“Soon” had turned into nine months, and his “plan,” if you could call it that, was to wait until the election was over and then resurface. Or maybe never go back. Arthur Sandler’s checking and brokerage accounts contained about twenty-five thousand dollars, which went a long way on Saint Sebastian. The tiny house they rented on the island, where they’d vacationed five years earlier, was a few hundred a month. Eventually they’d need to find work, perhaps waiting tables at one of the island’s two small resorts. Maybe he could work on a fishing boat. Would they ever feel safe anywhere else? Saint Sebastian was five miles long and less than a mile wide. In their short time there they’d gotten to know just about every inhabitant, who knew them as Arthur and Alison Sandler from Chicago. No one remembered the handsome vacationing couple who’d taken the ferry over from Saint Thomas five years earlier, happy to find an out-of-the-way, untouristed, somewhat down-at-heel refuge from the pressures of New York. At the time, he hadn’t had a vacation in almost five years, and had walked out of a closing meeting after announcing to all assembled, including Julian Mellow, that he would be incommunicado for a week. He’d broken down only once, calling the office to find out if the deal had closed as expected. As punishment, Sarah had withheld sex for twenty-four hours.
“Some days, all I want to see is a cloud, one big, fluffy white cloud.” Sarah stood next to him, wearing the swimsuit top and sarong that had become her uniform. He put his left arm around her bare middle, which felt smooth and warm and firm. Saint Sebastian’s lone doctor had removed his cast nearly eight months earlier, but his left shoulder still felt stiff when he raised his arm. “Do you miss clouds, Zach?”
“Sometimes.”
She nodded slowly. Sarah missed their old life more than he did. The apartment, her kids at school, Guinevere. She’d called her parents from the airport and told them that she and Zach were all right, that they were going away for a while. Nothing more, despite her parents’ anxious pleas for information. That had been a tough phone call for her. For Zach, it was the lack of people to call that he’d felt the hardest. His parents were long dead, and he’d devoted himself so fanatically to Mellow Partners, and later to bringing down Julian Mellow, that he’d never developed a network of friends.
The newspapers kept the story of their disappearance alive for a week or so. The lurid slashing death of Jessica Winters, her body discovered when the braying yelps of Guinevere had caused an upstairs neighbor to call the police. Their disappearance had quickly pointed suspicion at them. The gist of the newspaper stories was always the same: Zach, the disgraced former investment hotshot, had killed his neighbor and dog walker, perhaps after his sexual advances had been rebuffed, then taken his bicycle to New Jersey, perhaps to establish his alibi, where his anxiety over being caught had caused him to lose control, sending him over the cliff. Or had it been a suicide attempt? Sarah’s disappearance had puzzled the police. According to newspaper accounts, it was feared that Zach had killed her, too, but there was that phone call to her parents, assuring them that she was okay. Was she perhaps standing by her man, despite his misdeeds?
The story gradually retreated into the nether regions of the New York papers before disappearing altogether.
Sarah’s rage had taken longer to subside, and had never completely gone away. At the forger’s apartment in Washington Heights that first day: You put us in danger, you almost got us killed, you got Jessica killed, now what are we going to do? He’d been unable to take even the smallest consolation in the fact that now, at long last, she knew that his theories about Julian were not obsessive fantasies.
Every day on Saint Sebastian for at least a month: Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. You were supposed to leave. Instead you put us at risk, put me at risk.
And then, after that awful first month: How do we get out of this place? When will we be safe?
Several thousand dollars in cash, a credit card, their driver’s licenses, were in a safety deposit box in Saint Thomas. They’d brought only what they absolutely needed to Saint Sebastian. No one knew where they were, but Zach had learned the importance, the absolute necessity, of having a Plan B. Their Plan B was that small steel box in Saint Thomas. Sarah wore the key on the chain around her neck that had formerly held the silver heart he’d given her two years earlier.
They’d grown close again, perhaps inevitably, given their isolation. Most days he convinced himself that their relationship was better than it ever had been, but he also knew that she was suppressing anger and fear and that these would never go away as long as they remained on the island. She’d lost everything because of him. Everything except him. Until they were back home, and safe, she’d never truly forgive him, if then.
“Well, less than three weeks and we can go home,” she said. When he didn’t respond she said, more emphatically, “Three more weeks until Election Day, and then we can go home.”
“I still think I should do something.”
“Listen to me, Zach. There is nothing you can do or say about the election that will change anything, other than get us killed.”
She needed to believe that after Election Day it would be safe to return to New York. The president was holding on to a 10 percent lead in the polls, which was a landslide by modern election standards. So Harry Lightstone would fail, Julian Mellow’s dreams of pulling the Oval Office strings would be thwarted, and they could resume the life they’d left behind last spring.
Only he sometimes wondered if they ever would be safe. If Julian knew that Zach had discovered the connection between Harry Lightstone and Senator Moore’s plane crash, the death of that hooker in San Francisco, would he leave him and Sarah alone? And Zach was the prime suspect in the murder of Jessica Winter. Still, they couldn’t stay on Saint Sebastian indefinitely, or at least Sarah couldn’t. So he’d convinced himself, more or less, that after Election Day they could return. He’d have to convince the police that he hadn’t killed Jessica—Sarah would back him up. And he would find a way to confront Julian directly with what he knew. He’d deposit a written account of everything he knew with attorneys, perhaps, who would release it to the press if anything happened to him or Sarah. Maybe he’d even be able to get some money from Julian.
“After Election Day,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 18
Chapter 43
The envelope was dropped off by messenger and brought up to the master bedroom by the Lightstone’s New York maid. It was marked “Urgent,” but the hour of its delivery, just after nine in the evening, made the case for urgency just as well. Marcella opened the envelope and took out a thumb drive and a handwritten note: Include in tonight’s address: “Withdraw the Kamalian embassy and all American nationals to protect their safety. Any other course irresponsible.”
There was no signature, nor was one needed.
“Absurd,” she muttered—to herself, for Harry was campaigning in Seattle, where she was to join him tomorrow for the first day of a final swing by bus (bus!) across country, west to east. “Time to move past your son’s death, Julian,” she said to no one. “The campaign is in enough trouble as it is.”
Nevertheless, she put the thumb drive into her laptop, made herself comfortable on the bed, and clicked on the only file that appeared, expecting to see images of Kamalian rebels or political prisoners or perhaps Julian himself, arguing the case for making Kamalia a campaign issue, which he was never going to win. His influence over the campaign was nonexistent.
But it wasn’t Kamalia, unless Kamalia was a country of white-shuttered brick buildings covered with red and brown ivy. How odd. As the camera jerked its way from one building to another she slowly recognized Saint Andrew’s. She sat up and increased the volume, but all she heard was footsteps on a leaf-strewn path. The camerawork was jerky but the focus was quite clear.
After what amounted to a guided tour of the beautiful Saint Andrew’s campus the screen went momentarily blank, then came to life again on two people, at fir
st blurry. After a few seconds the image focused and she saw Alan and another boy, standing next to what looked like the back of a building, another brick building. Alan had on his uniform, a blue blazer with the Saint Andrew’s crest on the front pocket and gray slacks. His blue tie hung loosely over an untucked white shirt. The boy standing with him was not quite as tall as Alan, and much scrawnier. He wore an identical uniform, and when he moved she noticed a flash of white on his left hand, a large bandage or perhaps a splint. The video was now perfectly still, as if the cameraman were using a tripod.
Again, she upped the volume; this time she managed to make out voices.
“No, you have to try this shit.”
“I trust you, Spence. I got calculus in ten minutes.”
“One hit, seriously, Al, it’s fucking amazing.”
She now saw that the other boy, Spence, held a very small clear bag in this right hand.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Long story short, I fell on it.”
“Asshole.”
“One hit, that’s it.” She saw Al take the plastic bag from Spence. It was one-fourth filled with what seemed to be, even in the grainy video, white powder.
“Fuck!” she said as she pulled the laptop screen closer.
Al dipped his index finger into the bag and pressed it to his nostril. His entire torso distended as he sucked in the powder. For a long minute the two boys just stood there, glancing about somewhat awkwardly. Then Alan’s face slowly relaxed into a smile, and he let out a long, audible sigh. “The fuck am I going to concentrate on calculus?” he said.
“Good stuff, right? Take another hit.” He held out the bag.
Alan snorted a second dab of powder.
“This is the purest cocaine I’ve had in, like, a year,” Spence said.
There was something artificial in the way he uttered the last line, as if he were reading from a script. The use of “cocaine” rather than “coke” sounded off, for example. His diction felt stilted. She recalled hearing about all sorts of drugs being used at the best boarding schools, including cocaine and even heroin, but it had never once occurred to her that her own son would be tempted. He was a straight-A student, on the varsity lacrosse team.
“How much?” Alan asked after two more hits.
“One twenty-five.”
“What?”
“It’s practically pure cocaine, Alan.” Again, his voice sounded forced, lingering on the words “cocaine” and “Alan.”
She saw her son reach into his pants pocket and pull out a clump of bills. He counted out several and thrust them at Spence, who handed him the plastic envelope.
“Man, you were right, this shit is unreal, I think I’m gonna cut calc, I’ll get the notes from someone. Or maybe I’ll send one of those goons the feds keep around to protect me. You think the Secret Service can do calculus?” Alan found this very funny, but not Spence, who glanced around anxiously.
“Speaking of Secret Service, you’re sure they’re not—”
“Watching? They’re under orders to stay a hundred yards away from me and Brian, unless I’m attacked.”
“Yeah, well, I got a class.”
“Great, I’ll walk with you.”
As they moved off camera she heard Spence tell Alan to “be cool,” and then the screen went black.
She sat on the bed for a while, immobilized by rage and sadness, unable to choose between two opposing impulses: walk three blocks up Fifth Avenue and claw out the eyes of Julian Mellow; or drive two hours north and throttle Alan. Instead, when she was able to move, she reached for the bedside phone and dialed. Fred Moran answered.
“Get Harry.”
“He’s putting the finishing touches on tonight’s speech to the Coalition for Families, Marcella. I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”
“Get him!”
A moment later a tired-sounding Harry asked her what she wanted.
“Tonight’s speech—you need to make a small change.”
Chapter 44
Julian Mellow watched the address on the television in his study. Most of it was familiar and uninteresting, though it had to be acknowledged that Lightstone had improved his delivery. Another six months or so and he might actually be a viable candidate. As it was, with less than two weeks to go, he was stalled at 10 percent behind Nessin, which meant it would take a miracle to turn things around.
“When Americans are in harm’s way, the buck stops in the Oval Office,” Lightstone was saying to the fifteen hundred “family advocates” gathered in Seattle for their annual boondoggle. Middle-aged, middle American, and virtually all white, they were united by a few simple beliefs that Lightstone had already touched on. “As president I will take personal responsibility for every American posted abroad, whether in our armed services, in our diplomatic service, or in the service of our great global economy. I do not sense the same resolve in my opponent. Why else would he allow more than fifty US nationals to continue to reside in Kamalia, including our ambassador and his young family, when intelligence reports clearly indicate that this is a volatile situation that could erupt into violence against Americans at any time. I call for the immediate evacuation of every American from Kamalia. I say to the president, do not wait for the election to do the right thing. Let’s take politics off the table. Protect American citizens by getting them out of Kamalia!”
The reaction from the family advocates was underwhelming, to say the least. There was some tepid applause, which Lightstone’s impassioned delivery all but required, but as the C-SPAN camera panned across the audience, the expressions were more puzzled than convinced. Apparently family values didn’t extend to protecting families, even American families, in Africa. Julian turned off the TV. They would all know soon enough that miracles did happen. Puzzlement would turn to conviction soon enough. He left the room.
“You look upset,” Caroline said when he entered the bedroom. She was reading on the bed.
“Do I?” He went to her dressing room and looked into the large mirror over her vanity. It was true that he’d lost what little summer tan he’d acquired, and he’d lost weight since the campaign—his campaign—began, which perhaps made his face look a bit drawn. Well, he felt stressed. All of the work he’d been doing for nine months was coming to a head—the next two weeks would determine if he’d acted in vain. A part of him yearned to tell Caroline what he was doing, but she’d be more appalled than supportive, he guessed. Worse, she would remind him that even if he succeeded, nothing would change.
Everything was falling into place, so why the obvious stress? He had assumed that his little victory that night in the power struggle with the Lightstones would relax him a bit. It hadn’t. For almost nine months, since the New Hampshire primary, one fact had tormented him every waking hour and even in his dreams.
Zach Springer was alive.
Zach Springer, unlike Caroline—unlike anyone except perhaps Billy Sandifer—knew what Julian was doing, or knew enough to be dangerous. Where had he gone? And the girl was with him…how could two people disappear without a trace? A week of lurid headlines had completely unsettled him: “West Side Woman Murdered: Disgraced Banker Suspected” was typical. He’d been called by a dozen papers, as Zach’s last employer, the head of the firm he’d betrayed. The “surrogate father,” he’d been labeled. He’d had no comment, of course, but each call carried with it the threat of discovery. The calls and the headlines had trailed off with lack of fresh news, but anxiety had taken root like a dull, persistent ache. Nothing in his life was ever left to chance.
He got into bed, closed his eyes and drifted into a light, restless sleep. But all night, like every night for six months, he woke frequently with one question on his mind: Where were they?
When threatened, people run to the familiar—so where would Zach run? He’d had Billy Sandifer, whose carelessness had created this situation, check customs records, local hotels, phone records of every place Zach had ever been for business or pleasu
re. Nothing. Billy Sandifer had even staked out Sarah’s parents on Long Island. Nothing.
Sleep came in small, unsatisfying segments, filled with troubling dreams. He tried to focus on Lightstone’s speech, and what it would mean to the campaign, but any small satisfaction he felt was pushed aside by thoughts of Zach Springer. The references to his “surrogate son” were particularly galling. Zach had never meant a fraction of what Matthew had. True, he had spent far more time with Zach, an employee, than with Matthew, who’d spent his last years an ocean away. And even before Kamalia, Matt had felt the need to go his own way, forge his own identity. But what son didn’t feel that need? They’d been close, very close.
Or had they? Dark thoughts of Matthew, stirred up by memories of another young man, haunted his waking moments. He’d worked so hard, all those years when Matthew was growing up. Had he ever been there in the mornings, before school? How many nights had he come home after Matt’s homework was done? Well, it wasn’t about the amount of time spent together but the quality. They’d taken trips together, box seats at Yankee Stadium—once they’d played golf in Connecticut. And he’d often told Matt that he loved him.
Or had he? Over the past two years he’d silently whispered those words to Matt so often that they had become memories of conversations that may or may not have taken place. So many long, sleepless nights, silent whispers telegraphed across time.
And then, as the faint, yellowy light of dawn began to creep around the edges of the bedroom drapes, he had a thought. A memory. He crept from the bedroom to his study and dialed his secretary’s home phone number. After three rings Stacy picked up.
“I need you at my office,” he said.
“Now? But it’s—” She paused, no doubt consulting the bedside clock. She was paid $250,000 a year to do what he asked without question, to be available whenever he needed her, so her next words came as no surprise or even comfort to him. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
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