Read You Think You Know Me Pretty Well aka Mercy Online
Authors: David Kessler
“It was partly that. But it was also a tribute to an author I very much admire. But that’s another story. Anyway, you’re on the right track. Mom gave both of us names that mean ‘God’s gift.’ To her, I guess, we
were
gifts from God – especially when you consider that the old man was infertile. Dorothy had the Greek name. But I was the one from the Greeks bearing a gift – the gift that Dad – that … Edgar didn’t want to touch…”
They shared a weak smile at the irony.
“And what about Anderson?”
“Another bit of Greek. Andros means man. I was the son of man – even if I didn’t know at the time
which
man.”
“When did you find out that Edgar wasn’t your father?”
“I’d known from an early age that Edgar wasn’t my real father. I’d heard it in arguments before I was even old enough to understand these things. He’d get into drunken rages and then she was the ‘whore’ who’d slept with another man on the eve of the wedding. I was the ‘little mamzer’ who wasn’t even his daughter. I had it drummed into me even when I was a child. Then I found the picture.”
“He turned left. They’re going round the Valley.”
“Copy that, Larry. Any sign of slowing down?”
Slowing down would have been an indicator that someone was planning to make a run from the car on foot. The controller doubted this, but Larry had raised the possibility and they were now coming up to the big test of the fugitive’s intentions.
“That’s a negative. Suspect vehicle is still maintaining speed.”
“Looks like you were wrong, Larry.”
“Let’s not get our hopes up. They’re still a minute away from the trees.”
“You want to make a bet on it?”
“Yeah, two tickets to the world series.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Okay, one of the games.”
“You’re on.”
“By the way, if he does go for cover, you’ll have to send in a relief crew. I’ve only got enough fuel for another hour.”
“The picture of your mother?”
“No, the one I found with it.”
“What was that?”
“I’d been rummaging round in the closet in my parents’ bedroom, looking for my dad’s clothes to try on – I mean, Edgar’s.”
Nat wiped a tear from his eyes. Alex realized how hard it was to distance himself from thinking about Edgar Olsen as his father, even though he had known for such a long time.
“Go on.”
“I think I must have been about twelve or thirteen at the time. And I found these pictures of this young man and woman. They were in an old shoe box with a pile of old pictures, not exactly hidden away, but pushed right to the back of the closet, as if it was like buried away. You know, burying the past and all that.”
Alex nodded, signaling Nat to continue.
“And I recognized my mom, but I didn’t know who the man was. So I took just took the pictures and then I waited until I could find a suitable moment to ask Mom.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. She told me about the party and the one-night stand and all that. And I could tell by the way she was talking to me that there was more to it. So I asked her – point blank – if the man was my father. And she said yes.”
“And she let you keep the picture? She didn’t try and take it back?”
“No, I asked her if I could keep it. With all the shit in my life I needed something to cling onto, like my real father. And she saw the look in my eyes and … I think…” He was struggling against the threat of tears once again. “I think … that she knew how I felt, how strongly I wanted it. So she said I could keep it. And I’ve kept it ever since.”
“But did you ask her who it was? Did she even know the name?”
“That’s the funny thing. She said she didn’t. She always said that it was just someone she met at a party. But I think she did. I really think she did.”
“And did
you
find out?”
“Eventually. It was shortly after I came back, after I’d framed Burrow. It helped me find a sense of purpose. You see, I had a new identity and was all set to start a new life. But I didn’t have any sense of direction. I was drifting aimlessly. You know, like that poem by Stevie Smith.”
“Daddy?”
“No that was Sylvia Plath. The Stevie Smith poem was called ‘Not waving but drowning.’”
“‘Not waving but drowning?’”
“That’s the title. It’s about a man who was left to drown when people on the shore thought he was just waving. He was signaling for help, but they thought he was just clowning round. It was meant as a metaphor for life. We laugh to hide the fear.”
“And is that how you felt?”
The voice was gentle.
“Yes. Until then. But then I decided to become a lawyer. I did my SATs and got into college. I studied English Lit for my AB ‘cause I really loved the subject. I got that from … my mother … from Mom. And then I studied law.”
“And then?”
“I’m not really sure. I mean, even after I planted the evidence on Burrow, I still wanted closure.”
“What sort of closure?”
“That was the problem. It was still too confused in my own mind. I wanted Burrow to pay for all the years of misery and torment he’d put me through.”
“And you got Burrow to ask me to represent him by going through another prisoner and using him to influence Burrow.”
“Yes. In my last year of studies I was doing my first year of internship with the Public Defender’s office. I was working with quite a lot of cons and one of them was in the high security unit at San Quentin. He wasn’t on death row, but he still had some contact with Burrow through the prisoner’s grapevine. It’s quite sophisticated, you know. It was round about the time of the Sanchez case and you’d hired me and I was just finishing my term with the PD.”
“And you got him to recommend me on the strength of Sanchez and, because Burrow was looking for someone, he ended up with me.”
“Right.”
“Very clever.”
“Thanks.”
“And was that why you didn’t want to meet Burrow face to face? Because you were afraid that he’d recognize you?”
“Exact – ”
They were approaching Muir Beach and looming up ahead of them was a police road block: two cars and a wagon, covering both lanes. It would be easy enough to avoid. They could just swerve round it onto the grass on either side. But the question was … how would the police react?
They must know I’m a hostage, Alex thought. They won’t shoot into the car when there’s a chance I’ll be hit.
Of course they might try to take out the tires. But that would be dangerous too. The road hugged the cliff on this next stretch. Any damage to the tires and they might lose traction and skid over the edge.
He prayed that the cops wouldn’t do anything stupid. It was too much to hope that Nat wouldn’t.
“Run it,” snapped Nat, as if to confirm Alex’s worst fear.
“Yes, Mr. Governor, I understand, but they’re approaching.”
The State Trooper in charge of the roadblock at Muir Beach had received a frantic phone call from his captain. The next thing he knew, Governor Dusenbury had been patched through and was telling him that under no circumstances was he to take any action that might endanger the lives of either person in the stolen police car.
“Okay, sir, we won’t open fire … yes, sir, we won’t even return fire.”
“Not even at the tires!” the governor added for good measure.
“We weren’t planning on shooting at the tires. We’ve got the road fully blocked and we’ve planted Stop Sticks on the grass verges by the side, in case they try and give us the sli—”
“Are you crazy? Do you know what Stop Sticks’ll do to their tires?”
“Yes, sir, but that’s the point. It won’t shred the tires. It’ll let their air out gradually.”
“But they’re gonna be hugging the cliff on a two-laner, you jackass! Do you know what’ll happen if they skid on a bend on that stretch?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s too late! We can’t move the Sticks now, it’s not safe. Oh my God, they’re swerving! They’ve gone over the sticks. Shit!”
“Goddamn! What was that!” shouted Nat.
“I don’t know, I think we went over something.”
Nat was looking back frantically.
“Are they following?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That doesn’t make sense. They usually have cars ready to pursue if the road block gets run.”
Alex was now more tense than before.
Why would they just let them run the road block and do nothing? Did that mean they had something else ahead?
“Fuck ‘em,” said Nat. “We made it.”
“For now,” Alex replied, hoping that Nat would catch the fatalism in his tone.
“We’ll get to Stinson Beach and run the car off the cliff.”
“And then what?”
Nat was silent; they both knew why. He didn’t know what he was going to do afterward. There was no getting away. Stinson Beach wasn’t so big. Even if he could force his way into someone’s house, the cops would make house to house searches. And if he stayed out in the open he could be tracked by thermal imaging. It was night and not many people were about.
However, that was Nat’s worry. Alex’s worry was keeping the car on the road. The cliff wasn’t too steep here. But it would get steeper as they approached Stinson Beach. And there were some sharp bends in the road too. The worst part was the stretch approaching Gull Rock.
And the car was already not holding as steady as he would have liked.
“What about the meeting with Dusenbury?” asked Alex, trying to engage Nat in friendly conversation once more. “Why were you so anxious to avoid him?”
“It wasn’t him I was trying to avoid. It was my mother.”
“You
knew
she’d be there?”
“Let’s just say I had a feeling. Dusenbury is an old family friend and I knew that mom had cancer. I may have ended up hating her, but at one time we were very close and I knew how her mind worked.”
“And you knew she was going to try and persuade Dusenbury to offer clemency?”
“I had a feeling she’d meet him because of their past relationship. I didn’t know if anything would come out of such a meeting.”
“And you hated her so much that you couldn’t bring yourself to tell her that you were alive?”
“I didn’t, I don’t think. I mean, I hated her when she turned a blind eye to the way Edgar treated me. But … toward the end … I think I’d forgiven her.”
“Then why didn’t you go to her? Tell her … tell her that you’d forgiven her?”
Alex had been hesitant to ask this. He was afraid that Nat would break completely if he had to confront the fact that he too had inflicted torment on Esther, just as Edgar and Burrow had on him. But Nat held it together and even smiled.
“Have you ever read the story ‘Wakefield’?”
“‘Wakefield’?”
“By another Nathaniel. Nathaniel Hawthorne. He’s the author I was talking about before – the one my name is a tribute to.”
“No, I haven’t read it. Wasn’t he the guy who wrote
The Scarlet Letter
?”?
Nat smiled at the almost philistine way Alex had put it.
“Yes, he was the guy who wrote
The Scarlet Letter
. Anyway, ‘Wakefield’ was a story about a man who left his wife for no discernable reason, stayed away for years with no contact whatsoever, and then went back.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. I mean, I do, but barely. I couldn’t possibly do justice to it. You’ll have to read it to understand it. But the point is by that stage I no longer knew
why
I was doing it. I just was. Yes, I blamed her for letting Edgar abuse me. But more importantly I wanted to make
Burrow
pay. And for that I had to stay hidden from public view. I couldn’t admit my identity to anyone … just in case word got out and blew my cover.”
Alex was making a sharp right followed by a sharp left as the road took them across a small gully. Alex felt the vehicle shake awkwardly and realized in that moment that the tires were losing pressure – had
already
lost a lot of pressure. He realized what must have happened at the road block. The cops had used Stop Sticks. That’s what he had gone over when he swerved onto the grass verge at the last second.
“It’s a pity you had to stay away like that,” said Alex. “If you’d met Burrow – toward the end – you might have seen him differently.” Alex saw the pained look on Nat’s face. “I’m not trying to mitigate what he did to you. But he had changed.”
“I know. I suppose that living in fear of death was punishment enough for him. But it’s like … in that moment when he raped me … I swore that he’d pay with his life. And even though I mellowed over the years, I didn’t mellow enough to let him live.”