Subject Seven (14 page)

THE PHONE CALL AT three in the morning was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Really wrong, as in, even the news of his adoption was considered insignificant by comparison.

Uncle Robbie had been attacked. Gene's parents were at the hospital while Gene, the oldest at fifteen, was left at home in charge of getting his siblings off to school. He was about to go back to bed for the few remaining hours before sunrise when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Gene? It's Dad.”

“How's Uncle Robbie?” Gene would never admit it to anyone, but he had felt gleeful when he first heard the news of Robbie's misfortune. But he knew it was wrong. He was a part of the family, after all, even if it wasn't by blood. Even if people like Revrund Robbie could preach sermons to him about how lucky he was to be loved by people who took him in from the cold. He tried to let go of his earlier anger.

“He's stable. They've got him out of surgery and it looks good.” He could hear the relief in his dad's voice. Not relief for Robbie, but relief that Gene would even ask. His father understood how deeply Gene felt the betrayal. They had argued for much of the evening. He was probably secretly thrilled that Gene hadn't sent a letter bomb to the hospital already. “He took a bad beating,” his dad continued, “but there isn't any brain swelling, so he should pull through.”

He didn't have to tell Gene about complications. The family of a doctor always understands about things like septic infections and unexpected blood clots. They came with the territory and with the occasional ghosts that lingered in his father's eyes after a hard day in the emergency room. Marty Rothstein knew his son understood all about that sort of complication, and so he let it go.

“That's good to hear.” The words sounded sincere but tasted like a lie.

“Gene, are we okay?” His father's voice begged for a happy ending.

He closed his eyes and swallowed and tried to say something nice, something pleasant, when all he wanted to do was scream and cry and act like a bratty five-year-old. “Give me some time, Dad. Okay? I need to adjust to all of this.” He waved his arms to encompass the whole of the world as if his father could possibly see the gesture or understand how vast the world is when you discover your biological parents never wanted you.

“Just. Gene, please, just remember we love you. We've always loved you. We couldn't love you any more if you were our flesh and blood. You're our son in every way that matters.”

“I know, Dad. And I love you and Mom. But right now I need to think about everything.”

He knew his father wanted to say more. He also knew his father was at a loss for what to say. They hung up.

Gene thought about his savings account. Every year his parents—
adoptive parents
, he corrected himself—gave him money for his birthday and holidays, and he put it in the bank and never spent it. Would that money be enough to hire a detective who could find his real parents?

The knock at the door took him off guard. Gene moved in that direction without thinking. It seemed that thinking was almost impossible. All he could do was react to whatever came his way.

By the time he'd unlocked the door, the courier had left. All he found was a package.

He reached down, fully expecting it to be addressed to one of his parents. Instead he saw that the bundle was addressed to Mr. Eugene Rothstein, with a warning that the information inside was considered “personal and confidential.”

There was no return address.

He opened the package and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

It read:

Below that simple statement was a phone number and the handwritten message:

Joe
.

Gene looked at the paper for several minutes, his heart beating a little too fast and his mind refusing to think things through carefully.

When he finally dialed the number, the phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” The voice was deep and clipped, almost impatient sounding.

“Hi, is this Joe?”

“It is. To whom am I speaking?” Was it his imagination? It almost sounded like the man was smiling through the question.

“My name is Gene Rothstein.”

“Ah, Gene. I was hoping you'd call.” There was a pause and he thought hard about hanging up because whoever the man was, he sounded too cocky, too cheerful. “Listen, Gene, how's that family friend today? How's your uncle Rob?”

“I—how do you know about Robbie?”

He looked at the phone number he'd called. It wasn't local or even one he recognized.

“Gene, I know a lot about you. More than you do, I'd wager. I know that you were adopted, and I know what happened to your uncle Rob last night and, oh, I know so much.”

Gene's mouth tasted like a dirty penny. “How?”

“I'll explain that when you get to Boston.”

“Boston?”

“We're going to have a coming-out party, Gene. You do not want to miss this one.”

“A coming-out party?”

“You've really got to stop asking all these questions, Gene.” The voice chastised him, but lightly. “Come up to Boston. Get here just as fast as you can, Gene, and we'll answer everything we can for you.”

“I—”

“Don't think up any excuses. Just get here. Take a bus, take a plane, steal a car—I don't care and you shouldn't either. Get here. We have a lot to talk about.” There was a small pause. “Got a pen, Gene? I want to give you an address for when you get up here. Get up here quickly because there are other people waiting on you, okay?”

Gene listened and nodded. A moment later he wrote down the address.

“I'll give you my cell number if there are problems, but the address is for the Stevenson Hotel, off Interstate 95. You get there, you call that number, and we get together. And then I answer some questions for you. Got it?”

“Got it.” He could barely feel his lips move as he talked.

“See you then.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He didn't have to think for very long. There were answers in Boston, and he needed those answers as surely as he needed the air in his lungs. Those answers were the only thing that was going to stop him from drowning inside himself.

His parents would have to understand, have to forgive, and maybe, maybe after they did, he could return the favor. But not until he found out what was waiting for him in Boston.

TINA WOKE UP TO the sound of someone knocking on the door. There was no moment of confusion for her. She simply opened her eyes and knew exactly where she was. The same hotel that had been her home for the last three days.

She couldn't go home. There was still the matter of a mobster or two that she might have hurt and the two million dollars in her possession. That was enough money to guarantee that someone, somewhere, wanted her head on a silver platter. There was also the fact that her mother was dead. With her mother gone, there was nothing for her in Camden or, really, anywhere else.

She'd called Tony two days ago. He answered the phone on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Tony? It's me. It's Tina.” She was terrified, of course, but hearing his voice had also jump-started her pulse. Even though part of her was afraid of him, she still longed to be near him.

His voice when he spoke was colder than December. “Where are you, Tina?”

She'd looked out the window at the cracked, ruined parking lot of the dumpy motel. “Are you okay, Tony? You sound upset.”

“We had some serious shit go down here, Tina. But you know that. Your little bitch girlfriend? The one that knocked me around? She killed five people. She also took a lot of money.”

Girlfriend? She shook her head. She didn't have a girlfriend. Even if she did, no one Tina knew was dumb enough to go stealing from the mob.

Her chest hurt and she opened her mouth, trying to find the right words to make this all go away.

“Tina, baby, I might be able to get you off the hook, but I need my damned money back and I need the name of your friend.” He was lying to her. She knew him well enough to know that. The guy she was seriously thinking about being with for the long haul, who she'd planned on letting get past second base, was lying to her, acting like she was some stupid little
gumar
.

“Tony, I don't know anything about no girlfriend or your money. Tony, something happened to my mom.” Her mouth tasted like pennies and she realized she'd bitten down on her tongue while he talked. The pain was barely even noticeable.

Before Tony could respond, she could hear the sound of the phone being passed to someone else.

“This is Tina Carlotti?” The voice was deeper, older than Tony's and almost familiar.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you, little girl? This is Paulo Scarabelli.” She took in a deep gasping breath. She'd seen the man before but never ever thought about speaking to him. Paulo ran the mob in all of southern New Jersey. He was a powerful man. She was too frightened to respond.

“Tina? We had some serious shit go down. But you know all about that, don't you? Your little girlfriend? She killed five people. She also took a lot of money.”

Girlfriend? She shook her head. She didn't have a girlfriend. Even if she did, no one Tina knew was dumb enough to go stealing from the mob.

“Mister Scarabelli. I don't know nothing about no money or about no girl that hurt anyone.” Her voice shook.

“Don't believe you, girly.” He was quiet for a moment and she could hear his raspy breathing. She recalled that he smoked big, fat cigars, and back before her mom had started getting stupid, the man had come by a few times and seen her. Last time Tina had seen her “Uncle” Paulo, the man had been coming out of her mother's bedroom late at night, stinking of red wine and one of his cigars.

When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm. “Tina, I knew your daddy. He wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to you, and so I'm trying to give you a chance. I got Tony and three other guys say they saw you and then they saw the girl that came in after you left the room. All of them said the same thing, girly. They said you and her, you were probably working together.”

“I—” She shook her head, forgetting that he couldn't see her. The words didn't want to come. This was crazy! She'd never, ever do the family wrong.

“You listen to me. You got maybe three days to get back here with my money, little girl, before they have to drag your skinny little ass out of the river and plant you next to your momma.”

His words had sounded like hammers inside her head and she'd started crying right then and there, like a little baby. She couldn't help it. She was so scared, more terrified than she'd ever been in her life.

She hung up. After two minutes, she pulled the battery from the disposable phone and then threw the phone as far as she could into the scrubby bushes behind the motel. Just in case they could track her. She'd heard about that sort of stuff. People tracked by their cell phones. She wasn't ever letting them do that to her.

Then she'd come back to the room and gone to sleep.

She seemed to be sleeping a lot. More than was healthy. Normally Tina slept for maybe six hours a night, but lately she was losing extra hours. Maybe it was grief. Maybe she was just shutting down. That would make sense, wouldn't it? She'd heard that grief was like that. She'd never known anyone who was dead, not until now. Well, except for her dad and that had happened when she was just a kid.

She'd watched the news and tried to see if there was any news about Tony Parmiatto. There was nothing. She was starting to worry too much about that. If Scarabelli was waiting to talk to her and waiting with Tony, it maybe meant he blamed Tony for the money. And that could be bad for Tony. If he was dead, there should be something. If he was alive, he might be one of the people who came looking for her and he would be so angry—

Someone knocked on the door very hard. “Tina Carlotti? I got a telegram for you.”

Tina's heart hammered in her chest and she sat up fast, barely even aware of whether or not she was dressed decently.

She opened and closed her mouth half a dozen times without saying a word. No one knew she was here. She'd signed the register as Anna Smith, and that was all she had put down.

She stood up and made herself go over to the door. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to be brave. If someone knew she was here, well, there had to be a reason for that.

She opened the door and looked up at the man standing there. He was young, somewhere close to her age, but he was dark and he was muscular and he was handsome. His eyes looked her over from head to toe and he flashed her a smile that was too short lived to be sure she'd even seen it.

“You Tina Carlotti?”

“Maybe.” He handed her an envelope. His eyes took her in and he must have decided she was as broke as she looked because he turned away, not waiting to see if she would offer a tip.

Just as well, really. She wouldn't have.

After she'd relocked the door, Tina opened the envelope and read the contents.

It read: