“I know.” She nods. “I will talk to him, I promise. I just need to get used to the idea myself before I go there. He’ll want to tell his parents, and, well, you understand. Particularly right now, with this case. I just can’t handle all that.”
I do understand. Which is part of why I haven’t told her about my own complications. No matter that the latest twist in the story is better than the previous one, her father died of a heart attack. I don’t want her looking at me and worrying about the same fate. After I see the cardiologist, I will tell her.
“So, how does he feel about dogs?”
I can’t exactly ask her to take Sandy if something were to happen to me without telling her the reason I started worrying about the issue. For now, feeling out how her future husband might react to having a pet around the house will have to do.
When she looks confused, I add, “You know, they say men who like animals make better fathers.” I have no idea if this is true, but it seems reasonable.
“He loves dogs.” She says this as if she finds the answer surprising herself. “He had a border collie for twelve years, she died just before he and I met. He hasn’t had the heart to get another one.” A smile tugs at her lips. “So I guess that’s a good sign.”
I nod, relieved. “Definitely a good sign.”
“There’s more.” She stands. “This is complicated in a different way. I need you to look at something for me.”
“Okay.” This does sound ominous. I stand, leaving my glass on the coffee table, and follow her across the room and down the hall. In her father’s office, she crosses to the desk and picks up a few pages of paper that look as if they’ve been crumpled and then smoothed out.
“You starting with your father’s office on your packing, or was he doing some housekeeping before he passed?” Doesn’t take a crystal ball to see either scenario is possible. There are a couple packing boxes taped and ready to fill on the floor. Several file folders lay in a neat stack on the desk.
“A little of both.” She hands me the pages. “There are several notes about a man he spoke with or treated.” She shrugs. “Or had some sort of dealings with.”
I scan the first page but don’t see a name until I reach the second. My gaze crashes into hers. “Mario Sanchez?”
“Yeah. The notes don’t make a lot of sense. It’s mostly dates and locations. But there are initials noted on that last page. I think he was referring to Fanning.”
I scan the third page again, more slowly this time. I see what she means.CF.“Okay, I see it. The rest of the notations are mostly dates.”The realization of what I’m looking at suddenly sinks in, and I tap the page. “These are dates from the time period of Fanning’s trial.” The bastard was arrested in June, but he didn’t go to trial until the next year.
“Maybe my father evaluated the victims, assessed their reliability. Something like that.”
“Have you found any files related to Fanning or Sanchez or any of the others?” I don’t have to tell her that Dr. Newhouse’s name is not in the official case file. If he was officially involved in any capacity, it was for the defense and was never revealed. Not something Liv will want to discover, I’m sure.
“Not so far.” She turns to the row of filing cabinets on the far wall. “I’ve been through all those, and there are no names from our list—unless the patients were listed under aliases. I suppose that’s possible, in which case, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Before I can pull together a reasonable theory, she warns, “It gets worse. While I was waiting for you to get here, I did a little more looking around.” She picks up the leather-bound calendar from her father’s desk. As she shuffles through to find whatever she’s looking for, I see numerous notes on page after page. Like me, her father preferred making notes the old-fashioned way.
“Have a look at this.” She passes me the calendar.
I stare at January twentieth. Just over two weeks before her father died.C. F. Riverbend.
“Why in the world would my father visit Carl Fanning in prison?”
Although, knowing her father, I’m certain there is a perfectly logical explanation, I can’t for the life of me think what it would be.
“TheCFon his calendar and on that page might not be Carl Fanning,” I offer.
She cocks her head and gives me a look. “Get real, Walt. I guess the Mario Sanchez in those notations isn’t the same one climbing mountains down in Mexico, either.”
“I guess we need to find out.”
Maybe Liv and I aren’t the only ones keeping secrets.
Fourteen
The Child
I watch him sleep the sleep of sheer exhaustion—the sort that comes after endless hours of pain. The adrenaline of fear or pain will keep one wide awake for long hours. It would be so easy for a victim to simply pass out, and that does sometimes happen. But a true artist of pain knows just how far to go before that particular defense mechanism kicks in. If you fail, there’s always the dash of cold water to get things going again. These things I learned from the master. Now the tables are turned. I wonder what he will learn from me?
I smile. I have only begun to hurt him. Before he takes his final breath, he will know all the pain and fear I knew.
