The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [90]
“Ben Zikka was my father’s best friend,” Quincy murmured. “They grew up together, went to war together. He used to tell stories . . .”
Kimberly and Rainie remained silent.
“He’s an old man,” Quincy whispered. “Seventy-five years old, can’t even remember to piss in a toilet, for God’s sake. He’s sick, he’s easily frightened. He doesn’t recognize his own reflection, doesn’t know he has a son. He doesn’t even remember the name Pierce Quincy.”
Kimberly and Rainie didn’t say a word.
“He worked hard his whole life. Built a farm, raised a son, helped pay my way through college when money was tight. Never even wanted a thank-you. He did it because that’s what he did. Seventy-five years old. At the stage where he deserves to die with dignity.”
“Quincy . . .”
“He’s doesn’t even know he has a son! How can the man kill him? He doesn’t even remember I exist. Goddammit, goddammit, GODDAMMIT!”
He hurtled the phone receiver to the floor. It shattered into bits but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed a chair and smashed it into the stove. He hurtled the coffeepot into the sink. He flipped over the table with a roar.
“Dad . . .”
“I can’t go I have to stay he might be alive you never know. I can’t leave him he’s my father and he doesn’t even know he has a son. He’s going to be tortured and murdered and oh God did you see what that monster did to Bethie and he’s just a sick old man he doesn’t even know he has a son. Jesus Christ, Rainie, he doesn’t even know he has a son. . . .”
“You’re coming to Portland.”
“NO!”
“You’re coming to Portland, Quincy. We won’t let you stay. It’s exactly what this sicko wants.”
“My father—”
“Quincy, he’s dead. I am so sorry, but he’s dead. You know he’s dead. I am so sorry. . . .”
Quincy’s knees buckled. He went down on the floor, surrounded by glass and wood and fragments of plastic phone. He went down on the floor and he looked at Rainie with an expression she hoped she would never have to see again.
“My father,” he whispered. “My father . . .”
“Daddy, I’m scared. Please Daddy, I need you.”
Quincy turned toward his daughter. She had begun to cry. A heartbeat passed. Rainie didn’t know what he was thinking. Looking at his daughter and seeing traces of his rapidly vanishing past? Or looking at his scared, stricken little girl, and seeing a future that could still happen?
Quincy held open his arms. Kimberly flew into his embrace.
“It’s going to be all right, Kimmy,” Quincy murmured. “I promise you, it’s going to be all right.”
Then he closed his eyes, and Rainie knew why. He didn’t want any of them to see that he had just told a lie.
24
JFK International Airport, New York
Friday morning, five thirty-five, eastern standard time, they boarded the first flight for Portland, Oregon, proud owners of three tickets purchased with cash the day before. They had shown ID to pick up the tickets, then Quincy had used the power of his FBI creds to get the woman at the counter to change their names to aliases so there would be no record of their flight. The attendant had looked secretly excited to be involved in some sort of covert law enforcement operation. The three of them had remained pale and drawn, exhaustion making them sway on their feet.
The thunderstorms had finally passed, though the sky was still dark and the runway slick with rain. Ground crews in yellow windbreakers ran around the plane, loading bags. Onboard, Rainie watched them shout orders at each other, but could not hear their words.
Kimberly sat next to the window. She had taken her seat and almost immediately fallen asleep, her head slumped against the bulkhead. Rainie had the middle. She’d passed the threshold where sleep was still possible and now she was too awake, unbearably aware of the world around her. Quincy sat on her right. His face had become a mask. Once, she’d touched the back of his hand. He had moved it away from her. She had not tried again since.
“When my mother died, I hated my father,” he said.
“What caused her death?”
“Heart attack. She was only thirty-four. No one saw