“No. But it doesn’t matter. I mean, I think I would have pursued it before now if it did. I’ve been attracted to women, but I didn’t want a relationship to just be something…
“I think so. But why would it have to be passing? Maybe it would last longer.”
“No, it couldn’t. But let’s not talk about that now.” He looked at his watch. “We only have another hour before I have to start the drip again.”
“Please — I don’t need the drugs—”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
Frank was silent, trying to fight a sense of panic. Awake, he stood some sort of chance. With the drugs….
“Tell me about your life,” Bret was saying. When Frank hesitated Bret said, “I mean, what’s happened to you since we last saw you?”
“You seem to know a lot about me already,” Frank said, hearing the anger, the resentment, over his captivity come to the surface. He knew he should not show it. But it was there.
Bret shook his head. “No, those are just facts.”
“You want lies?”
“No,” Bret said, turning red. “I mean, facts don’t tell a person anything. I know you moved to Las Piernas. I know you are a homicide detective and that Pete Baird is your partner and that your wife is named Irene and that she’s a reporter. So what? It’s like reading tombstones in a graveyard. ‘Born.’ ‘Died.’ ‘Beloved daughter of…’ So what?” He paused, then said, “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes,” Frank said, surprised by the question.
“I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.” He moved to a small table near the bed, then brought a water glass and a straw over to the rail, helped Frank to take a drink. It was cool and good.
“Now,” Bret said, setting down the glass. “We aren’t going to have much time together, and when this is over, we’ll never see each other again. I’ve wondered about you, Frank Harriman. Are you happier in Las Piernas than in Bakersfield? Do you like what you do? Does it bother you, working in homicide? Is Pete Baird your favorite partner, or do you wish you worked with someone else? Are you glad you married Irene? Do you miss your father?”
Frank stared at him a moment, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do miss him. I think about him often.”
And he began to talk to Bret about his father and Las Piernas and even about Irene, not noticing when Bret reached over and started the IV again, until he was feeling far too drowsy to fight it. The water, he thought belatedly. The water was drugged.
He was not sure if the voice was within the dream or not. He heard a door close and thought it strange that a tent would have a door that closed just like a metal door. He was thinking about that when the voice said, “What the hell have you done?”
“You’ve been wrong about him,” Bret said.
Everything after that was most definitely within a dream.
19
THE LAST PAGE OF THE FAX contained only a few brief sentences:
As for the contents of the package you received, just remember — there is more where that came from.
It may help you to know that Julian Neukirk was six feet tall; the policeman was taller.
When you learn the identity of the policeman, place an ad in the
Detective Harriman will receive increasing amounts of morphine over the next few days. He will stop receiving the morphine when we are satisfied that you have correctly identified our enemy. We suggest you hurry.
“Let’s go,” I said to Cassidy. “There’s a lot to be done.”
He started the car. “What do you think of the story?”
“ ‘Father’s Day’?”
“Yes.”
“I think they were trying to tell the truth — at least as they remember it. They didn’t try to apologize for Gene Ryan. Other than that… well, I’d say Bret wrote it.”
“Why Bret?” he asked.
“Even though it’s in third person, everything is from his point of view.”
Cassidy nodded. “Any idea who John Oakhurst is?”
“No, although the name seems familiar.”
“To me, too,” he said. “I just can’t remember where I’ve heard it.”
“Maybe it’s just a made-up name.”
“Not with this group.”
“No. No, I suppose not… I understand why they want me to find this cop. But it’s so hard for me to understand how they feel about Frank.”
“I’m not sure they understand that themselves. Remember the last line? About trust? If nothing else, we can learn a lot about them from this story.”
I went ahead and asked the question I was afraid to hear answered. “How long do you suppose it will be before they’re giving him a fatal level of morphine?”
He shrugged. “They could do it in one injection if they set their minds to it. But if they go slowly enough, he’ll
