Chapter 3 - The Father Who Was Buried Alive
Harriet reached the front hall before Dominic caught up.
“Wait.”
“No.”
“Harriet.”
“That is my father.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to tell me to wait.”
She grabbed the front door handle.
Dominic put his hand against the door.
“Someone killed the cameras.”
Harriet turned.
“Move your hand.”
“If Henry came alone, why kill my cameras?”
“Maybe your cameras are terrible.”
“Harriet.”
The way he said her name stopped her.
Not because it was commanding.
Because it was worried.
Dominic looked toward the dark security monitor.
“My gate system has three independent power sources.”
Harriet’s anger cooled enough for fear to enter.
“Then who turned it off?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
A loud knock echoed through the house.
Three slow impacts.
Harriet stared at the door.
Another knock.
Then a voice.
“Harry?”
Her knees almost failed.
No one called her Harry.
Not since childhood.
Her father had.
Only her father.
Harriet shoved Dominic’s hand aside and opened the door.
Henry Lawson stood beneath the exterior light.
Older.
Much older.
His hair was almost completely gray.
His face was thinner, lined deeply around the mouth and eyes.
But it was him.
Harriet knew before he spoke.
A daughter knew.
Henry stared at her.
His mouth trembled.
“My girl.”
Harriet slapped him.
The sound cracked through the entryway.
Dominic’s men shifted behind her.
Henry did not move.
Harriet slapped him again.
Then she grabbed the front of his coat.
“You were alive.”
Henry’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“You were alive.”
“Yes.”
“My mother buried a stranger.”
“I know.”
“She waited for you.”
“I know.”
“She died waiting.”
Henry shut his eyes.
“I know.”
Harriet hit his chest with both fists.
Not hard.
Not the way she had fought in the garage.
This was worse.
Twenty-two years came out of her in broken blows.
Henry took every one.
“You let us think you were dead.”
“Yes.”
“You coward.”
“Yes.”
“You liar.”
“Yes.”
“I hate you.”
Henry’s face crumpled.
“I know.”
Harriet stopped hitting him.
Her hands remained against his coat.
Then Henry hugged her.
Harriet resisted for one second.
Two.
Then she collapsed against him.
The sound that came from her did not feel human.
She cried like the twenty-year-old girl who had answered the door when police said her father was gone.
Henry held her.
“I’m sorry.”
Harriet shook her head against his shoulder.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I missed you.”
Henry’s grip tightened.
“I missed every day.”
Dominic turned away and ordered everyone else to clear the hallway.
For several minutes, father and daughter stood alone.
Eventually Harriet pulled back.
Her face hardened again.
“You owe me twenty-two years.”
Henry nodded.
“I know.”
“You owe Mom more.”
Henry’s eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
“Come inside.”
Henry hesitated.
Dominic noticed.
“What?”
Henry looked toward the street.
“I wasn’t followed.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Henry entered.
Dominic shut the door.
“Who killed my cameras?”
Henry looked at him.
“You still sound like your father.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
“Do you have one?”
Henry looked at Harriet.
“Victor knows I’m here.”
Dominic’s face darkened.
“How?”
“Because I told him.”
Harriet stepped back.
“You what?”
“I needed him to move.”
“Move where?”
“Out of hiding.”
Dominic looked suddenly furious.
“You used my house as bait.”
Henry nodded.
“Yes.”
“While Harriet is inside.”
Henry’s expression tightened.
“I didn’t expect her to be here.”
Dominic laughed without humor.
“You’re making a strong case for father of the year.”
Harriet shot him a look.
“Not helping.”
Henry noticed the bandage beneath Dominic’s shirt.
“Garage?”
Dominic nodded.
“Six.”
“Rafe?”
“Yes.”
Henry looked at Harriet.
“He saw you.”
“Yes.”
“Damn.”
“He knew my name.”
Henry sat slowly.
The old man suddenly looked exhausted.
Harriet remained standing.
“You are going to tell me everything.”
Henry nodded.
“No more lies.”
“No more.”
“Start with Pier Nine.”
Henry looked at Dominic.
“Do you have the letter?”
Dominic brought the envelope from the kitchen.
Harriet held it but had not opened it.
Henry stared.
“I wrote that the night before.”
“For Mom.”
“And you.”
“Why didn’t you send it?”
“Because I believed somebody was watching the house.”
“Victor?”
“Victor and people working for him.”
Harriet sat opposite her father.
“Why?”
Henry took a breath.
“Because I found records proving Victor Marano had been stealing from Carlo Valenti for nearly three years.”
Dominic folded his arms.
Henry continued.
“Victor wasn’t just stealing money. He was buying people. Police. Port officials. Judges. Union supervisors. He was building something.”
“A rival organization,” Dominic said.
“No.”
Henry shook his head.
“A replacement.”
Dominic’s face changed.
Henry pointed at him.
“Victor never wanted a war with your father. He wanted Carlo’s entire network to collapse from the inside so everyone would turn to him afterward.”
Harriet frowned.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Henry looked at her.
“Everything.”
Harriet waited.
Henry’s eyes filled with shame.
“I kept copies.”
“Of the records?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I hid them.”
“Where?”
Henry looked down at his hands.
“Inside something no one would suspect.”
Harriet remembered the tire iron.
The initials.
“H.L.L.”
Henry noticed her reaction.
“What?”
“There was a tire iron in Dominic’s garage.”
Henry went still.
“Describe it.”
“Steel. Old. Bent near one end. Your initials scratched into the handle.”
Henry stood.
“That’s impossible.”
Dominic looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I hid the key inside that tire iron.”
Harriet frowned.
“What key?”
Henry looked terrified now.
“A safety deposit box.”
Dominic’s expression sharpened.
“Where?”
“Not a bank.”
“Then where?”
Henry rubbed his face.
“Private vault company. Milwaukee.”
Harriet stood.
“What’s in the box?”
“Copies of every record.”
Dominic stared.
“Enough to destroy Victor?”
Henry answered quietly.
“Enough to destroy everyone.”
Silence settled.
Harriet looked between them.
“What happened the night you disappeared?”
Henry’s voice lowered.
“I met Carlo at Pier Nine. I wanted him to take the records and go to federal authorities.”
Dominic said, “He refused.”
“He didn’t trust them.”
“Because Victor had agents too?”
“Yes.”
Henry looked at Dominic.
“Your father wanted to handle Victor himself.”
“And you disagreed.”
“I knew what that would mean.”
“War.”
“Bodies.”
Harriet watched her father struggle with the memory.
“Then Victor arrived.”
Henry nodded.
“He wasn’t alone.”
“Rafe?”
“No. Rafe was young then.”
“Who?”
Henry hesitated.
“Detective Samuel Pike.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed.
Harriet recognized the name.
Former police commissioner.
Retired.
Appeared on television every election season.
Henry continued.
“They tried to take the documents. Carlo fought back. Shots were fired.”
“Who got hit?” Harriet asked.
“Carlo.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Twice?”
“Once.”
Dominic frowned.
“I heard three shots.”
Henry looked at him.
“One hit your father. One hit the wall.”
“And the third?”
Henry stared at Harriet.
“I fired it.”
Harriet’s stomach tightened.
“At who?”
“Victor.”
“Did you hit him?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Pike grabbed me. We fought. Carlo’s men arrived. Victor escaped.”
Henry looked at his daughter.
“I knew the evidence was the only thing keeping you and your mother alive.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor didn’t know where I had hidden it.”
Harriet’s voice cracked.
“So you disappeared.”
Henry nodded.
“If I came home, he would follow.”
“You could have told us.”
“And made you targets?”
“We were targets anyway.”
“No. As long as Victor believed you knew nothing, he left you alone.”
Harriet wanted to argue.
But she remembered her childhood after his death.
No threats.
No strangers.
No break-ins.
Just grief.
Henry looked at Dominic.
“Carlo arranged the burned car.”
Dominic closed his eyes briefly.
“You’re saying my father helped fake your death.”
“Yes.”
Harriet turned toward Dominic.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
Henry shook his head.
“Carlo kept it from him.”
“Why?”
“Because Dominic was eighteen and angry.”
Dominic gave Henry a cold look.
“Fair.”
Henry almost smiled.
Then Harriet remembered something.
“The man in the burned car.”
Henry’s face fell.
“Raymond Cole.”
“Who was he?”
“A port worker Victor had already killed.”
Harriet looked away.
Even fake deaths left real bodies.
Dominic spoke.
“Where have you been?”
“Everywhere.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Oregon. Nevada. Mexico. Canada. Back east.”
Harriet looked at him.
“You watched us?”
Henry’s eyes lowered.
“From a distance.”
“When Mom got sick?”
“Yes.”
Harriet’s breath caught.
“You knew?”
Henry nodded.
“You watched her die?”
His voice broke.
“Yes.”
Harriet stood.
She walked across the room.
For several seconds, she could not look at him.
Then Henry said, “I almost came back.”
Harriet turned.
“Almost?”
“I sat across the street from the hospital for six hours.”
“Why didn’t you come inside?”
“Because a man was watching the entrance.”
“Victor?”
“One of his.”
Harriet’s anger returned.
“So you chose safety.”
“I chose you.”
“No.”
She pointed at him.
“You chose for me.”
Henry accepted that.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than denial.
Dominic’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
“Vehicle approaching.”
Henry stood.
“Victor?”
“Unknown.”
Dominic’s men moved immediately.
Harriet looked toward the windows.
Headlights swept across the driveway.
A black sedan stopped outside.
Henry frowned.
“That’s not Victor’s car.”
A man stepped out.
Gray suit.
Umbrella.
Older.
Harriet recognized him from television.
Samuel Pike.
Former police commissioner.
Henry went pale.
“He found us.”
Dominic’s hand moved beneath his jacket.
Harriet grabbed the tire iron Dominic had carried inside.
Pike walked calmly to the front door.
He did not knock.
Instead, he held up a phone toward the camera.
A live video played on its screen.
Harriet leaned closer.
The image showed a chair.
A woman sat tied to it.
Harriet recognized her immediately.
Marlowe’s manager.
Cynthia.
Pike smiled at the camera.
Then he raised a handwritten sign.
May you like
SEND HENRY OUT.
OR SHE DIES FIRST.
