Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [80]
The senator knew that we knew Dr. Massey. And we knew that he knew, because he’d arranged it through his office. He also knew that Dr. Massey could offer us nothing. Standing in front of the cameras, Dr. Massey was little more than a prop. A stunt. The public did not know. Hence, the reason he was there.
The senator continued, his face growing more pained: “Dr. Massey would like another opportunity to assess Abigail’s condition and consider a new course of treatment. Possibly…” He held his hands out like the scales of justice. “Well, we just have no idea what is available or might be in the days to come.” He patted Dr. Massey on the shoulder. “We’re not finished fighting.”
He was shrewd. In the span of a few seconds, the senator had raised an unspoken question: Was I—the sketchy, jealous son-in-law riding the coattails of the world-famous model—keeping Abbie from a possible treatment and cure? Was my kidnapping—because that’s what this was—motivated by the intent to murder? In so doing, he was circling the edges of a bold-faced lie, yet what did he care? He knew that the best way to enlist the public’s help was to dangle the question and create the perception. Because in the court of public of opinion, perception equals reality. I might as well have had a rope around my neck.
The senator gathered his composure. “Doss…please bring my”—he placed his arm around Abbie’s stepmom—“…our daughter back to us…while there’s still time.”
Cameras returned to the newswoman, who tapped her pencil on the desk in front of her. She turned to her male counterpart who had been quiet throughout her report. “When I was fighting breast cancer, Abbie Eliot was a great encouragement to me. Even”—the woman’s eyes glossed over—“writing me a note of encouragement when I lost my hair.” The guy behind the counter mashed the mute button and threw it on the counter. “I hope they catch the son of a—” The ice machine dropped a tray of ice and drowned him out but I got the picture. A trial before the court of public opinion would not be lengthy. I quietly set down my groceries while the conversation ramped up. I slipped out a side door, walked down the boat ramp, untied the canoe and pushed off with unusual force.
Abbie sat up. “You okay?”
I dipped my hat in the water, soaking the brim, slid it back on my head and let it cool me from the top down. I nodded.
She pressed me. “What?”
“Your dad.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“What he’s good at.”
“Press conference?” I nodded.
She chewed on her lip. “That bad?”
“Denim shirt. Front porch of the house. Katherine standing behind him.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Yep.”
“You know…he really doesn’t like you.”
“Tell me about it.”
To be honest, I’d be doing the same thing if some guy I didn’t like had my daughter off on some river when she should be at home with me. Only difference was, I knew what was best for Abbie. He didn’t. And deep down, he knew that, too. ’Course, he’d never admit it.
The problem with the senator tracking us down was that he would exert his will over ours. He’d stick Abbie in some sterile bed surrounded by people she didn’t know in an environment she did not like. For some thirty-two years now, he had counted the votes of people who’d told him he knew best. After so long in politics, he had grown to believe that if he knew what was best for his constituents, then he obviously knew what was best for everyone. And that “everyone” included his family. No power on earth could convince him otherwise. I didn’t doubt his intentions. The senator wasn’t evil. In truth, he really didn’t have a bad bone in his body. He was arrogant, but I knew he loved his daughter. But loving her and knowing what was best for her, or what she wanted, were entirely different things. “Honey, I think he’s just trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
That part was easy. “Me.”
AFTER A LONG STRAIGHTAWAY, the river morphs again. Subtlety. Close your eyes and you’ll miss it. The long,