60
Claire was tall – much, much taller than he had imagined, around five-foot-nine.
And thin – not from lack of food but from exercise. She probably had Heather’s metabolism.
Her glasses were gone.
So was the pigtail (obviously, he corrected himself. She wasn’t a little girl any more). Her hair was shoulder length, the way it was when he dreamed. Her hair was so blonde, so fine, it looked white in the sun.
No earrings. No jewellery. She was dressed very plainly, jeans and white Converse sneakers and a puffy North Face goose-down coat.
What he loved most – what made him almost crumble right there in front of everyone – was seeing her face. He could still see the stubborn traces of the six-year-old girl who had refused to grab his hand that night at the Hill.
Claire stood among three FBI agents (or so he assumed), her hands folded in front of her, her head bowed, staring at the tops of her sneakers. She was upset. Like when she knew she had done something wrong, she would bow her head and stare at her feet, the floor, anything to avoid meeting your eyes. Seeing her like this made him want to run to her, grab her and hug her close, take the fear and pain and all the questions she carried in her eyes and transfer it to him, just as he had when she was little. When she was his.
Only it wasn’t going to work that way.
Mickey gripped the railing and took the steps one at a time, wanting a chance to absorb her but more afraid that, if he moved any faster, he’d trip and crack his head open, end up having the reunion in a hospital room. When he stepped on to the gravel, he kept his hand on the railing, squeezing it.
Darby addressed the crowd: ‘Why don’t we give them some room?’
Everyone nodded and moved away, Claire’s eyes coming up and tracking a chunky woman in jeans and a powder-blue shirt. Probably the psychologist, Mickey thought. Darby had told him the FBI had provided Claire with a psychologist who specialized in trauma.
The woman had moved only a few feet; she stopped and leaned against the hood of the Lincoln.
Mickey walked over to his daughter but didn’t get too close, wanting to put some space between her and all the eyes pinned on her – and him.
‘Hi,’ he said, pleased that his voice sounded strong. Confident.
‘Hey,’ she said softly.
Hearing her voice for the first time made him want to reach out and touch her, make sure she was real.
‘How was your ride?’
‘Long,’ she said quietly, her eyes still downcast, locked on her sneakers.
‘You want to stretch out, go for a walk?’
Her gaze cut to Mickey. Those eyes had once looked up from her crib into his, had once sought him out in their house, been excited to see him when he came home – those eyes he had helped to create and shape now stared back at him, studying him, wondering who he was.
Claire, remember our last Christmas together? You were so excited that you came and woke me up at four and whispered in my ear, ‘He came, Daddy, Santa came again!’ Remember how we didn’t want to wake Mom up, so you and I went downstairs and made pancakes and burned them and you tried one and said yuck so you gave it to Diesel? Remember how you don’t like olives but you always kept trying them and kept making that grossed-out face? Remember that Saturday morning when you brought all your dolls and stuffed animals downstairs into the TV room and seated them on the couch and then stood up on top of the coffee table because you thought it was a stage?
He had hundreds of little memories like that – thousands. But they didn’t mean anything to her right now. What she had right now were memories from the Smith family – memories and stories and events he didn’t own, let alone know about yet.
Claire remained quiet.
Tell me you remember me, Claire. At least tell me that.
‘I could use a walk,’ Claire said.
Behind the house were a barn and a stable for horses. No horses, though. There was also what Mickey believed to be a small skating rink. Claire, he saw, was eyeing it too, probably wondering the same thing.
As they walked down the slope, heading towards the trails, he debated whether he should talk first or wait for her to say something. Right now she seemed to be enjoying the peace and quiet and fresh air. She probably hadn’t had much of those things during the last few days, so he decided to wait for her to initiate the conversation.
Ten minutes passed, and he couldn’t bear the silence any longer.
‘I know you’re feeling very confused – maybe even scared,’ Mickey said. ‘If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. This is about you. What you’re feeling.’
Claire didn’t nod, didn’t respond; she kept walking, eyes straight ahead. He wanted to take the chasm he’d been carrying inside him for the past decade and shape it with words she would understand, words that would form a bridge she could cross, so she could see the hell he’d gone through.
‘They said you’d died,’ Claire said.
Mickey nodded, trying to keep the anger from reaching his face.
‘I remember them sitting in their kitchen,’ Claire said. ‘Both of them told me you’d died and that bad men were looking for me, and that’s why they changed my name to Susan Smith. It was the only way to protect me from these bad men, they said. They said if I told anyone my real name, the bad men might come looking for me, hurt me and them both.’
Mickey wanted to speak, stopped. This was about Claire. His job right now was to listen.
‘Mr and Mrs Smith were always so nice to me,’ she said. ‘They never yelled at me. We went on vacations – went to Disney World twice. I went to church with them. They punished me when I lied to them. And this whole time they’d been lying to me.’
They’re religious fanatics, Claire. They all share the same sick belief that God spoke only to them – that they were special. Chosen.
He didn’t see the need to tell any of this to her. Not now, anyway.
‘Sometimes,’ Mickey said, ‘you can believe in something so much, with such intensity, that it blinds you. When that happens, when you believe with all your heart and mind that what you’re thinking or doing is right, it’s all you can see. In their hearts and minds, the Smiths believed what they were saying and doing was right.’
‘But they lied.’
‘I know. And I wish I could change it, but I can’t. The older you get, the more you’ll find people will lie to you – sometimes even people who are close to you. It’s sad, and it hurts, but it happens. That’s why it’s important to think about the good things. Like this.’
Mickey reached into his back pocket and took out his phone. He had already had the pictures loaded on to the screen.
He handed Claire the phone. She slowed as she studied a picture of Heather.
‘Your mother will be here sometime later today,’ he said.
Claire stopped walking. She studied the picture, Mickey waiting to answer questions, if that was what she wanted. And if she wanted to hand the phone back to him, that was fine too.
Claire flipped to the next picture.
‘Oh, my gosh,’ she said with a smile. ‘Is that a baby bear?’
‘That was your dog, Diesel. He was a bullmastiff.’
‘And a big-time drooler. Flip to the next picture and you’ll see him as a puppy.’
Claire did. She wasn’t staring at Diesel, though; her eyes were locked on the little girl with the glasses and crooked teeth sitting next to the sleeping puppy. Mickey had chosen the photo, hoping it would trigger a memory.
He moved closer, debating about whether or not to put his hand on her shoulder, when she flipped to the next picture, a colour photo he had downloaded from the Globe’s website: Sean Flynn leaving prison.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
‘He’s … he helped me find you. His name is Sean Flynn.’
‘That’s your last name.’
It’s your last name too, he wanted to say.
‘Is he related to you?’
‘He’s my father,’ Mickey said. ‘Your grandfather.’
Claire handed back his phone. Her face had closed up. He had pushed her too far.
Mickey took the phone and smiled, but it was forced, and holding it was an effort.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to go back and get something to eat.’
‘You want some company?’
‘Maybe later.’
Later.
It’s okay, he told himself, watching Claire move back up the path, back towards the house where Darby and the psychologist were waiting.
It’s okay, he told himself again. He and Claire had been given the gift of time.
Darby watched the interaction from a vantage point behind the house.
Her intention wasn’t to spy. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, did not want to eavesdrop on this incredibly private and powerful moment. Her intention was to keep an eye on Mickey, to be there in case he went to pieces. He had stopped drinking, which had caused him to go into a minor withdrawal of headaches and anxious nerves that was complicated by the tremendous fear – and pressure – of not being able to reconnect with his daughter. She promised to be there for Mickey, and she would be.
Claire had walked away. Mickey stared off into the distance, his face twisted in pain.
Should she go to him?
No, she decided. Give him some time.
She moved away. When she was sure she was alone, Darby took out her phone.
That day in New York, while she was in the back of the cab, on her way to the airport, Darby had decided she wanted to find out about the boy her parents had given up for adoption. She’d called Sue Michaud and asked her to investigate. And this morning, Sue had sent an email with her results. Everything Darby wanted to know about her biological brother was attached in a Word file.
Her phone rang. Kennedy was calling.
‘I thought you’d like to know Father Cullen finally agreed to cooperate,’ he said.
For days, she and Kennedy had been wondering what had happened to the tapes of the confessions that had been in Byrne’s possession.
‘Your theory about Byrne having traded those tapes with Cullen in exchange for last rites and a Catholic funeral,’ Kennedy said. ‘You were right. When you left that message with Cullen’s secretary, Cullen headed straight to Byrne’s house, just like Grace Humphrey told you. It was important that Byrne, for reasons Cullen couldn’t – or wouldn’t – explain to us, that he be given the full Catholic treatment on his way out.’
‘Where are the tapes now?’
‘Cullen said he destroyed them. Took them to an incinerator. I believe him. He wouldn’t want evidence like that lying around. Cullen also maintains that he had no idea Byrne was recording the confessions, but he did say that Byrne did it to amuse himself. In any event, we’ll probably never know the entire truth about it, but I thought you should know you don’t have to worry about him airing any dirty laundry. Your secrets are safe.’
Darby planned on having a long, frank talk with the priest.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Kennedy said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Paying him a visit. Cullen’s lawyer went back to court, to get an extension on the restraining order.’
‘For how long?’
‘The maximum number,’ Kennedy said. ‘Five years.’
‘You need to look into Cullen. The man’s a liar. He hides behind the collar.’
‘That’s also not going to happen.’
‘He was close friends with Byrne. That wasn’t an accident. People like that –’
‘We can’t get everyone, Darby.’
‘If I took that attitude, I wouldn’t have found Mickey’s daughter and those other kids.’
‘Point taken. Take care of yourself, okay? And take a moment – just a moment, that’s all I’m asking – to be happy with what you accomplished.’
Darby hung up and thought about what Kennedy had said. He was right, of course. The important thing here was Mickey had been reunited with his daughter. And Richard Byrne, while not a paedophile and murderer, was a truly evil man who had got what he deserved. Win-win.
Darby stared at her phone. The attached file in Sue’s email was on her screen.
All she had to do was to open it and she would know his full name, age, address, everything.
She pressed her finger against the screen.
Deleted the email and file.
Then she went into her deleted folder and permanently deleted it so she wouldn’t be tempted to look at it later.
She didn’t regret her decision. She had been giving a lot of thought to what she should do, when it occurred to her that she shouldn’t do anything. If her brother had wanted to find his biological family, he’d had plenty of time to look. If he’d wanted to find out about his birth parents – or her – he would have done so by now – and he hadn’t. There were things in this world that shouldn’t be disturbed, even for the right reasons and with the best of intentions.