Foreteller Read online

  “News about what?”

  “Your parents.”

  Zoey pulled back in surprise, then suppressed a surge of guilt over her lack of information in that area. “My parents? I lost them both when I was three.”

  “I’m sorry,” Farnham said. “I didn’t realize that. Accident?”

  “No. My mother died from a stroke. Six weeks later, my father dropped me off at my grandmother Magda’s house outside of Richmond, and… um… dropped himself off a bridge.” Zoey didn’t mean for the comment to come across so crassly, but her defense mechanisms had been firmly in place for years. She could hardly be expected to change them on a dime. Still, the level of discomfort she felt in saying the words surprised her. She’d barely known her father, but his abandonment and subsequent suicide still hurt. Upon moving to Philadelphia almost ten years ago, she’d made a fragile peace with his decision, but she still longed to understand it more fully.

  “Where did that happen?” Wilkinson asked, more out of curiosity than police necessity.

  “Here, actually.” Zoey swallowed away her discomfort. “The Spring Garden Bridge, over the Schuylkill River.” She pointed to that very body of water, visible from her apartment when the smog allowed. “He’d grown up outside of Philly, so I guess he wanted to…” She shrugged, trusting they’d get the idea. At the same time, she hoped they didn’t assume that she lived within a stone’s throw of the water that took her father’s life because of some deep, emotional void. She’d long ago moved on from her past, if she’d ever been connected to it at all. “They found his car near the bank,” she continued, "along with unopened bottles of medication he was supposed to be taking.”

  “I’m sorry,” Officer Wilkinson said with a compassion that would probably destroy his chances of a hardened, long-term career on the force.

  Detective Farnham shored himself up to full size and flipped forward in his notebook, landing on a page of dark scribbles. “Ms. Kincaid, I’m afraid what we have to tell you may come as a shock. We aren’t sure how much you know.”

  Zoey willed away the tension threatening to explode inside her as she watched the detective thumb slowly through his notes. It took serious willpower to keep from throttling his neck until he shared whatever lay scrawled like an innocent grocery list in his hand. But she waited in silence. Her numerous archaeological digs had taught her that secrets revealed themselves in their own time. Farnham would dust himself off and divulge his soon enough.

  He cleared his throat. “Your mother, Susan Anne Collette, of Richmond, Virginia, was raped on July 22, 1982. At age twenty-eight.”

  The mention of the date reached out and grabbed Zoey like a vise. She minimized her reaction to a few quick blinks while a torrent of conflicting emotions filled her. Her mother had been raped? Impossible. No one had ever even hinted. Could it have been one of her mother’s dubious tales?

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That probably seems like a strange question, maybe even heartless. It’s just that my mother had a tendency to fabricate stories. Had trouble distinguishing between reality and imagination. I was hoping this might be one of those instances.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid not,” Farnham said. “Immediately after the rape, she went to the police station, pretty traumatized and beaten up, but she left toward the end of the interview. Never underwent a medical exam. Her husband, Matthew Collette, showed up at the police station and he somehow got back there with your mother in the interview room and the two of them ended up leaving together.”

  Zoey knew that minds worked in mysterious ways and that a full onslaught of emotions would overtake her later, but now, in the presence of the police, her mind clicked in a clinical manner.

  “So they never got a sample of the rapist’s semen?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But she did file a report, or at least a portion of one?”

  “Gave an excellent description, yes. The guy’s M.O., the way he spoke, physical characteristics, the weapon he—”

  “Weapon?” Zoey crossed her arms and held tight, bracing herself for the worst.

  “He threatened your mother with a knife. Your mother gave a detailed description of the events.”

  Zoey reached up and pressed her fingers to her mouth as if preventing it from asking her next question. Words emerged anyway. “Did he use the knife on her?”

  “No, ma’am,” Farnham said quickly, “but he did hit her on the head with the handle.”

  “The pommel,” Zoey murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “The pommel.” She pushed aside a scattered pile of magazines and newspapers on her coffee table to reveal a glass pane covering a display of international knives.

  Wilkinson reared back in surprise at the vicious weaponry. Not nearly as aged as the hand axe, the contents included: a Swedish dagger from the Bronze Age; a Malay creese with a serpentine, pointed blade; a Central African dagger with a deadly, heart-stopping point on one end and a tool-like, shorter tip opposite; and finally, an Indian katar designed for a punching action that packed a lot more than fist.

  “A pommel is the blunt base of a knife,” she said, pointing to the Swedish dagger as an example. “Designed to be used like a hammer on an enemy’s head. Or a victim’s.”

  She tapped her fingers on the glass covering and lost herself for a moment in the gleaming metal of the blades. Upon looking up, she focused on Farnham. His secret had been unearthed. Time to find out what it meant.

  “I’m sure you’re not here to tell me my family history.”

  “No, ma’am. Your mother’s eye and ear for detail have helped the police link her attack to a recent one, possibly by the same perpetrator, all these years later.”

  “All these years later,” she repeated. “About three months shy of thirty years, to be precise.” The hard edge in Zoey’s voice was difficult to miss. Calculating dates came easily to a woman who worked in eons and eras.

  “Uh, yes, that would be right,” said Detective Farnham, momentarily discomfited. Zoey now knew why.

  She glanced back and forth between the two visitors, settling again on Farnham. The reason for his presence here bounced between them like a sound wave unable to locate a destination, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words struggling to surface in her brain. Once spoken, they stood a fighting chance of becoming true.

  Farnham stepped up to the plate, his expression sympathetic. “Ms. Kincaid, we believe this rapist may be your father. If the Richmond police can even make a case, your DNA could be the only link to prove your mother’s rape. I’m sorry.”

  Zoey’s abdomen tightened as she realized that its secret—a brand new life, a first grandchild had her parents lived—related more than she would like to the decades-old secret just revealed by Detective Farnham. She might well be carrying a rapist’s grandchild.

  With a shaky voice, she asked, “Who is this man?”

  “His name is Corbin Black.”

  Chapter 6

  Richmond, Virginia

  Corbin Black, despite free food available with his oft-changing jobs in the restaurant industry, needed his belt back to keep his pants secured to his thin waist. Not only had he lost weight from his gaunt, 53-year-old frame in the last couple of days, but he didn’t want any of the tattooed, druggie losers in this holding cell getting the wrong idea about him.

  The obese guard with the bad buzz cut and missing shirt button clanked the key into the lock for the third time that night. “Corbin Black,” he called out, not seeming to give a damn who stepped out of the cell as long as someone answered to the name.

  Black slinked out of the corner and listened with satisfaction to the slamming cell door that separated him from those lowlifes still inside. He turned around and shot them a look of disgust, as if they brought down the good name of those who inhabited the dark side. In his decades of setting things right in the outside world, he’d never been stupid enough to get caught. Unt
il now, of course. But he could let that technicality slip. After all, something bizarre had gone down with this last chick. Like she knew he was coming. Like she’d expected him. Now here he was, being held against his will like a rodent in a trap—and she’d never learn her station in life.

  “Your lawyer’s here,” the guard muttered.

  Black grunted in response. He followed the guard to a small room furnished with a table and two fold-out chairs that looked ready to snap under the weight of an average American. Black didn’t have to worry, but his lawyer did.

  Virgil Lasseter, reputed as the go-to guy when a con needed counsel with a touch of sleaze, leaned most of his girth on the flimsy table. He stood when Black entered and extended his hand as if greeting a fraternity brother. “Good evening, Mr. Black.”

  Black narrowed his eyes at Lasseter before shaking the pudgy hand that poked out from the tailored, grey suit.

  “They treating you okay?”

  “What do you think?” Black had a slow, syrupy way of delivering his words. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his thin legs and clasped his arms behind his head, taking his sweet time with all of it. “They got no idea who they’re dealing with, obviously. Gonna be hell to pay, I tell you.”

  Lasseter looked momentarily confused, but then he cleared his throat, ready to move on, as if he couldn’t give one fig about the grandiose illusions of this scraggly creep. Lasseter was well-known for seeing past hurdles; if there was a paycheck at the end of the day, he could paste on a smile and fan the outsized ego of whoever was signing the check.

  Black took in a slow breath, though it barely inflated his narrow chest. “They allowed to take my DNA?” he asked.

  “Depends. Did they?”

  “Sure did, and I ain’t been convicted of nothing yet. Doesn’t seem to jive with the Fourth Amendment, if you get my meaning.”

  “Of course I do. I’m a lawyer.”

  “So, they allowed? Feels like a violation, if you know what I mean.”

  “In Virginia, preconviction DNA collection is allowed from certain arrestees. You would be one of them.” Lasseter cocked his head and gazed into the empty eyes of his new client. “You told me you had no previous record, though. Nothing I should be worried about, is there?”

  Black guffawed. “Nothin’ at all.” Then Black let out an airy whistle through his chipped front tooth. “Clean as a whistle. I know my place in life.”

  “Good, that’s good,” said Lasseter, seeming less eager with each passing moment to delve into Black’s past life—or present mindset.

  “How long till I’m out?”

  “There are several factors at play. They have the alleged victim’s testimony, of course, and the cops are out trolling for other witnesses who might have seen the, uh, confrontation. They’re also interviewing her neighbors, your neighbors, your employer, and people who frequent the park where the attack took place.”

  “Either they have a case or they don’t. Do they?”

  “Hang in there. Shouldn’t be more than a few days before we know where the dust is settling.”

  Black’s energy level suddenly shifted. His fist found the table and he leaned forward, putting his thin, cratered face within inches of Lasseter’s. “It’s settling on me, Mr. Fancy-Pants, if you don’t get me out of here soon. I don’t belong in here. I’m a respectable citizen. Been holdin’ down jobs since I was a teen. This ain’t right.”

  Lasseter supplied a half-smile. “Right, well, good news is we may have a chain-of-evidence technicality that works in your favor. Turns out some punk puked on the victim’s clothing. The police were hoping to get some of your hair or skin from it so they could check the DNA. Now, anything they planned to extract, or anything they try to present in court, should be arguably inadmissible.”

  Black nodded and allowed an eerie smile to crease his scarred face, from the ends of his lips to the corners of his menacing eyes. “You don’t say.”

  “I do say.” Virgil Lasseter stood to leave and began gathering his things. “With no admissible evidence, and the victim asserting that there was no penetration, I think we stand a good chance of them dismissing the entire case. Maybe we can even get her arrested for taking a shot at you.”

  Black nodded. “Excellent,” he said, drawing the word out. “Then everything will be in its rightful place.”

  Chapter 7

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  As Zoey absorbed the information about the rapist, fresh-faced Officer Wilkinson seemed to discover a fur ball in his throat, coughing and choking his way to distraction. Detective Farnham, on the other hand, shifted forward, closer to Zoey, determined to see this uncomfortable visit through to its conclusion.

  “I know this must be a great shock for you,” he said.

  Zoey looked straight at him, still managing to keep emotions at bay, despite some outward signs of anxiety: a faster blink rate, an increased pallor to her face, and a protective, tensed hand over her lower abdomen. “What makes you think the rapist is my father, rather than Matthew Collette?”

  “The timing, for one. You were born April 27th.”

  “Hey, that’s tomorrow,” said a recovered Wilkinson, who showed enough sense to immediately regret his cheery tone.

  “I’ll be twenty-nine,” Zoey said, her voice flat. “Heck of a birthday it’s turning out to be.”

  Farnham continued. “So you were born—”

  “Thirty-eight weeks after the rape,” she said. “One week before my due date. My grandmother used to say I arrived early because I didn’t want to miss any more of the spring than I already had.”

  Zoey wished now she could go back to those innocent days at Grandma’s house, where azaleas bloomed on cue and the honeysuckle smelled like sugar—and where she knew the bare minimum about her parents.

  Detective Farnham, though, lived staunchly in the present and he had a duty to discharge. “In addition to the coinciding birth date, a female officer followed up with your mother on her own. When she learned that your mother was pregnant, she asked if the rapist might be the father.”

  Zoey lowered her head but still maintained eye contact, like a bull getting ready for the charge. She fought hard to maintain a clear head. She supposed that, like her mother, she had a mind for details, and this was no time to miss one.

  “Your mother confided to the officer that she was sure of it,” Farnham said, “that the baby belonged to the rapist.”

  “Belonged?”

  “I’m sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  Zoey nodded in acceptance of his apology. Still, despite the detective’s account of the incident, she wondered how much of this whole story could be trusted. Farnham had gotten his information from a random officer in Richmond looking to charge a criminal; that officer had gotten his information from a file written by a sympathetic female officer with words supplied by Zoey’s mother. Hardly a strong foundation on which to build a case. Susan Collette’s exaggerations and lies as both a teen and an adult had caused a years-long family rift, at least according to Grandma Magda. The fabrications had left Magda so distraught that she could barely bring herself to mention Susan while Zoey was growing up.

  “Why do you think my mother was so certain that this Corbin Black was the father?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Detective Farnham said. “I do know that your mother was living with your father, Matthew Collette, at the time the attack occurred, but I have no idea of the status of their relationship.”

  Zoey allowed her thoughts to drift to what little she knew of her father from Grandma Magda. After an honorable discharge from the military, he’d become a state bridge and tunnel inspector who painted and wrote music and poetry on the side, without commercial success. As for his character, the only solid thing Zoey knew was that he chose suicide rather than survival after her mother had died. News of the rape now shed a new light on her father’s choice. Had Matthew Collette known that his wife carried a rapist’s baby—and that she had
decided to keep it and raise it anyway? Surely, the coincidence of the dates couldn’t have escaped him.

  “I guess the dates are a strong factor,” Detective Farnham was saying, snapping Zoey away from her thoughts. “I’m sure the Richmond police can offer you more details.”

  “Ah, yes. The Richmond police, who must have sent you here to complete the unpleasant task of obtaining my DNA.”

  Farnham took his time with a full sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You need a mouth swab or a blood sample?”

  “Both, actually.”

  Zoey’s face took on a keen questioning expression. “Weren’t there other victims, after my mother, who could provide descriptions of this man? Or… samples of his semen?”

  Again, Farnham referred to his notes, though Zoey sensed they were only a prop at this point. “Personally, I suspect there were, but he’s either never been caught or he didn’t leave evidence.”

  Zoey frowned. “Meaning he used a condom?”

  Farnham looked straight at her. “What I’m saying is, guys like this don’t usually stop. And here he is, still operating almost thirty years later. You can be sure more victims filled the gaps, but we’ve never heard from any of them.”

  The implication horrified Zoey. She drew in a short breath. “You think he killed them?”

  “He’s either been very lucky or very careful. Let’s put it that way.”

  The mention of luck anywhere in this scenario rubbed Zoey the wrong way, but she did appreciate the detective’s honesty.

  “Like I said,” he continued, “your mother’s description of the perpetrator—and a couple other factors—helped tie this recent attempted rape to the same guy. You’re the only link to an actual rape, though, and they’d like to put him away for that.”

  “May I see a copy of the report my mother gave? And the file on the case?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. They don’t usually release an active file, but I might be able to pull some strings. In the meantime, this Corbin Black character is in custody down in Virginia, and they only have a limited time they can hold him if the current case doesn’t pan out.”