The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [121]
She was unconscious on the seat when the rear wheels of the Mustang dropped over the embankment. The car stopped, its chassis teetering on the soft dirt. Then it slid over the edge.
David felt the emptiness even before he was fully awake. He opened his eyes a slit, then closed them tightly, trying to will what he knew was true not to be so. She’s in the living room, sitting quietly, looking out at the ocean. A dollar says she’s in the living room. He held his breath. The silence in the house was more than the simple absence of sound. It was a void, a nothingness. There was no movement of air, no sense of energy, no life.
She’s gone for a walk, he reasoned desperately. A little morning walk and immediately the great surgeon panics. He rolled toward the window, blinking at the sunless glare. The sky was a thin sheet of pearl—the sort of overcast that would miraculously disappear by midmorning, opening like a curtain on the extravaganza of a new day. A morning walk, that’s all.
He pushed himself to one elbow and scanned the room. The realization that her clothes were gone sank in only moments before he saw the envelope wedged alongside the mirror. It was the scene from countless grade B movies, only this time inexorably real. Sadness as flat as the morning sky swept over him.
“Shit,” was his first word of the day. Then his second and third. He pulled himself out of bed and walked purposefully past the dresser into the bathroom. He peed, then washed, then shaved. He limped to the kitchen and put on water for coffee. The ankle was stiff and slow, but almost free of pain. His nurse had done her job well.
He tidied the living room and waited for the water to boil. In one final jet of hope he checked the driveway. The Mustang was gone. Christine was gone. Mexico and any chance for a new, unencumbered life together were gone.
Numbly, he shuffled back to the bedroom.
His name was printed in the center of the plain white envelope. He watched his hands tear it open. Another note. The second one in less than a week. This time, though, he felt the anguish in every word—as it was written and as it was read.
Dear David,
I couldn’t chance waiting for you to wake up and talk me out of doing this. I tried all night to make myself believe there was another way. God, how I tried. In the end, though, all I could think of was how much pain and sadness I’ve caused you. It’s all so very crazy. Something that seemed so good, so right. And now … I am going to see Lt. Dockerty to make a full confession regarding Charlotte. Before I do, I am going to meet with Dr. Armstrong. What you said last night made so much sense. I know she can help me. Despite what has happened, I know in my heart that most of us are only following principles we believe in. With luck, Dr. Armstrong can help put matters to rest with as little public disclosure as possible. I have three names to give her for starters, plus some phone numbers and a few Clinton Foundation newsletters. That’s not much, but it’s a start. Maybe, we can find a way of getting inside the secrecy. Then there is the matter of who is responsible for hiring Ben’s killer. I’ll do what I can to find out before involving the police.
Finally, there is you—a special, magic man. In so short a time, you have reached places inside me that I’m not sure I even knew existed. For that, and much more, I owe you. I owe you a life free from running, from constantly looking over my shoulder. I owe you a chance to fulfill the dreams you’ve worked so hard and endured so much for. If the circumstances were any different, sweet, gentle David—any different—I would have risked it. Gone wherever we decided. I honestly believe you would be worth the gamble.
But circumstances are not different.