Do You Want to Know a Secret?

by Mary Jane Clark

  “I’d love to come. Thanks for including me.”

  “Of course, bring your little girl, too. We have a pool, so don’t forget to bring your bathing suits.”

  “Great, Janie will love that.”

  Another voice chimed in.

  “ ‘So don’t forget to bring your bathing suits. Great, Janie will love that.’ ”

  Eliza looked at William uncertainly.

  Louise reassured her. “Oh, don’t worry, William is a terrific mimic. He’s like a little tape recorder. He repeats conversations he’s heard just once—sometimes even weeks or months later.”

  Eliza laughed. “Well, now that I know anything I say in front of William is being recorded, I’ll be very careful.”

  No sooner had Louise and William left, Mack McBride appeared at Eliza’s office door, a large brown paper bag in his hand and a grin on his face.

  “Don’t you look like the proverbial cat.”

  “Better. We’ve got something to celebrate and I’ve brought something to celebrate with.” Mack put the bag on Eliza’s desk and rubbed his hands. “Two hot fudge sundaes, coming right up.”

  Eliza couldn’t help but laugh. “Ah, finally, a man after my own heart. Hot fudge sundaes before noon.” She dug into the gooey concoction, savoring the luscious combination of frozen vanilla cream and warm, thick fudge. “And just what, may I ask, are we celebrating?”

  “This.” Mack pulled a rolled-up newspaper from the bag and unfurled it. It was a copy of The Mole. The glaring headline read MYSTERY SUICIDE OF ANCHORMAN ROCKS NETWORK. Eliza took the scandal sheet from Mack and quickly thumbed through, searching for the story. She found pictures of Bill, Pete Carlson and herself. The story underneath recapped Bill’s suicide, Eliza’s taking the anchor seat that evening, Pete Carlson’s succession to the anchor throne. She read with interest the quote from an anonymous network source who said that Pete Carlson was under hard scrutiny and his ratings would be evaluated constantly. He would be given a limited amount of time and if he didn’t deliver the numbers he would be, in the source’s word, “toast.”

  “Pete’s not going to like this.”

  “Tough. He’s an ass. He deserves to be embarrassed.”

  “Mack, such anger,” Eliza clucked. “What did Pete ever do to you?”

  It’s not what he did to me, thought Mack. It’s what he did to you.

  Mack leaned over the desk and kissed Eliza, long and hard.

  “Oh, you smell so good,” he whispered.

  Eliza stiffened.

  Chapter 42

  Dennis reread the letter on the heavy bond paper embossed with the letterhead LEO KARAS, M.D. He closed his eyes and uttered, “No, God. No.” Not now, not again. Not when I thought it was all over.

  Your Honor:

  Before his death, Mr. Kendall told me about your arrangement.

  Future checks should be made out to me. Five thousand dollars is, however, no longer sufficient. Monthly payments of ten thousand dollars are now required.

  You can be assured of my discretion in this matter.

  Leo Karas

  An East Eightieth Street address was listed as the place where Dennis should send his monthly payments.

  God damn it! Still on the hook! Bill Kendall’s death hadn’t ended the nightmare.

  He pulled a bottle of Dewar’s from the liquor cabinet, poured a generous amount and took a long swallow.

  How the hell was he going to come up with $10,000 a month? Karas was a thief. This was blackmail, pure and simple.

  Dennis felt a tightening in his chest. The federal judgeship! When Nate Heller came through and got future President Wingard to appoint him—there was still the confirmation process to go through. What if Karas got wind of it? Karas wasn’t going to give a rat’s ass about protecting Quinn’s dear old mother. Karas wasn’t the soft touch Bill Kendall was.

  Leo Karas was going to make his life miserable. Leo Karas picking up where Bill Kendall left off.

  He looked at the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall and debated. He had to get help. He would go crazy if he didn’t get some relief. He pushed the speed dial. On the third ring, a familiar voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Thank God you’re there.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “I must talk to you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t live like this. Help me.”

  Chapter 43

  Leo Karas locked the office door and walked down the carpeted hallway to the elevator. One of the lights was out in a polished brass sconce on the corridor wall. As he noticed that fact, he wondered how many other thousands of observations the human brain made each day. What made some people notice details while others were oblivious? The human brain and how it operated fascinated Dr. Karas.

  He pushed the button marked Lobby and the elevator doors slid quietly shut. He looked at his watch—11:30. Another late night. Private practice and work for the state of New York as a court-appointed psychiatrist made for long, tightly scheduled days. Tonight he had spent several extra hours at his desk laboring over the outline for his third book, the working title of which was “The Breaking Point.”

  Juan, the pleasant, gray-haired doorman, was standing in the vestibule, his uniform jacket neatly buttoned and pressed. “Another late one, Doctor?” he asked politely.

  Dr. Karas smiled. “Yes, Juan. See you tomorrow.” Karas liked the unfailingly courteous doorman. Word had it that Juan had been a member of the intelligentsia who had gotten out of Cuba by the skin of his teeth when Castro took control. The psychiatrist often contemplated the unpredictable circumstances that influenced human lives. Juan was a good example of uncontrollable conditions impacting a human destiny.

  Leaving the building, Karas turned left onto Eightieth Street. It was just a few blocks to his apartment. He enjoyed the walk home. It helped him wind down.

  At the corner of Eightieth and Park Avenue, he waited for the light to change. As always, when he looked down the length of Park Avenue at night, he had a feeling of well-being. The expanse exuded success and security. The lights on the MetLife Building twinkled brightly, though, to him, it would always be the Pan Am Building. Azaleas still decorated the planters in the middle of the avenue. The cars and taxis that whirred by shone under the streetlights, the dents and dirt, apparent by day, hidden in the semi-darkness.

  He crossed the wide boulevard and continued on his way. It was abnormally quiet. The street was deserted. Rare that no one was walking a dog or parking a car. Dr. Karas was almost relieved when he saw the homeless man come around the corner. He had noticed the man in the neighborhood before. The police were diligent in moving vagrants along in this area but some, like this man, kept coming back.

  The man pushed a shopping cart filled to overflowing with clothing and black plastic garbage bags containing God-knew-what. The man could have been thirty or he could have been fifty, it was hard to tell. He was walking slowly, swaying from side to side, his dark hair sticking out from under a Yankees cap. Even in the warmish May night, the man wore a quilted ski jacket, the reward for foraging through someone’s trash or sifting through the clothing deposit box at the homeless shelter.

  The doctor briefly wondered what had led that particular individual to his life on the streets of New York. What had been his “breaking point”? Might be a good idea to do some research for a chapter on the homeless in the new book. Actually, that could be a book in itself.

  As he got closer, Dr. Karas looked into the man’s face. The man did not meet his eyes.

  “Hello, Doctor,” he said, looking down at the ground.

  Karas was startled. How did the man know he was a doctor?

  Still looking down at his old sneakers, the homeless man asked, “Do you have any animals?”

  What did he mean?

  Karas pulled out his wallet and gave the man five dollars.

  The homeless man watched silently as Karas continued on his way.


  Making a right when he reached Madison Avenue, Dr. Karas walked another few blocks and arrived at his imposing pre–World War II apartment building, stopping by his lobby mailbox. On a heavy manila legal-size envelope, he noted the return address of Albert, Hayden and Newsome, Counselors at Law.

  As he rode up the elevator, Karas read the letter.

  Dear Dr. Karas:

  This is your notice that you have been named a beneficiary under the Last Will and Testament of William D. Kendall. A copy of the will is enclosed herewith for your review.

  The Executrix of the Estate is Louise Palladino Kendall, 14 Ashley Place, Park Ridge, New Jersey.

  Due to its complexity, I estimate that it will take between twelve to eighteen months to administer the Estate and make distributions to all beneficiaries. Any questions regarding the Estate proceedings may be directed to the Executrix.

  Very truly yours,

  Jackson Hayden

  Karas perused the will.

  Louise Palladino Kendall and William Kendall were set for life.

  Range Bullock was to receive $100,000.

  So were Jean White and the Reverend Alexander W. Fisco.

  The National Fragile X Foundation, the Special Olympics and New Visions for Living all received large bequests. So did the AIDS Parade for Dollars.

  So did Leo Karas.

  Chapter 44

  Eliza was feeling very pleased with herself. She was becoming quite proficient at using her computer and she hadn’t had a cigarette in six days. She wasn’t sure which was the bigger accomplishment.

  The computer had become her friend, the assistant that helped her work smarter, as the saying went. It was like having a giant brain sitting on top of the desk, a brain that followed Eliza’s bidding if she just entered the right instructions. In the beginning, figuring out how to enter those instructions had been a challenge. The computer language was confusing. Fortunately, the techies at KEY were all happy to answer Eliza’s very basic questions. Their tutoring, Eliza’s trials and errors, and just plain time spent working at the computer was paying off.

  She supposed it was a mixed blessing, being able to do more work at home, as she was this Saturday afternoon, Janie sitting on the floor beside her. Janie was doing a pretty fair imitation of Dr. Burke, her pediatrician. Zippy, Janie’s stuffed chimpanzee, was being commanded to open and say aah, and Janie was jamming a pencil into the monkey’s open mouth. Eliza observed that while Zippy continued to smile gamely, Janie’s favored tea-party and bed companion was beginning to look a little bedraggled. Zippy had to last a long time; there could be no replacing him.

  Eliza subscribed to an information service that enabled her to punch up newspaper and magazine articles so she could do basic research without leaving her apartment. She knew how to transfer information from floppy diskettes onto the computer’s hard drive. In fact, she liked to do that the best, recognizing that she was filling the giant brain with information selected specifically to benefit herself. She had uploaded Bill Kendall’s files from the diskette Jean had given her, wanting to make Bill’s input part of her computer brain.

  She was trying to get ahead of the game, working on the speech for the New Visions dinner well in advance. She wanted to do a good job of it, not rushing at the last minute to come up with something to say. She’d learned from experience that it was smart to use free time to get a leg up on her commitments. She never knew when a big story would break that would require her attention.

  As Eliza sat down to write, she ached for a cigarette. Once she had taken a museum course on the American Indian. The instructor had explained that Native Americans, when puffing their pipes, had thought that the smoke traveling upward carried their energies and thoughts to the gods. The smoking process was a form of communication. That idea appealed to Eliza. She could swear that her writing was better when she smoked.

  Come on now! Don’t be a wimp! The urge to smoke allegedly lasted somewhere between five and seven minutes. If you could tough it out, the desire would pass.

  Concentrate on the speech.

  She wished she’d heard one of Bill’s talks to the group. That would give her someplace to start. Eliza had called Louise, but she hadn’t any of Bill’s old speeches or notes.

  Perhaps Bill had kept computer notes for the speech. It was worth a shot. Eliza decided that it would be as good a time as any to try out the new feature she had just learned. By typing in the subject she was looking for, the computer would search its memory and create a listing of each time the subject appeared.

  She typed in N-E-W-V-I-S-I-O-N-S. A big 2 popped on the screen.

  She hit the Enter button. The first entry read DENNIS QUINN. The name was followed by a long series of monthly dates. They went back two years. That wasn’t what she was looking for.

  She hit Enter again. Paydirt! Bill’s speech. She read his words, moved by his eloquence. He had obviously spoken from the heart. She particularly liked one passage directed at the parents of the children with special needs:

  A wise man named Leo Karas once told me that I needn’t make a career of having a handicapped child. That it was important to go on with my life and that, in cultivating my own strengths, I could best help my son. I’ve never forgotten that. And I pass that on to all of you. It’s a long and arduous haul. You have to take care of yourselves in order to be there for your children.

  Eliza smiled. It made sense. Karas made a lot of sense.

  She wondered. Had Bill used Karas’s observations anywhere else? Just for fun, she typed in K-A-R-A-S.

  Up popped 21.

  Twenty-one entries? Enter.

  First, the New Visions speech came up. She hit the Enter button again.

  LEO KARAS, FEB. 23, 1:00 P.M.

  LEO KARAS, FEB. 26, 10:00 A.M.

  LEO KARAS, MARCH 1. There were twenty entries with Karas, a date and a time.

  Eliza took her day-timer out of her purse and turned to the calendar at the front. The dates entered next to Leo Karas’s name were alternately Mondays and Fridays. She noticed that the first date was the Friday after the New Hampshire primary.

  Eliza grabbed the computer mouse and steered its arrow to the upper left-hand corner of the screen. When the arrow reached File, Eliza clicked the button on the mouse. The menu provided several options. Eliza selected Open. SCHEDULE appeared, indicating that the Leo Karas entries were in the Schedule file. Eliza had supposed that the Schedule file had been the campaign schedules of the presidential candidates.

  Jean must have thought so, too, Eliza realized. Jean would never have knowingly handed over Bill’s personal schedule.

  Bill Kendall had been seeing Dr. Karas twice a week right before his death. Karas hadn’t mentioned it to her when she saw him. Did he feel he would be breaking Bill’s confidentiality by telling her?

  Eliza shivered and checked the final Karas entry. Bill’s last appointment had been on Monday, April 29, only three days before he committed suicide. Next to it was a notation.

  MAKE NEW DQ ARRANGEMENT.

  Chapter 45

  Maybe she wanted him to know. She hadn’t destroyed the letter. Win came across it, tucked inside her journal. The journal she kept hidden at the back of that enormous closet of hers. The journal he had made a practice of reading to keep tabs on her.

  The letter was written on a sheet ripped from a yellow legal pad. In scrawling handwriting, Bill Kendall had begun in a businesslike way and then, halfway through, the tone changed:

  I have AIDS.

  You have been exposed. I’m so very, very sorry, my darling.

  You have most likely exposed Win, a fact I don’t even like to contemplate. The odds are in his favor, though.

  Win closed his eyes and groaned.

  Kendall’s letter continued:

  I can’t face life with AIDS and have no curiosity in learning what dying from AIDS is like.

  I also know about Heller’s arrangement with Pete Carlson. Exposing their connection would be satisfying
. Especially since Carlson has been base enough to try to blackmail me into giving up the anchor chair, in return for his keeping quiet about my AIDS. That connection would sink Win’s chances for the White House. I have no problem with that, except that I don’t ever want to hurt you.

  I’ve been writing a book for the last two years or so. It’s all stream-of-consciousness at this point, and I had every intention of staying alive until I finished it. But I’ve been diagnosed with a runaway cancer, so “my story” will probably never get told.

  I don’t want to be the story, not this story, anyway. Professionally, I am probably bowing out of one of the biggest stories of my time. It can be argued that I am taking the coward’s way out. If I chose to go on, I think I’d feel duty-bound to report that Win has been exposed. Ironically, had I not been part of the story, I might have decided to keep quiet about the exposure and just wait and see the whole thing played out.

  Privacy. What little we’ve had would be completely destroyed. Everything precious between us would be cheapened and dragged through the mud. I am not going to close my life, or leave you, in disgrace.

  I never meant to cause you any harm. I love you, Joy.

  It was signed “B.” And there was a postscript, urging Joy to get the mole on her upper thigh checked out.

  Nauseated, Win put the letter back in the journal.

  Where was the bastard’s book now?

  Chapter 46

  In May, the month of the Blessed Virgin, Father Alec liked to spend extra time in the Lady Chapel. Located behind the main altar, it was the most popular and most visited chapel in the cathedral.

  Today, the young priest sat and studied the three chandeliers suspended from the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. All hand-cut crystal. They must have cost a pretty penny. At one point in his life, Father Alec had questioned the validity of the Catholic penchant for ornate and expensive decorations in their houses of worship. After all, weren’t there more humanitarian destinations for Church funds? He had finally decided that the rococo adornments had their purpose. They were scene-setters, creating a mood of solemnity, awe and power.