The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [115]
“There’s this riddle I once heard,” he continued. “It asks a person what he would do if he was presented with a healthy newborn infant and promised that by slaying that infant he could instantly cure the ills of all mankind. Someone in your Sisterhood has answered that riddle for herself. Ben, you, me—none of us is as important to them as their ideals. The individual sacrificed for the greater good. It happens all the time.”
“That’s horrible,” she said.
“Maybe. But more important, it’s human. You can shoulder the burden of responsibilities for my suffering or even Ben’s death, if you want to, but that’s being awfully tough on yourself for just doing what you believed in and for trusting that other human beings were just as constant, just as pure in their belief as you were.
“You have decisions to make, Chris. Huge, crunching, God-awful decisions. If you want, I’ll help. But don’t expect me to stand by holding the matches while you pour gasoline over yourself. I … I care too much.”
Slowly she turned to him. Her eyes held him as they had during their first moments together. Her hands caressed the sides of his face. Their kiss, this time warm and deep and sweet, carried them to the sand. Moment by moment, as they undressed one another, the world beyond their beach drifted away. David kissed her eyes, then buried his lips in the soft hollow of her neck. Her hands flowed over his body, capturing new excitement for herself as she created it in him.
With every kiss, every touch, the loneliness and fear inside them lessened. With each new discovery the sense of hopelessness ebbed.
Christine’s face glowed golden in the late afternoon sun as she pulled herself on top of him. He stroked her firm breasts, first with his hands, then with his tongue.
She was smiling as she reached down and guided him inside her.
“Barbara, just stop fretting and give me the names. I’ll take care of it.”
“But …”
“The names, please.” Margaret Armstrong snapped the words, then balled the small piece of fabric in her fist and forced herself to relax.
Barbara Littlejohn hesitated. A throbbing in her head, which had begun during the flight from Los Angeles, intensified. Finally she opened a manilla folder and passed one letter at a time across the cardiologist’s desk. “Ruth Serafini,” she said. “Resigned from both the board of directors and the movement. Says that she understands you are doing what you think is right, but that she cannot, in all good conscience, go along with it.”
“Not even a copy to me,” Peggy muttered, scanning the letter, then tossing it aside.
“Susan Berger,” Barbara continued. “Says essentially the same thing as Ruth, but goes on to state that until matters are resolved she intends to curtail all Sisterhood operations in northern California. No approval for new cases, and also her recommendation that all contributions to the Clinton Foundation be held up.”
Peggy set the letter on top of the other without reading it. “Susan will listen to reason,” she said evenly, weighing the possibility of doctoring the half-dozen tapes of Susan’s that were locked in her basement vault. Without any reference to The Sisterhood of Life, the tapes would constitute a chilling confession. “She’s far too ambitious a woman not to listen to reason.” Peggy unraveled the square of linen and absently rubbed it between her fingertips.
Barbara Littlejohn, appearing gray and drawn despite her carefully applied makeup, passed across the third letter. “This is the one that upset me the most,” she said. “It’s from Sara.”
Damn! The expletive was thought more than spoken.
“She says that she will reconsider her resignation if we conduct a careful investigation into involvement of The Sisterhood or its members in the deaths of John Chapman