He spends his days watching television and trying to reclaim the past, which seems both nearby and inaccessible—a former address to which there is no longer reliable transportation. He remembers details, but they feel disconnected, so he passes the time attempting to string them together into a coherent narrative. Some days he manages to find himself in room 506 at the Nassau Hotel in South Miami Beach. Then Sarah crumples to the floor and the connection to the present is broken. He doesn’t remember the second gunshot, the one that sent a bullet into his frontal lobe and out the back of his head, somewhere just north of the cerebellum, paralyzing his right side, cutting off speech and apparently making coherent thought a Herculean undertaking, although perhaps the painkillers and the crushing monotony of life in the Dade County Correctional Center have something to do with this.
Other times his pierced brain takes him back to before everything went haywire. Only the smallest details come through. Sarah getting ready for school, standing before the sink in bra and panties, brushing her teeth. The hot summer day when they went to five different movies in the big multiplex across from Lincoln Center, paying once and gleefully sneaking into whatever was playing next. The field trip to Ellis Island when one of her students—he even remembered her name, Keisha—asked him if he was going to marry Sarah and he said definitely yes and Keisha asked if she could come to the wedding. Sometimes he feels a dampness on the left side of his face, where the tear ducts are still functional.
Kamalia. On the TV screen it’s all jerky images and American correspondents in their absurd khakis describing an entire Boymond administration wiped out, no one left to stand trial, rumors of human rights abuses against men who had themselves been flagrant abusers of those rights. Already there are calls from senators for an investigation into why so few were allowed to live to stand trial. He has never felt more powerless—incapable of walking, of talking, of telling the world what he knows…or thinks he knows…or once knew. But watching the news in Kamalia, the body bags leaving the palace, the US tanks moving through Villeneuve, so much more substantial than the buildings lining the dusty streets, the interviews with bewildered citizens who seem at once frightened and resigned, as if the invasion was just another tropical storm recently endured—fearsome but, inevitably, temporary—he knows only one thing for sure.
All this is happening because of one man. An invasion had been launched, a leader and his thugs executed, a country thrown into chaos, because of one man.
This strikes him as strangely fitting for a country that has always been at the mercy of strongmen—first tribal leaders, then communists, then reformers, then a dictator, one leapfrogging over another into power. At least with those men the country knew who was controlling its destiny. This time, when the dust, literally, settled, would anyone know that it had all happened not because of geopolitics, not because of the deaths at the embassy, and certainly not because of any grand scheme to democratize sub-Saharan Africa, but to avenge the death of a single person, a rich man’s son? Would anyone ever know?
Chapter 79
On another television screen, in an office on 57th Street in Manhattan, Julian Mellow watches American soldiers carry body bags out of the presidential palace, one after another.
He feels, for the first time in almost two years, a sense of…no, not peace, he will never feel that. Closure? No, he despises psychobabble. He feels…satisfied.
Yes, satisfied, the way he feels when a deal finally closes and he can hand Stacy the small clutch of papers for filing, knowing he will never have to see them again. Billions have been transferred from one entity to another, much of it into his own accounts, more often than not. Nothing, fundamentally, has changed, other than figures on various balance sheets. But there is a sense that order has been restored, equilibrium.
He feels that now. Nothing will bring Matthew back. There is no closure, no healing. There never will be. But the accounts have been balanced.
And perhaps there is the tiniest satisfaction that he has brought all this about?
He has never been a man who needed to share his triumphs, and there have been many. Not even with Caroline. And yet this one victory feels vaguely hollow. He has grasped, still holds, the ultimate power, and only two other people, the president of the United States and the first lady, know it.
Well, three actually. The survival of Zach Springer was a terrible surprise. The papers were all over the story for several days: the lovers returning to Miami after fleeing the country, some sort of argument, the beautiful former teacher shot, then her boyfriend’s suicide. There are unexplained details, of course, particularly the frantic calls to the police before the shooting. The suspect is in a near-vegetative state, however, unable to answer questions, let alone be indicted. The story has faded from prominence.
He knows he will have to take care of Zach, but with Billy Sandifer gone that will be difficult. This thought reminds him that the institution housing Sandifer’s daughter has been calling, looking for its annual check. He makes a mental note to ask Stacy to inform the Newman Center that he is no longer responsible for the girl’s care. The fewer the connections to Billy Sandifer the better.
Zach will be taken care of, and if he can’t use Billy Sandifer to do his bidding, well, he has other allies now. He smiles at the notion. Yes, he has other connections now. Powerful men. Leaving the Oval Office four weeks ago, he’d assumed that he’d pulled his first and last string; he’d wanted only one thing from Harry Lightstone.
But now he wants something else, another favor. And perhaps there’d be another favor after that, who knows? If even a fraction of the true story behind Lightstone’s improbable rise to the White House were to be revealed, he’d be impeached, perhaps jailed, no matter how vigorously he denied knowing what had happened. It would be a shame to waste the leverage he’d worked so hard to create. Political capital, it was called. He’d earned more of it than anyone in history, and it would offend his sense of balance not to spend it in some way, starting with the elimination of Zach Springer.
Chapter 80
The walk back to the room he shares with three other damaged souls is a major event in Zach’s day. It is slow, painful work, his left hand gripping the walker, his right foot pulled along like a heavy, useless sack. Most days he puts off the return trek for as long as possible. His room, which had been built to hold just two beds, feels more depressing than the public room, and that’s saying something. But the news reports from Kamalia, which dominate every station, are unbearable. As he shuffles to his room he hears a newscaster’s voice growing fainter as he reports that few if any members of Le Père’s government have survived the invasion. “There is an eerie silence surrounding the palace, which until yesterday was the center of…” The voice trails off.
I was there. Four months ago. Or four years. Which is it? He wonders if he can talk. The Dade County Homicide Bureau thinks he might be faking aphasia. He keeps expecting them to prick his foot with a pin to see if he howls. But they don’t, and in fact he isn’t sure what he’s capable of. There is no one to talk to. Nothing to talk about.
He turns into his room and finds it empty, all four beds unmade, the familiar chemical stench of urine. Striped shadows line the floor and sheets, almost cheerful if you didn’t know they came from the steel bars on the windows. The man in the bed next to his is paralyzed from the waist down, shot in the lower back during a robbery attempt. The guys in the beds opposite his had been injured while in prison and are in much better shape. Walkers, they are called (You take the walkers, one attendant will tell another when they come in to get them ready for their therapy. I’ll handle the chair.)
He shuffles to his bed, slowly turns his back to it, and sits. The relief of finally arriving: a sigh travels through his body, even to places he can’t feel anymore. But instead of lying down he reaches with his good, right arm to the bedside table and opens the drawer. Inside is one object: his wallet, returned to him by the police sometime after he was brought here. It is
practically empty. Cash, credit cards, receipts, his and Arthur Sandler’s licenses—all of it has been removed. It looks rather pathetic in this state, flabby. Why they saw fit to bother returning it is beyond him, but he is grateful. It is all he owns, this limp piece of old leather.
Slowly he removes the remaining items. His blood donor card. New York City Public Library card. Expired health insurance card. Frequent flyer cards from every major airline—relics from another life. There are photos of his late parents, but they seem to belong to someone else’s life, too. There used to be a small picture of Sarah, but the police must think it might be useful for the trial, when and if it happens. Finally, he removes the last item in the wallet, which he always puts back behind everything else, as if that would save it if they came looking.
And he knows they will come. In fact, he can’t understand why they haven’t come for him already. Every time the door to his room opens he assumes it will be men from the government, from the president, sent to finish what the bullet to his head hadn’t quite done. What was arranging the death of a cripple in a county rehab center next to ordering an invasion in West Africa? Julian Mellow could probably have the entire center bombed to the ground if it suited his purposes. He has unprecedented influence and access. He has power.
But they haven’t come for him yet. He looks at the photograph, as he does every day. He has thought of asking one of the attendants to take it home for safekeeping, but they would view his handwritten plea with disdain, one more sign that he lost his mind when he lost the use of his left side and voice.
He takes an envelope from the drawer, already stamped. He’d traded two desserts with a roommate for it. Slowly, he writes the address he’s memorized from the single copy of the New York Times available to patients in the common room, then adds the name of the reporter he’d talked to, the one who had interviewed Julian Mellow: Gordon Lewis.
The photo is of decent quality, shot with a cameraphone, emailed to a computer, printed in black and white, folded and refolded many times. But the image is clear enough. Two men, one wearing a blazer and slacks, the other in sweatshirt and jeans, one a wealthy financier, the other an ex-con.
Yes, the image is clear enough. Reassured, he turns it over and writes in a slow, careful hand: On left, Julian Mellow. On right, Billy Sandifer, who burned to death October 22. Find the connection. He wishes he could sign it, but he can’t risk calling attention to himself, not yet.
The news from Kamalia has sent him back to his room early, intensified his need to look at the picture one last time before sending it out into the world. Perhaps he dreamed the entire thing. What proof does he have, other than the increasingly cloudy workings of his damaged mind? But the image in the photograph is clear, it is real. He puts it into the envelope and seals it. Tomorrow he’ll drop it in the mailbox in the hallway and then someone else will see it, use it. And one day, if he can get out of here before they come for him, he will launch his life’s campaign, now that everything else has been taken from him: bringing down Julian Mellow and the president of the United States.
Acknowledgments
When I began this novel, the notion that a billionaire from New York could essentially acquire the White House seemed so outlandish I worried readers wouldn’t buy the story. But sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction. This is, of course, a work of fiction, and any resemblance between my characters and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. But rather uncanny, don’t you think?
Thanks, once again, to the great team at the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency; no author has been better served than this one. My editor at Diversion Books, Randall Klein, worked his magic with a firm and wise hand. Jane Margolis, Maggie Margolis, and Carole Zelner, as always, added their indispensable perspectives.
More from Seth Margolis
The Semper Sonnet is available now!
In this stunning thrill ride, perfect for fans of Dan Brown and Steve Berry, a long-lost manuscript, written for Elizabeth I, holds the key to unlocking the past—and to eliminating the future.
Lee Nicholson is ready to take the academic world by storm, having discovered a sonnet she believes was written by William Shakespeare. When she reads the poem on the air, the words put her life in peril and trigger a violent chase, with stakes that reach far beyond the cloistered walls of academia.
Buried in the language of the sonnet, in its allusions and wordplay, are secrets that have been hidden since Elizabethan times, secrets known only to the queen and her trusted doctor, but guessed at by men who seek the crown and others who seek the world. If the riddles are solved, it could explode what the world knows of the great Elizabeth I. And it could release a pandemic more deadly than the world has ever imagined.
Lee’s quest for the answers buried in the sonnet keeps her one step ahead of an international hunt—from the police who want her for murder, to a group of men who will stop at nothing to end her quest, to a madman who pursues the answers for destructive reasons of his own.
As this intelligent thriller moves back and forth between Tudor England and the present day, Lee begins to piece together the meaning behind Shakespeare’s words, carrying the story to its gasp-out-loud conclusion.
False Faces
Alison Rosen, a young, single Manhattan department-store buyer, first met Linda Levinson seven years ago when both answered the same Village Voice classified ad for a Fire Island “share.” Since then, they’ve been returning to Seaside Harbor every summer weekend.
One night, after leaving Crane’s, the singles bar that often serves as a pickup place, Linda Levinson is found murdered. Is her killer a spurned suitor whose advances Linda rejected? What about the mysterious lover back in the city about whom Linda had spoken but whom Alison has never met?
Long Island police officer Joe DiGregorio is assigned to work undercover on the case, posing as a yuppie accountant. Together, Joe and Alison, who is unaware of Joe’s masquerade, set out to find the murderer before he strikes again. In the process, they find out that Linda was a woman of many secrets—and find themselves falling in love in an atmosphere in which nobody can be trusted.
Disillusions
In his atmospheric, complex, and suspenseful psychological thriller, Seth Margolis delivers the story of a woman fleeing an abusive relationship, only to find herself with a man whose dangerous past is obscured by his seductive charm—and who may be framing her for murder.
Gwen Amiel had only wanted a job, a haven, a fresh start. But inside a wealthy family’s elegant home, a crime is committed that is so shocking—so seemingly random—that a tiny upstate New York town will never be the same. Gradually, evidence will lead the authorities to Gwen, the family's new nanny, a woman whose past is shrouded in mystery…and violence. Now, with a police investigation swirling around her and no way to prove her innocence, she turns to the one person who seems to believe her, and the one place she feels safe. But as Gwen struggles to find answers, she’ll discover that nothing is what it seems, that no one can escape from the past, and that trusting the wrong person can destroy your sanity…and your life.
Perfect Angel
Back at college in the ’70s, they called themselves “The Madison Seven”—a close circle of friends inseparably linked by trust, loyalty, and love. Then one night, years later, they gathered at Julia Mallet's Manhattan apartment for a “Come-As-You-Were Party” and decided to play a game…
Tough, beautiful and independent, Julia Mallet feels her life is nearly perfect. She holds a high-profile executive position in an important advertising firm. She is raising a beautiful little daughter, Emily, without the inconvenience of a husband. And now “The Madison Seven” have come together once again to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday…and to bring back a past that should have been left dead and forgotten.
Less than twenty-four hours later, a woman Julia barely knows is brutally and senselessly slain by a faceless psychopath. NYPD Detective Ray Burgess is a man pursued by shadows, a good cop w
ho has stared too deeply into the face of evil, and his obsessive dedication is drawing him closer to Julia, even as a crazed killer strikes again and again.
The maniac has left a calling card behind that only Julia Mallet can read: the result of a post-hypnotic suggestion inadvertently lodged in six subconscious minds—the dark residue of a harmless party game gone terribly wrong. Now Julia knows without question that one of her six dearest friends is a murderer…and is coming after her next.
Vanishing Act
When retail tycoon George Samson appears in detective Joe DiGregorio’s office asking for help in faking his own death, the wary private eye knows enough to refuse. Joe D. has been having second thoughts about his move from the Long Island police force, where he’d been a lieutenant, to trying to make it as a private detective in Manhattan. Joe had made the move to be with Alison Rosen, whom he met while working a homicide case on Fire Island (FALSE FACES). Though wonderful in many ways, their relationship is strained by Joe D.’s lack of work and income. The Big City doesn’t seem to need one more private investigator.
But George Samson’s proposition isn’t easy to forget. So when Samson is found murdered, the struggling P.I. is convinced that his would-be client found another “killer.” Thing is, there’s no doubt the man is dead. What happened?
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