by Susan Wiggs
“Objection,” Milton said, the word flicking out like a snake’s tongue. “This line of questioning is going nowhere.”
“Your Honor, our purpose is to show that Mrs. Winslow is incapable of supporting herself through publishing alone.”
“Counsel, please confine your questions to the circumstances surrounding the incident.”
“This goes to motive, Your Honor. Other than your negligible earnings from failed books, Mrs. Winslow, what was your means of support during your marriage?”
“My husband’s salary as a state senator. His earnings are—were—a matter of public record.”
“Why would he carry such a hefty life insurance policy?”
“He was a young, healthy man. The premiums were small.”
“How perfect for you.”
“Objection,” Milton zapped out.
“Sustained. Curb the editorializing, Counsel.”
The lawyer pressed the tips of his fingers together and bowed his head, a prayerful man bracing himself to face the devil. “Mrs. Winslow, take us back to the night of February ninth. Please tell us in your own words what happened.”
Milton had anticipated this, and she’d rehearsed her response for days. Still, she wasn’t prepared for the icy current of dread that slipped through her as she leaned toward the microphone. Nor was she prepared for the almost overwhelming urge to blurt out the truth Malloy had forced from her on their last day together.
“We—Victor and I—attended a formal dinner at the Newport Marina that night. It was a fund-raiser. . . .” She recited the facts, much as she had for Malloy when he demanded to hear her version of that night. She described Victor’s brief address. She admitted that he drank too much, and recounted her humiliation when he walked away from her on the dance floor. At that moment, she hadn’t understood his rage, but she did now. Something snapped that night. Victor had felt shackled by his own life, and she was part of that trap. But she wasn’t the trigger.
She described her swift departure, her intention to drive home. She didn’t mention the man who had approached her as she started the car. She’d never mentioned him. Not even to Mike.
Tell your husband he forgot our meeting tonight. Tell him Max asked you to pass that on.
The stranger called Max had melted into the dreary night, leaving her baffled and unsettled. Victor had left the building a moment later and Max intercepted him. Even though he and Max had stood apart like opponents in a duel, she’d sensed a strange, silent electricity between them. She never heard what they said, but she saw Max step forward, take hold of Victor’s arm. Victor threw off his hand and strode to the car, his slender form gilded by the sodium vapor lights of the parking lot.
Reporters and photographers rushed out of the building with cameras raised, and Victor jumped into the passenger side of the car. Without thinking, Sandra accelerated, the Cadillac fishtailing as she drove into the winter night. She went too fast, hoping to avoid the press, while beside her, Victor turned into a stranger.
Even then, she hadn’t fully understood. That would come in the moments that followed, when they realized Max’s car was tailing them. Victor fell apart then, filling the dark car with revelations about his secret life, his private struggle, the unbearable pressure finally exploding with a passion for Max that had raged out of control.
Recounting the now-familiar story of the accident, she could still picture the dismal night, the howling wind, the road slick with oily rain. She described the wreck, the detonating airbag, the eruption that left a terrible ringing in her ears. Even now, even knowing what she knew, she wept as she spoke, pausing to take a sip of water and get her bearings.
She never knew what became of Max that night. He was probably the one who had phoned for help, but she didn’t want him to be found because of what he would reveal about Victor. He might even accuse her of causing the wreck deliberately.
The Winslows’ attorney did not ask what made her lose control of the car on the bridge. No one had asked that.
“Mrs. Winslow,” he asked when she had finished, “were you proud of your husband’s work in the State House?”
“Of course.”
“What about HR 728? Tell us about that, if you will.”
Her insides turned to ice. “It’s a gun control bill.”
“And you supported that?”
“I certainly did.”
She tried to keep to her vow to look at Milton, but a movement in the back of the courtroom distracted her. A constable spoke to someone at the door. She saw folded notes sliding across the long tables to Milton and to the plaintiffs’ second chair.
“If that’s the case, Mrs. Winslow, can you tell me why, on January fifth of last year, you bought a handgun via the Internet? Specifically”—he consulted his notes—”a Co-bray semiautomatic nine-millimeter Luger with a five-inch barrel and a ten-round magazine. The pre-ban model with the threaded barrel.”
A collective shock froze everyone in the courtroom, Sandra included. Then the room erupted with spectators discussing the revelation, reporters and sketch artists attempting to capture the moment. Santucci’s gavel cleaved through the noise until a heavy, waiting silence took hold again. Milton didn’t move a muscle, but she saw the jolt of alarm in his eyes. He hadn’t been expecting this.
Shock trapped her reaction deep inside, and she said nothing.
“Mrs. Winslow, do you need me to repeat the question?”
She shook her head as her lips made the shape of a word, but still, no sound came out.
“Please answer the question,” the judge instructed.
Her tongue atrophied. Her throat locked. Wordless air rushed out of her, nothing more. She felt her eyes bulge as though she were choking.
“It’s a simple enough question,” the attorney said. “Did you or did you not buy a handgun from Gunex-change.com?”
She tried to speak, to protest, to explain. Nothing came out. She was Sandy Bab-bab-babblecock. She could not utter a word even though her life depended on it.
More commotion stirred in the back of the room, adding to her confusion.
Her parents leaned forward, spoke to Milton’s associates.
Milton surged to his feet. “Your Honor, may I—”
“Please direct your answer to me, Mrs. Winslow,” the judge advised.
What could she say? Her panicked gaze glanced off Phil Downing. She’d given him her old laptop, free to a good home . . .
“A simple yes or no, please. We have the data from the transaction. The number of a credit card issued in your maiden name. Verification of delivery to a post office box registered to you under your assumed name, Sandy Babcock. Tell us about buying the gun.”
“She didn’t buy the gun,” said a voice from the back of the room.
Santucci’s gavel slammed down again. “Order!”
“I bought the gun.”
A man in a dark suit stepped through the doorway and stood next to a uniformed cop.
Sandra couldn’t move. The blood dropped from her face.
His hair was blond now, cut short. He’d been in a fight, apparently—his jaw looked bruised and swollen, and he had a split lip, the dark laceration healing now. Still, his tanned face was lean and more handsome than ever, his compelling eyes solemn and intense. He was still a dynamic presence. He still had the power to fill a whole room with his peculiar, unforgettable energy. Like the wind blowing through a field of wheat, whispers rustled through the crowd, gathering force. People twisted around in their seats to stare.
Winifred Winslow moaned and grabbed for her husband.
And at last, Sandra’s throat unlocked and she was able to speak. The single word she uttered through the microphone caused the entire room to explode in chaos.
“Victor.”
Chapter 36
Victor Winslow did what he did best—he held a press conference. Preparing himself for the onslaught of questions, he felt a surprising—but undeniable—surge of adrenaline. He’d missed
this.
Alerting the media had been his idea, even though he knew it would be painful. Since leaving Paradise, Victor had learned much about pain, and he’d learned that there were worse things than feeling hurt.
Hurting someone else, for example. Hurting someone who had done nothing wrong, except love him.
Sandra’s suffering had been a matter of public record. Therefore, he intended to set the record straight in the most public manner possible. His return needed to be as dramatic as his disappearance had been.
He had only a moment to locate his parents at the plaintiffs’ table, but it only took a moment to discern the shock etched on their faces. Their stunned expressions of burgeoning joy and relief reminded him of the reason he’d worked so long and hard to protect them.
Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? Ironically, they’d made it impossible for him to keep up the charade. If they’d left Sandra in peace, he never would have had to come back. In a moment, a new sort of suffering would take hold, sharpened by betrayal and disgust. But at least the lies and hiding would be over.
Exiting the courtroom, he and Sandra were swept along like leaves in a gushing stream. As the press jostled for position in the lobby of the courthouse, he moved to the stairs that would serve as a makeshift podium, and reached for Sandra’s hand. Icy cold.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, pulling away. She looked around in panic, but spectators clogged all escape routes, so she had no choice but to stand at his side. Just as she had during their marriage.
How could he have known what this would do to her? When he and Max had driven away that night, it had all seemed so simple. Ah, Sandra. Everything went so wrong.
Under the hot glare of lights, microphones bristled from a battalion of cameras and correspondents. He hoped they wouldn’t make too much of the cuts and bruises he’d sustained in the fight yesterday—that was another story. He orchestrated the events with his old easy command. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a prepared statement. He’d worked on it all during the flight to Providence. It was filled with his trademark sincerity and artful phrasing, but no amount of clever wording would change his fundamental message.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a story about courage— not my own. God knows, my lack in that area will be clear enough in a moment. I never thought I’d return, never thought I’d ever stand next to Sandra again, but I’ve come back to face up to my mistakes and to set the record straight.”
Shouts and camera flashes erupted. Sandra flinched. Victor held up his hand, looking out into the blurred sea of faces until the flurry of questions abated. “My wife did nothing wrong,” he stated. “Her only mistake was keeping silent.”
“Are you saying Mrs. Winslow colluded with you to fake your own death?” a woman in the crowd demanded.
Courtney Procter. He had a few choice words for her, but that would have to wait. “Was it her intention to defraud the insurance company?” Procter persisted before he could speak again.
“Are you here to get the facts or to start rumors?” Victor snapped. He took a perverse pleasure in reducing the aggressive journalist to blushing and stammering. Back in his days in the State House, he couldn’t afford to tick off reporters; now he no longer had to pretend to be gracious. “Until a moment ago, my wife believed that I’d died. I didn’t plan to disappear the night of February ninth. But under the circumstances, it became my only option, or so I thought.
“The fact is, this whole tragedy started many years before I ever met Sandra. I bought the gun in order to deal with someone from my past—my ex-lover, a man named Max Henshaw.”
He paused to let that sink in, then waited as the predictable questions erupted. “You had a male lover?” “Are you a homosexual?” “Who is Max Henshaw?”
He could feel Sandra’s mortified presence at his side, but he didn’t look at her. He wanted all the attention focused on him. “Mr. Henshaw and I were lovers in 1992. I always thought that incident was buried in the past, but of course, the fact that I’m standing before you today proves the old adage—nothing stays buried forever. Years after we parted, he wanted to see me again, even though I made it clear that I intended to stay loyal to my wife. His demands became . . . aggressive. I dealt with them on my own for as long as I could, but eventually, the situation slipped from my control. I got the credit card under my wife’s maiden name. I acquired the gun, using an Internet dealer that didn’t ask questions, not because I could ever imagine using it, but to try to frighten him, convince him to back off. On the night of the accident, Mr. Henshaw tried to confront me, which is why I left the marina in such haste.”
He permitted himself a fleeting glance at Sandra. She stood frozen, unable to escape. “The accident in question occurred exactly as my wife described it—we quarreled, and she lost control of the car. There is one fact she didn’t mention—we were being followed that night, by Mr. Henshaw in a rental car. He was the one who phoned for help from the bridge. The car went into the water and the electric windows failed. My wife was unconscious, and I shot out the windshield in order to escape. Mr. Henshaw helped us ashore. What I did next was unplanned, an impulse. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight because of shock and hypothermia, I don’t know. No matter—I take full responsibility now. I drove away with Max Henshaw.” He paused, watching the words sink in. He had them—they were more fascinated by him now than ever. His mother dropped her face into her hands while his father sat unmoving, like a granite war memorial statue.
“I was raised to believe homosexuality is morally wrong. I prayed for strength every day of my life, keeping my struggle hidden from my parents, my friends, my wife, my God. Everyone but myself. Being true to myself meant losing the love and esteem of my family, my community and my career in public service. I believed I was prepared to make the sacrifice. And for a long time, I succeeded. But ultimately, the price was too high. Somethings are more powerful than a man’s will. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore, only that I took the wrong way out. I will, of course, take full responsibility for the laws that were broken.”
He paused, then added, “I’ll answer your questions later today. Right now, you’ll understand, I have something more important to do.”
Courthouse security guards escorted him and Sandra, along with his parents, through the press of reporters and photographers to a private conference room. Flashbulbs popped, questions battered him, but he ignored them. Sandra looked shell-shocked as she was borne along behind him, and he wondered if that was how things had always been for them—he leading, she following, buffeted by the wreckage he left in his wake.
When the door to the conference room closed, his mother stepped toward him, then hesitated, her eyes filled with yearning and shock. His father didn’t hesitate at all; with a low, electric whir, the chair glided to the far end of the conference table and swung around.
Victor’s heart constricted, but his resolve never wavered. If he’d learned anything in this ordeal, it was that his parents were wrong to despise what he was. Never again would he try to hide his true self just to spare them pain and preserve the Winslow reputation.
Sandra perched on the edge of the chair nearest the door as though poised to flee. “I-I assume you have a few things to tell me,” she said.
He could see the cords straining in her throat, and felt a flood of tenderness. She still struggled with her stuttering. The valiance of that struggle was one of the things that had endeared her to him in the first place. She might curse the day they met, but he knew he’d never regret it. “Bear with me,” he said, knowing how ironic that must sound to her. She’d borne with him far too long.
Sitting down across from her, he started to speak, taking himself back through the events that had led to the accident, bringing Sandra and his parents with him into the world he’d kept secret. He remembered when the first phone call had come. After all this time, Max was contacting him again, and deep down, Victor knew why.
The wild sexiness that had attrac
ted him to Max in the first place had grown dark, unpredictable and more compelling than ever. He knew he and Max would destroy each other. And they had, almost.
Letters had come through the mail, over the Internet, to Victor’s office, crushing him into a place from which there was no escape. The cold terror of disclosure and his never-to-be-forgotten passion had changed to desperation. Operating out of sheer panic, he acquired a handgun. He couldn’t imagine actually using it, but neither could he imagine giving up the life he’d built—his work in the State House, his reputation. Most of all, he couldn’t imagine the shock and disgust of his father if the truth was ever revealed. The moment Max approached him in the parking lot, Victor’s life spun out of control as surely as the car itself did later, on the bridge.
He remembered the stunning impact of the sedan hitting the bridge rail, breaking through. The car smacked hard on the surface of the water. His teeth jarred together with the impact. He recalled the thick hot trickle of blood down his chin as he sat immobile, curiously detached and unconcerned as the car slowly and clumsily sank, trunk first, ghostly white headlamps pointed at the sky. Twisting around, he could see the submerged taillights, luminous pools of blood shimmering beneath the surface.
The idea of dying held no terror for him. Given the way he’d forced himself to live, it was almost a relief. His parents and community would mourn, but his death would be a far kinder blow than having them find out what their son really was. An abomination, according to his father’s teachings. Victor himself had believed that, too.
A dreamlike calmness filled him. The gun felt cold and heavy in his hand. Max’s secrets would cease to matter now. It was perfect. . . almost.
But something buzzed through the haze of confusion. Some impulse made him reach up, turn on the map light. Sandra. She lay half-buried by the airbag, the seeping water nearly covering her. He touched her face, moved by the lingering warmth in her cheek. Sandra. She was guilty of nothing except wanting him to be someone he was incapable of being. A husband, a lover, the father of her children. She’d done nothing but love him with a loyalty he didn’t deserve.