Read Online Daddy's Gone a Hunting by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: Suspense
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and watching any kind of game.
At age two Jessica had been on Steve’s shoulders at Yankee Stadium in the summer and Giants Stadium in the fall. She had been a star soccer goalie in school and was a fiercely competitive tennis player.
Her decision to go into law had thrilled her parents, although when she chose to become a criminal defense attorney, her father was less than pleased. “Ninety percent of the ones who are indicted are guilty as sin,” was his comment. Her answer: “What about the other ten percent and what about extenuating circumstances?”
Jessie had worked for two years as a public defender in criminal court in Manhattan, then accepted a job offer from a growing firm specializing in criminal defense practice.
On Friday morning Jessie went into the office of her boss, Margaret Kane, a former federal prosecutor, and told her that she had taken on the job of defending Kate Connelly against a potential criminal charge of arson. “It may not stop there,” she told Kane. “The way I see it, they may try to say Kate was an accessory to Gus Schmidt’s death.”
Margaret Kane listened to the details of the case. “Go ahead,” she said. “Send the family the usual contract and retainer fee.” Then she added dryly, “The presumption of innocence sounds like a stretch in this case, Jess. But see what you can do for your friend.”
24
C lyde Hotchkiss had been living on the streets of various cities since the mid-1970s. A decorated veteran of the Vietnam War, he had come home to Staten Island with a hero’s welcome but was haunted by his wartime experience. There were memories he could talk about to the VA hospital psychiatrist, and the one he could never discuss, even though it was vivid in his mind—the night in Vietnam when he and Joey Kelly, the youngest kid in their platoon, huddled together, caught in a barrage of enemy artillery fire.
Joey had always talked about his mother, how close they were, how his father had died when he was a baby. Clyde and Joey were shoulder to shoulder trying to crawl toward a clump of trees that offered some shelter when Joey was hit.
Clyde had put his arms around him as Joey, holding together his own guts, whispered, “Tell Mama how much I love her,” and started to cry, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama.” Then, his blood soaking through Clyde’s uniform, Joey had died in Clyde’s arms.
Clyde had married his high school sweetheart, Peggy, “the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley,” as the local Staten Island paper reported. They had a good laugh over that one. Sometimes when Clyde called to tell her he’d be late from work, he would say, “Am I having the privilege of speaking to the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley?”
Always instinctively good at any construction task, he had gotten a job with a local builder and quickly became his right-hand man.
Three years later Clyde Jr. was born, and they promptly nicknamed him Skippy.
Clyde loved his wife and son with a deep, abiding love, but the baby’s crying brought back memories of Joey, especially the one he had tried his hardest to leave in the past.
He began to drink, a cocktail with Peggy after a hard day’s work, wine at dinner, wine after dinner. When Peggy expressed concern, he began to skillfully find places to hide the wine. When he became short-tempered, she begged him to go for help. “It’s the war hitting you again,” she told him. “Clyde, you need to go to the VA hospital and talk about it to the doctor.”
But it was when Skippy began teething and would wake them up in the middle of the night, screaming, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama,” that Clyde knew he could never belong to a normal life, that he needed to be alone.
One night when Peggy and the baby were away on a pre-Christmas visit to her mother and father in Delray Beach, Florida, where, happy to retire early, they had relocated, Clyde knew it was over. He had drunk a bottle of good red wine, then put on his flannel
At age two Jessica had been on Steve’s shoulders at Yankee Stadium in the summer and Giants Stadium in the fall. She had been a star soccer goalie in school and was a fiercely competitive tennis player.
Her decision to go into law had thrilled her parents, although when she chose to become a criminal defense attorney, her father was less than pleased. “Ninety percent of the ones who are indicted are guilty as sin,” was his comment. Her answer: “What about the other ten percent and what about extenuating circumstances?”
Jessie had worked for two years as a public defender in criminal court in Manhattan, then accepted a job offer from a growing firm specializing in criminal defense practice.
On Friday morning Jessie went into the office of her boss, Margaret Kane, a former federal prosecutor, and told her that she had taken on the job of defending Kate Connelly against a potential criminal charge of arson. “It may not stop there,” she told Kane. “The way I see it, they may try to say Kate was an accessory to Gus Schmidt’s death.”
Margaret Kane listened to the details of the case. “Go ahead,” she said. “Send the family the usual contract and retainer fee.” Then she added dryly, “The presumption of innocence sounds like a stretch in this case, Jess. But see what you can do for your friend.”
24
C lyde Hotchkiss had been living on the streets of various cities since the mid-1970s. A decorated veteran of the Vietnam War, he had come home to Staten Island with a hero’s welcome but was haunted by his wartime experience. There were memories he could talk about to the VA hospital psychiatrist, and the one he could never discuss, even though it was vivid in his mind—the night in Vietnam when he and Joey Kelly, the youngest kid in their platoon, huddled together, caught in a barrage of enemy artillery fire.
Joey had always talked about his mother, how close they were, how his father had died when he was a baby. Clyde and Joey were shoulder to shoulder trying to crawl toward a clump of trees that offered some shelter when Joey was hit.
Clyde had put his arms around him as Joey, holding together his own guts, whispered, “Tell Mama how much I love her,” and started to cry, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama.” Then, his blood soaking through Clyde’s uniform, Joey had died in Clyde’s arms.
Clyde had married his high school sweetheart, Peggy, “the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley,” as the local Staten Island paper reported. They had a good laugh over that one. Sometimes when Clyde called to tell her he’d be late from work, he would say, “Am I having the privilege of speaking to the beauteous Margaret Monica Farley?”
Always instinctively good at any construction task, he had gotten a job with a local builder and quickly became his right-hand man.
Three years later Clyde Jr. was born, and they promptly nicknamed him Skippy.
Clyde loved his wife and son with a deep, abiding love, but the baby’s crying brought back memories of Joey, especially the one he had tried his hardest to leave in the past.
He began to drink, a cocktail with Peggy after a hard day’s work, wine at dinner, wine after dinner. When Peggy expressed concern, he began to skillfully find places to hide the wine. When he became short-tempered, she begged him to go for help. “It’s the war hitting you again,” she told him. “Clyde, you need to go to the VA hospital and talk about it to the doctor.”
But it was when Skippy began teething and would wake them up in the middle of the night, screaming, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama,” that Clyde knew he could never belong to a normal life, that he needed to be alone.
One night when Peggy and the baby were away on a pre-Christmas visit to her mother and father in Delray Beach, Florida, where, happy to retire early, they had relocated, Clyde knew it was over. He had drunk a bottle of good red wine, then put on his flannel
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