Chapter 8 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY NAME
My old commanding officer was Colonel Thomas Avery.
Retired.
Sixty-three.
A man I had trusted with my life.
He lived three states away.
According to Hale, he had been questioned because the Army jacket found near a storage facility carried his old unit insignia.
“That doesn't mean it's his,” I said.
“No.”
Hale looked at me.
“But his fingerprints were found inside your house.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“Where?”
“Felicity's room.”
Rachael sat down.
“No.”
Hale nodded.
“We haven't arrested him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he claims he was there to protect her.”
“From whom?”
“He wouldn't say.”
I stared at the detective.
“Then find him.”
“We already did.”
A photograph appeared on his phone.
Avery.
Dead.
Not murdered.
Natural causes.
His body had been found in a motel room three hours earlier.
I closed my eyes.
Another dead end.
But then Hale said,
“He left something.”
A small box.
Inside was a silver necklace.
The same pendant Felicity had worn.
Except this one was slightly different.
It had a second compartment.
Inside was a tiny folded photograph.
The photograph showed the boy.
Older now.
About sixteen.
I stared at it.
Same eyes.
Same face.
And suddenly I knew him.
Not personally.
But from somewhere.
The boy was standing beside a school bus.
Behind him was a street sign.
Birchwood Lane.
Rachael covered her mouth.
“He was here.”
Hale nodded.
“For years.”
“Where?”
“We don't know.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The boy was holding a red backpack.
On the backpack was a small stitched patch.
A name.
JACK.
My heart hammered.
“Felicity knew him.”
“Apparently.”
“Maybe she still does.”
We returned to the hospital.
Felicity was asleep.
When she woke, I showed her the photograph.
Her eyes widened.
“That's him.”
“Who?”
“Jack.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“School.”
Rachael stared.
“What school?”
“Mine.”
The room went silent.
“How long?”
“About a year.”
“Why didn't you tell us?”
“Because he said I couldn't.”
“Why?”
“He was scared.”
“Of who?”
“Everyone.”
Felicity looked at me.
“He said his real name wasn't Jack.”
“What was it?”
She hesitated.
“Daniel.”
Rachael sat down.
The room seemed to shrink.
“Daniel what?”
Felicity shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Hale asked,
“Does he know about the watch?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“His father told him.”
“His father?”
“Daniel.”
I looked at Rachael.
She couldn't speak.
Felicity continued.
“Jack said his father wasn't dead.”
My heart stopped.
“Where is he?”
“He said he didn't know.”
“Then why say that?”
“Because he heard him once.”
“Where?”
“In Grandpa's office.”
“But Grandpa died.”
“I know.”
Felicity looked confused.
“That's why he was scared.”
Then she remembered something.
“He gave me something.”
“What?”
She pointed to her backpack.
The backpack from the attack.
The one the police had returned.
I opened it.
Inside was a small folded paper.
Not a photograph.
A bus ticket.
Tacoma to Philadelphia.
Dated three years earlier.
On the back was handwriting.
IF I DON'T COME BACK, GIVE THIS TO YOUR FATHER.
I stared at Felicity.
“Why me?”
“Jack said you were the only person he trusted.”
Rachael began crying.
“Why?”
Felicity looked at me.
“Because he said you looked like his father.”
The words hit harder than anything else.
I turned the ticket over.
A seat number.
And beneath it:
LOCKER 417.
Hale looked at me.
“The railway locker.”
The same place Marianne had mentioned.
We went to Philadelphia that night.
The locker still existed.
Old.
Rusting.
Almost forgotten.
The brass key opened it.
Inside was a wooden box.
The watch fit perfectly into a slot in the lid.
I turned the watch crown.
The box clicked.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens.
Robert Mercer.
Daniel Mercer.
Evan.
Marianne.
And a young Rachael.
Then one photograph stopped me.
It showed me.
Not eighteen years ago.
Three years ago.
Standing outside a school.
Talking to Jack.
I had never met him.
Or at least I thought I hadn't.
I looked closer.
The photograph had been taken from a distance.
My face was unmistakable.
But the date on the back was impossible.
It had been taken before Felicity met Jack.
Before I even knew he existed.
Then I found a second photograph.
This one showed Colonel Avery.
Beside him stood Evan.
And between them was a document.
At the bottom was a signature.
Rachael Bennett.
I looked at my wife.
She had followed us into the locker room.
“What did you sign?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I don't know.”
“Rachael.”
“I was twenty-three.”
“You signed something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
She shook her head.
“I thought it was a marriage annulment.”
I held up the photograph.
“It wasn't.”
She looked at it.
Then whispered,
“My father made me sign papers.”
“What papers?”
“Custody.”
I stared.
“Of the baby?”
She nodded.
“I was told the child was dead.”
Silence.
Then Hale opened another compartment.
Inside was a child's drawing.
A house.
A sun.
Three figures.
And one sentence.
DADDY IS NOT DEAD.
Beneath it was another line.
HE IS THE MAN WHO CAME HOME.
I stared at the words.
My wife began sobbing.
Because there was one thing none of us had noticed.
The handwriting wasn't Felicity's.
It wasn't Jack's.
It belonged to Daniel Mercer.
May you like
And beneath the drawing was a recent date.
Three days ago.
