The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  A knock on the door made each of them jump. They welcomed the distraction. Shea motioned for Jessica to step away from the door and he glanced out the peephole into the corridor. Satisfied, he opened the door.

  “We did not order room service.” He used his body as a block to the entrance of the room.

  A uniformed waiter with pale skin smiled dumbly at him. “Yessah! Note sez ‘Congratulations! Fondly, Abbey.’” The waiter’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head this way and that trying to look past Shea. “Ya jest git hitched?” The smile broadened to reveal two gold teeth.

  Shea took the card from the waiter’s hands. He dug in his pocket for a few bills and handed them to the grinning man. “Something like that,” he replied. The waiter began to push the room service cart into the room. Shea stopped him. “No. I’ll take it. Thanks.” Shea wheeled the cart into the room himself and closed the door.

  “Abbey?” Jessica took a few steps closer to the cart and removed the white tablecloth that covered it. A bottle of champagne, fluted glasses, and an assortment of food greeted their eyes.

  “Right. She’s an associate in my office. Abbey really came through for me on this case. She helped arrange a few safe houses for us for the next few days.”

  “‘Safe houses’? What do you mean?”

  “Well, on top of everything else right now, as far as Boston is concerned, you are the hottest story to hit town in years. For your white-hot fifteen minutes of fame, we agreed that you should control your access to the press.” He reached out, grabbed the bottle by the neck, undressed it and popped the cork. Two glasses of the bubbling liquid were quickly poured.

  Jessica took the offered glass and spoke with a strained edge. “You all agreed to what I should be doing.” She paused. “I’m a wreck and need a break to be civil again. I don’t want to think about the press, the trial, jail or much of anything right now. I’m starved and I need a shower.” She looked over at the satchel. “What’s in the bag?” She downed the glass of champagne in a single gulp and ate two finger sandwiches.

  “Clean clothes for you.” He smiled as he looked her over. “Don’t get upset, but spending a few nights in an alley and in a jail don’t do a lot for a person’s looks.”

  “Hmmm. I guess you’re right. We need a break and I need to get cleaned up.” She grabbed the case and retreated to the bathroom.

  Shea stretched out on the bed and sipped his champagne. He let the bubbles play over his tongue and savored the taste. The indictments handed down today were a huge step forward in his mission to destroy Magnus. He would not fool himself, however. He knew that only a conviction would guarantee Magnus was going out of business forever. Automatically, he began sifting through the information in his head, planning the strategy for the trial. He caught himself. “Fool. There will be time enough for planning and working on that trial. Relax. Just for one night. Relax.”

  The self-chastisement made him smile. The faucets of the shower squeaked open and the room was soon filled with the steamy scent of over-perfumed hotel soap. He had a few things he had to do tonight yet, but they could wait. Right now, he wanted to focus on Jessica.

  She emerged from the bathroom in a swirl of steam. Wearing a pair of tight leggings and an oversized shirt, she bent over and tousled her hair dry with a towel. Shea tried hard not to look at the gap formed by several open buttons.

  “Smart move on the clothes! Whose idea was it?”

  “What? Oh, right. Um. Abbey. She got the stuff ready for you last night. An eternal optimist.”

  He reached out and handed her a replenished glass.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. He broke the silence. “Jessica, there’s more we have to talk about. Do you want to talk about it now or later?”

  “Later!” She squeezed the word out of her voice, between clenched teeth. “Look, I want to talk. But not now. My head has been so full of this crap for so long, I’m saturated.” She popped another hors d’oeuvre in her mouth, poured herself another glass of champagne and lay down on the other bed. “I am too tired to talk. Why don’t you tell me about the proceeding. I want to hear everything.”

  Shea paused for a moment and looked at the exhausted woman. Her wet hair was brushed back from her face and he could easily see the fading bruises from her beating at Granger’s hands. He agreed with her. Backing off for right now would be okay. The change of subject she offered him was a good one. He decided to take it.

  Enjoying an attentive audience, Shea launched into his preparation for the proceeding and gave a detailed account of what happened in court. He did not know how long he talked, but when he paused and waited for a response from Jessica, he received none.

  He looked over at her. She was sound asleep. As quietly as he could, he made a quick phone call to check on surveillance measures in and around the hotel and scrawled a quick note and propped it up on the night table beside her bed.

  He stood for a long while looking down on the sleeping figure. Silently, he turned and left the room.

  Jessica awoke the next morning and looked around the room. She had no idea which reality she was in. The light fought its way into the room around the heavy curtains. The sounds were those of people quietly going about their business—footsteps in the carpeted hall, the soft chime of an elevator. The room service cart from the night before was still in the middle of the room. The empty champagne bottle was left bottoms up in the silver bucket. That explains the fog, she thought.

  She rolled over and let the pieces of the last day emerge one by one. As each fact sharpened, she turned it over, examined it and savored it. It was true. She was out of jail and she could now be Jessica Wyeth. She smiled sleepily and reached out for the note on her bedstand.

  She recognized Shea’s handwriting immediately. He had left her his new office number and instructions to meet him for lunch later that day. Her mouth tightened in irritation and she resolved to miss her summoned appearance. The clock glowed eight o’clock and she realized she had slept for over thirteen hours and was starved. She reached for the phone and ordered breakfast.

  Her meal came just as she stepped from her bath. Wrapping a thick, hotel-issued terry cloth robe around her, she settled in to eat in luxurious peace. She popped on the television and idly cruised the local stations. Not surprisingly, her face was on every channel.

  The spin on her story varied little from network to network. The ‘Murdering Heiress’ and ‘Fugitive Heiress’ was now the ‘Resurrected Heiress’ or something similar. The favored images of her were those of her being led into the police headquarters under heavy guard followed immediately with clips of a worn and apparently frazzled woman being released. The reporters on the scene were very sympathetic to the plight of a woman who lived an unthinkable nightmare for over a decade. The stories varied little in the type of background information they gave. All of it was very superficial. Without fail, each network promised to provide viewers with more details as soon as they could. Shea was right, she thought. I won’t be left alone until I get out of this town. She sighed and thought of her mountain home and smiled. The sooner she got back there, the better. The news reported that Kentucky was experiencing an unusually cold and snowy winter and had just received a considerable dumping of snow in the last blizzard, making her want to check on her house and animals.

  Jessica listened carefully to the commentary given of Shea and observed the impact of his appearance at her side. No station dwelled on the potential charges of him harboring a fugitive. In fact, now that the grand jury had decided in his favor, Shea was being portrayed as a hero—a lone, honest citizen persevering for truth against incredible odds. A history of the cases he had tried in the past year was provided to illustrate the theme. No matter how insignificant, it appeared that the attorney general was deeply concerned for the welfare and well-being of ‘the little guy.’ The pieces of his tragic past and his work merged to present
a glowing image. One commentator stopped just short of begging him to run for governor. The coverage was perfect for Shea.

  A little too perfect. The hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle as she thought of the impact this one case would have upon the career and future of the young, handsome, and ambitious attorney general. Michael’s words forced themselves to be considered. The memories of her arrest and of their conversation in the school blazed in her mind. She brought her knees up to her chest and buried her head in her hands.

  “Damn you, Michael. Damn you!” Her hands closed into fists around her hair.

  She had not allowed herself to think about Michael since his sudden appearance in the alley. Her own heated words floated back to her. What did he have to do with all of this?

  There was an edge about Michael that had always attracted her. The intensity with which he seemed to feel things intrigued her. Regardless of the hateful words she flung at him, he was far from the image she held of a backwater cop. Astute and sensual were two words that attempted to describe his demeanor. Guarded and dangerous were two others.

  She uncurled from her position and began to get dressed. Now that she had allowed herself to think of Michael, she could not stop. His presence here was more than professional pride. Jessica had the firm suspicion that his position as sheriff was a tool he used, but for what other purposes she did not know.

  Michael was still on her mind as she left the hotel. Within the rich walls of the Brahmin establishment, other guests and hotel personnel did not give her a second glance. They were accustomed to seeing either the rich or famous, and her presence did not stir them. Once on the street, however, she encountered a vastly different scenario.

  She had taken no measures to cloak her identity. Now that she was ‘free,’ the thought of remaining in any disguise did not cross her mind. She realized now how naive that was. Busy people rushing down the street would look absently at her and wonder briefly where they had seen her before. Once they made the connection, many turned their heads and gawked. Some even announced her presence with a shocked “It’s her! The Heiress!” More people stopped in their tracks and stared, open-mouthed, at her. There was a perceptible hush as everyone took a turn to gape at her.

  That was just the beginning. Everywhere she went, she was hounded by press and people. Feeling more like an oddity than a person vindicated, she hated being at the center of all the fuss and longed for the solitude of her mountain home. Horses had always been her refuge, now she felt she needed them more than ever. But she had many matters to attend to.

  It was important to her that her early moments of freedom were spent visiting her family’s graves. It took some doing, but she traveled by train alone and unobserved. After an hour, she finally stood in the deep snowdrifts looking at row upon row of gray granite headstones. Wind whipped her hair into strands which then tangled in her mouth and on her eyelashes. Cold grabbed at her toes as she trudged through the snow searching for her family’s plot. At last she was successful. There was one headstone for her parents and Erin, and one stone for Bridget. Memories of the last time she stood in that spot pressed in on her. She had been through so much and had cried so many tears over the years, that now she stood there, mute and numb. Drained.

  Her head dropped in silent prayer. The cemetery rippled in hues of gray to white. Headstones marched in silent lines across the open expanse. The last snowstorm had left the smaller gravestones buried under a thick blanket of snow, showing to the living as only a soft mound of white. A few bony trees groaned in the cold distance. On this winter’s day, this place felt even colder.

  Jessica opened her eyes and looked at her family’s plot. She noticed a soft mound beside her parents’ headstone. Curious, she reached down and swept the snow away to see who it was that crowded in on her parents’ and Erin’s resting place. Once brushed aside, the snow framed words which cast a spell upon their reader.

  All energy drained from her and her knees buckled under her weight. Carved in perfect, etched letters, the stone announced that a beautiful twenty-one year old girl was laid to rest there. Along with the dates of birth and death, it intoned:

  For the beautiful of mind, body and spirit, can there ever be an end of pain?

  Here lies Jessica Bridget Wyeth. We only wish we knew.

  The night she ran away from her home was frozen in time for Jessica Wyeth. She never really thought about what she was leaving. Her focus from the first moment on the run was to keep her head down and to leave no clues as to who she might be, so it was best to forget who she was. For the first time, she realized that she left more than a past behind. It was a life. Her life. She remembered the promise she made to herself about her family. She would never hide from her past again or turn her back on her family.

  But it was the first time she could think back about the pieces of her life without feeling threatened. She looked at her headstone and thought about the forces that wanted her dead. She wasn’t sure just what the final trigger was, but suddenly she realized who was in her grave. It was Anna. Her beloved friend, Anna Bates. When Jessica was looking at old newspaper headlines in the Boston Public Library, she recalled another smaller story about a missing girl. Gus’ murder and Jessica’s ‘death’ in an explosion far eclipsed the story. Anna had no real family to speak of so she had no one to miss her. Jessica missed her. She ached for her friend. Jessica realized that if Coogan found her, Anna would have easily known to go to their favorite hideaway to find her. The weight of knowing she was responsible for Anna’s death was too great to bear. Jessica broke down and sobbed until she was empty.

  She imagined what her family might have said to her now that she knew the truth. The horror that they lived through, seeing their hard work become a toy to someone’s capricious whim must have been unbearable. The Charity used the tool of fear effectively and forged an honest family into pawns. Eventually, the sharp edges of the granite stones blurred and tears turned to ice on frozen cheeks. She had never felt hatred before in her life. But now, knowing what happened to her family and Anna and why, she tasted hatred for the Charity. Saying silent prayers to her family and God, she asked that she not be motivated by the bile of emotion inside of her. There was nothing more for her to do.

  The windswept woman placed poinsettias down in the snow and later made arrangements with the cemetery caretaker that mountain laurel bushes be placed on the site as soon as planting was possible. She also arranged for her headstone to be replaced by one for Anna. Jessica thought it was so right for Anna to be buried with the only family she had really known. Bridget loved her as a daughter, too. She swallowed back the huge lump in her throat and her heart ached at the deep void in her life. She vowed that hatred would not become a part of her.

  Visiting Gus’ grave had been a shock. Not only was it beside her Aunt Bridget’s grave, but no headstone marked his grave and she had to dig through deep snow to read the small iron marker with nothing more than a plot number on it. To see them buried together seemed right in a way she did not fully understand. She could see some cold-blooded paparazzi snapping pictures in the distance and pushed them out of her mind, saying a quiet prayer to the man who loved her as a daughter and whom she loved as a father. It was clear to her that Gus died protecting her from the Charity. She fought back the growing hatred of him for his involvement with the group and the problems he caused her family. She had a deeper understanding of the pressures which must have driven him. In time, if she tried hard enough, she could probably forgive him. At least, she hoped so.

  She ordered a large red granite stone and requested that it be engraved with a horse head and interlocking horseshoes. The wizened little gnome of a man selling the gravestones pressed her for an epitaph. She looked at him and without emotion said, “In time, truth wins.”

  Shaking the chill of cold and death from her, she left the cemetery and the old ghosts behind.

  On the returning train r
ide to Boston, she let her mind wander. Few people were going into Boston at this time of day, leaving her free to be alone with her thoughts. Public transportation was her only alternative until she could get her license—in her real name.

  The shock of seeing her own grave did not wear off and she was tired. Now that she was indeed alive, she thought that there must be a mountain of paperwork to do in order to be declared a ‘living’ person once again. Getting her legal identity back as Jessica Wyeth would take some doing. Shea would certainly help her on this. Arriving at the station, she called him at his office.

  “Jessica! Where the hell have you been?”

  The tone of his voice caught her off guard. “If you wanted to know where I was, you should have just called any newsroom in Boston. Any reporter would have been able to tell you that I went to visit my family’s graves.”

  “Right. It’s just that you missed our lunch date and I had a few things planned for you. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at North Station.” She paused for a second. “Hey. If you wanted me to join in your plans, you should have told me about them.”

  “Right. Stay there. I think there’s a coffee shop on the street level. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  “Fine.” She hung up the phone with more force than was needed. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. Being free did not mean she was free from performing someone else’s agenda. She owed Shea a lot and the least she could do was treat him with civility and not get so easily irritated. There was something presumptive, almost proprietary, about his manner that started to get under her skin, but she resolved to let it go attributing her edginess to profound fatigue.

  Within fifteen minutes, she was sitting next to him in his car.

  “We have a few functions to go to tonight. We brought some clothes to the hotel. You can pick out what you want.” Shea focused on weaving his car in and out of the building rush hour traffic.