Raine
“RAINE?”
I flinch at the sound of my name and look up at John Henshaw from where Jillian and I sit in the waiting room of the Chief Medical Examiner’s office in New York City. Jillian squeezes my hand, and I squeeze hers back as we stand. Right or wrong, I’m here to see my father’s body now that the damn Feds are finally gone.
True to John’s word, they showed up at Jillian’s door on Monday, three days ago, after we visited Silas Row and I took Jillian to visit my mom’s grave. My brain feels like it spent the last few days inside a blender. They questioned us in painful detail. I told them everything I could which wasn’t much, since I don’t know jack. They didn’t do much better with Jillian. She knows less than I do, yet she still had to explain how we met, if she’d ever met my father before he showed up that day in her house, why she owned two guns and a bunch of other irrelevant bullshit questions. Who knows how much value any of it had regarding their investigation. And they still won’t let me anywhere near my dad’s rental house. I haven’t been back since the day I broke into the garage for the painting.
John runs his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair with one hand, carrying a file and a large bag marked “Evidence” in the other. “We could’ve done this back in Chatham.”
“I told you. I want to see his body,” I reply more calmly than I feel. It’s not that I don’t believe my father is really gone, but something inside of me hungers for proof. To know he’s no longer a threat to me . . . or Jillian.
John’s gaze shifts to Jillian with a raised eyebrow. She just nods and some silent message passes between them. I’m too wired on adrenaline to care or feel left out. It gives me comfort to know that if I asked Jillian she’d tell me. We share things now. I love that.
John blows out a breath. “Let’s head downstairs then.”
The elevator lets us out into a brightly lit hallway, and John leads us to another small cubicle-size waiting room with a video screen.
“You’ll be able to view your father on there.” He points to the screen as he’s about to leave the room.
“No way. That’s not going to do it for me. I want to see him in person.”
“Raine—”
I cut John off and drop Jillian’s hand from mine. “No, man. I’m serious. I need to look at his body.” To make it real.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea until after the funeral director . . .” Jillian says tentatively with a look of unease in her eyes.
John swipes his face and gives me a hard stare. “Raine, it’s not like it is on TV. Have you ever smelled a dead body before? It sticks with you. Trust me, Jillian’s right. Wait for the funeral director to work some magic first.”
My jaw grinds in frustration. I’m sure they mean well but after the week I’ve had, I don’t want to be told what to do. “I don’t care. I want to see him.”
“Fine. Let me get approval.” John presses his lips tight and leaves the room.
I lean up against the edge of the table, my arms locked across my chest. Jillian sits down in one of the chairs and stays silent. One glance and I see the concern engraved on her face.
“Say something, Jillian,” I whisper, wanting her support. “It’s not like I haven’t seen a dead body before. My mom died in my arms.”
She shakes her head, and says softly, “This will be different. He’s been dead a lot longer. But if this is what you need to do then do it. I just don’t want it to haunt you later. That’s all.”
Her concern touches me. I get it. He could be disgusting to look at. My mom looked like she was sleeping but it was clear that she was gone after her last breath.
“I can respect that. This might not make sense, but I need to see him at his worst. Not prettied up.” My mouth hardens into an angry line. I’m pissed. Not at Jillian but at my father. For failing me, for not wanting me, and for stealing what he could from me.
John comes back five minutes later and beckons me to follow with a wave of his hand. “Come on.”
Jillian gets up, but John wards her off with a shake of his head. “No, Jilly. You stay here. Hold onto these for me until we get back, will ya?” He hands her the sealed folder and the evidence bag.
She rests a hand on my shoulder, pulling my gaze to hers. “Raine?”
“John’s right. I’ll be fine.” I lean over and kiss her forehead, my lips lingering there for an extra moment. No use dragging her through this. Plus, I want to spare her the nightmares if I can help it.
I follow John into the morgue. The stench of formaldehyde with an undertone of bitter cherries hits me as I walk in. It makes my head throb. For a moment, my stomach churns but not enough to make me heave.
Eight stations including steel tables, basins, faucets, scales, and other apparatuses stand in a line along one wall. A few people in lab coats stand idly by waiting for us to move through the room where they do autopsies. We pass some tables with corpses covered with opaque plastic sheets. Watching CSI: Miami growing up hasn’t quite prepared me for the reality of seeing a morgue in person.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we walk into a cool corridor and close the door to the autopsy room behind us. John leads me down the hall into a room the temperature of a meat locker. The place where they store the bodies they’re not working on. The chill cuts into me as we pass over the threshold.
John walks midway into the room and rolls out one of the numbered metal drawers that line one wall, revealing another corpse under plastic.
Even through the cold, I catch the aroma of death.
“You sure you really want to see this?” John says. This time his voice is compassionate.
I bite my lower lip and nod.
Slowly, John peels back the plastic.
John was right. Time in the water does harsh things to a body. My father’s face is a grotesque mask. His skin is a mottled darkish grey with oversized wrinkles not normally found on a human being. More like that dog breed. Even lips that should look like mine, don’t. A large piece of his ear is missing, nothing left but a ragged edge of bloated flesh.
I choke back my revulsion and the bile rising in my throat. None of his features are recognizable except for his eyebrows. The way the over-long hairs poke out in multiple directions like they’re confused which way they should grow. But it’s the mole on his temple that clinches it. That’s all I need to see. It’s him.
“Cover him,” I say, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
John slides the plastic back over him and closes the metal drawer.
“You okay?” John asks.
“Yeah. Fine.” At least emotionally. I thought maybe I’d feel something. But I don’t. If anything, I feel even more disconnected than I did before.
John walks stoically beside me. Rather than walking through the room with the steel tables, we take a different route back to the viewing room where we left Jillian.
“Why didn’t we come this way to the freezer?” I ask.
John shoots me a look. “Since you were so hell bent on the full experience, I figured I’d give it to you.” He eyes my clothes. “You might want to change when you get home.” I don’t have to ask what he means. The lingering smell of death torments my nostrils.
Jillian pops out of the chair the moment we walk back in, her golden eyes carefully assessing me.
“I’m fine,” I say, grabbing her hand and heading off her concerns.
“Let’s sit,” John says, pointing to the folder and envelope lying on the table. “Jilly, hand me that stuff.” She slides it over to him. “I wrestled some intel from my guys in the NYPD and got the Feds to release all your dad’s personal effects.”
We settle around the table.
John holds up the folder. “This contains your dad’s autopsy report. I was right. Even though we found his wallet, keys, and shoes at the point where his body was most likely dumped into the Hudson, this wasn’t a suicide. The M.E. found a needle mark at the base of his skull by his hairline.”
“But why would they kill him? He can’t pay them back now that he’s dead,” Jillian asks. It’s a reasonable question.
Shaking his head, John tents his hands on the table. “I dug a little deeper. Turns out Raine’s father had a long history with the people he owed money to. He managed some of their off-shore investments back when he worked on Wall Street. From what I’ve gleaned from my contacts, for the last six or seven years he’s been able to keep slightly ahead of his debts. About a year ago, the Feds tapped him on the shoulder and enlisted him as a snitch. They kept him paid up. But a couple of recent bad nights at the tables landed him right back in hot water. This time they refused to bail him out.”
A hard knot forms in my stomach and I snap, “How come they never said any of that for the three fucking days they grilled us?”
John fixes me with a hard stare. “They wouldn’t. This is all off the record. Me going out on a limb for you and Jilly, got that?”
My mouth drops into a frown and I feel like a shithead for shooting my mouth off. “Got it. Sorry, John. I appreciate everything you’ve done. Really.”
John’s demeanor softens. “There’s something else you should know, Raine. Your father . . . I’m not sure . . .” He huffs and stares down at his hands for a moment. “Listen, I don't pretend to know about the issues between you and your dad. But I’m not sure he did what he did to you just for the reasons you think.”
My jaw tenses. “What do you mean?”
“All I’m saying is he may have had another reason to keep you away . . . to create the hatred.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask as tension radiates across my shoulders.
“John?” Jillian says, reaching for my hand and looking at him intently. “Tell us what you know.”
He looks from one of us to the other before settling on me. “Your father made the deal with the Feds under the agreement that they keep you safe at all costs. He believed if he kept you estranged, his associates wouldn’t use you as leverage. I’m not saying that what he did to you was excusable in any way or that he didn’t have deeper motivations outside of these problems. Just that I think he cared about you in his own way.”
I sway backward in my seat. Could it be true? That my father actually cared enough about me to want to keep me safe?
“Here are his personal effects.” John stands and pushes the bag marked “Evidence” toward me. “The Medical Examiner will release the body to the funeral home tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I mean it.” I take the bag. The shoes inside make it heavy. Rising, I offer my free hand in a handshake.
Jillian meets him on the other side of the table and wraps him in a hug. “Thanks for doing this, for all of it.”
He looks at her warmly and smiles. “As I always tell you, anything for Kitten McNally’s little sister,” he says, referring to Kitty by her maiden name.
Whenever he says stuff like that, it makes me wonder why they never ended up together. That’s got to be a story worth hearing.
We all make our way to the First Avenue entrance and say our good-byes. Jillian and I head to where her SUV is parked in the Park & Lock across the street while John heads across town.
“You okay? You haven’t said much since we left,” Jillian says as we drive through the Holland Tunnel on the way home.
I’m glad I asked her to drive. My nerves are shot. I can’t stop thinking about what John said.
“I’m here if you need me,” she adds and gives me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.
My heart swells and I muster a half-smile for her. When we get home, I might sleep for a week from the stress of the last few days.
“I know. Thanks for coming with me.” I say and glance down at the bag on my lap. Without thinking, I open it. Keys, a beat-up pair of wing tips, and a wallet are all it contains. I slip out the thick rectangle of battered brown leather, and lay the bag on the floor. A strip of leather and a snap closure keep it shut. I flip it over in my hand, examining both sides. I don’t remember ever seeing it or associating it with my father. Based on the thickness, for a moment I think it might contain some cash.
I unsnap it and look inside.
My father’s driver’s license is visible through the clear plastic window on the inner flap. On the other side, an ATM card pokes out of one of the credit card pockets.
In the billfold section, there are only two bills—a five and a one. What’s making it so thick is a small insert with some pictures.
I take it out.
My parents’ wedding picture is visible on top under the soft matte plastic. They look elegant and happy. I flip the little plastic page. A professional headshot of my mom is on one side and a picture of her pregnant with me is on the other. I’m not surprised his wallet is filled with her pictures. He adored her.
I turn the page again.
A small gasp escapes through my lips. It’s a picture of my dad and me on the slopes in Switzerland when I was seven. The other is my class picture when I was nine. Both pictures were taken before his crazy behavior started. Before he not-so-subtly acknowledged I was competition for my mom’s affection. A lump forms in my throat. Based on how I thought he felt about me, I didn’t expect to see any pictures of myself.
I flip to the next page and freeze. There are two more pictures. Recent ones. All taken after the height of our conflict started. One of me as a senior in my varsity soccer uniform—my mom had the big one framed and kept it in her studio. The other of me receiving my diploma at my high school graduation. A tremor runs through me . . .
I turn to the last page. There’s a small folded square of paper held between the plastic sleeve. Working my fingers inside, I retrieve it.
I unfold the paper and air drains from lungs when I see the block letters. I wrote it when I was six years old, one afternoon during a Swedish lesson with my mom. I remember how proud I was, and how big of a deal he made over receiving it at dinner that night.
My lip quivers as I stare at the letters until I can no longer see them through the hot blur of tears.
Pappa, Jag älskar dig. Raine—Daddy, I love you. Raine
After all these years, he never threw it away. Could it be that maybe he loved me a little bit after all?