My Lost Daughter (21 page)

Morrow flicked a piece of lint off his black slacks, then leaned over the table and said slowly and distinctly, “Let's get something straight. You may be here a week, a month, or even a year. You might even be here for several years. If you refuse to talk to me now, rest assured, you'll have plenty of time in the future.”

Shana was so shocked, she was rendered speechless.

Opening the clipboard he'd placed on the sofa beside him, Morrow crossed his legs and started reading. “Let's see,” he said, yawning. “You admitted to extensive use of narcotics, specifically methamphetamine. You had open sores on your arms and legs. Your mother stated that you were delusional, that you had stopped attending law school and had locked yourself up in your apartment.” He shut the file with a sense of finality. “I don't think you'll be suing anyone, nor will you be going anywhere for quite some time. Now if you cooperate, the time you spend here at Whitehall can be productive, even pleasant. But if you continue to resist our efforts to treat you, well, you know what to expect. You've been hospitalized before.”

“Wait a minute.” Shana's pulse was racing. “I didn't admit to using narcotics. Even if I was using drugs, which I'm not, I wouldn't
admit it to someone in a place like this. And look,” she added, extending her arms, “I don't have any sores. You're confusing me with another patient.” Lee's whispered words suddenly appeared in her mind. “You gave me the wrong medication, didn't you? You gave me something that almost killed me.”

“We're trying to help you, Shana,” Morrow told her. “I understand you haven't been sleeping. Now that you've stopped using stimulants, you'll eventually reestablish a normal sleep pattern. In the interim, I've prescribed some excellent medication for you.” He smiled, revealing a row of teeth almost as large as piano keys. “Your situation will be easier to handle once you get a decent night's sleep.”

Morrow stood and started to walk off when Shana called him back.

“If I was addicted to meth, I'd be crashing right now. Except for the drugs you people have been giving me, I'm fine.”

“You've already detoxed, Shana. It's not a pleasant experience, so it's understandable that you've blocked it out of your mind. The medication you mentioned was a drug we use to prevent seizures when a patient is going through withdrawals. Get some rest. I'll stop by and check on you tomorrow.”

Shana remained on the sofa, watching as he deposited her chart in the metal rack at the nursing station, and then waited until they buzzed him through the locked security doors. They were messing with her mind, trying to make her believe things that weren't true. But there was nothing she could do now. She had been in a place like this before, so she knew how they operated. New patients were placed in an isolation ward where their every move could be watched. Once they released her into the general population, she would figure out a way to get out.

Staggering back to her room, she threw herself face-first on the bed. If only her father were alive. He would have never let them lock her up like a criminal. She missed him and yearned to be with him every day. He'd been so much more than her father. He'd been her best friend, something her mother couldn't understand.

People said her grief would eventually become bearable, but it had been nine years and the wound was as deep and painful as the day her father's life had ended. The hatred she carried for the man who had raped her and murdered her father still churned inside of her, poisoning every aspect of her existence.

She had recovered from the rape. It hadn't been easy, but believing her mother had killed the rapist had taken away her constant fear that he would come back. She remembered the terrible day her father had died. She was staying at her mother's place in Santa Barbara when she should have been at home with her father. Knowing he had died alone was one of the things that hurt the most. If she had been at his condo in Los Angeles, she might have been able to do something to save him.

SPRING, 2000
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

En route to his duplex, John Forrester stopped off at a liquor store and bought a fifth of Jack Daniel's, then walked next door to the newsstand to pick up a copy of the Las Vegas newspaper, wanting to check out the classifieds section and see what kinds of jobs were listed. He subscribed to the
L.A. Times,
but he'd been too distraught to read it that morning. Something compelled him to pick the paper up off the stand, sensing there might be something inside regarding the accident. He found what he'd feared—the article about the death of the young man he had run over and left to die, his own name in print for all to see. He staggered backward, dropping his head and ducking back inside the car.

At least the article didn't contain a picture of him. It did state, however, that he had been arraigned on charges of vehicular manslaughter. What choice did he have now but to flee, attempt to establish a new identity? He was no longer John Forrester, loving father and real estate agent. His family name was now publicly vilified. Even if they failed to convict him, he knew his life would never be the same.

While driving to the duplex, John remembered a recent segment on CNN, emphasizing how easy it was for a person to obtain various forms of false identification, even credit cards. On the way out of town, he decided he would drive by one of the places they had mentioned, an area known as MacArthur Park, located at Seventh and Alvarado, hoping he had enough money to pay for what he needed.

The shock of seeing the article caused him to unscrew the bottle of Jack Daniel's and take a swig before he reached his front door, wadding up the paper bag and tossing it into a trash barrel. Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, once he was in the house, he placed the bottle on the coffee table and headed to the kitchen to check his voice mail, hoping Shana had called. When he heard the nasal voice of a woman inquiring about one of his listings, he smashed his fist into the wall. All he wanted was to say good-bye, tell Shana he was sorry, tell her how much he loved her. How could his life have sunk to such a disgusting level? It was as if Hell had risen up out of the ground and swallowed him.

He had hoped to keep the Buick for at least thirty days, thinking the real estate agent whose identity he had stolen wouldn't find out until the first payment. He had promised the car salesman that he would bring in some type of photo ID the next day. Maybe he could have one of those guys on the street make him a dummy license. With the new seal of the state of California imprinted on each license, it was impossible to simply print one up on a computer. If he couldn't take care of the problem, he would be forced into ditching the car after he reached Vegas. At least his public defender had advised him that his next court appearance wasn't scheduled for another three weeks.

John headed to the front door to retrieve his luggage from the detached garage, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniel's off the table. The shakes were getting progressively worse. He had to make them stop, and the only solution was to feed his body what it craved. Once he threw some of his clothing and personal items into a suitcase, he would make a pot of coffee to offset the effects of the alcohol before embarking on such a long drive.

As he stood in front of his garage, a car drove past full of young people, loud music blasting through the open window. He imagined families inside the houses on the block, laughing, loving, and enjoying one another. He would never live a normal life again, never see his daughter step onto the stage to receive her college diploma.

He hesitated before hoisting the door to the garage. Inside were the remains of the life he had once lived with Lily: tables, chairs, lamps, items that had been at their home in Camarillo. This time when he tipped the bottle to his mouth, he guzzled it down as if it were water.

John ducked inside when he spotted one of the neighbors out walking her dog, quickly closing the garage door behind him. Beverly Murdock was a white-haired busybody and he was in no mood to deal with her. A small window was situated in
the rear of the garage, faintly illuminating the interior. Before he had a chance to turn on the lights, he suddenly froze, hearing a noise in the far left corner of the structure. A neighborhood cat must have managed to sneak inside when he came out a week ago to retrieve his toolbox.

He was feeling along the wall for the light switch when he heard another noise—a strange wheezing sound. Whipping out his pocketknife, he flicked open the blade, fearing the sound had been made by a rabid raccoon or some other type of wild animal. He never locked the garage, almost hoping someone would break in and save him the trouble of hauling the junk inside away. Outside of a few pieces of cheap luggage, there was nothing worth stealing.

He waited and listened, holding his breath. With the alcohol now coursing through his bloodstream, he decided to open the garage door rather than continue groping around in the dark for the light switch.

Just as he reached for the handle to lift the door, John heard something rushing toward him at tremendous speed, like a raging bull. Boxes and furniture tumbled over. The next thing he knew, he was pinned face-first against the wall, held in place by the maniacal force of his attacker.

“Booze, huh?” the man hissed, yanking the bottle out of John's hand and smashing it against the wall.

A dagger of white-hot pain entered John's back as he frantically struggled against his attacker. As he slashed out blindly with his pocketknife, the man seized his arm in an iron grip, a guttural, inhuman sound erupting from his throat.

John screamed in agony as he felt his wrist being bent backward until the bones emitted a sickening crack.

“You thought you were gonna cut me with that pussy knife?” his attacker snarled in his ear, closing the knife and slipping it in his pocket. “You a joke, man. That knife's not good for nothing but cleaning your fingernails.”

John felt warm liquid gushing down his back, knowing instantly that it was blood. He had to force each word out of his mouth. “Money . . . I . . . have . . . money.”

The man waved the bowie knife in front of his face, a streak of light reflecting off the shiny surface of the blade. “This is what a knife looks like, asshole,” he said, his words spoken with a Latin accent. He plucked out the roll of cash and stuffed it into the waistband of his sweatpants.

The man had said something about booze. John thought of Antonio Vasquez, the man he had run over. Had one of his relatives decided to seek revenge? His eyes closed,
the weight of his body fell limp in the man's arms. The man's voice and the words he spoke pulled him back.

“You're her daddy, ain't you? Is she in the house? That's who I want, old man. I want that pretty little daughter of yours. You, I don't want. You just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

John released an involuntary grunt with each thrust of the knife. He no longer felt the pain, only the pressure of the blade as it passed into his flesh. He had been driving Shana's car the night of the accident. Vasquez's family must believe she had killed their son. He suddenly saw himself inside a sun-filled room. Shana was a little girl again, her eyes filled with love and innocence as she gazed up at him. “Take me to the park,” the vision said, her hand tugging on his sleeve.

Shana's image vanished from the light, replaced with the face of the beautiful young boy he had driven over and left to die. He felt himself diving into the same fathomless pool of swirling darkness he had glimpsed the night of the hit-and-run. He mouthed the same exact words Lily had said the night Curazon had dragged her down the hall toward the bedroom where Shana lay sleeping. “Please, God, not my daughter.”

 

A car pulled into the driveway of the duplex on Maplewood Drive at seven-fifteen Saturday evening. When Shana and her friend, Jennifer Abernathy, opened the door and went inside, she was appalled at the filth and clutter. “My father's not only a drunk,” she said, angrily kicking an empty beer can across the floor, “he's a pig. He probably doesn't care about leaving the place clean since my mother put up the damn deposit.”

“It's okay,” Jennifer said, patting her friend on the shoulder. She glanced down at the coffee table and saw a picture of Shana that was singed around the edges. “Look,” she said, holding up what was left of the snapshot, “someone ripped your mother out of the picture I took at our high school graduation. Do you think your dad got mad and set fire to it?”

Shana had already started down the hall to her bedroom. When she came to her father's room, the hairs pricked on the back of her neck. Drawers were pulled out, clothes were tossed everywhere, a lamp was toppled. She quickly checked her own room, finding it in the same state of disorder. “Jen,” she called out. “Hurry, come here.”

“Gee,” the girl said, stepping up beside her, “maybe we should call the police.”

“That's all I need,” Shana said. “The last time my mother called the cops, I was certain they were going to arrest me.” She bent down and picked up some of her underwear off the floor, more despondent than ever. “Dad was probably drinking. And
Mom pressured him. She told him he had to be moved out by Monday, or the landlord would throw everything out in the street.”

“Your mom was going to let them throw your stuff out?”

“Of course not,” Shana told her. “You don't understand how booze fries a person's brain. My father's desperate for money. He could have taken the clothes from the drawers because he was going to try and sell the furniture. I'm so ashamed.” She placed her hand over her mouth. “Please, promise me you won't tell anyone. Not just about this, but all the things I told you about my dad and the accident.”