Leave Her Out: A Novel

by Daniel Davidsohn

  Berta was still laughing when she realized there was something wrong with her friend, who was leaning on the bar and trying to say something.

  The next instant, without getting out those final words, Loretta Johnson collapsed onto Berta’s lap.

  Paul waited until he was sure she wasn’t going to get up before stepping off his stool.

  A waiter approached. Then a man drinking nearby, who happened to be a doctor, saw the problem and stepped in to help.

  “Call an ambulance!” the doctor said.

  By now, Paul was leaving The Formaggio.

  No one would even remember his presence there. All they would be talking about the next day was the loss of Loretta Johnson, the Las Vegas philanthropist widow who dared to challenge one of the most reputable NGOs in the country. It was going to be a sad story—but much less damaging than having Loretta herself bragging about her eminent victory in the newspapers.

  Noctis had acted preemptively, but they knew there were still loose ends.

  34

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  I was dreaming. The snake again. This time, it was already out of the chest, slithering into my bed, up my legs, heading straight for my neck. Fortunately, Vicky woke me up before I had another ghastly encounter with its fangs.

  “Tony,” she said.

  I opened my eyes. “What?”

  She never woke me in the morning. I saw her holding out the house phone.

  “There’s a call for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Charles Dulles.”

  How appropriate. I sat up slowly, and Vicky handed me the cordless phone. She went to stand by the door in case I needed her.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Tony, how are you?”

  “How am I? I’m well, Charles. It’s been a long time.”

  “I know. Listen. We need to meet. It’s about your daughter.”

  Thirty minutes later, my freelance driver, Robert, was at my door. I called him the minute I hung up on Charles and requested that he bring his sports car. It was a twenty-year-old Ferrari, but he assured me it was still fast.

  Before leaving, I turned to Vicky and said, “Did you call him or did he call me?”

  “It was Charles,” she assured me.

  It didn’t matter. Charles had something to say about my daughter, and that was all I cared about. He wanted to meet in person, at a very precise location, which meant that whatever he had to say was important. The situation freed me from being bound by rational decisions. I was a father—a lousy one, but nevertheless, a father. For Stella, I would do whatever they told me to do.

  Outside, it wasn’t hard to spot Robert’s car. Red, parked behind the two Secret Service vehicles that were now permanently outside my door. Not that they worried that much about me; it was the fear of further embarrassment that made them very committed to my protection.

  “Sir.” An agent approached me and Robert as we neared the Ferrari. “I need to know where you’re going.”

  “Why? You’re following behind us anyway, aren’t you?”

  “It would be helpful to know.”

  “Sure. I’m going to Zurich.”

  The agent looked at me suspiciously. “No suitcases?”

  “I won’t be needing one.”

  “We’ll be around if you need us.”

  “I bet.”

  Robert opened the passenger door for me. The car was displeasingly low and it was hard to get inside. He started the beast. It was noisy.

  “So, where would you like to go? Zurich, Montana or Zurich, Switzerland?”

  “Montana. I want you to drive annoyingly slowly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Until I tell you not to.”

  Robert smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

  We drove on US Highway 2. About an hour later, we stopped in Malta, which was halfway to my final destination. We had a cup of coffee and took all the time in the world to get back to the car. I took care to be nicer than usual to the poor agents following me. They were just doing their jobs.

  Back on the highway, I had to prepare Robert for what was to come.

  “You still remember your Indy racing skills?”

  Robert gave a large, confident smile. “I only made it to Indy Lights. And yes, sir, I’ve still got it.”

  “Good. We’re going to find a way to leave them behind when we get to Zurich.”

  “Oh… Not a big city to do that.”

  “Well, we’ll do it anyway.”

  “It’s your call, sir.” He paused and then asked, “Are you okay?”

  Robert had noticed my growing apprehension. I was not okay.

  Charles Dulles hadn’t called me in years, and now he’d called about my missing daughter. We could, in normal circumstances, have met at his house or some other usual place; but the instructions he gave me were unnerving. I’d never been so exposed in my life, because no one would find Stella or me if Charles so decided.

  We were nearing Zurich.

  “Slow down and signal for them that we’re entering Zurich.”

  “They know that already.”

  “Just do it.”

  Robert slowed down. The Secret Service agents were probably thinking that it was a terrible waste of power; the Ferrari could at least be driven at regular speed. Robert turned right, crossed Old Highway Road E, and moved through First Avenue. At the corner with First Street, there was a US Postal Service.

  “Turn right again and stop at the postal service. I’ll go inside and I won’t come back out. I want you to leave, using all the power of this car, but just for a few seconds, to draw their attention to you. You’ll be questioned, Robert. You simply tell them the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you don’t know where I went.”

  Robert nodded and parked the Ferrari. I waited for the Secret Service guys to park behind us. Then I got out of the car, and they got out of their SUVs, as expected. They stayed outside when they saw where I was going.

  “I won’t be long,” I told them.

  Once inside, I met with a young man named Jose, who was waiting for me in a postal service uniform.

  “Welcome, Mr. President. Please follow me.”

  Jose saw the agents outside and locked the entrance door. Then he took me to the back exit of the small building, where he had a vehicle waiting for us. A postal service van. Jose opened the cargo door for me.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  “Not far. Mr. Dulles asked me to make sure you weren’t seen on the way.”

  “I understand.”

  I got inside with no further questions. They would be pointless anyway. Jose closed the van door and soon I was back on US Highway 2. I wondered how long the Secret Service agents would wait out front. I hoped Robert wasn’t in too much trouble.

  35

  ARCATA, CALIFORNIA

  After ten minutes that felt more like an entire hour, Fernanda left the grocery store and jumped into her car, working to slow down her breathing.

  “I think we’re good,” she said, throwing three bags of food and supplies onto the backseat.

  “I’ll keep down here for a while,” Stella said from the footwell.

  Fernanda drove carefully back to her house, her eyes flicking between the street ahead and the rearview mirror. Stella watched her drive and couldn’t avoid feeling guilty for having involved Fernanda in this situation. Being selfish didn’t please her, but Stella needed this girl more than ever.

  There was a police car in front of Fernanda’s house. Instinctively, she stopped up the street before they could see her.

  “The police are here. What should I do?”

  “I need you to drive me to Montana. I know it’s a long way, but I don’t think we can stay here.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not if they don’t see us together. They know you’ve worked for me. They’re probably just questioning the people who know me.”

  “What�
��s in Montana?”

  “That’s where my father lives.”

  “That’s a great idea. He must be worried about you.”

  “Yeah.” Stella looked at Fernanda. “Am I asking too much of you?”

  “All I need to do is fill up the tank and we’re ready.”

  “You’re awesome.”

  Fernanda glanced at the police car. “Catch us if you can,” she goaded, excited about her adventure. She turned the car around while Stella put her father’s address into the GPS.

  “It’s a day’s journey,” Stella said.

  “Cool,” said Fernanda, but she looked a little less sure as she glanced at the map.

  “I’ll buy us some clothes on the way. And plenty of food.”

  Fernanda smiled. “That’d be great.”

  Back before she caught the Greyhound from Denver, Stella had used some of her cash to buy a prepaid cell phone. Now, she held it in her hand, staring at it. Just one call to set it up; after almost two decades, Stella would finally see her father. There was no room for postponement. She dialed Vicky’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Vicky, it’s Stella.”

  “Stella! Jesus, are you OK? I’ve been calling you. Are you hurt, darling?”

  “No. Listen. I’m fine. I’m safe. But, uh, only you know that I’m OK right now. It needs to stay like this for a while. Do you understand?”

  There was a brief pause at Vicky’s end. “We need to tell them you’re all right.”

  “No… Vicky, can I trust you?”

  “What? Don’t be silly. Of course you can! It’s just, the whole country is worried about you.”

  “I’m coming to see my father.”

  Vicky gasped. “Stella! Oh, I’m so happy for you.”

  “I guess it’s time. Is he around?”

  “Actually, no. He went out with Robert. He usually calls him whenever he goes for a long drive. Just come, though. I’ll call Tony and let him know. God, I think he’ll be so happy too.”

  “I’m already on my way. I’m with a friend.”

  “You should know, there’ll be two Secret Service vehicles in front of the house. They just left to follow your father, but they’ll be back.”

  “They can’t see me, Vicky.”

  “Well, I said they’re in front of the house. You come through the backyard. They’re too lazy to check there. Call me when you’re near, and I’ll help you get inside.”

  “I love you, Vicky.”

  “Have a safe trip.”

  “Thanks.”

  36

  COEUR D’ALENE, NORTH IDAHO

  After an entire day on the road, Stella and Fernanda were tired and easily attracted by the glowing lights of the Lake Coeur d’Alene resort. It was a beautiful place, surrounded by dozens of lakes from the Ice Age. Located about halfway to Glasgow, it seemed the perfect place to spend the night.

  At check-in, Stella’s attire raised an eyebrow or two. She was well protected by a heavy winter coat, a fur hat, and sunglasses that were utterly inappropriate and made her look like a Hollywood diva—but they concealed who she was, which was the whole purpose of the bizarre outfit. She picked the Jaeger Suite, which included a living room with fireplace, separate bedroom with king-size bed, and two spacious balconies. All of that was going to be charged to Fernanda’s credit card and duly reimbursed by Stella at the first opportunity. Fernanda couldn’t care less. She was having the time of her life. This, in her fantasies, could well be the prelude to a honeymoon she’d one day share with someone.

  Stella took a long, hot shower. As she dried herself off, she noticed Fernanda staring from the sofa. It was hard to tell if the young woman had been watching the TV, which was on, or Stella taking a shower.

  “I see you’re ready for dinner,” Stella said as she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel towel.

  “I’m starving,” Fernanda said.

  Stella got dressed. Before they left the suite, Fernanda reminded her, “Don’t forget your shades.”

  They had dinner at Beverly’s, on the resort’s seventh floor, and enjoyed a bottle of white burgundy from the restaurant’s wide collection of wines.

  “I missed our work,” Fernanda said when their plates and glasses were empty. The view of the lake, which was wonderful, stirred a certain loneliness too.

  Stella didn’t look at Fernanda. She kept staring at Lake Coeur d’Alene.

  “It was a good fight.”

  “It sure was.” Fernanda was exaggerating; she’d still been new to the job when Stella fired her. But the atmosphere favored some nostalgia.

  “Remember, our most important battles are still ahead of us,” Stella said. Then she asked for the check. Fernanda signed it.

  “How about we do some shopping now?”

  Fernanda’s eyes shone. “I’m all in!”

  They went to the resort’s boutique and feasted on the top brands. For dessert, Stella chose DKNY, while Fernanda opted for sunglasses by Oakley. By the time they left the store, Stella was ready for a good night’s sleep, but the enthusiasm in Fernanda’s eyes made her find the energy to prolong their evening.

  “Come on. There’s a waterfront lounge called Whispers. Let’s have a drink before we go to bed,” Stella said.

  They found a place to sit among various groups of people. Stella ordered a lemon drop martini, and Fernanda went for the chocolate flavored. They were both too tired to chat, and spent the following half hour listening in to other people’s tales of past adventures while lake cruising or gossiping during facial therapies at the resort’s spa.

  Fernanda kept eyeing Stella. She was full of admiration. To her, Stella was the perfect model of elegance, wisdom, and beauty.

  “You’re all I ever want to be,” Fernanda told Stella, her eyes wet.

  Stella smiled sweetly. “I hope you raise your bar one day.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You know what I think? You and I are too tired. And we have a long distance to cover tomorrow.”

  Fernanda finished her martini. “One more drink?”

  “Last one.”

  The last one was gone quickly, and they went back to their suite, where Fernanda collapsed on her bed, out for the count.

  As exhausted as she was, Stella found she couldn’t sleep. She looked out of the balcony window and wondered what life would have been like if her parents were a normal couple. The trips they would have made together. The moments they would have shared that were spontaneous, not designed with a public relations purpose.

  It was fear keeping her awake. Fear of what it would be like when she saw her father. And whether she should be meeting him. Her gut told her it was the right thing to do, but sometimes the gut was nothing but noise. She knew herself well. She was going forward with it, no matter what.

  After a long, tired sigh, she picked up her phone and called Vicky.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hi, Stella.” Vicky sounded like she’d been sleeping.

  “Sorry to call you now. I’m, uh, curious. My father, have you talked to him?”

  “Darling, your father hasn’t come back yet.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “Yes. He’s not answering.”

  “How unusual is this?”

  “Very.”

  “So, where do you think he went?”

  “Hard to say. He goes places, you know, every now and then. He doesn’t tell me.”

  “Did you tell anyone I’m coming?”

  “No, Stella. Of course not.”

  “Sorry. Well, let me know if he calls. I’ll be there by tomorrow evening, I hope.”

  “I’m looking forward to having you here. I don’t want to get you worried about anything, but I have a feeling your presence here is long overdue.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know… Drive safely, OK?”

  “I will.”

  37

  HAVRE, MONTANA

  It felt oppressively lonely to
sit in the back of the Zurich Postal Service van. Just when I thought that my old days of vanity were buried and forgotten, I found myself evaluating my current status and comparing it to my time as president. I’d never felt so ridiculous and humiliated in my life as I did right then in that van, travelling like cargo, hidden away, being driven by a stranger, at the mercy of Charles Dulles.

  As I sat among the parcels, jolted this way and that, my little project—my memoirs—came to mind. It was a funny thing, but I missed it. For some time, I’d kept a distance. I remembered how I saw the project when I wrote the very first words. An account of my life, but in metaphor—a necessity to protect my daughter from the vultures and snakes of the world. Now, I found my heart in a different place; I had a totally different perspective.

  I knew. The memoirs weren’t a product of my imagination, but real. Not real in the sense that I was writing something that had a material aspect to it—words on paper. Real in the sense that I remembered being part of that account. In my mind, heart, and even in my body, I remembered it the same way I remembered every single day of my presidency.

  On some emotional level, I already knew all of this, but I’d been able to hide it from myself. There had existed this need to preserve a healthy state of mind, so that I could carry on writing and reach my goal to do something that might help keep Stella away from my problems. But the layers were stripped back now. I could feel it.

  I caught myself touching my arm. Confirming, childishly perhaps, that I was the real me, and I was living in the present and yet remembering a previous existence. My blood ran violently through my veins, like when a person finds out something shocking—the death of a loved one, the victory on Election Day.

  Whatever my fears were, it didn’t matter. Was I crazy? That didn’t matter either. Was I experiencing some reaction to the stress of travelling in the cargo area of a van toward the unknown? Irrelevant.

  The memoirs were as real as I was. No explanations needed. And no rational explanations could have existed. I was embracing that insight as pragmatically as I could.

  The van stopped.