I recognized the older man’s voice but couldn’t place it. It was smooth and educated but edged with malice.
“I thought we agreed that you’d go home to your parents, Ridley.”
The tumblers of recognition fell into place with a sick snap, unlocking the door to a tiger’s cage. It was Alexander Harriman.
“I don’t understand…” I said.
“I knew the minute I saw that picture of you on the cover of the paper that there was going to be trouble.” His voice was casual, lilting, as if we were old friends.
“What do you
“I just think we need to get together and talk some things over, clarify some misunderstandings, set a plan for the future. And when that’s all taken care of, we can talk about your brother, getting him the help he needs.”
I realized he was being careful about what he was saying on the phone.
“I could go to the media with what I already know, Mr. Harriman. I could call the police since I know you have my brother.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “You could. But there would be consequences. I think you’re starting to realize that the truth doesn’t always set us free. For many of the people I know, it’s quite the opposite. For many of the people you know as well.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Harriman?”
“Certainly not,” he said with mock indignation. My mind was racing. I didn’t know how to play this game. I felt like a mouse in the paws of a hungry house cat.
“I need to know that Ace is okay.” I know, it was lame. But I couldn’t think of any other demand to make. Plus, I just wanted to hear his voice, know that he was safe and that it was within my power to help him still.
“As long as you and I can reach an agreement, then your brother and the rest of your family, not to mention your friend Mr. Jacobsen, will have no concerns. You have my word.”
“That’s not good enough,” I said weakly.
“Look, Ridley,” he said, impatience slithering into his measured voice. “You’re not holding any cards here, so let’s stop fucking around. Be at my office before the end of the hour. I’m extending you a courtesy because of Max’s love for you. But I’m not a sentimental man by nature and you’ve become a terrible inconvenience.”
He hung up then. After all, he’d said everything he needed to. I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it as if it were a murder weapon. I felt a shudder move through my body, thinking about how his courtesy so far had involved a drive-by shooting and a bad case of road rage. I wondered what happened when his sentiment ran out. I looked over at Jake and he moved in to me and took my shoulders.
“Who was it, Ridley?”
“My uncle’s lawyer, a man named Alexander Harriman.”
“As in mob lawyer Alexander Harriman?”
I hadn’t really thought of him like that, but I guess once you’ve defended a mobster, then you’re a mob lawyer. I sat down on the bed beside Ruby, who was now looking at me with desperate eyes.
“I love him,” she told me. She was a wreck, so thin I could see the knobs in her shoulders and elbows, mascara streaking down her face. Her hair was fried from too much bleach. But there was a prettiness to her, a sweetness, something about her that I wanted to protect.
“I do, too,” I answered, a catch in my voice I hadn’t expected.
“So what does he want?” asked Jake.
“He wants to see me in his office, inside the hour.”
Jake shook his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“What’s the alternative?”
We looked at each other for a second, but neither of us came up with an answer.
“Well, you’re not going alone,” he said.
“You can’t trust him,” Ruby said, grabbing my arm and turning a fearful gaze on Jake. She seemed desperate but not crazy.
“Why, Ruby? Why would you say that?” I asked her, looking at Jake. He just lifted his palms. She pulled me close to her and I could smell the cigarettes on her breath. She whispered fiercely, “He killed your uncle Max.”
The words chilled me. “Ruby, my uncle drove himself off a bridge. He was drunk. It was icy. He wasn’t murdered.”
I looked over at Jake, who stood still and silent. I wished I could see his eyes, but all I could see was the slow shake of his head.
“You don’t have to shoot a gun to kill someone,” she said, looking right at Jake.
Jake stepped into the light so that I could see his face and he sighed. “Sometimes,” he said, “all you have to do is tell them the truth.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
I remembered how my uncle Max cried that night. I remembered his words.
“You met him,” I said to Jake. “You told him what happened to you.”
He nodded. “I was in a dark place when I met Max. Like I told you, I had learned about the other missing kids, about your father. But I didn’t know how to move forward with the investigation. Then Arnie died. I had so much anger in me that I couldn’t sleep at night without drinking.
“When I learned about the Maxwell Allen Smiley Foundation and how it funded Project Rescue, I knew I had to talk to your uncle. You asked me about my theories? My theory was that the Little Angels Clinic and other places like it across the state that had been designated as ‘Safe Havens,’ places where scared mothers could leave their children, had a different function as well. Certain physicians were acting as ‘Guardian Angels.’”
He sighed again here, as if it was painful for him to go on.
“They were watching over children who they thought were being abused?” I asked. I thought about Jessie with her broken arm. I thought about how my father, so concerned for the welfare of children, must have felt while treating her.
“Yes, and flagging them,” said Jake.
“What do you mean?”
“In the seventies, it was very difficult to get a child out of an abusive situation.”
“So you think there was a system by which these abused children were identified by certain clinic physicians…and what?”
“They were abducted,” he said. “Maybe.”
“By who? And then what happened to them?”
“I didn’t know those answers when I went to see Max and I still don’t know for sure.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I tried to see him at his office but I couldn’t get an appointment with him, so I followed him for a couple of days and figured out the places he went to drink. I waited for him at the Blue Hen, not far from where your parents live, Ridley.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
“No. A couple weeks before that. He’d already been drinking when he arrived and everyone there seemed to know him. I waited at a corner table, nursing a Guinness until he sat alone. Then I joined him. He was a friendly guy, bought me a round. I hated him, hated his guts.” Jake’s voice had gone cold and I was hearing something there that I hadn’t suspected. I heard the anger he’d described and realized that it was still alive and well within him. Maybe it would be until he could understand his past.
“I said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ He looked at me, curious, a little suspicious. ‘No, son. I have no idea.’ I said, ‘Let me tell you about myself.’ And you know what? He was kind to me. He listened to my story, he engaged, shared a little bit about his own history of abuse. But I didn’t care about his kindness. I just wanted answers. After I’d finished and we’d shared another beer, I said, ‘Mr. Smiley, what can you tell me about Project Rescue?’
“He stopped being kind then and started looking a little gray. ‘Who are you, son?’ he wanted to know. ‘That’s just it. I have no idea,’ I answered. He got the check then and wanted to leave but I followed him outside. He could have made a scene, got any of the guys in that bar to work me over, or called the police, but he didn’t do that. In
