Point Last Seen: Blood Will Tell Part 15

But now he felt coldly rational.

He needed to fix this thing. This mistake he had made.

But how?

The kid was struggling. He was nearly bent in half, but he'd managed to haul the redheaded girl only a few feet.

The blond girl pushed him aside and tried to do it herself. She actually seemed to be stronger than the dark-skinned boy.

All three of them froze at a sudden sound. So did Kenny. Cop cars. Three cars sliding in from three directions. And then the cops were out and running. The red-haired girl got to her feet. The black boy slowly raised his hands. One cop-Kenny recognized him as Rich Meeker, the one who had stopped by to ask what Kenny had seen-was holding out something small. Smaller than a toothbrush. And Kenny realized what it was.

And how he could fix everything.

CHAPTER 39.

NICK.

SAt.u.r.dAY.

NOT LIKE I'M GOING ANYWHERE.

In the distance, a siren wailed. It was joined by a second. And a third. All of them getting louder. It reminded Nick of Monday-had that not even been a week ago?-of how the sirens had screamed past his house to converge on the spot where Lucy's body had been found.

The same place they were now.

Ruby rolled to her feet, her fox-like face alert. Alexis looked down the street and then turned to stare at Nick with wide eyes.

Understanding dawned just as the cop cars-one unmarked and two black-and-whites-raced up to the lot. Meeker's car had barely come to a stop before he was out the door.

"Nick Walker," he called out, "I have a warrant for your DNA." The two other cops were behind him at an angle, as if preparing for Nick to make a run for it.

Even if he were that stupid, where was he going to go? Nick had no friends in other cities. He had no car. He had no pa.s.sport. He had twelve dollars in his wallet. And no credit cards.

So Nick walked forward with his hands up. And then he opened his mouth.

Two hours later Nick was in his room, lying on his bed with his arm across his eyes. He kept replaying how the cops had looked at him. How Meeker had snarled, "So you decided it was a good idea to act it out-on the day of her funeral? I knew you were sick, boy, but that is stone-cold."

His cell phone rang. He didn't bother to move.

For one thing, who would be calling him? All his friends texted. His mom called sometimes, but not from the living room, which was where she was right now. He had told her about the DNA test. She was sure it would clear him.

He wasn't so sure.

His phone rang again, but Nick stayed stuck in a loop of anxiety.

What was going to happen next? He knew he hadn't touched that girl. So he shouldn't be worried about what the DNA test would show. But would the fact that his DNA didn't match be enough to convince the cops he hadn't done it? They certainly had seemed convinced earlier. And they had asked if he had an accomplice. So even if the DNA didn't match, they still might not rule him out.

His phone rang a third time.

And even if they decided to move on, they surely wouldn't move very far. Instead, they would look closer at Kyle, who had admitted to Nick that he had seen Lucy that night. Was there some way Kyle could have touched her coat?

Or even killed her?

Either way, Nick was sure something terrible was going to happen. The noose was tightening around their family, and it was going to catch one of them.

On the fourth ring, he rolled over. And saw OREGON STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY on the caller ID. He pressed the b.u.t.ton.

"h.e.l.lo?"

A woman said in a clipped tone, "Will you accept a collect call from Eldon Walker?"

Would he? Should he? The man who had ruined all their lives? The man who had killed some poor guy just because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time? The man whose blood ran in Nick's veins, who had given him half his DNA?

"Yes," he heard himself saying.

"Is this Nick?" A deep rumbling voice. Did he recognize it? It was like getting a call from a ghost.

"Yeah," he managed. He put his hand on his chest, willing his heart to slow down.

"This is your dad. Your mom told me you know the truth now."

"Mom?" Glancing at his door, he lowered his voice. "You mean she talks to you?" The way his mom had spoken about his dad, it had sounded like she had cut all ties.

His dad made a sound that wasn't quite a chuckle. "Not regularly, no. She does let me know how you kids are doing. And she told me about this mix-up about the DNA. About how the police are questioning you. I think she blames me for that."

"Well, Dad," Nick gave the word a sarcastic spin, "I guess if you hadn't killed someone, they wouldn't have your DNA to match me to. And they wouldn't be thinking I might be the killer type."

A sigh echoed down the line. "I know you're angry, Nick, and I guess you have every right to be. But it would mean a lot to me if you would come down tomorrow and talk to me."

"What do you mean? You mean, like, visit you in prison?"

"Of course in prison. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

Nick stalled for time. "I don't even know how I would get there. For sure Kyle's not going to loan me his car."

"I've already talked about this with your mom. She'll drive you."

Anger flashed through him. He was tired of people making decisions for him. "So you guys have already decided on this without even talking to me first?"

"She said it's your call. That she would take you if you agreed."

"Whatever you want to talk about-why can't you just talk about it now? On the phone?"

"Because I want to see you, Nick. Is that asking so much, for your old man to see you for the first time in twelve years?"

CHAPTER 40.

NICK.

SUNDAY.

THE SOLDIER OR THE KILLER.

"This way," the deputy said to Nick. They went through a series of doors, each one closing with a solid thunk. Nick didn't see anyone besides the deputy, but the cameras mounted in the corners let him know that he was being seen. He breathed shallowly, trying to ignore the stink of sweat, sewage, and disinfectant.

Was this a foretaste of what awaited him? Surrounded by metal detectors and men with guns, by electronic doors and bad smells? No wonder his mom had said she didn't want to go in.

When the deputy opened the last door, they were facing a wall that held a row of Plexiglas windows separated by chest-high cinder block part.i.tions. Each cheerless cubicle held a single battered wooden chair.

The deputy pointed at the first one and left. Nick was too nervous to sit. Instead, he ran his fingertips over the scratched and scarred counter that jutted out from under the window. It felt like some kind of reverse Braille. How many people had been here before him? Their desperation and depression still hung in the stale air. The ghosts of palm prints marked the Plexiglas, showing where prisoners and visitors had come as close to touching as they could.

He started back when a man, accompanied by a guard, walked into the room on the other side of the gla.s.s. He wore jeans and a denim shirt over a navy-blue T-shirt. On his feet were the same kind of shower shoes Nick had been given at the police station. Yesterday, Nick's mom had taken him to the mall and bought him a pair of shoes so he wouldn't have to keep wearing Kyle's.

Nick's heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. Of all the ways he had imagined his father, it had never been like this. This man was a stranger. The dad in his photos was way younger than this guy, with his hair cut almost to the scalp and flecked with gray. His eyes were set deep in a dark, shiny face full of creases. A mustache bracketed his full lips.

Even though his mom had talked about their faces having the same shape, Nick could see no way in which they were alike. His hands curled into fists so tight that his fingernails cut into his palms.

Staring at him through the Plexiglas, his dad slowly lowered himself into a chair, his eyes never leaving Nick's. The deputy stepped out of sight.

His dad picked up the black corded phone from the wall and motioned for Nick to do the same.

After a pause, he sat down. He uncurled his fist and picked up the heavy black phone, trying not to think about how many hands had handled it, how many lips had rested against the mouthpiece.

"Look at you." His dad blinked rapidly. His eyes were shiny. "The last time I saw you, you were four. I mean, I've seen pictures, of course, but it's not the same. How tall are you now?"

It took Nick a second to answer. There was a keloid scar across the back of his dad's left hand, just above the knuckles. It looked like it had come from fighting. Maybe it had happened the night he killed that guy, ruined so many lives besides his own.

"Five ten," Nick finally said, adding an inch. Maybe an inch and a half. He couldn't believe they were talking about something as stupid as how tall he was. "They let me think you were dead."

His dad's voice sharpened. "Your mom made a good decision. Don't you second-guess her." He shook his head and looked away. "Besides, is it that much of a lie? The old Don Walker is dead."

Nick wondered which Don he meant. The soldier or the killer? He wished he were anywhere but here. He felt drained. Dull and heavy. What a waste. His dad had taken that guy's life and ruined his own, and for what? For what?

"I used to brag about you at school." The back of his neck heated up as he remembered. "I used to google your name, but I didn't realize it was just a nickname." So many things he hadn't known.

"Your mom says you want to go into the army like I did. I'm here to talk some sense into you."

"You're here? Don't you mean I'm here?"

His dad straightened up in his chair. "Don't you talk to me like that. I'm still your father."

Nick snorted. "How can you say that? You were never there for us."

"I wanted to be. Don't you think I wanted to be?" His eyes burned into Nick.

"Yeah, well you couldn't. Because you threw your life away."

"Exactly. Do you think I want that for you?" His jaw tightened. "I was the same way when I was your age. Thinking I knew everything. Thinking I knew what I was doing when I joined up. That's why your mom wanted me to try to talk some sense into you. See, what kind of rational human being is going to sign up to go out and kill other human beings? They don't talk about that part very much, do they? No, it's all about travel and adventure and teamwork. And being a man." Flecks of spittle were landing on the Plexiglas. "They don't talk about what it's like to watch an IED blow up the Humvee in front of you, see your friend with his legs gone, hold him when he dies. They don't tell you about any of that."

Nick was silent.

"So instead they try to tell you you'll be part of something special, that you'll learn all these great skills, that Uncle Sam will take care of you. It's all bull. The army builds you up. They tell you that you're larger than life. That you're like a superhero. And if you feel you're anything less, well then that just means you're weak-minded."

Listening to his dad, Nick couldn't believe he was here, as if he had stepped into one of those bad Lifetime movies his old babysitter had liked to watch. Women who found out their husbands had a whole other family in a different state, girlfriends who found out their boyfriend was really a serial killer. He would fit right in. A son who found out his dad wasn't really dead.

"When you leave the army, you're still not gone," his dad said. "You're still reacting to it, even when you're home-what happened back there controls your thoughts, your dreams. Your nightmares. You're too young to remember this, but I came back afraid to drive. Afraid to talk to people I'd known my whole life. I was so afraid of crowds that I had trouble going to the grocery store or the mall. I couldn't take you kids to the zoo. A stranger would smile at me and my heart would speed up because I'd think they must be planning to attack. Every night I would patrol the house, make sure everything was locked and shut and that n.o.body could get in anywhere."

Nick nodded, but he wasn't even sure his dad saw him.

"One time I saw a man standing on the roof of an office building and I dove to the ground, like he was a sniper. I knew it was crazy. I was thinking, he's either a sniper or he's going to radio ahead. And then I tried to tell myself, this is Portland. There's no snipers on the roof, n.o.body's going to blow me up here." He shook his head, looking disgusted. "I came back a bomb, Nick. And then I blew up."

Nick realized he had been hoping his dad would offer some kind of explanation. A reason for everything that had happened. Maybe even claim mistaken ident.i.ty. After all, if the cops were wrong about Nick, couldn't they have been wrong about his dad?

But it was clear his dad had done both things. Gotten a Bronze Star and killed a man with his bare fists. So what did that make his dad? Could his dad still be a hero if he was also a killer? But if Hitler had saved a baby from a fire in between ordering Jews to be carted off to death camps, he would still be just as evil as before. Wouldn't he?

"It's because of you that they think I did this thing," Nick said. "Killed this girl. Lucy-"

His dad cut him off with a slash of a hand. "Whatever you did or didn't do, Nick, I don't want to know. Don't talk about it."

"You really think I-"

His dad leaned forward, his teeth gritted. "Shut it. You think just because you're sitting in that little booth and talking through a handset that no one's paying attention? There are cameras, microphones. They're watching you right now."

But what did it matter? Nick hadn't done anything wrong. Everyone else had. His mom had lied to him, and so had Kyle. His dad had killed somebody.

"That's why you're here, Nick." His dad nodded. "They wanted me to talk to you."

"What?"

"Why do you think we're alone instead of in the general visiting room? They bent all kinds of rules to make this happen. Usually it takes sixty days to get a visitor okayed. This took one." He held up his index finger for emphasis.

"Why?" Nick was still confused.

"They wanted me to get you to confess. They promised me I could get a.s.signed to the library if I did."