Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“That makes no sense,” Dad finally says. “He came to our people, presumably with a birth certificate. He’s claiming to be related to our family.”
“And he has a grandmother in the hospital,” I offer. “Sabrina Smith, who may have been married to William Steel.”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s all true. But I’m telling you that Pat Lamone doesn’t exist.”
“But his family lived here,” I say. “He went to school with Rory and Callie.”
“Hey, I’m not calling you a liar,” Jeff says. “All I’m saying is that on paper, there’s no record of this dude.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure as hell doesn’t,” Dad says, “but it’s damned good news. If he doesn’t exist, then he has no claim to the Steel fortune.”
“There are only a handful of people, myself one of them,” Jeff says, “who are capable of erasing a person from existence like this.”
“Who are the others?” Dad says.
“Criminals,” Jeff says. “They’re criminals, Joe.”
“Like you are?” Dad says.
“Hey, I make no bones about what I am. I’m good at what I do, and people like you give me good money to do it.”
“I pay you good money to keep all my own information safe,” Dad says.
“Which I do. Which I’ve done for you for the past ten years,” Jeff says.
“Did you look any further?”
“Joe, you know me better than that.” Jeff chuckles through the phone. “Of course I did.”
“All right, then. Now we’re getting somewhere. Who is this guy who says he’s Pat Lamone?”
“His real name is Baby Boy Wingdam.”
“Baby Boy Wingdam?” Dad narrows his eyes.
“Yep. His birth certificate, before he was adopted, doesn’t show a first name. His birth mother never named him. Her name was Lauren Wingdam, and there’s no father listed.”
“So how did he become Pat Lamone?”
“He was adopted by a family with the last name Clark and named Daniel. I haven’t figured out why yet, but his name was never legally changed on the books.”
“So his name is Clark, then. Daniel Clark. Or maybe the Clarks changed his name to Patrick.”
“Maybe. But his birth certificate says Baby Boy Wingdam.”
“Why didn’t it get changed?” Uncle Bryce asks.
“Got me,” Jeff says.
“Not only that,” Dad says, “but why did the Clarks change their name to Lamone? Maybe the Baby Boy birth certificate is a forgery.”
“It’s not a forgery,” Jeff says. “Don’t you think I know forgery when I see one?”
“I trust you, Jeff. It’s not your talents I have an issue with. But these people—this human trafficking ring that we thought we wiped out twenty-five years ago—they’ve got a bone to pick with our family, and they will pick it in any way possible. And now, after how many years? Pat Lamone crawls out of some corner and claims to be a Steel relative? And his name isn’t even Lamone? Something stinks here.”
My mind has gone numb. Pat Lamone isn’t Pat Lamone? He’s Daniel Clark? Or rather, Baby Boy Wingdam?
“Dad,” I say, “is Pat’s claim through his adoptive side or his biological side?”
“Since I’ve never heard of the Clarks or the Lamones, I’m thinking it must be his biological side. We haven’t taken his claim seriously enough to check it out so far.”
“It must be through the father,” Uncle Bryce says. “We don’t know any Wingdams.”
“Yeah, that’s an odd name,” I say. “Isn’t a wing dam another name for a pier dam? A manmade jetty that diverts a current?”
“Yeah,” Dad says. “But anything can become a last name.”
“True enough,” Jeff says. “My last name comes from my father’s Native American side, but I’m pretty sure I’m not descended from an actual gray hawk.”
“Just another question to answer,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else in the room.
“You got anything else, Jeff?” Dad asks.
“That’s it. It’s all sent in the encrypted file.”
“Thank you. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else. Payment will be sent in the morning.”
“Always a pleasure, Joe.”
Jeff’s line goes silent.
Dad looks at Uncle Bryce and then at me.
We say no more.
I meet with Dad and Uncle Bryce again the next day, out in the grazing fields.
“Why out here?” I ask.
“Just a safety precaution,” Dad says. “We check the office for surveillance equipment once a week, but this is just safer.”
I regard our vast ranch, the livestock grazing nearby, the ranch hands doing their jobs.
Our ranch is a beautiful place. A place where we take care of our animals, raise grass-fed beef. Our animals aren’t injected with hormones or fed industrialized food just to fatten them up. They have nice lives, for as long as they get to live on the earth.
I try not to think about it too much—the fact that they eventually die.
Dad taught us early on in life not to get attached to the livestock. Dogs and horses we could get attached to—those, we could love. But not the livestock. It would only lead to heartache.