Patty moved closer and locked her eyes on mine. Lowering her voice, she said, “There’s a big difference between being a father and a dad.”
“I had to learn that lesson the hard way in my own life,” I said. “And this might sound funny, but Addie’s the one who inspired me to build bridges with Kimberly. We’re closer now than ever before.”
Patty nodded. We were both silent a moment, waiting to see who would speak first. In case you’re keeping score, she did.
“Addie has become a special needs child,” Patty said. “She’s been traumatized physically and mentally and she’s going to need a lot of nurturing.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so, Mr. Creed, because it’s going to put a lot of stress on your relationship with Kathleen. Have you thought about your role in all this—I mean,
Addie was an amazing kid. Funny, affectionate, brave....Over the past few months she’d become special to both of us. Special wasn’t the right word, she was more than that. Addie had become essential to our lives.
“I love Addie,” I said.
She nodded and paused a few seconds. “I felt you must, Mr. Creed. What you’ve done for her and Kathleen speaks volumes.”
Patty knew I’d recently given Kathleen a million dollars and put another ten million into a trust for Addie. What she didn’t know is that I’d stolen all that money and more, from a West Coast crime boss named Joe DeMeo.
After witnessing another hour of unparalleled domestic harmony, Patty Feldson gathered Addie, the recipe, and half a pan of brownies.
“You’re a shoo-in!” she gushed to Kathleen.
“I’ll see you again tomorrow, darling,” Kathleen said to Addie. Addie swallowed before speaking, to lubricate her throat. We had grown accustomed to the procedure, the result of her vocal chords being permanently damaged by the fi re that nearly took her life.
“At the hospital?” Addie finally said in her raspy, whisper of a voice.
“Uh huh.”
Another round of hugs was in order and then they were gone. I looked at the lovely creature that had defied all the odds and fallen for me.
“This might be the last time she’ll have to leave you,” I said.
Kathleen dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, Donovan.” She put her hand in mine and kissed me gently on the mouth. “For everything,” she added.
Life was good.
An hour later Victor called me on my cell phone. A quadriplegic little person on a ventilator, Victor’s metallic voice was singularly creepy.
“Mis…ter Creed…they took…the…money,” he said.
“The couple from Nashville?”
“Yes, Rob and…Trish.”
“Big surprise, right?”
“When you get…a chance I…would like you to... kill the… Peterson…sis…ters.”
I paused a minute, trying to place them. “They’re in Pennsylvania, right?”
“Yes, in…Camp…town.”
I assumed my best minstrel voice and said, “You mean De Camptown Ladies?”
Victor sighed. “Really…Mis…ter Creed.”
“Hey, show some appreciation! In France I’m considered a comedic genius.”
“You and…Jerry Lewis….So, will you…go to…Camptown and…kill the… Petersons?”
“Doo Dah!” I said.
Chapter 2
There are no racetracks in Camptown, Pennsylvania, population four hundred seventeen. Nor are there any bars. You want a drink, you head fourteen miles west to Towanda. Closest nightlife is Scranton, fifty miles away.
The little town became famous throughout the world in 1850 after Stephen Foster published his famous song, “De Camptown Races.” The horse race Foster immortalized started in Camptown, ended in Wyalusing, and yes, it was about “five miles long.”
By the time I got my rental car and hit the road I was so hungry I took a chance on a beef burrito at the Horse Head Grill in Factoryville. I should have known better. You want a burrito, go to El Paso, not Factoryville. My lunch tasted like something you’d ladle out of an outhouse pit and serve to the finalists on
But I digress.
Camptown is located in Bradford County, where the most recent crime stats showed 248 burglaries, 39 assaults, 24 rapes and two murders. If all went well, the Peterson sisters would double the murder tally in time to make the six o’clock news.
Which I intended to watch.
On a TV.
In a bar.
In Scranton.
“Your destination is one hundred feet on the right,” said the sexy lady’s voice on my navigation system. She led me to a long, white-gravel driveway that I purposely overshot. After driving a couple hundred yards, I turned and approached from the opposite direction, checking for witnesses. Once comfortable with the general layout, I pulled my rental car into the driveway and followed it to the concrete pad where a green 1995 Toyota Corolla was parked.
