Don't Say A Word (33 page)

    This was his father.

    The last time they'd spoken, Alex had been nine years old. And right now he felt about nine, overwhelmed with emotions that normally had no place in his life.

    Julia tried to take his hand, but he pulled away. He couldn't stand to touch her. Couldn't stand to feel anything more than he was feeling. He walked into the house, looking around the dingy room. There was a green couch along one wall, a ripped, taped armchair in a corner in front of an old television set. A dog barked from behind a gate in the kitchen.

    "Noah, quiet," Charles said sharply.

    The dog barked once in reply, then sank to the ground.

    Alex stared at the black lab with the white streak down its nose. His father had a dog-the pet he'd never been allowed to have. His mother had always said dogs were too messy, too much work, and his father was always on the road, so that was that. But now his dad had a dog. Unbelievable.

    "Alex, let's sit down," Julia suggested.

    He shook his head, his gazed fixed on his father's' face. "You want to talk-talk."

    Charles cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say. I wondered if this day would ever come."

    "You did? You wondered?" Alex tasted bile in the back of his throat. "When did you wonder? The day we buried an empty box in the ground, or was it later? Were you at your own funeral? Did you watch us grieving over you? Was it a big joke?"

    "No, of course not."

    "How could you do that to us? How could you let us believe you were dead?"

    Charles stared back at him with apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

    "No, you're just sorry I found out."

    "It's a long, complicated story."

    "So start explaining. Not that I have any reason to believe a word you say."

    "I deserved that," Charles said.

    "I don't know what you deserve. Why don't you start with why you faked your own death to your wife and child?"

    "To protect you," Charles answered.

    "From what?" Alex's hands clenched into fists. He was so angry he wanted to hit someone or something. It was all he could do not to give in to the impulse.

    "From the people who were after me because of the photo you'd taken."

    Alex hated being reminded that the photo was his fault. He'd blamed himself for his father's death even before this past week. He'd always felt that somehow he'd been responsible. Then when Stan and later Brady told him his father had been murdered… He shook his head as anger raced through him once again. "I can't believe I blamed myself for your fake death."

    "Why would you blame yourself for my accident?" Charles asked sharply.

    "Let's see-maybe it was because Daniel Brady told me yesterday that you were killed because of that picture I took."

    "Brady told you that? Did he tell you I was alive?"

    "No, he didn't mention that little fact." Alex's stomach burned once again as he remembered that
Danie
Brady had told them Charles was probably murdered, and he'd said it with a straight face. "That bastard," he murmured. "He knew all along you were alive."

    "He helped me set up the crash," Charles admitted. "Brady was never supposed to tell you it was anything but an accident." He paused, his eyes serious. "He must have wanted to scare you off. Why were you talking to him?"

    Alex ignored that. "Does Mom know that you're alive?"

    Charles shook his head. "No."

    That was a small consolation. At least he hadn't been the only one duped.

    "After the photo was published, I received a death threat," his father said. "I knew you and your mother were in danger. The only way I could protect you was to die. If I was dead, you would be free."

    "You're going to have to give me more than that," Alex said, pacing back and forth across the room, adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream. He couldn't handle the emotions ripping through him-anger, frustration, disappointment, sadness, bewilderment…

    "It's too dangerous to tell you more," his father replied. "I've protected you all these years. I won't stop now just because you're grown."

    "How dare you tell me that you've protected me! You left me fatherless and alone. You let me grow up thinking you were dead. Do you have any idea what that was like?" Twenty-five years of grief and rage for all that he'd lost with his dad drove him over the edge. Alex picked up the glass vase on top of the television console and heaved it toward the fireplace. The glass shattered into a million pieces. He felt only marginally better.

    "Alex, calm down," Julia said, worry in her eyes.

    "Why should I? He broke up my life."

    "I know you're upset," Charles began. 258 "That doesn't even touch what I'm feeling. How the hell can you stand there and talk about protecting me when you walked out on me? I wanted to be just like you. God! I can't believe I ever thought that way." He bit down on his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. "I'm not doing this," he said. He headed for the door, his only thought to get as far away from his father as possible.

    "Wait, don't go," Charles said. "We need to talk this out."

    Alex paused in the doorway. "How are we going to talk when you won't tell me anything? I'm done. You can keep your secrets. I don't give a damn anymore. I'm out of here." Alex slammed out of the door, striding down to the sidewalk so fast he barely felt his feet hit the pavement. He was so mad. His head was pounding, and his nerves felt as if they were on fire.

    "Hang on, Alex," Julia yelled. She caught up with him at the car. "I'm driving."

    "No, you're not."

    "Yes, I am. You're in no condition to drive. You'«probably run us off the road."

    "You must be mistaking me for my father. He's the one who runs off roads and pretends to be dead." H slammed his fist down on the hood of the car, relishing the pain that shot through his fingers and up his arm. He could handle that pain. He could handle what was real, what made sense.

    "Give me the keys," Julia said, blocking his way into the car.

    "I am fine."

    "You're nowhere close to fine. And you know it."

    He didn't want to waste time arguing with her. He tossed her the keys. "Drive fast," he ordered. "I want to get the hell away from here."

    They should have stayed and talked it out, Julia thought as she drove Alex back to San Francisco.

    There were questions that should have been asked- about the photograph, about Sarah, about herself. Those questions would have to wait. When Alex had time to think, to recover, maybe he'd be more receptive to another discussion. If not, she'd do it on her own. But she wouldn't leave him now. For the first time since she'd met him, he seemed completely overwhelmed and out of control. Every muscle in his body was clenched. There was a nervous, reckless, angry energy about him as he tapped his fingers on his leg, then the armrest, shifting every few minutes as if he couldn't possibly get comfortable. She doubted he would feel comfortable for a very long time.

    His father was alive. She couldn't imagine what Alex must have felt when his father stepped onto that porch. She knew how much Alex had idolized his father and how much he loved him. In fact, up until this moment she might have said that Charles Manning was the only person Alex had ever loved with any kind of depth. He certainly didn't seem to possess the same emotion for his mother or for any other woman in his life.

    She shot him a sideways glance, wondering what he would tell his mother. But she wouldn't ask. She couldn't push him right now. He was a spark ready to explode.

    "Can't you drive any faster?" Alex asked as they crossed the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. "Why don't you change lanes?"

    "Alex, chill. Do you want me to turn on some music?"

    "No." Alex tugged on the seat belt restraining him and shifted in his seat once more. He breathed out a heavy sigh, then said, "He's not dead, Julia."

    She cast him a quick glance, but he was staring straight ahead. "I know," she said.

    "I watched them put an empty casket into the ground. I didn't know it was empty at the time. No one explained that to me when I was nine, but I figured it out later. I don't even have to close my eyes to remember the cemetery staff throwing big chunks of dirt onto the casket after they'd put it in the ground. My mother didn't want me to watch, but I couldn't look away." He turned to her. "Where do you think he was? Hiding behind some tree or statue in the cemetery? Was he watching us cry for him? How could he let us think he was dead? What kind of man does that to his child and his wife?"

    "I'm sorry, Alex."

    He didn't seem to hear her. He was too lost in his thoughts, his memories. "I went into my parents' bedroom during the reception after the funeral. I didn't understand why people were laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. I wanted to feel closer to my father, so I went into the room my parents shared when they'd been living together. He hadn't been there in months, but I thought I could still smell his aftershave. I went into the closet where he had left some clothes hanging in the back. I stayed in that closet for over an hour."

    Her heart broke at the image of the lonely, terrified little boy he described. "Did your mother find you?" she asked softly, hoping that Kate Manning had had enough tenderness at that point to pull a nine-year-old Alex into her arms and hold him.

    "No, she didn't come looking for me. Eventually, I came out on my own and put myself to bed. He was gone and I had to accept it. So I did." Alex rubbed his forehead with his fingers as if he had a pounding headache.

    "I have some aspirin in my purse," she offered.

    "I don't need it. I'm fine."

    "Yeah, you already told me that."

    A few minutes later she exited the bridge and drove straight to Alex's apartment building, hoping she wouldn't find any more surprises. They'd have to pick up their cars later and return the car they were driving to Alex's friend. But at the moment all she wanted to do was get Alex home.

    When they entered the apartment, it was just as they'd left it-complete and total devastation. Maybe it was a good time to clean up. It would give them something else to focus on besides the horrible truth they'd just uncovered.

    She followed Alex into the bedroom, surprised when he pulled out an overnight bag from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. "What are you doing?" she asked.

    "I'm leaving."

    She was shocked. Those were the last words she'd expected him to say. "What do you mean?"

    "I'm getting out of here. I don't need this," he said, running his hand through his hair. His eyes were wild, filled with reckless anger. "A good photographer doesn't get involved with his subjects. He stays on the right side of the lens," he added. "I never should have gotten involved with you."

    "But you did get involved, and you can't leave. We're not finished. We don't know everything."

    "I know more than enough. You can talk to my father on your own. I'm sure he can help you figure out the rest. Maybe he'll tell you more if I'm not there, if he doesn't have to protect me," he said with bitterness.

    "I know you're hurt-"

    "You don't know anything."

    "Yes, I do," she argued. "Your father lied to you. My mother lied to me. I know how it feels to have the rug pulled out from under your feet."

    "Your mother didn't pretend she was dead."

    "She did to her own parents." She paused, letting that sink in. "Don't you think it's another odd coincidence that both of our parents chose to do that to the people they loved? Doesn't that make you wonder 262 exactly what they were involved in? It had to be big, Alex. These aren't tiny white lies, little secrets. Don't you want to know exactly what happened?"

    He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty flashing through his eyes; then he shook his head, his mouth drawing once again into a taut, resolute line. "1 don't care about any of it. My father left my life twenty-five years ago. I've gotten along fine without him and without knowing anything else. I can go another twenty-five years the same way."

    "No, you can't."

    "Watch me." He zipped up his bag and went to the closet to get his camera case.

    Julia wished she could find the right words to stop him from leaving, but he seemed hell-bent on doing just that. "Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?"

    "No. You should stay with your father. Don't hang out on your own," he advised.

    "What do you care? You'll be gone." She wanted him to reply, but he just continued packing. She walked out of the bedroom, into the living room, hoping with every step that he'd call her back. There was nothing but silence.

    Julia took a cab to where she'd left her car, there decided to return home and figure out her next ster. She could drive back to St. Helena on her own, but it was late afternoon and the traffic would be back. Besides, she needed time to process everything they'd learned.

    When she entered her apartment, she found Liz, dressed in blue jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, doing her own packing. She had two suitcases on Julia's bed and was quickly filling them up.