Commitments

by Barbara Delinsky

  Gayle Farrell felt no anger toward Lloyd Ballantine. Though she’d been married at the time of the affair and the marriage had fallen apart soon after, she felt she had emerged a far stronger woman. On her own, she had taken a job at a bank and worked her way from teller to vice-president, something that would never have happened if she’d been married.

  Sabrina and Derek exchanged puzzled glances before looking back at Gayle. When Derek dared ask about the child, Gayle smiled—that serene smile of hers that reminded Derek so much of Sabrina—and said that she had the best of both worlds, a rewarding career and a wonderful daughter, but that if they wanted to meet Alexis they would either have to wait a month until the semester’s end or travel East. It seemed that Lloyd Ballantine’s illegitimate child wasn’t eight or nine or ten years old, as Derek and Sabrina had expected. Alexis Farrell was nineteen and finishing her freshman year at Yale.

  * * *

  Gayle didn’t have the files, of course. If anyone did, Derek and Sabrina reasoned, it was Alexis. So they flew back to Boston, retrieved the Saab and headed for New Haven. They took the shore route, which, though longer, allowed for regular detours that would shake a tail; but there was a dual purpose to it. The shore route was more scenic, more relaxing. With tension building alongside anticipation, Derek needed that as badly as did his pregnant wife.

  * * *

  One of the most incredible things was the physical resemblance between Alexis Farrell and the man in the photograph that Sabrina carried in her large leather shoulder bag. There was no doubt that Lloyd Ballantine had fathered Alexis. Nor did she deny it.

  Though every bit as soft-spoken as her mother, Alexis had neither the maturity nor the serenity. She was a serious young woman who walked the campus alone, and she was distinctly wary of Sabrina and Derek.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said. She was leaning against a broad tree trunk in the quadrangle where they’d finally reached her, and looked a little cornered. “No one ever approached me before. No one ever cared who my father was. Why now? Why at all?”

  Strangely, while Derek had been perfectly comfortable using a cover in his dealings with the others, he felt a compulsion to go with the truth on this one. “Now, because I’ve just now learned of your existence. At all, because it needs to be done. We suspect that a very powerful man had illegal dealings with Justice Ballantine. Ballantine’s gone, but that man isn’t, and he is about to gain even more power unless we learn the truth. The only way we can learn the truth is through a set of files that we were told exists.”

  “His papers were left to the University of Chicago.”

  “Those were his official papers. These are different. They detail those illegal dealings.”

  “Alleged illegal dealings,” Alexis said.

  Derek stood corrected by the young woman he now saw to be sharp as well as bright. “Alleged illegal dealings. Lloyd Ballantine was your father. You may hate his guts for never having acknowledged you, but he was your father. We have conclusive proof that he led a double life, and everything points to the fact that he committed suicide. If he did that, he had to have cause. Fear of exposure through blackmail would have been a strong enough one to do it.”

  Alexis hugged the armload of papers she held closer to her chest as she looked from Derek’s face to Sabrina’s. “But I don’t understand why you’ve come to me. I didn’t even know the man was my father until after he died. How can I possibly help you?”

  “We thought that your father may have left you those files,” Sabrina said.

  “Why would he do that?” Alexis asked quickly.

  Derek answered in a low, calm voice. “To give you something of value. To make up for all he hadn’t done for you during his life.”

  But Alexis was shaking her head. “I don’t know anything about any files, and even if I did, what would possibly be in it for me if I turn them over to you?”

  “He was your father. If you hated him, you’d be pleased to see his dark side exposed. If you loved him, you’d want to see the demise of the man who brought him to his knees.”

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  It was a minute before Derek answered. “A personal satisfaction that I think, if you try, you can understand,” he said. “I’m an investigative journalist. The same man who I believe blackmailed your father was indirectly responsible for a man being killed and directly responsible for my spending two years in prison. I didn’t like being there. But I like to think—in my more positive moments—that things like that happen for a purpose. Believe me, I’ve had trouble finding a purpose for my spending two years in jail—other than to put the fire under me to go after those files.”

  He paused, eyed her assessingly, tipped his head and challenged her by saying, “You’re young. You’re idealistic. What if I were to say that my wish is to spare this country another corrupt leader?”

  “I’d say,” Alexis answered, “that if you were young and idealistic, I could buy it; but at your age I’d assume your real interest is revenge.”

  Stifling a chuckle, Sabrina looked at Derek. “She’s a toughie, this one is.”

  “Yeah,” he drawled in the spirit of the thing, “but so am I.” He turned back to Alexis. “What do you say? Want to help me spare this country another corrupt leader?”

  But Alexis wasn’t quite into the spirit of the thing. Again she insisted that she knew nothing of either the files’ existence or location. And though, between Derek and Sabrina, they reiterated each of the arguments and made their most poignant pleas, she stuck by her claim.

  They knew she was lying. They didn’t know how—and maybe it was desperation, because without Alexis Farrell’s cooperation they were back at square one—but they knew it. Still, they couldn’t tie her to the rack and torture her until she confessed. The best they could do was give her the name of the hotel where they’d be spending the night, then give her their Vermont address, should she want to talk more.

  That night, Sabrina and Derek were more discouraged than they’d been since they started their search. They had run into a brick wall in the form of a nineteen-year-old coed, and they weren’t sure how best to break through. The only thing they were sure of was that they weren’t giving up.

  Apparently, Alexis Farrell sensed that. Or maybe it was hatred or love, or a night spent soul-searching. Or maybe she was every bit as young and idealistic as Derek had suggested she was. Whatever the case, she phoned the hotel early the next morning and, shortly before nine, met Derek in the lobby and handed him the Ballantine files.

  Neither of them saw the man who folded his paper, rose from his chair and headed for the bank of public phones.

  Chapter 19

  THE ATMOSPHERE at the farmhouse was euphoric. Not only had Derek and Sabrina returned victorious, but the fledgling Institute for Investigative Journalism has sold its first three stories. And to top that, J. B. had finished his book. It was J. B. who formalized the celebration, inviting everyone to be his guest for dinner at a nearby inn, elegant and expensive. And that was only the start of the evening. Later, back in the barn with the precious papers stowed safely away, Derek and Sabrina, J. B., Ann and Justin and the three others, who rounded out the crew raised glasses to toast their success.

  It was well after midnight when the last of the laughter had faded away and the liquor had taken its toll. Everyone was asleep—except Sabrina, who hadn’t had more than half a glass of the stuff. She was wide awake. Her body was at rest, quiet beside Derek’s sprawled form, but the motor in her mind wouldn’t stop. She was reliving that day, reliving the moment of realization that the files were finally theirs, reliving the excitement of reading them and finding in them evidence against Noel Greer as incriminating as they had hoped.

  But her mind didn’t stop there. It worked through the writing of the story, worked through the possible markets and the timing of the release. Then, of its own accord, it switched gears and considered the baby. The test was scheduled for the foll
owing week, and then the real waiting would begin.

  Sabrina thought about J. B.’s courage in fighting his nightmares. She thought about Derek’s courage in fighting Noel Greer. And then she thought about something else—what Derek had told Alexis about things happening for a purpose. Nicky’s fate was tragic, but did the experience have its up side? Was she a stronger person for it? Was her relationship with Derek stronger, her love for him greater after what she’d been through with Nick? And were the feelings she had—yes, she had them—for the child forming in her belly different from those she’d felt for Nicky? Would she be appreciating this child, treasuring each small sign of growth, savoring each step in its development that much more? Would she be smelling the roses of life, really smelling them for the very first time?

  Shaking herself free of those thoughts, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the thoughts returned. Derek … J. B.… Ann … Alexis … were they that much bolder than she?

  Sensing that sleep was a long way off and needing a diversion, she crept from bed, threw a robe over her nightgown and a shawl over that and left the room without waking Derek. The back door creaked beneath her hand. She left it ajar as she darted across the moonlit path to the barn. Moments later, she returned carrying the Ballantine files.

  With the softest beam of light coming over her shoulder, she sat reading them in the den for hours. Periodically, she stopped to jot down notes to herself, but for the most part she simply read and reread, studied and thought. It was nearly three in the morning when her eyes grew too heavy to do more. Locking the file in the cabinet by the desk, she went back to bed.

  * * *

  Shortly before dawn, a loud banging on the bedroom door brought her awake. “Derek! Derek, Sabrina!”

  Sabrina was struggling to get her bearings when Derek stirred beside her.

  “Wake up, you guys!” Ann yelled, banging harder. “The barn’s on fire!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Derek murmured. After a second’s fight with the sheets, he was on his feet and racing to the window. One look and he was back, grabbing for his clothes. “Fire. Holy shit.” He hopped on one leg to thrust the other into his cords, then teetered and nearly fell when he reversed the procedure. “Four of them are dead to the world out there.”

  As wide awake as Derek now, Sabrina yelled, “We’re up!” to Ann, then reached for the phone and dialed in the alarm. Derek was out the door by the time she turned back. Grabbing her robe, she pulled it on as she ran after him.

  * * *

  It was arson. Even before the fire marshal declared it so, Derek knew. There had been no slow trail of smoke to alert the sleepers. The fire had started suddenly and burned quickly—with the inferno centered at the front of the barn where the offices were clustered. It was set by a master and had been designed to destroy the papers and files while giving those asleep in the rear rooms chance to escape.

  They had escaped. Derek thanked God for that. Justin, Jason, Denice and Bill—all safe, if stunned. The only casualty was J. B. who raced into the barn to rescue his book and any other papers he could reach before the heat had grown too intense and the rafters had threatened to collapse and Derek’s hand on the back of his pants had hauled him out. He had been burned where his shoulder had hit a smouldering beam, but other than that he’d been lucky.

  The barn itself was a total loss. By the time the engines arrived, it was completely engulfed in flames. The best the firefighters had been able to do was soak the house and the surrounding trees to prevent spread of the flames.

  Now, covered with soot and devastated, Derek stood among the charred ruins. It was mid-afternoon. The flames had long since burned themselves out, and what few persistent sparks may have been missed by the firemen’s hoses had been doused by the falling rain. It was a gentle rain, an April rain. The air would have smelled of wet earth and growing things had it not been for the overpowering stench of smoke.

  The waste of it all tore at him, making him want to scream at the pain he felt. J. B.’s book was singed but intact. One of the reports had been rescued. Everything else was gone. Gone.

  All that was left was self-recrimination.

  He should have installed a sprinkler system in the barn, or a more elaborate fire alarm. He should have bought a guard dog when he’d suspected Greer was on his trail. He should have purchased the motion sensor he’d seen, the one that automatically tripped floodlights outside at the first sign of movement.

  He should have—should have, damn it—copied those files and stashed the originals elsewhere.

  But it was too late. No amount of self-recrimination would restore what had been lost. For Ann and Justin, Bill, Jason and Denice, the loss was a minor setback.

  For him, it was a major defeat.

  Muttering a vile oath, he kicked at the debris by his feet. The barn itself didn’t matter. Hell, he’d already thought of buying one of the old Victorian houses in town and shifting the offices there. He’d even thought of converting a second one into apartments for the staff. He wanted privacy for Sabrina and himself. Where teamwork was concerned, enough was enough already.

  No, it wasn’t the barn that hurt. It was the files.

  Dejectedly, he looked around. Sabrina would be back soon. He’d deliberately sent her to the hospital with Ann and J. B. to keep her safely occupied, but she’d be back. He had to get his act together before then, had to know what to say. But what could he say?

  Hey, don’t sweat it, it was only a bunch of papers.

  So what was a little extra work on our part—we got to see the country, didn’t we?

  Okay, so Greer is elected, so what? We’ve had worse men than him calling the shots.

  What’s that you say? Revenge? Revenge?

  All for nothing. The thought sank deeper and deeper, increasing his torment. All for nothing. It had been his interest in the files that had first roused Greer, his interest in the files that had led to a man’s death and to his own trial, conviction and imprisonment. The pain, the fear, the boredom and frustration and fury—all were for nothing. The files were gone.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head, pressed his fists to his temples and let out a low, savage sound that filtered into the air and grew mournful as it hung over the ruins of the barn. Slowly it faded. Derek let his fists fall to his sides. He raised his head and opened his eyes to the bleakness he felt.

  “My sympathies, McGill,” came a voice from behind.

  Derek froze. He stared straight ahead, recognizing the voice, refusing to believe that the voice he recognized was there. But just as the charred remains before him weren’t about to rematerialize into something useful, so the voice came again.

  “It’s a terrible loss for your new enterprise, but you’ll rebuild. You’ll go in different directions, that’s all.”

  Dropping his gaze, Derek took one breath, then another. Then, slowly, he raised his head and turned.

  The man he faced was in his fifties, tall and remarkably well built. His skin was as tanned as always, his silver hair—sheltered from the rain by a large black umbrella—as impeccably groomed. He wore the kind of country clothes worn by those who wanted only to look the part, not play it. With his legs planted in a wide stance, his chin set and his mouth slanted smugly, he was as arrogant as ever.

  “What are you doing here, Greer?” Derek asked in a low, venomous voice.

  Greer was undaunted. He smiled. “News spreads fast. Word of the fire came over the wire just before noon. I said to myself, poor McGill, life hasn’t been going his way lately, and I thought that maybe for old times’ sake I’d fly up and offer my help.” He looked around at the farmhouse, then the lake and the trees. “Nice.”

  Derek clenched his jaw. “There were people in that barn.”

  At that Greer did look properly disturbed. “So I heard. Damn good thing they got out. With your record, you could have been hit for negligent homicide.”

  “There were people in that barn, innocent people, and you and your t
orch risked their lives.”

  “So you think this was arson?” Greer asked conversationally. He scratched his head and looked innocently toward where the fire marshal was sitting in his car taking notes. “Hard thing to solve, arson is. It’s one thing if you’re in the city and you’ve got witnesses who saw someone run from the scene just before the fire, but up here—” He gave a rueful shrug. “Up here, no one’s around to see, especially just before dawn.”

  Derek knew he was right. It might be proven that the fire was set, but finding the person who set it would be next to impossible. “Is that why you came? To gloat?”

  “Gloat? Because you’ve had a little misfortune? New York would have been just fine for gloating, if that was what I had in mind.” He rocked back on his heels. “You’re a good man, McGill.” He held up a hand. “… have a few weaknesses that need some work, but you’re a good man.” The hand fell, thumb catching on the side pocket of his down vest. “At one point I was thinking of hiring you to work with me in Washington—you’d make a powerful press secretary—but now that you’ve put down roots here, it’s a moot point. And then there are those weaknesses. You’re bullheaded. You always were. Don’t know when to yield.” He shook his head. “That wouldn’t work where I’m going. Politics is the fine art of compromise.”

  With each reference to the Capital, where Greer had clearly taken for granted he was headed, Derek’s fury grew. The only thing to temper it was the utter disbelief he felt at the gall, the gall of the man to show up at the scene of his latest crime.

  “You know,” Derek said, his eyes dark, hard and relentlessly aimed at Greer, “I can pretty much figure out how you did it with Padilla and the trial and all. I can also guess that you weren’t thrilled when I was released. You must have thought they’d keep me longer. But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t just kill me once I got out. A sniper’s bullet from a distance aimed not at the tire of my car but at me—wouldn’t that have been quicker and cleaner than following me around for months?”