“Such as?”
“I used a fake name and a different bank for every check. Sent them from different places, disguised my voice. Used throwaway cell phones for each call. I don’t make mistakes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is trust. You could’ve burned me.”
“I trusted you to be prepared. Was I wrong?”
Daddy says nothing.
Maybe says, “Look. I killed him because he deserved to die. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to see how good you were. Why would I want to deal with someone who can’t protect himself?”
“And now you know I can.”
“So far.”
“You’re as much as telling me I can’t trust you.”
“What do you expect from me? I’m a homicidal maniac!”
“You’re a precious young lady.”
“Seriously? You’re the one who’s turning me into a cold-blooded killer. How do you hope to trust me?”
“By having a special relationship with you.”
“You know what I think, Daddy?”
“What’s that?”
“I think you want to fuck me.”
He pauses a long time. Then says, “I do. Is that so wrong?”
“It is if you make me call you Daddy.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“I know. It’s called manipulation.”
“Yes.”
“When are you going to show yourself.”
“In time.”
“What are you, disfigured or something? Twice my age? You don’t sound twice my age.”
“I’m fifteen years and six days older than you.”
Maybe pauses. That’s the most personal information he’s ever given her. She says, “If you’re thirty-five, I’m going to call you Ralph.”
“Ralph?”
“You sound like a Ralph.”
He sighs. “You think you’re ready?”
“For what?”
“The big time?”
“Lay it on me, Ralph.”
15.
Present Day… Donovan Creed.
“Hello, Father.”
“Kimberly! Hi!”
First time in what seems like forever my daughter Kimberly has actually taken my phone call. I wonder why now, and not the last dozen times over the past three months.
I start with what I hope is a safe topic. “How’s college life?”
“My biology teacher’s a dick.”
“That should make for an interesting year-book picture.”
“Tip-tip, pshhh!” she says, making a sound like a drummer hitting two rim shots and a cymbal.
“You must be dating again,” I say. “I haven’t heard from you in awhile.”
“That’s a nice way of saying I haven’t answered or returned your calls.”
“I try not to take it personally.”
“Good. Yes, I’m dating. But you wouldn’t approve.”
“Why not?”
“Fathers never approve of the men in their daughters’ lives.”
“I can try.”
“Right. Where are you this time?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Winning much?”
“It’s not that type of trip. What’s his name?”
“My boyfriend? You can’t possibly think I’d tell you that!”
“Why not?”
“Every time I tell you a boyfriend’s name, he turns up dead.”
“That happened one time! And you know very well the police said a woman did the shooting. A woman your boyfriend picked up at a bar and tried to rape!”
“He’s an atheist.”
“What? Who?”
“The guy I’m dating.”
“An atheist?”
“Are you going to be judgmental about it?” she says. “Because if you are, I can hang up.”
“Relax.” I sigh. “Is that what defines him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is that how he introduces himself? ‘Hi, Kimberly, I’m Chuck, the atheist!’”
She laughs. “Chuck?”
“Well, you won’t tell me his name.”
“You can call him Chuck. I like that. He’s quite successful, by the way.”
“Then, Chuck it is. Where’d you meet him?”
“At church.”
“Excuse me?”
She laughs. “It’s his job. He sells only to religious people.”
I remove the phone from my ear and look at it. Sometimes a deliberate action like this proves I’m not dreaming. I put the phone back to my ear and say, “Please tell me why religious people buy products from an atheist.”
“He’s a pre-Rapture pet salesman.”
I say nothing.
“Father? Hello-o? Are you still there?”
“Sorry. I thought you said he was a pre-Rapture pet salesman.”
“You don’t approve. I knew it!”
“I don’t even know what it means.”
She sighs. “You’ve heard of the Rapture, yes?”
“I have.”
“Pets can’t go.”
“Where?”
“To heaven.”
“They can’t?”
“According to these people, they cannot.”
“So?”
“So Chuck tells the church people he’s not qualified to be part of the Rapture because he’s an atheist, but
