The Buck Stops Here

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Yes, you are. If I can’t convince you, then the snake should. You’re not safe there, Callie. You know too much. The NSA needs some time to bring this investigation to a close, but your job is done. You can leave now.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. “Tom, I hate to say this because I know she’s your sister, but the most logical culprit here is Beth. She went out for a jog while I was there, and then a snake turned up in my car? Who else could it be?”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” he replied, “and I’d be willing to consider it if not for the fact that we’re talking about a snake. Beth hates snakes, Callie. She wouldn’t touch one for a million—no, for a trillion dollars. This had to have been done by someone who isn’t afraid of reptiles.”

  Callie thought for a moment. “So who are you thinking of? Armand?

  “Yeah. He must have come to Beth’s house and put that snake in your car. The swamps are full of snakes, and the man is a natural around reptiles.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  I felt a wave of relief that we had discovered Sparks’ accomplice, followed by a surge of sadness that it had ended up being Armand. He was an unusual man, but also so very full of life. And I couldn’t help but like anyone who was as at home on the water as he was.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” I added. “I know he was your friend.”

  “Well, so was James once upon a time, and look where he ended up. Truly, nothing could surprise me anymore.”

  Forty-Nine

  A half hour later, the bell captain had retrieved my car key and my bandaged knees were really starting to smart. I was thinking that perhaps I should try to get some sleep when the phone rang. It was Tom again.

  “Hey.”

  “Turn on the TV,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

  “What?”

  “Turn on the TV,” he repeated, naming the station he wanted me to find. I reached into the bedside drawer for the remote and then held it out toward the television and flipped through the channels until I had reached the correct one.

  “It’s a car commercial,” I said.

  “Keep watching.”

  We waited for the show to come back on, the line silent between us. I so wanted to talk to him about us, but now didn’t seem like the right moment, especially because he still wasn’t alone. I wondered if we would have that “right moment” before this investigation was wrapped up.

  The commercial ended and then the camera went to a close-up of a man with silver hair and blue eyes.

  “Welcome back to Late Night with Donald Mason Live,” he said. “We’re talking with Armand Velette, author of A Louisiana Guide to the Disappearing Coastline. Armand, you’re saying that the disappearing coastline isn’t just Louisiana’s problem, it’s everybody’s problem?”

  The camera pulled back to reveal Armand sitting there across from the host, looking handsome in a dark suit, his eyes twinkling in the bright studio lights.

  “That’s right, Donald,” Armand said. “For starters, did you know that Coastal Louisiana, by itself, accounts for thirty percent of this country’s annual seafood harvest? Thirty percent! What’s this country gonna do without that?”

  I turned the sound down a bit and spoke into the phone.

  “What is this?” I said.

  “It’s what it looks like,” Tom replied. “Armand is on a live TV talk show.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought this was the sort of thing he did all the time.”

  “The operative word here is live, Callie. We checked. It’s happening right now, even as we are watching. They film in Houston. According to the producer, Armand has been there at the studio since six o’clock this evening.”

  I closed my eyes, understanding that that now ruled him out as a suspect with the snake, at least as far as putting it there in my car himself. Of course, he could have had someone else do it for him, but, then again, how would he even have known where I was going to be tonight?

  My mind turned again to thoughts of Beth. Who was to say what she’d really been doing when she’d gone out earlier? She had known I would be there visiting and could have had prepared ahead of time, maybe had the snake waiting in a bucket somewhere or something. I hated to have to bring it up again, but I had no choice.

  “I still say Beth could have done it,” I told him softly. “She was outside tonight for a long enough period of time, anyway.”

  The moment was awkward.

  “I’m here with the NSA,” Tom said finally, his voice noncommittal. “She’s already on their short list. If Phillip knew you were going to be there, it could’ve been him too.”

  “He knew,” I said. “In fact, he’s the one who made the appointment for me with your mother.”

  “Ah. Well, then we’re back where we started, aren’t we?”

  Even as thoughts were swirling in my head, Tom wrapped up the call, telling me again to check out and head home in the morning. I didn’t make any promises. We hung up and then I sat there, knees hurting, heart hurting. I missed him! I wanted to be with him. Most of all I wanted him to know that nothing stood between us now.

  Thinking that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I turned up the television and watched the rest of the show. Armand was funny and articulate and handsome, the perfect spokesman for protecting the swamp. I pictured him in that environment, tossing food to alligators, moving so naturally among the passing wildlife, and I had to wonder suddenly if the snake in my car tonight had been put there specifically to frame him. Did one of the others want us to think it was Armand? If so, they made a big mistake by not doing their homework to make sure he didn’t have an alibi.

  So which one was it, Beth or Phillip—or both? My mind racing, I thought about calling Paul Tyson in Seattle to get financial profiles of Beth Sparks and Phillip Wilson. But Paul and I had already had a conversation last week where I asked him all about encryption programs and the Cipher Five. I really didn’t think it would be prudent to clue him in now on the specifics of who or what I was really investigating.

  I climbed out of bed and went to my computer. The best I could do was an internet search for assets, using the investigative databases to which I subscribed. Though I was tired, I soon got into it, finally turning up some real estate sales and purchases for Phillip, as well as several other indications that the man was quite well off. I already knew he was rich, though, so I concentrated on Beth, deeply concerned when I finally came across an enormous amount of stock holdings in her name. As I studied the list of companies, I couldn’t think of any common denominator between them—except that they were good, solid investments, by and large.

  Yet Beth was a full-time mom, with only some minimal, part-time computer work on the side. How was it that she was so rich? And if Sparks were blackmailing her, then wouldn’t the money be paying out and not in? My mind wrapped around that thought, including the possibility that Beth and her ex-husband were working together to blackmail Phillip. But if that were the case, I wondered, then how could Beth and Phillip still be such good friends—unless he wasn’t aware that she was working through James to take his money. Was that it?

  I finally gave up. I turned off the light and got under the covers again, feeling utterly confused and frustrated. I could only hope that somehow God would show me some clarity in the midst of this muddle. It took a long time for me to fall asleep, but at least once I did, I slept deeply.

  I awoke after 9:00 A.M., much to my surprise. And though my knees still hurt, my hands were fine, no longer even red. I thought about the day ahead of me, mentally planning out the schedule between now and the ball tonight. For my own safety, Tom wanted me to go home as soon as possible, but I was determined to extend my stay here until tomorrow.

  There was no real reason for me to stick around other than plain stubbornness. I had come to New Orleans for two reasons—to get to the bottom about Tom’s involvement in my husband’s death and to conduct a charity investigation of Family H
EARTS. I had found out the truth about Tom, and for all intents and purposes, my charity investigation was nearly finished as well. But all of my digging around about the past had set off certain events, not the least of which was the attempted murder of James Sparks. Now it felt as though I was peculiarly positioned to bring about some answers to the questions my investigations had raised.

  Tonight at the ball I would be able to observe Armand, Beth, and Phillip all in one place together. If I could somehow use my access to turn up just a bit of information about James Sparks’ silent accomplice, then at least I could leave town feeling as though I had done all that I could here. This extra day would also allow me to fulfill my appointments with two of the board members of Family HEARTS and then close out that investigation completely.

  I promised myself I would leave in the morning and go home, whether I made any progress today or not. If I left early Saturday morning, I could drive all night and get to D.C. by Sunday afternoon. Tom would still be there. Somehow, we would steal away some time alone where I could tell him all that I learned and all that I had been thinking. I knew he was absorbed with the new investigation of the Cipher Five, but I didn’t think he would mind being dragged away for an hour or so once he heard what I had to say.

  My meeting with the two board members of Family HEARTS was scheduled for noon at a home in the Garden District, so I decided to have breakfast out and then take a streetcar there.

  I dressed in another of my new suits and then set off on foot into the warm and humid morning, doubling back a few times to make sure no one was following me. Feeling secure, I chose a lovely restaurant and was seated in a center courtyard at a small table next to a fountain. I ordered eggs Benedict and then sat back with my café au lait and soaked up the ambiance while I waited for my food to come. How I wished Tom were with me! I knew New Orleans was often referred to as the “Big Easy,” and now that I had been here a while, I understood why. At least in the French Quarter, there was something so very laid back about it, so utterly unconcerned with the usual rhythms of a busy city’s work week. I loved it. In fact, the only problem with this place was all of the food. It was so good that I had a feeling if I lived here, I would have to double my workout schedule just to keep up.

  After breakfast my adventure on the streetcar was immensely pleasurable. I sat by a window and watched, rapt, as we rode up St. Charles Avenue past one beautiful home after another. I got off at my stop and then walked a half a block to the home I was looking for. It wasn’t as large as some of its neighbors, but it was richly appointed inside and quite beautiful.

  It hadn’t dawned on me that my meeting would include lunch, but soon I was seated at a long table where several courses were served up, one after the other, by a silent and dour-looking butler. Not wanting to seem rude, I ate as much as I could, picking at the rest, and feeling as though I were going to explode. The two women I had come to meet were good friends with each other, both in their seventies, with expensive coiffures and somewhat affected manners. But they were sweet and very interested in the foundation and very proprietary about Family HEARTS. I got the impression that they served on a number of different boards and that they took their charity work very seriously. They answered all of my questions, and when we were finished, they said that they hoped to see me at the ball tonight.

  Back at my hotel, I entered all of the information they had given me and then sat back and studied the full picture of Family HEARTS. I had received responses from most of my sources, and the few that had had dealings with Family HEARTS gave the organization hearty endorsements. With a few minor adjustments on their part, the charity would pass my investigation on all counts. I closed out the file, knowing that if this were a normal case, it would now be time for me to write out my recommendations and then cut them a check. But this case wasn’t normal, and while I could say without reservation that the charity was a good one, I knew we couldn’t hand over any money to them until these other, seemingly unrelated questions were answered. Was Phillip a criminal? Was Veronica involved somehow? Until we knew for sure, there wouldn’t be any money given from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Family HEARTS.

  Putting that out of my mind for now, I went online to do a bit of research. I wanted to know more about ricin, the poison that had been in the inhaler. What I learned was that ricin, a by-product of the castor bean plant, was an incredibly deadly substance. Apparently, just one gram of ricin was 6000 times more poisonous than cyanide and 12,000 times more poisonous than rattlesnake venom. It would take only one millionth of an ounce to kill a man—yet the death wouldn’t be instantaneous. From what I could tell, symptoms wouldn’t even show up until 18 to 24 hours after exposure, with death resulting anywhere from 12 to 54 hours after that.

  I found some pictures of the plant, and the shiny seeds looked to be about the size of pinto beans, each very pretty, with delicate designs of brown and black and white on their hard shells. The beans were deceptively beautiful, however, because they provided one of the most potent cytotoxins in nature—a cytotoxin which could be derived through several processes, including simple distillation.

  Of course, castor oil was taken from the same source, and that was a useful product found in lubricants, paints, plastics, shampoo, cosmetics, and more. Apparently, however, because of the dangers of ricin poisoning, not much castor oil was produced in the United States anymore. Even workers who processed it safely were prone to developing allergic sensitivities, ranging from contact dermatitis to asthma to anaphylactic shock.

  The thought that frightened me the most, though, was when I considered the danger of ricin dust in the hands of terrorists. Because castor bean plants were fairly common worldwide—and the toxin somewhat easily produced—the potential for ricin to be used in chemical warfare was staggering. As I looked at website after website, I felt myself growing increasingly anxious. If such a potent poison were released into the general population, we would all be dead of acute hypoxic respiratory failure within days.

  With a shudder I finally signed off and went to prayer. I asked God for protection, not just for myself but for my entire country. In such unstable times, I could only pray that the Lord would keep His benevolent hand upon all of us and keep us safe. I also prayed for wisdom and discernment for the NSA agents who were working to crack this case. Finally, I prayed that Tom would stay safe until we could be reunited.

  When my prayer was finished, I went outside for a breath of fresh air. The sun was hot, and a number of people were lounging around the pool. I would have loved to go for a dip myself, but there wasn’t time. I would need to start getting ready for the ball soon. First, however, I went back inside my room, sat down, and dialed the phone number of my friend and mentor Eli Gold.

  We had a good talk. Things had been somewhat contentious between us since the conversation I had overheard between Eli and Tom in the hospital in Florida, when I first realized that Tom was somehow connected to Bryan’s death. Now I apologized for all I had said and done in my desperate pursuit for answers. I told Eli that, above all else, I wanted him to get better. Still healing from a gunshot wound, he promised me that he would focus fully on his recovery now that he and I had made our peace.

  I asked him if he would mind verifying for me the truths that I had uncovered about Tom and James Sparks. One by one, I went down the list of reasons that Tom felt culpable in Bryan’s death. Eli confirmed all of them.

  “Is that everything?” I asked. “Is there anything else I don’t know?”

  “No, Callie,” Eli replied. “I believe you have unearthed it all. I always knew you could.”

  “Everything except how the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation came to be,” I said. “All I know is that somehow it was created with me in mind.”

  “It was my idea, actually,” Eli surprised me by saying. “Now that you know everything else, I guess I can tell you how it happened.”

  He went on to describe his own investigation into my husband’s death, which he conducted the summer t
hat Bryan died. Unbeknownst to me, Eli had had questions about the boating accident from day one, as certain things simply didn’t add up for him. He had taken it upon himself to seek out some answers, and slowly his investigation led him to James Sparks and Tom Bennett. Because Eli was a former NSA agent himself, he was able to get confirmation on certain facts, and in the end he became acquainted with Tom personally.

  Eli liked Tom a lot, and he believed him to be a true man of character. They had some long conversations where Tom expressed extreme remorse over the death of the man in the water—and the widow who had been left behind.

  “He told me once,” Eli said, “that ever since the accident, he was just one soul hoping for ultimate absolution.”

  “Absolution?”

  “He needed to find a way, somehow, to pay for his sin.”

  “We don’t pay for our own sin, Eli. Jesus died on the cross to take care of all that.”

  “I know,” Eli replied, “and Tom knew too. He just couldn’t shake his own sense of responsibility in ruining your life. He didn’t know you, of course, but he still felt bound to you. What made it so hard for him, I think, was that he could never go to you and tell you what had really happened, or how sorry he was that it had all taken place on his watch.”

  “I understand,” I whispered, surprised at the tears that sprang into my own eyes—tears of pity for Tom and his sense of guilt in the matter. I could almost picture him agonizing over me and my pain. He was just that kind of person.

  “Of course, Callie, while I was doing the investigation and getting to know Tom, you were slipping deeper and deeper into depression. Finally, I thought of a way that Tom could repay his debt to you. He wanted absolution? I told him that maybe he could find it by giving to others—and that that would start by offering you a job that would pull you out of your despair and offer you a way to give to others as well.”

  I closed my eyes, picturing it all. My beloved Eli had somehow engineered a path to healing for Tom and for me in one fell swoop. And though a part of me probably should have been mad at Eli for being so manipulative, I knew there was only love in his efforts. I thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, for doing what he thought was right, for suggesting the formation of a foundation and convincing me to pull out of my own grief and step into a job that fit me like a glove.