Sidney Sheldon's After the Darkness

by Sidney Sheldon

  They’re all unhappy. Even Lenny. I want to make them happy, but I can’t.

  “The soup’s ambrosial, Grace. Nice job.” Mike Gray grinned at his sister-in-law.

  “Thanks.” She smiled back. He doesn’t look depressed to me.

  Maria Preston said snidely, “Indeed, your chef is to be congratulated. He must have worked like a slave all day to produce this feast.”

  Andrew Preston blushed. Not even Grace Brookstein was stupid enough to miss a blatant dig like that. He wished Maria would get a grip on herself, but after a few glasses of wine she was lethal. It was bad enough that she’d insisted on coming to dinner in a lavish Roberto Cavalli evening gown, slashed to the thigh and wildly inappropriate for the occasion.

  “Maria, cara. Everyone else will be in jeans or simple sundresses. You look stunning, my angel, as always. But couldn’t you…”

  “No, Andy. I couldn’t. I am not ‘everyone else.’ ’Aven’t you learned this by now?”

  Grace was too polite to rise to Maria’s bait. Lenny had no such qualms.

  “Our chef is a ‘she’ actually. Felicia.” His tone was measured. “And she does work hard, though I’d hardly call her a slave. Last year I paid her considerably more than I paid your husband, Maria.”

  Andrew’s blush deepened. Maria glared at him in silent fury.

  Grace wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She hated confrontation. Lenny, on the other hand, had grown tired of walking on eggshells.

  “Senator Warner,” he said brightly. “You’re awfully quiet this evening. What’s the problem, Jack? Not in the party spirit?”

  If looks could kill, Lenny Brookstein would have dropped dead at the table.

  “Not really, Lenny, no. Unemployment rates in my constituency are about to reach ten percent. While we’re sitting around your table, enjoying this fine food and wine, the people who voted for me are having their homes repossessed. They’re losing their jobs, their health insurance, their hope. And they’re relying on me to try to fix things for them. So, no, I’m not really in a party mood. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Honor watched in horror as Jack got up from the table and left the room. He’d finally come clean about his gambling debts last night. As a result, Honor hadn’t slept a wink. It was exhaustion that had made her lose her temper with Grace earlier, something she’d been kicking herself about all day. Not because she gave a damn about Grace’s feelings. But because the entire purpose of this trip was to try to get closer to Grace so she could use her influence with Lenny to get him to help Jack.

  Last night Jack had yelled at her. “I need Lenny Brookstein! Without that money, I’m finished, do you understand? We’re finished.”

  Honor did understand. But now here was Jack, storming off like a spoiled child, embarrassing them both in front of everyone.

  “I’d better go after him,” she said meekly. “Sorry, Grace. Lenny.”

  The dinner party limped on. After the Warners’ departure, everyone made an effort to be upbeat, but Jack and Honor’s empty chairs were like two ghosts at the feast. John Merrivale made a toast, thanking Grace for the meal, but his stammer got so bad halfway through that Caroline had to finish it for him. Connie left before dessert, citing a headache. By the time the maid brought the coffee, the forced smiles of the remaining guests were beginning to look like lockjaw.

  In bed with Lenny afterward, Grace broke down in tears.

  “It was a disaster, wasn’t it? Why does everything come back to the stupid economy? Connie and Michael losing their house, Jack stressed out about unemployment.”

  “I don’t think that’s all he’s stressed about, sweetheart.”

  “Even Caroline and Maria were moaning at the hairdressers’ about how much less John and Andrew are making this year. I hate it.”

  Lenny was furious. “Maria and Caroline were bitching to you? Are you kidding me? They’re lucky their husbands still have jobs. The SEC is all over us like lice.”

  Grace gasped. “You’re under investigation?”

  “Don’t worry, honey, it’s nothing. A shit storm in a teacup. They’re looking at all the big hedge funds right now. The point is, these are tough times, and Quorum’s survived them because of me. Which means those ungrateful bitches’ husbands have survived it because of me.”

  “Please, darling,” Grace sobbed. “Don’t get angry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I can’t take any more fighting tonight. Really, I can’t take it.”

  Lenny took her in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve been a bit of a Grinch on this trip, haven’t I?”

  Grace nestled closer to his body. She always felt safe and happy pressed against him.

  “I tell you what. Tomorrow morning, I’ll get up early and take the boat out by myself. Sailing always clears my head. By the time I come home, I’ll be so relaxed, you won’t recognize me.”

  “Sounds good.” Grace began drifting off to sleep.

  Later, she would try to remember the exact words that Lenny had said next. It was so hard to untangle dream from reality. What she thought she heard was, “Whatever happens, Gracie, I love you.” But maybe she dreamed it. All she knew for sure was that she’d fallen asleep that night happy.

  For the last time.

  SIX

  JOHN MERRIVALE TIGHTENED HIS SEAT BELT and closed his eyes as the six-seater, twin-engine plane shuddered its way up through the clouds. A nervous flier at the best of times, he was terrified of these little puddle jumpers. It was like trusting your life to a lawn mower.

  “Don’t worry.” The woman next to him smiled amiably. “It’s always bumpy first thing in the morning, before the sun burns through the clouds.”

  John Merrivale thought, Can sun burn through clouds?, then smiled at himself for being so philosophical, today of all days.

  If the lawn mower didn’t fail them, they would land in Boston in twenty-five minutes.

  It was 6:15 A.M.

  AT 8:15 A.M., ANDREW PRESTON TOOK his seat on a different airplane. The hundred-seater Fokker 100 was only two-thirds full. I guess not a lot of people fly to New York from Nantucket on a Tuesday morning. They all left yesterday.

  He had mixed feelings when he got the call late last night, telling him he was needed urgently back at the office. Peter Finch, the head of the SEC investigative team looking into Quorum’s accounts, wanted some “face time.” Andrew dreaded the meeting. He could think of no good reason why Finch would summon him back to New York, and quite a few bad ones. On the other hand, being away from the office made him feel hideously out of control. He believed he’d covered his tracks, but these SEC bastards were like bloodhounds.

  In any case, he needed to get out of Nantucket. That guest cottage was starting to feel like a prison. After her public humiliation at dinner last night, Maria had flown into a hysterical fury, swearing and screaming at Andrew, even attacking him physically. Rolling up his sleeve now, he could still see the livid red scratch marks from her nails.

  “How dare you allow Lenny Brookstein to treat us like that! He made a complete fool of me, and you sat by and did nothing.”

  Andrew fought back the urge to tell Maria that it was she who had started it, by trying to make a fool of Grace. Instead, he said, “What would you have me do? He’s my boss, Maria. He pays our bills.”

  “Barely! He pays you less than his goddamn cook. Didn’t you hear what he said? Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Andrew had heard. And it did bother him. He was 90 percent sure that Lenny was joking. If the chef was making more than he was, she was certainly overpaid. But it wasn’t unheard of for Lenny’s generosity to prompt some peculiar decisions. He tried to reason with himself. Why should I care what Lenny pays somebody else? It’s his money, after all. He can do what he likes with it. But it still rankled. Perhaps, on some subconscious level, it justified what Andrew had done.

  Maria was passed out cold when he left her this morning, exhausted from her drunken rage. When
she woke up, she’d have a horrific hangover. Andrew didn’t want to be within a hundred miles of her when that happened. Now he wouldn’t have to be.

  “Cabin crew, please be seated for takeoff.”

  Closing his eyes, Andrew Preston tried to relax.

  GRACE MET HER SISTERS FOR LUNCH at the Cliffside Beach Club.

  After their awkward encounter the day before, Connie went out of her way to be solicitous to Grace, even presenting her with a beautiful guava-pink seashell she’d discovered on the beach that morning.

  “I know it’s not much, but I thought it would look pretty on your dressing table.”

  Grace was touched. She knew how difficult Connie found apologies. The shell said more than any words.

  Honor asked, “Are Caroline and Maria joining us?”

  In a cream J.Crew sundress that washed her out, with her hair scraped back in a ponytail, Honor looked exhausted. Grace wondered if she and Jack had fought last night after Jack stormed out of the dining room, but was too tactful to ask.

  “I don’t think so. Caroline’s in town looking at a painting. And Maria’s still asleep, I believe.”

  The sisters exchanged glances. “I wonder what she wears to bed?” Connie giggled. “Spun-gold Versace pajamas?”

  It was a nice, light moment. Grace finally started to relax.

  The waitress came and took their order. They were sitting at an outdoor table, right on the beach, but by the time their appetizers arrived, storm clouds had begun to gather.

  The manager appeared. “Would you like to move indoors, Mrs. Brookstein? I have a lovely table by the window I can offer you ladies.” At that instant a loud clap of thunder made everyone jump. Seconds later, the first heavy drops of rain began to splash onto the table.

  “Yes, please,” said Grace, laughing. She thought about Lenny, out on the boat. I hope he’s safe and dry in the cabin, not out on deck catching his death of a cold.

  IT WAS ALMOST FOUR BY THE time the three sisters arrived home. By that time, the storm was in full force. Michael Gray met them at the front door.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” he said, hugging Connie tightly.

  “We only went for lunch at the club, honey.” She laughed. “Why so panicked?”

  “I didn’t know where you were, that’s all. I thought you might have gone sailing with Jack. The conditions are awful out there.”

  “Jack’s gone sailing?” Honor’s white face turned even whiter. “Are the girls with him?”

  “No,” said Michael. “Don’t worry. Bobby and Rose are playing Chutes and Ladders with our boys in the kitchen. They’re a little bored, but other than that, they’re fine.”

  “And Jack? Has anyone heard from him?”

  “His radio’s down.”

  Honor’s knees started shaking. Jack had been an avid sailor since his teens, but a storm like this would test anybody’s skill, even his.

  “It’s okay,” said Michael. “The coast guard thinks they’ve located him. We should hear more soon. It’s been crazy out there, you can imagine, but they’re trying to get everybody back to harbor. Come on in out of the rain.”

  “What about Lenny?”

  Connie and Honor had moved inside, but Grace stood frozen on the front path. Rain dripped from her hair and the tip of her nose. She looked about twelve years old.

  Michael Gray frowned. “Lenny? I thought he was at the golf club. That’s what he told the staff here when he left this morning.”

  Because he wanted to be alone. He didn’t want you or Jack to invite yourselves along.

  “No.” Grace was shaking. “He’s on the boat.”

  “Did he take any crew?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Michael tried to hide his concern. “Do you have any idea where he was going, Grace? What his plans were?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “All right, sweetheart. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Come on in and I’ll call the coast guard. Those guys are the best. He’ll be back home in no time, you’ll see.”

  JACK WARNER GOT TO THE HOUSE at six P.M., soaked to the skin and badly shaken.

  “I’ve never known a storm to close in that fast. Never.” Honor hugged him. Without thinking, Jack hugged her back.

  Connie and Michael were upstairs, putting the children to bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, Grace, Honor, Caroline and a still-green-looking Maria Preston sat waiting for news. Lenny’s yacht was still missing.

  John Merrivale had gotten back from his business trip in Boston half an hour earlier. Walking over to Grace, he put his arm around her, ignoring Caroline’s dagger stares.

  “Try not to w-w-worry. Lenny’s an experienced sailor.”

  Grace barely registered that he’d spoken. She was too busy praying.

  I lost one father, Lord. Please, don’t let me lose another.

  AT 8:17 P.M. EXACTLY, THE PHONE RANG. Grace pounced on it.

  “Hello?”

  Ten seconds later, she hung up. Her teeth were chattering.

  “Grace?” Caroline Merrivale moved toward her. “What is it? What did they say?”

  “They’ve found the boat.”

  A chorus of “Thank Gods” and “I told you sos” echoed around the room. When they’d all stopped hugging her, Grace said softly, “Lenny wasn’t on it.”

  Then she passed out.

  SEVEN

  LATER, THE PERIOD AFTER LENNY’S DISAPPEARANCE blurred in Grace’s memory into one long, unbroken nightmare. Hours became days, days became weeks, but none of it seemed real. She was living in a trance, a hideous half-life from which only one person could awaken her. And that person was gone.

  After three days, Sea Rescue called off its search. Around the globe the headlines screamed:

  LEONARD BROOKSTEIN MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

  HEDGE FUND GENIUS LOST AT SEA

  NEW YORK’S RICHEST MAN FEARED DROWNED

  Grace had never read anything so awful in her life. Had anyone told her at the time that worse was to come, she would not have believed them. How could anything be worse than life without Lenny?

  It was John Merrivale who brought her home to New York. Her sisters and the others had all gone back when the search was called off, but Grace couldn’t bring herself to leave Nantucket.

  “You can’t stay entombed on this island forever, Gracie. All your friends are in the city. Your f-family. You need a support network.”

  “But I can’t leave Lenny, John. It’s like I’m abandoning him.”

  “Darling Grace. I know it’s hard. T-t-terribly hard. But Lenny is gone. You have to accept that. No one could survive a day in those w-waters. It’s been two weeks.”

  With her rational mind, Grace knew John was right. It was her heart she had trouble convincing. Lenny wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be gone. Until she saw his dead body with her own two eyes, she could not give up hope.

  Miracles happen. They happen all the time. Perhaps he was rescued by another fishing boat? Maybe a foreign boat, simple people who don’t know who he is? Maybe he’s lost his memory? Or found his way to an island somewhere?

  It was all nonsense, of course. Voices in her head. But in those early days, Grace clung to the voices for dear life. They were all she had left of Lenny and she wasn’t prepared to give them up. Not yet.

  When she got back to their Park Avenue apartment, Grace found hundreds of bouquets of flowers waiting for her. She could have piled the condolence cards up to the ceiling.

  “See?” said John. “Everybody l-loves you, Grace. Everybody wants to help.”

  But the cards and flowers didn’t help. They were unwanted, tangible reminders that as far as the world was concerned, Lenny was dead.

  THREE MILES AWAY, IN THE FBI’s New York offices at 26 Federal Plaza, three men sat around a table:

  Peter Finch from the SEC was a short, amiable man, completely bald except for a thin tonsure of ginger hair that made him look like a monk. Normally, Finch was known for his good humor. No
t today.

  “What we’re looking at here is the tip of the iceberg,” he said grimly.

  “Pretty big fucking iceberg.” Harry Bain, the FBI’s assistant director in New York, shook his head in disbelief. At forty-two, Bain was one of the bureau’s highest fliers. Handsome, charming and Harvard-educated, with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes, Harry Bain had foiled two of the most significant domestic terror plots ever attempted on U.S. soil. Those had both been pretty huge cases. But if what Peter Finch was saying was true, this one could be even bigger.

  “How much money are we talking about? Exactly?” Gavin Williams, another FBI agent who reported to Bain, spoke without looking up. A former SEC man himself, Williams had left the agency in disgust after the Bernie Madoff fiasco. A brilliant mathematician with higher degrees in modeling, statistics, data programming and analysis, as a young man he had dreamed of becoming an investment banker himself, joining the J. P. Morgan training program straight out of Wharton. But Gavin Williams had never quite made it. He lacked the killer commercial instincts necessary to take him to the top, as well as the political, people skills that had helped his far-less-intellectually-gifted classmates amass private fortunes in the tens of millions. Tall and wiry with close-cropped gray hair and a military bearing, Williams was a loner, as dour and emotionless as a statue. Brilliant, he might be. But in the clubby world of Wall Street, nobody wanted to do business with him.

  Deeply embittered by this rejection, Gavin Williams made the decision to devote the rest of his life to the pursuit of those who had made it to the top, cataloging their misdemeanors with crazed zeal. In the early days, working at the SEC had given him a tremendous sense of purpose. But all that changed after Madoff. The agency’s failings in that case were catastrophic. Gavin himself hadn’t worked on the case, but he felt tainted by collective embarrassment. Blinded by a simple Ponzi scheme! The thought of it still gave Gavin Williams sleepless nights, even now in his new dream job as the FBI’s top man on securities fraud.