Lantana got them down the road in a hurry until she stopped at a service station, where she washed up and got some ice on an eye that was swelling and turning darker by the minute. She had a tear in her panty hose just beneath her knee, where an ugly bruise was spreading.
“You okay?” Mark asked as she slid back beneath the wheel.
“Probably a little worse than I look.”
“Lantana, I’m sorry I got you into that.”
“You couldn’t have known how he was going to react.”
They were quiet for a while on the way back to town. Lantana tried conversation a few times but was met with silence as Mark, his head turned toward the window, watched the scenery fly by without seeing any of it.
Finally, as they reached the edge of DeClare, Mark said, “Kyle’s right. Arthur did it. He got Gaylene out of jail while she was still drunk, took her out to his cabin and raped her.”
A
rthur McFadden, pacing in his office with a cell phone at his ear, a cigar in his mouth, didn’t realize Mark had entered the radio station and was watching him from the doorway.
“Yes, I understand that,” Arthur said into the mouthpiece, then, with his free hand, rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he listened to the voice on the line.
Now, with the realization that this man could be his father, Mark saw him in a very different way from the two previous times they’d come face-to-face. Every feature, every gesture, every movement, took on new meaning.
Arthur was tall; at his prime he’d probably been six two or three, about Mark’s height. And he was terribly thin, a characteristic Mark might have attributed to the old man’s health or age—except for the framed photos he’d seen on the walls of the cabin. Arthur had always been slender. So had Mark.
The only facial feature Mark thought similar to his own was Arthur’s chin, square with a bold jawline. Other than that, Mark believed himself to favor Gaylene Harjo more than Arthur McFadden, a comforting feeling.
Arthur walked with his left shoulder higher than his right, just as Mark did, and both men had a tendency to drag their feet a bit with their steps.
But Mark knew, without a doubt, that he could find many similarities between himself and most men if he looked hard enough. And the characteristics he’d identified in Arthur that were much like his own certainly didn’t indicate that this was the man who had fathered him.
When Arthur finally noticed Mark standing in the door, he said, “I’ll have to call you back. Someone’s here.”
As soon as he snapped the cell phone closed, and even before he acknowledged Mark’s presence, he got his jacket from a coat-rack in the corner of the room and put it on as if he were preparing for a business meeting.
“That was the head of security at the Haven,” Arthur said. “I’ve spoken to him twice and to the nursing supervisor once. You and your lady friend caused quite a stir out there this afternoon.”
“Yes, I suppose we did.”
“In our last conversation, our
only
conversation, I asked you to leave Kyle alone. I thought I had thoroughly explained his reaction to seeing you, which was a disaster. But apparently you didn’t listen, or else you went there with the purpose of agitating him. In either case, the outcome is the same.”
“Exactly what does that mean?”
“Kyle has been removed from the general population of the hospital.”
“Meaning a padded cell,” Mark said.
“You, and you alone, Mr. Harjo, or whatever you call yourself, are responsible for making his recovery so much more difficult than it needs to be. As a result, he’s sedated and under constant watch.”
“Kyle’s always sedated, isn’t he?”
“Today’s circumstances were markedly different. He tried to end his life.”
The statement hit Mark hard, but he worked at not losing his focus, remembering that he was talking to a man who was a liar, probably a rapist, perhaps a killer.
“I don’t believe I’ll accept the responsibility for that, Mr. McFadden. Why don’t you add that to
your
list of credits.”
“I think before you say anything more,” Arthur said, “you should know that I’ve already spoken to my attorney, Paul Perkins. As Kyle’s guardian, I am filing legal action against you on his behalf, for harassment and mental anguish.”
“I’m curious. Did the nursing supervisor tell you why I went to see Kyle?”
“I doubt the ‘why’ of it has any merit.”
“Then I don’t suppose you know that I went to the hospital to ask Kyle about Gaylene Harjo’s arrest for DUI on June 28, 1970.”
Arthur’s response was silent but palpable. His skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration, his breathing accelerated and his upper body slumped, just slightly, such a subtle gesture that it was barely discernible. When he made his way to the chair behind his desk, he took a monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his forehead.
“I don’t see how that concerns Kyle or me.”
“Oh, I believe you do. I know that Gaylene was jailed for driving drunk, but she didn’t stay behind bars very long because O Boy Daniels called you to pick her up and take her home.”
“Why would
I
take her home? She worked for me, but that was it. I never took her to dinner, never took her on a business trip. Never bought her a birthday present. And I
never
took her home.”
“But you took her to bed, didn’t you.”
“No, of course not!”
“I have proof that you picked her up at the jail.”
After hesitating just a moment too long, Arthur shrugged. “Okay. Say I did. She didn’t want her parents to see her drunk, made me swear I’d never let them know, then asked me to drive her to Rowena Whitekiller’s.”
“And you did. But not before you drove her to your cabin, where you raped her.”
Arthur took a deep, steady breath, made a quick switch from defense to offense, then said, “Mr. Harjo, in addition to the charges I’m filing on behalf of Kyle, I will be charging you with defamation of character. Mine.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to damage your character.”
“You know, I don’t believe, have never believed, that you are Gaylene Harjo’s son. I think he was murdered at the same time his mother was.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Two reasons come to mind. The first: blackmail. I suspect you stumbled onto what happened here in 1972. You did some research, found out who the major players were and how they fit into the events that took place here and figured you could pull this off. Easy pickings, you thought, because you’re a con man and because you’re about the right age. You assumed your threat to expose me as the bad guy who got sweet little Gaylene Harjo pregnant would induce me to hand over a substantial amount of money.
“Well, wake up, genius. We’re about to enter the twenty-first century. No one gives a damn anymore about a girl who screwed half the men in town and got knocked up by one of them.”
Mark could feel his rage building, wanted more than anything to put his fist through Arthur’s mouth, feel teeth splintering, a jaw cracking, a tongue gushing blood. But he held himself back, knowing the relief of hurting Arthur would come later. He just had no idea that he wouldn’t be the one to inflict the pain.
“Who would care? My ex-wife? No. The hicks who listen to my station? Why, they’d love it. A hint of Jerry Springer right here in DeClare, Oklahoma. And a scandal would ultimately result in increased advertising revenue.”
“All publicity is good publicity, huh?” Mark said.
“So I’ve heard.”
“And the second reason?” Mark asked. “You said you could think of at least two reasons for my coming here. The first was blackmail. I’m waiting for you to tell me about reason number two.”
“If,” Arthur said, “and I repeat
if
, you could prove what you have alleged—”
“Which wouldn’t be that much of a stretch since I was born nine months after you raped Gaylene.”
“Then you could lay claim to being my son.”
“And how would I profit from that?”
“You would be my next of kin, the only child of a single man without living parents, my only sibling a half-brother. Oliver. When I die, you would be in a position to inherit my entire estate.”
“What estate? A two-bit radio station? Or maybe you own a collection of
Reader’s Digest Condensed Books
? Would I also inherit your phony accent? Or perhaps I’d get Kyle.”
“Oh, that would be a nice payback, wouldn’t it? Yes, I rather like that notion.”
“Do you like it enough to submit to a DNA test to determine paternity?”
Arthur found enough humor in the question that he actually smiled.
“You know,” Mark said, “it’s possible to have the test performed even without your consent.”
“Well, let’s say you do that. And let’s say the test reveals that Gaylene and I fathered a child. You. Nick Harjo. Then here’s a scenario you should perhaps consider.
“I picked her up at jail, took her to the cabin, we had a couple of drinks. We screwed, had a good time, and as a result, she had a baby. I don’t think that’s a crime. I believe that’s called consensual sex.
“Now, let’s consider another scenario. The one you came up with. I picked her up, took her to the cabin and raped her. Problem is, I could never be charged with that crime. The statute of limitations has expired.”
“You bastard.”
“That, I believe, would best describe you, Mr. Harjo.” Arthur, with a smug grin, leaned back in his chair. “Of course, there could be one other reason you came here to confront me with these allegations.”
“What would that be?”
“After all this time, you’ve suddenly decided you want to know your daddy, your papa. Your loving father. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but all you’ve gotten for yourself so far is unsubstantiated evidence, some unreliable theories and just a little more truth than you were prepared to handle.
“Now, get your slimy ass out of my office. Son!”
Lantana, who’d driven Mark from the Haven to the radio station, was sitting in the front office, the space that served as a waiting room. She was using a four-year-old edition of
Radio Journal
as a prop to create the impression that she hadn’t moved from her chair since she and Mark had arrived. In truth, she’d been on the prowl all over the building and even managed to eavesdrop just outside Arthur’s door for a good part of the conversation between the two men.
When she heard Mark coming down the hall, she could tell from the sound of his crutch hammering the floor that he was furious.
“You okay?” she asked as he passed her without a word, going for the front door.
Outside, she had to hustle to keep up with him, a man on a crutch, followed by a woman wearing a ridiculously high pair of heels.
After they got in the car, she started the engine, turned on the air conditioner and said, “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay. What do you want to do?”
He stared straight ahead, curling his hands into fists.
“Huh-uh,” she said. “Don’t even think about punching my dash. That would make two lawsuits filed against you. One by Arthur, and one by me.”
“You were listening?”
“Of course. Didn’t you expect me to?”
“No. Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know.”
“So, is the DNA test on or not?”
Suddenly, his anger spent, he turned to look at her. “God, I forgot. The ashtray was right there on his desk and I forgot. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“I was.” She pulled a plastic bag from her purse. Inside was a cigar stub.
“Where did you get that?”
“In the control room while you two were dancing around one another at the beginning of the bout, like two boxers, each eager to throw the first punch.”
She took a second plastic bag from her purse and a rubber glove. After she put it on, she opened the bag and took out a swab.
“Open your mouth,” she said.
He did; she ran the swab along his inner cheek, then dropped the swab in the bag and sealed it.
“Where did you get this stuff?”
“A DNA kit.”
“What happens now?”
“I take this to Tulsa, to a lab where I have a special friend. He’ll begin testing today.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better call him so he’ll wait for me. Then, with the right kind of luck, we should have the results by tomorrow.”
“Then let’s go to Tulsa.”
“You don’t want me to drop you off somewhere?”
“Nope.”
Neither spoke until they were on the Broken Arrow Expressway to Tulsa, but once they hit the four-lane, Lantana said, “Mark, you remember when we were at the Haven today and you said I seemed to know my way around?”
“Did I say that?”
“I spent some time in a psychiatric hospital much like the one Kyle was in. But now, after seeing where he was, I suppose they’re all pretty much the same. People with invisible damage go in; people with invisible cures come out. Sometimes.”
“Lantana, are you sure this is something you want to tell me?”
“It’s okay. It has to do with what happened here a lifetime ago. My lifetime.
“I got mixed up with O Boy Daniels. I was a girl, twenty-one that winter. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was no virgin, but I didn’t really know much about men. Not much about sex, either, but I thought I did.
“Anyway, I slept with O Boy to get what I wanted—the story. Unfortunately, I also got what I didn’t want—a pregnancy.”
“Did he know?”
“Yeah. I needed money for an abortion, so I went to him, asked him to help me.”
“Let me guess,” Mark said.
“The son of a bitch laughed at me. Flipped me some coins, told me to buy a bottle of quinine. Said that would fix my problem.
“Long story short: I took two hundred dollars to a door marked ‘Private’ in the back room of a resale shop. Got my abortion, along with a perforated uterus, hemorrhage, peritonitis and septicemia. I think my ‘specialist’ used a rusted corkscrew.”
“Lantana. I’m sorry.”
“P.S. Eight months later I had to have a hysterectomy. Twenty-one years old. No kids for this gal. None. Nada. Never.”
With that, she pressed her foot down on the gas pedal, watching the needle on the Porsche’s speedometer race toward a hundred.
That night, just after eleven, Mark crawled into the bed Ivy had vacated for him.
He and Lantana had gone to dinner in Tulsa after they left Future Diagnostics, the lab where Lantana’s “friend,” Harold Madrid, worked as a geneticist. He had explained that his lab work was not certified, which would have required a signed consent form by the alleged father.
But Mark didn’t care if it was certified or not. He just wanted an answer. Just one definitive answer.
By the time he and Lantana had returned to DeClare and she dropped him off at Teeve’s, Ivy was asleep on the Hide-A-Bed and Teeve was snoring behind her closed bedroom door.
Just as Mark was reaching to turn off the lamp beside the bed, he heard a phone ring once, answered, he supposed, by Ivy in the den. A minute later, she came to his open door wearing what she’d worn the night they’d met—a
SIERRA CLUB
T-shirt and cotton underpants. The only difference was that the shirt was tighter across her belly now and the underpants didn’t bag as much as they had ten days ago.