In Her Eyes

by Renée J. Lukas

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Cory

  Later that morning after freshening up and knocking out a draft of a potential Rolling Stone article, I found myself back on the Internet, searching for more information. The research led me to Robin Sanders’s daughter, and I decided to follow my instincts. I took my own car on a long drive to Hamden, Connecticut. Passing the bakeries and coffee shops all along Whitney Avenue, I thought about what I should say, how to steer the conversation—that was, if I could catch her at home. Eventually, little mom-and-pop businesses gave way to sprawling Colonial homes with manicured lawns straight out of old movies. I pulled up to one of these two-story houses in the heart of a residential neighborhood that you knew had never seen a crime in the last several decades. The house was on a damp street with lush green trees guarding it from intruders like me.

  When I knocked on the door, a woman in her mid-thirties cracked it open just a little so she could check me out. When I told her who I was, she slammed it in my face. I tried to think of what I could say to get her to let me in.

  “I just came from an interview with Adrienne Austen!” I hoped that saying Adrienne’s name might rouse her.

  The door opened an inch.

  “I don’t care who you’ve talked to, understand?” Her voice was firm, yet soft.

  “Can I just have one minute of your time?” I asked. “Please, I’ve come a long way. From Manhattan.”

  “Well, that was a big waste of electricity, wasn’t it?”

  “Please.”

  I hung my head in defeat, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her porch. Maybe my face was earnest enough to convince her to open the door a little more. Then she turned away, as if assuming I was going to follow her inside.

  “You’re the daughter of Robin Sanders,” I said to be sure I had the right person, though I was pretty sure. She had dark hair like her mother, with a streak or two of gray, but her blue eyes resembled those of the former governor, giving her away as her daughter.

  She turned and looked at me. “Yes. Kendrick Allred.” Before I could ask any questions, she said, “My mother is dead.”

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  “I haven’t seen you guys in years,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “Why the sudden interest?” She poured a glass of water and handed it to me. “I don’t have anything else to offer…”

  “This is…fine.” I held the glass, taking quick note of the modern, upper-class décor—the speckled granite counter, deep stainless steel sink. I’d once dated a woman who did kitchen remodeling, and I knew none of this was cheap.

  Upstairs came a bump, then a muffled yell, that reverberated down the stairs.

  “Leave the cat alone, Noah!” she called.

  “Nice house,” I said, but it did little to thaw the chill emanating from her.

  “What do you want?” she asked, annoyed and ready to be done with me.

  “When I spoke with Ms. Austen, she said that—”

  “I don’t care what she said,” Kendrick interrupted. So it was true—the rumors that she and Adrienne hated each other.

  We faced off across the kitchen island.

  “You don’t like her?” I asked, looking to confirm my theory. My heart pounded in my chest.

  “Does it really matter?” She deposited some stray plates into the sink. “Once my mom got involved with her, I never saw her as much, then not at all.” She gazed off into space. “Oh, at first I was the dewy-eyed schoolgirl, so impressed that my mom was hanging out with a rock star. But I quickly saw her for what she is. An opportunist.”

  “Do you—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You guys always ask me that. Do I think she killed my mother…Even though I’m not particularly fond of her, I don’t think so.”

  She busied herself wiping a counter that didn’t need to be wiped.

  “I think the person who killed my mother is the one who sent…” She stopped herself. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”

  Someone once told me I had a face that made people want to spill their secrets. Apparently it was true. Before I knew it, we were sitting in a little sunroom, drinking coffee and talking.

  “The one who sent her the worst of the hate mail,” she said when I brought her back to the subject of her mother’s death.

  “Do you remember the name?” I asked.

  “Nick Smith. Doesn’t get more basic than that, huh?” She took a sip of her coffee. Then she leaned in closer. “He was a homophobic nut job who was angry that my mother didn’t turn out to be the rabid hater he wanted her to be. He left obscene messages on the phone, had to be removed from the property when she was still governor. He was arrested, then let out. It’s my theory that he eventually found a way to get to her.” She lowered her eyes.

  “You know where he lives now?” I asked.

  “He died of cancer,” she replied. “So the truth about his crime, if he committed it, died with him.” She was expressionless, looking almost through me.

  I couldn’t help noticing as she was talking…there were shades of Robin Sanders in her—her mannerisms, the way she spoke, her Southern accent. She rose from her chair.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy today.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I followed her back to the kitchen, setting my coffee mug on the counter. I decided not to ask her any more personal questions. I knew from my research that she’d been divorced twice and had one child, a ten-year-old boy. Early in her career she’d worked in the state government in Georgia, doing opposition research for Democrats and speechwriting. Her second husband had brought her to Connecticut, where she now worked for Enviro-Watch, a non-profit organization dedicated to environmental causes.

  She led me to the door.

  “I appreciate your time,” I said.

  She folded her arms and sighed. “I doubt we’ll ever know anything for sure,” she conceded. “Sometimes, you know, you just feel something in your gut, like when you know a loved one is hurt or dead even before you get a phone call. I was very close to my mother, so I trust my gut. I know my mother is gone, and I’m pretty sure it was some unstable, homophobic redneck who took her life.”

  I nodded.

  “And for the record? All those rumors about my dad being involved in Mom’s disappearance?” she continued. “They’re total bullshit. He was the most decent, kindest, gentlest man I’d ever known. I’m glad he found real love with someone before he died.” She took a calming breath, then glanced at my watch. “Has that thing been on? I’m going to have to ask you to erase it.”

  “No, it’s not on,” I lied.

  As I turned and made my way down the immaculate brick walkway, she called to me.

  “Mr. Watson!”

  I turned to face her.

  “Since we’ll never know,” she continued, “I’d like my mother to rest in peace.”

  I gave her a slight nod before turning around again. I knew it was her way of telling me to let the story die along with her, if she was, in fact, dead. But that was something I couldn’t do. Something inside me persisted.

  * * *

  I returned to my car, grateful to have gotten more insights from Kendrick. But meeting her also sparked new questions.

  At one point one of the nuttier conspiracy theorists had suggested that Kendrick was The Eye, the person who’d brought down her mother’s adversaries to get revenge on those who had destroyed the governor’s career. She would have only been fifteen at the time! Besides, according to FBI profilers, The Eye was probably a man, someone with extensive training on the Deeper Internet, an internal technology at the Pentagon that unlocked information that couldn’t be found on the regular Internet. It was an intriguing idea. I made a mental note to investigate it further.

  As the city skyline intruded on the horizon, I thought about Kendrick’s claim that Adrienne Austen was an opportunist. She had been so real, so accessible, during our interview. It was impossible for me to
see her as some cold-hearted manipulator, much less a murderer. Love made people do crazy things, but…

  No. Despite the image of her standing at the grave of someone who had obviously meant something to her, I still couldn’t believe it.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Adrienne

  “He quit tailing me.” I kept my voice low so the driver wouldn’t hear. “Yeah, I gave him a real dramatic story. I should’ve been a writer. Not just songs. Yeah, okay. I’m heading back to the apartment to get my bags. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I clicked off my phone, smiling to myself. I tried to relax, but I was fully aware of the driver. I mean, you know they’re supposed to be discreet, but you never know who you can trust.

  As we zoomed through streets cluttered with people who were in no particular hurry to get out of our way, I remembered one of my first cab rides in Boston, back when I wasn’t important enough to have a special driver, when I was a nobody. I’d climbed this ladder toward fame my whole life only to realize there was such freedom in being a nobody.

  Did the truth matter? I thought long and hard about that during my flight. I thought about Cory, all the questions he had, how his imagination must have driven him wild. I knew he admired me. I hated to knock myself off the pedestal he seemed to have me on. That was the hardest part, I guess. I mean, really. I did want to be adored. Who goes into show business wanting to be left alone? Well, maybe Greta Garbo. But I couldn’t think of anyone else…

  * * *

  My body still adjusting to a cramped nine-hour flight and jumping six time zones ahead, I shambled down a long, marble corridor toward the smell of sea air. The housekeeper greeted me first.

  “No one followed you?” she asked, her eyes darting to a spot above and behind me on the wall. It was all very cloak-and-dagger.

  I shook my head.

  Next came the British butler.

  “Did anyone follow you?” he asked.

  “No, Jeeves,” I said as he took my jacket. That wasn’t his name. It was kind of a running joke that he never found amusing.

  “You parked behind the wall?” he persisted.

  “Yeah, Hobbs. It’s all good. No one followed me!” Then in my fake British accent, “I can assure you.”

  He didn’t seem to care for my attempt at being British. No one here, especially him, had a sense of humor.

  Tearing myself away from the overly solicitous staff, I made my way to the openness of the living area, with its views of the morning Mediterranean, deep blue filling up every space of the glass windows. I was hypnotized by the seaside here, with its familiar, lazy morning light that gently reminded you there was no other place you had to be. It was a place where you could put all priorities aside. Marseilles. It was her place, her haven. I did my best creative work here.

  “Café?”

  I turned around and took the cup she offered in my hands, smiling to myself at the way she tried to sound French through that Southern accent. Her hand played along my neck as she walked in front of me, wearing a soft cotton robe and a big grin.

  “I missed you,” Robin said, leading me out onto a private patio overlooking the water. I’d missed the sounds of crashing surf, the warm feeling of contentment. We had our best conversations by the sea. Here we’d found our own piece of paradise on earth.

  “I missed you,” I said, reaching for a stray cigarette in my jeans pocket.

  “Stop.” She held my arm, and I reluctantly pulled my hand out of my pocket. “Not here. Please.”

  I settled into one of the patio chairs, resting my arm over a knee. I kept smiling to myself.

  “What?” she said, trying to read me. Her eyes were so piercing, like the blue of the Mediterranean and deeper. She was as stunning as ever, with a few streaks of silver in her black hair and a face with so many lines illuminated by the sun. I could see them all, and yet her features were as beautiful to me as the first time I saw her.

  “Cigarettes,” I said. “That was part of this whole charade. I made him think I put cigarettes on your grave.”

  “Whose grave was it?”

  “No idea. But it was a good cover. I know it’ll be in the next Rolling Stone.”

  “You are so bad.” She gave me one of her scolding smiles, then took a sip of raspberry truffle coffee. She kept getting assortments of flavored coffees. It was her new thing, sampling them all. I watched her profile as she gazed at the ocean. She seemed content and still as strong and willful as ever.

  “I should get an Oscar for that performance,” I said.

  I hadn’t seen her in more than a month. We hadn’t been apart for that long since after the video shoot when she was setting up her new life. I couldn’t stand to be apart from her, I realized. I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it again.

  “How’s Elaine?” she asked.

  “Keeping me from burning the place down.” I set down my cup and leaned closer to her. “Have you given any more thought to revealing yourself?” She was about to wave me away, but I wasn’t going to let it go this time. “Hear me out. You’d be surprised how things have changed. You’d be like a hero now. A legend. They talk about you so much…”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Her brow lowered. The topic obviously troubled her.

  After the debate, Robin lost everything—at least as far as her career was concerned. She cared more than ever about helping people, and yet politics was the last place that wanted her. No one would return her calls even before she left the governor’s office.

  Everywhere she went, she was harassed by haters who felt she’d abandoned them. Then there was the gay and lesbian community, who’d had a visceral loathing for her for years and who didn’t feel she had the right to “come to the party late and suddenly take up for us,” that kind of thing. That and some truly frightening encounters with nut jobs like Nick Smith convinced her that it would be safer for her family and more effective if she worked behind the scenes. As she had when she exposed the hypocrisies of her opponents for the Republican nomination.

  Robin left the patio for a moment, then came back out with a sealed envelope, which she handed to me.

  “I want you to give this to my contact in New York,” she said.

  I took it from her and stuffed it into my jeans pocket. “I feel so sexy when I get to play spy.”

  Then she came from behind my chair and circled her arms around my chest. “I missed you so much it hurt,” she said.

  “Me too.” I turned and kissed her. “Will you ever tell someday?”

  “No.”

  I pulled away. “Why not? C’mon, Robin. I did an interview with this kid and it got me thinking.”

  “Uh-oh, be careful with that.”

  “Shut up.”

  She gave me a playful slap and sat down with her coffee. She was such a picture of peace and relaxation, I hated to shake up her world. But then again, it always seemed to fall on me to do just that.

  “Listen,” I said. “We’re not getting younger. This is your reputation, your legacy.”

  “My legacy is being the disgraced ex-governor of Georgia,” she said. “Believe me, I can do far more good if no one knows it’s me.”

  “But you’re The Eye!”

  “Shhh!” She reached over from her chair and covered my mouth with her finger.

  I bit her finger lightly, registering a protest. I wouldn’t give up on this one. I admired her so much. I wanted other people to know how great she was before it was too late. Over the years The Eye’s revelations had saved LGBT people from so many bullshit laws. Exposed as a bunch of hypocrites, corrupt Republican lawmakers had lost all credibility with their anti-gay agenda. Robin Sanders had found a way to serve her country, albeit anonymously.

  At the heart of her operation was a complex network she’d set up with the help of Kendrick, her daughter, a teenager at the time but luckily for us, a computer genius. Together with a few carefully chosen allies, they had created a system that was virtually bulletproof. She
had to keep changing IP addresses and moving around the Internet like a pirate as authorities tried time and again to shut her down, but she repeatedly figured out ways to bring more attention to issues she was passionate about—LGBT equality, violence against women, equal pay and climate change. She wasn’t motivated by pride. She didn’t care if nobody knew that she was behind the publication of the information that kept putting politicians on the spot and influencing policymaking. What mattered was being able to make a difference.

  Kendrick was our biggest ally, spreading the word whenever she could that she thought her mother was dead. It was an easy story to believe, given all of the threats she had received from former supporters, some of them so scary that Robin had been forced to get restraining orders. To further complicate things, Robin had also thought it would be safer if people thought Kendrick and I didn’t like each other. She thought that if people saw us together it might arouse suspicion. It was a pain in the ass to keep up appearances, but we were still able to see each other in secure places. I’d like to think I had something to do with the badass she’d become.

  Robin’s life in the aftermath of the final debate had confronted her with the ultimate ethical question, about whether the end justified the means. Having already faked parts of her election strategy, this wasn’t something she was overly worried about. Her brother Kenneth didn’t feel the same way, at least not at first.

  “Fuck, Robin,” he’d said. “What about the right to privacy?”

  “Does privacy matter if the bad guys are the ones losing it?” Robin said she had asked him in return.

  “Yeah, but where does it stop? Don’t get me wrong,” he’d said. “I’d love to see those guys go down. All of ’em. But if you start opening that…”

  “I got news for you, dear brother, that can of worms has long been opened. Those fellas whose privacy you’re so concerned about have been using a pipeline of leaks and corrupt means for decades.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “So you’d be happy to see me bring them down as long as it’s done with integrity.”