Beyond Physical

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  She looked tired. “It was a matter of time until I realized the big mistake we were making. Hall was first, with his homophobic proposals. I couldn’t believe that I’d contributed to putting in his hands the power to hurt other people and create more hostility between the gay and straight communities.”

  Shrugging, she added, “Then it was Flowers and then Adams, embracing projects which violated the beliefs of the Supreme Masters assigned to them. It soon dawned on me that what I considered absolute and undeniable truth could be completely different from what each one of my followers believed in. They all had their different agendas, and I was fooling myself to think I could influence them once I’d handed the power to them.”

  Richard leaned forward. “And Michael?”

  He could feel the sadness taking over her voice. “It wasn’t obvious at first. He was passive-aggressively boycotting every pro-diversity and pro-immigration bill. I realized he was a white supremacist and xenophobic. I feared that if he became president, his strategy would change to an openly racist, neo-Nazi type of policy.”

  The pieces were starting to fall into place. There was a long pause before Richard asked, “How did you kill them?”

  She didn’t move. “That’s irrelevant.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not irrelevant for me. Until we can identify a weapon for the crime, we’re not closing the case.”

  She sighed in exasperation. “Mr. Fields, you have much to learn yet. To achieve anything in life, you have to focus on the outcome and stop obsessing about the means. Think about the why—not the how.”

  Puzzled, Richard stared at her. “I’d forgotten you used to be Carl’s disciple. You speak in riddles like him. But that’s not getting you off the hook. We know that you were in DC the night Michael O’Hara was killed. You either had a way to kill him from a distance; or, as I still suspect, you’re protecting somebody who took the order from you.”

  Her expression was icy cold, but she remained quiet.

  “As you’re aware, your best chance of reducing your sentence is cooperating with us. We need the names of anybody else who’s been part of this plot.”

  “Even if I wanted, I couldn’t tell you,” she replied. “The structure of our group is designed to minimize risk of breach. Even I, as a Supreme Master, have had access to only a handful of followers at one time.”

  “But you know the other Supreme Masters.”

  She chuckled. “You waste your time. Not only is it unlikely that any of the names I called them by are their real names, but also I’m more afraid of what they can do to me than any punishment from the legal system—even the death penalty.”

  Richard scowled at her. “You’re in a high security jail. You’re safer here than anywhere else in the world.”

  “Never underestimate the power of the Lords of the Universe.”

  They locked gazes.

  Richard again asked, “How were Michael O’Hara and the other three politicians killed?”

  “I told you. That’s not relevant.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes. “That’s only confirming to me that you’re protecting somebody. Not someone whose real name you don’t know, but someone you care for. That’s the only way I can explain your reluctance to talk about this.”

  She looked surprised. His instinct told him he’d guessed right. He pushed forward. “Who is he? Because if I had to guess, I’d assume you’re protecting a lover.”

  She didn’t answer. He tried again. “Or is it a she?”

  By this time, she had a hold on herself and was no longer showing any reaction.

  “Mr. Fields, this is all you’re going to hear from me today.”

  Getting up from his chair, Richard turned toward the door, but then he thought of something.

  “One last thing. We’ve scanned your fingerprints, and they match the ones on file for Samantha McKinney. How do you explain that?”

  Amused, she smiled. “Mr. Fields, didn’t I tell you to never underestimate the power and the resources of the Lords of the Universe?” She turned her hand so the palm faced up and peeled a layer off the skin of her hands. Richard watched, stunned. It seemed as if she were pulling off dried Elmer’s glue from her fingers. Only, this layer was thicker and transparent.

  She extended her hand and said, “Scan my fingerprints now.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. If it was true that those people had developed technology able to fool the security systems of the FBI, it was terrifying to think what else they could do.

  * * *

  Richard joined Samuel in the back room. He’d been watching the interview through the video cameras. “What do you think, Richard?”

  “Everything she says fits the pieces we’ve gathered so far. But she’s hiding something. She’s definitely protecting the person who executed the crime while she was in DC.”

  Samuel nodded.

  Richard asked, “Anything new on Hayes’s autopsy?”

  Shaking his head, Samuel replied, “Nothing besides the brain tumor, and that didn’t seem to be the mechanism of death. The death was attributed to a cardiac arrhythmia only because of the lack of other causes and the clinical history given by Hayes’s daughter.”

  “Just like the other four.”

  “Who could she be protecting?”

  Richard thought for a moment. “My bet is on a lover. That would be the only way to explain that degree of loyalty. It would also explain why she never left town after her plan was aborted.”

  Samuel had a worried expression. His voice was serious when he spoke. “Richard, there’s someone else to consider.”

  “Who?”

  Silence fell. Tapping on the screen of his iPad, Samuel played a paused scene from a video. It was one of McKinney’s interviews Richard had conducted before.

  On the screen, the woman spoke, “My relationship with Michael was entirely platonic. Even if I’d ever felt attracted to him, I never would’ve done anything hurtful against his wife, Joy. Mrs. O’Hara has been one of the few people in my life who’s truly cared for me. She deserves all my respect and my loyalty.”

  Richard felt numb. “What’s your point?”

  “We’ve confirmed that Dr. Clayton was one of those closest to Samantha McKinney at the time of Michael O’Hara’s death. She was her psychiatrist, treating her for depression.”

  Richard’s brain refused to understand. “Are you saying that McKinney may have confided to Joy the name of that lover—the person she’s protecting?”

  “Or other information. That Dr. Clayton may know more than we think about the conspiracy to kill her husband.”

  Shaking his head, Richard scoffed. “That makes no sense.” He started walking away.

  Samuel’s firm voice startled him. “This has to stop, now!”

  Surprised, Richard turned to his friend.

  Samuel took a step forward. “Richard, I know you enough to guess that you’re somehow involved with O’Hara’s widow. I appreciate you enough to look the other way and not report you to my superiors. But for your own good, this has to stop. “

  The two friends looked straight at each other. Richard spoke. “I tried to tell you. I begged you to get me out of this case.”

  “Richard . . .”

  Richard sighed. “Sam, you’ve been such a good friend to me, and I appreciate you so much . . . but you don’t understand. I can’t reason right now. I can’t.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Richard left.

  Chapter 32

  I can’t believe my luck. You’re so beautiful. You’re breathtaking. Richard was no longer sure if he’d said the words or thought them.

  This time it wasn’t a dream. They were kissing inside Richard’s car, in his driveway. Hours ago, they’d left Joy’s car in his garage to ride together to their date and had now returned to pick it up.

  They’d lost track of the time long ago, but Richard guessed it was quite late. They were the last people to leave the restaurant as it closed, so lost in eac
h other that they hadn’t noticed the place was emptying.

  After that, trying to postpone the end of the night, they’d gone for a walk down the beach. Listening to the soothing roaring of the ocean, stargazing, talking and kissing . . . who knew or cared what time it was?

  Running his lips down her jawline to her neck, he spoke softly between kisses. “You’re fascinating. How can you make me laugh to tears at one moment and then turn me on like this the next second?”

  He kissed her lips again. She responded with passion.

  Slowly, she placed her hand to his lips and gently pulled her face away. Her voice was almost a whisper. “I wish I could stay here forever, Richard . . . but it’s getting late.”

  She kissed him one more time and then slid out of his arms. She exited the car, walking into the warm, starry night.

  He caught up with her quickly and held her arm. “Come in for a moment, please. You haven’t seen the inside of my house.”

  She chuckled. “Richard, I have to get going.”

  “Just for a minute. I want to show you something.”

  She hesitated. There was skepticism in her eyes, but she was smiling. “Okay. But only for a minute.”

  Wrapping her with one arm, he walked her to the main entrance and let her in.

  She walked through the simply decorated living room, looking around. “I like it. It’s very masculine. Very you. What did you want to show me?”

  He hugged her from the back and kissed her neck. “I wanted to show you how crazy I am about you.”

  Laughing, she tried to move out of his arms, but he didn’t let her.

  “I can’t let you go now. I’m terrified that if I do, tomorrow you’ll pretend that nothing happened and we’re just friends.”

  He kept kissing her neck and down to her shoulders while his hands wrapped around her waist. Her body relaxed. Turning her around to face him, he reclaimed her mouth with deeper kisses. He caressed her back; and when she didn’t fight him, he slid his hands under her shirt and ran them over her bare skin, making her moan. His hands searched for her bra hook.

  Abruptly, she freed herself from his arms and walked away.

  Richard was taken aback. “What happened?”

  Shaking, she mumbled, “I really have to go.”

  He walked toward her and took her into his arms. “Why are you fighting this? You know how much I want you. And I know you want me too. I can feel it.” He kissed her neck again.

  Her voice was weak. “Please, Richard. Don’t make this even harder . . . please let me go.”

  “Why? Why do I have to deny us what we’ve been wanting for so long?”

  Joy pushed him away and backed up, raising her voice. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not!”

  Confused, he looked at her. She seemed terrified. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Joy, are you trying to drive me crazy?”

  She didn’t answer. He walked away and paced around the room, grunting in frustration. “Over and over, you pull me close, and then you push me away. Why are you doing this to me? Joy, I have pride. No matter how crazy I am for you, my patience has a limit.”

  Joy covered her eyes with her hands but didn’t speak.

  Richard stopped. “It’s about him, right? You feel you’re betraying him. The chains are still on your heart!”

  When Joy didn’t answer, Richard exploded in anger. “I can’t believe this! How stupid of me! How could I ever think I could compete with his ghost?”

  Shaking his head slowly, he glared at her. “Why, Joy? Why did you make me believe I had a chance with you—give me a taste of you to make losing you more painful? There’s no room in your heart for anybody else, because you still love him!”

  “No!” Joy’s voice was firm. Consternation filled her face. “Is that what you think? No. You’re wrong!”

  Slowly, Richard took a few steps in her direction.

  “Then, why? Why do you push me away? Why did you tell me that your heart is chained?”

  Covering her eyes with her hands, she took a seat on the couch. Richard sat next to her in silence.

  She said, “Richard, it’s not like me to speak badly about someone who’s not there to defend himself—even less if that person’s dead. This is the first and the last time you’ll ever hear me tell you this, so I hope you pay attention.”

  Richard’s heart raced. He had the feeling that what he was about to hear would be life-changing.

  * * *

  As Joy related the story, Richard watched her sink into the sofa; her shoulders slumped, as if she were shrinking.

  She opened up about years of putting up the farce of a perfect marriage to the world, bending over backwards to protect a psychologically unstable man from himself.

  At times, as she talked, she lost track of her own thoughts and mentioned random scenes, like being rudely awakened at three in the morning by Michael’s hands clasping her throat while he submitted her to jealous interrogation. Or coming home from work and finding him standing on the roof of the house, threatening to jump to his death. Richard couldn’t believe it. It must have been intense work, hiding that degree of insanity from the public eye.

  “Michael was affected by narcissistic personality disorder, severe anxiety with paranoid features, and bipolar disorder he refused to medicate,” she explained. “Yes, the psychiatrist in me spent countless hours fine-tuning his diagnosis, trying to understand why he couldn’t stop hurting the people around him. But that wasn’t it. In him, unmedicated mental illness met the highest grade of codependency.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Obsessive control, emotional blackmail, relentless putting down remarks with the goal of ablating my self-esteem so I’d never leave him. Back then, my life consisted of shaking in terror when he was in a bad mood—but shaking even more when his moods were pleasant, terrified of when the other shoe would drop.”

  By then, her feet were up on the chair, and she was wrapping her knees with her arms, shaking as if she were still afraid of a punishment for violating the vow of secrecy.

  Richard tried to contain the rage in his voice. “Did he ever hit you?”

  She chuckled. “I almost wished he did­­. Then I would’ve had a dignifying way out, an excuse to give up on him. But he never granted me the privilege of touching bottom like that. When he could see he’d pushed me to the edge, he’d transform into a model husband, and I’d start thinking I’d imagined it all. He was an expert at convincing me that he was the poor victim of my instability.”

  Richard was painfully familiar with that scenario. “He was gaslighting you. Joy, you were in a psychologically abusive relationship.”

  “I know. I felt like such a failure as a psychiatrist, unable to convince him to seek help—and letting him treat me like that. But I couldn’t abandon him on his illness. I’d known him since middle school.”

  Richard scooped her up from the couch and sat her on his lap, cradling her in his arms. They remained silent for a long time.

  He finally said, “I understand, now, why you fear starting a new relationship.”

  Joy chuckled. “Relationship! Even that word makes me want to rip off my skin.”

  “I understand your anxiety better, and your reluctance to open up your heart. But, Joy . . . I’m not him. You should know that by now.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Angel, the last thing I want to do is pressure you. I’m willing to have patience. But I need you to relax and trust me. Let me prove to you that there’s something better than what you’ve known.”

  He caressed her face. “It’s your turn to be happy. That son-of-a-bitch is gone. Life gave him what he deserved, and you’re free. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Tears slid down Joy’s cheeks, and Richard hugged her. Her voice was shaky when she said, “That’s the worst part. I’ve never felt that he’s completely gone. His ghost is haunting me.” She sobbed. “Richard, his ghost is following me. I can never get him off my m
ind . . . because . . . because . . .”

  Lifting her head from his chest, her tearful eyes searched for his.

  “Because I killed him.”

  Chapter 33

  As Joy was getting up from his lap, Richard felt as if he was sinking. The room darkened and started spinning. He felt close to passing out. Closing his eyes, motionless, he asked with a broken voice, “Joy, what are you saying?”

  She paced slowly around the living room.

  “The days before he died, Michael had been at the peak of his anxiety. The night before the . . . accident . . . the twins were sick, and I couldn’t get them to stay asleep. He stomped into the room, out of control, demanding that I make the twins stop crying so he could sleep. He was yelling so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear him. I was mortified.

  “I spent the whole night awake in a rocking chair, holding and rocking both babies to keep them from crying so Michael would stop yelling. The next morning when I rushed to get ready for work, in my exhaustion and confusion, I fell down the stairs from the second floor.”

  She paused and sighed. “I was lucky I didn’t hurt myself seriously; but later on that day, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw all the bruises on my sore body and thought, Wow, I look like an abused woman. A voice inside of me told me: You are.

  “Then I said to myself, So this is the way a woman feels when her husband hits her? This is not any more painful than the way I feel every day of my life when he treats me like he did last night.”

  She hid her face in her hands and sighed deeply—almost a sob. Then she lifted her face up. “That evening, when he came home to pick up his laptop, I told him I wanted a divorce. He was furious at first, yelling and threatening. Then, when he realized I wasn’t scared of him anymore, he begged me to give him one more chance and promised he’d seek professional help. When he saw that wasn’t working either, he yelled that the scandal of a divorce would be the end of his political career, that if I left him, his life would collapse and that he’d rather kill himself . . . And then . . . and then . . .”