The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [131]
Over the next thirty minutes, Laurel recounted in broad strokes their scheme and some of the events that occurred after they broke him out of the Washington sugar cube. Throughout the monologue, Russo didn’t move much and she couldn’t be sure if his eyes were open or shut, but the beep of his cardiac monitor remained strong and steady.
“Why?”
“To prevent the DHS from doing what’s been done to you again.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you: a lawyer.”
Russo made a wry movement with his mouth, as if trying to erase an unpleasant taste. Laurel stepped over and slipped the straw from the mug of broth between his lips. He made a face. “Water … please?”
After fixing a glass of water so Russo could suck an inch worth through the straw, Floyd withdrew it and patted his parched lips with a moist towel. “Too much and it won’t stay down,” he admonished.
Russo’s response was directed to Laurel. “I’ve asked twice who you are, and all I get out of you is your profession. You are indeed a lawyer.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Should I ask again?”
“I’m your daughter.”
Russo’s face tensed and the beeps from the monitor increased in pace. “I have no daughter.”
“I agree, but you impregnated Araceli Goldberg, and she gave birth to me.”
“She died.” His weak voice came out as dry as a wasteland.
“Not before giving birth.” Laurel clenched her fists. “You denied paternity to the doctor, but that’s a moot point. Things have changed, but not the infallibility of DNA matching.”
“Do you recall awakening at intervals?” Floyd interrupted, obviously to change the drift the conversation was taking.
For a while Russo didn’t answer. “After the first time, I decided it must be a dream, a recurring dream. I refused to accept that it could be real.”
“An unconscious decision that shielded your mind from disintegrating,” Floyd observed.
“Taking notes for a paper, Doctor?”
“Now that you mention it …”
“And you say you’ve never met the person who planned the breakout?” Russo asked, his voice gathering color.
Laurel shook her head. “No, we never met.”
“I suppose the old bastard can be persuasive.”
Laurel exchanged a quick glance with Floyd. “Do you know his identity?”
“If, as you say, you are my daughter, he’s got to be my father: Senator Jerome Palmer.”
“Senator Palmer? Your father?” My grandfather?
“It runs in the family. Jerome Palmer was earmarked for political greatness.” Russo paused. “When in his sophomore year he impregnated, as you said, his high school sweetheart, his father tried to force an abortion. My mother was young and silly but high on ethics, and she refused.” He stopped and breathed deeply. “So your grandfather arranged an adoption. I found out only in my late twenties, by a stupid coincidence.” He paused, obviously exhausted by the effort of speaking. Floyd was moving to his side when Russo continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I met him once, to spit in his face and tell him what a bastard he was, but it was ironic. I’m no better.”
chapter 44
11:10
A harried woman straining to untangle two leashes—one holding a vociferous toddler and the other a playful puppy—blocked the entrance to the bank. Nikola paused, sighed, and stood aside while the mother got her act together. I can’t be all bad. Wasn’t it W. C. Fields who said, ‘Anyone who hates children and animals can’t be all bad’?
Nikola eyed the pretty brunette and even stole a quick look at her pert, freckled breasts when she bent over the dog. But he had to concede he didn’t qualify, hate being a burning passion better spent on worthy enemies. No, Nikola was indifferent to brats, although he found the mechanics of producing new ones a challenging exercise if addressed with curiosity and a zest for innovation. With a last assaying glance at her departing derriere, he mulled that, innovative or not, someone must have had a hell of a time, perhaps someone yearning for that woman at this precise moment.
He sighed and reflected, not for the first time, that he was alone not because he had chosen to be but because every turn his life had taken had ensured