by Bob Mayer
The suitcase on the passenger seat nagged at her. Neeley held her patience for two hours, until the city was over eighty miles behind her, and she was well into Connecticut, just south of Hartford. Finally, she pulled into a rest area. Parking away from other vehicles, Neeley turned on the dome light and put the suitcase on her lap.
She checked the exterior for any indication it was rigged. Nothing. Flipping both latches, she slowly lifted the lid an inch. She slid a finger in and carefully felt the edges. Then she opened it all the way. A wadded piece of cloth lay on top, covering the contents. Neeley peeled the cloth away. Stacks of worn hundred dollar bills greeted her. She didn't count it. She knew exactly how much was there.
Finally accepting she was safe, Neeley allowed herself to think of Gant. She wondered how it would have been to open the suitcase with him. She knew he would have been proud of her. Gant had talked about this mission endlessly. He had a source, someone he called his Uncle Joe, although he said the man was not family by blood, who had called him just two weeks ago with word of this meet. Somebody who must have owed Gant a lot, but Neeley understood owing Gant.
She remembered all the nights she had lain with her body curled into his. Talking about it and perfecting the plan. Every ex-Green Beret's dream, he'd called it.
Neeley closed the suitcase and with it the memories of Gant. There was still much to do.
*************
The day her life as she knew it came to an end, Hannah Masterson forced herself to stroll casually down the carpeted hallway. They were all trying hard not to stare but Hannah was certain they were. She doubted that they knew about John, but she'd always known that people could sense bad news. Hannah had an urge to walk the length of the long hallway, stopping at every desk, and explain in great detail to every person that she had been a good wife, never shirked her duties, always smiled and appeared happy, and that John wasn't really gone. He was just away for a little while. On business.
Of course they wouldn't believe her. She didn't believe it either. Not that she hadn't been a good wife, but that John was really gone. Men like John, with six-figure salaries and power jobs, didn't just dump the wife, career, house and two cars for no reason at all. Something had happened to him, she was convinced of it; well, had been. The day-old postcard in her purse had forced her to acknowledge other possibilities.
With relief, she found the door to Howard Brumley's office open and aimed herself toward a vacant char. One look at Howard's face told Hannah that there was to be no reprieve during this appointment. His normal ruddy complexion was pale; the dancing, flirting eyes were gone, replaced by shaded 'I hate to tell you this' pupils.
Howard picked up a file and tapped the corner nervously. "You look good."
Hannah's wasn't a natural beauty, but more the result of money meeting good bone structure. Her blond hair was thick and shiny, flowing to her shoulders in natural waves. Her eyes, hidden now by the dark glasses, were the color of expensive chocolate left in a hot car. The few worry lines around her eyes and mouth were deepened by the stress of the past week and were the only thing that made her look older than her 31 years. She was a shade under five and a half feet and weighed what any self-conscious woman of means would weigh.
Howard, the family lawyer, was dodging. Hannah knew it was difficult to talk to a woman whose husband had apparently taken the perpetual golf trip. That was how John had done it. Left early on a beautiful Saturday morning the previous week with his golf bag and whistling a happy tune. Glanced back once. Whether to look at her, or the house, maybe both, she would never know. The Country Club had returned the car on Monday. John had taken his clubs. Even with the car back in the garage though, Hannah couldn't believe he was gone.
Howard put down the file folder and leaned back in his chair. "Have you heard anything else from John?"
"Just the card from the islands. If it was John who sent it," she amended.
"Is it his handwriting?" Howard asked.
Hannah reluctantly opened her bag and handed the card over. "It looks like his writing, but it could be a forgery."
Howard shook his head, staring at it. "I can't believe he would do something like this."
"Maybe the card is just--" Hannah began, but Howard was shaking his head again and his attention was no longer on the card.
"No.” Howard gestured to the file folder. “I mean I can't believe he would do anything like this."
"You think he's really gone?” Hannah asked. “Off to some south sea island like this card says?"
Howard sighed. Hannah was watching him carefully. John was hurt. That was it. "He's been in an accident, hasn't he?” She picked the postcard up from the desk. "This was John's way of trying to keep me from knowing, isn't it?"
"He's not hurt, not that I know if.” Howard blinked. "Hannah, I've known John a long time and two weeks ago I would have trusted him with the lives of my children.” Howard took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say."
Hannah sat still and waited to hear something so bad it would render a lawyer speechless.
Having taken the plunge, Howard continued. "Evidently John was planning this for some time. He cleaned out everything: IRA's, mutual funds, stocks, real estate, you name it. You should have had your name on all of it. It was too easy for him. He did leave you fifteen thousand in your household account. But here comes the bad news."
Hannah's head snapped from an imaginary upper cut. She was a little behind Howard, taking it one-step at a time. "He's gone? He's really gone?"
Howard was in a rush to get it over with. "The house, Hannah. It's the house."
"No. That's mine." Her voice was level and hard. "When we paid the note off last year John filed a quitclaim deed and put the house in my name."
She remembered the night well. John had said it was a symbol of his love and devotion. Hannah who had spent most of her childhood in a succession of foster homes felt safe for the first time that night. Her house, it would always be her house.
"John forged your name and took out a new note on the house. It's mortgaged to the max. If you sell it now you can pay the bank. As it is you have a payment of a little over six thousand dollars due in seven days. You don't have enough money to stay there more than two months."
Hannah shook her head. "John wouldn't do that. He wouldn't do that with the house. Not the house."
Howard must have seen too many war movies with shellshock victims as he slapped Hannah with his words. "Hannah, John's gone. He left you and stole everything that wasn't nailed down. And what was nailed down he sold out from under you."
Hannah held up a thin, manicured hand. "But that's illegal." It was beginning to sink in. "What about the cars?"
"Both leased," John said. He glanced in the deadly folder. "The Volvo is five hundred and forty. The BMW is eight-twenty, both payable the first of the month."
Howard cleared his throat. Could there be more? Hannah wondered.
There was. "I also received mail from John yesterday." Howard was holding several legal sized pieces of paper. "It's a marital dissolution agreement."
"You're joking," Hannah sputtered. "John wants to divorce me after stealing everything?"
Howard looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Apparently so."
"But . . ." Hannah shook her head. "I don't . . ."
"It's an unusual situation," Howard said.
The understatement of the year, Hannah thought. She found it strange that the only thing that resounded in her mind was that she hadn’t seen it coming. She didn’t really care about the cars or the money—the house, of course, was a different matter, for a different reason—but she hadn’t seen this coming.
Howard's voice took on his professional lilt. "You have to realize that some of what John did is illegal and not just toward you. The bank he took the new mortgage out from will not be very happy either. You’re probably going to have to divorce him to keep the bank and others he defrauded from coming after you, Hannah."
"Coming after me?
" she repeated. "I didn't do anything."
"Divorcing him, and a thorough check of your lack of assets, will help convince them of that," Howard said. "But as it looks now, you're a party to everything he did. Divorcing him will be the best thing you could do."
"Divorcing John is a good thing?" Hannah pressed her hands against her temples. "I don't understand. Until a week ago I thought I had a good marriage. John seemed as happy as ever. Something's wrong with this picture, Howard. Either something awful happened to John or my entire adult life has been a sham. After all these years for him to do this now means I'm an idiot."
Howard's voice softened. "No. You're a lovely, lovely woman who married a snake. But now's not the time for pity. Now's the time for action. You have to rise above this, Hannah. We have to take care of the dirt John left you. Then you can start a new life."
Hannah stared. A new life? She didn't even know how she'd lost the old one yet.
Howard kept the words coming. "Hannah, you're a beautiful woman with lots of talents. You can get a job or another husband in no time."
Even through the numbness, that struck a painful chord. "I can't believe you said that, Howard."
He held up both hands, defensively. "I didn't mean it like that."
"How else could you possibly have meant it?"
"Hannah, please!" Howard was standing. He had an envelope in his hands that he was running one thumb along the edge of. “Do you need help?”
Hannah was puzzled by the inane question.
“Haven’t you been seeing someone? A professional?” Realizing he wasn’t getting through, Howard cut to the chase. “A psychiatrist?”
How did he know about Dr. Jenkins, Hannah wondered. John must have told him, she immediately realized. Hannah gave a bitter laugh. "How can I pay for a psychiatrist now?"
"You're still covered by John's health plan; for a while at least. I think you really should go see him. Get some help."
Hannah stood. "I have to go."
Howard started coming around his massive desk. "I'm sorry, Hannah. Please don't leave like this. With everything you have to worry about I'd hate it if I were the cause of any more trouble. I was just trying to help."
Hannah didn't say anything. She walked quickly out the door. As the elevator doors shut Howard was still calling after her, telling her they had to take care of this now. Clear it up before it was too late.
Hannah leaned against the brass wall letting the cool surface soothe her forehead. She was still willing herself not to faint when the doors slid open. The man in front of her shot an appreciative glance as he entered the elevator.
"Nice day."
She stared at him as she pushed by him into the lobby, awed by the fact that the world was going to go on.
Hannah fumbled her way out of the office building and stood in a daze on the sidewalk. All around her office workers were hitting the streets of St. Louis for lunch. After she was bumped a few times she realized it was time to move on. She couldn't quite remember where the car was parked and it didn't seem to matter. The car John had brought home one day. She hadn't even asked if he'd bought it or leased it. Those were questions that simply had never occurred to her after so many years of allowing John to take care of everything.
Hannah wondered if anything was ever going to matter again. This morning her main concern had been John and his safety. Clutching her purse to her chest, she now knew that John was never coming back. Beyond that was dangerous territory for her mind to go.
The Adam's Mark was just ahead. Two weeks ago she might have wandered into the hotel bar and waited for her successful husband to join her for lunch. Today she didn't know if she had enough money for a sandwich and a coke. She fumbled with her purse and checked. She had a couple of dollars in cash. She had no idea what the status of the credit cards was.
The bar was cool and dark and occupied by a lone female bartender. Hannah took a seat at the bar and waited. She noted that the bartender was about her age but looked it. Hannah's carefully tended thirty-one years had been shielded from the direct hit of aging, until this week of course.
"Are you OK?"
Hannah was startled by the bartender's sudden question. She nodded.
"How about a cup of coffee?"
Hannah indicated in the affirmative, thankful that she would have a moment to compose herself before the woman returned. Hannah noticed that the woman's nametag pronounced her Marty. She was eyeing Hannah suspiciously from the end of the bar as she poured the coffee. She carried the cup the length of the bar and set it carefully in front of Hannah.
"Let me see if I can guess: man trouble."
Hannah tried to smile and failed. "Yes. He left me."
Hannah surprised herself. Even though John had been gone a week, this was the first time she had uttered those words aloud. It was as if by refusing to say them she had been able to negate the fact that he was no longer there. She had simply refused to consider the possibility. Even the post card's intent had been ignored.
"He left you?" Marty emphasized the latter pronoun as the look on her face passed from sympathy to incredulity. "I don't mean to be funny but if you got left, I don't figure any of us are safe."
Hannah took a sip of her coffee. The scalding liquid bit at her lips and she put the cup back on the polished surface of the bar. "Maybe nobody is safe."
Marty was leaning on the bar. "Was this guy your husband?"
"Yes. Next month would have been our tenth anniversary."
"He just up and left? Took his stuff and split?"
"Not really. He didn't even take a change of clothes. He just never came back home. For the past week I was afraid something terrible had happened to him and then yesterday I received a post card with palm trees all over it saying he wasn't coming back. I went to our lawyer and he had the divorce papers all ready."
Marty wiped the bar top. "Sounds like he went a little bit nuts. Maybe he's gonna come back after he gets regrooved and everything will be fine."
"He can't come back now. He forged my name on some real estate papers. He left me with nothing."
Marty wore a mask of outrage. "Oh man, that's the worst thing I ever heard. Don't sign the divorce papers. Nail the asshole. Get your own lawyer."
Hannah wondered why she was sharing this with some woman she would never speak to again, and realized that was the reason. She could hardly talk about this with the women in her limited social circle. She had kept John's disappearance as quiet as possible, telling only Howard and calling the people at John's office trying to find out, without saying she didn't know, if they knew where John was. But no one had had a clue as to his hereabouts. Hannah had even considered calling the police, but Howard had told her to wait a little bit. Howard's position had been that John's sensitive job at the company should be protected.
Hannah watched as Marty returned her thoughts to the bar. Hannah drained the last of the coffee and decided that it was time to go home.
She left the three-dollar bills that were all she had and mumbled some polite words to Marty. She passed through the hotel foyer focused on the green marble floor, ignoring the businessmen of assorted ages checking her out, noting the rings that marked her as taken and bagged by one of their own. They all gave her the soft smile and nod that they expected from other men for their own wives. They didn't expect Hannah to notice them just as they didn't expect their own wives to alert to the nods of other men.
She found the car around the block from Howard's office. The big black BMW that John had loved to drive. It was odd to discover that she didn't own it; that she didn't own anything. She thought about that for a minute, feeling the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her. She pulled up to the garage attendant and panicked, realizing she had no money to pay the parking fee. She flipped open the console and slid quarters out of their holder. She had to go halfway down the dime column before she had enough. She was relieved when the gate released her and she burned rubber pulling away.
That little in
cident was more telling than anything Howard had said. Hannah moved some numbers around in her head and knew she needed a plan. The money that John had left would be swallowed by house expenses in no time. Howard was right: she was going to have to sell the house and then turn in the cars. But that left her without a job, home, car, anything. Hannah's mind was churning. She could sell the contents of the house. Maybe she could generate enough to lease an apartment.
She had to get a job. The very thought brought a tightness to her throat. Not because she didn't want to work, but because she felt she had nothing to present a future employer. She had dropped out of college to put John through graduate school, working two jobs, one as a substitute teacher and the other waiting tables. Instead of going back and finishing her degree, she had become a full-time wife. John's career had been so demanding and financially rewarding that she had simply never given a thought that she would need to support herself one day. That was the deal-- the word stuck in her consciousness-- the deal they had made without even bothering to verbalize it. It had just happened.
CHAPTER 3
"Damn!" Neeley hissed as she walked into the cabin. It was colder inside than it was out. The wet weather of the Green Mountains gnawed into the bone worse than any cold she had ever experienced.
She wondered, not for the first time, why Gant had lived here. He'd hated the cold. A few years back he had insisted that she needed some high altitude training. At the time Neeley was already exhausted. Her days were filled with physical and mental lessons that were threatening to break her. Her nights were filled with Gant's hard body and his soft voice. She gave in when she saw there was no bridling his childish enthusiasm over the new adventure. One of Gant's many contacts in the shadow world had provided the aircraft for transportation.
Neeley and Gant had flown to the Rockies. They had jumped with skis strapped to their sides and one hundred and twenty pounds of gear in their rucksacks onto a small drop zone located at 10,000 feet of altitude. They'd dumped the parachutes and skied further into the mountains, to almost 14,000 feet. The wind chill had hit sixty below, but Gant had sworn it felt better than plus twenty degrees in the Green Mountains of Vermont. The dry cold in the Rockies had hurt on the surface but this wet cold of New England was an inner bone ache.