by Susan Wiggs
He had to get her out of there. On a narcotic surge of adrenaline, he unfastened her seat belt. She flopped like a rag doll in his arms, and he didn’t know if she was dead or alive.
The electric windows failed. Even pushing with all his might, he couldn’t open the door. For the first time, he felt true panic. He picked up the gun, feeling its solid, lethal weight, and pulled the trigger.
The earsplitting shot went awry. Shaking, he tried again. The windshield imploded, crushed under the pressure of the water. Bits of glass scraped his face, his hands. A gush of cold seawater slammed him inward, plastering him back against the seat. The air bag created an awkward pocket of buoyancy. Convulsions started in his air-starved chest, and he almost lost his grip on Sandra. But Victor had grown up beside the water, and he’d always been a strong swimmer. He managed to keep hold, to escape through the ruined window as though pushing through a birth canal.
Fighting the swift currents, he swam for shore. Max had already waded out to help him. The car’s headlights still wavered eerily, deep beneath the surface. Neither said a word as they dragged Sandra to the rocky beach. White foam bubbled from her nose and mouth. She choked, then gasped for breath.
He stood shivering, wave-washed rocks rattling under his feet. The onset of hypothermia imbued him with a strange sense of freedom and detachment. He had defied death. He had saved Sandra’s life.
Sandra, who finally knew the truth.
“I called for an ambulance.” Max took Victor’s arm. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
A distant keening sound filled the dark, wet air. A siren.
Max fell absolutely still, his grip hot and strong. “Come with me.”
“What? That’s crazy, that’s—”
“Don’t you get it, Victor? Your life here is over. After this, nothing will be the same—you’ll have to resign from office, your wife will divorce you. God knows what your parents will do. Is that what you want?”
“No, but—”
“We’ll go to my place in Florida. Now, tonight. Before anyone comes. They’ll find the woman here—but not you.”
He felt light-headed. He was shivering, drifting. “Jesus, Max.”
“This moment is a gift, an opportunity we’ll never have again.”
Victor shuddered with icy excitement. He’d been baptized by the brutal sea and had emerged a new person. He knew what he was giving up. He could never look back, never come back. He could never contact the people he loved or comfort his grieving family.
How strange that it should all end in this place, where he used to design elaborate hideouts in the dense, sucking marshes or borrow a fisherman’s dory and take to the sea for an afternoon’s adventure. Few knew the secrets of this geography better than Victor. A boy could disappear for days and never be found.
In the terrible cold night, he’d said Sandra’s name, but she didn’t hear. “I love you,” he said, his voice all but drowned by the wind and waves and the oncoming siren, “but I can’t do this anymore.” He kissed her once, on the forehead. It was too dark to see traces of his own blood sinking into her wet coat. And then he made his truly terrible and unforgivable choice—he got into Max’s car and they drove off, leaving Sandra unconscious, to be found by the rescuers.
Within a week, they arrived in Miami, then headed for the ends of the earth—Key West. Staying at Max’s bungalow in Sugarhouse Row, Victor completely reinvented himself, acquiring a new identity with ridiculous ease via the Internet. He chose the name Robert Chance—almost no one would understand the significance of that. At Max’s busy gallery in a historic waterfront icehouse, he sold his jewel-colored suncatchers to tourists.
It was the life he’d always dreamed of having. He became someone so different from Victor Winslow that sometimes he forgot his former life.
But not entirely. Via news links on the Internet, he learned of the dark turn the death investigation had taken. Many times, he’d been tempted to intervene, but Max always convinced him to wait, to see how things turned out. When the accident ruling came down, he believed it was an affirmation that he’d done the right thing. But the latest development—his parents’ civil suit—had taken him completely by surprise.
He liked to think he would have come forward on his own, but would he?
Hollow silence echoed in the wake of his story. He pulled in a deep, unsteady breath, pressed his sweating palms down on the tabletop and looked at Sandra. He wanted to touch her but didn’t dare. She seemed so different now. She was still beautiful; she always had been, with her dark hair, haunted eyes and her unique combination of fragility and resilience. But now, subtle changes strengthened her posture, her demeanor. The way she sat so near his parents and refused to flinch was new to him. Yet her poise was hard-won; he could see the whiteness of her knuckles as she held her hands in her lap.
“I couldn’t have known what would happen,” he told her. “I thought that by disappearing, I ‘d be giving you the shot you deserved. Life insurance fraud seemed the least of my sins, because I convinced myself that person was dead, and you’d be free to start a new life for yourself—”
“Don’t expect me to swallow that,” she stated in a tone he’d never heard from her before. “You can’t just walk away and pretend you did it for me. What do you suppose it was like, losing you, grieving for you, putting up with the accusations and hatred while you went to Key West with your boyfriend?”
“I never could have predicted that everyone would hold you responsible.”
“Sandra, we’re so sorry,” his mother said. “If only we’d understood—”
“You didn’t want to understand,” Sandra stated calmly, addressing her directly for the first time since they’d entered the room. His father glanced at Sandra and then, with a twist of guilt on his face, stared down at his knees.
Ronald Winslow ‘s head was not bowed in prayer. Victor knew what prayer looked like. He used to pray on his knees for hours, begging God to make him straight.
When his father finally looked up at him, there was agony—but no forgiveness—in his eyes. “Why did you come back?” he asked. Ignoring his wife’s gasp of horror, he added, “Why did you even bother?”
Victor surged to his feet. “You brought me back, you with your idiotic lawsuit. I left because I couldn’t be who you wanted me to be. You’d rather see me dead than have a son who is gay. So I gave you that. I died. You should have left it that way.”
Without a word, Sandra went to the door, but he stopped her, blocking the way. “Wait.”
“Just let me go,” she said.
“I will. I know I have to.” Voices drifted from the wide hallway outside. “It’s a different world for you, out there,” he said.
“Yes.”
Watching her, he realized she wasn’t afraid—this woman who used to quail at the prospect of facing the press. She was no longer the passive bystander he’d married; she was strong, sure of herself. She could walk away from him and his parents because they were part of an old life, old concerns that no longer affected her.
“Please believe that I never meant for you to suffer,” he said. “I honestly thought it was the best solution, until Mike—”
“Mike?” Shock swept visibly through her, leaching the color from her cheeks.
“Malloy.”
Understanding dawned on her face as she studied the fresh bruise on his jaw. His split lip stung as he tried for some semblance of his old grin. “He brought me back, Sandra. There will be charges against me and I’ll face them. I ‘m here to pick up the pieces, pay whatever this cost you in legal fees, deal with the insurance company, clean up the mess I made of everything.”
“Even my life?”
“Whatever it takes. Anything, I swear.”
“I only want one thing from you, Victor.”
“What’s that?”
“A divorce.”
Chapter 37
Mike lifted the plastic bag of frozen peas from his eye and leaned tow
ard the mirror. The swelling had gone down some, but the bruise was turning dark. He was tempted to tell himself Victor had gotten in a lucky punch, but that wasn’t the case. Mike was out of practice. It had been a long time since he’d beaten the crap out of anyone.
He checked his paint-spattered watch, certain it was broken, because the hands hadn’t moved. Briefly, he considered checking the local news on the TV or radio, but dismissed the idea. That would only make him more crazy. Restless, he left the Fat Chance to pace up and down in the boatyard parking lot, debating whether or not to drive over to the courthouse.
Victor had warned of a media circus, and Mike knew his own presence would only add to the confusion and possibly raise even more questions. His lawyer would have a cow. The last thing he needed was for his kids to see him, with a black eye, on the evening news as part of a story about a gay fugitive. So Vic was probably right in advising him to keep a low profile, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.
Hooking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans, Mike stared out at the water, glinting with the hardness of late-afternoon sunlight. The reunion with Victor had been surreal, almost. When he’d finally arrived in Key West, Mike had been dog-tired, pissed off and out of patience. He found his way to Henshaw’s house, but no one was home. A neighbor directed him to a gallery in the water-front area. Amid the heat and hustle of Mallory Square, he entered a world of tourists and beach bums, gay couples and honeymooners, starving artists, street entertainers and serious students—a transient, relaxed population moving through a sea of anonymity.
From a cantina painted Pepto-Bismol pink, he watched strangers strolling past, sometimes stopping for a drink beneath the Campari sun umbrellas. In the arts and crafts gallery across the way, tropical sunlight flashed through dozens of handcrafted suncatchers hanging in the display window. People wandered in and out, and then at closing time, a tall man had locked up with an electronic security keypad.
Mike hadn’t recognized Victor at first—yellow hair, cutoffs, sandals, a muscle shirt revealing glossy, tanned shoulders. But that long-legged, easy gait and that confident manner had been instantly familiar.
Mike registered only one emotion—rage. He stalked across the street and shoved him up against the seawall, gouged and pitted from centuries of battering storms. “Hey, Victor. Long time no see.”
The suntan had paled. “Mike? Mike, Jesus, is that you? What do you want with me?”
“Oh, I think you know, Vic.”
Victor’s fist exploded outward, catching Mike in the left eye. Seeing stars, he grabbed Victor, spun him around and drove his fist at his best friend’s face. The impact split his knuckles and snapped Victor’s head sideways. He staggered back against the wall, sinking slowly. Then he pulled himself up again to flee.
Mike’s second punch drew blood, and a crowd as well. Onlookers gathered in a murmuring clot. Mike didn’t give a shit. “Pack it in now, Victor. Or are you going to make me drag you by the short hairs to the airport?”
Victor brought his knee up, forcing Mike to feint to one side. “I’m not going anywhere—”
“Wrong answer. You’re going back to get your wife out of trouble.”
“She doesn’t need me, Mike. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”
He twisted his fist into the bloodstained shirt. “I’ll pretend you never said that. You married her knowing you’d never make her happy, and then you disappeared, you fucking coward.”
“I did it for Sandra,” Victor protested, ducking Mike’s fist. “She wanted—”
Mike threw him to the pavement, hearing the wind rush from his lungs. “She wanted a goddamned husband. She wanted kids, you son of a bitch.”
Victor crabwalked backward. “I never meant to hurt her. I thought she was . . . perfect for me.”
“She was safe. You used her.” Some latent sense of fair play caused Mike to allow him to climb to his feet again. The fascinated tourists fell back, expanding their circle. “Were you perfect for her?” he demanded. “Or did you even bother to think of that?”
“I honestly believed I was. She was so innocent, so lonely. She . . . moved me.”
Mike’s next blow had swung wild, missing its mark. “She could move a rock,” he said. “She could move a dead man. Didn’t you see what you were doing to her? She thought she was the problem.”
“That’s why disappearing was the answer.”
“Ever heard of divorce, Vic? Handy thing, and it’s completely legal in this country.” Mike pushed him up against the wall again, this time with his forearm across Victor’s throat. They both reeked of sweat and rage, and the crimson trickle of blood from Victor’s lip gleamed grotesquely in the sunlight.
“No Winslow ‘s ever been divorced. But plenty of us have died young.” He swallowed hard against Mike’s pressing arm. His face turned dark; his breath became an air-starved wheeze, and the fight drained out of him.
As Mike eased his grip, the adrenaline haze slowly cleared. He felt the curiosity of the onlookers, the heat of the South Florida sun on his back. “We need to talk,” he said.
Victor warily sidestepped him. “Show’s over, folks,” he said. The tourists dispersed, shuffling away, casting dubious glances over their shoulders. Victor studied the palms of his hands, scraped and livid. “I had no idea everything would blow up in her face,” he admitted. “I just didn’t think—and when I did, I wanted this new life and didn’t know how to give it up.”
Now that Mike could relate to. He had a hard time giving things up himself.
Victor stood quietly for a long time, studying the glitter of sunlight on the water, oblivious to the drying ribbon of blood down his chin. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
During the flight home, Victor told Mike everything— the secret affair, his vow to live “straight” in order to honor his family and focus on his political goals, the reappearance of Max, the constant terror of discovery and the opportunity that had been given to Victor the night of the accident. “I thought a second chance was what she needed,” he said.
“Sandy doesn’t need a second chance,” Mike said. “She needs you.” Everything Mike thought he knew about his best friend had been turned on its ear. And yet, for the first time, Victor finally made sense in a way he never had before. Mike couldn’t keep from asking the question that had nagged at him ever since he found out. “When did you know?”
Some of Victor’s old humor had glinted in his eyes. “You mean, did I get turned on at our campouts or sleepovers? Hell, Mike, it wasn’t some big epiphany. I guess I sort of always knew, but I trained myself to ignore it—even after Brice Hall. I never told you what happened there, did I?”
“I figured you didn’t want to talk about it. I was a dumbshit growing up, Vic, but even I’d heard about the weird things at all-boy boarding schools. I thought they only happened in English novels.”
“I thought it was a case of adolescent experimentation. Denial’s the Winslow way, you know. I really thought I could live straight. God knows I tried. But in my family, when you’re torn between duty and desire, you choose duty every time, hands down. I never even knew I had a choice.”
“You made a lot of choices,” Mike snapped. “Sandy was one of those choices. Christ, you almost destroyed her.”
Victor had settled into a thoughtful silence. Then he said, “You love her—that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
“You fucked up any chance I might’ve had with her.”
“Oh, no, Mikey.” Victor’s old aplomb shone through. “I’m guilty of a lot of things, but not that. I’ll shoulder the blame for my screwed-up relationships, but not yours.”
The words lingered in his mind even now, as the light deepened with the end of day and an evening chill sharpened the air. Mike turned up the collar of his jacket. By now, Victor would have made his appearance, his public statement. Had Mike done the right thing by forcing the confrontation, or had he blown it?
All he could do was
wait and hope. He thought about the house, and the past they’d never shared, the dreams that hadn’t had a chance to come true for them. He’d gone into his relationship with Sandra the way a hiker goes into a pristine forest—he wasn’t sure what he was looking for or even if he’d find anything, and he risked getting hopelessly lost. But he went forward anyway.
Quietly, maybe without meaning to, Sandra showed him the way back to love. But even though falling for her was the most powerful thing that had ever happened to him, it was fragile. Mike knew he needed to protect his love for Sandra in a way he never felt compelled to do with his wife. He used to think that working hard and getting ahead proved his commitment to Angela. With Sandra, he realized commitment meant risking the deepest part of himself—and damn the consequences.
Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled for Zeke. The dog, still a little too well groomed for his taste, raced across the parking lot and leaped into the truck.
Chapter 38
Journal Entry—April 9—Tuesday
Ten Things to Do with the Rest of My Life
1. Think up ten tortures for Victor Winslow.
2. Take up a career in public speaking.
3. Write a tell-all memoir and go on the talk-show circuit.
4. Stop at the pharmacy and buy a home-pregnancy test.
It took a long time for Sandra to extricate herself from the chaos of the courthouse. Despite all that had happened, somethings never changed. Being around Victor was like being a groupie to a rock star. Everyone was eclipsed by his burning, almost manic energy. Even as he bared his soul to the press, he had a way of sucking up all the attention.
Except today, the focus had shifted to her. Everyone wanted to talk to her—Victor, his parents, her lawyer, Sparky, the press. She felt half-drowned in the attention, battered by questions. She managed to telegraph a look of desperation to her parents. Joyce shoved her into the ladies’ room and stood guard at the door. She and Sandra switched hats and coats, then kept their shades on and heads down as they left the building through a rear exit.