us, because we know our chances of cocking that trigger or stepping onto that ledge are much greater than it is for the general population.

Women are three times more likely than men to attempt suicide, but men are four times more likely to succeed. Women like Tara Siegel often go through life with an internal suicide bomb set to explode at any moment, and when some external factor comes along to light the fuse—they’re sitting ducks. What I came to realize over time is that Tara had a death wish. But while the two of us and the rest of Darwin’s monkeys were mentally unstable, Tara was hyper suicidal as well, and her self-destructive behavior manifested itself whenever things appeared to be going smoothly in her life.