Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(4)

Not that Ellie was having a bad time. She was the kind of kid who always found a way to entertain herself. He admired that about his daughter. But it would be nice if it had anything at all to do with baseball. She had become fast friends with two boys her age in their row. The three children had invented a game with rules so convoluted that none of the fathers could follow, but which resulted in a lot of conspiratorial whispering and giggling.

So far the highlight of the day had been the Presidents Race. A mainstay at Nationals games since the team had moved to DC from Montreal, it was a promotional event featuring five runners in oversized foam presidents’ heads. During the fourth inning, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and William Taft ran from center field to first base. Shenanigans ensued. For years, it had been an inside joke that Teddy Roosevelt never won. Teddy finally broke his winless streak to celebrate the team clinching the playoffs in 2012. Since then, the Rough Rider won periodically, but mostly Washington, Jefferson, Taft, and Lincoln ganged up on him.

Ellie didn’t know that. So at the start of the race, she scampered down to the edge of the field to cheer on Teddy—her favorite president since playing him in a school pageant. Things were looking good, and Ellie’s man led the whole way. She was pogoing up and down—her gleeful shrieks carrying back to Gibson. But in the last ten yards, Lincoln tripped Teddy, and George Washington took it at the tape.

Ellie came back despondent and threw herself into her seat. “Daddy, he cheated!”

“It’s just a race, El.”

“He cheated. I hate him. Abraham Lincoln is a cheater.”

“That’s exactly what Jefferson Davis said,” one of the fathers deadpanned.

“It was close,” said Gibson. “Maybe Teddy will win next time.”

She perked up at that. “Can we come again? Please?”

Gibson pretended to think it over, milking the moment.

“Please,” she begged and smiled an exaggerated, too-cute-for-this-solar-system smile.

“I suppose it might be possible.”

Ellie squealed and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, ignoring for a moment that he’d manipulated her enthusiasm. You just social-engineered your own kid, he thought. Not cool, slick. But he didn’t care. He needed it. He’d begun to have his doubts about the kind of father he was becoming. This dad-at-a-distance routine felt false. Being a father didn’t happen by appointment, no matter what the custody agreement said. Being a parent happened in the day to day. Not at baseball games and special events every other weekend. He feared that was how Ellie was beginning to see him. As the guy who came around every so often and took her places and conned her into hugging him. He needed to find solid ground with her. Soon. For now, Ellie was forgiving. If he didn’t figure it out, he had a bad feeling that he’d spend the rest of his life looking in from the outside at the rest of hers.

“Want me to teach you how to keep score?” he said, holding up the scorecard enticingly.

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Okay, maybe after.”

Ellie shrugged noncommittally.

Gibson steered his daughter along the concourse past several food vendors. He was getting hungry. Ben’s Chili Bowl was over on the third base side. But if he got a half smoke, Ellie would want one, and a chili dog was way too advanced for her now. He loved her, but she could make a mess of eating an apple.

They found a ladies’ room; the line stretched almost out the door.

“I’ll be right here,” he said.

“Okay.”

“You’re all right by yourself?”

His seven-year-old daughter rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

He chuckled and walked across the concourse where he could stand, back against the concrete wall, and watch for her. He got uneasy when Ellie was out of his line of sight; he didn’t want to smother her, but at the same time he didn’t give a damn if it meant knowing she was safe. It had gotten worse over the last six months, and he was afraid his paranoia would only accelerate as Ellie got older. As she got closer to the age at which Suzanne Lombard had disappeared.

Gibson lifted the beat-up Philadelphia Phillies cap off his head, swept the hair off his forehead with his free hand, and settled the cap back in place. It looked well loved, but the wear and tear was anything but love. It was Suzanne’s cap, and Gibson wore it to remember her. If he had learned one thing last year investigating her disappearance, it was that the margin for error in guarding your children was absolute and unforgiving.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vaughn. May I have a word?”

A slight man in an open-collared pink polo shirt and khakis stepped into Gibson’s line of sight. One of those men who had somehow gone through life without developing a single muscle and looked like he’d been made on a taffy puller. Gibson looked him over. Boat shoes—check. Whale belt—check. Requisite pair of Ray-Bans hanging from the V-neck of his shirt—check. Half man, half preppie flamingo. Gibson took a step to his left to keep the restroom in view.

“Can I help you with something?” Gibson said, making no effort to mask his irritation.

“Mr. Vaughn, my name is Christopher Birk. I was hoping for a minute.” The Flamingo looked to be in his early thirties, although his thinning blond hair had mostly surrendered the fight and retired to the barbershop floor.