I can feel Uncle Philip’s eyes on me. He gives me the smallest of nods, but it says a lot. He was there. He’ll be there.
I was shot three times at the Payne estate.
It would have been more. That’s what I was told. But Matthew ran over to me. When the cops saw that, they stopped firing. I wasn’t conscious for any of that.
From my right side, I feel a small hand slip into mine. It’s comforting. I turn and smile down at Matthew. I look past my son to Rachel, who holds Matthew’s other hand. She gives me a small smile, and my chest fills. I meet her eye and let her know I’m doing okay.
My father had been sick for a long time. He was more than ready to go. I think he held on long enough to see me exonerated—and to see his grandson again.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.
We all lower our head for the Kaddish. I am first in line to throw ceremonial dirt on my father’s grave. Aunt Sophie goes next. I hold her arm as she does it, more for my balance than hers. I spent two months in the hospital and went through six operations. I’m told that it is unlikely I will ever walk without a cane again, but I’m going to work my ass off in physical therapy.
I like trying to defy the odds. I’m good at that, I guess.
After the funeral we head back to the old house in Revere to sit shiva. The ghosts are there, of course, but they seem respectfully quiet today. None of us are religious, but we find solace in the ritual. Friends have sent us enough food to fill Fenway Park. I sit in the low chair, as is the custom, and listen to stories of my dad. It is a comfort.
Aunt Sophie will live here alone now.
“This neighborhood,” she told me. “It’s all I know.”
I understand, of course.
When there is a break in the line of mourners, Aunt Sophie nudges my arm and gestures toward Rachel. Rachel is helping set out yet another plate of sloppy joe sandwiches.
“So you and Rachel…？” she asks.
“Early days,” I say.
Aunt Sophie smiles. She will have none of that. “Not so early. I’m very happy about it. Your father was too.”
I swallow and stare at this woman I love. “She makes me happy,” I tell my aunt. And I’m not sure I’ve ever meant something so much in my life.
Special Agent Max Bernstein is at the end of the mourners’ line with his partner Sarah Jablonski. They both shake my hand and offer their condolences. Bernstein’s eyes dart all over the room.
“I don’t know if this is the right time,” Bernstein says to me.
“For?”
“For giving you an update.”
I look at his partner, then back to him. “It’s the right time,” I say.
Jablonski takes that one. “We may have a lead on…on the victim’s identity.”
The little boy in Matthew’s bed. I look toward Bernstein.
“There’s an overseas orphanage the Payne family runs,” he says. “That’s all we know right now.”
“But we’ll learn more,” Jablonski adds.
I believe them. But I don’t think it will be enough.
It took three months for me to be freed. Philip and Adam both lost their jobs. There is still talk about prosecuting them and even Rachel for aiding and abetting. They also make noise about the two “security guards” I shot at the Payne estate. But our attorney Hester Crimstein seems to think nothing will come of any of that. I hope she’s right.
I need to stretch my legs, especially the one that took the bullet, so I stand. I am about to head toward the kitchen when I stop.
Nicky Fisher stands in the corner with his arms folded. He is watching me.
The night before, Nicky flew up from his Florida compound and came right to the house in Revere. He asked me to step outside, so we could talk in private on the front porch. My two goon friends were on the walkway, standing by a black SUV. They waved to me. I waved back.
Nicky Fisher stared up into the starless black sky and said, “I’m sorry about your old man.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me everything, David. Leave nothing out.”
So I did.
You, like Nicky Fisher, will probably want to hear how both Gertrude and Hayden Payne are now serving long prison sentences. They are not. After I was shot, Max showed up at the estate. Uncle Philip had confided in him, and so he understood a lot of it. That helped. Still, when I was stable, I was taken back to the Briggs infirmary. The wheels of justice churn slowly. There was, as the Paynes had pointed out to me, not much evidence of any crime committed by Hayden or his grandmother. No clue Hayden had been involved in any murder or kidnapping other than, well, having Matthew. No clue Gertrude Payne knew anything other than that Hayden had told her that this boy was his son. How did Hayden end up with the boy? Hayden told a story about an Italian actress being the mother. Yes, these were lies. Some were obvious. But when you have a team of powerful lawyers, judges, and politicians who can gaslight with the best of them, those wheels grind to a halt.
Money greases the wheels. Money can also stop them.
I explained all this to Nicky Fisher on the front porch last night. Nicky Fisher listened without interrupting. When I finished, Nicky said, “That can’t stand.”
“What can’t stand?”
“Them getting away with it.”
Then Nicky Fisher walked off the front porch, and the SUV drove him away.
Now he’s back. Our eyes lock, the old man’s and mine, and he too nods at me. But this nod is different from Uncle Philip’s. This one sends a cold finger down my spine, but a cold finger that could be good or bad.
I’m going to go with good for me, bad for the Paynes.
I make my way through the mourners, nodding, smiling, shaking hands. When I reach the kitchen, I see Ronald Dreason, Cheryl’s husband, looking out the back window into my old yard. I stand next to him.
“You doing okay?” Ronald asks me.
I nod. “Thanks for being here.”
“Of course,” he says.
We stand side by side looking out that kitchen window. Cheryl is there. She is holding her four-month-old daughter, Ellie, in her arms. I sneak a glance at Ronald, the proud father, and see him smile at them. He loves Cheryl. I’m happy about that too.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” I say to him.
“Yeah.” Ronald is practically bursting. “Yeah, she is.”
And there, standing in my old backyard with his mother, is Matthew.
It is new, all of this, but for now Cheryl and I are sharing custody of our son. He spends one week with Cheryl and Ronald. Then he spends one week with Rachel and me. So far, it seems to be working.
And how is Matthew?
He has nightmares, but fewer than you’d think. Children are resilient, him especially so. Will there be long-term adverse effects? Everyone says that’s likely, but I’m more optimistic. Eight years is a curious age. He’s old enough to understand most of it. You can’t lie about what happened or try to sugarcoat it. Hayden treated Matthew well, thank God, but the boy had spent most of his life parentless in a ritzy Swiss boarding school. He seems to miss his friends and teachers more than the man he once believed was his father. But he has nice memories of Hayden. He asks me about that, about how a man who could have done such evil could also be kind. I try to explain to him that human beings are more complex than we know, but of course, I don’t really have an answer.