47

Heather said something to me that night, right before slipping into her hotel room. “Trevor, someday we’re going to talk about what really happened between you and that pickup truck guy at the river.”

I nodded, and we said good night.

In my room, I pulled out my iPad and plugged in my search terms: David Fleming Manitou Wisconsin.

There were some references to his having attended VMI, the military college in Virginia. But then some surprises: according to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, at some point David joined the Army, served in Somalia, and ended up being killed in action in the battle of Mogadishu. A war hero, to be sure.

My head was swirling. Not only did I have to tell Heather that I wasn’t her father; I also had to break the news that her biological father had been killed in the horrific fighting in Somalia. I remembered seeing images of dead American soldiers being dragged through the streets by armed rebels. Was Heather’s father one of them? This meant that both of her parents were gone.

I put in a call to Detective Ashley Linderman. Not her regular law enforcement cell, but the other one: the “supersecret” cell that she used for private contacts, informers, and clandestine operations. And for me.

Ashley’s voice. “I knew you’d call me again sometime. And I am assuming Heather is okay . . .”

“Located, safe and sound,” I said.

I could hear the relief in Ashley’s voice when she said she gathered as much when she received the voice mail from Heather.

“Right,” I said, “Heather’s message to you about my being involuntarily committed.”

There was a long pause. “Yeah. So, Trevor, I have to say, that was really a sick joke. Only mildly funny, by the way.”

“Not a joke. More like a tragicomedy.”

“Well,” Ashley said, moving on in the conversation, “I’ve been swamped with cases here in Manitou. Including a double homicide. I planned to call you. In that weird message from Heather she sounded rushed. A little distracted . . .”

“Because I had just been taken into custody and dragged into Morehaven.”

“What’s Morehaven?”

“A mental institution in Louisiana.”

“Uh, wait a minute . . . so you weren’t joking?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Trevor, how did this happen?”

“Too complicated to explain now. The point being that it was all a mistake and I had to challenge it in federal court, and now I’ve been released. But I have something personal to discuss. Very personal.”

I took a second, then plowed ahead. “Specifically, about your telling me that I was Heather’s biological dad. That was a big deal to me, obviously. And now I learn that what you told me wasn’t true.”

Another pause at the other end, this time longer. “What are you talking about?”

“A psychiatrist at Morehaven showed me the paperwork from the termination of parental rights proceeding when Marilyn gave Heather up for adoption. Don’t ask me how he got his hands on it. In any case, Marilyn listed the father. She put down the name of a high school classmate of mine: David Fleming.”

“Oh, that . . .”

I listened for more.

“Let me think,” she said. “Okay, right. He was some kind of swimmer in high school.”

“Exactly.”

“Joined the Army,” she said.

“Something I just found out.”

Ashley said, “The same David Fleming who was killed in action . . .”

“Same one.”

Then Ashley said, “Yes, he’s the one.”

I waited.

She continued. “In the beginning, Marilyn tried to peg him as the putative father on the paperwork because by then he had been killed. Oh, I don’t know what was going through her mind. Maybe she thought the baby —you know, Heather —could collect some military benefits or something. Or maybe she was trying to protect you from the fallout. . . .”

After letting that shocker sink in, I had a question. “I thought David Fleming went to a military college in Virginia.”

“The social service investigators said he left college almost immediately and enlisted,” Ashley said. “It became clear that this young man would have been in active military service and completely out of contact during the time when Marilyn became pregnant. When Marilyn was confronted with those facts, she recanted, did a one-eighty, and told the adoption people that she didn’t know who the father was. But I was told that after the adoption was concluded, the investigating social worker strongly suspected that the real father was an unnamed student at New York University, and that it was a onetime encounter involving Marilyn and that young man, someone she had known from high school. Of course, that fit you perfectly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about David Fleming?”

“Because he wasn’t the dad; it was irrelevant.”

“Not to me.”

“Maybe not. But when I told you that Heather had been born and then adopted, and that you were the father, and you were super excited about it, I had this thing for you and enjoyed seeing you so happy. Didn’t want to rain on your parade and all that.”

My mind had been blown. Again.

“So,” I said, “just to be sure. Are you telling me that you know of absolutely nothing that would raise doubts about my being her biological parent?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” she said.

A hurricane just miraculously evaporated. In a matter of seconds I had experienced a complete reversal of fortunes about Heather. I was her dad again.

“I bet you’re relieved,” she said. “You must have been really bummed about the David Fleming curveball. Truly sorry. I should have told you that.”

Then her tone changed. The detective came out. “You say you got that information from a psychiatrist? That seems odd. Out of place.”

“To say the least. In hindsight, the guy was eminently sketchy. But at the time he was doing a masterful job of poking holes in me and filling me with doubts.”

The call ended with my telling Ashley how great it was to connect and thanking her for the fantastic news, and I promised to keep in touch.

As I lay in bed in the dark, I was buoyed again, riding a second tide. Thankful that Ashley had taken my call and dispelled the false doubts that had hounded me. I had my daughter back. Thank you, God.

But then another image flashed in front of me. The face of that young girl, peering out from that porthole of the boat, mouth open in a silent scream for help.

I imagined that somewhere out there a father was missing his daughter and living in quiet desperation. Continuing to glance at the phone, hoping it would ring; yanking his cell phone out when it did, praying that he would hear the news that she had been found, yet all the time knowing that such a call might never come. And through it all, the father dying a little each day. Like never before, I could relate to that.

I decided that come morning, first thing, I was going to set my mind to the task. With the time I had left, and with the faith and strength that were mine, I had to throw myself against that terror.